Shakespeare for Students, Volumes 1-3 (gnv64).pdf

SHAKESPEARE

for Students

Table of Contents Volume 1 . . ix

FOREWORD (BY CYNTHIA BURNSTEIN) INTRODUCTION

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CHRONOLOGY .

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS . CONTRIBUTORS .

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ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL

Plot Summary . . Characters . . . Themes . . . . Style . . . . . Historical Context Critical Overview . Criticism . . . Sources . . . . Further Reading .

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ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA .


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AS YOU LIKE IT

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THE COMEDY OF ERRORS .


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CORIOLANUS

HAMLET .

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HENRY IV, PART ONE

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78 79 84 88 92 94 97 98 115 116

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Historical Context Critical Overview . Criticism . . . Sources . . . . Further Reading .


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264 265 270 274 277 279 282 283 296 296

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298 299 303 307 310 311 315 316 332 332

HENRY V .

HENRY VI, PART THREE


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Volume 2 JULIUS CAESAR.


KING LEAR .


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E d i t i o n


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LUCRECE

MACBETH

MEASURE FOR MEASURE .


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THE MERCHANT OF VENICE .


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THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR

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A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM .


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MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING .


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OTHELLO

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Volume 3 RICHARD II .


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RICHARD III

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ROMEO AND JULIET .


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Style . . . . . Historical Context Critical Overview . Criticism . . . Sources . . . . Further Reading .

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CUMULATIVE INDEX TO MAJOR THEMES AND CHARACTERS . . . . . . . .

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VENUS AND ADONIS . THE SONNETS .


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THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

Plot Summary . . Characters . . . Themes . . . . Style . . . . . Historical Context Critical Overview . Criticism . . . Sources . . . . Further Reading . THE TEMPEST .

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THE WINTER’S TALE

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GLOSSARY .

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Foreword This may be a scene from your experience: You have been assigned to read a play by William Shakespeare in your literature class. The students look a little skeptical as the books are distributed. That evening at home you do your best to understand as you read the play alone, fiercely studying the footnotes and employing a dictionary, but you still have serious doubts that you are correctly grasping the plot. Although the next day’s class discussion helps enormously, you are now positive that you will never get all the characters’ names straight. Then one day in class a couple of students disagree about the motivation of the main character and press each other to back up their interpretations with evidence from the text. The rest of the class sits forward in their seats. The debate is intense. For some reason, your teacher is smiling. Hours later you find yourself thinking about the play. Finally, you watch a film version of the play, or, if you are really lucky, you see it performed live. Now everyone in the class has a question as well as an opinion, and the discussions that ensue take a tone of authority that is new and exhilarating. Someone has said that books are like having the smartest, wittiest, most profound and poetic friends in the world, friends who are there to speak to you anytime you wish. Literary criticism, which is what the book you are holding in your hands is primarily concerned with, is valuable for just the same reason. It is a way of

having a thought-provoking conversation about a piece of literature with an intelligent friend. As sometimes happens between friends, you may not always agree with or fully grasp his or her point. Other times, a particular interpretation may seem so preposterous that you stomp off, sputtering. But then there are times you listen and say, ‘‘I never thought of it that way’’ or better yet, ‘‘Wow!’’ The purpose of this book, then, is to enable you to continue those discussions. The heart of Shakespeare for Students is a collection of essays by Shakespeare scholars that have been carefully selected to be of interest to students at the high school or undergraduate college level. Some essays appear as excerpts for your convenience. If you are still hungry for more discussion after reading each essay, you will find the Further Reading section to be very helpful. Shakespeare for Students contains a number of other features that will help you as you study Shakespeare’s plays and poetry. For each entry there is: an introduction, which provides basic background information about the play or poem; a plot synopsis, which summarizes the action by act or by lines; a character list, which briefly describes the role and personality of each character in the play or poem; a discussion of the work’s principal themes, which are the most commonly discussed issues the play or poem explores; information about the style and

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literary devices used within the play or poem; a conversation about the work’s historical context, which is what affects the meaning of the poem or play when one regards the time in which it was written or the time in which it is set; and a critical overview, which is a summary of what some of the critics have had to say about the work through the years. Here is a scene I am imagining about your future: Scholars from the past and students from

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the present are speaking to each other intensely. They are discussing the plays and poetry of William Shakespeare. Ideas are everywhere—in the air, careening off of walls, bouncing through space. As I look around the room at the faces that glow with energy, I see one that looks very familiar. It is yours.


Cynthia Burnstein Burnstein is affiliated with PlymouthSalem High School in Canton, Michigan.

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Introduction Purpose of the Book This second edition of Shakespeare for Students (SFS) is intended to present the beginning student of William Shakespeare and other interested readers with information on the writer’s most popular and frequently taught plays, his sonnets, and his epic (long) poems. A further purpose of SFS is to acquaint the reader with the use and function of literary criticism itself. Selected from the immense and often bewildering body of Shakespearean commentary, the essays and excerpts in this edition offer insights into Shakespeare’s plays from a diverse range of commentators representing many different critical viewpoints. Readers do not need a wide background in literary studies to use this book. Students can benefit from using SFS as a basis for class discussion and written assignments, new perspectives on the plays and poems, and noteworthy analyses of Shakespeare’s artistry. Each work is treated with a separate entry. The information covered in each entry includes an introduction to the work; a plot summary, to help readers understand the action and story of the work; a list of characters, including explanation of a given character’s role in the work as well as discussion about that character’s relationship to other characters in the work; an analysis of important themes addressed in the work; an examination of style elements used by the author; and a section on important historical

and cultural events that shaped both the author and the work. In addition to this material, which helps the reader analyze the work itself, students are also provided with a critical overview that provides information about how the work has been received through the centuries. Accompanying the critical overview are excerpts from previously published critical essays and, in some cases, original critical essays written explicitly for this edition. For further analysis and enjoyment, a list of media adaptations is also included, as well as reading suggestions for works of fiction and nonfiction on similar themes and topics. Classroom aids include topics for discussion, which include ideas for research papers, and lists of critical sources that provide additional material on the work.

Selection Criteria The titles for Shakespeare for Students, Second edition, were selected by surveying numerous sources on teaching Shakespeare and analyzing course curricula for various school districts. Input was also solicited from our advisory board as well as from educators.

How Each Entry Is Organized Each entry heading includes the title of the work being discussed and the year it was first published or performed. The following sections are included in the discussion of each entry:

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I n t r o d u c t i o n

Introduction: a brief overview of the work that provides information about its publication, its literary standing, any controversies surrounding the work, and major conflicts or themes within the work. Plot Summary: a review of the action and storyline divided by act (for the plays), by lines (for the long poems), or by groups of poems (in the sonnets). Characters: an alphabetical listing that describes the role and personality of each character in the play or poem, as well as that character’s importance to the overall plot and theme of the work. Themes: a detailed discussion of the work’s principal themes, which are the most commonly discussed issues the play or poem explores. Style: an in-depth review of the stylistic and literary devices in each play or poem with comments as to how these devices affect the work’s overall meaning. Historical Context: this section provides information about the historical events and cultural movements that influence the meaning of the poem or play.

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Critical Overview: an essay that provides a summary of what some of the critics have had to say about the work through the years. Criticism: a collection of essays by Shakespeare scholars that have been carefully selected to be of interest to students at the high school or undergraduate college level. Sources: a list of the sources used to research and compile the entry in question. Further Reading: an annotated list of sources at the end of each entry is provided for additional study.

Other Features Throughout the book, various illustrations— including artist’s renditions of certain scenes and performance photographs—add a visual dimension, enhancing the reader’s understanding of the critical discussion of each play. An alphabetical index to major themes and characters identifies the principal topics and characters from each play or poem. A glossary defines the literary devices that are vital to the discussion of Shakespeare’s work.


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Chronology of Shakespeare’s Life and Works 1564: William Shakespeare is born in Stratfordupon-Avon. His notice of baptism is entered in the parish register at Holy Trinity Church on April 26. While the actual date of his birth is not known, it is traditionally celebrated on April 23. 1571: Shakespeare probably enters grammar school, seven years being the usual age for admission. 1575: Queen Elizabeth visits Kenilworth Castle, near Stratford. Popular legend holds that the eleven-year-old William Shakespeare witnessed the pageantry attendant on the royal progress and later recreated it in his dramatic works. 1582: Shakespeare marries Anne Hathaway of Shottery. The eighteen-year-old Shakespeare and twenty-six-year-old Hathaway are married on November 27 at Temple Grafton, a village about five miles from Stratford. 1583: Susanna, the first child of William and Anne Shakespeare, is born. Susanna’s birth occurs five months after Shakespeare and Hathaway wed. Susanna dies in 1649.

1589-90: Shakespeare probably writes Henry VI, Part One. The dates given for the composition of Shakespeare’s plays, though based in scholarship, are somewhat conjectural. 1589-94: Shakespeare probably writes The Comedy of Errors. 1590-91: Shakespeare probably writes Henry VI, Part Two and Henry VI, Part Three. The latter is not published until 1595. 1590-94: Shakespeare probably writes The Taming of the Shrew. 1592: Shakespeare was known in London as an actor and a playwright by this time, as evidenced by his being mentioned in Robert Greene’s pamphlet A Groats-worth of Wit. In this pamphlet (published this year), Greene chides Shakespeare as an ‘‘upstart crow’’ on the theater scene. Greene charges that Shakespeare is an unschooled player and writer who ‘‘borrows’’ material from his well-educated betters for his own productions. 1592: London theaters are closed due to plague.

1585(?): Shakespeare leaves Stratford sometime between 1585 and 1592 and joins a company of actors as a performer and playwright.

1592-93: Shakespeare probably writes Venus and Adonis, Richard III, and The Two Gentlemen of Verona.

1585: Twins Hamnet and Judith Shakespeare are born. Hamnet dies in 1596. Judith dies in 1662.

1592-93: Shakespeare probably begins composing his sonnets. He will eventually write 154 sonnets.

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1593: Shakespeare’s narrative poem Venus and Adonis is published.

Shakespeare. Later this year, the Globe Theatre opens.

1593-94: Shakespeare probably writes Lucrece and Titus Andronicus. 1594: Shakespeare’s narrative poem Lucrece is published.

1599: Earliest known performance of Julius Caesar. Thomas Platter, a German traveler, mentions the production at the Globe Theatre on September 21 in his diary.

1594: Shakespeare performs with the theater troupe the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. The group includes leading actor Richard Burbage and noted comic performer Will Kempe.

1599: John Weever publishes the poem ‘‘Ad Guglielmum Shakespeare,’’ in which he praises Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, Lucrece, Romeo and Juliet, and other works.

1594-5: Shakespeare probably writes Love’s Labour’s Lost.

1599-1602: Shakespeare probably writes Hamlet.

1594-96: Shakespeare probably writes King John. 1595: Shakespeare probably writes Richard II. The play is first performed the same year.

1601: Shakespeare probably writes the narrative poem The Phoenix and Turtle and Twelfth Night. 1601-02: Shakespeare probably writes Troilus and Cressida.

1595: Shakespeare probably writes A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The play is probably composed for performance at a wedding.

1603: Shakespeare probably writes All’s Well That Ends Well.

1595: Shakespeare probably writes Romeo and Juliet.

1603:A Midsummer Night’s Dream is performed before the Queen at Hampton Court.

1596: Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon and patron of the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, dies.

1603: Queen Elizabeth dies. The new king, James I (James VI of Scotland), arrives in London a month later and proves to be a generous patron of the theater and of acting troupes.

1596: Shakespeare’s company comes under the patronage of George Carey, second Lord Hunsdon. 1596-7: Shakespeare probably writes The Merchant of Venice and Henry IV, Part One. 1597: Shakespeare probably writes The Merry Wives of Windsor. The play was performed before the Queen during the Christmas revels. 1597: Shakespeare purchases New Place and the grounds surrounding the spacious Stratford home. 1598: Shakespeare appears in a performance of Ben Johnson’s Every Man in His Humour and is listed as a principal actor in the London performance. 1598: Shakespeare probably writes Henry IV; Part Two. 1598-99: Shakespeare probably writes Much Ado about Nothing. 1599: Shakespeare probably writes Julius Caesar, Henry V and As You Like It. 1599: The Lord Chamberlain’s Men lease land for the Globe Theatre. Nicholas Brend leases the land to leading shareholders in the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, including

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1603: King James grants a patent, or license, to Shakespeare’s acting troupe, the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. The patent is required for the troupe to perform. They take the name the King’s Men to honor the new king. 1603: The King’s Men enact a play, probably As You Like It, before King James at Wilton. 1603: Shakespeare appears in a performance of Ben Johnson’s Sejanus. This is the last recorded occasion of Shakespeare appearing in a theatrical production. 1603: An epidemic of the Black Death kills at least 33,000 in London. This is the worst outbreak of disease in London until the plague recurs in 1608. 1604: Shakespeare probably writes Measure for Measure. The play is staged at court before King James. 1604: Shakespeare probably writes Othello. The play is first performed at Whitehall on November 1. 1605: Shakespeare probably writes King Lear. It is first performed in 1606.


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1605: The Merchant of Venice is performed at court. The play is performed twice and is commended by the king. 1606: Shakespeare probably writes Macbeth. This play’s Scottish background was almost certainly intended to celebrate the new king’s ancestry. 1607: Shakespeare probably writes Antony and Cleopatra. 1607: Hamlet and Richard III are performed. The plays are acted aboard the English ship Dragon at Sierra Leone. 1607-08: Shakespeare probably writes Coriolanus, Timon of Athens, and Pericles.

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1610-11: Shakespeare probably writes The Winter’s Tale. 1611: Shakespeare probably writes The Tempest. The play is first performed the same year. 1612-13: Frederick V, the elector platine and future king of Bohemia, arrives in England to marry Elizabeth, King James’s daughter. The King’s Men perform several plays, including Othello and Julius Caesar. 1612-13: Shakespeare probably writes Henry VIII, most likely collaborating with John Fletcher, another highly reputed dramatist, on this history play.

1608: The King’s Men lease the Blackfriars Theatre. The Blackfriars was the first permanent enclosed theater in London. Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, Cuthbert Burbage, Thomas Evans, John Hemminges, Henry Condell, and William Sly lease the theatre for a period of twenty-one years. Stage directions indicate that Shakespeare wrote The Tempest with specific features of the new playhouse in mind.

1612-13: Shakespeare probably writes Cardenio, the only play of Shakespeare’s that has been completely lost.

1608: London theaters are closed due to plague. This is one of the longest periods of theater closure due to plague. The playhouses are shut from spring 1608 throughout 1609. 1609: Shakespeare’s sonnets are published. This publication of Shakespeare’s sonnets is unauthorized.

1614: The Globe Theatre reopens on the opposite bank of the Thames.

1609-10: Shakespeare probably writes Cymbeline. 1610: The King’s Men perform Othello at Oxford College during the summer touring season. An Oxford don records his impressions of the play in Latin, finding the spectacle of Desdemona’s death, in particular, deeply moving.


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1613: Shakespeare probably writes The Two Noble Kinsmen. An entry in the Stationer’s Register for 1634 indicates that this play was jointly written by Shakespeare and John Fletcher. 1613: The Globe Theatre burns down.

1616: Shakespeare dies on April 23. His burial is recorded in the register of Stratford’s Holy Trinity Church on April 25. 1619:Hamlet and several other of Shakespeare’s plays are performed at court as part of the Christmas festivities. 1623: Anne Hathaway Shakespeare dies. 1623: Shakespeare’s fellow actors, John Hemminges and Henry Condell, compile and publish thirty-six of the dramatist’s works. This collection is known as the First Folio.

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Acknowledgments The editors wish to thank the copyright holders of the excerpted criticism included in this volume and the permissions managers of many book and magazine publishing companies for assisting us in securing reproduction rights. We are also grateful to the staffs of the Detroit Public Library, the Library of Congress, the University of Detroit Mercy Library, Wayne State University Purdy/ Kresge Library Complex, and the University of Michigan Libraries for making their resources available to us. Following is a list of the copyright holders who have granted us permission to reproduce material in this volume of SFS. Every effort has been made to trace copyright, but if omissions have been made, please let us know. COPYRIGHTEDEXCERPTSINSFS, SECOND EDITION, WERE REPRODUCED FROM THE FOLLOWING PERIODICALS: American Imago, v. 25, 1968. Copyright Ó 1968 The Johns Hopkins University Press. Reproduced by permission.—CLA Journal, v. xxvi, March, 1983. Copyright Ó 1983 by The College Language Association. Used by permission of The College Language Association.—Critical Quarterly, v. 16, spring, 1974. Copyright Ó 1974 Basil Blackwell Ltd. Reproduced by permission of Blackwell Publishers.—Critical Survey, v. 17, 2005. Republished with permission of Berghahn Books Inc., conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.—Educational Theatre Journal, v. xix, October, 1967. Copyright Ó

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1967 University and College Theatre Association of the American Theatre Association. Reproduced by permission of The Johns Hopkins University Press.—The English Review, v. 12, November, 2001; v. 13, November, 2002; v. 15, September, 2004; v. 15, November, 2004. Copyright Ó 2001, 2002, 2004 Philip Allan Updates. All reproduced by permission.—English Studies, v. 43, October, 1962; v. 45, April, 1964; v. 61, February, 1980; v. 78, July, 1997. Copyright Ó 1962, 1964, 1980, 1997 by Swets Essays in Criticism, v. ii, January, 1952. Reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press, conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center.—Essays in Literature, v. xiii, fall, 1986. Copyright Ó 1986 by Western Illinois University. Reproduced by permission.—Etudes Anglaises, v. xvii, October—December, 1964. Reproduced by permission.—The Explicator, v. 51, spring, 1993; v. 56, fall, 1997; v. 57, fall, 1998; v. 64, spring, 2006. Copyright Ó 1993, 1997, 1998, 2006 by Helen Dwight Reid Educational Foundation. All reproduced with permission of the Helen Dwight Reid Educational Foundation, published by Heldref Publications, 1319 18th Street, NW, Washington, DC 20036–1802.—Journal of Evolutionary Psychology, v. 27, October, 2005. Copyright Ó 2005 Institute for Evolutionary Psychology. Reproduced by permission.—The Listener, v. 100, December 21-28, 1978 for ‘‘As You Like Shakespeare,’’ by Brigid Brophy. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Modern Language

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Quarterly, v. 35, December, 1974. Copyright Ó 1974 Duke University Press. All rights reserved. Used by permission of the publisher.—New Literary History, v. 9, spring, 1978. Copyright Ó 1978 The Johns Hopkins University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Notes and Queries, v. 44, March, 1997. Copyright Ó 1997 Oxford University Press. Republished with permission of Oxford University Press, conveyed through Copyright Clearance Center, Inc.—Philological Quarterly, v. 65, spring, 1986. Copyright Ó 1986 University of Iowa. Reproduced by permission.—Renaissance Papers, April, 1963. Reproduced by permission.—Representations, summer, 1995 for ‘‘‘The Merry Wives of Windsor’: Sharing the Queen’s Holiday’’ by Leslie S. Katz. Copyright Ó 1995 by The Regents of the University of California. Reproduced by permission of the publisher and the author.— Shakespeare Jahrbuch, v. 114, 1978. Reproduced by permission.—Shakespeare Quarterly, v. 13, summer, 1962; v. 15, autumn, 1964; v. 38, autumn, 1987. Copyright Ó 1962, 1964, 1987 The Johns Hopkins University Press. All reproduced by permission.—Shakespeare Studies, v. 11, 1978; v. 14, 1981. Copyright Ó 1978, 1981 by Rosemont Publishing Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakesperian Study and Production, v. 13, 1960; v. 19, 1966; v. 32, 1979; v. 35, 1982. Copyright Ó 1960, 1966, 1979, 1982 Cambridge University Press. All reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press.—Studies in English Literature, 15001900, v. 42, winter, 2002. Copyright Ó 2002 The Johns Hopkins University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Texas Studies in Literature and Language, v. 18, winter, 1977; v. 42, spring, 2000. Copyright Ó 1977, 2000 by the University of Texas Press. All rights reserved. Both reproduced by permission.—The Use of English, v. xvii, spring, 1966. Copyright Ó 1966 The English Association. Reproduced by permission. COPYRIGHTEDEXCERPTSIN SFS, SECOND EDITION, WERE REPRODUCED FROM THE FOLLOWING BOOKS: Anderson, Linda. From A Kind of Wild Justice: Revenge in Shakespeare’s Comedies. University of Delaware Press, 1987. Copyright Ó 1987 by Associated University Presses, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Auden, W. H. From The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays. Random House, Inc., 1962. Copyright Ó 1948,


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1950, 1952, 1953, 1954, 1956, 1957, 1958, 1960, 1962 by W. H. Auden, renewed 1990 by Edward Mendelsohn (Executor of W.H. Auden). All rights reserved. Used by permission of Random House, Inc. In the U.K. by Faber Bernthal, Craig. From The Trial of Man: Christianity and Judgment in the World of Shakespeare. ISI Books, 2003. Copyright Ó 2003 ISI Books. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.— Bloom, Allan. From Shakespeare on Love and Friendship. The University of Chicago Press, 2000. Copyright Ó 1993, 2000 by the Estate of Allan Bloom. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Calderwood, James L. From Shakespeare and the Denial of Death. University of Massachusetts Press, 1987. Copyright Ó 1987 by The University of Massachusetts Press. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Charney, Maurice. From All of Shakespeare. Columbia University Press, 1993. Copyright Ó 1993 Columbia University Press, New York. All rights reserved. Republished with permission of the Columbia University Press, 61 W. 62nd St., New York, NY 10023.—Clemen, Wolfgang. From The Development of Shakespeare’s Imagery. Methuan and Co., 1977. Copyright Ó 1951, 1977 Wolfgang Clemen. Reproduced by permission of the publisher.—Cohen, Walter. From ‘‘‘Antony and Cleopatra,’’’ in The Norton Shakespeare. Edited by Stephen Greenblatt. W.W. Norton and Co., 1997. Copyright Ó 1977 by W. W. Norton Cowhig, Ruth. From The Black Presence in English Literature. Manchester University Press, 1985. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Cox, John D., and Eric Rasmussen. From an Introduction to King Henry VI, Part 3. Edited by John D. Cox and Eric Rasmussen. Arden Shakespeare, 2001. Editorial material Ó 2001 John D. Cox and Eric Rasmussen. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Dash, Irene G. From Wooing, Wedding, and Power: Women in Shakespeare’s Plays. Columbia University Press, 1981. Copyright Ó 1981 Columbia University Press, New York. All rights reserved. Republished with permission of the Columbia University Press, 61 W. 62nd St., New York, NY 10023.—Free, Mary. From ‘‘‘All’s Well that Ends Well’ as Noncomic Comedy,’’ in Acting Funny: Comic Theory and Practice in Shakespeare’s Plays. Edited by Frances Teague. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1994. Copyright Ó 1994 by Associated University Presses, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Frye, Northrop.

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From ‘‘‘Measure for Measure,’’’ in Northrop Frye on Shakespeare. Edited by Robert Sandler. Yale University Press, 1986. Copyright Ó 1986 by Yale University. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Frye, Northrop. From ‘‘‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’’’ in Northrop Frye on Shakespeare. Edited by Robert Sandler. Yale University Press, 1986. Copyright Ó 1986 by Yale University. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Garber, Marjorie. From Shakespeare After All. Pantheon Books, 2004. Copyright Ó 2004 by Marjorie Garber. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of Pantheon Books, a division of Random House, Inc.—Godshalk, William Leigh. From Patterning in Shakespearean Drama: Essays in Criticism. Mouton, 1973. Copyright Ó 1973 in the Netherlands. Mouton Granville-Barker, Harley. From Prefaces to Shakespeare: Othello. Fourth Edition. Sidgwick Halio, Jay L. From Studies in English Literature, 1500-1900. William Marsh Rice University, 1962. Copyright Ó 1962 The Johns Hopkins University Press. Reproduced by permission.—Hamilton, A. C. From The Early Shakespeare. The Huntington Library, 1967. Copyright Ó 1967 Huntington Library Publications, San Marino, CA. Reprinted by permission with permission of the Henry E. Huntington Library.—Hart, John A. From Dramatic Structure in Shakespeare’s Romantic Comedies. Carnegie-Mellon University Press, 1980. Copyright Ó 1980 by John A. Hart. Reproduced by permission.—Hattaway, Michael. From an Introduction to The Third Part of King Henry VI. Edited by Michael Hattaway. Cambridge University Press, 1993. Copyright Ó 1993 Cambridge University Press. Reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press.— Hibbard, George R. From ‘‘‘The Taming of the Shrew’: A Social Comedy,’’ in Shakespearean Essays. Edited by Alwin Thaler and Norman Sanders. University of Tennessee Press, 1964. Copyright Ó 1964 by The University of Tennessee Press. Reproduced by permission of The University of Tennessee Press.—Kermode, Frank. From The Riverside Shakespeare. Houghton Mifflin Company, 1974. Copyright Ó 1974 by Houghton Mifflin Company. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of Houghton Mifflin Company.—Kermode, Frank. From ‘‘The Mature Comedies,’’ in Early Shakespeare. Edited by John Russell Brown and Bernard Harris. Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd., 1961. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Mack, Maynard.

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From The History of Henry IV, Part One. New American Library, 1965. Copyright Ó 1965, 1986 by Maynard Mack. All rights reserved. Used by permission of New American Library, a Division of Penguin Books USA Inc., New York, NY.—McDonald, Russ. From ‘‘Fear of Farce,’’ in Bad Shakespeare: Revaluations of the Shakespeare Canon. Edited by Maurice Charney. Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1988. Copyright Ó 1988 by Associated University Presses, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Muir, Kenneth. From Shakespeare’s Comic Sequence. Barnes Norwich, John Julius. From Shakespeare’s Kings: The Great Plays and the History of England in the Middle Ages, 13371485. Penguin Group, 1999. Copyright Ó 1999 by John Julius Norwich. Reproduced in the U. S. by permission of Penguin Group UK Ltd. In the UK and British Commonwealth by permission of the author.—Oliver, H. J. From The Oxford Shakespeare: The Taming of the Shrew. Oxford at the Clarendon Press, 1982. Copyright Ó 1982 by Oxford University Press. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press.—Ornstein, Robert. From Shakespeare’s Comedies: From Roman Farce to Romantic Mystery. University of Delaware Press, 1986. Copyright Ó 1986 by Associated University Presses, Inc. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Pierce, Robert B. From Shakespeare’s History Plays: The Family and the State. Ohio State University Press, 1971. Copyright Ó 1971 by the Ohio State University Press. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission of the author.—Prior, Moody E. From The Drama of Power: Studies in Shakespeare’s History Plays. Northwestern University Press, 1973. Copyright Ó 1973 by Moody E. Prior. All rights reserved. Reproduced by permission.—Spender, Stephen. From The Riddle of Shakespeare’s Sonnets. Basic Books, 1962. Copyright Ó 1962 by Basic Books Publishing Co., Inc. Renewed 1990 by Stephen Spender. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Basic Books a member of Perseus Books, L.L.C.—Stirling, Brents. From The Populace in Shakespeare. Columbia University Press, 1949. Copyright renewed 1976 by Brents Stirling. Reproduced by permission.—Tayler, Edward William. From Nature and Art in Renaissance Literature. Columbia University Press, 1964. Copyright Ó 1961, 1964 Columbia University Press, New York. All rights reserved. Republished with permission of the Columbia University Press, 61 W. 62nd St.,


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New York, NY 10023.—Thompson, Ann. From The Taming of the Shrew. Cambridge University Press, 1984. Copyright Ó 1984 Cambridge University Press. Reprinted with the permission of Cambridge University Press.—Traversi, D. A. From An Approach to Shakespeare. Doubleday


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and Company, Inc., 1969. Copyright Ó 1969 by Doubleday, a division of Random House, Inc. Used by permission of the publisher.—Yates, Frances A. From The Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age. Ark Paperbacks, 1983. Reproduced by permission.

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Contributors Bryan Aubrey: Aubrey holds a Ph.D. in English and has published many essays on drama. Entry on Antony and Cleopatra. Original essay on Antony and Cleopatra. Jennifer Bussey Bussey holds a master’s degree in Interdisciplinary Studies and a bachelor’s degree in English Literature. She is an independent writer specializing in literature. Entries on Macbeth, The Taming of the Shrew, and Twelfth Night. Joyce Hart: Hart is a freelance writer and published author. Entries on Henry V, Henry VI, Part Three, Julius Caesar, The Merchant of Venice, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Much Ado about Nothing, Othello, and Romeo and Juliet. Original essays on Henry VI, Part Three and The Merry Wives of Windsor.

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Neil Heims: Heims is a writer and teacher living in Paris. Entries on Coriolanus, Hamlet, King Lear, Measure for Measure, The Tempest, and The Winter’s Tale. Original essays on Coriolanus, King Lear, Measure for Measure, and The Tempest. Michael Allen Holmes: Holmes is a freelance editor and writer. Entries on As You Like It, The Comedy of Errors, Henry IV, Part One, Lucrece, Richard II, Richard III, The Sonnets, and Venus and Adonis. David Kelly: Kelly is an instructor of creative writing and literature at two colleges. Entry on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Original essay on A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Kathy Wilson Peacock: Wilson Peacock is an author, editor, and contributor to many reference publications specializing in literature. Entry on All’s Well That Ends Well.

All’s Well That Ends Well All’s Well That Ends Well was probably written sometime between 1600 and 1605, and many experts date the work to 1603. Others believe that the play is the lost Shakespearean drama titled Love’s Labour Won, which was written before 1598. The first written mention of the play under its current title appeared in 1623, when it was licensed to be printed in Shakespeare’s Folio. Attempts to date the play have involved a bit of detective work regarding some of its language, particularly Helen’s letter to the countess in act 3, which exemplifies Shakespeare’s less-sophisticated early style. Conversely, some critics note similarities between the tone and style of the play with that of Measure for Measure, which was written in 1604. Some commentators have theorized that the uneven nature of the play suggests that it was written at two different times in Shakespeare’s life. This sketchy history indicates that the play did not attract much attention when it was first written and performed, a testament to its status as a lesser work in Shakespeare’s canon.

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All’s Well That Ends Well has often been called one of Shakespeare’s problem plays or dark comedies, a category that usually includes Measure for Measure and Troilus and Cressida. The problem refers to the cynical nature of the plot’s resolution, in which Bertram, a rather unbecoming hero who is sought after by a woman who is too good for him, has a last-minute change of heart and vows to love Helena, his wife, forever. This declaration comes on the heels of a

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rather devious scheme and is not prompted by a personal revelation deep enough to be convincing to the audience. The problem plays are more similar in tone and theme to Shakespeare’s tragedies than they are to his romantic comedies. Shakespeare’s primary inspiration for the plot of All’s Well That Ends Well was William Painter’s collection of stories The Palace of Pleasures (1575), which itself was an English translation of ‘‘Giletta of Narbonne,’’ a story in Giovanni Boccaccio’s collection of folk tales called the Decameron (1353). Shakespeare fleshed out the story by adding the characters of Parolles, the Countess of Rossillion, Lavache, and Lafew. The events of the play, in which a low-born woman schemes to marry a count and wins both his ring and his child by switching places with another woman during an illicit rendezvous (a tactic known as the bed-trick), has its roots in folk tales. This may account, some believe, for the play’s unbelievable nature and thus its failure as a comedy. Others believe that audiences of the day would have been familiar with such folk tales, as well as with Painter’s The Palace of Pleasures and Boccaccio’s Decameron, and thus would have received the play more warmly. That said, nearly all critics have at least some reservations about it. Early critics of the play focused their attention on the incongruous plot elements and the themes of merit and rank, virtue and honor, and male versus female. More recent critics also address these issues, but they focus more attention on topics such as gender and desire. Helena’s bold sexuality and her reversal of gender roles, in which she is the pursuer rather than the pursued, has generated much discussion, especially for how they intertwine with other main conflicts in the play, such as social class, the bed-trick, and marriage. Whether the play does end well, as the title suggests, has also historically been much debated. The three main characters—Helena, Bertram, and Parolles—have generated a great deal of literary criticism over the years. Some critics brand Helena as conniving and obsessive in her love for Bertram, while others find her virtuous and noble. In general, critics are not fond of the character of Bertram, though some judge him more harshly than others. Some critics find him thoroughly unrepentant and unredeemable at the end of the play, making the ending implausible. Others are more sympathetic toward him, finding him merely immature at the beginning of the play and in need

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of life experience, which he obtains while fighting in Florence. Parolles has generated less controversy in terms of the nature of his character (even Parolles himself recognizes his deficiencies and is not ashamed of them), and some critics find the subplot involving Parolles the only thing that saves the play from failure. There is no record of All’s Well That Ends Well having been performed in Shakespeare’s time (although it probably was), and it remained unpopular for several hundred years. In England, it was performed only a few dozen times in the eighteenth century and only seventeen times in the nineteenth century. The Victorians abhorred the sexual nature of the play. Writing in 1852, critic John Bull (quoted in the New Cambridge edition of the play edited by Russell Fraser) found that such wantonness cannot ‘‘be made presentable to an audience of which decent females form a portion.’’ In the United States, the play was not staged until well into the twentieth century. In most cases, when it was performed, many changes were made to the text to make it more contemporary, often highlighting Parolles’s part and turning the play into a farce.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 All’s Well That Ends Well opens at the palace in Rossillion, a region in France that borders Spain and the Mediterranean Sea. Here, the Countess of Rossillion mourns her recently deceased husband and the imminent departure of her son, Bertram, the Count of Rossillion, who has been summoned to Paris by the king. The countess and her friend, the elderly Lord Lafew, discuss the king’s poor health and lament that Gerard de Narbon, a famous court doctor who has just died, is not around to heal him. The doctor’s daughter, the beautiful and vivacious Helena, has become the countess’s ward. In a soliloquy, Helena reveals her love for Bertram. Because she is a commoner, there is no hope of them being together, and yet she cannot bear the thought of his departure. Parolles, Bertram’s best friend, whom Helena acknowledges is a liar and a coward, enters and engages Helena in a coarse conversation about the pros and cons of her virginity. Helena intends to protect her virginity, but Parolles urges her to give it

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up. To him it is a wasted virtue, particularly once a woman becomes a certain age. The conversation prompts Helena to take matters into her own hands. Her love for Bertram can be realized only through her own actions, and not by waiting for something to happen: ‘‘Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, / Which we ascribe to heaven,’’ she says.

Act 1, Scene 2 In Paris, the King of France confers with two lords, the Brothers Dumaine, about the dispute between Sienna and Florence; he states that he will allow his soldiers to fight on either side. Bertram, Parolles, and Lafew enter, and the king welcomes them, reminiscing fondly about Bertram’s father, and wishing that Gerard de Narbon were still alive to cure his fistula.

Act 1, Scene 3 Back in Rossillion, the countess confers with Lavatch, a morose and ribald clown. The countess calls him a knave (stupid) and urges him to marry the servant woman he has gotten pregnant. She then asks her steward to fetch Helena. The steward tells the countess that he has overhead Helena talking to herself about her love for Bertram. When the lovesick Helena appears, the countess comments sympathetically on the girl’s emotional state, for she was once young and in love. The countess tells Helena that she loves her like a daughter, but Helena objects. If the countess were her mother, then Bertram would be her brother. Initially, Helena states that she cannot be the countess’s daughter because she is a servant, and Bertram is a lord; they cannot be equals. The countess urges Helena to admit her real objection—that having feelings for her own brother would be improper—and she does. Helena also admits that she has plans to follow Bertram to Paris in order to try her father’s cures on the king. The countess is doubtful; she says that the king’s doctors have told him nothing can be done. Helena objects; she bets her life that she can cure the king. The countess relents and sends her off to Paris.

Act 2, Scene 1 In Paris, the king bids farewell to the Brothers Dumaine, who are off to fight for Florence in the war with Sienna. Lafew announces the arrival of Gerard de Narbon’s daughter, Helena, who has come to cure the ailing king. Helena explains


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An engraving of the Florentine camp with Bertram and Parolles, Act IV, scene iii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

that upon his deathbed, her father passed on his knowledge to her. The king doubts her ability to make him better, but she swears upon her life that he will be healed within a day or two. She offers a wager: If she fails, she will be put to death; if she succeeds, she will be able to choose her own husband from among ‘‘the royal blood of France.’’ With little conviction, the king accepts her offer.

Act 2, Scene 2 The countess entrusts Lavatch with the task of traveling to Paris to give Helena a note and check up on Bertram. In a series of bawdy comments that frustrate the countess, Lavatch agrees.

Act 2, Scene 3 Bertram, Parolles, and Lafew are stunned to see the king miraculously cured. The king urges Helena to have a seat and take her pick of

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husbands from the assembled gathering of lords. Lafew wishes he were younger so Helena might pick him. Helena addresses the lords, claiming to be a simple maid, and all refuse her. Then she decides on Bertram. ‘‘This is the man,’’ she says. Bertram argues with the king on account of the fact that she is ‘‘a poor physician’s daughter.’’ The king responds that ‘‘From lowest place, whence virtuous things proceed, / The place is dignified by th’doer’s deed.’’ Furthermore, she is pretty and smart, and Bertram should be happy to have her. As for her lack of wealth and the social status, the king states that he is capable of granting them. Bertram reiterates that he will never love her. Helena briefly recants her decision, but the king will not hear of it. His reputation is at stake, so he forces Bertram to marry her that night. When the others have departed, Lafew and Parolles talk about what Lafew perceives as Parolles’s lack of loyalty to Bertram. Lafew also derides Parolles’s pompous personality and gaudy clothes. Parolles dismisses Lafew as an old man with no wisdom to impart. Lafew warns that such foolishness will lead Parolles to ruin. Offstage, Helena and Bertram are married. When Lafew tells Parolles that he has a new mistress (Helena), Parolles responds that he has no mistress and no lord other than God. Lafew responds that the devil is his master and that he should be beaten.

Bertram confesses to Parolles that he will never return to her, and they go off to battle.

Act 3, Scene 1 In Florence, the duke addresses his troops, which include the Brothers Dumaine, who are both serving as captains. The duke is perturbed that the king of France has not sided exclusively with him in the war, but the two lords proclaim their allegiance to the duke nonetheless.

Act 3, Scene 2 Lavatch returns to Rossillion and delivers Bertram’s letter to the countess. The letter states that Bertram has been forced to marry Helena against his will. He has run away and plans never to return to the palace. The countess is angry that he is dishonoring both the king and Helena, whom she calls ‘‘a maid too virtuous / For the contempt of empire.’’ Helena arrives in Rossillion with the Brothers Dumaine. She realizes that Bertram is gone for good when the two lords tell the countess that Bertram has gone to battle for the Duke of Florence. Helena reads a passage from Bertram’s letter, which states that she can only be his wife if she wears his ring (which he has refused to give her) and bears him a child. Furthermore, he says that as long as Helena is alive in France, he shall not return. The countess renounces him as her son.

After Lafew leaves, Bertram enters. Bertram says that he will never consummate his marriage to Helena. Instead, he will go off to fight in the Tuscan wars and send Helena back to Rossillion. Parolles agrees to join him.

In a soliloquy, Helena laments her position. She is sad for herself, but also worried that Bertram will be hurt or killed in battle. She decides to leave France so Bertram can return home safely.

Act 2, Scene 4

Act 3, Scene 3

Lavatch arrives in Paris and greets Helena and Parolles, whom he insults by calling him a knave. Parolles does not realize Lavatch has insulted him. Parolles tells Helena to prepare for her wedding night, and she leaves to await Bertram.

In a brief scene, the Duke of Florence leads Bertram and others into battle. Bertram bravely heads up the troops, and Parolles, coward that he is, follows in the rear.

Act 3, Scene 4 Act 2, Scene 5 Lafew tries to convince Bertram that Parolles will not be a trustworthy ally in battle, to no avail. Helena reappears, and Bertram tells her that he will not sleep with her that night because of his prior obligations. He gives her a letter to give to his mother and tells her to return to Rossillion. Helena vows that as his obedient servant she will do what he asks. After she leaves,

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In Rossillion, the countess receives a letter from Helena stating that she has gone on a pilgrimage to the burial site of Saint Jacques le Grand (St. James the Greater) in hopes that her departure will prompt Bertram to return home. The countess urges her steward to write to Bertram in an effort to extol Helena’s virtues and point out how childish he is being in refusing her as his wife. The countess thinks that if Bertram returns

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home and Helena hears about it, then she will return as well due to her immense desire to be near him.

great deal of money to Diana so that she will have a significant dowry and will be able to find herself a worthy husband afterward.

Act 3, Scene 5

Act 4, Scene 1

In the city of Florence, the Widow Capilet and her daughter, Diana, discuss the war. News of the young Count Bertram’s heroism on the battlefield has spread fast, and they are aware of his brave deeds. However, Parolles has been seeking a female companion for the count and has spied Diana. Both the Widow and her friend Mariana warn Diana vehemently against becoming involved in an affair. If Diana loses her virginity to the Count of Rossillion, she will be ruined.

Parolles arrives in a field, ostensibly on his quest to find the drum, but he has no intentions of doing so. Instead, he plans to take a nap, feign some injuries, and return to camp with a story about his brave but unsuccessful exploit. The two lords are hiding in the bushes, and they jump out, throwing a sack over his head. They have an interpreter utter some mumbo jumbo—‘‘Boskos thromuldo boskos’’—to make Parolles believe he has been captured by the foreign enemy. Parolles immediately offers to spill the beans about his army’s secrets in an effort to spare his life. His ‘‘captors’’ agree to take him to their general, so Parolles can tell him everything.

Helena arrives at the Widow’s house in search of a place to stay on her pilgrimage to Saint Jacques le Grand. The Widow welcomes her and says that the Count of Rossillion, a war hero, is in town. Helena says she does not know him, but finds him handsome. Diana says that the count should not be so mean to his wife, but that Parolles should be poisoned.

Act 4, Scene 2

At the camp, the Brothers Dumaine try to convince Bertram that Parolles is a scoundrel, liar, and coward. Bertram doubts that they can prove such accusations. The lords offer to pose as the enemy, capture and blindfold Parolles, bring him back to the tents, and interrogate him, knowing full well that he will incriminate Bertram to save his own skin. Bertram agrees to the plan. Parolles enters the tent, stating his intent to find a prized regimental drum that was lost in battle. The others tell him to forget about it, but he is adamant, believing he will be deemed a hero for retrieving it. They relent, deciding that it will be the perfect time to capture him. Parolles proclaims he will attempt the dangerous maneuver that night.

In his effort to plan his conquest, Bertram tries to seduce Diana by comparing her to the Greek goddess Diana and saying that remaining chaste would be a waste of her beauty. Diana reminds him that he is married, but Bertram brushes it off. He says he loves only Diana. Diana is not convinced; she knows that he just wants to sleep with her. She declares that she will believe his declaration of love only if he backs it up with the promise to marry her after his wife dies and if he gives her the family ring he wears on his finger. He protests, but gives in fairly quickly. Diana says she will meet him at midnight in her room. He will stay for only one hour, and neither of them will speak. In return for his ring, she will give him one of her own in return. After Bertram leaves, Diana gives a short soliloquy stating that her mother was right about him. All men are the same; they will promise anything to get a woman into bed.

Act 3, Scene 7

Act 4, Scene 3

Helena convinces the Widow that she is the count’s wife. She proposes a plan in which Diana’s virtue will be spared by switching places with Diana during her scheduled rendezvous with Bertram. Thus, Bertram will be sleeping unknowingly with his wife, not Diana. Ahead of time, Diana will ask that Bertram give her his ring and that neither of them speak for the hour they are together. The Widow agrees to the plan, because it will allow her daughter to retain her chastity. To seal the deal, Helena offers a

The Brothers Dumaine discuss Bertram. The first lord tells the second lord that Helena is dead, having succumbed to grief on her pilgrimage to Saint Jacques le Grand. Her death was confirmed by the priest of the shrine. Furthermore, Bertram knew this when he made his deal with Diana. The lords are saddened by Helena’s death, and they are dismayed (but not surprised) that Bertram is cheered by it and happily announces that he will return to Rossillion shortly.

Act 3, Scene 6


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The two lords tell Bertram that Parolles has been held in the stocks, offering his ‘‘captors’’ a litany of confessions. Bertram still does not believe Parolles would say anything bad about him. To prove him wrong, Parolles is sent in, still blindfolded. Parolles says that the duke’s horses are weak, his troops scattered, and his commanders are poor rogues. He further indicts Captain Dumaine as a low-level apprentice who once impregnated a mentally retarded girl. One of the captors retrieves a letter from Parolles’s pocket, in which he wrote that Bertram is a fool. He claims to have been warning Diana that the count was ‘‘a dangerous and lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all the fry it finds.’’ He begs for his life and continues to say terrible things about Captain Dumaine, including that ‘‘drunkenness is his best virtue.’’ He also condemns the other Captain Dumaine and readily agrees to betray all of them if only he is allowed to live. Bertram is livid at Parolles’s betrayal. When Parolles is unmasked, he balks at being fooled but readily apologizes.

Act 4, Scene 4 Following the bed-trick (which takes place offstage), Helena tells the Widow and Diana that they will all return to France in order to make good on her promise. When they get there, Diana will need to do one more thing before their scheme is complete. Diana vows to do whatever Helena desires, such is her gratitude for having her virtue saved by the bed-trick. Helena assures her that ‘‘all’s well that ends well.’’

Act 4, Scene 5 In Rossillion, Lafew criticizes Parolles, and the countess wishes she had never known him. She laments Helena’s death, stating that she loved her as if she were her own child. Lafew proposes that Bertram marry his daughter, and the countess agrees. Lavatch engages in some off-color banter with Lafew and the countess; they both state that he is morose but harmless. Lavatch announces that Bertram has returned.

Act 5, Scene 1 While traveling to Rossillion as fast as they can, Helena, Diana, and the Widow encounter a gentleman. Helena asks him to take a message to the King of France. The gentleman states that the king is not in Paris but in fact heading for Rossillion. ‘‘All’s well that ends well yet,’’ Helena

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reminds the Widow. Helena promises a reward to the gentleman if he can deliver her letter to the king promptly, and he obliges.

Act 5, Scene 2 Parolles returns to Rossillion and urges Lavatch, who roundly criticizes Parolles’s withered clothes and body odor, to give Lafew a letter. But Lafew enters, and Lavatch introduces Parolles as a ‘‘poor, decayed . . . foolish, rascally knave.’’ Parolles begs forgiveness from Lafew, who grants it.

Act 5, Scene 3 The king mourns Helena’s death, and with Lafew and the countess present, he summons Bertram. The king asks Bertram if he knows Lafew’s daughter. The count says he was in love with her, and the king announces their betrothal. Lafew asks Bertram for a ring to give his daughter. He presents the ring he believes Diana gave him during their rendezvous. Lafew instantly recognizes it as Helena’s ring, but Bertram objects. He claims it was thrown from a window by a woman who wanted to sleep with him. The king sides with Lafew, saying that Helena promised only to take it off her finger if she consummated her marriage with Bertram. Bertram remains adamant—he did not receive the ring from Helena. The king orders Bertram to be taken away. As Bertram is being led away, he says that if the ring belonged to Helena, then she, in fact, became his wife in Florence, and yet, she was not there, so the ring was not hers and she is not his wife. Bertram is led away, and the king is perplexed. Meanwhile, the gentleman arrives with a letter to the king from Diana. The letter claims that Bertram promised to marry her upon the death of his wife, but that he fled Florence without making good on that promise. She is on her way to Rossillion to seek justice. At this turn of events, Lafew recants his daughter’s hand in marriage, believing Bertram not worthy of being her husband. The king agrees and starts to believe that Helena met with foul play, possibly at Bertram’s hands. Bertram and Diana, along with her mother, are brought to court. The king asks Bertram if he knows either Diana or her mother, and Bertram refuses to answer, but states that Diana is not his wife. Diana insists that Bertram believes he took her virginity. Bertram says she was a whore. Diana presents his ring as proof that she is telling

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS All’s Well That Ends Well, directed by John Barton and Claude Whatham and produced by the Royal Shakespeare Company, was filmed in 1968 by the BBC and released on video. The production stars Lynn Farleigh, Ian Richardson, and Catherine Lacey. All’s Well That Ends Well, a 1981 production directed by Elijah Moshinsky and starring Ian Charleson, Angela Down, and Celia Johnson, was released by BBC Time/Life Series and distributed by Ambrose Video. An audiobook of All’s Well That Ends Well, read by William Hutt and published as part of the CBC Stratford Festival Reading Series, is available on compact disc.

A two-cassette full-cast recording of All’s Well That Ends Well, starring Claire Bloom and Lynn Redgrave, was released by Caedmon Audio.

the truth. The countess and the king instantly believe her. Diana says that Parolles can vouch for her story, and he is ordered to appear. Bertram backtracks, saying he slept with Diana and she stole the ring. Diana says that she gave Bertram the ring the king is now wearing. Bertram finally confesses; Parolles appears and confesses that he was the go-between for Bertram and Diana. The king questions Diana about the ring some more, and she cryptically says she never gave it to Bertram. The king knows full well the ring was Helena’s and orders Diana to be sent to jail for refusing to cooperate. She sends her mother to fetch her bail. Diana enjoys the riddle she has presented, and knowing of Helena’s ensuing pregnancy, she tells the king: ‘‘Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick. So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick.’’ The Widow presents Helena, who quotes Bertram’s original letter: ‘‘When from my finger


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you can get this ring, / And are by me with child,’’ proving that she has achieved Bertram’s seemingly unattainable criteria. Presented with this evidence, Bertram professes his undying love for Helena and promises to be a faithful husband. The king, delighted at this turnabout, applauds Diana for retaining her chastity while allowing Helena to fulfill her role as Bertram’s wife. He offers Diana a dowry and her choice for a husband.

CHARACTERS Bertram, Count of Rossillion Bertram is the Count of Rossillion. His father has recently died, and his mother, the Countess of Rossillion, is still in mourning. Bertram is quite young, perhaps no more than twenty, and he is eager to join the king’s ranks in Paris and then go off to battle in Florence. Bertram’s best friend is Parolles, but he is oblivious to the fact that Parolles is an opportunist and a scoundrel. Bertram balks at marrying Helena because she is a commoner with no wealth or status. He agrees reluctantly only after the king promises to endow Helena with wealth and a title in order to sweeten the deal. This is evidence of Bertram’s snobbishness, as Helena’s social standing outranks all her other positive qualities in Bertram’s eyes. Finding himself trapped in a marriage to Helena, whom he does not love, he flees to Florence to join the wars. While there, he proves himself valiant on the battlefield, and his reputation as a hero spreads quickly throughout the city. He spies Diana in town and sends Parolles to set up a rendezvous. Before their scheduled tryst, he promises the young virgin that he truly loves her and will marry her as soon as his wife dies. That night, he believes he sleeps with her, but he beds his wife, Helena, instead. Thinking he is with Diana, he gives her his family ring as a token of his affection. Bertram’s first change of heart takes place when he witnesses the blindfolded Parolles’s exuberant confessions to the Brothers Dumaine. Parolles declares that Bertram is a coward, liar, and promiscuous to boot. Bertram is forced to accept that Parolles has been duplicitous. After the wars are over, Bertram returns to Rossillion. He thinks Helena is dead and that he has slept with Diana; in fact, he is adamant about it when Diana appears before him and the king. When the bed-trick is revealed and Helena appears,

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ostensibly pregnant with his child and bearing his ring, he happily concedes defeat. She has fulfilled the requirements he stipulated in his letter as being necessary for him to accept her as his wife, and he vows to love her forever. Commentators are divided over Bertram. Most agree that he is immature and full of shortcomings, but some critics find him sincere and repentant by the end of the play and thus worthy of the honorable Helena. Others find this turnaround in his character implausible and false. ‘‘No Shakespearean hero is so degraded and so unsparingly presented,’’ wrote Russell Fraser in the New Cambridge edition of the play. One of the harshest summaries of Bertram’s character came from renowned literary critic and philosopher Samuel Johnson, who summarized Bertram (as quoted in Fraser) as ‘‘a man noble without generosity, and young without truth; who marries Helena as a coward and leaves her as a profligate; when she is dead by his unkindness, sneaks home to a second marriage, is accused by a woman whom he has wronged, defends himself by falsehood, and is dismissed to happiness.’’ The outrage, for those who dislike Bertram, is that he is given a happy ending he does not deserve. Critics who argue that Bertram has truly repented by the end of the play suggest that it is his immaturity and desire for life experience that cause him to initially reject Helena. Elizabethan audiences, they argue, would have found Bertram’s desire to go to war entirely honorable. Likewise, his blindness to Parolles’s true nature is attributed to his inexperience, but once it is demonstrated via the kidnapping episode, Bertram becomes wiser. Those scholars who find Bertram entirely despicable and without merit conclude that his acceptance of Helena in the final scene of the play is one calculated to save his neck, as he finds himself backed into a corner with all the evidence (Helena, Diana, and Parolles all testify against him) stacked against him. A few critics abstain from roundly praising or condemning Bertram, offering other ways to interpret his character.

Brothers Dumaine The Brothers Dumaine, sometimes called the two French lords, serve as captains for the Duke of Florence in the war with Sienna. They are honorable men, fond of Helena, friends with Bertram, and convinced of Parolles’s bad nature from the

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start. They try in vain to convince Bertram that Parolles cannot be trusted. In order to prove their case, the Brothers Dumaine enact a plan to ambush Parolles and reveal his true nature to Bertram. They disguise themselves as enemy soldiers and kidnap Parolles near Florence when Parolles embarks on a mock-heroic quest to recapture the regiment’s drum. The Brothers pretend to speak a different language, and while Parolles is blindfolded, he betrays Bertram openly and vociferously.

Countess of Rossillion The Countess of Rossillion is Bertram’s mother, and she is still mourning the recent death of her husband. She has also willingly become Helena’s guardian since the young woman’s father, a physician of local renown, has also recently passed away. Kind and generous, the countess exemplifies the best of the noble tradition and encourages Helena’s love for Bertram, even though she thinks her son is foolish and headstrong for rejecting the talented, vivacious girl. The countess rates honesty and virtue higher than valor in battle or nobility of rank, even when this means that she must side against Bertram. She believes her son is old enough to get married, but too young to go into battle. She mourns Bertram’s departure for Paris in the same way she mourns the loss of her husband. The countess’s fondness for Helena is evident when she tells the girl she loves her as if she were her own daughter. But when Helena offers to travel to Paris to heal the king, the countess encourages her to go. Even after Helena professes her love for the countess’s son, the countess is understanding and does not discourage Helena’s passion. She understands the spell of ‘‘love’s strong passion,’’ having fallen under it herself when she was younger. The countess has been widely praised as one of Shakespeare’s best female characters. Famed nineteenth-century critic and playwright George Bernard Shaw (as quoted in Fraser) called the countess ‘‘the most beautiful old woman’s part ever written.’’ One of the most famous actresses to play the role was Academy Award-winner Judi Dench, who played the countess in 2003 at the Swan Theatre in Stratford, England.

Diana The daughter of the Widow Capilet, Diana is courted by the Count of Rossillion while he is

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An engraving of Act V, scene iii, with the King, the Countess of Rossillion, Lafew, Betram, Helena, and Diana (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

fighting with the king’s regiment in Florence. She is a virgin, and she knows Bertram’s reputation as a cad, and that he is married. When Helena arrives in Florence as a traveler and agrees to stay at the Widow’s inn, Diana tells her about the count’s awful wife. At first, Helena pretends to be someone else, but after she confesses to being Bertram’s wife, Diana agrees to the bed-trick scheme as a way to preserve her own honor. She is also happy to help Helena achieve the demands of Bertram’s letter. After the bed-trick has been carried out successfully, she and her mother accompany Helena back to Paris. Diana plays a major role in revealing the bed-trick in the play’s final act. She delights in this role, presenting a maddening riddle for the king, Bertram, and others to decipher. She insists she never slept with Bertram, even as Bertram insists that she did. When the king threatens to put her in jail for her insolence, she presents her bail in the form of Helena, the answer to the riddle and the person they all


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thought was dead. When all is revealed, the king applauds Diana’s role in the bed-trick scheme and rewards her by letting her choose a husband from among the men at court. She will thus be spared the hardship and poverty of her life in Florence. For her, the story truly ends well.

Duke of Florence The Duke of Florence welcomes Bertram and Parolles when they escape Paris to fight the war. He is allied with France in a war against Sienna, another province of what would later become Italy.

Helena Helena is the daughter of the recently deceased court physician, Gerard de Narbon, from whom she has learned his healing secrets. She has become the ward of the Countess of Rossillion, with whom she has a very maternal relationship, though she has fallen in love with the countess’s son, Bertram. She is disturbed by the thought

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of being considered the countess’s daughter, because that would make Bertram her brother and her romantic interest in him would be unseemly. Because of these concerns, she admits her love for Bertram to the countess, who is sympathetic to the girl’s predicament. Helena is admired by nearly everyone except Bertram for her charm, beauty, intelligence, and honesty. Her name, as several characters in the play remind her, is equivocal with Helen of Troy, the most beautiful woman of Ancient Greece, over whom the Trojan War was fought. Helena is tormented by the thought of being separated from Bertram when he departs for Paris. She takes it upon herself, with the countess’s blessing, to travel to Paris in order to heal the king, who is suffering from an incurable condition, but also because it will keep her in proximity to Bertram. She miraculously heals the king and thereby earns his loyalty, admiration, and a valuable ring that figures prominently in the story when the bed-trick is revealed. Bertram rejects Helena because of her lowborn status. He is a count, and she is a commoner. No matter how virtuous she may be, it would be improper to marry her. Helena understands this, yet she does not accept it. She takes matters into her own hands and hatches a plan: first, to become Bertram’s wife, and second, to fulfill his demands to obtain his ring and bear his child. Even in the face of repeated rejection, she persists in her goals, so strong is her infatuation with Bertram. Helena has the gift of healing, as did her father, and bets the king her life that she can make him well, another example of her remarkable self-confidence. He accepts the offer, and as a favor in return, Helena asks for Bertram’s hand in marriage. The king readily complies. Helena is considered the central figure in the play, and all of the major themes of the play (gender issues, desire, the bed-trick, marriage, and social class) are influenced by her actions. As the heroine of All’s Well That Ends Well, Helena is often described by admiring commentators as noble, virtuous, honorable, and regenerative, and by detractors as obsessive and narrow-minded. Her dogged pursuit of Bertram has been both ridiculed (particularly in Victorian times) as unfeminine and commended as being bold, mostly in more recent times. Many wonder why she is attracted to a man who does not like

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her at all. Nearly all critics agree that she is a complex character. Fraser and others find similarities between Helena and the real-life historical figure Christine de Pisan, an educated woman of the early fifteenth century who was renowned for her piety, goodness, intelligence, and a type of proto-feminism in which she attributed a woman’s success to her own resourcefulness. Additionally, her father was the well-known doctor and astrologer Thomas of Pisano, who had been called upon in 1365 to heal England’s Charles V. Fraser theorizes that Shakespeare added dimension to the character of Helena by making her a knowingly frail character, as evidenced by her pilgrimage to Saint Jacques le Grand. This suggests that though Helena is strong and brave enough to get what she wants (Bertram), she understands her limitations as a person, and possibly her faults (that is, desiring the flawed Bertram is perhaps not the healthiest thing for her). ‘‘Shakespeare’s Helena is frail in that ‘we are all frail,’’’ Fraser writes, ‘‘and it is this generic human frailty that dictates the pilgrimage to Saint Jacques.’’ Irish playwright W. B. Yeats, quoted by Patrick Carnegy in the Spectator, called Helena ‘‘one of Shakespeare’s ‘glorious women who select dreadful or empty men.’’’ Commentators who unequivocally admire Helena find her guiltless in plotting to wed Bertram and in fulfilling the terms of his letter through the bed-trick. One critic even refers to her as a genius. Scholars who are critical of her character find her obsessed by her sexual passion and an example of noble womanhood degraded, using her abilities as a huntress to realize her plans for a union with Bertram with no thought of their consequences to others (primarily Diana). Most critics, however, see Helena as a manysided character. Several critics have noted her regenerative and restorative powers; she saves the king from almost certain death, but how she does it remains a mystery. She is the key to restoring a kingdom whose noble elders are dying and who have no honorable replacements. When Helena heals the king, she restores the kingdom at least for a time, and saves Bertram (and Diana) from making what would have been a mistake of lifelong regret. She is pregnant at the end of the play, symbolically the provider of a new generation of nobility. Other critics have noted her embodiment of both feminine passivity and masculine action. She is the desiring

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subject (the pursuer of Bertram), yet she longs to be the desired object (pursued by Bertram).

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apparent at the end of the play when he assures the unmasked and humiliated Parolles that he will not be tossed out of the palace.

King of France The King of France represents a dying breed of nobility, one in which honor and virtue are supremely important. When the play opens, he is suffering from a debilitating illness, fistula, in which some of his internal organs have developed abscesses. He is nostalgic for the past and has fond memories of Bertram’s father, the former Count of Rossillion. Helena, who has followed Bertram to Paris, offers to heal the king. When she succeeds, the king is grateful and generous, giving her a valuable ring, allowing her to choose a husband from among his noblemen. When Bertram rejects Helena for being common, the king offers her a title and a dowry.

Lavatch

The king forbids Bertram from traveling to Florence to fight in the war, stating that the count is too young. He is protective of his troops and makes sure they are trained sufficiently. He is ambivalent about Florence’s war with Sienna and allows his men to choose which side they will fight for. When the bed-trick is revealed at the play’s conclusion, the king is pleased that all has worked out, and he allows Diana to choose a husband. This gesture shows that, although he is grateful and gives generous rewards, he has not learned his lesson. He offered Helena the same reward, which led to the chain of events that caused Diana to be there in the first place. However, the king’s actions most likely rescue Diana (and her mother) from a life of poverty, proving he is much more forgiving of class differences than Bertram, despite possessing the ultimate title. His actions prove him to be cautious, thoughtful, and ultimately benevolent.

Parolles

Lafew Lafew is an elderly lord, a friend and confidant of the countess. He is quick to perceive the true character of Parolles, calls him a knave (an unscrupulous person), ridicules his flashy clothes, and warns Bertram against him. Lafew travels to Paris with Bertram, and he is one of Helena’s strongest defenders. When the king allows her to choose a husband, he wishes he were young enough to be considered. Even though Lafew represents the old guard—he would have been close to Bertram’s father— and his values are somewhat traditional, he is still a good judge of character and is capable of forgiveness. His sympathy and kindness become


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Lavatch is a cantankerous, pessimistic clown and servant of the Countess of Rossillion. He provides some comic relief in the play, usually in somewhat lascivious prose that espouses his gloomy world view. He is the lowest character on the totem pole in the play, so unscrupulous that even Parolles calls him a knave. He has an affair with Isabel, a servant, and gets her pregnant. He decides to marry her, but later changes his mind. Lavatch is the one older character in the play who is unwise, proving that age and wisdom do not always go together.

Mentor and confidant to Bertram, Parolles is a social climber and a scoundrel. On the other hand, he exhibits more self-awareness than Bertram and speaks several languages. He dresses in flashy clothes that border on the ridiculous and does not put his intelligence to good use. He is a prime example of a miles gloriosus, a boastful soldier, which was a stock character type in Shakespeare’s day. He also has qualities of a servus callidus, a tricky slave, another type of stock character. The first glimpse of his false allegiance to Bertram is when he tells Lafew that Bertram is not his master; he answers only to God. This displays his arrogance and disloyalty; Parolles is in service to the Count of Rossillion, and likewise is expected to remain steadfast, especially so when he follows Bertram into battle. But he betrays Bertram in Florence when he is captured and tricked into believing he is about to be tortured. His boasts and deceit finally bring about his unmasking, at last enlightening Bertram as to his true character. Parolles is quick to realize he has been a fool, suffers humiliation, and assumes a new veneer of humbleness in accepting Lafew’s mercy, which will enable him to remain in Rossillion. Parolles has a long conversation with Helena in the first act. They discuss her virginity in rather flirtatious terms. One wonders why Helena would choose to confide in Parolles, a man whose advice she would almost certainly never take. For his part, Parolles tells Helena that virginity is a handicap. The longer she preserves it, the more danger she is in of becoming damaged goods. That Parolles would give such advice to a young woman so

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highly regarded by the countess speaks of his contempt for those in authority as well as his lax morals. Critics praise Shakespeare for his creation of Parolles, a character not found in Boccaccio’s version of the tale, whether they like him or not. He appears in thirteen of the play’s twenty-three scenes, and some consider the scene of his unmasking (the longest scene in the play) to be the structural center of the play (especially since the critical scene of the bedtrick occurs offstage). Parolles is responsible for most of the laughter (albeit scant) in the play, and although he is generally regarded as a liar, a coward, a fop, and a character lacking in honor and principle, he is essential to the plot. For many, Parolles is a more interesting character than Bertram. Some directors have created versions of the play that revolve more around Parolles than Helena, and some renowned actors have been attracted to the part, most notably Laurence Olivier in a 1927 production. Some critics debate whether or not Parolles is a bad influence on Bertram, or if they are simply like minds that have found each other. Fraser believes that ‘‘Parolles is an extension of Bertram.’’

Widow Capilet The Widow Capilet is Diana’s mother, and she runs the inn in Florence where Helena stays on her pilgrimage to Saint Jacques le Grand. She tells Helena that Bertram has been trying to seduce Diana. When Helena proposes the bedtrick as a way to fulfill her wifely duties and save Diana’s virginity in the process, the Widow reluctantly agrees because she sympathizes with Helena’s predicament. Afterward, she accompanies Diana and Helena back to Rossillion at the end of the play. When Diana presents the bedtrick to the king and others, the Widow is excused to fetch Diana’s bail, which is revealed to be Helena herself.

THEMES Gender Roles Much of the plot of All’s Well That Ends Well hinges on Helena’s willingness to dismiss the constraints of her traditional, feminine gender role. Because Helena subverts her own prescribed gender role (mainly, that a woman

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should be demure and not exhibit unprompted sexual interest in a man) in pursuing her heart’s desire, Bertram is also forced against his will into a reversed gender role by becoming the pursued. Her other actions are also quite bold for a woman. She engages in a frank discussion about her virginity with Parolles but is adamant about remaining a virgin, thereby embodying both gender roles of participating in a sexual debate with a man while remaining chaste. She travels alone to Paris, heals the king (traditionally a male job), and thereby is allowed to choose her husband, a complete subversion of normal gender roles. She also leaves Rossillion and travels on a very long pilgrimage all by herself, arranges the bed-trick for her own benefit, and craftily stages her own death in order to get what she wants. However, also implicit in her proactive role is a desire to engage in a more traditional role. She longs to be desired by Bertram and to have his child. In the sense that both of these happen at the end of the play, all does end well for Helena. This dual nature of Helena’s character, in which she exhibits elements of both female passiveness and masculine action, is demonstrated in the scene where she selects Bertram as a husband. She emphasizes her low social status to the king and how unworthy she is. It could be that she is only playing up her feminine side in order to seem more attractive to the assembled suitors. But when Bertram rejects and humiliates her in front of the entire court, she retracts her choice. The marriage proceeds only because the king insists on keeping his word. When Bertram leaves her—their marriage still unconsummated—to go to the wars in Italy, she passively sits at home and then wanders off as a pilgrim so that Bertram can return to Rossillion. In a sense, this is a passive act in that it reveals her sense of defeat. Even when Bertram sends the letter with the conditions of his acceptance of her as his wife, conditions that he believes she could never fulfill, Helena is not angered but takes pity on him instead, noting how she stole rank by marrying him. Finally, once Helena has completed the tasks Bertram required of her and he takes her as his wife, she is satisfied with the role of wife and mother, which will presumably place her permanently back in a more traditional female role. Several critics note the quest-romance and the knight-errant themes in All’s Well That Ends Well, only in this case the initiator of action—the

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hero—is a woman. Helena possesses the knowledge and skill to influence events and other characters and thus is able to secure Bertram as a husband. However, she cannot force him to love her, and his rejection requires her to pursue an alternate plan of action. Some think that Helena’s active role, her ability to go out and get what she wants (Bertram), is motivated only by sexual desire. Others excuse her unorthodox means of fulfilling Bertram’s conditions because they were created with the intent of being impossible to fulfill. Thus, she had no other recourse after having been publicly humiliated by Bertram than to arrange the bed-trick.

Bed-trick/Marriage The bed-trick in All’s Well That Ends Well pervades much of the commentary on the play and intersects with the discussion of marriage. Commentators tend to focus on whether Helena’s use of the bed-trick is justified and lawful and whether it provides a means for a satisfactory ending to the play. Critics who believe Helena’s switch with Diana is justified argue that as Bertram’s wife, Helena had every right to take Diana’s place and consummate her marriage, thus saving both Diana and Bertram from dishonor. Helena saves a maiden from what would have been a grave mistake, and she keeps Bertram from committing what would have been an unlawful act of adultery. By thus saving Bertram, and, as a result, securing his ring and carrying his child, Helena is an agent in restoring the dying kingdom. Those who find Helena’s actions unlawful note that Helena is actually encouraging Bertram to engage in adultery (even though Helena knows that what she is doing is technically lawful). They note that although Helena satisfactorily fulfills Bertram’s requirements in his letter, this does not necessarily dictate a happy ending, since their sexual union was based on deception.

Social Class Despite the fact that she lives in the palace, Helena is a commoner. Her mother died when she was young, and her father was a doctor. Without property, money, or a title to her name, she has no assets to attract Bertram, who is a member of the noble class. Most marriages in that time were arranged to benefit both families, and Bertram’s marriage to Helena would benefit only her. Some view this as a justifiable reason for Bertram to reject Helena. However, we are


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told early on in the play that Helena possesses true nobility and honor, which cannot be obtained by birth. Bertram, though born with wealth and status, has no nobility or honor to speak of. The noble and honorable older generation, represented by the king, the countess, and Lafew, recognize Helena’s virtues and Bertram’s lack of them. A few commentators have noted that wealth and rank actually mean little to either Helena or Bertram. Helena wants Bertram, not his money, and Bertram wants his freedom, not a marriage to a woman everyone considers noble and virtuous. If Bertram were truly in pursuit of great rank, he would have accepted Helena, whom the king has endowed with wealth to make her Bertram’s equal (although a few critics note that this is actually unnecessary, for Helena’s fine qualities erase the social gap between her and Bertram). Also, if Bertram were truly invested in maintaining his class distinction, he would not have befriended Parolles, a man of notably low birth and, worse, base and vile qualities.

Youth versus Experience The bittersweet tone of All’s Well That Ends Well is established by the play’s older characters, especially the Countess of Rossillion and Lafew, both of whom have suffered the loss of loved ones and express their patience with those of the younger generation. The countess sympathizes with Helena’s passion for Bertram, because she was once young and in love herself. Likewise, Lafew forgives Parolles for being a traitor and gives him a second chance by offering him a position. The King of France offers his sympathy to Bertram on the loss of his father, and tells the count he is too young to fight in the war. Ultimately, the happy ending of the play is in the fact that the elders will take no retribution out on the younger generation for the follies to which they have subjected themselves. A counterpoint to this is Lavatch, the aging clown, who talks dirty, impregnates a chambermaid, and then changes his mind about marrying her. He still acts like a child, and his position as a clown—a person no one takes seriously—underscores that fact. Lavatch exhibits the whims of a young person, even though he is old. He serves as an example of the misery that awaits those who fail to live up to their responsibilities as they enter into adulthood. The older generation understands that youth is a time of trial and error, and they remain hopeful that the younger generation—Bertram and Parolles especially—have learned their lessons as their elders continue to

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take them under their wings and prepare them for the future.

TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY

Endings

Helena is Shakespeare’s only female character to address the audience through a soliloquy. Scan her soliloquy in act 1, scene 1, that begins ‘‘O, were that all.’’ Do you find any particular meter or rhyme scheme? Do you agree with critics who say that the prose of All’s Well That Ends Well is sloppy and uninspired? List three reasons why it is so or why it is not so.

Using a map, trace the path from Rossillion in France to Galicia in Spain, where the Cathedral of Santiago is. Where is Florence in relation to the cathedral? Calculate the distance between Rossillion and Florence. How long do you think it took Helena to get there on foot? Discuss the weather, terrain, and other obstacles (natural or manmade) she may have encountered on her journey.

Lafew chides Parolles for his flashy clothes, asking, ‘‘Pray you, sir, who’s his tailor?’’ and describing him to the countess as that ‘‘snipped-taffeta fellow there, whose villainous saffron would have made all the unbaked and doughy youth of a nation in his colour.’’ Research clothing of the Elizabethan period and photocopy or draw three examples of the types of outfits Parolles may have been wearing, befitting his social class and garish taste, that Lafew was making fun of. Some critics have noted the discrepancy between the rash behavior of the play’s younger characters (namely, Bertram, Parolles, and Helena), and the forgiving nature of the play’s older characters (Lafew, the countess, and the king). Using the theory of personality developed by twentieth-century German psychologist Erik Erikson, who described the eight stages of psychosocial development, write a five hundred word essay explaining how the characters’ stages of development influence their behavior. Support your reasoning with examples.

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The abrupt ending of All’s Well That Ends Well is partly responsible for giving the play its problem status. Does the play end well? If so, for whom? Most modern critics conclude that the ending is unsatisfactory and unconvincing, even though it provides the required comedic resolution whereby the hero and heroine are joined at last. They have a hard time believing that Bertram could enter into a happy marriage with Helena after being confronted with her deception. Early commentators, however, tended to have less trouble accepting the ending and argued that Elizabethan audiences, familiar with the folk tales on which the play was based, would not have found the ending lacking. Some argue that Shakespeare lost interest in the character of Helena once she succeeded in securing Bertram, and he proceeded to a hasty closing scene. Others sense a difficult future ahead for Helena and Bertram because, even though he now acknowledges Helena as his wife, he has demonstrated no change of heart through his actions. Marjorie Garber, in her book Shakespeare After All, approves of the ending because of the careful way it was set up. The ending ‘‘is constructed like an elaborate mechanism and goes off with a bang in the powerful final scene.’’ Furthermore, she states, that ‘‘whatever our estimation of the callow but promising Bertram and the astonishingly patient Helena, both the genre of fairy tale and the history of noble marriage suggest that ending well—at least onstage—may be the best medicine.’’

STYLE New Comedy In literature, ‘‘comedy’’ refers to a story with a happy ending and a ‘‘tragedy’’ is a story with a sad ending. The earliest comedies date from fifth century B . C . E . Greece, and that style is known as Old Comedy, which was known for lampooning famous people and events of the day. Beginning in 320 B . C . E ., the style of comedy changed to reflect stock characters and situations. This style was dubbed New Comedy, and often featured a love story of a young couple as part of the plot. Some other famous New

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Comedies include Dante’s Divine Comedy and Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. All’s Well That Ends Well is also a New Comedy. When Bertram is confronted with evidence of his shenanigans and Helena outwits him in fulfilling his impossible demands, he undergoes a complete change of heart. Helena obtains her prize—Bertram. Diana is also saved from a meager existence, the king’s life is saved, the countess gains a daughter, and even Parolles repents. Everyone is better off than when the play began, and the solemn tone of mourning has been replaced by wedding bells and the good news of Helena’s pregnancy. Parolles exhibits traits of both a miles gloriosus (boastful soldier) and a servus callidus (tricky slave), which are both stock characters of New Comedy. There are, however, plot elements responsible for the play’s reputation as a problem play, which are those that run counter to the idea of comedy. These include the feeling of foreboding caused by Bertram’s superficial acceptance of Helena, and the king’s offer to Diana to choose a husband, which one suspects could create a whole new set of problems.

Double Entendre A double entendre is a word or phrase that can be construed as having two meanings, due to an intentional ambiguity on the part of the author or speaker. Often, one of those meanings is risque´. Much of the humor in Shakespeare’s plays comes from double entendres, and in All’s Well That Ends Well the speech of Lavatch, the clown, and words of Parolles and others can be construed as double entendres. For example, when Helena asks Parolles for advice on how to retain her virginity, he replies that it is impossible: ‘‘Man, setting down before you, will undermine you and blow you up.’’ To which Helena responds, ‘‘Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up! Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?’’ The humor in their exchange comes from the double meaning of the term ‘‘blow you up.’’ Undoubtedly, Helena is clever enough to understand the significance of what she is saying to Parolles, and it represents her complexity as a character. She is a virtuous maiden, intent on retaining her virtue, yet she is not above engaging in a bit of ribald repartee with a man—one of low morals, at that. In another example, Lavatch tells Lafew the difference between his roles as a fool and a knave. He says he is ‘‘a fool, sir, at a woman’s


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Jamie Glover as Bertram and Judi Dench as The Countess of Rossillion at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, England, 2003 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

service, and a knave at a man’s.’’ When Lafew asks what the difference is, Lavatch responds, ‘‘I would cozen the man of his wife and do his service.’’ In this case, the term ‘‘service’’ means he would take up the duties of being the wife’s husband, including those of a sexual nature.

Aphorism An aphorism is a concise and memorable phrase that lends itself to being quoted outside of its original context. ‘‘All’s well that ends well’’ itself is an aphorism—one that was known to audiences at the time Shakespeare wrote his play. Though All’s Well That Ends Well does not contain as many well-known aphorisms as some of his other plays, such as ‘‘To be, or not to be, that is the question’’ from Hamlet or ‘‘Out, out, damn spot’’ from Macbeth, it has its moments. In particular is Helena’s declaration that ‘‘Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, /

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Which we ascribe to heaven.’’ She means that when a person prays for the answer to a problem and it is solved, it is likely that the person solved the problem him or herself. God did not solve it for them. She uses this belief to pursue Bertram after he leaves for Paris; she knows that if she is ever to win his love it will be through her own actions, not simply by wishing or praying. Another aphorism is Parolles’s declaration that ‘‘a young man married is a man that’s marred,’’ when he sympathizes with Bertram’s plight of being married to Helena against his will. Diana’s friend Mariana warns her against Bertram’s advances, stating, ‘‘no legacy is so rich as honesty,’’ meaning that the greatest thing she has going for herself is her virtue, and to lose it to Bertram would be tragic. All of these phrases can stand alone in meaning beyond the context of the play.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Literature in Shakespeare’s Time Shakespeare based much of All’s Well That Ends Well on Giovanni Boccaccio’s Decameron, a collection of one hundred novellas wrapped around a frame story. Boccaccio was a Florentine writer of the fourteenth century who wrote in the Italian vernacular, thereby making the Decameron popular among the middle class, as opposed to scholars who shunned anything not written in Latin. The Decameron, which means literally ‘‘ten days,’’ is ostensibly the tale of ten people (seven women and three men), who are hiding out in the hills above the city of Florence during an outbreak of the Black Plague. Each day, they take turns telling stories in order to pass the time. Many of their stories are retellings of folk tales. Boccaccio’s Decameron influenced many writers, beginning with Geoffrey Chaucer, also a fourteenth-century writer, who adopted some of the Italian writer’s ideas for The Canterbury Tales, which is commonly acknowledged as the first work of poetry written in English. The Canterbury Tales adopts a similar frame story; an assembled group of pilgrims takes turns telling each other stories on a sojourn from London to Canterbury. Even if Shakespeare was not directly influenced by the Decameron, he almost certainly was familiar with The Palace of Pleasure, a work by

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William Painter closely based on the Decameron. Painter’s thirty-eighth story in the collection is about Giletta di Narbona, the daughter of a physician who cures the King of France. In return, she asks the king if she can marry Beltramo, the Count of Rossiglione. Though the king complies, the count escapes to Florence. Giletta follows him, seduces him against his knowledge, and becomes pregnant with twin boys. When the scheme is revealed, the count promptly apologizes and becomes a willfully faithful husband. In Shakespeare’s telling, he added the characters of Parolles, the countess, and Lafew in order to give the story more depth. Many critics have surmised that Shakespeare based the character of Helena on Christine de Pizan, an early-fifteenth-century writer who was the daughter of the famous Venetian physician and astronomer Tommaso di Benvenuto da Pizzano. De Pizan was the first widely known female writer, well-regarded, who exhibits many of the admirable traits with which Shakespeare endowed Helena. Her Book of the City of Ladies is widely regarded as a proto-feminist masterpiece.

Traditions of Marriage In Shakespeare’s time, marriages were usually arranged. A love match was unusual, and even more unusual was a woman choosing her prospective groom. Bertram’s objection to marrying Helena is rooted in these traditions. Because he is a count, he would have expected to marry someone of a similar status, not a commoner with neither wealth nor property to her name. A man would base his opinion of his prospective wife on the extent of her dowry, or marriage portion, which would include any land, money, or other goods, such as jewelry, which would become the husband’s property upon marriage (as would his wife). Helena had none of these, so Bertram considered her an inappropriate wife, regardless of her talents and personality. As for the marriage ceremony, the king in All’s Well That Ends Well dispenses with tradition, which would have necessitated the Crying of the Banns, a public declaration of the couple’s intent to marry on three successive Sundays in their respective churches. This procedure allowed people time to voice objections to the marriage, for whatever reason. Exceptions to the Crying of the Banns were rare; ironically, Shakespeare himself was one of these exceptions, due

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to the fact that his prospective wife, Ann Hathaway, was already pregnant. As in All’s Well That Ends Well, certainly the king had the power to conduct a wedding ceremony without a prior Crying of the Banns. Other traditions alluded to in the play include the expectation that the bride be a virgin. The bed-trick did indeed save Diana from ruining her life. Additionally, an exchange of rings was not uncommon, but it was not the norm. When Bertram states that Helena would never wear his ring, this would have been widely understood to mean that his ring on her finger would symbolize his acceptance of their union. Likewise, when Helena tricks Bertram into wearing her ring (the one the king gave her), she has succeeded in claiming him as would a bride who presented her groom with a wedding ring.

Medicine and Healing In Shakespeare’s time, medicine was little more than trial and error mixed with a great deal of superstition. Little was known about proven treatments, and disease and germs were not understood. Sanitation and hygiene, even among the upper classes, was rudimentary at best. Streets were filled with garbage and raw sewage, which spilled over into the rivers and lakes. Rats and vermin abounded, and no one made the connection between these conditions and the sicknesses that killed people. Typhoid, syphilis, influenza, and plague exacted a toll on life expectancy, as did poor nutrition, which led to life-threatening anemia and dysentery. Many upper-class women covered their faces with white make-up, which contained high amounts of lead. The make-up poisoned, and even killed, many of them. Because these health dangers were not understood, the work of physicians often included astrology. Astrologers and doctors, such as Tommaso de Benvenuto da Pizzano (Shakespeare’s possible model for Helena’s father, Gerard de Narbon), often resorted to bleeding people when they became ill in an effort to cleanse their bodies from bad humors, or bodily fluids. Physicians in Shakespeare’s day wore unusual outfits, complete with a long black cloak, leather gloves, leather boots, a pointed hood, and a mask with a long, pointed beak, which was filled with bergamot oil. Though the outfit may have been rooted in superstition, it probably did protect doctors, simply because it


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provided a barrier against the germs and bugs that would have covered their patients. Their odd appearance, however, often inspired dread in townspeople, who came to regard physicians with wariness. Anyway, only the very wealthy— mainly the nobles—would have been able to afford treatment by a doctor. Other segments of the population might be treated by a barber, who, in addition to cutting hair, also pulled teeth and bled patients. The ailment the King of France suffers from in All’s Well That Ends Well, fistula, which is an abscess that creates an opening between two organs, would not have been well understood at the time, and it is true that a physician may have told those afflicted with the condition that there was nothing that could be done. How Helena cures the king so quickly and completely is inexplicable, certainly in terms of medical knowledge either then or now, and her healing powers remain one of the story’s most implausible folk-tale elements.

Pilgrimages After she heals the king and is wed to Bertram, Helena is ordered back to Rossillion. Distraught by Bertram’s letter stating he will never return home as long as she is there, she departs on a pilgrimage to the burial site of Saint Jacques le Grande. Also known as the Way of St. James, the pilgrimage leads travelers to the Cathedral of Santiago in northwest Spain, the burial site of the Apostle James, St. James the Greater, a follower of Jesus Christ and the brother of the Apostle John. The purpose of the pilgrimage was to have the pilgrim’s greatest sins forgiven; the only other two pilgrimages that could do the same thing were to Rome and Jerusalem. There were several popular routes pilgrims could take to the shrine, each passing through other towns and stopping at notable locations along the way. A majority of those who undertook the trip were French, and the Way includes many stops in France before continuing on to Spain. The Cathedral of Santiago is still a popular pilgrimage site in the twenty-first century, and priests hold weekly services to welcome those who have made the trip, often on foot or bicycle. In Shakespeare’s time, this pilgrimage was still popular but considered somewhat dangerous because of the violence resulting from the Protestant Reformation. Audiences would have been familiar with the journey and accepted

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1600: Rossillion (Rousillon in French) is a Spanish territory, formerly part of the Kingdom of Majorca. It is conquered by Louis XIII in 1642 and is ceded to France by the Treaty of the Pyrenees in 1659. Today: Rousillon is a thriving region in France that produces vast quantities of wine, particularly red vin ordinaire. The area and its capital city, Perpignan, is a major tourist region.

1600: Doctors can do little to cure fistula, a medical ailment in which two organs become connected via the abnormal development of an abscess or passageway. Typical treatment may include bleeding with leeches. Today: Treatment for fistula includes a surgical procedure known as a fistulotomy, followed by antibiotics. Doctors prevent recurrence of the condition by treating

Helena’s reasons for undertaking it. However, given that Helena leaves for the trip from Rossillion, which borders Spain, how she ends up in Florence, which is hundreds of miles in the opposite direction from the shrine, is never explained. The fact that she is traveling alone is also puzzling.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Critical interpretation of All’s Well That Ends Well often hinges on whether the critic believes the play lives up to its title. The widespread belief that it does not has led to its reputation as a problem play, or rather, a comedy with strings attached. Shakespeare, who was by all accounts an astute observer of the human condition, seems not to have invested the lead characters of Bertram and Helena with enough depth to

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other conditions that sometimes cause fistula, such as Crohn’s disease and colitis.

1600: Christians from around Europe, but particularly from France, undertake the pilgrimage known as the Way of St. James, which leads them to the Cathedral of Santiago in the north of Spain. It is an arduous journey undertaken on foot or by horse, and may take many months. Hostels are located along the way to provide accommodations for the travelers. The pilgrimage was sometimes undertaken as penance for a grave crime. Today: Thousands of pilgrims travel on foot or by bike each year to the Cathedral of Santiago along the pilgrimage route, which was named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1993. Pilgrims receive an official pass that allows them to stay in hostels at reduced rates along the way.

understand the error of their ways, or permitted them to have meaningful moments of enlightenment that would bring about the necessary changes. For centuries, critics have been vexed by Bertram’s about-face in the last scene, when he suddenly realizes his foolishness and agrees to be Helena’s faithful husband and the father of their child. At the very least, critics have detected a bit of irony in the title; even Shakespeare had to know that these characters were not about to live happily ever after. As they settled into their marriage, would the very pro-active Helena have been satisfied to revert to the feminine ideal of a passive wife? And would Bertram truly be able to put his days as a scoundrel behind him and love a woman who previously repulsed him? How can their relationship succeed, given that it is based upon the deception of the bed-trick? All of these questions pose problems for critics. Some find ways to reconcile them with Shakespeare’s intentions, and others cannot. For them, All’s Well

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That Ends Well is one of Shakespeare’s sloppier plays, and therefore unsuccessful. As William Witherle Lawrence writes in Shakespeare’s Problem Comedies, ‘‘critical explanations have nowhere shown wider divergence than in regard to this play, nor have the points at issue ever been more sharply marked.’’ The play has been praised for several factors, however, including the characterization of the Countess of Rossillion, one of Shakespeare’s more well-rounded older females. In fact, most of the older characters in the play exhibit good judgment and work hard at guiding the younger generation into accepting their roles and responsibilities. Russell Fraser, in his introduction to All’s Well That Ends Well, published in the New Cambridge Shakespeare series, goes so far as to say ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well is a great play whose time has come round.’’ In support of this idea, he writes that, [Shakespeare’s] characters may change for the better or worse, and things beginning at the worst may turn upwards in the course of the play. But no character puts off altogether what he was at first, and if the play begins in darkness, the darkness is never altogether dispelled. Characters in All’s Well are left open to mortality, and in the world they inhabit the best is behind. This feeling, conveyed in the first scene of the play, is borne out in the ending.

In a similar manner, Eileen Z. Cohen, writing in Philological Quarterly, defends Shakespeare’s use of the bed-trick as a narrative device and disagrees with those who find it unbecoming of Helena. ‘‘[Shakespeare] requires us to believe that virtuous maidens can initiate and participate in the bed-trick. He insists that it saves lives and nurtures marriage, that it leads the duped men out of ignorance and toward understanding, and that the women who orchestrate it end with a clearer image of themselves.’’ Most critics also approve of the way Shakespeare fleshed out Boccaccio’s original story, ‘‘Giletta of Narbonne,’’ by adding the subplot of Parolles, in which the kidnapping trick serves as a parallel to the bed-trick and exposes his treasonous behavior to Bertram. In addition to fulfilling the New Comedy roles of the miles gloriosus and the servus callidus, Parolles, in the scene of his unmasking, serves as the fulcrum of the play, since the other main event—the bedtrick itself—takes place off stage. According to R. J. Schork, writing in Philological Quarterly, ‘‘The several New Comedic roles enacted by


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Parolles in All’s Well That Ends Well are proof of Shakespeare’s versatility and ingenuity in blending New Comedic motifs into a plot lifted from Boccaccio. All the characters in the play . . . could be matched to analogous characters in Roman comedy; none of them, however, plays the stock role straight.’’ Others attribute the play’s weaknesses to its folk-tale elements, which almost by definition render it immune to criticism based on lack of character development. According to Lawrence, both the Healing of the King and the Fulfillment of the Tasks are wellknown folk-tale conventions that turn up in many cultures, including India, Norway, and Turkey, and which would have influenced Boccaccio. Many of these tales also ‘‘exalt the cleverness and devotion of the woman,’’ Lawrence writes in Shakespeare’s Problem Comedies, ‘‘the wits of the wife are more than a match for those of the husband, and her purpose is a happy reunion with him.’’ No matter what the play’s virtues, critics eventually return to its problems. Irish poet W. B. Yeats, according to Spectator theater critic Patrick Carnegy, ‘‘saw Helena as one of Shakespeare’s ‘glorious women who select dreadful or empty men.’’’ And Samuel Johnson, says Carnegy, wrote off Bertram ‘‘as a bad lot whose fate was, in a devastating phrase, to be ‘dismissed to happiness.’’’ However, Charles Isherwood, reviewing a modern production of the play for the New York Times, writes that Bertram is ‘‘an adolescent forced before his time into manhood, and is only obeying the impulses of his young blood when he flees the embrace of his wiser new wife.’’ In another New York Times review of the play, Alvin Klein notes that ‘‘most contemporary directors have transposed into the twentieth century the play’s very considerable obstacles, which have nothing to do with time, but with the tediousness, thinness and inherent unpleasantness of a timelessly ineffectual tale.’’ Ultimately, according to Maurice Charney in All of Shakespeare, a major problem with the play is the bed-trick itself: ‘‘We are not comfortable with the fiction of substituting one woman for another, as if in bed all women were alike.’’ Additionally, in regard to Helena’s miracle cure for the king, Charney wonders ‘‘if Helena does indeed have magical powers, why does she need to go to so much trouble to fulfill her tasks?’’ In the end, Helena’s feminist take on creating her own reality in a patriarchal world has proven

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attractive enough for some to resurrect the play from its near-forgotten status of previous centuries. Modern-day directors have taken pains to show why she would be attracted to Bertram, sometimes successfully and other times less so. The play’s other themes—of generational differences, class distinctions—have proven sturdy enough to sustain the play through its more questionable moments. It may remain forever a problem play, but critics have shown that it contains enough nuance, humor, and truth to remain a relevant part of Shakespeare’s canon. Poet John Berryman, in his essay ‘‘Pathos and Dream’’ quoted in Berryman’s Shakespeare, notes that Shakespeare wrote four plays that are deemed ‘‘failures’’: The Two Gentlemen of Verona, King John, Timon of Athens, and All’s Well That Ends Well. ‘‘The reasons for his failure in each case were different,’’ Berryman says, ‘‘but at least he was always capable of failure, and it is pleasant to know this.’’

CRITICISM Mary Free In this brief excerpt, Free examines how All’s Well That Ends Well is unlike Shakespeare’s other comedies through its central coupling (marriage) of Helena and Bertram. The play has only this one pairing, whereas Shakespeare’s other comedies have many couples. Helena and Bertram share only five scenes together, during which they do not always engage each other in dialogue. There is no battle of wit and will between them. Helena’s role ‘‘outside’’ her social sphere further increases the comic distance, and there is scant ‘‘lightness’’ or ‘‘playfulness’’ in the play. . . . Marriage is a central element in the construct of Renaissance comedy. In the Shakespearean canon, a number of the comedies include marriages, placing them (or implying that they impend) close to or at the plays’ ends as a reaffirmation, restoration and promise for the continuation of society. Other comedies deal with married women as in The Comedy of Errors and The Merry Wives of Windsor; or they move the marriage forward, thus foregrounding it and making it precipitate further action in the main plot as in The Taming of the Shrew and Much Ado about Nothing. What makes All’s Well That Ends Well’s foregrounded marriage unique is the undeniable fact that Bertram does not want

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WHAT MAKES ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL’S FOREGROUNDED MARRIAGE UNIQUE IS THE UNDENIABLE FACT THAT BERTRAM DOES NOT WANT HELENA REGARDLESS OF HOW MUCH SHE WANTS HIM OR HOW MUCH THE MEMBERS OF THE NOBILITY—MOST NOTABLY THE KING, THE COUNTESS, AND LAFEW— WANT HIM TO WANT HER.’’

Helena regardless of how much she wants him or how much the members of the nobility—most notably the King, the Countess, and Lafew— want him to want her. Further, in its institution, its mixing of high personages with low, and the alliances between social groups, the foregrounded marriage in All’s Well That Ends Well subverts the comic by creating discomfiting inversions in the play’s social spheres. While the concept of marriage as regenerative force via Helana’s pregnancy obtains in principle at the end, when the ‘‘broken nuptial’’ comes together, no wonder we, along with the King in the epilogue, feel little if any delight: things but ‘‘seem’’ well; we have no guarantees. We cannot be certain even there that Bertram truly wants her. A distinction that contributes to my thesis is that All’s Well That Ends Well stands apart from the Shakespearean comedic mainstream in that Helena and Bertram, however estranged their relationship, remain the single couple in the play. Elsewhere Shakespeare provides us with sets of couples: twins who marry and woo in The Comedy of Errors and Twelfth Night, two men in pursuit of one woman in The Two Gentlemen of Verona and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, two married women who plot to outwit one man and teach another a lesson in The Merry Wives of Windsor, Rosalind and Celia with their loves in As You Like It, and a triad of lovers in The Merchant of Venice. Even Measure for Measure, the play most often closely linked to All’s Well That Ends Well, provides us pairings. All’s Well That Ends Well gives us two windows, a virgin, and a wife in name only. While all these pairings deal with power in

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of the comic—because of the physical and verbal interaction between the principal characters. The same holds true for Much Ado about Nothing. Like Kate and Petruchio, Beatrice and Benedick command our attention, their wit and wordplay amuse and distract us, and they are more interesting to us than the play’s other couple Claudio and Hero. Even in that relationship, the comedy of Much Ado about Nothing remains more comic than does All’s Well That Ends Well. Claudio and Hero agree to marry, an important distinction between their relationship and that of Helena and Bertram. The distasteful circumstances of the broken nuptial notwithstanding, the separation between Claudio and Hero fails to disrupt wholly the play’s overall comic spirit for two reasons: first, we know Dogberry and the Watch hold the key to reconciliation; second, as well as more important, the comic Beatrice and Benedick remain our primary focal point.

Guy Henry as Parolles and Claudie Blakley as Helena at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-uponAvon, England, 2003 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

relationships, they do not constitute the exact marked hierarchies of power that All’s Well That Ends Well presents to us. The foregrounded marriage in All’s Well That Ends Well differs from those in The Taming of the Shrew and Much Ado about Nothing in origination and ordination. While Kate in The Taming of the Shrew has no more choice than does Bertram about whom each marries (Baptista and Petruchio merely strike a bargain as do the King and Helena), Petruchio and Kate as a pair remain this play’s focal point. We observe the battle of wit and will between them, and the entire fourth act centers on them. Whether we grant or disallow the concept of mutuality of consent, whether the production relies on Zefferellian horseplay or a more restrained production concept, The Taming of the Shrew provokes laughter—the sine qua non


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Helena and Bertram appear on stage together in but five scenes. Their exchanges generally indicate the dynamic of power in their relationship as Helena oozes subservience to her lord and master, while Bertram, until the final scene, plays his superiority, both of class and gender, for all it’s worth. In three scenes where they appear together, they speak to or about one another but engage in no dialogue. In 1.1 Bertram in one and a half lines commands that Helena, ‘‘Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, / And make much of her’’ (76– 77). In 2.3 she subserviently offers herself to him in two and a half lines: I dare not say I take you, but I give Me and my service, ever whilst I live, Into your guiding power (2.3.102–104) The remainder of this scene has them each talking to the King, but not to one another. In a third scene (3.5), Helena merely views Bertram from a distance as the army passes and asks about him. Only two scenes have them exchanging dialogue. In 2.5, comprising thirty-five lines, Bertram, without having consummated the marriage and refusing Helena’s modest request for a departing kiss, dismisses his bride by sending her back to Rossillion. His language is primarily in the command form, hers acquiescent. She comes ‘‘as [she] was commanded from [him]’’ (2.5.54). She declares herself Bertram’s ‘‘most obedient servant’’ in a scene that allows for no possible irony (2.5.72). Even when she musters the

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courage to hint at a parting kiss, she hesitates and stumbles as a young woman very much in love and unsure of herself. In 5.3, the reconciliation, they exchange two lines each, and arguably Bertram’s ‘‘If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly / I’ll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly’’ is addressed more to the King than to Helena. These two encounters comprise but thirty-nine lines all told. All’s Well That Ends Well remains a comedy in structure, yet Helena’s agency in the enforced marriage, as well as the subsequent separation and ploys, distances us from the comic. Other elements distance us as well. When the Countess learns that Helena loves Bertram, we have the perfect occasion for a traditional blocking figure, but no. The Countess not only enjoys, but also encourages Helena in her aspirations. No witty bantering about sex, love, fidelity in wedlock—that which might create the comic within the matrix of comedy—takes place between Helena and Bertram, the play’s only couple. Certainly some comic playfulness occurs within the play. No one will deny its presence in the virginity dialogue between Helena and Parolles, nor in the choosing scene as Helena walks from budding youth to budding youth before ‘‘giving’’ herself to Bertram, nor in Parolles’s humiliation. Nevertheless, what lightness exists remains apart from the focal couple. Of added significance is how little of the playfulness associated with earlier comedies takes place among the women. Beyond the Countess’ hope for Helena’s love, her brief acknowledgement of her own past, and her teasing in the ‘‘I say I am your mother’’ dialogue (1.3), women’s dialogue as they assess man’s fecklessness has a more brittle edge than do similar assessments given in the earlier comedies. Helena’s actions set her apart from her Shakespearean sisters. Other independentlyacting heroines—Viola, Rosalind, Portia—play at their love-games and are, in some cases, willing to leave Time to fadge things out. They also employ masculine disguise to effect the amount of control or empowerment they enjoy. Helena does what she does without disguise. In some respects Helena and Portia are the most closely akin. Portia is willing to comply with her father’s will; Helena is willing to submit herself to Bertram’s. Both work purposefully to achieve their goals. However close that kinship, differences obtain. Allies from the play’s outset, Portia

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and Nerissa plot to test true love’s faith; Helena, who must create her allies, has yet to gain mere acceptance as wife. To achieve her goals, she acts with what Western culture sees as male prerogatives. As A. P. Riemer has said, she acts with a ‘‘male purposefulness’’ (Riemer 1975–76, 54). In order for her to succeed undisguised, she must perform these actions in a way that the empowering male structure (i.e., the King and Lafew as members of the ancien re´gime) fails to recognize as violating sex or class differences. In All’s Well That Ends Well Helena follows Bertram to Paris. There she originates the marriage by striking a bargain with the King and curing him. Unlike the other pairings and marriages in the comedies, however, no tacit nor overt mutuality exists between this nuptial pair. Here the King must ordain an enforced marriage of his ward Bertram to comply with the terms of the bargain. Such ordination violates the usual circumstances that we find in the festive comedies. In those comedies, ordination, directed against a woman, may initiate the flight from authority into the saturnalian world of comic license. Bertram’s response to the King’s command is like that of Silvia or Hermia: forced into marriage ordained against his will, a marriage that is originated by a spouse who is not loved, he runs away, as do the heroines. Bertram’s running away to Florence offers a different kind of escape from that of the heroines. Not only is his escape to a city but to one associated with sexual licentiousness. The King himself warns his courtiers against ‘‘Those girls of Italy.’’ When Helena discovers Bertram in Florence, she entraps him by means of the bed trick, which inverts predicated male-female sex roles just as ‘‘girl gets boy’’ inverts what we would recognize as the cliche´d phrasing. Her action substitutes the legal for the licentious. Helena entraps Bertram a second time as well in 5.3 by her further employment of Diana before the King. Even the King becomes confused as Helena employs her skills. What allows everyone to escape prison is Helena’s ability to use the language of empowerment without disturbing the status quo. . . . Source: Mary Free, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well as Noncomic Comedy,’’ in Acting Funny: Comic Theory and Practice in Shakespeare’s Plays, edited by Frances Teague, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1994, pp. 41–45.

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Eileen Z. Cohen In the following excerpt, Cohen examines how Helena and Isabella in, respectively, All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure, use the bed-trick as a disguise, and in doing so, these characters ‘‘reverse traditional female behavior, invert stereotypes, and turn apparent lechery into the service of marriage.’’ Western literature abounds in characters who have arranged bed-tricks—from Lot’s daughters to Iseult, and by the seventeenth century the bed-substitution was a commonplace convention of English drama. Yet it is Shakespeare’s use of the device in All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure that disturbs us, doubtless because of the women who perpetrate it, Helena, a virgin-bride, and Isabella, a would-be nun. We seem unwilling to accept that Shakespeare deliberately intends to disrupt our sensibilities. Scholars have told us that we must accommodate ourselves to conventions or fairy tale traditions that are outmoded, or they call these heroines sluts, or saints and tell us to forget about the bed substitutions. Shakespeare, however, does none of these. Instead, he requires us to believe that virtuous maidens can initiate and participate in the bedtrick. He insists that it saves lives and nurtures marriage, that it leads the duped men out of ignorance and toward understanding, and that the women who orchestrate it end with a clearer image of themselves. Thus, we have a simple theatrical device that effects complex response in the characters and in us, the audience. The convention ‘‘deconventionalizes’’ and makes the world of each play and the characters therein more real. Paradoxically, a device associated with lust abets love and marriage; it utilizes illusion and deception to bring perception and understanding. In so doing, it strips away stock responses to the women who design the deception. Shakespeare apparently does not associate virtue in women with blindness or passivity—or even predictability. He will not allow the audience to generalize about female virtue. Given popular sixteenth-century attitudes towards women, Helena and Isabella must have been as disturbing to their original audience as they have been to subsequent ones, and the bed-trick, because of its ultimate affirmation of the complexity of virtue, just as jarring. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the controversy concerning women was part of


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THE BED-TRICK CAN BE THOUGHT OF AS A KIND OF DISGUISE SINCE THE FEMALE LOVER IS DISGUISED BY DARKNESS AND SILENCE FROM THE MALE LOVER. IN THAT SENSE IT IS NO MORE OR LESS DECEPTIVE THAN DISGUISE.’’

the literary and social experience of the middle and upper classes of society. It surfaced in the 1540s and again at the beginning of James I’s reign, with reprintings of various pieces throughout these decades. What emerges from the debate, whether the writer was a critic or a defender of women, is that he or she rarely considers women except in the most general ways. Devil or angel, she is a stereotype. A flurry of popular pamphlets was precipitated by the publication of Schole House of Women, which went through four editions between 1541–1570, and is alluded to in several other pamphlets. Here, women are ‘‘loud and sour’’ (Aiii), gossipy (Aiv), adulterous (Bii), frail, crooked, crabbed, lewd (Cii), and weak and feeble in body (Cii). A female’s function, because she is made of man’s rib, ‘‘in every nede / Shulde be helpe to the man, in word and dede’’ (Biii). There is a remedy for each of man’s afflictions, except gout and marriage ([London: John Kyng, 1560], Biii). Responses to this attack abound. Readers were assured that woman was not created out of dog bones, but from man—the crown of creation. There have been many good women, a fact to which the Bible, the classics, and their very own Queen attest. Anthony Gibson, in addition to cataloguing great women, ebulliently lists their virtues: Women are beautiful and their voices are soft (20). Since they are by nature inclined to sadness, they are wiser than men (21), and more charitable (30). Philip Stubbes, too, had a good word to say for virtuous women—or rather, a virtuous woman, in a eulogy to his dead wife, A Christal Glasse for Christian Women (London: R. Ihones, 1592). He describes her as a perfect pattern for virtue: modest, courteous, gentle, and zealous for truth. (A2). ‘‘If she saw her husband merry, then she was merry: if he were sad, she was sad: if he were heavy or passionate, she

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would endeavor to make him glad: if he were angry, she would quickly please him so wifely she demeaned herselfe towards him’’ (A3). In both Stubbes and Gibson, the burden of virtue is as heavy as that of vice. Very few of the writers in this controversy approach women as other than very good or very bad. Perhaps the most aggressive of those who do blur the stereotypic perceptions of both men and women is the author of Jane Anger Her Protection for Women (London: Richard Jones, 1589). ‘‘She’’ is less rigid than most of her contemporaries with regard to male and female characteristics. ‘‘Jane Anger’’ lowers the barriers between the sexes in that she does not say that women are necessarily more or less virtuous than men. Rather, she equalizes the sexes by suggesting that women pay men in just coin. ‘‘Deceitful men with guile must be repaid . . . ’’ (B2). Woman’s greatest fault is that she is too credulous (B2). Though ‘‘Jane Anger’’ still deals in stereotypes, she perceives the weaknesses and strengths of men and women in different ways from most of her contemporaries. She condemns men for failing to see women in terms of these strengths, ‘‘We being wel formed, are by them fouly deformed’’ (B3). Even though many of these pieces are satiric and were probably written because there was a ready market for them, rather than out of sincere beliefs, their popularity indicates an interest in the nature of women and an insistence that their virtues were different from those of men. From these pages and more, there emerges an ideal woman in whom the virtues were chastity, patience, piety, humility, obedience, constancy, temperance, kindness, and fortitude—all passive characteristics. Even her supporters urged her to suppress assertiveness. The ideal male virtues were justice, courtesy, liberality, and courage. For a man the ideal was self-expansion and realization of self; for a woman, self-abnegation and passivity. For a man chastity was unimportant; for a woman it was everything. Her honor and reputation were defined in terms of it. The educator Vives frankly states, ‘‘As for a woman [she] hath no charge to se to, but her honestie and chastitie.’’ Helena and Isabella offer a marked contrast to many of the prevailing presumptions about women that the popular literature manifests, and in some ways a sharp difference from the portrayals of Rosalind and Viola, both in earlier

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plays. If art does hold a mirror up to nature, then Shakespeare’s drama reflects, refracts, and refocuses the ideas of his time. In Twelfth Night and As You Like It, the remover of affectation from the other characters is a woman, who for much of the play is disguised as a man. Necessarily, disguise was inherent in the role even before the play began since the woman was played by a male actor. But now the deception is double because we have a male actor, dressed as a woman, disguised as a man, and in the case of Rosalind, sometimes pretending to be a woman. Disguise, instead of conveying ambiguity, gives the audience distance from the characters, whose dialogue is now ironic and conveys double meanings. Our response thus becomes intellectual rather than emotional, as perhaps it had been when we were faced with Rosalind’s exile and Viola’s grief—before they donned male clothing. In these comedies disguise thus clarifies and helps to confirm the point of view of the play. However, in All’s Well and Measure for Measure Shakespeare alters this presentation of illusion. Rather than wearing male clothing, Helena and Isabella assume another form of disguise, the bed-trick. Isabella perpetuates the disguise because she believes in the legality of Marianna’s plight-troth and Helena because she is a married woman. Among Shakespeare’s most interesting and courageous characters, they reverse traditional female behavior, invert stereotypes, and turn apparent lechery into the service of marriage. The ultimate irony, or secret hidden behind illusion, is that resourceful, autonomous women shore up marriage. Helena and Isabella show why they force us to redefine virtue, rather than simply lowering our opinion of them. They encourage the audience to reevaluate virtue, chastity, honesty, and honor in the context of character development. Stock responses to these characters, merely to like or dislike them, will not do because their subtlety demands that the audience respond with subtlety as well. The bed-trick can be thought of as a kind of disguise since the female lover is disguised by darkness and silence from the male lover. In that sense it is no more or less deceptive than disguise. Like Rosalind and Viola, Helena and Isabella know who they are—a wife and novice, respectively; the characters whom they trick do not see them as they see themselves. One might here use the defense of ‘‘Jane Anger’’ that

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deceitful men should be repaid in kind, that to men for whom all women are the same in the dark, deception is exactly what they deserve. The bed-trick is, however, far more significant and more ‘‘theatrical’’ than that. Disguise is obviously conventional, but the bed-trick is even more unrealistic if we concede that disguise— that is, role playing and putting on uncharacteristic clothing—is the reality of actors and plays. The bed-trick serves, in addition to its obvious plot function, as the inherent symbol of the play, comparable to Hermione’s statue coming to life. Life, death, fertility, and renewal cannot easily be portrayed realistically on the stage. Bertram and Angelo do not get what they deserve. In fact, they get far better, and the bed-trick provides the opportunity to effect their union with feeling and harmony. Lust may have driven them to their ignorance of the women with them, but these women in their love both demand recognition. Ironically, as the disguise device that is embodied in the bed-trick becomes more theatrical, the plays in which the bed-trick appears are more realistic than the earlier comedies in which the disguise is of a more conventional nature. Here, we have sickbeds, barracks, courtrooms, and cities instead of pastoral forests and imaginary seacoasts. The heroines, themselves, are less mannered and witty; instead they have the drive and zeal of conviction. Perhaps Shakespeare is suggesting in these later comedies that the male protagonists, who are also not typical and indeed are very unlikely heroes, make obvious disguise impossible. Their corruption ought to be confronted directly. Male disguise establishes Viola and Rosalind as the friends of Orsino and Orlando, and it momentarily submerges their feminine identity. Bertram and Angelo cannot be treated in the same way. For Isabella and Helena to put on male clothing is to create a visual similarity between them and their antagonists. Such disguise would imply amicable relationships. Perhaps, too, Shakespeare is suggesting that in ethical confrontations such as these, one cannot stare down ruthlessness in someone else’s clothes. One must take a stand in one’s own person. Isabella and Helena must simultaneously be themselves and more daringly theatrical in order to reinforce the differences between them and the men they confront. The bed-trick affirms the feminine sexuality of these women and, in part, their identities. Helena must be recognized as wife and consummate her marriage, and Isabella must be recognized as virgin


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and not consummate the relationship with Angelo. They will also ensure that the men will honor their vows as a result. With this peculiar merging of the realistic and the theatrical, Shakespeare redefines societal expectations of female virtues. Role playing, identity, and integrity of self are examined through the characters involved in this obviously sexual disguise, in plays that are about life and death, marriage, fertility, and renewal—all of which are tied together by the image of the bed. Both Helena and Isabella are associated with and ultimately effect recovery and generosity in their respective plays. The outcome of their machination is marriage. Thus the stereotypic female roles—nurturing and insuring generation—are at the heart of the plays. However, the rare, unstereotypic personalities of these women and the use of the bed-trick—a seemingly adulterous theatrical device, establishes them as unconventional. The bed-trick, with its secrecy, silence, and deceit, is the device that strips away illusion and ignorance, and confirms truth and understanding. It uses carnal knowledge to effect compassion and knowledge of the spirit. Thus, the use of the bed-trick to beget marriage and the miracle of loving confirms what is unique in these women. Both the stereotype of nurturer and the more complex and realistic portrait of a passionatevirtuous woman are established very early in All’s Well. A litany of family designations begins this plays as the Countess says, ‘‘delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband’’ (1.1.1–2), thus initiating the rhythm of family, generation and death—in short, all of life. In the ensuing exchange between her and Lefew, family designations recur, father, child, husband, as they will in act 1, scene 2, when the King greets Bertram, and again in act 1, scene 3, when the Countess and Helena have their exchange between mother and daughter. Also in act 1, scene 1, Helena and Parolles discuss virginity. Though chaste, Helena does indicate that virgins do fall in love and do passionately feel desire. The stereotyping and unstereotyping of Helena is further established in her two ‘‘miracles.’’ She takes her legacy from her father to the court to heal the King and her love to Bertram’s bed to give him the blessings of life. She does not perform a miracle in either case unless the human capacities to cure and to love are miracles. If the healing and loving are wondrous, then the bed-trick is a

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misnomer and is the bed-miracle, instead, just as the King’s recovery apparently is. Miracle or not, loving sets people apart from the rest of the natural world, and both the King and Bertram benefit from Helena’s precipitation of event. Indeed, Helena anticipates the similarities between her two miracles, both occurring in bed as they do. She acknowledges her daring in her venture to heal the King and tells him that should she fail she will feel the ‘‘Tax of impudence, / A strumpet’s boldness, a devulged shame, / Traduc’d by odious ballads; my maiden’s name / Sear’d otherwise’’ (2.1.169–172). In short, her reputation will be destroyed. Like her discussion about virginity with Parolles and her asking for a husband in payment for curing the King, this speech reveals Helena’s many facets, not the least of them being her vulnerabilty. She acknowledges the sexuality of love and marriage; indeed, she welcomes it. She also acknowledges that there are risks of failure, suffering, and public disgrace in acts of daring. There are hazards in shaping destiny. Helena later decides to make her pilgrimage to save her husband from the dangers of war by encouraging him with her absence to come home. This decision, made from love, will lead to resolution of events by the bed-trick. Helena’s motive for leaving Rousillion is quite different from Giletta’s in The Palace of Pleasure, where the latter planned to seek and bed her husband from the outset of her journey. In All’s Well, as in the variation from the source in Measure for Measure, Shakespeare gives greater complexity to his character. Indeed, fate seems to approve of Helena’s love and generosity for it introduces her to the Widow and Diana, the means to love Bertram. Had ambition been her motive for marriage, she would not have denied herself the comforts of her new station in life. At Rousillion she has the name of wife without the excess baggage of a petulant boy-husband. However, she cares about Bertram’s wellbeing and off she goes. She ruefully describes herself to Diana and the Widow as being ‘‘too mean / To have her name repeated; all her deserving / Is a reserved honesty, and that / I have not heard examin’d’’ (3.5.60–63). As with Parolles in act 1, scene 1, her virginity is the topic of discussion, but now the stakes are quite different. Then the question was how a modest maid might pursue the man she loved; now virginity should no longer be the normal condition of her life. As before when she declined modesty in

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favor of Bertram, she is aware of the ambiguities of what she is about to do. She acknowledges that her plan may be misunderstood and must be defended, ‘‘which, if it speed, / Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed, / And lawful meaning in a lawful act / Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact’’ (3.7.44–47). With it all, she will save Bertram from adultery and give him love. . . . The men whom Helena and Isabella confront expect stereotypic replies from them; Bertram and Angelo judge by appearances and are taken in by the bed-trick while it asserts complexity and reality over superficiality and mere appearances. George Bernard Shaw described Bertram as a very ordinary young man with ‘‘unimaginative prejudices and selfish conventionality.’’ Bertram certainly seems to embody some of the attitudes toward women that the sixteenth century expressed. He expects that Helena will passively accept the role of virgin-wife which he assigns to her and that his superior intelligence will defeat her. For him women are wives to be rejected, or wenches to be seduced. When Diana defends her honor and equates her chastity with his aristocratic legacy, he is so enmeshed in his lust that he gives away the symbol of that legacy. Want of feeling marks his behavior throughout, culminating in his description of his night’s work. He has ‘‘buried a wife, mourn’d for her, writ to my lady mother I am returning, entertain’d my convoy, and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs; the last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet’’ (4.3.85–89). The last is the liaison with Diana-Helena. Bertram will not accept his good fortune, either in marrying Helena or in the contingent good will of the king. He sees her not as herself, but as his ‘‘father’s charge / A poor physician’s daughter’’ (2.3.114–115). The King, recognizing her virtues, in gratitude defines honor in terms of deeds, not heritage. ‘‘Honours thrive / When rather from our acts we them derive / Than our foregoers’’ (2.3.135–37). He makes a distinction that the myopic Bertram cannot see, ‘‘Virtue and she / Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me’’ (2.3.143–44). Bertram rejects her and goes off to be a soldier, to be brave, and to wench. Thus, he even makes a stereotype of himself. Parolles delivers his lord’s message in conventional courtly love language—serious business has called Bertram away from his ‘‘rite of love’’ (2.4.39). Bertram later smugly declares, ‘‘I have

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wedded her, not bedded her, and sworn to make the ‘not’ eternal’’ (3.2.20–1). He is too arrogant to realize that his decision may not be Helena’s, and he anticipates that she will do as she is told. Lavatch had sung, ‘‘marriage comes by destiny’’ (1.3.60). Surely the action of this play denies that platitude. It comes to Helena in name and in actuality through her own actions. Bertram will not bed her; so she will bed him. As the bed-trick is being planned, so is the drum-trick. Both Parolles and Bertram will be in the dark, literally and metaphorically. Neither will know that his ‘‘friends’’ are beside him. One will speak and hear nothing and the other will be blindfolded and hear foreign sounds. By agreeing to the strictures of darkness and silence, Bertram acknowledges his lust. Love seeks and knows the differences between people; lust makes them all the same. Ultimately, each will reveal his worst when caught. It is Parolles who says, ‘‘Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?’’ (4.3.291–92). Bertram could as well have said the same thing. When Bertram makes his assignation with Diana, his language is once again that of the highly conventional, literary, courtly tradition. He will do ‘‘all rights of service’’ (4,2.17); Diana is ‘‘holy-cruel’’ (4.2.33); and he suffers from ‘‘sick desires’’ which only her acquiescence will cure (4.2.35–36) He vows ‘‘for ever’’ (4.2.16). The darkness then disguises Helena from Bertram, but he also does not know himself, so caught up is he in the roles of lover and warrior. The bed-trick will open him up to feeling and an understanding of his own vulnerability. Helena, through her active assertion of first, her role as physician, and then her role as wife, acts as restorative for Bertram and will perhaps enable him to cultivate the kinds of feelings that do heal and comfort, that do express humanity and the complexity of the human experience, ‘‘a mingled yarn, good and ill together’’ (4.3.68). Helena brings intelligence, compassion, and fertility to the world of Bertram and Parolles. Theirs is the world of battle and of superficial friendship based on flattery and self-seeking. . . . Like the bed-trick, the endings of All’s Well and Measure for Measure are at once conventional and unconventional. They both end with marriage, but ‘‘happily ever after’’ may not rule the day. Equally, the heroines who have effected these endings and revealed the subtleties of a world in which the illusions of the characters


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who have expected stereotypic behavior have been removed elude arbitrary classifications. In All’s Well, when morning comes, after the bed-trick, Helena anticipates better times, ‘‘When briars shall have leaves as sweet as thorns / And be as sweet as sharp’’ (4.4.32–33). Thus she expresses hope but is also mindful of the ‘‘mingled yarns of life’’ (4.3.74). Even in the final scene when it is full daylight and many voices of propriety and family are heard, the bed-trick seems re-enacted as it had been anticipated by the King’s illness, with the exchange of rings, the substituted women, the oaths, the lies—all until the light comes and the truth is revealed. Once more the ambiguities of life are defined. In an ideal world, all would be well. Here all is well only if Helena can make the riddle clear to Bertram (5.3.310). If she cannot, divorce will follow (5.3.311). The play is a success if the suit for applause is won (epilogue, 1–2). Of course, she will prove the consummation, there will be no divorce, and we will applaud when the player asks us to. With the introduction of the ifs, however, comes the confirmation that people behave in individual ways. There are mitigating circumstances, and not to recognize them condemns us to a life based on appearances and assumptions. Bertram thought he got an evening’s fling; what he got instead was blessing and love. The ifs tell us that life can go sour; it can also rise and bake sweet. Women like Helena are more risky to love than passive, conformable women. They ask for more—that their husbands be as chaste as they for one thing—and give more. They are reckless and dare to assert themselves with the means available in order to give their gifts. The convention of the bed-trick confirms and enriches their specialness. Further, it ties together the past and present, dying and fertility, role playing and disguise, all of it, to deny the ordinary and unimaginative. The final discovery in Measure for Measure, like that in All’s Well, exposes a man who has misjudged the subtleties and complexities of the personality of the woman who confronts him. Isabella, to expose Angelo’s misuse of power, allows her good name and reputation to be tarnished. She publicly denounces him but must say that he has seduced her in order to do so. For her, reputation of chastity is not the same as chastity itself. And virtue means much more than chastity as she risks public disgrace to

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expose evil. Throughout, however, Angelo remains alienated. He is given love and marriage, neither of which he wants. Because he cannot tolerate public shame, he requests death, which is denied him. Finally, Isabella makes her grandest assertion for life, and once more her sincerity and directness surface. Angelo’s death will not revive Claudio; therefore she pleads for his life. As she had participated in the bed-trick to save her brother’s life, so she now pleads for Angelo’s out of compassion for Marianna. As in All’s Well, the ending of Measure for Measure is precarious. None of the marriages seems ideal. We do not believe that distress is over and happiness necessarily follows. Instead, there is sense of a beginning, of new opportunities and second chances, rather like life. We have arrived at this realization in part by having had our sensibilities shocked. Chastity typically demands reticence and passivity, but Shakespeare says no in these plays. The bedtrick is unseemly to the unimaginative, indecorous to the conventional and undemanding. These plays ask of their heroines that they be virtuous and assertive, chaste and outspoken; that they search for the harmonies of life. These characters and their participation in the bedtrick shock, disorient and ultimately extend a reality—that part of virtue which actively reaches for the elusive commitment to life. In creating plays in which the stereotypes are distorted, Shakespeare via an old and much used convention seeks to define honor, chastity, virtue—not as abstractions but as realities. Source: Eileen Z. Cohen, ‘‘‘Virtue Is Bold’: The Bed-trick and Characterization in All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 65, No. 2, Spring, 1986, pp. 171–86.

John M. Love In this excerpt, Love examines how social rank ‘‘debases’’ Helena and Bertram and determines their fate as well as that of Parolles. He argues that the issue of social rank is pervasive throughout all of the action of the play. Love also points out the differences between All’s Well That Ends Well and Boccaccio’s ‘‘Giletta of Narbona,’’ particularly in terms of the difference between Helena’s and Giletta’s stations and how this is directly related to their actions. . . . The alien, ineradicable element of All’s Well that Ends Well and the source of its darkness is the barrier of class. Class debases the characters of Bertram and Helena throughout the play,

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THROUGHOUT THE THIRD AND FOURTH ACTS, EACH STEP OF THE FRENCH LORD’S PLOT AGAINST PAROLLES IMMEDIATELY PRECEDES THE CORRESPONDING STEP IN HELENA’S WINNING OF BERTRAM.’’

and in the final scene it determines their fates and that of Parolles, despite the measure of virtue and vice each character possesses. At that point Helena, ‘‘a maid too virtuous / For the contempt of empire’’ (II.ii.30–31), must plead with a pampered husband, Bertram’s fellow-prodigal Parolles appears beaten into due submission, and Bertram is, in Johnson’s words, ‘‘dismissed to happiness.’’ The difference between All’s Well and the comedies that preceded it lies in its greater darkness, for class pervades the action and influences all the main characters. Shakespeare’s Helena hardly resembles the heroine of William Painter’s tale of ‘‘Giletta of Narbona,’’ the likeliest source of the play. In the first place, she has been deprived of the wealth and independence that made Giletta her spouse’s equal in all respects save those of blood. Giletta, ‘‘diligently loked unto by her kinsfolke (because she was riche and fatherlesse),’’ clearly managed her own affairs. Having ‘‘refused manye husbandes, with whom her kinsfolke would have matched her,’’ she journeyed to Paris alone and unaided, and there sealed her bargain with the King. Once married, she ‘‘went to Rossiglione, where she was received of all his subjects for their Lady. And perceyving that through the Countes absence, all things were spoiled and out of order: she like a sage Ladye, with greate diligence and care, disposed his thinges in order againe, whereof the subjects rejoysed very much, bearing to her their harty love & affection.’’ By contrast, from the moment the Countess presents Helena to Lafew as Gerard de Narbon’s ‘‘sole child . . . bequeath’d to my overlooking’’ (I.i.35–36), Helena’s dependence upon her mistress and adopted mother is apparent. As much ‘‘unseason’d’’ as Bertram, she presumes to travel to Paris only with the Countess’s knowledge and approval, ‘‘my leave and love, / Means and

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Sophie Thompson as Helena and Andree Evans as the Old Widow in Act III, scene vii, at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 1992 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

attendants, and my loving greetings / To those of mine at court’’ (I.iii.246–48). There, with the aid of Lafew, Helena gains a timid entrance to the King. But she does not in any sense come into her own upon her return to Rossillion as the wife of Bertram. In those scenes which Painter’s narrative suggested, Helena’s application to the King in act 2 and her encounters with Diana and the Widow, Helena displays a heroic confidence in the heavenly source of her healing power and in her eventual success. Elsewhere in the play, in keeping with the dependent status that Shakespeare bestowed upon her, she remains mistrustful of others, fearful of earning their contempt by her slightest gesture of self-assertion, and selfeffacing before her wayward husband. Fearfulness leads her first of all to deceive the Countess, ironically her staunchest ally. After the soliloquy she utters upon Bertram’s farewell, Parolles’s meditation on virginity, and his farewell, ‘‘Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee’’ (I.i.210–11), the soliloquy


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with which Helena concludes the first scene clearly outlines a plan to win Bertram by means of the king’s disease: Our remedies oft in ourselves doe lie, Which we ascribe to heaven; the fated sky Gives us free scope; only doth backward pull Our slow designs when we ourselves are dull. . . . The king’s disease—my project may deceive me, But my intents are fix’d, and will not leave me. (I.i.212–25) Under persistent questioning by the Countess, Helena admits her love, but equivocates, and finally denies any intention of pursuing Bertram, notwithstanding the audience’s knowledge to the contrary: . . . I follow him not By any token of presumptuous suit, Nor would I have him till I do deserve him; Yet never know how that desert should be . . .

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. . . O then give pity To her whose state is such that cannot choose But lend and give where she is sure to lose; That seeks not to find that her search implies But riddle-like lives sweetly where she dies! (I.iii.192–212) Helena admits only that Bertram’s journey reminded her of the king’s illness, and when in the scene immediately following her interview with the Countess she demands of the King, ‘‘What husband in thy power I will command’’ (II.i.93), the deception becomes unmistakable. Helena’s guardedness in the first scene and her frequent reiteration of courtesy titles and deferential gestures in the presence of the Countess suggest the acute consciousness of an inferior place that might lie behind this unwarranted secrecy. Helena remains uneasy even after her miraculous cure of the King. In act 2, scene 3, she balks at the mere prospect of choosing a husband from among the assembled courtiers, anticipating a rebuke even though the King has expressly forbidden one: Please it your majesty, I have done already. The blushes on my cheeks thus whisper me: ‘‘We blush that thou should’st choose, but, be refused, Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever, We’ll ne’er come there again.’’ (II.iii.68–72) The terms of her address to individual lords indicate that Helena fears contempt for her class, not her person or unmaidenly forwardness: The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes Before I speak, too threat’ningly replies. Love make your fortune twenty times above Her that so wishes, and her humble love! ..... Be not afraid that I your hand should take; I’ll never do you wrong, for your own sake. ..... You are too young, too happy, and too good, To make yourself a son out of my blood. (II.iii.80–97) Like the unswerving support of the Countess, the young lords’ protestations at being passed over underscore the extent of Helena’s misapprehension.

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Thereafter, the most poignant moments of the play grow out of Helena’s self-effacement in the presence of her renegade husband: her choosing of him, ‘‘I dare not say I take you, but I give / Me and my service, ever whilst I live’’ (II.iii.102–03); their farewell, in which Bertram denies her the courtesy of the kiss that she can barely bring herself to ask; her self-accusing letter to the Countess; her bittersweet recollection of the rendezvous with Bertram, ‘‘But, O, strange men! / That can such sweet use make of what they hate’’ (IV.iv.21–22); and finally, her dramatic reappearance at Rossillion: King. Is there no exorcist Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes? Is’t real that I see? Hel. No, my good lord; ‘Tis but the shadow of a wife you see; The name and not the thing. (V.iii.298–302) Though Shakespeare gave Helena a far greater advantage over Bertram than Giletta held over Beltramo, Painter’s heroine confronted her husband far more conscious of her power: ‘‘knowing that they were all assembled. . . . shee passed through the people, without chaunge of apparell, with her twoo sonnes in her arms. . . . ‘My Lorde, . . . I nowe beseche thee, for the honoure of God, that thou wilt observe the conditions, which the twoo (knightes that I sent unto thee) did commaunde me to doe: for beholde, here in myne armes, not onely one sonne begotten by thee, but twayne, and likewyse thy Ryng. It is nowe time then (if thou kepe promise) that I should be received as thy wyfe.’’’ Unlike her mistrust, Helena’s humility is a virtue, yet the circumstances under which it appears make her at least potentially a pathetic heroine. Her nature and her circumstances ally her more nearly to the heroines of the later romances than to her predecessors in the festive comedies, but the pathos she evokes finds its closest counterpart in Desdemona. Even though it leads to a reconciliation with Bertram, her manner during the final scene cannot but recall her character and status throughout, as well as the somber emotions she has frequently stirred. That the unworthy husband presumes upon the class barrier that works against his virtuous wife is one of the pervasive ironies of All’s Well, and in that sense Bertram’s nobility of blood corrupts him by licensing his misdeeds. But Shakespeare’s

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juxtaposition of each stage of Bertram’s career and its counterpart in Parolles’s creates a second irony, for the two finally emerge as wayward youths, possessed of the same degree and kind of vice, but distinguished by class and thus by fate. The parallel courses that Bertram and Parolles run begin with their farewells to Helena in the opening scene. The Count, characteristically attentive to the niceties of rank, departs with the charge, ‘‘Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her’’ (I.i.73–74). The farewell between Helena and Parolles that follows parodies Bertram’s patronizing air, from the opening gambit: Par. Save you, fair queen! Hel. And you, monarch! Par. No. Hel. And no. (I.i.104–07) to the valedictory: Par. Little Helen, farewell. If I can remember thee, I will think of thee at court. Hel. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star. (I.i.184–87) That in the presence of the despised Parolles Helena relaxes the guard she had earlier maintained, and that his absurd meditation on virginity proves more fruitful advice than the elders’ precepts, only increases the apparent distance between Helena and the nobles, a distance that her earlier silence and tears had suggested. Parolles’s fall from grace likewise mirrors Bertram’s. In the same scene in which Bertram’s presumption earns the King’s rebuke, the Captain runs afoul of Lafew for forgetting his proper place: Laf. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation. Par. Recantation! My lord! My master! Laf. Ay. Is it not a language I speak? Par. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody succeeding. My master! Laf. Are you companion to the Count Rossillion? Par. To any Count; to all Counts; to what is man. Laf. To what is Count’s man. (II.iii.186–94)


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Lafew objects less to Parolles’s outlandish garb and manner than to the pretensions to equlity with his social superiors which the manner and garb signify: ‘‘Why dost thou garter up thy arms a’ this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? . . . You are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the commission of your birth gives you heraldry’’ (II.iii.245–58). In this sauciness Parolles copies Bertram, yet reverses the attitude of his fellow-commoner, Helena. In his own humiliation Parolles seconds Bertram’s resolve to flee ‘‘to those Italian fields / Where noble fellows strike’’ (II.iii.286–87), strengthening the parallel. Throughout the third and fourth acts, each step of the French lord’s plot against Parolles immediately precedes the corresponding step in Helena’s winning of Bertram. In the final two scenes of act 3, the lords unfold their scheme to Bertram and enlist his aid, and Helena does the same with Diana and the Widow. Act 4 begins with the ambush of Parolles, and his vow to reveal ‘‘all the secrets of their camp’’ (IV.i.84), a promise that seals his fate as surely as Bertram’s gift of his family ring and promise of a rendezvous seals his in the scene following. In act 4, scene 3, the parallel lines converge. Not only does Bertram report his nocturnal meeting, which the audience knows to be the last stage of Helena’s plan, but Parolles’s exposure becomes the exposure of both wayward youths. Although they would have Bertram believe that they aim at Parolles only ‘‘for the love of laughter’’ (III.ii.32), among themselves the French lords ‘‘would gladly see his company anatomiz’d, that he might take the measure of his own judgements’’ (IV.iii.30–32). Their disapproval of Bertram’s conduct with Helena and Diana, his concern over the Captain’s confession, ‘‘Nothing of me, has a’?’’ (IV.iii.109), the pointed warning that ‘‘If your lordship be in’t, as I believe you are, you must have the patience to hear it’’ (IV.iii.111–12), the aptness of Parolles’s slanderous portrait of the Count as ‘‘a foolish idle boy, but for all that very ruttish’’ (IV.iii.207), and the contrast between Bertram’s rage and his companions’ amusement at the slanders, all serve to unite the two youths in folly. Once the time comes for Parolles and Bertram to answer for these equivalent offenses, the parallel abruptly breaks off. In the soliloquy

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that follows his exposure, Parolles seems beyond chastisement: Yet am I thankful. If my heart were great ’Twould burst at this. Captain I’ll be no more, But I will eat and drink and sleep as soft As captain shall. Simply the thing I am Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it shall come to pass That every braggart shall be found an ass. Rust, sword; cool, blushes; and Parolles live Safest in shame; being fool’d, by fool’ry thrive. There’s place and means for every man alive. I’ll after them. (IV.iii.319–29) Nevertheless, his offensesearn him the lowest place and the poorest means. When he reappears in the fifth act, he shows respect even to the Clown, whom he had earlier patronized: ‘‘Good Master Lavatch, give my Lord Lafew this letter; I have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in Fortune’s mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong displeasure’’ (V.ii.1–5). In the same scene, he abjectly confesses to Lafew, ‘‘O, my good Lord, you were the first that found me’’ (V.ii.41). He acknowledges Bertram as his master in the trial scene, and that Lafew will see to it that atonement follows conviction of sin and repentance is apparent from the charge he gives his newest servant as they observe the lovers reunited: ‘‘Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher. So, I thank thee. Wait on me at home, I will make sport with thee. Let thy curtsies alone, they are scurvy ones’’ (V.iii.315–18). Bertram sins more than this and suffers less. He arrives at Rossillion unmuddied, spared the ‘‘exceeding posting day and night’’ (V.i.1) that Helena endured, needing no letter to the King, and in the height of fashionable attire. In the trial scene, Parolles suffers the contempt of Diana, Lafew, the King, and even Bertram, while Bertram lies, contemns, slanders, but finally embraces Helena. In the absence of Parolles, one might call the treatment that Bertram receives mercy; the Captain’s presence makes it something less attractive than that. . . . Source: John M. Love, ‘‘‘‘Though many of the rich are damn’d’: Dark Comedy and Social Class in All’s Well

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That Ends Well,’’ in Texas Studies in Literature and Language, Vol. XVIII, No. 4, Winter, 1977, pp. 517–27.

SOURCES Carnegy, Patrick, ‘‘Fruitful Follies,’’ in the Spectator, Vol. 293, No. 9151, December 27, 2003, p. 42. Charney, Maurice, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993, pp. 95–103. Cohen, Eileen Z., ‘‘‘Virtue Is Bold’: The Bed-Trick and Characterization in All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 65, 1986, pp. 171–86. Fraser, Russell, ed., ‘‘Introduction’’ to All’s Well That Ends Well, Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 1–37. Garber, Marjorie, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare After All, Pantheon, 2004, pp. 617–33. Haffenden, John, ed., ‘‘Pathos and Dream,’’ in Berryman’s Shakespeare: Essays, Letters, and Other Writings by John Berryman, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1999, p. 51. Isherwood, Charles, ‘‘Maybe He’s Just Not into You, Helena,’’ in the New York Times, February 14, 2006. Klein, Alvin, ‘‘What a Woman Wants (Never Mind Why),’’ in the New York Times, July 26, 1998. Lawrence, William Witherle, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare’s Problem Comedies, 2nd ed., Frederick Ungar, 1960, pp. 32–77. Schork, R. J., ‘‘The Many Masks of Parolles,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 76, No. 3, Summer 1997, p. 263. Shakespeare, William, All’s Well That Ends Well, 2nd Series, edited by G. K. Hunter, Arden Shakespeare, 1968.

FURTHER READING Beck, Ervin, ‘‘Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Explicator, Vol. 55, No. 3, Spring 1997, p. 123. Beck writes about the symbolism of Helena’s name, particularly as it relates to other characters in classical literature, all of whom were bearers of truth. Briggs, Julia, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Bed- Tricks,’’ in Essays in Criticism, Vol. 44, No. 4, October 1994, pp. 293–314. Briggs discusses the influences on Shakespeare in his use of the bed-trick and how Shakespeare used the bed-trick in his own work. Briggs focuses on Arcadia, a work preceding Shakespeare’s plays, and Shakespeare’s own Measure for Measure and All’s Well That Ends Well.

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Bryant, J. A., Jr., ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well and Measure for Measure,’’ in Shakespeare and the Uses of Comedy, University Press of Kentucky, 1986, pp. 203–20. Bryant examines how the two plays, although ‘‘traditional’’ comedies, veer from the usual paths of such tales, arriving ‘‘at the prescribed destination with marks of the passage still showing.’’ Clark, Ira, ‘‘The Trappings of All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Style, Vol. 39, No. 3, Fall 2005, p. 277. Clark focuses on the verbal trickery and the plot reversals of the play, arguing that these ‘‘traps’’ are essential style elements and should be analyzed as such. Friedman, Michael D., ‘‘Male Bonds and Marriage in All’s Well and Much Ado,’’ in Studies in English Literature, Vol. 35, No. 2, Spring 1995, pp. 231–49. Friedman discusses male bonding in All’s Well That Ends Well and Much Ado about Nothing, primarily the relationship between Bertram and Parolles, and Claudio and Benedick, and how it pertains to marriage in the plays. Haley, David, ‘‘Bertram at Court,’’ in Shakespeare’s Courtly Mirror: Reflexivity and Prudence in All’s Well That Ends Well, University of Delaware Press, 1993, pp. 17–51. Haley’s article examines All’s Well That Ends Well as a courtly play (and Shakespeare’s approach to the courtier in general), with specific emphasis on Bertram as a courtier. ———, ‘‘Helena’s Love,’’ in Shakespeare’s Courtly Mirror: Reflexivity and Prudence in All’s Well That Ends Well, University of Delaware Press, 1993, pp. 87–122. This essay by Haley examines Helena’s character, including her love melancholy, her ‘‘prophetic virtue’’ and ‘‘providential mission,’’ and her ‘‘erotic motive’’ to be united with Bertram after he has rejected her (thus abandoning ‘‘providence for Eros’’). Hodgdon, Barbara, ‘‘The Making of Virgins and Mothers: Sexual Signs, Substitute Scenes and Doubled Presences in All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 66, No. 1, Winter 1987, pp. 47–71. Hodgdon approaches a reading of All’s Well That Ends Well from Helena’s point of view, examining in particular how Shakespeare based his play on Boccaccio’s play and what he did differently; how ‘‘sexual signs are articulated in character and event’’; and how substitute scenes are used, particularly the bed-trick. Hunt, Maurice, ‘‘Words and Deeds in All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Modern Language Quarterly, Vol. 48, No. 4, December 1987, pp. 320–38. Hunt’s essay examines the ‘‘competition’’ between words and deeds in All’s Well That Ends Well primarily through the King of France, who vacillates between valuing word and deed and thus the two cannot be brought into harmony; Helena, through whom Shakespeare implies that ‘‘not


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only that deeds can on occasion speak but also that they can prompt an eventual honesty in words’’; and Bertram, who merges word and deed in the final scenes of the play when he embraces Helena. Jardine, Lisa, ‘‘Cultural Confusion and Shakespeare’s Learned Heroines: ‘These Are Old Paradoxes,’’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 38, No. 1, Spring 1987, pp. 1–18. Jardine’s article discusses how Helena and Portia, in, respectively, All’s Well That Ends Well and The Merchant of Venice, possessed knowledge traditionally associated with the ‘‘male sphere.’’ Helena, in particular possessed knowledge as a healer (the community’s ‘‘wise woman’’), in her upbringing (her ‘‘education’’), and as the ‘‘woman who knows’’ in her deception of Bertram. Jardine discusses the tension between possessing knowledge as a part of female virtue and possessing it in the ‘‘male sphere.’’ Kastan, David Scott, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well and the Limits of Comedy,’’ in ELH, Vol. 52, No. 3, Autumn 1985, pp. 575–89. Kastan argues that, although All’s Well That Ends Well and Shakespeare’s other ‘‘problem plays’’ are classified as comedies and not tragedies because ‘‘fictive aspirations have been gratified,’’ the reader is not entirely satisfied with these ‘‘aspirations’’ and indeed has been ‘‘made suspicious of them,’’ thus making the plays ‘‘generic mixtures’’ or ‘‘mutations.’’ Makaryk, Irene Rima, ‘‘The Problem Plays,’’ in her dissertation, Comic Justice in Shakespeare’s Comedies, 1979. Makaryk discusses All’s Well That Ends Well within the context of the two other ‘‘problem plays’’ with which it is usually aligned— Measure for Measure and Troilus and Cressida. Maus, Katharine Eisaman, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in The Norton Shakespeare, edited by Stephen Greenblatt, W. W. Norton, 1997, pp. 2175–81. Maus’s essay provides an overview of All’s Well That Ends Well, touching on such topics as the reversal of gender roles, the lack of ‘‘endings’’ in the play, desire, honor, and social class. Muir, Kenneth, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comic Sequence, Liverpool University Press, 1979, pp. 124–32. Muir’s article gives a brief overview of All’s Well That Ends Well, focusing on the actions and motivations of Helena and Bertram. Richard, Jeremy, ‘‘‘The Thing I Am’: Parolles, the Comedic Villain, and Tragic Consciousness,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 18, Burt Franklin & Co., Inc., 1986, pp. 145–59. Richard’s article demonstrates how the character of Parolles fits into Shakespeare’s development of the metamorphosis of the comedic

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villain in his work: ‘‘Parolles and the manner in which he suggests that all is not well that ends well creates a new Shakespearean drama of the pitfalls of the mental world rather than the pratfalls of the physical.’’ Roark, Christopher, ‘‘Lavatch and Service in All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500– 1900, Vol. 28, No. 2, Spring 1988, pp. 241–58. Roark argues that examining the role of Lavatch, the clown, can add an important dimension to understanding the play, especially its more problematic elements, such as the unsatisfying ending. Schroeder, Lori, ‘‘Riddles, Female Space, and Closure in All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in English Language Notes, Vol. 38, No. 4, June 2001, p. 19. Schroeder examines the concept of female sexuality in the play from various angles and comments on the significance of pregnancy in terms of the plot and the play’s title. Simpson, Lynne M., ‘‘The Failure to Mourn in All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 22, 1994, pp. 172–88. Simpson examines the Oedipal anxieties in Helena and Bertram as they pertain to the failure of each to mourn the death of her/his father. Helena substitutes Bertram for her dead father, and Bertram substitutes the King of France for his. Simpson takes a psychoanalytic approach with regard to the concepts of guilt, death, forgetting, memory, and forgiveness in the play. Snyder, Susan, ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well and Shakespeare’s Helens: Text and Subtext, Subject and Object,’’ in English Literary Renaissance, Vol. 18, No. 1, Winter 1988, pp. 66–77. Snyder examines two aspects of All’s Well That Ends Well as they relate to Helena. The first concerns the ‘‘gaps, disjunctions, and silences’’ in the play, ‘‘where we lack an expected connection or explanation in the speeches or actions’’ of Helena, primarily as they concern her character’s mixture of initiative and passivity. In the second part of the essay, Snyder compares the Helena of All’s Well with the Helena of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and with Helen of Troy, demonstrating how All’s

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Well’s Helena, even at the end of the play, stands in marked contrast to the other two similarly named heroines as undesired subject rather than desired object. Styan, J. L., All’s Well That Ends Well, Shakespeare in Performance Series, Manchester University Press, 1984. Styan describes how All’s Well That Ends Well has been performed primarily on stage but also on television in the twentieth century. The first part addresses issues of performance; the second part takes the play scene by scene; and the appendix contains listings of twentieth-century productions, major productions, and principal casts. Sullivan, Garrett A., Jr., ‘‘‘Be This Sweet Helen’s Knell, and Now Forget Her’: Forgetting, Memory, and Identity in All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Spring 1999, p. 51. Sullivan explores the theme of lost fathers, unrequited love, and the benefits of repressed memories in the play. Vaughn, Jack A., ‘‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comedies, Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1980, pp. 153–59. Vaughn provides a very brief overview of All’s Well That Ends Well, touching on the difficulty critics face in assessing the motives and actions of Helena, Bertram, and Parolles. Also provides a brief stage history. Wells, Stanley, ‘‘Plays of Troy, Vienna, and Roussillon: Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure, and All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Shakespeare: A Life in Drama, W. W. Norton, 1995, pp. 234–44. Wells’s article follows the relationship of Helena and Bertram in All’s Well That Ends Well to illuminate the play’s ‘‘moral selfconsciousness.’’ Yang, Sharon R., ‘‘Shakespeare’s All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in The Explicator, Vol. 50, No. 4, Summer 1992, pp. 199–203. Yang briefly explores the parallels between the characters of Lavatch and Bertram, particularly how Lavatch’s ‘‘words and experiences expose the absurdity of Bertram’s perspective.’’

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Antony and Cleopatra Antony and Cleopatra is Shakespeare’s presentation of one of the most famous stories the ancient world has to offer: the tempestuous love affair between the great Roman warrior and the infinitely seductive queen of Egypt; the quarrel between Antony and Octavius Caesar; the climactic battle of Actium, and the resulting suicides of the two lovers. The play covers a period of about ten years, from 40 B . C . E ., shortly after Antony first met Cleopatra, until 30 B . C . E ., the year of their deaths.

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Antony and Cleopatra was first listed for publication in 1608, but evidence strongly suggests that the play was written and performed one or two years earlier. No evidence exists to indicate that Antony and Cleopatra appeared in print before its inclusion in the First Folio of 1623; therefore, the First Folio version of the play is considered authoritative. The principal source for Antony and Cleopatra is Thomas North’s ‘‘The Life of Antonius’’ in his The Lives of the Noble Grecianes and Romans (1579), an English translation of a work by Plutarch. Shakespeare followed North’s translation of Plutarch closely for his play; this can be seen, for example, by a comparison of Shakespeare’s poetic rendition of Enobarbus’s description of Cleopatra on her barge and North’s own prose translation of the episode. Critics, however, are divided on whether Shakespeare’s characterizations of Antony and

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Cleopatra are more or less flattering than they are in North’s translation of Plutarch. Scholarly debate over Antony and Cleopatra has centered around Antony’s ‘‘dotage,’’ or decline, and the relative nobility of his character; Cleopatra’s contradictory behavior and the significance of her death; the nature of the lovers’ passion for each other; and the comparative wisdom or rashness of their actions. Some scholars have focused on the connections between Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra and John Dryden’s seventeenth-century version of the play, All for Love (1677). Other issues of interest include the play’s language, imagery, structure, and political context, as well as its treatment of the mores and politics of a changing Rome versus those of Egypt. Thematic concerns include the relationship in the play between reason and imagination or passion, the nature of love, the choice between love and empire, and political or social disintegration.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Antony and Cleopatra begins in Cleopatra’s palace in Alexandria. Demetrius and Philo, two of Antony’s veteran soldiers, complain that Antony’s infatuation with Cleopatra has had a bad effect on his qualities as a general. They see him as a great warrior transformed by his passion into a harlot’s slave. Antony enters with Cleopatra and her maids, and a messenger from Rome arrives. Cleopatra taunts Antony, saying that maybe his wife, Fulvia, is angry with him, or perhaps the young Octavius Caesar has some orders for him. But Antony will not even hear the messenger. He appears only to be interested in indulging his love for Cleopatra and seeking out pleasure. He has forgotten his role as a Roman general.

Act 1, Scene 2 Cleopatra’s two maids-in-waiting, Charmian and Iras, ask a Soothsayer to tell them their fortunes. When he ominously suggests that they will not live long, the women misinterpret his warnings and instead joke about their good luck. Meanwhile, Antony hears of separate battles being waged against Octavius Caesar—one of which was started by Antony’s wife, Fulvia. That war is now over, but another warrior, Labienus, leader of the Parthians, is making

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widespread conquests while Antony idles his time away in Egypt, neglecting his duty as one of the three rulers of the Roman Empire. After another messenger tells him of Fulvia’s death, Antony berates himself for being enchanted by Cleopatra and decides to return to his duties in Rome. He tells his man Enobarbus that he regrets ever setting eyes on Cleopatra and informs him of the dire military situation. Sextus Pompeius is in full rebellion against Caesar and has control of the seas. The common people are flocking to him in support, and the empire may be in danger.

Act 1, Scene 3 Cleopatra is hurt and angered by this news. She rails at Antony for betraying her while he tries to explain the dire situation in Rome. When he tells her calmly of Fulvia’s death, thinking she will be pleased with this news, she taunts him, saying that his lack of grief at the death of his wife shows her how coldly he will react to her own death, when it comes. Antony insists that even though he is returning to Rome, his heart remains with Cleopatra. Cleopatra, although obviously distressed at the prospect of his imminent departure, relents and affectionately bids him farewell.

Act 1, Scene 4 Back in Rome, Octavius Caesar tells his fellow triumvir, Lepidus, that he is disgusted with Antony’s infatuation with Cleopatra and with his dissipation in Egypt. Word comes that Pompey is gathering more and more support in his military campaign against Caesar. A second messenger brings news that two more rebels in alliance with Pompey, Menecrates and Menas, are also having success at sea and are making inroads on Caesar’s power in Italy, rebelling against the triumvirate; Octavius once more laments that Antony is wasting his time and his reputation in Egypt. He and Lepidus announce that they will assemble a council and decide on a way to counter Pompey by sea and on land.

Act 1, Scene 5 In her palace in Alexandria, Cleopatra whiles away the time in Antony’s absence. She thinks of what he must do doing, and also recalls that in the past, she was the lover of Julius Caesar, and of one of the sons of Pompey the Great. Alexas, a messenger from Antony, arrives with the news that Antony has promised Cleopatra many lands in the east to rule over. Cleopatra is delighted to

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Antony’s wife and his brother made war on him, and that Antony supported them. Antony denies the charge, saying that he had as much cause to resent the rebellion as Caesar did. But Caesar then accuses him of remaining in Alexandria and breaking his oath to provide Caesar with military support when it was required. Antony responds by blaming Fulvia, his wife, claiming that she made war on Caesar with the purpose of enticing Antony away from Egypt. He seeks pardon from Caesar for this, even though it was none of his doing. Caesar seems unwilling to budge in his distaste for Antony until Agrippa proposes that Antony marry Octavia, Octavius Caesar’s sister. This will cement an alliance between Antony and Octavius. Both men agree to the match and are reconciled. After they exit, the followers of Antony and of Octavius chat among themselves, and Enobarbus predicts that despite his marriage to Octavia, Antony will never abandon Cleopatra.

Michael Redgrave and Peggy Ashcroft star in a 1953 Stratford-On-Avon theatre production of Anthony and Cleopatra (Kurt Hutton/Getty Images)

hear from Antony, and prepares to send him a greeting in return. She resolves to write to him several times a day.

Act 2, Scene 1 In Messina, at Pompey’s house, Pompey, Menecrates, and Menas discuss the military situation. Thinking that Antony will remain in Egypt, and having a low opinion of both Caesar and Lepidus, Pompey is confident of success. He is disturbed, however, when Menas informs him that Caesar and Lepidus have assembled a powerful army, and then outright concerned when Varrius brings the news that Antony is expected back in Rome shortly. However, Pompey knows that Antony and Caesar are not on good terms, and he keeps an open mind about whether they will patch up their differences and unite against him.

Act 2, Scene 2 Antony and Caesar meet in Rome at the house of Lepidus. Octavius Caesar complains that


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Act 2, Scene 3 In Caesar’s house, Antony, who is now married to Octavia, pledges that from now on, he will behave more correctly. The Soothsayer warns Antony that Octavius will eclipse him in greatness as long as he stays with him in Rome. Antony knows this is true, and when he is alone he admits that he has married Octavia only to keep the peace; he is still enamored of Cleopatra and resolves to return to her.

Act 2, Scenes 4–5 As members of the triumvirate make preparations for war against Pompey, Cleopatra in Egypt hears of Antony’s marriage to Octavia. She is furious and beats the messenger who brought the news. Then she sends a messenger to Rome to find out whether Octavia is beautiful.

Act 2, Scene 6 Pompey meets with the triumvirate. Antony says they do not fear his formidable naval strength, and points out that on land Pompey’s forces are greatly outnumbered. Pompey agrees to accept the offer the triumvars have earlier presented him with. He is allowed to keep Sicily and Sardinia and agrees to rid the sea of pirates. He also agrees to send wheat to Rome.

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Act 3, Scene 6

The triumvars and Pompey celebrate their successful negotiations with a feast aboard Pompey’s galley. Pompey’s ally, the pirate Menas, offers to assassinate the triumvirs while they are celebrating, which would then leave Pompey as the dominant force in the empire. Pompey rejects the idea. The celebrants, especially Lepidus, become increasingly drunk, and Octavius Caesar, who does not enjoy such occasions, suggests that it is time to go home.

Back in Rome, Octavius is outraged at news that Antony has abandoned Octavia and returned to Cleopatra. He reports that in a great public ceremony, Antony made Cleopatra absolute queen not only of Egypt but also of Lower Syria, Cyprus, and Lydia. He gave other countries to his sons. Octavius also reports that Antony has accused Octavius of not giving him sufficient spoils from the defeat of Pompey, and of not returning some ships he loaned him. Antony is also unhappy about the deposing of Lepidus. Octavius has already replied to Antony’s complaints, offering him a share of some territory he has conquered, but demanding that Antony do the same with regard to the kingdoms he has conquered. Octavius also justifies his conduct in respect of Lepidus, saying that the latter deserved his fate.

Act 3, Scene 1 On a plain in Syria, Ventidius, one of Antony’s subordinates, and Silius, a soldier in Ventidius’s army, discuss their victory over the Parthians. Ventidius plans to write to Antony informing him of their success, but he does not want to appear to be too successful, because Antony may then regard him as a threat.

As Antony and his new wife, Octavia, prepare to leave Rome, Octavius makes it clear to Antony that he still distrusts him. Antony promises that he will give no cause for distrust.

Octavia arrives to mediate between her brother and husband. She believes Antony is still in Athens, but Octavius informs her that he is in fact in Egypt with Cleopatra, and is preparing for war against his brother-in-law. Octavius tells his sister that Antony has formed a coalition with many powerful kings in order to defeat Octavius.

Act 3, Scene 3

Act 3, Scene 7

Back in Egypt, Cleopatra’s messenger returns from Rome with the reassuring news that Octavia is unattractive. Cleopatra convinces herself that Antony will not stay with her for long.

At Antony’s camp near Actium, in Egypt, Cleopatra rejects Enobarbus’s protests that her presence on the battlefield will distract Antony rather than help him. She insists she will not stay behind. Antony enters, announcing that Octavius Caesar has challenged him to a sea battle at Actium. Enobarbus warns against it, saying that neither Antony’s ships nor his men are a match for Octavius’s battle-hardened veterans and nimble ships. When Antony insists, Enobarbus tries to convince him to fight on land, for which he is better prepared. But neither Antony nor Cleopatra will listen. Antony says that if they lose at sea, they can then defeat Octavius on land.

Act 3, Scene 2

Act 3, Scene 4 Meanwhile, now settled in Athens, Greece, Antony complains to Octavia that her brother has resumed warring with Pompey and has also begun slandering Antony. Octavia, torn with distress at this conflict between her brother and her husband, returns to Rome to mediate between Antony and Octavius. In the meantime, Antony says, he will raise an army that will be more than a match for any forces Octavius can muster.

Act 3, Scene 5 In the same house in Athens, Enobarbus reports to Eros that Octavius and Lepidus defeated Pompey and that thereafter, Octavius rid himself of Lepidus by accusing him of treason and imprisoning him.

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Act 3, Scenes 8–10 The warring fleets engage in battle, and Antony’s side gains the upper hand until Cleopatra’s ships retreat and Antony’s follow hers. His men are ashamed of what has happened, and many of them have deserted Antony and joined Caesar’s forces. Enobarbus says he will stick with Antony, although this goes against his better judgment.

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Act 3, Scene 11

Act 4, Scene 2

At Cleopatra’s palace in Alexandria, Antony is filled with shame for his retreat. He tells his attendants to desert him and make their peace with Octavius, but they affirm their loyalty to him. When Cleopatra enters, he bitterly reproaches her. She asks him to forgive her, saying that she never expected his ships to follow hers in retreat. He forgives her, even though he knows he is now humiliated, powerless and virtually at the mercy of Octavius.

Antony’s camp makes its own preparations with foreboding. Before supper, Antony speaks warmly to his servants, but also remarks that the next day they may find themselves with a new master. The servants all weep with sorrow. Questioned by Enobarbus, Antony says that he was trying to cheer his followers up and hopes to lead them all to victory in the battle.

Act 3, Scene 12 At Caesar’s camp, Antony’s messenger reports that Antony requests to be allowed to retire to Egypt or, if that not be granted, to live as a private citizen in Athens. Cleopatra requests that her sons be allowed to succeed her. Caesar rejects Antony’s proposal and instead sends his ambassador, Thidias, to bribe Cleopatra so that she will betray Antony.

Act 3, Scene 13 Antony sends a message to Octavius, challenging him to single combat. Enobarbus knows Octavius will not accept the challenge and comments that Antony has lost his judgment. Thidias arrives and tries to persuade Cleopatra to leave Antony. Cleopatra tells Thidias to convey to Caesar that she lays her crown at his feet; she then allows Thidias to kiss her hand. When Antony enters and sees this, he becomes enraged; he orders Thidias to be whipped and then berates Cleopatra. His men bring back Thidias, who has been whipped, and Antony sends him back to Octavius with a defiant message. He confesses to Cleopatra, however, that his fall is imminent. Cleopatra reassures him of her love, which encourages him. He resolves to fight again with Octavius’s forces on land and at sea. They go off to celebrate before resuming battle. Meanwhile Enobarbus, who has witnessed what has happened, confirms his judgment that Antony has lost his reason and thus makes plans to desert him.

Act 4, Scene 3 Outside Cleopatra’s palace, three of Antony’s soldiers discuss their prospects in the upcoming battle. They hear some mysterious music and do not know where it comes from. They decide that it is a sign that the god Hercules is leaving Antony.

Act 4, Scenes 4–6 The next day, Eros brings Antony his armor, and Cleopatra affectionately helps him put it on. At first Antony protests at her interference, but then says that she has done better at it than Eros. His captains and some soldiers enter, and Antony greets them confidently. He kisses Cleopatra goodbye. At Antony’s camp, word comes that Enobarbus has deserted to Octavius, and Antony generously forgives his old friend and sends his belongings after him. Meanwhile, Octavius gives word for the battle to begin; his instructions are that Antony be taken alive. Enobarbus regrets his decision to leave Antony, and when he learns of his former leader’s generosity, he is heartbroken.

Act 4, Scenes 7–9 The fighting begins; Antony is at first victorious, and he and his men are jubilant. Caesar’s forces are in retreat. Antony returns in triumph to Cleopatra’s palace, saying that they will finish the job the following morning before dawn. He thanks his soldiers for their efforts, and greets Cleopatra joyfully. Meanwhile, back at Caesar’s camp, Enobarbus continues to repent for his betrayal of Antony, and calls out for Antony to forgive him. He falls into a swoon and dies. Two Roman sentries observe this and carry his body away.

Act 4, Scene 1 Octavius Caesar scoffs at the challenge sent by messenger from Antony to fight with him in a duel. He tells Maecenas that he is ready for battle and is confident of victory; many of Antony’s soldiers have already deserted him and are ready to fight on Caesar’s side.


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Act 4, Scenes 11–12 During another sea battle, Cleopatra’s forces yield to Caesar, and Antony’s forces are routed. A furious Antony blames Cleopatra for the defeat and vows to be revenged on her. When she enters, he tells her to go away or he will kill her.

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Act 4, Scene 13 Fearing Antony’s rage, Cleopatra takes refuge in a monument and sends her servant Mardian with a message to Antony that she has killed herself. She asks Mardian to tell her how Antony reacts to this news.

Act 4, Scene 14 A distraught Antony laments to Eros that Cleopatra betrayed him. When Antony, who is already ashamed of his military dishonor, receives word of Cleopatra’s apparent suicide, he resolves to end his own life. He reminds Eros of the oath the soldier swore that he would kill Antony when ordered to do so. The devoted Eros protests that he cannot do such an act, and Antony repeatedly tries to cajole him into obeying his command. Finally, Eros, having asked Antony to turn his face away, draws his sword, but instead of killing his master, he plunges the sword into his own body. Even more ashamed than before, Antony responds to Eros’s death by falling on his own sword. But he succeeds only in wounding himself. He calls in his guards and begs them to finish him off, but they all refuse. When Diomedes, a messenger from Cleopatra, appears with news that Cleopatra only pretended that she was dead because she feared his rage, the dying Antony asks to be carried to her monument.

Act 4, Scene 15 At Cleopatra’s monument, Antony and Cleopatra are lovingly reunited. He tells her to make her peace with Caesar and gain assurances for her safety. He also warns her that out of all of Octavius Caesar’s entourage, only Proculeius can be trusted. Antony dies, and the grief-stricken Cleopatra faints. When she revives, she tells Charmian and Iras that after they have buried Antony, they will take their own lives.

Act 5, Scene 1 At Caesar’s camp in Alexandria, Antony’s man Decretas brings Antony’s sword as proof of his leader’s death. He tells Caesar that Antony killed himself. Octavius seems genuinely distressed by this news, and he laments the destruction of a great warrior. Octavius sends Proculeius to Egypt to meet with Cleopatra and tell her that Caesar means her no harm. Caesar wants to avoid giving Cleopatra any excuse to take her own life, since he intends, as he clearly informs Proculeius,

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that she should be brought back alive to Rome as captive.

Act 5, Scene 2 In a room in the monument, Cleopatra has calmly resolved to take her own life. When Proculeius arrives, she asks to be allowed to give Egypt to her son. Proculeius assures her that she has nothing to fear from Caesar. But then Gallus and some other soldiers enter and seize Cleopatra, who quickly draws a dagger. Proculeius prevents the queen from stabbing herself—a move that would have foiled Caesar’s plan to parade her in captivity through Rome. Cleopatra resolves to starve herself to death if necessary. After Proculeius exits, Cleopatra tells Dolabella of her vision of Antony’s greatness, and Dolabella confirms her fears that Caesar will exhibit her to the crowds in Rome as his conquest. Octavius himself goes to Egypt to meet with Cleopatra, who kneels to him. He assures her that she will be well treated. He warns her not to take her own life, threatening to kill her children if she does. She gives him a list of all her worldly riches, but when Seleucus, her treasurer enters, it transpires that she has listed only half of what she owns. Caesar is not angry with her, but Cleopatra is furious with Seleucus for betraying her secret. She claims that she has only failed to divulge a few small items, as well as some larger pieces that she intended as gifts for Livia (Caesar’s wife) and Octavia. Caesar continues to speak respectfully to her, assuring her of his care and concern for her, but Cleopatra is not fooled. Dolabella enters and informs her Caesar will depart for Syria, and that within three days, she and her children will be sent away, their ultimate destination Rome. Cleopatra has already made arrangements for her own suicide, and now a Clown, or comical rustic, arrives and supplies her with poisonous serpents, or asps, hidden in a basket of figs. The queen’s maids, Charmian and Iras, bring Cleopatra her robe, crown and other jewels. Just before she puts the asp to her breast, she says farewell to her maids, and Iras faints and dies. Cleopatra then puts another asp to her arm and dies calling out Antony’s name. Charmian follows Cleopatra’s example by poisoning herself with an asp bite. Octavius Caesar enters, and when he finds Cleopatra dead, he orders that her body be buried with Antony’s.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS There are several versions of the play available on DVD and VHS. Charlton Heston directed a film version of Antony and Cleopatra in 1972. Heston plays Antony, Hildegard Neil plays Cleopatra, and Eric Porter plays Enobarbus. The film is available only on VHS. Jon Scoffield directed a version of the play in which Richard Johnson played Antony and Janet Suzman played Cleopatra. It was released on DVD in 2004 by Lions Gate. The Plays of William Shakespeare, Vol. 1, Antony and Cleopatra (1981) stars Timothy Dalton and Lynn Redgrave. It was released on DVD in 2001 by Kultur video.

CHARACTERS Agrippa Agrippa is a friend and follower of Octavius Caesar. It is Agrippa who suggests that the differences between Antony and Octavius might be resolved through marriage between Antony and Caesar’s sister, Octavia. Later, Agrippa leads Octavius Caesar’s forces against Antony.

Alexas Alexas is an attendant to Cleopatra. He jokes with Cleopatra’s maids, Charmian and Iras, at the beginning of the play. Late in the play, Alexas is reported to have joined with, and then been executed by, Octavius Caesar.

Antony Antony is the Roman triumvir, or coleader, and lover of Cleopatra. He spends a great deal of his time in Alexandria with Cleopatra, much to the disgust of his younger fellow triumvir, Octavius. After his first wife, Fulvia, dies while rebelling against Octavius, Antony marries Octavius’s sister, Octavia, to achieve reconciliation with the


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Roman triumvirate. Antony, however, soon returns to Cleopatra, and Octavius angrily declares war against them both. After losing the battle at Actium, Antony asks to be allowed to retire to Egypt with Cleopatra, but Octavius refuses to grant his request. Antony resumes his war with Octavius, winning one skirmish but badly losing another. In despair over his lost honor and the apparent death of Cleopatra, Antony mortally wounds himself. He goes to Cleopatra’s monument and the two lovers are reconciled before he dies. While there is critical consensus that Antony functions as a tragic hero in the play, there is disagreement concerning exactly when he becomes a tragic figure and what it is that transforms him. Those commentators who describe Antony as torn between his Roman values of duty and valor and his Egyptian obsession with sex and dissipation assert that he achieves tragic status when he reclaims his honor through the Roman death of suicide. Similarly, critics have suggested that, as long as Antony allows himself to be treated in Egypt as ‘‘a strumpet’s fool’’ (act 1, scene 1, line 13), he remains a ridiculous figure. After he is defeated at Actium, however, Antony’s shame is so intense that his fate becomes tragic. Some critics regard Antony’s own ‘‘weakness’’ as the source of his tragedy. In essence, these critics argue that Antony’s tragedy is that he sacrifices everything—physical strength, honor, political power, respect—simply to indulge his senses with Cleopatra in Egypt. Finally, some scholars assert that Antony stumbles tragically when he tries to have it all—power and respect in Rome alongside ease and love in Egypt. An alternative view of Antony’s tragic status is that he operates according to a moral code different from the one followed by Octavius. According to this view, the public-oriented Octavius adheres to a standard Roman code of honor that takes into account such issues as political expediency. Antony, on the other hand, defines honor in more personal terms. Loving Cleopatra and enjoying himself in Egypt at the expense of his duties in Rome do not impinge on his sense of honor. However, retreating during the sea battle at Actium is, according to Antony, a cowardly act and is therefore highly dishonorable. In light of this assessment, Antony’s role in the play is a tragic one because he is unable to reconcile his private concept of honor with the general one

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exemplified by the activities of the triumvirs in Rome. Antony’s tragic status has also been discussed in tandem with Cleopatra’s role. Commentators who view the lovers as equals argue that, at the beginning of the play, both are selfabsorbed despite their love for each other and thus, they are continually in conflict. These critics note that toward the close of the play, Antony and Cleopatra transcend their selfishness as a result of their suffering, and then they learn to recognize each other’s worth and together achieve status as tragic heroes.

Canidius Canidius is lieutenant-general to Antony. Along with Enobarbus, Canidius advises Antony against engaging Octavius Caesar in a sea battle at Actium. After the defeat at Actium, Canidius decides to desert Antony and join Octavius.

Charmian Charmian is an attendant or maid-in-waiting to Cleopatra. She and Iras are Cleopatra’s closest servants. A soothsayer predicts that she will outlive the lady whom she serves, which proves true, if only by a few minutes. Charmian attends Cleopatra in the monument where the queen commits suicide; after mournfully straightening Cleopatra’s crown, Charmian follows her example by poisoning herself to death with the bite of an asp, a type of venomous serpent, possibly an Egyptian cobra.

Cleopatra Cleopatra is the queen of Egypt and lover of Antony. Although she is aging, Cleopatra is celebrated in the play for her beauty and sexual magnetism. She is jealous of Antony’s connections with Rome and of his apparent subservience to Octavius Caesar. She and Antony join forces to fight Octavius, but when they are ultimately defeated by him, Antony accuses Cleopatra of betrayal. She responds to Antony’s anger by locking herself away in her monument and feigning suicide. Antony himself commits suicide as a result of her apparent death, and Octavius arrives claiming victory over Egypt. Mourning Antony, and afraid of being led in captivity back to Rome, Cleopatra uses asps, to kill herself in her monument.

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Critical reaction to Cleopatra has been strong and often negative. Early commentators in particular characterized the Egyptian queen as selfindulgent, self-pitying, capricious, and treacherous. They considered the character Philo’s description of her in act 1 as a lustful ‘‘strumpet,’’ or whore, to be appropriate. They found her taunting of Antony cruel, and her apparent acceptance of Octavius Caesar’s bribe in act 3 reprehensible. They roundly blamed her for Antony’s downfall. Today, scholarly evaluations of Cleopatra are more moderate. Increasingly, commentators have come to regard Antony and Cleopatra as mutually responsible for their fates. Several critics have described the earlier assessments of Cleopatra as extreme and sexist; they emphasize the importance of objectivity to any discussion of the Egyptian queen; further, they observe that she deserves no more and no less sympathy than does, for example, a tragic hero like King Lear or Othello. Those commentators who view Cleopatra in a negative light usually insist that she is too selfabsorbed to qualify for tragic status. There are those, however, who regard her selfish ignorance as the very source of her tragedy. A more temperate version of this argument is that Cleopatra acts out of self-interest until she witnesses Antony’s death. At that point, some critics assert, she recognizes, too late, Antony’s worth and the extent of her love for him; as a result, she achieves tragic status. Cleopatra’s tragedy has also been ranked as commensurate with Antony’s. Scholars contend that both characters are initially self-interested and untrustworthy in love: Cleopatra is jealous of Antony’s preoccupation with Rome; at the same time, Antony tries to satisfy political ambitions through marriage with Octavia. Neither, some commentators assert, achieves tragic status until both reach mutual understanding and love before their deaths at the close of the play. Some commentators dispense with any discussion of Cleopatra’s qualification as a tragic hero and concentrate instead on the lines accorded to her in the play. She is, they observe, the vehicle for some of Shakespeare’s most eloquent poetry. Her remembrance in act 1, scene 5, for example, of her youth as her ‘‘salad days, / When [she] was green in judgment, cold in blood,’’ (lines 73–74) and her vision of Antony in act 5, scene 2, as someone so remarkable as to

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Antony and Cleopatra, with Charmian, Iras, and Eros in Act III, scene xi (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

be ‘‘past the size of dreaming’’ (line 97) are evocative, and justifiably famous.

Diomedes refuses and instead helps deliver Antony to Cleopatra in her monument.

Clown

Dolabella

The Clown is a comical, rustic character. At Cleopatra’s command, the Clown brings her venomous serpents, or asps, hidden in a basket of figs. Thus, the Clown delivers to Cleopatra her means of suicide in act 5.

Dolabella is a follower of Octavius Caesar. In act 5, Dolabella warns Cleopatra that Octavius Caesar plans to humiliate her by parading her in disgrace back to Rome. Thus Dolabella precipitates Cleopatra’s decision to commit suicide.

Demetrius

Domitius Enobarbus

Demetrius is a friend and follower of Antony who discusses Antony’s decline with Philo in the first scene of the play.

Diomedes Diomedes is an attendant to Cleopatra. He is sent by a worried Cleopatra to tell Antony that she is not really dead. But her message comes too late, and the dying Antony asks Diomedes to deliver the final deathblow with his own sword.


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Enobarbus is a friend and follower of Antony. He delivers the famous description of Cleopatra on her barge and accurately predicts that Antony will never be able to leave the Egyptian queen for Octavia. After the sea battle of Actium, Enobarbus decides to desert Antony, whom he thinks is overly influenced by Cleopatra. When Antony learns of his betrayal and generously sends him his belongings, Enobarbus is stricken with guilt and dies of remorse.

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Eros Eros is a servant to Antony. In act 3, Eros announces the resumption of war between Octavius and Pompey as well as Octavius’s imprisonment of Lepidus. In act 4, Antony (who is in despair over his losses to Caesar and the apparent suicide of Cleopatra) orders Eros to kill him. The devoted Eros responds to this command by killing himself instead.

Iras Iras is an attendant or maid-in-waiting to Cleopatra. She and Charmian are the Egyptian queen’s closest servants. Along with Charmian, Iras waits upon Cleopatra in the monument. Iras helps to dress Cleopatra, then dies of grief shortly before the queen commits suicide.

Lepidus Lepidus is the third and weakest member of the Roman triumvirate. Lepidus tries to act as conciliator between the two rival members of the triumvirate—Antony and Octavius. He has a minor role in the peace negotiations with Pompey. Afterward, Lepidus becomes the most drunken participant in the celebration on Pompey’s galley. In act 3, it transpires that Lepidus has been accused of treason and imprisoned by Octavius, who intends to have him executed.

Mardian Mardian is a eunuch in attendance at Cleopatra’s court. Mardian entertains Cleopatra with sexually suggestive jokes in act 1. In act 4, the queen sends him to Antony with false news of her death, thus precipitating Antony’s own suicide.

Menas Menas is a pirate and supporter of Pompey. In act 1, it is reported that Menas is having great success at sea and making raids on the coasts of Italy. Menas believes that Pompey is too cautious in his dealings with the triumvirate. After Pompey refuses to follow Menas’s advice to assassinate the triumvirs while they are celebrating on his galley, Menas deserts him.

Octavia Octavia is the sister of Octavius Caesar. Octavia’s marriage to Antony is meant to result in reconciliation between the two antagonistic triumvirs. Although devoted to her brother, Octavia is loyal to Antony once she becomes

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his wife, and thus she tries—unsuccessfully—to mediate between the two men and their disagreements. In personality, Octavia is the opposite of Cleopatra. Whereas Cleopatra is lively and flirtatious, Octavia is worthy, dutiful, and dull. Enobarbus sums up Octavia when he predicts that the newly married Antony will soon leave his wife for Cleopatra: ‘‘Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.’’

Octavius Caesar Octavius Caesar is the Roman leader and head of the triumvirate that includes himself, Antony, and Lepidus. Octavius is younger than Antony, and Cleopatra calls attention to his youth in act 1, when she refers to him as ‘‘the scarce-bearded Caesar.’’ Octavius is disgusted with Antony’s love for Cleopatra and condemns Antony for luxuriating in Alexandria while there are wars to be fought in the empire. Octavius and Antony are briefly reconciled through Antony’s marriage to Octavius’s sister, Octavia. Octavius imprisons Lepidus—the weakest member of the triumvirate—and declares war on Antony, claiming that he has betrayed Rome by deserting Octavia and returning to Cleopatra. Octavius ultimately defeats Antony and Cleopatra’s forces, and becomes sole emperor of the known world. But Octavius is saddened by Antony’s suicide, and is prevented from parading Cleopatra in triumph back to Rome by her suicide. While earlier critics regarded Octavius Caesar primarily as a representative of Imperial Rome, today most commentators look to the play for what it reveals about Octavius as a character. Significantly, it has been noted that this leader of the triumvirs delivers no soliloquies or personality-revealing asides. Octavius is so terse in his remarks that several commentators are in disagreement concerning such details as whether or not he becomes drunk along with the other triumvirs on Pompey’s galley in act 2. Most scholars agree that Caesar is cold and self-restrained. Some argue that he is thus meant to function as a foil to the extravagant lovers, Antony and Cleopatra. Others consider his prudish criticism of Antony as hypocritical in light of the fact that he cruelly betrays the weakest triumvir, Lepidus. There is a general consensus that Octavius carefully calculates each move he makes and that he is a manipulator. Thus he exploits Antony’s sensitivity about his honor by

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challenging his competitor to a sea battle in act 3. Similarly, Octavius sends Thidias to Cleopatra in act 3, hoping to bribe and flatter her away from Antony. After Antony’s death, Octavius lies to Cleopatra, telling her she has nothing to fear from him, when he is in fact planning to capture her and exhibit her in Rome.

Scarus

An alternative perspective on Octavius Caesar is that he lacks imagination and empathy and is therefore vulnerable to faulty judgment. So, for example, he is unable to prevent either Antony or Cleopatra from committing suicide and as a result is robbed of the satisfaction of parading them—and their defeat—through Rome. According to this view, Octavius is less in control than he thinks he is or than he wishes to be.

Seleucus is a treasurer to Cleopatra. In act 5, Seleucus contradicts Cleopatra, claiming that she has purposely lied to Caesar regarding the extent of her wealth. An angry Cleopatra berates him and cites his betrayal as an example of her ebb in fortune.

Philo Philo is a friend and follower of Antony. As the play opens, Philo tells Demetrius of his disgust with Antony’s ‘‘dotage’’ or infatuation with Cleopatra.

Pompey

Scarus is a friend and follower of Antony. In act 3, a distressed Scarus describes Antony’s retreat at Actium; unlike Enobarbus and Canidius, Scarus remains faithful to Antony throughout his defeats.

Seleucus

Soothsayer The Soothsayer is an Egyptian fortune-teller. He predicts that Charmian’s fortunes are in decline; her best days are behind her. He says the same about Iras. The Soothsayer travels to Rome with Antony where he declares that Caesar’s fortunes will rise higher than Antony’s, and that Antony should not stay close to him. Whenever they are close, the Soothsayer says, Caesar has more luck than Antony.

Thidias

See Sextus Pompeius.

Sextus Pompeius Sextus Pompeius, known as Pompey, is a rebel against the triumvirate. Pompey feels secure in the strength of his forces as long as the strongest member of the triumvirate—Antony—is luxuriating in Egypt. Once Pompey hears of Antony’s return to Rome, he decides to seek peace with the triumvirate, and the negotiated settlement is celebrated on board Pompey’s galley. During the celebration, Pompey rejects Menas’s dishonorable offer to assassinate the members of the triumvirate while they are drunk on board his galley. Pompey and the triumvirate are at war again later in the play, and in act 3, we hear that Pompey has been murdered.

Thidias is a follower of Octavius Caesar. After Antony’s defeat at Actium, Octavius sends Thidias to bribe Cleopatra to abandon Antony. When Antony catches sight of Thidias kissing Cleopatra’s hand, he orders that the man be whipped and returned to Octavius.

Varrius Varrius is a friend and follower of Pompey. He informs Pompey of Antony’s return to Rome, thus setting in motion the peace treaty between Pompey and the triumvirate.

Ventidius Ventidius is a subordinate of Antony who commands an army that triumphs over the Parthians in Syria.

Proculeius Proculeius is a friend and follower of Octavius Caesar. When Antony is dying, he tells Cleopatra that Proculeius is the only follower of Octavius whom she can trust. Proculeius in fact proves unreliable: on orders from Caesar, he lies to Cleopatra and prevents her from committing suicide so that she can be brought back to Rome in humiliation.


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THEMES Rome versus Egypt The play focuses on the personal relationship between Antony and Cleopatra, and in doing so it juxtaposes two value systems, Rome and Egypt. Rome, the West, as embodied in Octavius

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Caesar, is a guardian of moral restraint, personal responsibility, social order, reason, and military discipline. Further, Rome places a high value on honor and duty toward one’s country. By contrast, Egypt, the east, Cleopatra’s realm, is seen as a magnet for decadence, desire, lust, and indolence. Egypt, according to this view, places a high value on physical enjoyment and luxuriant fertility. Egypt is the place to have fun; Rome is the place to work. Egypt equals private life, the sphere of the personal and the individual; Rome equals public life, affairs of state, and politics. Rome is reason; Egypt is emotion. Other pairs of opposites can be applied to this basic duality. The rational world (Rome) and the irrational (Egypt is the realm where dreams and fortunetelling have their place). Masculine self-assertion is opposed by feminine sweetness. Antony, the great Roman warrior who conceives an overwhelming passion for Cleopatra, is torn between these two worlds. He must try to reconcile these two aspects of his own being. As the play opens, he is clearly divided against himself; he has failed to integrate the sensual nature with the martial aspect. When a messenger brings him news from Rome in act 1, he seems to reject it completely, opting instead for passionate personal experience: Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the rang’d empire fall! Here is my space, Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man; the nobleness of life Is to do thus . . . He then embraces Cleopatra. In this speech, Antony declares his desire that Rome, the solid, fixed world of clearly defined obligations and boundaries, should melt into the waters of the river Tiber, which represents the fluidity and boundlessness of the emotional life fully and passionately lived. All he wants at this moment is to be alone with Cleopatra. In the next scene, however, Cleopatra reports that Antony was enjoying himself ‘‘but on the sudden/A Roman thought hath struck him.’’ He becomes the Roman general again, realizing that he must break ‘‘these strong Egyptian fetters’’ or lose himself ‘‘in dotage.’’ Antony is aware that this is a struggle within himself between opposing values, and throughout the play, he vacillates between one or the other, unable to harmonize the two.

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This conflict between opposites also suggests the traditional astrological opposition between warlike Mars—in the first speech in the play, Antony in battle is compared to Mars—and loving Venus. In Roman myth, Mars and Venus, Mars’s paramour, come together and produce a daughter, Harmony. Many Renaissance paintings depict this harmony between Mars and Venus by showing Venus playing with Mars’s armor. Interestingly, in act 2, scene 5, Cleopatra recalls an incident in which she did exactly this. She tells her maid Charmian that one night following drunken revelry, she put Antony to bed and placed her clothes on him, while she wore his sword Philippan, the very sword that Antony wielded in the battle against Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. The difference in the symbolism is that the incident recalled in the play suggests an inappropriate reversal of roles rather than a harmonious interchange between the two. As such, it is typical of the play as a whole. When Antony forgets his Roman role, disaster strikes; similarly, when Cleopatra tries to take on a Roman role—playing a leading part in the battle of Actium, for example—the result is equally disastrous. It appears that the two opposing values are never reconciled. Just as Octavius can never be anything other than the embodiment of all the Roman qualities (including the duplicity of the politician), Cleopatra can never be anything other than the volatile, sensual, bewitching queen, and poor Antony is destroyed because he is inextricably caught between the two. On the other hand, many critics have argued that analyzing the play in terms of an opposition between the values associated with Rome and Egypt is too simple. They suggest that the elements at work in the play cannot be so neatly grouped into rigid pairs because, just as the political alliances in the play shift, so do the groupings in the play’s structure. For example, Antony’s dilemma has been described as involving a choice between love and war; between, that is, his life with Cleopatra in Egypt and his profession as a soldier in Rome. In contrast, critics have argued that Antony’s dilemma is solved when love and death are paired through his and Cleopatra’s suicides. Commentators have observed that, when Octavius commands the burial of the lovers in the same grave in act 5, he acknowledges that death has immortalized the love of ‘‘a pair so famous’’ as Antony and Cleopatra.

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Recent criticism has suggested that Rome and Egypt are alike to the degree that they are both in decline, and that the love of Antony and Cleopatra does not reflect the opposition between the two countries or the conflict endured by Antony, but the temporary triumph of imperialism. The love shared by Antony and Cleopatra, some critics argue, is as imperious and undemocratic as the new government in Rome. The lovers themselves describe their feelings in imperial terms; Antony, for instance, claims that his affection is capable of conquering whole worlds and of blotting out geographical formations. Scholars have also remarked that the decline of Rome and Egypt is the result of changes in both nations: Republican Rome is now Imperial Rome; Egypt is ruled by an unpredictable and aging queen. Rome is prey to shifting alliances and political betrayal by Octavius, who bickers with one triumvir (Antony) and jails another (Lepidus); Egypt is subject to the flooding of the Nile and the unpredictable fortunes of Antony and Cleopatra’s love. Both Egypt and Rome, one critic has observed, are pagan nations, which will soon give way to Christianity. Some commentators suggest that ultimately, it is less constructive to view Rome and Egypt as separate entities than as shifting and intermingling locations of waxing and waning power that affect, and are affected by, the two lovers.

Morality and Transcendence One way of reading the play is to see it as the downfall of a great man through his self-indulgence, his failure to resist temptation and pleasure, and his consequent neglect of his duty. This is certainly how the Roman world viewed the historical Antony, who was contrasted with the ‘‘good’’ Roman, Aeneas, who resisted the temptation to stay with his lover Dido in Carthage and went on to found Rome. (The story of Aeneas is told in Virgil’s epic poem the Aeneid.) Seen in this light, Antony and Cleopatra becomes something of a morality play, in which the two lovers pay a deadly price for their moral transgressions. Antony is weak; Cleopatra selfish; and their deaths are both inevitable and appropriate. There is plenty of material in the play that would support such a reading. The first thirteen lines, spoken by Antony’s disillusioned man Philo, gives the audience, before they have even seen Antony, a devastating picture of the decline


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Research the life of Octavius Caesar, who later became known as Augustus Caesar. Write a paper that describes his principal achievements in building the Roman Empire. Was the peace he brought a fair price for the autocratic form of government he developed?

Compare Antony and Cleopatra to Shakespeare’s earlier play about two fated lovers, Romeo and Juliet. What do the two plays have in common, and how do they differ? Make a class presentation with your findings. Write a paper in which you contrast Antony and Octavius. What qualities does Octavius possess that enable him to triumph over Antony? Which character do you prefer, and why? Watch any film version of Antony and Cleopatra you can obtain and compare it to the stage play. How faithful is it to Shakespeare’s text? What scenes and characters are cut? What does the film emphasize that a stage performance cannot? Make a class presentation, using video clips from the film to illustrate your points.

of the great general, who has now reached his ‘‘dotage’’ (line 1): Take but good note, and you shall see in him The triple pillar of the world transform’d Into a strumpet’s fool. To this can be added the appearance of Antony in the next scene, when he struggles to break away from Cleopatra. He is clearly a man in great psychic turmoil, torn between two opposing and apparently irreconcilable worlds. Furthermore, Octavius’s harsh words about his fellow triumvar, in act 1, scene 4, add to the picture of a man in a steep decline through lack of self-discipline. According to Octavius, Antony

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drinks and spends his nights in revelry, and has allowed himself to become feminized by his Egyptian lover: He ‘‘is not more manlike / Than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy / More womanly than he.’’ Caesar concludes that Antony is ‘‘a man who is the abstract of all faults / That all men follow’’ (lines 8–9). But in spite of this apparent degeneration of a great hero, audiences and readers often find themselves unwilling to condemn the lovers, even though Antony and Cleopatra’s recklessness, their irresponsibility, and their cruelty towards each other is plain for everyone to see. Judgments are suspended because Antony and Cleopatra’s love seems to transcend all narrow moral boundaries. They have a vision of each other that makes them seem transfigured. Their love cannot be contained within a mundane sphere but leaps towards a visionary and poetic transcendence. Cleopatra sees Antony as a godlike being, and just before his death, Antony envisions that he and Cleopatra will be together again in Hades, ‘‘Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand, / And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.’’ At the end of the play, Cleopatra, full of ‘‘immortal longings,’’ dons her robe and crown and goes to meet Antony in some spiritual realm of experience that is beyond the ability of the prosaic Roman world to understand.

STYLE Language and Imagery Antony and Cleopatra is distinguished among Shakespeare’s plays for its lush, evocative language. Some critics have even suggested that it should be classified with Shakespeare’s long poems rather than ranked alongside his plays. Scholarly discussion has focused on Enobarbus’s vividly detailed depiction of Cleopatra on her barge and on the lovers’ continual use of hyperbole, or exaggerated language, to describe each other as well as their affection for one another. Some critics have argued that the hyperbolic language in Antony and Cleopatra makes it a highly problematical play to stage. What actor, for example, is so physically fit that he can portray a character like Antony, whose ‘‘legs bestrid the ocean’’ and whose ‘‘rear’d arm / Crested the world’’? What actress is charismatic enough to

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play Cleopatra, who is described as more seductive than Venus, the goddess of love? Other critics have observed that Shakespeare was well aware of this conflict between language and reality and that he makes this clear in act 5 when the defeated Cleopatra imagines that plays written in Rome about the former lovers will feature Antony as a drunk and herself as a ‘‘whore’’ played—as was the custom in Renaissance England—by a ‘‘squeaking . . . boy.’’ Scholars have identified a variety of reasons for the existence of heightened language and vivid imagery in Antony and Cleopatra. Some have demonstrated its usefulness in highlighting the changing moods or fortunes of particular characters. Thus Antony’s men effectively display their disappointment in their leader and his noticeable transformation when they complain that Antony has been reduced from acting like the god of war to behaving like the mere fawning servant of a lustful woman. Similarly, it has been pointed out that while Antony describes his love for Cleopatra in hyperbolic terms, he does not lose sight of his own importance in the world of politics. For instance, even as he asserts that his love for Cleopatra renders everything else in the world unimportant, he demands that the people of the world take note of his love or else face punishment from him. Thus we are introduced to the conflicting feelings—romantic love versus honorable renown—that plague Antony and that ultimately destroy him. Several critics have suggested that Antony and Cleopatra’s hyperbolic poetry mirrors the paradoxes at work in the play: love versus death, and immortality versus aging, for example. In connection with this, several scholars have noted the frequent use of images that link death, love, and immortality. The preponderance of death imagery intensifies the tragic nature of Antony and Cleopatra’s love. Death imagery also emphasizes the fact that both lovers are aging. Aging and death are things that the extraordinary Antony and Cleopatra have in common with ordinary people, all of whom must come to terms with their mortality; therefore, some critics conclude that the imagery and hyperbole in Antony and Cleopatra are intended to reinforce the fact that all human beings are by their very nature extraordinary. Katherine Vance MacMullan is one critic who has closely examined the frequent appearance of death imagery in the play. Noting that

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the image of death as a bridegroom was commonplace to Renaissance audiences, MacMullan asserts that Shakespeare developed the image beyond this familiar cliche´. In Antony and Cleopatra, MacMullan contends, death imagery is meant to symbolize Antony’s overpowering passion for Cleopatra, his diminishing political powers, and ‘‘the weakening of his judgment in the command of practical affairs.’’ MacMullan also demonstrates how Shakespeare connects the image of death with those of sleep, darkness, and light to emphasize the inevitability of the lovers’ tragic fate.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Rise of Mark Antony The Roman general Mark Antony was born in Rome in approximately 83 B . C . E . As a young man he distinguished himself as a cavalry commander in Judea and Egypt. He was a military leader in the Gallic Wars of 58–50 B . C . E . and a staunch supporter of Julius Caesar. During the civil war against Pompey (49–45 B . C . E .), Antony was Caesar’s second in command. Following Caesar’s assassination in March 44 B . C . E ., the Roman republic had three rivals for power: Antony, Marcus Lepidus, and Caesar’s great-nephew Octavian Caesar (historically, he is known as Octavian rather than Octavius as in Shakespeare’s play). Antony was defeated in one battle but escaped to Gaul and then marched with Lepidus to Rome, where the eighteenyear-old Octavian had taken power. In 43 B . C . E ., the three men called a truce and became a ruling triumvirate. Octavian and Antony then set out for the east in pursuit of Caesar’s assassins. Octavian was sick and did not participate in the battle at Philippi in Macedonia in 42 B . C . E ., in which Antony triumphed over Cassius and Brutus, both of whom committed suicide. The territories controlled by Rome were then split up amongst the triumvars. Antony received Gaul and the east; Lepidus was given Africa; and Octavian was given Sardinia, Spain, and Sicily. Antony was not only an effective military leader, he was also extremely popular with his troops. He was warm-hearted and not aloof; he would sit down to eat and drink with his men from the common soldiers’ tables. He was also known for his generosity to his friends, and


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for his good humor. Resourceful in adversity, Antony was an inspiration to his men. After being defeated at a battle at Modena, for example, Antony and his army encountered famine on their retreat. But Antony, who was used to luxurious living, made no fuss about having to drink foul water and feed on wild fruit, roots, and even the bark of trees. This incident is recorded by the Roman historian Plutarch, in his work The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, which is Shakespeare’s source for Antony and Cleopatra. Antony’s stoic acceptance of this difficult situation is mentioned in the play in act 1, scene 4, when Octavius, complaining about Antony’s dalliance with Cleopatra, recalls his rival’s former greatness. Plutarch described Antony’s physical appearance in this way: ‘‘He had also a very good and noble appearance; his beard was well grown, his forehead large, and his nose aquiline, giving him altogether a bold, masculine look that reminded people of the face of Hercules in paintings and sculptures.’’ Although Antony’s virtues were many, Plutarch also comments that he was given to folly and extravagance. It appears that Antony was known for his love of luxury and his penchant for self-indulgent amusement when times were easy. The establishment of the triumvirate did not result in universal peace. In 41–40 B . C . E ., Antony’s ex-wife, Fulvia, was coleader, with Antony’s brother, of a rebellion against Octavian. Fulvia was forced to surrender and was exiled to Sicyon, where she died awaiting Antony’s return. Antony, meanwhile, traveling to the east to subdue rebellions and conquer Parthia, met Cleopatra VII of Egypt in 41 B . C . E . He summoned her to meet him in Cilicia, ready to accuse her of aiding Cassius and Brutus in the war against him. Cleopatra sailed up the river Cydnus adorned as the goddess Aphrodite, and Antony immediately fell under her spell. She quickly became his mistress, and in December 40 B . C . E . bore him twins, Alexander Helios (sun) and Cleopatra Selene (moon). Not long after this, Octavian was faced with a rebellion by Sextus Pompeius (Pompey). Antony returned to Rome and patched up his uneasy relations with Octavian by marrying Octavian’s sister, Octavia. Antony then traveled to Greece with his new wife, intent on continuing his campaign against the Parthians. But Octavian,

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still dealing with the threat from Pompey, was unable to send him any forces, so in 37 B . C . E ., Antony returned to Alexandria, hoping that the wealthy Cleopatra would support his cause. Antony then settled in Alexandria and married Cleopatra (even though he was still married to Octavia). She bore him another son, Ptolemy Philadelphus.

Cleopatra Cleopatra was born in 69 B . C . E . in Alexandria, the third daughter of the king Ptolemy XII. She became queen in 51 B . C . E ., at first sharing the throne with her younger brother, Ptolemy XIII. After a civil war, in which Julius Caesar aided Cleopatra, Ptolemy XIII was drowned and a younger brother, Ptolemy XIV, became coruler. During his stay in Egypt, from 48 B . C . E . to 47 B . C . E ., Caesar took Cleopatra as a lover, and she gave birth to his child, Caesarion. As Cleopatra says in the play of Caesar, ‘‘When thou wast here above the ground, I was / A morsel for a monarch.’’ Cleopatra wanted Caesar to name Caesarion as his heir, but Caesar named Octavius instead. Although she was queen of Egypt, Cleopatra was, in fact, Macedonian. The Romans called her Egyptian as a term of abuse. Cleopatra’s language and culture was Greek; she was a highly educated woman who spoke seven languages and was one of the few of the Ptolemies to learn the Egyptian language. Her subjects considered her to be the daughter of the sun god, Re, and some saw her as the future leader of a great uprising of Asia against Rome. Plutarch, while presenting a largely negative view of Cleopatra, did acknowledge her as a fascinating woman: ‘‘The attraction of her person, joining with the charm of her conversation, and the character that attended all she said or did, was something bewitching. It was a pleasure merely to hear the sound of her voice.’’

Struggle between Antony and Octavian In Rome, Octavian deposed of Lepidus in 36 B . C . E ., and after that his relations with Antony steadily deteriorated. Eager to remove his one remaining rival, Octavian systematically defamed Antony’s character, saying he was a drunkard who had fallen under the sway of a wicked woman and had forgotten his Roman duties. The Roman senate unleashed an attack on Cleopatra, calling her a sorceress who had bewitched

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Antony with drugs, sold herself out of a lust for power, and worshipped bestial gods. As Chester G. Starr puts it in A History of the Ancient World, ‘‘Cleopatra was magnified into a threat to the survival of Roman ways and Roman mastery, and so assumed the image of femme fatale which has ever since been her memory.’’ In 34 B . C . E ., in a public ceremony in Alexandria, Antony distributed the kingdoms of the east to his children. Cleopatra was named Queen of Kings and Queen of Egypt, and her son Caesarion was declared the legitimate son and heir of Caesar. Needless to say, this was not well received in Rome, since the claim made for Caesarion was a threat to the legitimacy of Octavian as Caesar’s rightful heir. War between the two sides now became only a matter of time. Antony accused Octavian of usurping power, while Octavian countercharged Antony with treason. In 32 B . C . E ., the senate stripped Antony of his powers and declared war on Cleopatra. Both Roman consuls and three hundred of the one thousand Roman senators declared their support for Antony and went to meet him and Cleopatra in Greece. In that year also, Antony divorced Octavia.

Battle of Actium On September 2, 31 B . C . E ., the decisive naval battle of Actium took place near the Roman colony of Actium in Greece, on the Ionian Sea. Octavian’s fleet was commanded by Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. Antony, supported by Cleopatra’s fleet, attempted to lead 220 warships out of the gulf to the open seas, where Octavian’s fleet attempted to block them. Antony’s ships were large but undermanned because of an outbreak of malaria, and morale was low because supply lines had been cut. In contrast, Octavian possessed smaller, nimbler ships that could outmaneuver Antony’s, and his men were better trained and in better condition. When it became clear that Octavian’s fleet was gaining the upper hand, Cleopatra’s fleet retreated. Antony followed her lead and deserted the battle, while the ships he left behind were either captured or sunk. Antony fled to Egypt, but his military strength was reduced by massive desertions. Octavian pursued him, invading Egypt. Although Antony managed to win a skirmish at Alexandria on July 30, 30 B . C . E ., he again suffered from desertions, leaving him with no means of resisting Octavian’s advance. Believing

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Cleopatra holds a small adder to her exposed breast (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

that Cleopatra was dead, Antony decided to take his own life. Plutarch records how Antony died in Cleopatra’s presence, after the two were reconciled, and Shakespeare closely follows Plutarch’s account. Cleopatra attempted to negotiate terms of surrender with Octavian, but then, after


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learning from Cornelius Dolabella that Octavian intended to take her as a captive to Rome, she committed suicide on August 12, 30 B . C . E . According to Plutarch, Octavian was disappointed by her death, ‘‘yet could not but admire the greatness of her spirit, and gave order that her

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

First century B . C . E .: In 27 B . C . E ., Octavian becomes known as Caesar Augustus. He will live until C . E . 14. The era he inaugurates embodies the highest achievements of Roman civilization in arts and letters. Augustus also creates a new, autocratic system of government that leads to several centuries of peace in the Roman Empire. Early seventeenth century: The Roman Empire no longer exists. Italy is not an independent nation but a collection of principalities, many of them under foreign domination. Rome forms part of the Papal States which are controlled by the Catholic Church and stretch from the central to the northern parts of what will later become the nation of Italy.

Today: Italy is an independent, unified nation and is a member of the European Community. The nation is in the forefront of European economic and political unification. There are many ancient Roman structures and artefacts in Italy, and many of these are popular tourist attractions. First century B . C . E .: The Romans build solid, long-lasting roads throughout the empire. The speed of travel and communications therefore increases. The Romans operate an efficient postal service. The cursus publicus, state-sponsored post roads, is founded by Augustus to carry official mail; a relay of horses is able to carry mail quickly, covering about 170 miles in twenty-four hours. Early seventeenth century: The efficiency of the Roman cursus publicus has not yet been matched in post-Roman Empire Europe. However, a network of private postal services carries mail across the continent. These include the Thurn and Taxis service, which operates a network of postal routes in Spain, Germany, Austria, Italy, Hungary, and the Low Countries from 1512 to 1867. Today: Global communication by fax and email is virtually instant. Paper documents are delivered via express airmail to all parts of the world within a few days.

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First centuryB . C . E .: Ancient Rome has a well-established tradition of drama, dating from the comedies of Plautus and Terence, and the tragedies of Accius, in the second century, B . C . E . In 55 B . C . E ., Pompey erects the first permanent stone theater in Rome. Roman drama is heavily influenced by the Greek dramatic tradition. Early seventeenth century: During the Italian Renaissance there is a movement known as Neoclassicism, which is based on a renewed interest in the classical drama of Rome. Drama follows what are thought to be the rules of classical drama; plays must conform to the three unities of time, place, and action, and must not mix comedy with tragedy. Today: The Theatre of Marcellus, completed by Augustus in 11 B . C . E ., is the only surviving ancient theater in Rome. It is named after Marcus Marcellus, Augustus’s nephew. Originally it could hold eleven thousand spectators. Its surroundings are now used for summer concerts.

First century B . C . E .: The various tribes in prehistoric Britain are in the late stages of what is known as the Iron Age. The population is larger in the south than the north because of a more hospitable climate. Julius Caesar makes two expeditions to Britain in 55 and 54 B . C . E ., following his conquest of Gaul. Caesar conquers no territory but coerces many tribes into paying tribute to Rome. Early seventeenth century: Queen Elizabeth I dies in 1603 and is succeeded by King James I. The golden age of English drama continues, and Shakespeare’s later plays are written during the Jacobean era. England’s sailors continue to explore the world and England lays the basis for its rapid rise as a major European and world power. Today:TheEnglishpeopletreasureShakespeare as the greatest figure in their literary history. His plays have been translated into almost every language and are performed regularly throughout the world.

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body should be buried by Antony with royal splendour and magnificence.’’

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Antony and Cleopatra has never been as popular or as frequently performed as the four major tragedies of Shakespeare: Hamlet, King Lear, Macbeth, and Othello. In the nineteenth century, however, the English Romantic poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who was also one of the foremost critics of the age, regarded the play as the ‘‘most wonderful’’ of the history plays and argued that it might be, in its ‘‘exhibitions of a giant power in its strength and vigour of maturity, a formidable rival’’ of the four great tragedies. Coleridge admired the quality of ‘‘angelic strength’’ conveyed in the play. At the beginning of the twentieth century, one of the most influential of all Shakespearean critics, A. C. Bradley, refuted Coleridge’s view. He argued that Antony and Cleopatra was not as dramatic as the other four great tragedies, especially in the first three acts, and claimed that the third and fourth acts were ‘‘very defective in construction.’’ He noted the number of scenes in these acts and how difficult they are to present on stage. (There are more scenes in Antony and Cleopatra—forty-two—than in any other Shakespeare play.) Bradley’s verdict that Antony and Cleopatra, while a great tragedy, was not the equal of the other four, remained influential throughout the twentieth century. Toward the end of that century, Stanley Wells argued that Antony and Cleopatra may be less universal in its appeal because the ‘‘central characters invite us not so much to identify with them as to wonder at them; . . . they are given virtually no soliloquies in which to reveal themselves to the audience.’’ Much of the commentary on Antony and Cleopatra has been devoted to the play’s numerous thematic pairings: Antony and Cleopatra; love and war; Antony and Octavius; selfrestraint and luxury; reason and emotion. Scholars customarily argue that all, or at least a large portion of, this dualism flows from one essential pairing—Rome (under the guardianship of the strictly disciplined Octavius Caesar) versus Egypt (under the sway of the flamboyantly unpredictable Cleopatra). Antony is traditionally regarded as the go-between or victim of the Rome/Egypt dualism. As such, commentators have remarked, Antony must deal with his


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own set of internal conflicts: his Roman honor giving way to dishonor in Egypt; his youthful warrior’s physique diminishing with age and dissipation; and his love for Cleopatra undermining his loyalty to Rome. There has also been much critical debate in recent times about the true nature of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra. The traditional view was of Cleopatra as a negative force. Richard C. Harrier, for example, argues that Cleopatra’s ‘‘selfish and capricious domination of Antony’’ ruins him. Writing in the 1950s, Austin Wright reflects a view typical of that period. He criticizes Cleopatra for her failure to be supportive of Antony during his time of trouble; he also condemns her lack of virtue and modesty and calls her opportunistic, lubricious, and common. At the same time, Wright concludes that Cleopatra is irresistible to men. Later scholars, including L. T. Fitz and Ruth Nevo provide more sympathetic portraits of Cleopatra. After asserting that the Egyptian queen is complex enough to elicit a variety of interpretations, Nevo suggests that Cleopatra behaves unpredictably toward Antony because she is afraid of losing him to Rome, to his first wife, Fulvia, and later to Octavia. Fitz argues that the misogynistic views of critics, and not Shakespeare’s characterization, are the source of negative attitudes toward Cleopatra. Fitz asserts that male critics are particularly virulent in their dislike of Cleopatra and that they find her behavior in the play incomprehensible. Fitz contends that Cleopatra’s actions are no more confusing than those of an equally complex Shakespearean character such as Hamlet, and that in order to judge her fairly, scholars must dispense with their ‘‘sexist bias.’’ Recent scholarship has also discussed the nature of the play’s mythological and supernatural elements. Of particular interest to critics today are the patterns of irony and paradox that pervade Antony and Cleopatra and that render much of the play’s action and many of its themes problematic. There appears to be a growing consensus that Shakespeare intended that this drama of love, politics, aging, and death be both ambivalent and ambiguous.

CRITICISM Bryan Aubrey Aubrey holds a Ph.D. in English and has published many essays on drama. In this essay, he emphasizes the transcendental aspects of the love

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between Antony and Cleopatra rather than the moralistic view that censures the lovers for foolish and immoral behavior. At the end of Antony and Cleopatra both lovers are dead, and the victorious Octavius, finally respectful of them now they are no longer either a threat or a challenge, gives instructions for a solemn funeral and announces that they will lie next to each other in death. Moralists in the audience (should there be any) will conclude that the downfall and suicide of such a reckless pair was not only inevitable but just. Others may feel unwilling to identify with the triumph of a man as cold and calculating as Octavius, the consummate politician who never wavers in his command of statecraft but who never reveals his heart. Octavius’s victory seems to represent the triumph of prudence, reason, and practicality over the unruly world of passion and love. However, few in the audience are likely to embrace such a resolution with much enthusiasm because these two tragic lovers seem, through the imaginative, visionary, poetic language that Shakespeare grants them, to have propelled themselves in death into a transcendental realm of transfigured perception, an eternal sacred marriage that seems to dwarf their earthly incarnations and render them almost god-like. It is this startling metamorphosis of the lovers that most members of the audience will likely be contemplating as they leave the theater after a vibrant performance of this play, rather than an image of two corpses soon to be laid in a tomb. How does Shakespeare accomplish this astonishing transformation? At the beginning of the play, such an outcome seems unlikely because the lovers are not presented in a very positive light. They seem quarrelsome and possessive, and it is hard to shake the negative portrayals that the Roman world insists on pinning on Antony. His greatness seems all in the past, recalled by others such as Philo or Octavius only to strike a note of regret about the man he has become. However, the very first words Antony speaks in the play, immediately after Philo has encouraged the audience to see ‘‘The triple pillar of the world transform’d / Into a strumpet’s fool,’’ are certainly not ignoble. After Cleopatra asks him to tell her how much he loves her, he replies, ‘‘There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d’’. When Cleopatra responds that she will set a boundary to love,

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Silver denarius of Cleopatra VII (Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY)

Antony replies, ‘‘Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth’’. If Antony is taken at his word (and why should he not be?), he has dared to conceive a love for this bewilderingly volatile and complex woman that reaches for the infinite. It is an intense, expansive, boundary-breaking love that seems entirely fitting for one whose vitality, generosity and power has raised him to pre-eminence in the competitive world of Roman wars and politics. Antony is not a man who does things by half-measures. Cleopatra is not exactly an easy woman to deal with, yet Antony, still in the first scene of the play, shows his appreciation and understanding of her in a very perceptive manner: ‘‘How every passion fully strives / To make itself, in thee, fair and admired’’. This is a remarkable tribute to Antony’s willingness to love qualities in Cleopatra that may not appear on the surface to be lovable. It also hints at the indefinable attractiveness of Cleopatra, in whom the expression of emotions that might be ugly in others— and which she fully demonstrates in this first scene—become simply an expression of the infinite range of her divine womanhood. Although Antony’s feelings are as volatile as Cleopatra’s, and there is no denying the force of his outrage when he believes she has betrayed him at the battle of Actium—‘‘triple-turn’d whore’’ is quite an insult—he nonetheless sees

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Cleopatra through transfigured eyes as the ‘‘day o’ the world’’, the very light by which he lives. Hyperbole this may be (as many critics point out regarding the language in which the lovers describe themselves and each other), but Antony is completely genuine in his adoration of his beloved, his ability to see in her an infinite treasure more precious to him than, well, the entire Roman Empire. It is when Antony hears the false news that Cleopatra is dead that the first intimations of immortality and sacred marriage in death are sounded in the play. ‘‘I come, my queen,’’ Antony calls out to Cleopatra as he summons his servant Eros to give him a death blow in act 4. Continuing to address Cleopatra, he says, ‘‘Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand, / And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze’’. Just as Antony sees Cleopatra through the eyes of love, she too possesses a unique vision of him. To most people, Antony is a man with two selves, the martial, Roman self and the ‘‘Egyptian’’ pleasure-seeking, sensual self, but in Cleopatra’s eyes he possesses what might be called a third or transcendental self, a vast cosmic presence that inspires in her nothing less than awe. In the dream vision of Antony that she relates to an uncomprehending Dolabella in act 5, for example, she says of her lover: ‘‘His face was as the heavens, and therein stuck / A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted / This little O, the earth’’. This imagery of the lover as embodying a kind of cosmic light occurs also at Antony’s death. For Cleopatra, his fall is associated with the extinguishing of light: ‘‘O sun / Burn the great sphere thou mov’st in, darkling stand / The varying shore o’ the world’’. Antony was her light, as she was for him, and now that light is gone: ‘‘Our lamp is spent, it’s out’’. It is this imagery of light and vastness that sets the stage for the translation of the lovers from the earthly to the spiritual realm. Theirs is a love so vast that it cannot be vanquished by death. It is at this point, when the lovers face their own deaths, that the play seems to take flight into the realm of myth; Antony and Cleopatra seem not so much two humans in despair who commit suicide but more like larger-than-life beings in the process of transformation, ready to fulfill their innermost longings for each other in an eternal union not


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touched by time or change and yet retaining all the delight and ecstasy they knew on the earthly plane of life. This process of transformation reaches its fulfillment in Cleopatra’s final speech. In her determination to join Antony in death and transfiguration she attains a calm strength that has eluded her up to this point in the play. But what is remarkable about this speech is that, even as Cleopatra transcends her fear of death and is fixed in her new resolve, she remains utterly herself; she is still the mercurial, volatile Cleopatra we have known, and she shows herself in all her many guises, from queen and quasigoddess to sexual temptress and jealous woman. First, as she calls for her royal garments, she stands before us as queen, aspiring to eternity: ‘‘Give me my robe, put on my crown, I have / Immortal longings in me’’. But the lines that follow remind the audience of the sensual life of which Cleopatra has been the embodiment throughout the play: ‘‘Now no more / The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip’’. Next we see her at once visionary and vengeful, sensing Antony’s presence and exulting over her defeat of Caesar, a thought that occurs with greater force later in the speech. Now, as she identifies herself explicitly, for the first time in the play, as wife to Antony, she also reveals another side to her nature. No longer the female enchantress, the ‘‘triple-turn’d whore’’ of Antony’s invective, it is her masculine qualities which predominate: Husband, I come! Now to that name, my courage prove my title! I am fire, and air; my other elements I give to baser life. But then as Iras falls after being kissed by Cleopatra, the simile that immediately occurs to Cleopatra is a sexual one: ‘‘If thou and nature can so gently part, / The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch, / which hurts, and is desir’d. She is once more the lusty Cleopatra we have known, and this is confirmed by her sudden jealousy, even in death, of Iras: ‘‘If she first meet the curled Antony, / He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss / Which is my heaven to have.’’ But as Cleopatra takes the asp to her breast and once more sneers defiantly at Caesar, Charmian interjects the expansive image, ‘‘O Eastern star!’’ (line 308) thus reminding us not only of the hyperbolic language that Antony used of his lover, but also the status accorded to her by her subjects.

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WHAT DO I READ NEXT? Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (first performed in 1599, and available in many modern editions) dramatizes the assassination of the Roman dictator by Brutus and Cassius and shows Antony, in his funeral oration, at the height of his rhetorical powers. The Romance of Tristan and Iseult (Dover Books on Literature & Drama, 2005) edited by J. Bedier and translated by Hilaire Belloc, is the legendary medieval story of the forbidden love between Tristan, a knight from Cornwall, England, and Iseult, an Irish princess. Tristan was escorting Iseult from Ireland as a bride for his uncle, King Marke, when he and Iseult discovered they were in love with each other. As the story of a fatal, overwhelming love affair, the story of Tristan and Iseult has many elements in common with the story of Antony and Cleopatra. The Reign and Abdication of King Edward VIII by Michael Block (new edition, 1991) tells the story of Britain’s King Edward VIII who, in 1936, abdicated the throne because he wished to marry an American divorceé, Mrs. Wallis Simpson. Mrs. Simpson was not considered a suitable match for the king by the British establishment. Edward insisted that he could not carry out his duties as king without the support of the woman he loved, and he abdicated after less than a year on the throne. Since at the time the British Empire was still in existence, Edward VIII, like Antony, might be considered to have renounced an empire for love.

Cleopatra, whom he helps become sole ruler of Egypt. Cleopatra is presented as a spoiled sixteen-year-old girl, while Caesar receives more sympathetic treatment than Shakespeare gives him in Julius Caesar. Shaw also uses the opportunity to comment on the politics of his own day. Caesar and Cleopatra is available from Penguin Books (reprint edition, 1950).

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Caesar and Cleopatra by George Bernard Shaw was first published in 1901 and first produced in 1906. Regarded as Shaw’s first great play, it tells the story of Julius Caesar’s arrival in Egypt and his relationship with


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All for Love, or the World Well Lost (1677), by John Dryden, is a version of the Antony and Cleopatra story by one of the leading Restoration dramatists. It is written in blank verse and, unlike Shakespeare’s play, observes the unities of time, place and action. Also, while Shakespeare creates ambiguity about whether Antony and Cleopatra should be condemned for their passion, in Dryden’s version the lovers are clearly presented as being in the wrong, even though the dramatist creates a certain sympathy for them in the audience. All for Love is available in a modern edition published in 2005 by Dodo Press.

The Letters of Abelard and Heloise by Peter Abelard and Heloise, edited by Michael Clanchy, translated by Betty Radice (Penguin Classics, 2004) tells the story of the tragic love between Peter Abelard (1079–1142), a medieval scholar and teacher, and his young student Heloise. The story has become one of the most famous love stories in Western literature. Their intense, forbidden love resulted in scandal, pregnancy and a secret marriage before the lovers sought refuge from their passion in the church. Abelard became a monk and Heloise a nun. Their letters convey the full range of their romantic and sexual ardor for each other.

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And finally, as Cleopatra calmly takes the asp to her breast, she presents herself as tender mother and nurse, a side of her nature that has not been glimpsed up to this point: ‘‘Peace, peace! / Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, / That sucks the nurse asleep?’’ After her death, the final image of Cleopatra is spoken by Octavius, who remarks on the apparently easeful manner of her death: ‘‘she looks like sleep, / As she would catch another Antony / in her strong toil of grace’’. The word ‘‘catch’’ recalls Cleopatra’s earlier comment, in Antony’s absence, about going fishing and imagining the fish she caught as ‘‘every one an Antony.’’. ‘‘Grace’’ is perhaps a term that could be applied to Cleopatra only at this point in the play, suggesting that she has attained a final serenity, while ‘‘strong toil’’ evokes the Roman world of masculine effort, work and commitment. Thus the final image of Cleopatra in repose hints that at last those two mighty opposites, Rome and Egypt, have been brought together in an idealized moment of stillness and repose. The ‘‘serpent of old Nile’’ for so, Cleopatra tells Mardian in act 1, Antony calls her, is at one with that formidable figure whose ‘‘rear’d arm / Crested the world’’. In the literal sense, these two lovers may well have been brought down by their own folly, but the language Shakespeare gives them is surely enough to lift them, at least in the imagination of the audience, to an altogether finer plane. Source: Bryan Aubrey, Critical Essay on Antony and Cleopatra, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.

Patsy Hall In this essay, Hall explores the themes of love and war in Antony and Cleopatra. The critic notes that throughout the play, the character of Antony is associated with Mars, the god of war, while the character of Cleopatra is associated with Venus, the goddess of love. The interplay between love and war finds frequent expression in the relationship between the two title characters, who repeatedly ‘‘contend with each other in a battle of words and wills.’’ The world presented in Antony and Cleopatra is one of friction, division and disagreement. In this world of impending and actual war, even the eponymous lovers frequently contend with each other in a battle of words and wills. Antony came to Alexandria to


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CAESAR’S IS A WORLD OF POLITICS, BUSINESS AND ACTION. ANTONY’S IS A WORLD OF DOMESTICITY, LEISURE AND INACTION. WHILE ANTONY RELIES ON HIS PAST REPUTATION TO DEFINE HIS HONOUR, CAESAR PAYS LIP SERVICE TO HONOUR BUT RATES POLITICAL ACUMEN MORE HIGHLY.’’

subjugate Cleopatra. Instead, she captivates him. It should be no surprise, then, that images of love and war go hand in hand throughout the play. From the outset, Antony is associated with Mars, god of War, while Cleopatra in her barge is described as resembling Venus, goddess of Love, surrounded by ‘smiling Cupids’. These images of the pair are so potent that the eunuch Mardian, attempting to gratify his queen’s yearning for the absent Antony, deliberately sets her thinking ‘what Venus did with Mars’. Venus and Mars are opposites. In classical mythology, Venus is associated with passion, joy, mirth and love of life. Her husband Mars is given to wrath, destruction and death. This attraction of opposites makes for a volatile affair, a union of unlikely bedfellows. Shakespeare’s Romans certainly think the same is true of Antony and Cleopatra. Antony’s ‘goodly eyes’, that once ‘glow’d like plated Mars’, now turn from war to gaze on the ‘tawny front’ of Cleopatra. His ‘captain’s heart’, which could ‘burst the buckles on his breast’, is now ‘the bellows and the fan to cool a gypsy’s lust’. The martial Antony is spoken of in the past tense. This ‘new’ Antony is the pleasureseeking follower of Venus, whose love is considered to be ‘lust’, and his devotion ‘dotage’ by his compatriots. Cleopatra is the queen of ‘sport’, who turns even serious circumstance into an opportunity for entertainment. When Antony remembers his imperial persona he becomes exasperated by her lack of seriousness: ‘But that your royalty/Holds idleness your subject, I should take you / For idleness itself’ Cleopatra’s idleness, however, is a pretence that masks a deeper purpose. As long

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Battle of Actium. Savagely, he addresses Mardian, ‘O, thy vile lady! / She has robb’d me of my sword’. In metaphorical terms this is precisely what Cleopatra has done, by emotionally castrating the soldier within him. Antony’s sword, his prowess, which were once so central to his being, are now merely accessories to their relationship. This is illustrated earlier in the play when Cleopatra triumphantly recalls the night her power transformed Antony from Mars to Venus: ‘ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed; / Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst/I wore his sword Philippan’. Conquered by her, Antony tries to ignore his Roman critics. But there remains enough of Mars in him to make sparks fly when he and his earthly Venus disagree. The early scenes of the play accentuate the war of wiles and wills which constitutes this explosive relationship. Cleopatra is merciless in her public teasing and testing of Antony’s love:

Ancient Egyptian relief of Cleopatra VII (Ó Bettmann/Corbis)

CLEOPATRA: If it be love indeed, tell me how much.

as Antony enjoys his Alexandrian revels, he remains distanced—both physically and emotionally—from the serious ‘business’ of imperial Rome. To detain him, Cleopatra becomes the ‘wrangling queen’ of ‘infinite variety’ who laughs him out of patience and into patience, who fascinates and confuses him. By adopting various dispositions, no-one, least of all Antony, is ever quite sure where her allegiance lies. Cleopatra employs sport, pleasure, play, and levity to entangle Antony in her ‘strong toil of grace’. She rejoices when he declares, ‘There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch /Without some pleasure now’. Such a statement is the antithesis of Caesar’s declaration at the drunken banquet: ‘our graver business /Frowns at this levity’. In short, Cleopatra knows her man better than he knows himself, and rightly mocks Charmian’s advice to give him his own way: ’Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him. Antony is a hedonist, a sensualist; rather than lose him, she’d prefer to nourish his vices, emasculate him, and transform him from an ‘earthly Mars’ into a creature of pleasure-loving Venus. It is this weakening of Antony which Philo and Demetrius discuss at the beginning of the play. Antony himself acknowledges the change when his good soldiership deserts him at the

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ANTONY: There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d. CLEOPATRA: I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved. ANTONY: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

Here, she deliberately appropriates language more suited to the mercantile values of Rome by implying that she can determine love’s boundaries. By discussing love in quantitative terms (‘tell me how much’), she mocks the Roman pursuit of world domination, just as she ridicules Caesar’s commands: ‘Do this, or this / Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that; / Perform’t or else we damn thee.’ By his earnest declaration about seeking ‘new heaven, new earth’, Antony shows how removed he now is from Rome’s sphere. Philo’s concern is justified. This is no earthly Mars but a man already discounting the value of war. Unlike Caesar, Antony no longer feels the need to conquer the world. The influence of Venus has brought a new reality: ‘Kingdoms are clay’. From such a position, Caesar and all he stands for seems transient: ‘Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch/Of the ranged empire fall!’ Eternity and immortality are not to be found in all-conquering Rome but in the bliss of ‘lips and eyes’. Antony does not see his transformation as ‘dotage’ but as ‘the nobleness of life’. Cleopatra

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is not ‘a gypsy’ but his ‘space’. By publicly rejecting military Rome, Antony declares allegiance to ‘the love of Love and her soft hours’—in other words, the hedonistic Egyptian lifestyle captured in his question, ‘What sport tonight?’ Cleopatra recognises that she is in competition with Caesar for Antony’s attention. ‘Roman thought’ is dangerous, but by drawing his anger she may defeat it: CLEOPATRA: [ . . . ] Good now, play one scene/Of excellent dissembling, and let it look / Like perfect honour. ANTONY: You’ll heat my blood: no more. CLEOPATRA: You can do better yet; but this is meetly. ANTONY: Now, by my sword,— CLEOPATRA: And target. Still he mends, / But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Chairman, / How this Herculean Roman does become / The carriage of his chafe.

This merciless harassing of Antony, which he is powerless to check, illustrates how utterly this Venus overwhelms her Mars. Yet beneath the wit and banter lies a dynamic sexual energy which transforms every situation into an opportunity to excite and arouse each other, a private and intimate linguistic foreplay which stimulates the body of their passion. Gentler exchanges seem merely a temporary truce, an opportunity to draw breath before the next offensive. The conflict at the core of this play may be seen as operating on two principal levels: the personal and the public. At the opening of the play, on the personal level, Antony and Cleopatra (Mars and Venus) engage in a wellmatched and mutually satisfying battle of the sexes. In the public arena, however, they are both seen by Rome as creatures of Venus. In Roman terms, Caesar is now perceived as a more powerful and ruthless Mars than the epicurean and dissipated Antony. Thus, as the action unfolds, the contention between Venus and Mars moves inexorably from the personal to the public arena. Caesar’s is a world of politics, business and action. Antony’s is a world of domesticity, leisure and inaction. While Antony relies on his past reputation to define his honour, Caesar pays lip service to honour but rates political acumen more highly. The differences between the two ways of viewing the world are illustrated by the conversation between Pompey and Menas


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on board the galley. When Menas suggests murdering the triumvirate, Pompey replies: Ah, this thou shouldst have done, And not have spoke on’t! In me, ’tis villainy; In thee’t had been good service. [ . . . ] Being done unknown, I should have found it afterwards well done [...] To Antony, honour equates with personal integrity: ‘If I lose mine honour, I lose myself’. To Pompey—and by association Caesar—it equates with political convenience. An earthly Mars like Caesar has no room for such a purposeless emotion as human affection. What matter if Octavia becomes a pawn in the power struggle between himself and Antony? The sacrifice of his sister is worth the risk if it results in the elimination of his rival. By contrast, after the defeat at Actium, when Antony has every right to be angry, he comforts Cleopatra: ‘Fall not a tear [ . . . ] one of them rates / All that is won and lost’. Caesar is no soldier, but has learned the more devious arts of ‘the brave squares of war’. Antony has military superiority, but he is warned by the Soothsayer: ‘If thou dost play with him at any game / Thou art sure to lose’. Swayed by Cleopatra’s tendency to seize every opportunity for sport, Antony fatally begins to adopt her mind-set. War itself becomes a game to play with Caesar. His decision to fight by sea is quite clearly wrong, undertaken because Caesar ‘dares us to’t’ and to impress Cleopatra. Enobarbus recognises at once that when a general’s judgement is overruled by whim, his fate is sealed. Charisma and bravado are not enough. Antony’s conduct at Actium proved that ‘The itch of his affection should not [ . . . ] Have nick’d his captainship’, a fact which Antony himself recognises when he tells Cleopatra: You did know How much you were my conqueror, and that / My sword, made weak by my affection, would / Obey it on all cause. When Antony challenges Caesar to fight him ‘sword against sword, ourselves alone’, Enobarbus sees it as a further sign of Antony’s diminution and soon decides, ‘When valour plays on reason, it eats the sword it fights with’. Antony is living on borrowed time.

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It is only Cleopatra’s supposed death which persuades Antony to admit to military defeat. As he removes his armour with the words, ‘No more a soldier’, he finally accepts the inevitable. He belongs henceforth to another sphere, to a ‘new heaven, new earth’ with his immortal Venus: ‘Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand, / And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.’ His acceptance of death is stoical— he recognises the sport in her latest act of deception and lacks rancour or bitterness. Instead, he feels justified in reclaiming his honour: ‘Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony, / But Antony’s hath triumphed on itself.’ In death, Antony’s spirit once more mounts to its destiny: ‘Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable.’

THROUGHOUT, SHAKESPEARE MAINTAINS A STUDIED AMBIVALENCE: CRITICS DISAGREE ABOUT WHETHER THE PROTAGONISTS’ CONCLUDING SUICIDES ARE FRUITLESS OR REDEMPTIVE.’’

To Cleopatra, Antony now seems truly ‘godlike’, and to match him she too must embrace death in ‘the high Roman fashion’. Her earthly yearnings for her ‘noblest of men’ are replaced with ‘Immortal longings’. Yet even at the point of death she displays her old levity. Given her sensuality and love of sport, there is a poignant resonance in her assertion that ‘The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch /Which hurts and is desired’. By her suicide, Cleopatra defeats Caesar. Venus gains ultimate ascendancy over Mars. There is a triumphant note of celebration in her address to the asp which brings her ‘liberty’: ‘O, couldst thou speak / That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass / Unpolicied’. Caesar may have the Empire, but when the choice is between ‘new heaven, new earth’ or ‘this vile world’, Antony and Cleopatra are no longer in dispute: there’s simply no contest. Source: Patsy Hall, ‘‘Antony and Cleopatra: Venus and Mars in a ‘Vile World,’’’ in The English Review, Vol. 12, No. 2, November 2001, pp. 4–8.

Walter Cohen In this introduction, Cohen places Antony and Cleopatra within its literary context—with Shakespeare’s own Julius Caesar as its prequel and the writings of Plutarch as its source. Cohen also remarks on the dualism and eroticism that pervade the play and notes that Shakespeare is asking us to consider whether heroic acts can survive in the ‘‘post-heroic world’’ of Octavius Caesar’s Rome or in the ‘‘private terrain’’ of Antony and Cleopatra’s love. Finally, Cohen briefly examines Shakespeare’s characterizations of Octavius, Antony, and Cleopatra.

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ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA IS A PLAY ABOUT WAYS OF CONFRONTING EXPERIENCE, ABOUT VARIETY AND IDENTITY.’’ Source: Walter Cohen, ‘‘Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in The Norton Shakespeare, edited by Stephen Greenblatt, W. W. Norton & Company, 1997, pp. 2619–27.

David Daiches Daiches demonstrates how Shakespeare uses vivid imagery and point of view to depict the various roles of both Antony and Cleopatra. In the language of his soldiers, for example, Antony is a great general who has been made foolish by love. By contrast, the metaphors exchanged between Antony and Cleopatra depict them as magnificent lovers whose affection for each other surpasses boundaries and inspires our admiration. Daiches remarks further that the contrasting imagery in the play coalesces as each lover commits suicide but that it also leaves us wondering whether the play is about ‘‘human frailty or human glory.’’ Antony and Cleopatra is at once the most magnificent and the most puzzling of Shakespeare’s tragedies. Its magnificence resides in the splendour and amplitude of its poetry, in the apparently effortless brilliance with which language is employed in order to search and illuminate the implications of the action; it puzzles because the action itself seems to be of no moral interest yet it compels a kind of wondering attention which would normally be given only to a play with a profoundly challenging moral pattern. Bradley sensed this paradox when he asked, ‘Why is it that, although we close the book in a triumph which is more than reconciliation, this is mingled, as we look back on the story, with a sadness so peculiar, almost the sadness of disenchantment?’ And he added: ‘With all our admiration and sympathy for the lovers we do not wish them to gain the world. It is better for the world’s sake, and not less for their own, that they should fail and die.’ This is surely to simplify the problem to the point of distortion, for it is not that Anthony and Cleopatra arouse our admiration while doing wrong, so that we thrill to them yet cannot in conscience wish them success. It is rather that in this play Shakespeare seems to be building a moral universe out of non-moral

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materials. Yet I do not think that we can answer Bradley merely by making a spirited defence of the characters of the hero and heroine, as Dover Wilson does, convincingly enough, if not altogether relevantly. Shakespeare’s play is not, of course, as Dryden’s was to be, about ‘All for Love, or the World Well Lost’, though this is one strand woven into the total fabric. It is—to summarize it crudely—about the different roles that man can play on the various stages which human activity provides for him, and about the relation of these roles to the player’s true identity. Shortly before his suicide, when Antony sees events as having cheated him out of his role both of lover and of conqueror, he expresses his sense of the dissolution of identity: Sometime we see a cloud that’s dragonish, A vapour sometime, like a bear, or lion, A tower’d citadel, a pendent rock, A forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon ‘t, that nod unto the world, And mock our eyes with air. He goes on to say that he made these wars for Egypt, and the queen, Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine, and having, as he believes, lost Cleopatra’s heart, he no longer has a real identity either as lover or as man or action. The melancholy music of the lines rises up to involve us in this sad sense of loss of self. When however, he is informed by Mardian that Cleopatra has killed herself for love of him, his identity as lover is immediately re-established and he assumes this role again with a new confidence: I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now All length is torture: since the torch is out, Lie down and stray no farther. Now all labour

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Nicholas Jones as Mark Antony and Frances Barber as Cleopatra at Shakespeare’s Globe, Bankside, London, England, 2006 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Mars what it does: yea, very force entangles Itself with strength: seal then, and all is done. Eros!—I come, my queen:—Eros!—Stay for me, Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand, And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze: Dido, and her Aeneas, shall want troops, And all the haunt be ours. At first it seems that the re-establishment of his identity as lover means the abandonment of his identity as soldier—‘No more a soldier’, he exclaims; but soon it becomes clear that in his resolution to follow Cleopatra to death he is at last adequately uniting both roles. Cleopatra has now assumed the role of conqueror, and he will imitate her: I, that with my sword Quarter’d the world, and o’er green Neptune’s back With ships made cities, condemn myself, to lack


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The courage of a woman, less noble mind Than she which by her death our Caesar tells ‘I am conqueror of myself.’ When he discovers that Cleopatra has not killed herself after all, he does not fall back into his earlier state of disillusion with her; he remains the lover and the loved, ready to act out the last of love’s gestures: I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death awhile, until Of many thousand kisses, the poor last I lay upon thy lips. Finally, at the moment of death, he reassumes the character of conqueror also: but please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I liv’d: the greatest prince o’ the world, The noblest; and do now not basely die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman: a Roman, by a Roman, Valiantly vanquish’d.

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Cleopatra’s great cry of grief at his death is the equivalent from her side of Antony’s speech about the changing shapes of the clouds: no identities are now left in the world, no distinction between mighty and trivial; she is overwhelmed in a patternless and so meaningless world in which all roles are interchangeable: O, wither’d is the garland of the war, The soldier’s pole is fall’n: young boys and girls Are level now with men: the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon. Her love for Antony, we now realise, had been what gave meaning to reality for her; it had been the top in a hierarchy of facts, and when Antony is gone there is no hierarchy, no order, and so no significance in reality. Her own position as queen equally becomes meaningless: she is No more but e’en a woman, and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks, And does the meanest chares. At the end of the play Cleopatra re-establishes order by the culminating role-taking of her death. There are many ways in which Shakespeare uses poetic imagery to establish his main patterns of meaning. The opening lines give us with startling immediacy the stern Roman view of Antony’s love for Cleopatra, separating at once the Roman from the Egyptian world: Nay, but this dotage of our general’s O’erflows the measure: those his goodly eyes, That o’er the files and musters of the war Have glow’d like plated Mars, now bend, now turn The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front: his captain’s heart, Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper, And is become the bellows and the fan To cool a gipsy’s lust. The word ‘dotage’ strikes hard in the very first lines—a damning and degrading word. But note that it is ‘this dotage of our general’s’. Antony is still, to the Roman onlooker, ‘our general’: there is a shared pride in that word ‘our’ and a deliberate placing in the hierarchy of command in the word ‘general’. The general is

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a general, but his observed behaviour is to be described by this viewer as dotage. This viewer, because when Philo says ‘this dotage’ he is pointing at what he sees, drawing his companion’s attention to the visible paradox, a general, yet in his dotage. Antony is seen by Philo as playing two contrary roles at the same time—and this is not in accordance with the proper proportions of things, it ‘o’erflows the measure’. It would be proportionate for a general to love, but not for him to dote. For a general to dote ‘reneges all temper’, that is, it renounces all decent selfrestraint, it is disproportionate, an improper placing of a particular kind of behaviour in the hierarchy of human activities and emotions. A general has his proper ‘office and devotion’, his appropriate service and loyalty. For a general’s eyes—‘goodly eyes’, it is emphasised, that have in the past appropriately and suitably ‘glowed like plated Mars’—now to turn The office and devotion of their view Upon a tawny front is again outrageous indecorum, wild disproportion. This disproportion is emphasized again and brought to a climax in the lines about ‘a gipsy’s lust’. What has military glory to do with such domestic objects as a bellows and a fan? The juxtaposition is deliberately outrageous. Similarly, the captain’s heart put at the service of a gipsy’s lust reiterates the disproportion, the total scrambling of that hierarchy which gives people and objects their proper virtue and the proper meaning. As the spectacle of the two lovers moves across to the middle of the stage to Philo’s cry of ‘Look, where they come’—the lovers are now before our eyes as well as his— Philo’s sense of the disproportion involved becomes agonizing: Take but good note, and you shall see in him The triple pillar of the world transform’d Into a strumpet’s fool. And he invites his companion, in biblicalsounding language, to ‘behold and see’. But it is we, the audience or the reader, who now both see and hear. And what is it that we hear? Cleopatra: If it be love indeed, tell me how much. Antony: There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d.

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Cleopatra: I’ll set a bourn how far to be belov’d. Antony: Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth. We move at once from the Roman soldier’s view of Antony’s behaviour to the view of the lovers themselves. Here, too, is disproportion, but disproportion of a very different kind from that seen by Philo. Antony declares that there is no limit to his love, that to measure it would involve going beyond the confines of both heaven and earth. To part of the audience—Philo and Demetrius, the shocked Roman soldiers—the role represents a monstrous confounding of categories; to the actors themselves, it is a glorious extravagance and subsumes everything else; to us who read or watch the play—well, what is it to us? Whose side are we on? We are jolted from Philo’s offensively debasing comments to the sight and sound of the two lovers protesting their love. ‘All the world loves a lover’, the proverbs goes, and one naturally takes the lovers’ side. But with Philo’s words ringing in our ears we remain watchful, eager, interested: what is the true identity of this pair? No pause for speculation is allowed. At once an attendant enters, saying News, my good lord, from Rome —from that Rome whose representative has just so devastatingly described Antony’s behaviour. The brisk official announcement crashes into the world of amorous extravagance that the lovers’ dialogue has been building up. Antony’s barked, annoyed response—‘Grates me, the sum’—shows him forced suddenly out of one role into another which he is most reluctant to play. At this Cleopatra suddenly changes too, quite unexpectedly yet wholly convincingly, into the playful, teasing mocker of her lover: Nay, hear them, Antony: Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent His powerful mandate to you, ‘do this, or this; Take in that kingdom, and enfranchise that; Perform’t, or else we damn thee.’ This shocks Antony out of his second role— the lover whose love-making is broken into by the claims of business—into yet a third, the surprised and puzzled lover: How, my love?


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With what wonderful economy does Shakespeare capture this third movement of mind and feeling in Antony. He is surprised out of his annoyance with the interrupter, wondering what Cleopatra is up to. She soon shows him, as she goes on: Perchance? nay, and most like: You must not stay here longer, your dismission Is come from Caesar, therefore hear it, Antony. Where’s Fulvia’s process? Caesar’s I would say. Both? Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt’s queen, Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine Is Caesar’s homager: else so thy cheek pays shame When shrill-tongued Fulvia scolds. The messengers! She ends, note, by brusquely telling him to attend to the messengers: but she has made sure that, for the time being at least, he won’t. Her mocking references to Fulvia, Antony’s deserted wife, sting Antony into rejection of all that Rome means. In his next speech he confirms Philo’s view of the monstrous disproportion of his behaviour in a remarkable outburst which gains our sympathy not by any explicit or implicit justification but by its taking in all of human existence by the way and then including and surpassing it: Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the rang’d empire fall! Here is my space, Kingdoms are clay: our dungy earth alike Feeds beast as man; the noblenesss of life Is to do thus: when such a mutual pair, And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind, On pain of punishment, the world to weet We stand up peerless. All nobility of action is subsumed in the embrace of ‘such a noble pair’. If the two poles between which Antony moves are Rome and Egypt, for the moment the Roman pole is annihilated. But Antony has a long way to go before he can find a role which combines his character of man of action and lover, which justifies him (not perhaps in a moral sense but in the sense that it accommodates his full psyche): the chain of events which finally drives him to suicide is made, in virtue of the poetic imagery in the play,

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to be the only way in which his various roles can come together in the same act. At this stage, we see him changing parts, but every change is accompanied by some awareness of what is being given up by not participating in other kinds of human action. How compelling and inclusive is the phrase ‘our dungy earth alike / Feeds beasts as man’, taking as it does into its purview in one sweep of perception the very basis of human and animal life and their common dependence on the ‘dungy earth’. And how that phrase ‘dungy earth’ stresses the coarse and common, yet rich and life-giving, elements that link the highest with the lowest in any hierachy. In a sense Antony is not here abandoning everything in the world by his and Cleopatra’s mutual love: he is taking it all with him. But only in a sense: as the play moves on Shakespeare develops more and more ways of taking all life with him in presenting the adventures of this couple. Between this speech and the recurrence of the image in a different context in Cleopatra’s speech in Act V, scene II, whole worlds of meaning have been established: My desolation does begin to make A better life: ‘tis paltry to be Caesar: Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave, A minister of her will: and it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change; Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung, The beggar’s nurse, and Caesar’s. Here the search for a timeless identity, ‘which shackles accidents, and bolts up change’, is movingly linked to a profound sense of the common necessities of all human existence. And when the dying Cleopatra, with the aspic at her breast, exclaims Peace, peace! Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, That sucks the nurse asleep? the imagery takes on yet another new dimension, so that not only does Cleopatra establish herself at the end as combining the roles of mistress and wife, of courtesan and queen, of Egyptian and Roman, of live-giver and life-taker, but this final unification of roles is linked—in ways that go far beyond the actual story—to a compassionate awareness of the sad yet satisfying realities of human needs and human experience.

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But to return to the dialogue in Act I, scene I. Antony’s moment of abandon to his vision of his and Cleopatra’s mutual love cannot be sustained, for it cannot at this stage correspond to all the demands of his and Cleopatra’s nature. He again repudiates his Roman business and then, by associating love with pleasure and pleasure with mere sport, modulates rapidly from the lover to the mere hedonist: There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch Without some pleasure now. What sport tonight? Cleopatra with continuing provocativeness acts the part of his Roman conscience—‘Hear the ambassadors’ is her only reply to the speech just quoted—but Antony, who has moved from passion to hedonism to joviality, insists on taking this as simply part of her attractive variety: Fie, wrangling queen! Whom everything becomes, to chide, to laugh, To weep: how every passion fully strives To make itself, in thee, fair and admired! This topic of Cleopatra’s infinite variety is to sound again and again, in many different ways, throughout the play before the hero and the heroine come to rest in the final and fatal gesture that can make variety into true identity. At this stage in the play Shakespeare deftly moves the royal lovers off the stage to let us hear again the two tough Roman soldiers whose comments had opened the action. I am full sorry That he approves the common liar, who Thus speaks of him at Rome, says Demetrius, giving another shake to the kaleidoscope so that we now see Antony neither as the debauched general nor as the passionate lover but simply as a nasty item in a gossip column. We move straight from this splendid opening, with its shifting points of view and provocative contrasts between the former and the present Antony and between the Roman and the Egyptian view, to be given what GranvilleBarker calls ‘a taste of the chattering, shiftless, sensual, credulous Court, with its trulls and wizards and effeminates’. The queen enters, seeking Antony, aware that ‘A Roman thought hath struck him’, and worried. She prepares her tactics, bidding Enobarbus fetch Antony and then

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sweeping out as Antony enters. Antony, when he appears, is purely Roman: the blank verse he speaks is brisk and business-like, moving in short sentences. The news from Rome shames him. He is shaken into wishing to hear Cleopatra named ‘as she is call’d in Rome’ and to see himself through Fulvia’s eyes. He has changed roles very thoroughly, and the atmosphere of the Egyptian Court, to which we have just been exposed, helps to make us sympathize. When Cleopatra reappears she has already been diminished, not only by the Court atmosphere and by Antony’s Roman speech, but—and most of all— by Enobarbus’ sardonic commentary on her behaviour and motives. Her tricks are all in vain, and after trying out a variety of moods and responses she is firmly shut up by Antony’s Roman ‘Quarrel no more, but be prepared to know / The purposes I bear’. She then tries the pathetic— Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it: Sir, you and I have lov’d, but there’s not it;— and in the end, unable to deflect him from his ‘Roman thought’, she acts the goddess of Victory and leaves him with the memory of an impressive parting: Upon your sword Sit laurel victory, and smooth success Be strew’d before your feet! But Antony has already come to see himself as Philo and Demetrius had seen him at the play’s opening; we have heard him repeat Philo’s very word, ‘dotage’— These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Or lose myself in dotage. At this point it looks as though the play is to be a tug-of-war comedy, with Antony being pulled now by Egyptian sensuality, now by Roman duty. And indeed, there is an element of this in the play, and some critics have seen this element as its main theme. But any attempt to see the play as merely a balancing of opposites, geographical and psychological, impoverishes it intolerably and also results in the sharpening of the dilemma I described at the beginning. Antony and Cleopatra is a play about ways of confronting experience, about variety and identity. In Act I scene IV we suddenly see Antony in yet another light, when Octavius Caesar refers to


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him as ‘our great competitor’, and this is followed by further images of disproportion applied to Antony—‘tumble on the bed of Ptolemy’, ‘give a kingdom for a mirth’, and so on; yet with these words still in our ears we are brought back to Alexandria to hear Cleopatra, seeing Antony’s meaning for her more clearly at a distance, describe him as The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet of men —a first foretaste of the grand mythological description she gives of him after his death to Dolabella: His legs bestrid the ocean, his rear’d arm Crested the world: his voice was propertied As all the tuned speres, and that to friends: But when he meant to quail, and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in ‘t: an autumn ‘twas That grew the more by reaping: his delights Were dolphin-like, they show’d his back above The element they lived in: in his livery Walk’d crowns and crownets: realms and islands were As plates dropp’d from his pocket. These tremendous images of power, benevolence and sensuality—or of greatness, love and joy—sum up the different aspects of Antony’s identity, which are seen together, as co-existing, at last after his death. In life they interfered with each other, and can only be described separately. Nevertheless, the introduction of the figure of ‘the demi-Atlas of this earth’ so soon after Octavius Caesar’s complaints about what Antony has declined to, is deliberate and effective. We should note, too, that even Caesar shows himself fully aware of the heroic Antony, though he sees him as the Antony who was and who may be again, not as the present Antony: Antony, Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow, whom thou fought’st against, Though daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink

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The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at: thy palate then did deign The roughest berry, on the rudest hedge; Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou browsed. On the Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh, Which some did die to look on: and all this— It wounds thine honour that I speak it now— Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek So much as lank’d not.

Enobarbus too who evokes her quintessential sex appeal with the brief but brilliant account of her captivating breathlessness after hopping ‘forty paces through the public street’, and above all it is Enobarbus who replies to Maecenas’s ‘Now Antony must leave her utterly’ with

This is not only imagery suggestive of almost super-human heroism: it is also violently anti-sensual imagery. The contrast between ‘lascivious wassails’ and ‘thy palate then did deign’ / The roughest berry’ is absolute. Victory in Egypt is associated with riotous celebration; in Rome, with endurance. Cleopatra at the end of the play combines both these notions in her death, which is both a suffering and a ceremony.

This is not role-taking: it is the considered opinion of a hard-boiled campaigner, and in the light of it we know that Antony has a long way to go before his different personae can unite.

When Caesar and Antony confront each other in Rome, Antony admits the most important charge—that in Egypt he had not sufficiently known himself:

I will to Egypt; And though I make this marriage for my peace, I’ the east my pleasure lies.

And then when poisoned hours had bound me up From mine own knowledge. Caesar, cold and passionless, never has any doubt of his own identity; that is one of the advantages of having such a limited character. Lepidus’ character consists in wanting to like and be liked by everybody; he has no real identity at all. Not that Shakespeare presents all this schematically. The presentation teems with life at every point, and some of the situations in which Lepidus is involved are richly comic. Meanwhile, Antony acts out his re-acquired persona of the good Roman leader and dutiful family man. He marries Caesar’s sister Octavia, and is all courtesy and affection. But Enobarbus has been with the back-room boys satisfying their eager curiosity about Egypt. In replying to their questions, this sardonic realist with no illusions tells the simple truth about Cleopatra’s irresistible seductiveness. It is into his mouth that Shakespeare puts the magnificent and well-known description of Antony’s first meeting with Cleopatra (from Plutarch, but how transmuted!), thus guaranteeing its truth; it is

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Never; he will not: Age cannot wither her: nor custom stale Her infinite variety: other women cloy The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry, Where most she satisfies. For vilest things Become themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her, when she is riggish.

If we are never allowed to forget Cleopatra, how can Antony? It takes only a casual encounter with an Egyptian soothsayer to turn him to Egypt again:

Mere sensuality is drawing him, it appears. Never up to this point has the love theme, as Antony reflects it, seemed so tawdry. It almost seems as though there is an obvious moral pattern emerging, with Rome on the good side and Egypt on the bad. This is further suggested by the following scene in Alexandria showing Cleopatra’s reaction to the news of Antony’s marriage to Octavia. Yet, after all her tantrums, with her Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me, a new note of quiet genuineness emerges in Cleopatra’s love for Antony. And if we have come to feel that the political world of Roman efficiency represents the moral good in this conflict between Rome and Egypt, we are soon brought to the scene in Pompey’s galley in which power and politics are reduced to their lowest level. Antony fools the drunken Lepidus by talking meaningless nonsense in reply to Lepidus’ questions about Egypt; Menas tries to persuade Pompey to slaughter his guests and so secure the sole rule of the world, and Pompey replies that Menas should have done it first and

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told him about it afterwards; the reluctant Caesar is persuaded to join in the heavy drinking. Lepidus has already been carried off drunk, the man who bears him away carrying, as Enobarbus points out, ‘the third part of the world’. And finally Enobarbus persuades Caesar to join in a dance with Antony and Pompey while a boy sings a drinking song. The utter emptiness of this revelry is desolating, and it casts a bleak light on the whole Roman world. In the light of this dreary and almost enforced celebration we think of Enobarbus’ description of Cleopatra’s first welcome to Antony or the later presentation (Act IV, scene VIII) of Antony’s response to temporary victory and realise that there is another aspect to Egyptian revelry than the dissolute chatter of Act I, scene II. Egyptian celebration has a humanity and a fullness wholly lacking on Pompey’s galley. Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, Tell them your feats, whilst they with joyful tears Wash the congealment from your wounds, and kiss The honour’d gashes whole, exclaims Antony in genial triumph to his men and, to Cleopatra when she enters: My nightingale, We have beat them to their beds. What, girl, though grey Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man, Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand: Kiss it, my warrior: he hath fought to-day As if a god in hate of mankind had Destroy’d in such a shape. And Antony goes on to proclaim a victory celebration: Give me thy hand, Through Alexandria make a jolly march, Bear our hack’d targets like the men that owe them. Had our great palace the capacity To camp this host, we all would sup together, And drink carouses to the next day’s fate, Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters, With brazen din blast you the city’s ear,


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Make mingle with our rattling tabourines, That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together, Applauding our approach. Kissing, touching and shaking of hands are frequent where Antony is the center of a celebratory scene; it is the human touch, the contact, the insistence on sharing feeling. So against ‘I’ the east my pleasure lies’ we must set on the one hand Roman pleasure as symbolized by the scene in Pompey’s galley and on the other the warm human responsiveness to environment which Antony evinces in so many of his Egyptian moods. The latter part of the play is not simply a psychological study of the decline of the sensual man in intellectual and emotional stability as his fortunes decline (as GranvilleBarker, brilliant though his study of the play is, seems to imply). If it were that, it would be merely pathetic, and it would be hard to account for the note of triumph that rises more than once as the play moves to its conclusion. The play is in fact both triumph and tragedy; Antony, and more especially Cleopatra, achieve in death what they have been unable to achieve in life: the triumph lies in the achievement, the tragedy in that the price of the achievement is death. In the last analysis the play rises above morality to strike a blow in vindication of the human species. Queen or courtesan or lover or sensualist, or all of these, Cleopatra in her death does not let humankind down. Antony’s emotional vagaries in the long movement of his decline exhibit him as beyond the control of any stablishing self; it is almost as though Shakespeare is making the point that in order to gain one’s identity one must lose it. Antony is seen by his friend Scarus, whose military advice he rejects as he rejects everybody’s except Cleopatra’s, as ‘the noble ruin of her (i.e., Cleopatra’s) magic’, and Shakespeare makes it clear that this is one aspect of the truth. Antony’s military judgment is overborne by Cleopatra’s reckless desires and intuitions. Even Enobarbus breaks out of his sardonic acquiescence in whatever goes on, to expostulate with Cleopatra herself in a tone of rising anxiety. Soldier and lover are here contradictory roles, which must be acted separately. To attempt to act them out simultaneously is to risk ruining both. Shakespeare spares us nothing—the bickering, the infatuate action, the changes of mood, the melodramatic gesturing. Yet the poetic

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imagery works in another direction, not so much in its actual verbal suggestions as in its rising energy and human comprehensiveness. And at least Antony acts all his own parts. His chief reason for scorning Octavius Caesar is that he plays simply the role of cunning policy spinner and refuses to prove himself in any other capacity. The richness of Antony’s humanity increases with the instability of his attitudes. His rage with the presumptuous Thidias, who dares to kiss Cleopatra’s hand, is of course partly the result of Thidias’ being Caesar’s messenger and of Cleopatra’s looking kindly on him—he himself shortly afterwards gives Cleopatra Scarus’s hand to kiss. But more than that, it is a release of something humanly real within him, and his expression of it has a ring of appeal about it, appeal to our understanding of his emotional predicament, of the human-ness of his situation: Get thee back to Caesar, Tell him thy entertainment: look thou say He makes me angry with him. For he seems Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry, And at this time most easy ‘tis to do ‘t: When my good stars, that were my former guides, Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires Into the abysm of hell. The phrase ‘harping on what I am / Not what he knew I was’ has no equivalent in Plutarch. Antony’s consciousness of his different selves represents an important part of Shakespeare’s intention. At the same time Antony’s almost genial acknowledgement of his own weakness has not only an engaging confessional aspect but also draws on its rhythm and movement to achieve a suggestion of human fallibility which increases rather than diminishes Antony’s quality as a man: He makes me angry, And at this time most easy ‘tis to do ‘t: . . . When Cleopatra approaches him, hoping that his angry mood has passed, he is still talking to himself: Alack, our terrene moon Is now eclips’d, and it portends alone The fall of Antony!

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It is Cleopatra who is the moon—the changeable planet. (We recall Juliet’s reproof to Romeo: O, swear not by the moon, th’ inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb . . . ) But while he is lamenting Cleopatra’s changeableness, she is awaiting the change in him that will bring him back to a full recognition of her love for him: ‘I must stay his time’. He accuses her of flattering Caesar, and she replies simply: ‘Not know me yet?’ To which in turn he replies with another simple question: ‘Coldhearted toward me?’ Her answer to this, beginning with the quietly moving ‘Ah, dear, if I be so, . . . ‘ brings him round at once. ‘I am satisfied’, is all he says to conclude the dispute, then proceeds at once to talk about his military plans. Having declared these, he suddenly realises just who Cleopatra is and where he stands in relation to her: Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? If from the field I shall return once more To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood, I, and my sword, will earn our chronicle: There’s hope in’t yet. He is both warrior and lover now, and well may Cleopatra exclain ‘That’s my brave lord!’ This in turn encourages Antony to move to his third role, that of reveller: I will be treble-sinew’d, hearted, breath’d, And fight maliciously: for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests: but now, I’ll set my teeth, And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, Let’s have one other gaudy night: call to me All my sad captains, fill our bowls once more; Let’s mock the midnight bell. More role-taking now takes place on a very simple and moving plane. Cleopatra adjusts herself to Antony’s recovered confidence: It is my birth-day, I had thought t’ have held it poor. But since my lord Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra. Cleopatra’s reference to her birthday is almost pathos, but it rises at once to grandeur with ‘But since my lord / Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra’. The question posed by the play is,

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What do these two characters finally add up to? When Antony is Antony again and Cleopatra Cleopatra who are they? One cannot give any answer less than the total meaning of the play. Enobarbus, the ‘realist’, gives his comment on this dialogue. He knows his Antony; his shrewd and knowing mind give its ironic diagnosis: Now he’ll outstare the lightning; to be furious Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still, A diminution in our captain’s brain Restores his heart; when valour preys on reason, It eats the sword it fights with: I will seek Some way to leave him. But it is the realist who does not see the reality, and Enobarbus’ death in an agony of remorse for having deserted Antony in the name of Realpolitik is Shakespeare’s final comment on this interpretation. The death of Antony leaves a whole act for Cleopatra’s duel with Caesar before she finally outwits him and dies in her own way and in her own time. It is an act in which she plays continuously shifting roles, and while these are obviously related to the exigencies of her conflict with Caesar and the fluctuations in her position, they also show her exhibiting varied facets of her character before deciding on the final pose she will adopt before the world and before history. She is not fooled by Caesar but plays a part designed to fool Caesar into thinking that she wants to live and make the best bargain possible for herself, exclaiming contemptuously to her ladies in waiting: ‘He words me, girls, he words me’. Caesar is not an accomplished actor—he is not used to role-taking—and he gives himself away. ‘Feed and sleep’, he tells Cleopatra, thinking that the exhortation will disarm and soothe her. But the words suggest the treatment one gives to a caged beast and give away, what Dolabella is easily charmed by Cleopatra into confirming, that Caesar intends to lead Cleopatra and her children as captives in his triumphal procession. This role, for all her infinite variety, is one Cleopatra will never play. If she does not arrange her last act properly, the Romans will put her in their play:


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Nay, ‘tis most certain, Iras: saucy lictors Will catch at us like strumpets, and scald rhymers Ballad us out o’ tune. The quick comedians Extemporally will stage us, and present Our Alexandrian revels: Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I’ the posture of a whore. The pageant of her death which she arranges is a sufficient antidote to this. Preceded as it is by the characteristically enlarging dialogue with the clown who brings the figs—enlarging, that is, the human implications of the action—she goes through death to Antony whom at last she can call by the one name she was never able to call him in life—‘Husband, I come’. The splendour and dignity of the final ritual brings together in a great vindication the varied meanings of her histrionic career and temperament: Give me my robe, put on my crown, I have Immortal longings in me. It is both a subsuming and a sublimating ritual. Love and loyalty and courage and queenliness are here together at last. And so is sexyness and sensuality, for this is a vindication through wholeness not through a choice of the proper and the respectable elements only. Iras dies first and Cleopatra exclaims: This proves me base: If she first meet the curled Antony, He’ll make demand of her, and spend that kiss Which is my heaven to have. This almost flippant sensuality has its place in the summing up, which transcends morality. Charmian, who dies last, lingers to set her dead mistress’s crown straight: Your crown’s awry, I’ll mend it, and then play. ‘Play’ means play her part in the supreme pageant of ceremonial death and at the same time refers back, with controlled pathos, to Cleopatra’s earlier And when thou hast done this chare, I’ll give thee leave To play till doomsday: . . . When Caesar arrives, the striking and moving spectacle of the dead queen in all her regal

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splendour flanked by her two dead handmaidens forces even this cold schemer to see her in the great inclusive role she has arranged for herself. Love, which in the Roman view of the matter has hitherto been opposed to history, the enemy of action and dignity and honour, is now at last, and by the very epitome of Roman authority and efficiency, pronounced to be part of history and of honour: Take up her bed, And bear her women from the monument: She shall be buried by her Antony. No grave upon the earth shall clip in it A pair so famous: high events as these Strike those that make them: and their story is No less in pity than his glory which Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall In solemn show attend this funeral, And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see High order, in this great solemnity. ‘Famous’, ‘high’, ‘glory’, ‘solemn’, ‘order’, ‘solemnity’—these are the terms which Caesar now applies to a love story which earlier he had dismissed as ‘lascivious wassails’. Is the play about human frailty or human glory? We are left with the feeling that one depends on the other, an insight too subtly generous for any known morality. Source: David Daiches, ‘‘Imagery and Meaning in Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in English Studies, Vol. 43, No. 5, October 1962, pp. 343–58.

SOURCES Bradley, A. C., Oxford Lectures on Poetry, Macmillan & Co., Limited, 1909, p. 283. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, ‘‘Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare Criticism: A Selection, with an introduction by D. Nichol Smith, Oxford University Press, 1934, pp. 279–80. Fitz, L. T., ‘‘Egyptian Queens and Male Reviewers: Sexist Attitudes in Antony and Cleopatra Criticism,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 28, No. 3, Summer 1977, pp. 297–316. Harrier, Richard C., ‘‘Cleopatra’s End,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 13, No. 1, Winter 1962, pp. 63–5. MacMullan, Katherine Vance, ‘‘Death Imagery in Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 14, No. 4, Autumn 1963, pp. 399–410.

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Nevo, Ruth, ‘‘Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Tragic Form in Shakespeare, Princeton University Press, 1972, pp. 306–55. Plutarch, The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, The Dryden Translation, Encyclopaedia Britannica, Inc., 1987, pp. 749, 757, 779. Shakespeare, William, Antony and Cleopatra, edited by M. R. Ridley, Arden Shakespeare, Methuen & Co., Ltd., 1978. Starr, Chester G., A History of the Ancient World, 4th Edition, Oxford University Press, 1991, p. 550. Wells, Stanley, Shakespeare: A Life W. W. Norton & Company, 1995, p. 300.

in Drama,

Wright, Austin, ‘‘Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare: Lectures on Five Plays, Carnegie Series in English, Number Four, by A. Fred Sochatoff et al., Carnegie Institute of Technology, 1958, pp. 37–51.

FURTHER READING Barroll, J. Leeds, ‘‘Cleopatra and the Size of Dreaming,’’ in Shakespearean Tragedy: Genre, Tradition, and Change in Antony and Cleopatra, Associated University Presses, 1984, pp. 130–87. Barroll analyzes the wide variety of responses to Cleopatra’s character. He acknowledges that Cleopatra’s lack of self-understanding or of feelings of guilt might disqualify her for tragic status. Barroll locates Cleopatra’s tragedy in the destruction of all of her ‘‘grandiose’’ plans—for herself and for Antony—and in her genuine grief at Antony’s death. Bevington, David, ‘‘Introduction’’ in Antony and Cleopatra, by William Shakespeare, edited by David Bevington, Cambridge University Press, 1990, pp. 1–70. Bevington provides a detailed overview of the play, including date and source material and critical assessments of the characters. Bevington also focuses on the use of irony—in particular, how irony sets the play’s dialogue at odds with the play’s action. Finally, Bevington evaluates the numerous ways in which Antony and Cleopatra has been performed before live audiences and includes a discussion of the difficulties of staging so elaborate a play, with its barges, battles, and monuments. Cantor, Paul A., ‘‘Part Two: Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare’s Rome: Republic and Empire, Cornell University Press, 1976, pp. 127–208. Cantor argues first, that the play cannot be divided neatly into private versus public life; second, he asserts that Antony is not ‘‘bewitched’’ away from Rome by Cleopatra, but that he is already aware and disapproving of Rome’s faults; third, Cantor argues that the love between Antony and Cleopatra is made possible through its very originality and

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tendency toward exaggeration, and that ‘‘the guiding principle of [the two lovers] in both public and private life is open hostility to stale custom.’’ Incidentally, Cantor also argues that Antony and Cleopatra achieve marriage through death—thus turning a potentially tragic play into a comedy. Doran, Madeleine, ‘‘‘High Events as These’: The Language of Hyperbole in Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Queen’s Quarterly, Vol. 72, No. 1, Spring 1965, pp. 26–51. Doran interprets the play in the context of the Elizabethan fascination for hyperbolic language, or the expression of things as grandiose, perfect, and ideal. Doran concludes by suggesting that Shakespeare used hyperbole not only to satisfy his audience’s tastes but also to demonstrate that the ‘‘true wonder’’ of human beings—of Antony and Cleopatra, for example—exists not in exaggeration but in the story of their lives. Honigmann, E. A. J., ‘‘Antony versus Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare: Seven Tragedies, Macmillan Press Ltd., 1976, pp. 150–69. Honigmann discusses the ways in which the relationship between Antony and Cleopatra changes halfway through the play. Honigmann contends that in the first half, Cleopatra dominates the action and Antony is the butt of her jokes; however, in the second half, Antony, newly ashamed by his military losses, achieves moral and theatrical superiority over Cleopatra. Kuriyama, Constance Brown, ‘‘The Mother of the World: A Psychoanalytic Interpretation of Shakespeare’s Antony


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and Cleopatra,’’ in English Literary Renaissance, Vol. 7, No. 3, Autumn 1977, pp. 324–51. In this Freudian interpretation, Kuriyama argues that Antony and Cleopatra should not be read merely as a moral lesson or for its poetry. Instead, she asserts that critics should acknowledge that the play functions as a sexual fantasy which provides us the pleasure of knowing that when Antony and Cleopatra are at last ‘‘united in death,’’ they achieve ‘‘honor,’’ ‘‘selfhood,’’ and ‘‘immortality.’’ Williamson, Marilyn, ‘‘The Political Context in Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 21, No. 3, Summer 1970, pp. 241–51. Williamson evaluates Antony and Cleopatra as ‘‘rulers as well as lovers.’’ Williamson focuses on the play’s politics, arguing that much can be learned about Antony and Cleopatra from their treatment of their subordinates, as well as from the manner in which their subordinates view them. Wolf, William D, ‘‘‘New Heaven, New Earth’: The Escape from Mutability in Antony and Cleopatra,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 33, No. 3, Autumn 1982, pp. 328–35. Wolf acknowledges the opposing forces at work in the play: politics versus love, public versus private, Rome versus Egypt. Wolf then proceeds to point out that despite these differences, the worlds of Rome and Egypt share an important element: both are subject to violent fluctuations. With regard to Rome, Wolf observes, the change is political; with regard to Egypt, it is emotional. In both cases, Wolf asserts, the changes revolve around Antony.

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As You Like It 1599

Commentators have described the comedy As You Like It as both a celebration of the spirit of pastoral romance and a satire of the pastoral ideal, where the term pastoral refers to the simple, innocent life of the countryside. Audiences usually prefer the light-hearted, love-oriented banter and whimsy that dominate the scenes in the Forest of Arden to the sorrowful, battlefilled atmospheres at the home of Oliver and the court of Duke Frederick. The forest is conceivably a reference to both the Arden woodlands near Shakespeare’s hometown and the region of Ardennes, in northeast France, where Shakespeare sets the action of the play. In its tranquility the forest enchants the visitors, who, after securing nourishment and shelter, think of little but love during their wanderings. The nonromantic plot threads established in the first act essentially resolve themselves in the final scenes, in large part because the forest seems to also enchant the antagonists as soon as they arrive. The play’s naturally magical aspect is made tangible when Hymen, the Greek god of marriage, appears to officiate at the weddings that close the play. The final three acts, then, give the audience a chance to feel how ‘‘Time ambles’’ (3.2.305) for those with plenty of leisure and no obligations, as is the case with the main characters. Although Rosalind presumably needs to disguise herself to ensure her safety, nothing actually threatens her union with Orlando; the two are mutually

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infatuated from their first meeting. Thus, most of the tension in the play, with the original plot threads picked up only during the scene at the duke’s palace at the beginning of the third act, stems from the various witty exchanges. Touchstone and Jaques contribute to the play not through love affairs— the former woos Audrey only halfheartedly, while the latter seems incapable of love—but through philosophical reflection, which the solitude of the pastoral setting encourages. Shakespeare derived the plot of As You Like It directly from the novel Rosalynde, or Euphues’ Golden Legacy, published in 1590 by Thomas Lodge. (Copyright protection did not exist in the Elizabethan era.) Lodge’s novel in turn was based on a more action-oriented fourteenthcentury poem entitled ‘‘The Tale of Gamelyn.’’ While veering little from Lodge’s straightforward pastoral tale, Shakespeare did strengthen the character of Rosalind and add his two philosophers, Jaques and Touchstone, providing the opportunity for greater reflection among the cast as a whole. Although critics remain divided on whether As You Like It should be read as a satire or a celebration of the pastoral ideal, readers can take pleasure in the play’s festive atmosphere and its various love affairs. As You Like It is one of Shakespeare’s most popular and bestloved comedies.

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Left alone, Oliver summons the court wrestler, Charles, who provides an account of the state of the ducal court (largely for the audience, in that he is only delivering ‘‘old news’’ (96–7): the elder Duke Senior has been ousted and banished by his younger brother Frederick. Rosalind, the daughter of the banished Duke Senior, has remained at the court only because she is highly favored by her cousin Celia. Meanwhile, Duke Senior and the lords who joined him in exile have settled in the evidently idyllic Forest of Arden, where they ‘‘fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world’’ (114–15). As Charles will be wrestling a disguised Orlando the following day, Oliver entreats him to do as much harm as possible. Oliver’s scene-closing monologue leaves no doubt about his role as a villain: he despises Orlando solely because the youngest of the three brothers is so benevolent and beloved.

Act 1, Scene 2

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Upon their first appearance in the play, Rosalind mourns the absence of her father while Celia tries to persuade her to content herself with the friendship they share. Rosalind suggests that falling in love might distract her from her sorrows, and Celia agrees that she could ‘‘make sport withal’’ (25), which she will indeed do, but cautions against loving ‘‘in good earnest’’ (26), which she will also do. After ruminating on the goddesses Fortune and Nature, the two women greet Touchstone, the court fool, who marks his entrance with a trivial display of wit regarding knightly honor. The courtier Monsieur Le Beau then arrives to inform the three of the wrestling match about to take place there.

In the opening scene of As You Like It, Orlando tells the old family servant Adam of his discontent with his brother Oliver’s management of the family fortune and his treatment of him, for he is being allowed no education and thus will have no means to advance in the world. This speech, with Orlando’s referring to ‘‘the spirit of my father, which I think is within me’’ (21–2), introduces a filial connection that establishes Orlando as the novel’s hero in both a romantic and a moral sense. When Oliver arrives, Orlando bests him first with wit, then with strength, ultimately demanding the share that their deceased father had allotted to him. Oliver placates Orlando, then curses Adam, who reveals his fond remembrance of their father, Sir Rowland de Boys, and effectively allies himself with Orlando.

When Duke Frederick enters—accompanied by a shift from prose to blank verse, which endows the action with greater gravity until the end of the scene—he entreats the ladies to persuade the young challenger to stand down. When they cannot refute Orlando’s tragically heroic reasons for fighting—no one would truly regret the loss of his life anyway, and he wishes to test himself— he proceeds to defeat the champion, Charles, to Rosalind’s cry of ‘‘Hercules be thy speed, young man!’’ (199). In turn, Frederick expresses disappointment, because he was an enemy of Orlando’s father—while Rosalind’s father, Duke Senior, had held Sir Rowland de Boys in the highest esteem. The ladies commend Orlando, with Rosalind dramatically giving him a chain from around her neck, before exiting, leaving Orlando dumbfounded by his growing passion for Rosalind.

PLOT SUMMARY


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Le Beau then returns, first warning Orlando that he ought to leave the dukedom, as he has aroused Frederick’s displeasure, then informing Orlando about the identities of Rosalind and Celia.

Act 1, Scene 3 Rosalind discusses her adoration for Orlando with Celia, exchanging a fair amount of wit and referring to him as potentially being her ‘‘child’s father’’ (11). Duke Frederick, however, interrupts the scene—to the return of blank verse— to banish Rosalind, citing a general mistrust of her intentions; also, just as Oliver dislikes Orlando for his virtue, Frederick takes issue with the fact that ‘‘Her very silence, and her patience, / Speak to the people, and they pity her’’ (76–7). Frederick also tries to convince his daughter that she would be better off without her cousin as a rival. The two women then decide to journey to the Forest of Arden disguised as peasants, with the taller Rosalind posing as a man named Ganymede and Celia posing as a woman named Aliena; gathering the clown Touchstone and their ‘‘jewels’’ and ‘‘wealth’’ (132), they depart.

Act 2, Scene 1 The second act provides a transition from the court to the forest, with the first scene taking place in Arden, the second at court, the third at Oliver’s, and each scene thereafter in the forest. The foremost patriarchal figure of the woodlands is introduced, Duke Senior, who is attended by Amiens and a number of lords. After extolling upon the virtues of the forest, Duke Senior regrets his company’s need to kill the deer, who are true forest natives, for their meat. One lord mentions how the ‘‘melancholy Jaques’’ (26, 41), who was just seen mourning a mortally wounded deer, is particularly revolted by their intrusions on nature. Interested in some conversation with the philosophizer—if only for amusement—Duke Senior and his lords depart in search of him.

Act 2, Scene 2 At the court, briefly, Duke Frederick is made aware of the disappearance of both his niece and his daughter and also of their expressed affection for Orlando, who may have accompanied them. Frederick then summons Oliver.

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Act 2, Scene 3 At Oliver’s house, Adam meets Orlando and praises his many virtues, affectionately referring to him as a ‘‘memory / of old Sir Rowland’’ (2–3), then warns him that Oliver is scheming to have him murdered, if not by arson then by some other means. Knowing he would be unable to live life as an amoral thief, Orlando resolves to face his brother—until Adam volunteers his life’s savings and his service to help the youngest brother find shelter and provisions somewhere. The two depart together.

Act 2, Scene 4 Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone appear in the Forest of Arden, incredibly weary from their travels, with the fool regretting having left the court. The woodland shepherds Corin and Silvius then appear, softening the mood of the scene by speaking of love: Silvius expresses his adoration of Phebe and accuses the elder Corin of having never been a true lover himself, as he remembers none of his lover’s follies. Rosalind is reminded of her own aching for Orlando, and Touchstone reminisces somewhat soberly upon a love of his youth. The fool then calls out to Corin, and Rosalind inquires about lodgings and food; through Corin, they secure the purchase of a cottage and a flock of sheep.

Act 2, Scene 5 Amiens and Jaques share songs about the peacefulness of the forest, where the only enemies are ‘‘winter and rough weather’’ (7). Jaques again mentions his distaste for men, specifically their general lack of manners, and notes that he has been avoiding Duke Senior because he finds him ‘‘too disputable’’ (31).

Act 2, Scene 6 Adam and Orlando stumble into the Forest of Arden. When Adam collapses, Orlando sets out to seek help for him.

Act 2, Scene 7 Jaques and Duke Senior meet, and Jaques relates his earlier encounter with Touchstone when the fool uttered some witty comments about the passing of the time. Duke Senior scoffs at the soundness of Jaques’s judgments given his checkered past. Orlando then arrives, threatening to attack them and rob them of their food, only to be offered the food gladly by the gentlemanly Duke Senior. As Orlando leaves to return

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to Adam, Duke Senior and Jaques muse on the theatricality of life, with Jaques giving the famous ‘‘seven ages’’ speech, in which he remarks that a single man goes through seven stages, or acts, in the course of his lifetime. (‘‘All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players.’’) Amiens marks the meal with a song, ‘‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind,’’ and the duke rejoices in meeting the son of his beloved and deceased friend Sir Rowland de Boys.

Act 3, Scene 1 At his palace, Duke Frederick orders Oliver to bring his brother to the court within a year or be exiled himself. As Oliver grovels, Duke Frederick scorns him as a villain for having never loved his own brother.

Act 3, Scene 2 Orlando hangs love poems to Rosalind on trees throughout the forest, singing her praises as he does so. With the entrance of the fool and a shepherd, the play reverts to prose form; Touchstone demands that the shepherd Corin give an acceptable accounting of why he should spend his life in the countryside rather than at court. The fool manages to phrase his own reasons for favoring the court with enough nuance to stymie the peasant. Rosalind interrupts them as she arrives reading one of the anonymous poems written about her, which Touchstone promptly ridicules as being pedantic and dull, devising his own pithy and mocking rhymes. Celia then arrives reading a somewhat longer poem that Rosalind finds tedious. The two women send the two men off so they can talk together. Rosalind begins by deriding the author’s poetic abilities. Celia then reveals to her cousin that she saw the poet hanging up one of the sheets—and that he wears Rosalind’s chain around his neck, at which news Rosalind reddens but seems not to realize that the man is Orlando. Celia first describes him, then reveals his identity, and Rosalind becomes quite agitated by romantic sentiments. Orlando himself then appears on the scene, chatting with Jaques, and the women hide. Orlando relates his affections for Rosalind and responds to Jaques’s probing inquiries with fine wit. When Jaques slinks off, Rosalind disguised as Ganymede approaches, intending to best Orlando in conversation. She ends up carrying on a profound discourse about the passage of


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time experienced by people who spend their time differently. From the beginning, the conversation is strained by Rosalind’s attempts to conceal her person. After remarking on how glad she is not to be a woman, Rosalind belittles Orlando for allowing himself to be infected with love, which she sees evidenced by his poems more than by his person. Rosalind then remarks that she can cure Orlando of his love if he will focus his affection on her (that is to say, Ganymede), and substitute the name Rosalind instead. He is skeptical but he agrees, and they head for the women’s cottage.

Act 3, Scene 3 In the forest, Touchstone and Audrey are carrying on something of a courtship, while Jaques watches from a concealed location. Audrey reveals her unfamiliarity with the notion of the ‘‘poetical’’ (15), while Touchstone flaunts his wit and makes little secret of his desire simply to have sexual relations with the female goatherd. After mentioning that he has brought along a local vicar to perform a marriage ceremony to legitimate their lovemaking, he speaks at length about animals and men and their horns, sustaining the sexual references. When Sir Oliver Mar-text begins to conduct the wedding, Jaques offers to give away the bride and then convinces Touchstone that such a dull marriage would not befit the gentleman that he is. Jaques at last leads the couple away.

Act 3, Scene 4 At their cottage in the morning, Rosalind anxiously awaits Orlando, fretting to Celia about the color of his hair while admiring his evident chasteness. Celia admits that she doubts the truth of his love, leading Rosalind to inquire further. Rosalind also mentions that she met her father the day before and successfully maintained her disguise. When Corin arrives to lead them to the spectacle of Silvius trying to court Phebe (at which point the text switches to blank verse, the first time that such a change is introduced for a peasant) Rosalind remarks that she may ‘‘prove a busy actor in their play’’ (56).

Act 3, Scene 5 As Silvius begs Phebe to show him but the smallest kindness, Rosalind, Celia, and Corin arrive to observe. Phebe rejects Silvius saying that no man should be truly hurt by emotional disappointment. As Silvius despairs, Rosalind enters

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loves. After comparing him unfavorably to a snail, which at least has a home and horns on its head, Rosalind then urges Orlando to try and woo her. They banter about kissing and chasteness, then Rosalind echoes Phebe’s earlier remarks about no man having ever truly died from love. When Orlando objects to Rosalind’s lamenting tone, she becomes pleasanter, and they engage in a mock wedding ceremony. Nevertheless, she again grows negative, offering a list of ways in which she would disappoint Orlando as a wife. Ultimately she asserts that above all she would not abandon her wit, and if her husband tried to dismiss her, she would simply turn to another man. Orlando then departs to join the duke at dinner, asserting that he will return in two hours, and Rosalind remarks that if he breaks that promise, he will be thoroughly out of favor. Celia then chastises Rosalind for her disparaging remarks about the female sex, to which Rosalind replies only by celebrating the depth of her love for Orlando.

Illustration of Audrey and the Clown Touchstone, Act V, scene iii

Act 4, Scene 2

to first make fun of Phebe’s appearance and then suggest to Silvius that he would be better off seeking another mate; ultimately she recommends that they form a union, even if it might produce ‘‘ill-favored children’’ (53). However, Phebe takes an instant liking to Ganymede, despite, if not because of, his aggressiveness. When Silvius and Phebe are again left alone, Phebe agrees to love Silvius not romantically but as a neighbor, as well as to employ him. Subsequently, she inquires about Ganymede and expresses how appealing she found his softer qualities. At last recalling Ganymede’s bitterness and claiming to be offended by him, Phebe entreats Silvius to bring Ganymede a letter that she will compose.

Jaques and a few lords are found celebrating their successful deer hunt, although Jaques had earlier mourned the death of a hunted deer. One of the lords offers a song ritualizing the wearing of the deer’s horns, horns that are portrayed as almost sacred.

Act 4, Scene 3

Act 4, Scene 1

As Celia and Rosalind wonder about Orlando’s failure to return on time, Silvius appears—accompanied by blank verse—to present Rosalind, still dressed as Ganymede, with a supposedly caustic letter from Phebe. In fact, finding the message to be one of love, Rosalind seizes the opportunity to jest with Silvius: she first claims that some man, certainly he, must have in fact written the ‘‘giantrude’’ (35) invective therein, then reads the letter aloud to reveal its actual loving contents. Finally, she sends Silvius on his way, although he is hopelessly in love with Phebe.

Jaques is engaging in conversation with the disguised Rosalind and Celia, offering justification for his melancholy, which he claims stems in part from his travels; Rosalind says that she prefers the amusement of a fool to the sadness fostered by experience. When Orlando appears, Jaques exits, leaving Rosalind to chide Orlando for being so late to a meeting with one he supposedly

Oliver then arrives in search of the cottage and the disguised women, bearing a handkerchief stained with blood. He relates how Orlando had happened upon a man sleeping under a tree with a snake wrapped about his neck and a lioness crouching in the bushes nearby. The snake slithered away, leaving Orlando to discover that the man was none other than his elder brother Oliver;

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after some indecision, Orlando drove off the lioness, saving Oliver’s life. Upon reaching the safety of the realm of Duke Senior, Orlando collapsed from a wound he received, then entreated Oliver to bring the handkerchief to Rosalind as a token. At this news, Rosalind herself swoons, leaving Oliver somewhat unconvinced of her masculinity. She hopes that Oliver will tell Orlando that she had only pretended to faint.

Act 5, Scene 1 Audrey and Touchstone are conversing, with Audrey regretting that they had not been married earlier by the adequate priest. Audrey then confirms that William ‘‘lays claim to’’ (7) but has ‘‘no interest in’’ (8) her, and Touchstone prepares to belittle him with wit. After conversing inconsequentially, the fool concludes by threatening the hapless William with death if he should try to maintain relations with Audrey.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS Among a number of motion picture versions of As You Like It, one of the most notable was produced by International Allied in 1936, directed by Paul Czinner. It features the renowned Laurence Olivier as Orlando in his first Shakespeare role on film, as well as Elisabeth Bergner playing Rosalind. An educational video entitled ‘‘As You Like It’’: An Introduction was produced by BHE Education in 1969, offering performances of key scenes from the comedy, accompanied by brief instructional narratives. A television adaptation of As You Like It was produced by the British Broadcasting Corporation in 1979, as distributed by TimeLife Video. It was directed by Brian Coleman and stars Helen Mirren as Rosalind. Kenneth Branagh directed a film version of As You Like It that was released in 2006, as produced by Picturehouse, featuring such renowned stars as Bryce Dallas Howard (Rosalind), Kevin Kline (Jaques), and Alfred Molina (Touchstone).

Oliver discusses his newfound adoration for Celia (as Aliena) with Orlando, also telling his younger brother that he intends to remain in the forest and live the life of a humble shepherd; if he does, Orlando will inherit their father’s estate. Upon Rosalind’s arrival, Orlando—who refers to the ‘‘greater wonders’’ (27) related to him by his brother and may thus be aware of Rosalind’s disguise—rues the fact that his brother gets to enjoy his love in the present. Orlando states that he ‘‘can live no longer by thinking,’’ that is, about his absent love (50). Rosalind, as Ganymede, then relates how she has long ‘‘conversed with a magician’’ (60–1) and promises that she will bring the true Rosalind the following day.

Act 5, Scene 4

Silvius and Phebe then arrive, with Silvius professing his love for her, while she professes her love for Ganymede—and Orlando once more professes his love for Rosalind. Rosalind then promises to resolve all of their conflicts of love the following day, presenting the intended outcome in such a witty way that everyone is content.

In the closing scene, Duke Senior, Jaques, Orlando, Oliver, Silvius, Phebe, Celia, and Rosalind are gathered, with Rosalind receiving confirmation from everyone that they will agree to the various proposed unions. The two disguised women then leave, with Duke Senior and Orlando commenting upon Ganymede’s resemblance to Rosalind.

Act 5, Scene 3 Touchstone and Audrey look forward to their coming wedding, with two of Duke Senior’s pages arriving and singing the company a song about love and springtime. Touchstone concludes their tune with some sardonic remarks about the time he just wasted.


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Touchstone and Audrey then arrive, with Jaques praising the fool’s wit. Touchstone frames his acceptance of Audrey as a noble deed, then goes on to relate a quarrel he had, naming all of the retorts and reproofs according to the conventions of rhetoric; Jaques proves interested enough to ask for a recounting of the seven ‘‘degrees of the lie’’ (88–9).

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At last, the undisguised Rosalind and Celia arrive, led by Hymen, the Greek god of marriage, who speaks in blank verse with three or four feet per line, as opposed to Shakespeare’s usual iambic pentameter, which has five feet. After Duke Senior and Orlando rejoice in Rosalind’s appearance, Hymen proceeds to wed each of the four couples: Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, Silvius and Phebe, and Touchstone and Audrey. After a ‘‘wedlock hymn’’ (137), Jaques de Boys, the brother between Oliver and Orlando, arrives to announce news: Duke Frederick, having embarked on a military journey into the forest in search of the banished Duke Senior, was converted to goodness by ‘‘an old religious man’’ (160) and bequeathed the crown and all his land back to his brother. Duke Senior implores the company to fully enjoy the ‘‘rustic revelry’’ (177) before returning to courtly life. The philosophizing Jaques then bids farewell to the company, naming the good fortunes that all the men have happened upon, to join the converted Duke Frederick, from whom he expects ‘‘there is much matter to be heard and learned’’ (185). The play closes with dancing.

Amiens

Epilogue

Unlike Celia, her cousin Rosalind seems unable to assume the masculine role without disparaging the feminine. After Rosalind speaks of women’s ways with Orlando, Celia scolds her for her remarks about women. Thus, Celia may be viewed as a stronger woman than her cousin.

The character of Rosalind bids farewell to the audience with the hope that women and men alike found enjoyment in the play. Since in Shakespeare’s time the actor playing Rosalind was a man, he notes that he would have even kissed some of the men in the audience had he been a woman; instead, he simply asks that they bid him farewell.

CHARACTERS Adam Adam is an aged servant of the de Boys household. Adam bolsters Orlando’s claim to having the strongest ties to his father by calling Orlando a ‘‘memory / Of old sir Rowland’’ (2.3.3–4) and by accompanying him in exile, going so far as to offer his life’s savings to ensure the young man’s survival.

Amiens is a courtier attending Duke Senior in exile.

Audrey Audrey is a country wench who herds goats and who marries Touchstone. Audrey is portrayed as especially ignorant, not even understanding Touchstone’s ridicule of her.

Celia Celia is Duke Frederick’s daughter and Rosalind’s cousin. Celia shares a powerful bond with Rosalind, voluntarily accompanying her cousin into exile after remarking, ‘‘Shall we be sund’red, shall we part, sweet girl? / No, let my father seek another heir’’ (96–7). While Rosalind is given far more attention, Celia serves as the catalyst for some of her cousin’s thoughts and actions. After Orlando’s victory, she states, ‘‘Gentle cousin, / Let us go thank him and encourage him’’ (1.2.229–30); when Rosalind is banished, even before she thinks to visit her father, Celia suggests first that they go ‘‘to seek my uncle in the forest of Arden’’ (1.3.105), then that they wear disguises. Celia poses as a peasant woman named Aliena.

Charles Charles is Duke Frederick’s wrestler, who fights Orlando in act 1, scene 2. Oliver tricks Charles into believing that Orlando is a villain and that Charles should thus do as much damage to Orlando as possible. However, despite this instruction, Charles is defeated by Orlando.

Corin Corin is an old shepherd who befriends Rosalind, Celia, and Touchstone. While Touchstone abuses him for his simplicity, Corin is stalwart and genuine in his defense of his pastoral life: ‘‘I am a true laborer; I earn that I eat, get that I wear, owe no man hate, envy no man’s happiness’’ (73–5).

Jaques de Boys Aliena

Jaques is the second son of Sir Rowland de Boys and is Oliver and Orlando’s brother. The news of

See Celia

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Duke Frederick’s conversion is delivered by Jaques de Boys, who serves as a neutral mediator between the good and evil forces of the play.

Duke Frederick Frederick is Duke Senior’s younger brother and usurper of his throne. He is also Celia’s father and Rosalind’s uncle. Duke Frederick is a fairly one-dimensional villain through most of the play; his base nature is aptly summed up by Le Beau: ‘‘this Duke / Hath ta’en displeasure ’gainst his gentle niece, / Grounded upon no other argument / But that the people praise her for her virtues / And pity her for her good father’s sake’’ (267–71). Reflecting his irrelevant status as a character, he does not even make an appearance after being converted by an ‘‘old religious man’’ (5.4.160) in the forest.

Duke Senior The exiled elder brother of Duke Frederick and father of Rosalind, Duke Senior serves as the benevolent patriarchal figure of the Forest of Arden. He utters the first lines in the forest as well as the rhyming couplet that closes the play. His introduction to the forest is essential in establishing the setting’s superiority—‘‘Are not these woods / More free from peril than the envious court?’’ (2.1.3–4)—while also addressing its drawbacks: ‘‘the icy fang / And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind . . . these are counselors / That feelingly persuade me what I am’’ (2.1.6– 11). That is, Duke Senior fairly delights even in the physical sensation of being cold, which makes him feel far more alive than did the ‘‘painted pomp’’ (2.1.3) of the court.

Ganymede See Rosalind

Hymen The Greek god of marriage, Hymen appears in the final scene to marry all the couples. The personification of the god gives substance to the forest’s otherworldliness.

Jaques Jaques is a melancholy lord attending Duke Senior in banishment. Jaques is commonly considered Touchstone’s foil, as he provides commentary on the play’s diverse issues from a completely different perspective. Jaques’s misanthropy, or distaste for humanity, initially casts a dark shadow over the events in Arden forest.


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Where Duke Senior expresses regret at the killing of the ‘‘native burghers of this desert city’’ (2.1.23)—the deer—‘‘in their own confines’’ (2.1.24) essentially as an afterthought, Jaques weeps at the sight and sound of a wounded deer pouring forth tears and heaving its last breaths. As reported by a lord, Jaques goes so far as to ‘‘most invectively . . . pierceth through / The body of the country, city, court, / Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we / Are mere usurpers, tyrants’’ (2.1.58–61). Thus, while Duke Senior has already been cast as a virtuous man, in contrast to the usurper Frederick, Jaques characterizes not only the elder duke but also all the men who have invaded the forest as usurpers in turn. The melancholy philosophizer can be seen as something of an environmentalist. Jaques’s antihumanism is highlighted when Duke Senior’s party is unable to locate him and one lord remarks, ‘‘I think he be transformed into a beast, / For I can nowhere find him like a man’’ (2.7.1–2). Overall, the audience does not develop a favorable impression of Jaques. While Jaques reveals a certain fondness for Touchstone and professes his own desire to become a fool, so as to better ‘‘Cleanse the foul body of th’ infected world’’ (2.7.60), Duke Senior promptly discredits him for having been a ‘‘libertine, / As sensual as the brutish sting itself’’ (2.7.65–6). Indeed, Jaques is something of a parody of an Elizabethan stereotype (and of a number of Shakespeare’s contemporary satirists), the traveler who returns from abroad only to become discontented with domestic life. Shakespeare shows no sympathy for Jaques throughout the play: his cynical statements are rebuked time and again by Rosalind, Orlando, Touchstone, and Duke Senior. Even the initial portrayal of Jaques as an environmentalist is negated when he revels later in the killing of a second deer, hailing the successful hunter as a ‘‘Roman conqueror’’ (4.2.3–4); the text gives no evidence that the line would have been delivered ironically. In the end, Jaques refuses to take part in the wedding celebration even vicariously, noting, ‘‘I am for other than for dancing measures’’ (5.4.193), and many commentators have read this as Shakespeare’s ultimate condemnation of Jaques’s character: he simply can not take part in life’s joys. Yet while most of the protagonists will be returning to the oft-decried courtly life, Jaques intends to join the newly religious Duke

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Frederick, remarking, ‘‘Out of these convertites / There is much matter to be heard and learned’’ (5.4.184–85). His final lines, which are somewhat cryptic—‘‘what you would have / I’ll stay to know at your abandoned cave’’ (5.4.195–96)— at the very least indicate that he is devoted to the ideal of the pastoral world, rather than having merely vacationed there out of necessity.

Le Beau One of Duke Frederick’s courtiers, Le Beau serves as an intermediary between Duke Frederick and his daughter and niece, telling the two women of the wrestling match and also of the duke’s ill humor after its conclusion.

Sir Oliver Mar-text Sir Oliver is a vicar whose marriage of Touchstone and Audrey is interrupted by Jaques.

Oliver Oliver is the eldest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. Oliver is expressly villainous, remarking that he dislikes Orlando largely because the latter is so virtuous and generally well loved by others. This animosity parallels that harbored by Duke Frederick toward the deceased Sir Rowland de Boys, highlighting the degree to which both men are antagonized by the ‘‘honorable’’ (1.2.215). At the end, Orlando’s compassion for Oliver inspires the elder brother to bequeath Sir Rowland’s estate to the younger; Oliver subsequently marries Celia.

Orlando The youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, Orlando serves as the play’s romantic male hero, eventually marrying Rosalind. Orlando’s appearances in the first act well establish his moral virtue, as he craves only ‘‘such exercises as may become a gentleman’’ (1.1.69–70), including a good education, while Oliver, the eldest de Boys brother, professes to despise Orlando expressly because the younger is ‘‘so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprized’’ (1.1.161–63). Orlando proceeds to outwrestle Charles, a Goliath figure, without boast or bravado, and he even proves humbly shy when Rosalind addresses him afterward. Much attention is given to Orlando’s ties to his father, Rowland, whose name is a loose anagram of his youngest son’s. Their last name,

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meanwhile, comes from bois, which means ‘‘forest’’ in French. When Orlando reiterates the claim, ‘‘The spirit of my father grows strong in me’’ (1.1.67–8), the audience understands that Orlando, not Oliver, is the true heir to the virtuous natural world signified by their last name. In the Forest of Arden, the audience’s impression of Orlando shifts somewhat, as Rosalind, posing as Ganymede, appears to control, if not dominate, the interactions between the destined pair. The audience may feel that Orlando’s inability to direct their conversations reflects a lack of masculine assertiveness. Yet in fact, one of Orlando’s surest virtues may be his ability to reconcile himself to more feminine qualities. Upon reaching the forest realm of Duke Senior, Orlando first adopts an aggressive stance; however, once he realizes he is being kindly received, he remarks, ‘‘Let gentleness my strong enforcement be; / In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword’’ (2.7.118–19). With Duke Senior serving as a surrogate father figure to Orlando, this scene might be viewed from a Freudian perspective as a resolution of the hostility toward the father associated with the Oedipus complex. Signaling that resolution, Orlando taps his nurturing side, noting, ‘‘like a doe, I go to find my fawn’’ (128). In ‘‘Sexual Politics and Social Structure,’’ with reference to Orlando’s later rescue of Oliver, Peter B. Erickson observes that the youngest brother ‘‘achieves a synthesis of attributes traditionally labeled masculine and feminine when he combines compassion and aggression in rescuing his brother from the lioness’’ (231). Ultimately, as Erickson relates, Orlando is confirmed as the foremost authority figure in both his relationship with Rosalind and in the play as a whole. The possession of Rosalind in a literal sense passes from Duke Senior to Orlando. When Duke Senior is restored as the head of the dukedom, his possessions will pass not to his daughter but to the husband of his daughter, meaning that Orlando will inherit the entire land. Thus, as Erickson concludes, ‘‘Festive celebration is now possible because a dependable, that is, patriarchal, social order is securely in place’’ (232).

Phebe Phebe is a shepherdess. She is indifferent toward Silvius, who is courting her, and falls in love with

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Ganymede instead. She eventually agrees to marry Silvius.

Rosalind The exiled Duke Senior’s daughter and niece of Duke Frederick, Rosalind is the play’s central character, in that she has both the most lines and brings about much of the play’s resolution. She is downhearted from the beginning, as her father has been away in exile, and only when her heart is ‘‘overthrown’’ (1.2.244) are her spirits first lifted. Leaving the court in banishment, along with her fleeing cousin, she adopts the disguise of a man, Ganymede, largely so that she and Celia may appear less vulnerable to any would-be assailants. At this point, she endeavors to transform herself outwardly and bear ‘‘a swashing and a martial outside’’ (1.3.118), that is, a swaggering, confrontational demeanor. Nevertheless, she confesses to yet also bearing ‘‘hidden woman’s fear’’ (1.3.117), and many of her lines in the forest reflect her attempts to reconcile her maidenly reserve with her intent to pass as a man. In posing as Ganymede, Rosalind draws upon her ample reserves of wit, which, as a courtly lady in Elizabethan times, she may not have had much opportunity to use otherwise. When she intends to treat Orlando like ‘‘a saucy lackey’’ (3.2.292), she guides the conversation with her witty remarks on the passage of time. She then arranges for Orlando to dote upon her, in her disguise as Ganymede, as if she were Rosalind, ensuring a sustained connection with him. She later lectures Orlando on the appearances and actions of one who is truly love struck. Though liberated in terms of the attitude she can adopt around Orlando, Rosalind otherwise professes to be constrained by her disguise. As she, Celia, and Touchstone enter the forest, she notes a desire to ‘‘disgrace my man’s apparel, and to cry like a woman’’ (2.4.4–5). Similarly, when she faints at the news of Orlando’s having suffered a grievous wound, she rises and first utters, ‘‘I would I were at home’’ (4.3.162), then reflexively negates her emotional state, claiming she had counterfeited the swoon. The audience is left to decide whether such denials are positive steps for a woman of that era to take. Regardless of how much Rosalind revels in her man’s disguise, the play’s closure is very much a return to a state of female subservience. Indeed, from the outset, Rosalind is understood


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to be depressed largely because of the absence of any male figure in her life: her father has been exiled, and the fact that she only grows animated upon meeting Orlando sheds light upon her earlier suggestion that they divert themselves by ‘‘falling in love’’ (1.2.24). Before revealing her identity, Rosalind refers to herself in speaking to her father as ‘‘your Rosalind’’ (5.4.6) and requests confirmation that he will ‘‘bestow her on Orlando’’ (5.4.7). Regarding Rosalind’s return to her womanhood, Peter B. Erickson notes, ‘‘A benevolent patriarchy still requires women to be subordinate, and Rosalind’s final performance is her enactment of this subordination’’ (232). Erickson also notes that the epilogue, in which the male actor playing Rosalind reveals himself as male, presents a ‘‘further phasing out of Rosalind’’ (233).

Silvius Silvius is a shepherd who remains in love with the shepherdess Phebe despite her constant scorning. He eventually marries her.

Touchstone A fool in the service of first Oliver, then Rosalind and Celia, Touchstone is all that his name implies: he acts as a touchstone, testing the qualities of the other characters both at Duke Frederick’s court and in the forest. He also is an apt persona for conveying bits and piece of philosophy to the audience, whether they be genuine or ironic. Many commentators have noted that Touchstone differs from the fools in Shakespeare’s preceding plays largely because the playwright shaped the part to a different actor: Robert Armin. Armin, who himself wrote a work on the varying natures of court fools, was perhaps fit to play a jester of greater sophistication than the man he replaced within the Lord Chamberlain’s Men, Will Kempe, who had proven successful playing strictly comic roles. In fact, Armin may have joined the company midway through Shakespeare’s writing of As You Like It, which would account for the difference in Touchstone’s temperament in the first act as compared to the later acts; in ‘‘Touchstone in Arcadia,’’ Robert H. Goldsmith notes that this change may also simply reflect the respective degrees of intellectual freedom that Touchstone felt at court and in the forest, as any court fool would have been wise to restrain his wit somewhat in the presence of a usurper.

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Touchstone is perhaps more out of place in the Forest of Arden than any other character in the play. While Touchstone marries Audrey at the end, the audience understands that he does so merely to enjoy the associated conjugal rights. Otherwise, throughout much of the play Touchstone remarks not on the merrier aspects of the forest but on what the forest lacks as compared to the court, as in his remarks to Corin about the shepherd’s life, where he expresses the negative view: ‘‘in respect that it is a shepherd’s life, it is naught . . . . in respect that it is private, it is a very vile life . . . . in respect it is not in the court, it is tedious . . . . as there is no more plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach’’ (3.2.14–21). In general, Touchstone looks at every situation from an oblique angle and speaks in a caustic voice. He sees Orlando’s poetry not as charming but pedantic; he insists that Corin is a sinner for having never learned court manners; and rather than enjoying their song, he condemns the pages as being off time. He even refuses to acknowledge himself as either witty or a fool: to Rosalind he states, ‘‘I shall ne’er be ware of mine own wit till I break my shins against it’’ (2.4.56–7), while Jaques recalls him remarking, ‘‘Call me not fool till heaven hath sent me fortune’’ (2.7.19). Goldsmith sums up Touchstone’s role in part by quoting C. S. Lewis, who notes in The Allegory of Love that a tale in the mode of As You Like It ‘‘protects itself against the laughter of the vulgar . . . by allowing laughter and cynicism their place inside the poem’’ (199). Goldsmith himself notes, ‘‘Touchstone’s presence within the pastoral romance is a concession to our sense of comic realism and protects the play from corrosive criticism’’ (200). Indeed, Touchstone’s sarcastic rejoinders quite likely preempted just such unruly commentary from the groundlings at the Globe Theatre.

William William is a country fellow who loves Audrey and is rudely threatened by Touchstone.

THEMES Pastoral Life Numerous oppositions in As You Like It reveal Shakespeare’s partiality toward the pastoral rustic life of Arden forest to life at court. At Duke

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Frederick’s court, disorder holds sway. The deterioration of political authority is the most obvious form of disorder, for Duke Frederick has unlawfully seized Duke Senior’s kingdom. This political degeneration is compounded by a more personal disorder, since the dukes are also brothers at odds with each other. This conflict is also underscored by the antagonistic relationship of two other brothers at the court, Oliver and Orlando. Arden forest offers a sense of pure, spiritual order in contrast to the corrupt condition of Duke Frederick’s court. Indeed, Duke Senior, who introduces the audience to the forest, immediately establishes the realm as a haven from the court, which he refers to as a place of ‘‘painted pomp’’ and as ‘‘envious’’—that is, a place where people covet what others have—in opposition to the virtual absence of both private property and social position in the wild. Meanwhile, for those fleeing the court, the journey to the forest is long and difficult; when the characters arrive they are physically exhausted and hungry. The harsh experience of returning to nature acts as a stripping process, however, laying bare the characters’ virtuous natures calloused by court life. Some characters, like Orlando and Rosalind, need little improvement and find in Arden a liberation from the oppression they have endured at court. Others, such as Oliver and Duke Frederick, approach the forest with malicious intent only to undergo a complete spiritual reformation. Arden is thus a morally pure realm whose special curative powers purge and renew the forest dwellers, granting them a selfawareness that they will ultimately use to restore order at court.

Fortune vs. Nature Closely allied with the opposition of court life and the Forest of Arden is the dichotomy between fortune and nature. Here, ‘‘fortune’’ represents both material gain—achieved through power, birthright, or possessions—and a force that unpredictably determines events. ‘‘Nature,’’ on the other hand, is both the purifying force of Arden and humanity’s fundamental condition stripped of the trappings of wealth, power, and material possessions. The opposition between fortune and nature is highlighted most in the first act, where the audience finds that fortune has benefited the villainous (Frederick and Oliver) over the virtuous

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Alexandra Gilbraith as Rosalind and Anthony Nowell as Orlando with Nancy Carroll as Celia at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 2000 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

(Duke Senior, Orlando, and Rosalind). Celia suggests that she and Rosalind ‘‘mock the good housewife Fortune from her wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally’’ (1.2.30–2), referring to the fact that the goddess Fortune was historically depicted as blind, sitting on a spherical throne, with one foot on a ball and one hand upon her wheel that determined the fates of everyone. The goddess Nature, meanwhile, was considered to be in control of people’s innate virtues, such as their nobility and wisdom. In this scene, Rosalind and Celia discuss Fortune and Nature at length, musing on the two goddesses’ effects on the world. Duke Senior is presented as a man who has successfully thwarted Fortune; after his speech praising the rustic over the courtly life, Amiens notes, ‘‘Happy is your Grace / That can translate the stubbornness of fortune / Into so quiet and so sweet a style’’ (18–20). Fortune is mentioned again later by Adam, who, upon fleeing with Orlando, notes, in a rhyming couplet closing a scene, ‘‘Yet fortune cannot recompense me


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better / Than to die well and not my master’s debtor’’ (2.4.75–6). Nature, meanwhile, is invoked most pointedly when Oliver describes his brother’s rescue of him: ‘‘But kindness, nobler ever than revenge / And nature, stronger than his just occasion, / Made him give battle to the lioness, / Who quickly fell before him’’ (4.3.129–32). Thus, the play’s protagonists by and large manage to overcome the caprices of Fortune by drawing on the assets of Nature.

Time Time is also contrasted in the court scenes and in the Forest of Arden. At court, time is referred to in specific terms, marked by definite intervals, in most cases in relation to the duke’s threats: he orders Rosalind to leave the court within ten days or she will be executed, and he gives Oliver one year to find Orlando or else his land and possessions will be confiscated. In Arden, however, the meaning of time is less precise. In his first meeting with Jaques, Touchstone provides a slightly whimsical rumination on time; he seems to be remarking on his sense that he is

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simply rotting away in the uneventful forest. Jaques later offers a disheartened perception of how time passes predictably for all men, as his ‘‘Seven Ages of Man’’ speech illustrates the individual’s passage through life in predetermined stages, ending with the image of man as a pathetically ineffectual and dependent creature. When Rosalind, posing as Ganymede, first addresses Orlando, she asks him, ‘‘what is ’t o’clock?’’ (3.2.296), and his response is especially meaningful: ‘‘You should ask me, what time o’ day. There’s no clock in the forest’’ (3.2.297–98). Indeed, time in Arden is measured ‘‘in divers paces with divers persons’’ (3.2.304–05), as Rosalind subsequently instructs Orlando; the lover’s constant sighing and groaning, she contends, ought to be as regular as clockwork, while a young maid, a priest, and a thief would all feel time’s passage uniquely. Later on, Rosalind lectures Orlando for not being more punctual, because a true lover would not lose a single moment that he could be spending with his beloved. In general, the sense that time is a subjective, not an objective, quality enhances Arden’s mythical and romantic aspects.

Sexual Identity Sexual identity is examined primarily through the character of Rosalind, who disguises herself as a man named Ganymede—a mythological boy whose name was synonymous with beauty and androgyny—to ensure her safe passage to Arden. Though she can discard her male costume when she reaches the forest, Rosalind does not do so until the end of the play. Critics generally agree that she continues to act as Ganymede because the disguise liberates her from the submissive role of a woman. As a man, she is able to take more control of her own life, especially in her courtship with Orlando. In their playacting scenes, Rosalind controls the tactics of courtship in a way that is usually reserved for men, inverting their roles to teach Orlando the meaning of real love rather than love based on his idealized vision of her. An added complexity of Rosalind’s sexual identity is evident if we consider that in Shakespeare’s age, boys played the roles of women in dramas. The playwright takes advantage of this convention in As You Like It to accentuate flexibility in the presentation of gender. As the boy actor who performs as Rosalind must also play Ganymede, who in turn pretends to be Rosalind in the playacting sessions with Orlando, the audience follows the character’s various

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transformations and can better appreciate the extent to which Rosalind’s presentation of herself as masculine or feminine changes the way the other characters interact with her.

Acting and the Stage References to acting, role-playing, scenes, and the stage are scattered throughout As You Like It, most prominently in reference to Rosalind’s posing as Ganymede. When first meeting Orlando in the forest, she aims to ‘‘play the knave with him’’ (3.2.293); aside from her own role as a self-confident man, which is overlaid with her role as the fickle ‘‘Rosalind,’’ she has much to say to Orlando about his playing the role of the lover, noting that he lacks the proper disheveled attire and that he is not as punctual as a lover ought to be. At one point she even entreats Celia to conduct a pretend marriage ceremony between herself and Orlando. Such references to acting would be natural, of course, in the context of a play presented on the spare stage of the Globe Theatre, where boys and men played the parts of the women and, generally speaking, the artifice of the production could not be ignored. However, the passage in which Jaques delivers the ‘‘Seven Ages of Man’’ speech accentuates the theatrical aspect beyond what is found in Shakespeare’s other works. After the arrival of Orlando, who tells of the exhausted Adam, Duke Senior observes, ‘‘This wide and universal theater / Presents more woeful pageants than the scene / Wherein we play in’’ (2.7.137–39). With these remarks, referring to both tragedy and drama, the duke lends gravity to Jaques’s ensuing speech, about which Shakespearean commentators disagree. Some consider that Adam’s consequent arrival is a negation of Jaques’s speech as serious philosophy, in that the elderly man has just completed a substantial journey; on the other hand, Adam only reaches the realm of the duke because he has been carried by Orlando—as if he is indeed in the throes of the ‘‘second childishness’’ (2.7.165) Jaques has just described. The central theme of Jaques’s speech, that a single man goes through seven stages, or acts, in the course of his lifetime, echoes similar life-stage theories put forth by ancient thinkers, and the opening line, ‘‘All the world’s a stage’’ (2.7.139), was said to adorn the Globe Theatre itself. The speech is rich in detail and imagery, as Jaques paints miniature portraits of each of the stages of

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man’s life, and as fits his character, he highlights the ridiculous, helpless, or ineffectual aspects of each stage. The baby is ‘‘mewling and puking’’ (144), while the schoolboy whines as he is forced to attend school against his will. The lover’s sentiments are made to seem absurd and extreme, as he sadly sings of ‘‘his mistress’ eyebrow’’ (149), of all possible body parts. The soldier seems to live in isolation from society and friendship, ‘‘full of strange oaths’’ (150), as if belonging to a secret guild, and he is guided by negative, aggressive emotions like jealousy and anger; even when faced with the prospect of death, ‘‘in the cannon’s mouth’’ (153), he still gives priority to his reputation. The justice’s belly is understood to be lined with capon—a castrated rooster, which serves as another symbol of the impotence of living creatures—because judges were often bribed with capons. As a judge, meanwhile, both his physical appearance and his intellectual state—he is ‘‘full of wise saws and modern instances’’ (156), that is, he does not truly think independently—show him to be fulfilling his function in society without much thought or ability. Jaques’s closing descriptions of the pantaloon and of the senile old man offer a vivid picture of every man’s descent into obscurity: the pantaloon finds his body and his voice alike shrinking, while the final stage ‘‘is second childishness and mere oblivion’’ (165). Thus, in Jaques’s view, not only does man pass through a number of predictable stages but also within each stage the depth of his person is no greater than that of a stock character in a play, meriting a psychological description of a few lines at most. Regardless of how Shakespeare meant the ‘‘Seven Ages of Man’’ speech to be interpreted, its insistence that all men are simply following the scripts of their lives—as cowritten by Fortune and Nature—is thought provoking. The references to acting, roles, and theater in As You Like It may best be interpreted in the context of the play as contrasted with the pastoral life. The characters of As You Like It, coming from the upper echelons of the court, would have been accustomed to civilization’s comforts; while speaking with Corin, Touchstone regrets the absence of certain aspects of that courtly life, namely the abundances of society and food. Other characters function better than Touchstone in the forest milieu in that they are more willing or more able to ‘‘play the roles’’ of forest dwellers. In making frequent reference to the conventions


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In posing as Ganymede, Rosalind takes advantage of her disguise to comfortably interact with Orlando as if she were another man. Imagine the two roles reversed: Orlando has disguised himself as a woman in order to interact more comfortably with Rosalind. Conduct research on Elizabethan gender roles, and write an essay describing the ways in which such a role reversal would differ from the original situation. Then write a short prose piece portraying a meeting between Rosalind and the disguised Orlando.

Read Thomas Lodge’s Rosalynde (the source for Shakespeare’s As You Like It). Write an essay comparing and contrasting the characters of Rosalynde, from Lodge’s work, and Rosalind, from Shakespeare’s. Also, why do you think Shakespeare altered the character the way he did? Research the way religions have affected patterns of marriage in different parts of the world. Relate your findings to the class, making reference to at least two nonWestern cultures. Time is one of the major themes of As You Like It. Write an essay on how you have felt the passage of time at different points in your own life, making reference to various passages in the play that relate to or contrast with your personal experience. Shakespeare devotes much attention to the roles of the goddesses Fortune and Nature in Elizabethan life, specifically in the lives of his characters. Write an essay describing how modern life has been shaped by Fortune and Nature, making reference to passages describing the two forces in As You Like It, and explaining how the balance between them has shifted over time.

of dramaturgy, Shakespeare assists his urban crowds to lose themselves in the ethereal theater of the Forest of Arden.

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STYLE The Pastoral Traditionally, a pastoral is a poem focusing on shepherds and rustic life; it first appeared as a literary form in the third century C . E . The term itself is derived from pastor, the Latin word for ‘‘shepherd.’’ A pastoral may contain artificial or unnatural elements, such as shepherd characters speaking with courtly eloquence or appearing in aristocratic dress. This poetic convention evolved over centuries until many of its features were incorporated into prose and drama. It was in these literary forms that pastoralism influenced English literature from about 1550 to 1750, most often as pastoral romance, a model featuring songs and characters with traditional pastoral aspects. Many of these elements can be seen in the source for Shakespeare’s play, Thomas Lodge’s popular pastoral novel Rosalynde, written in 1590. But by the time Shakespeare adapted Lodge’s tale into As You Like It nearly a decade later, many pastoral themes were considered trite. As a result, Shakespeare treated pastoralism ambiguously in the comedy. Without doubt, the audience is meant to be intoxicated by the carefree atmosphere of the forest along with the main characters, who are essentially given the freedom to concern themselves only with romantic love. The image of Orlando dashing from tree to tree hanging up his poems is perhaps the most emblematic of the play as a whole. Also, with the usurper Frederick as the head of the dukedom and the magnanimous Duke Senior overseeing life in the forest, each setting is endowed with the characteristics of its figurehead; the connotations of the forest are almost exclusively positive. In the speech in which Duke Senior introduces Arden, he praises the ‘‘tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, / Sermons in stones, and good in everything’’ (2.1.16–7). On the other hand, the audience is rarely given respite from Jaques, whose melancholy is not really lessened by the forest, and Touchstone, who incessantly disparages both forest life in Arden and forest dwellers. While some of Touchstone’s comments are merely absurd— such as portraying Corin as a sinner for not having been at court—their presence nonetheless prevents a wholly idealistic tone from taking over. Perhaps most tellingly, the comedy’s resolution

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entails the entire company returning to court rather than remaining in the forest. Overall, As You Like It can be viewed as either an endorsement or a satire of the literary form of the pastoral—and that duality is nowhere more evident than in the play’s title. Take your choice.

Lyrical Interludes Shakespeare emphasized the romantic, pastoral aspect of As You Like It by including a significant number of songs and poems. In all, five different songs are performed, more than in any other comedy, while the audience hears three poems read aloud, two of Orlando’s—one of which is then parodied by Touchstone—and one of Phebe’s. In addition, Touchstone offers a few pithy lines upon leaving Sir Oliver MarText, and Hymen’s lines, which are written in rhyming trimeter instead of Shakespeare’s conventional pentameter, have an immediate poetic ring to them. All of these forms of verse are presented in the Forest of Arden, rather than in the court. Meanwhile, more than half of the play is written in prose, aptly contrasting the characters’ offhand everyday discourse with their romantic poetic bursts. The texts of these songs are generally relevant to the scene in which they appear or to the play as a whole. The fifth scene of the second act seems to exist exclusively as a framework for the first tune, sung by Amiens, which mentions ‘‘the greenwood tree’’ (2.5.1), ‘‘the sweet bird’s throat’’ (2.5.4), and ‘‘winter and rough weather’’ (2.5.7) and helps establish the woodland setting; Jaques’s subsequent partly nonsensical verse, on the other hand, helps establish his nonconformity. The hunters’ effusively masculine song, with its possibly sexual reference to ‘‘the horn, the horn, the lusty horn’’ (4.2.18), also essentially merits its own scene, highlighting the camaraderie and sense of self-determination fostered by hunting for food together. The song sung by Amiens when Duke Senior welcomes Orlando and Adam, ‘‘Blow, blow, thou winter wind’’ (2.7.174–90), merits particular attention. In each verse, Amiens first invokes the severity of nature in wintertime, then offers as a contrast the greater severity of men toward one another. The winter wind is harsh, but it is ‘‘not so unkind / As man’s ingratitude’’ (175–76); the breath of that wind is ‘‘rude’’ (179), but at least it fails to bite, as does the tooth of man. The chorus affirms this trust in nature and mistrust

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of man, glorifying the ‘‘green holly’’ (180) before stating, ‘‘Most friendship is faining’’—that is, perhaps, both yearning and pretending (‘‘feigning’’)— ‘‘most loving mere folly’’ (181). In the second verse, although the freezing sky stings and warps waters, it is preferred to ‘‘benefits forgot’’ (186) and a ‘‘friend rememb’red not’’ (189). Especially given its location in the play as a whole—at the point when the sorrows of courtly life are being discarded, as food and shelter within the forest have been secured—this song may be interpreted as emblematic of the play as a whole, with its depiction of nature’s rhythms, even when bitter, as preferable to the strife of men.

Marginalization of Plot The plot of As You Like It is perhaps the least important plot in all of Shakespeare’s plays, at least in terms of the consequences of problematic situations and people’s actions. Indeed, the most negative critical comments have come from scholars who perceive carelessness or even indifference in Shakespeare’s fabrication of the plot. Albert Gilman sums up this dearth in his introduction to the play: What is unusual is the extraordinary dispatch with which the plot unfolds. Almost everything that is to happen, happens in the first act . . . . In the ensuing acts Shakespeare scarcely concerns himself with the troubles that were introduced in the first act. Except for three short scenes we are always in Arden, where the dangers we are chiefly aware of are falling in love or being worsted in a discussion.

To close out the play, the two villains are abruptly converted from villainy, and the four couples are very speedily wed—Oliver and Celia before the audience has witnessed one private conversation between them. At certain points, Shakespeare’s offhand treatment of the plot almost escapes attention. When Rosalind, disguised as Ganymede, first chances across Orlando in Arden, she says, ‘‘I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, and under that habit play the knave with him. Do you hear, forester?’’ (3.2.292–94). As the scene moves along, the audience may not even have time to wonder why Rosalind fails to discard her disguise, though nothing is truly preventing her from doing so. Later, when she tries to persuade Orlando to accompany her and be cured of his lovesickness, after expressing mild skepticism that she can do so, he reverses himself and says,


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‘‘Now, by the faith of my love, I will’’ (3.2.418). Thus, despite all her previous questioning about the sincerity of Orlando’s love, Rosalind seems to ignore the fact that he follows her for the express purpose of falling out of love with her; if Orlando follows not to fall out of love but because he has already seen through her disguise, the audience is given no indication of that. Shakespeare’s summary treatment of the play’s action seems above all to reflect that Shakespeare did not intend the plot of the play to be the essence of the play. In effect, limiting plot development allows for the greater development of the characters through casual, unforced, and thus particularly revealing, dialogue. Gilman, in highlighting the primacy of the dialogue and the characters’ relationships in his introduction, playfully asks, ‘‘Who has not looked at his watch during the last act of a well-made plot and sighed to think of the knots still to be untied? We had rather be in Arden where the wicked are converted by fiat and lovers marry in half-dozen lots.’’

Similes With the setting and atmosphere emphasized over the plot of As You Like It, the play depends heavily on imagery, as well as on wordplay introducing that imagery. In her essay ‘‘Image Establishes Atmosphere and Background in the Comedies,’’ Caroline F. E. Spurgeon notes that certain types of comparisons are especially prevalent. Topical similes are those referring to scenes or objects that would have been familiar to the London-based Elizabethan audience. Rosalind’s declaration to Orlando that she would ‘‘weep for nothing, like Diana in the fountain’’ (4.1.146–47) may be a reference to a fountain in the Cheapside district featuring a depiction of that goddess. Other topical similes in the text refer to the types of painted canvases that were hung on walls, the whipping treatment that madmen received, and the work of tavern employees. Sturgeon notes that the prominence of such references reflects the fact that Shakespeare was writing for ‘‘a highly sophisticated town audience, which delights in bouts of sparkling wit, . . . is ever alive to double meanings, and is quick as lightning to seize on and laugh at a local or topical allusion.’’ Similes mentioning animals are also found frequently in the text, more than in any other Shakespearean comedy, further emphasizing the

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natural world. Orlando compares himself to a doe seeking her fawn; Jaques likens himself to a weasel and to a rooster; and Rosalind compares herself to a cock-pigeon. Fittingly, the character who seems to be most in touch with his animal instincts invokes the images of a number of creatures in explaining to Jaques his intent to marry: ‘‘As the ox hath his bow, sir, the horse his curb, and the falcon her bells, so man hath his desires; and as pigeons bill, so wedlock would be nibbling’’ (3.3.76–9). Other natural objects and forces are likewise often brought to the spectators’ attention. Orlando presents the image of a rotten tree; Touchstone that of fruit ripening and rotting; and Jaques that of rank weeds. Mention of the weather, too, serves to enhance the sense of being outdoors, such as when Hymen utters to Touchstone and Audrey, ‘‘You and you are sure together / As the winter to foul weather’’ (5.4.135–36).

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Gender Roles The way Shakespeare addresses gender roles in As You Like It reflects the widespread sexism of the Elizabethan era, and thus the topic merits discussion not only in the fictional but also in the historical context. In his Bedford Companion to Shakespeare, Russ McDonald offers an assessment of the state of gender relations: That women occupied a position subordinate to men in the early modern period is beyond dispute; that this was the ‘natural’ state of affairs was almost beyond dispute. Although the idea is repugnant to modern sensibilities, most thinkers in the sixteenth century took it as axiomatic that men are superior to women.

Indeed, many gendered notions are presented not simply through the opinions of certain characters but as established facts, illustrating for the modern reader the common beliefs of the era. In the course of the discussion on the goddesses Fortune and Nature, Rosalind states, ‘‘the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her gifts to women’’ (1.2.34–5), and Celia agrees, noting that ‘‘those that she makes fair, she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest, she makes very ill-favoredly’’ (1.2.36–8). That is, the story’s leading women evidently see beauty and chastity, which are deemed typically exclusive, as the only female

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qualities worth discussing. Other characteristics attributed to women, as reflected in the play’s dialogue, include ‘‘fear’’ (1.3.117), which Rosalind hopes to hide under man’s apparel, and excessive emotionality; Rosalind feels obliged to suppress her tears when she, Celia, and Touchstone enter the forest in utter exhaustion, and when she faints at the news of Orlando’s wound, Oliver exclaims, ‘‘You a man! You lack a man’s heart’’ (4.3.164–65). Rosalind and Celia refer to the marketability of women—not merely objectifying themselves but even suggesting that they have a quantifiable value—twice later on: Celia notes that if they learn news from Le Beau they will be ‘‘the more marketable’’ (1.2.93), while Rosalind, as Ganymede, tells Phebe, ‘‘Sell when you can, you are not for all markets’’ (3.5.60). This most likely reflects the fact that a potential bride customarily offered a dowry to her suitor, consisting of whatever capital and property her family could afford. The existence of the dowry is also important to consider with respect to the romantic context of the play. McDonald notes, Marriage was part of a system of inheritance and economics so ingrained and pervasive that the emotional affectations or physical desires of a man and woman diminished in importance. This was especially true among the upper classes . . . where marriage was regarded as a convenient instrument for joining or ensuring peace between two powerful families, for consolidating land holdings, or for achieving other familial, financial, or even political ends.

Thus the Forest of Arden is an idealized pastoral setting not only in the immediacy of nature and the absence of the trappings of courtly life but also in the fact that the play’s strictly romantic liaisons, especially between Rosalind and Orlando, might have been impossible in the context of the court. While women of the time were certainly constrained by male perceptions of their femininity, men were perhaps similarly constrained by perceptions of their masculinity. Phebe finds herself falling not for the beseeching, pitiable Silvius but for the coarse, aggressive Ganymede. She states, ‘‘’Tis but a peevish boy; yet he talks well’’ (3.5.110), then adds, ‘‘But sure he’s proud. And yet his pride becomes him. / He’ll make a proper man’’ (3.5.115). Later, in turn, in that Phebe’s letter has ‘‘a boisterous and a cruel style’’ (4.3.32), Rosalind assumes that it must have been ‘‘a man’s invention, and his hand’’

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David Rintoul as Duke Frederick, Martin Herdman as Charles, and David Fielder as Touchstone in Act I, scene ii, Shakespeare’s Globe, London, 1998 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

(4.3.30). Ultimately, however, Shakespeare may have played a significant role in softening the perception of the masculine, if not in hardening the perception of the feminine; Peter B. Erickson offers some enlightening commentary on gender relations of the Elizabethan era as modified by the theater: ‘‘The convention of males playing female roles gives men the opportunity to imagine sex-role fluidity and flexibility. Built into the conditions of performance is the potential for male acknowledgment of a ‘feminine self’ and thus for male transcendence of a narrow masculinity.’’ In that they did not themselves appear on the stage, women were not truly given the same opportunity to test the boundaries of their gender roles.

milieus perhaps perceiving one another as virtual foreigners. Shakespeare drew on these differences heavily in As You Like It, juxtaposing aristocrats and philosophers from the upper echelons of the dukedom like Jaques and Touchstone with simplistic woodland folk like William and Audrey. The conversations between the educated and the uneducated are some of the most comical of the play. Overall, the importance of the setting may have been relatively small, as the stage would not have been decorated with any backdrop or props conjuring the feel of the forest; only the actors’ words and costumes and the spectators’ imaginations would have placed the action in the fictional forest. Further, Shakespeare focuses foremost on the love stories, not on the practicalities of forest life.

Rural Life While the term urban would not be coined until 1619, at the beginning of the seventeenth century London was without doubt an essentially urban locale, with a total population of some two hundred thousand. Thus life in the city would have been remarkably different from life in the countryside, with the residents of the respective


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The English Satirists The character of Jaques has been recognized not only as a fairly common Elizabethan literary personage—the traveler who has returned home to be generally discontented with life—but also as a representative of a group of satirists writing during Shakespeare’s lifetime. Englishmen who had

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

within the confines of greater civilization revolve around the precise passage of time. In the age of cell phones, digital signals ensure that the time shown on displays is exactly correct. Many people, especially those involved in the business world, carry watches to ensure their awareness of the hour and their ability to arrive at certain places at certain times. Perhaps especially in the wilderness, most people are careful to bring timepieces so as to know the nearness of sunset and not be caught in the dark.

Elizabethan era: Marriages are often conducted not for the sake of love but for the sake of money, property, or even reputation. Especially among the upper classes, brides brought substantial dowries to their husbands, and the consolidation of wealth between two families could shape political alliances. By law, firstborn sons always inherited the estate of the father, where in families with no sons, the firstborn daughter inherited the estate—to be passed on to her future husband. Modern era: Marriages among most people in most Western countries are conducted for the sake of the romantic interests of the two parties. Personal wills, rather than estate laws, govern the passing of property and capital from the deceased to their descendants, such that a marriage is no guarantee of earning a substantial inheritance. Still, people occasionally marry more for the sake of money than for the sake of love; some notorious modern cases include those in which the very young have married the very old, if not the dying.

Elizabethan era: In 1599, by royal order some satires were removed from circulation and the future publication of satires was banned outright. Consequently, the demolition of London playhouses was ordered.

Elizabethan era: With portable clocks still large enough to be cumbersome and only accurate to the nearest fifteen minutes, the passage of time cannot be conceived of definitely. People would not carry timepieces on their person—except sundials, such as the one Touchstone pulls from his pocket while speaking with Jaques. A forested area would truly have no clocks about; people familiar with courtly life might have appreciated that absence of timepieces. Modern era: Clocks are constructed in all shapes and sizes, analog and digital, and are everywhere. Virtually all activities conducted

Modern era: While laws against libel and slander prevent fabricated and hurtful accusations against any individuals, honest and biting commentaries are allowed in almost all forms of media. However, in certain media the content conveyed to audiences is regulated outside the legal system by entities other than governmental ones; for example, television programs are largely sponsored by advertisers and if advertising dollars cannot be raised, programs cannot be broadcast, meaning that corporate commercial interests often control the kinds of information and images available to television viewers. In media realms where the audiences pay the bulk of revenues, content is usually tailored to a target audience. The advent of the Internet and the widespread production of personal Web sites has both increased and distilled the dissemination of ideas and information.

availed themselves of the satiric format to address the era’s social conditions included John Davies, John Harington, Ben Jonson, Thomas Bastard,

and John Weaver. An order put forth by the monarchy on June 1, 1599, called for the burning of many satirical works and banned any future

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production of work of that genre. Shakespearean scholars have assumed that when Celia states, ‘‘Since the little wit that fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have makes a great show’’ (1.2.85–7), the line is meant to refer to the 1599 order.

As quoted in the same volume, the English scholar Nathan Drake notes, ‘‘Though this play, with the exception of the disguise and self-discovery of Rosalind, may be said to be destitute of plot, it is yet one of the most delightful of the dramas of Shakespeare.’’ He goes on to observe:

One characteristic of the English satirists was that they restricted their commentary to impersonal, generic claims, such that they could not be accused of targeting any individuals in particular. In expressing his desire to become a fool so as to safely comment on society’s ills, Jaques notes that he would not ‘‘tax any private party’’ (2.7.71) but would speak broadly and allow anyone who has done wrong to suit ‘‘his folly to the mettle of my speech’’ (2.7.82). In his text Shakespeare’s Satire, Oscar James Campbell offers a succinct description of what the author may have intended to communicate to his audiences through his depiction of Jaques: ‘‘Shakespeare’s ridicule of Jaques . . . is amused disapproval of the headlong moral ardor which the satirists in both poem and play felt or pretended to feel. Such a temper, Shakespeare says, is ridiculous and utterly destructive to the comic spirit.’’

From the forest of Arden, from that wild wood of oaks, . . . from the bosom of sequestered glens and pathless solitudes, has the poet called forth lessons of the most touching and consolatory wisdom . . . . The effect of such scenery, on the lover of nature, is to take full possession of the soul, to absorb its very faculties, and, through the charmed imagination, to convert the workings of the mind into the sweetest sensations of the heart, into the joy of grief, into a thankful endurance of adversity, into the interchange of the tenderest affections.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Critical commentary on As You Like It over the centuries has tended to focus on two facts: first, that the plot itself is thin and treated perhaps with excessive haste by its author, and, second, that the essence of the play—ruminations on love, time, and nature—is certainly best conveyed in the context of a play that treats the plot in just such an offhand fashion. Different critics, then, have weighed the importance of these two factors differently. As quoted in The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, edited by Howard Staunton, the German scholar August von Schlegel perceived the play quite positively, summarily remarking: Throughout the whole picture, it seems to be the poet’s design to show that to call forth the poetry which has its indwelling in nature and the human mind, nothing is wanted but to throw off all artificial constraint, and restore both to mind and nature their original liberty. In the very progress of the piece, the dreamy carelessness of such an existence is sensibly expressed: it is even alluded to by Shakespeare in the title.


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In his introduction to the play, Albert Gilman notes, ‘‘Some critics have complained of inconsistencies in the plotting,’’ as the length of time for which Duke Senior has been banished and the respective heights of Rosalind and Celia are referred to differently in different passages. Also, Shakespeare has perhaps for no good reason given the name of Jaques to both the melancholy philosopher and the brother of Oliver and Orlando. Regarding this fact, Helen Gardner notes: It seems possible that the melancholy Jaques began as this middle son and that his melancholy was in origin a scholar’s melancholy. If so, the character changed as it developed, and by the time that Shakespeare had fully conceived his cynical spectator he must have realized that he could not be kin to Oliver and Orlando. The born solitary must have no family: Jaques seems the quintessential only child.

Gilman adds, ‘‘These bits of carelessness, if that is what they are, are not unusual in Shakespeare and not peculiar to this play.’’ Gilman does note that another cause for critical concern is the lack of psychological complexity: ‘‘The motives of the chief characters in As You Like It are as simple and abrupt as the action of the play, and they could surely be put in evidence by those who think the play a piece of indifferent craftsmanship.’’ A somewhat comically negative take on the work can be found in George Bernard Shaw’s play entitled The Dark Lady of the Sonnets. Gilman quotes a scene in which the character of Will Shakespeare remarks to Queen Elizabeth: I have also stole from a book of idle wanton tales two of the most damnable foolishness in

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the world, in the one of which a woman goeth in man’s attire and maketh impudent love to her swain, who pleaseth the groundlings by overthrowing a wrestler . . . . I have writ these to save my friends from penury, yet shewing my scorn for such follies and for them that praise them by calling the one As You Like It, meaning that it is not as I like it.

Helen Gardner sums up the appeal of As You Like It by calling it ‘‘a play to please all tastes.’’ After citing the simple asset of the romantic aspect of the tale, she observes: For the learned and literary this is one of Shakespeare’s most allusive plays, uniting old traditions and playing with them lightly . . . . As You Like It is the most refined and exquisite of the comedies, the one which is most consistently played over by a delighted intelligence. It is Shakespeare’s most Mozartian comedy.

CRITICISM Steven Doloff Doloff examines the allusions to classical mythology found in As You Like It. Among these are three references to oak trees that recall classical mythology by linking the character of Orlando to the Greek mythological hero Hercules. The critic points out that oak trees are symbolically associated with the god Jupiter (also called Jove) of Roman mythology. Richard Knowles has argued that many of the numerous allusions to classical mythology in Shakespeare’s As You Like It join together to form thematically suggestive patterns. (1) Incorporated into one such pattern, identified by Knowles as linking the character of Orlando to the mythological figure of Hercules, are two references to oaks, trees symbolically associated with Jove. (2) A third oak reference in the play, however, and one which extends this Orlando/ Hercules pattern, seems to have been overlooked by Knowles. The first of the oak references is in Rosalind’s response to Celia’s description of Orlando lying ‘‘under a tree like a dropped acorn’’ (3.2.231).(3) Knowles suggests that Rosalind’s observation, ‘‘It may well be called Jove’s tree, when it drops/ such fruit’’ (3.2.232–3), echoes a more explicit Orlando/Hercules association that she has made earlier (1.2.198) by indirectly alluding here to Hercules’ being the son, or metaphorical fruit of the god Jove.(4) Knowles’s second Jovian oak

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reference lies in Oliver’s identification of ‘‘ . . . an old oak, whose boughs were moss’d with age / And high top bald with dry antiquity’’ (4.3.104–5) (5) as the site of Orlando’s victory over a snake and a lion. Beneath this arboreal symbol of the father, Jove, Orlando reenacts versions of the first and second famous labors of the son, Hercules, the defeat of the Nemean lion and the snakelike Lernaean Hydra.(6) The overlooked, third Jovian oak reference precedes the other two and appears to suggest Orlando’s symbolic reenactment of Hercules’ third famous labor, the capture in Arcadia of Diana’s sacred stag.(7) It occurs in the reported observation of Jaques lying: Under an oak, whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood, To the which place a poor sequester’d stag, That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish (2.1.31–35) Although the wounded deer in this passage ostensibly provides Jaques with an occasion to bemoan man’s inhumanity to beasts, its specific location, under an ‘‘antique’’ oak, suggests mythological ties with the play’s other two conspicuous oak tree references. In this light, the defeated hart [sic] may be seen as an allusion to Hercules’ victory over Diana’s hart [sic] and, punningly, Orlando’s victory over Rosalind’s heart. This specific punning link between Hercules’ third labor and Orlando’s effect upon Rosalind may be found in the play elsewhere. Knowles detects it in Rosalind’s further comments upon Celia’s report of Orlando under the tree. Associated herself with Diana earlier in the same scene (3.2.2–4), Rosalind jests that Orlando’s hunter’s garb indicates that ‘‘he comes to kill my heart!’’ (3.2.242). It may appear more faintly suggested as well in a syllepsis-like construction used by Rosalind in the scene immediately preceding the one containing the wounded hart [sic] under the oak. Describing her intended masculine disguise as Ganymede, she imagines: A boar-spear in my hand, and in my heart, Lie there what hidden women’s fear there will. (1.3.114–15)

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It would seem that in a play in which the name of Jove is invoked seven times, and in which specific reference is made to his sacred tree, we would do well to stop before certain ‘‘antique’’ oaks in the forest of Arden and, as Duke Senior advises, consider what they have to say (2.1.16).

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BOTH FORTUNE AND NATURE, THEN, ARE ABBREVIATED TERMS TO EPITOMIZE THE KINDS OF WORLDS REPRESENTED BY FREDERICK’S ON THE ONE

Source: Steven Doloff, ‘‘Shakespeare’s As You Like It. (William Shakespeare),’’ in The Explicator, Vol. 51, No. 3, Spring 1993, pp. 143–146.

HAND AND THE FOREST’S ON THE OTHER.’’

John A. Hart

He has taken his brother’s place as Duke, exiled him with many of his followers, seized their lands for his own, and now rules. His highhanded behavior is illustrated by his usurpation of his brother’s dukedom, his immediate displeasure at Orlando, the sudden dismissal of Rosalind, the quick seizure of Oliver’s lands. What is most characteristic of his power is that it is arbitrary; neither reason nor law seems to control it.

Hart maintains that Shakespeare depicts two contrasting worlds in As You Like It: Duke Frederick’s court, which is governed by Fortune, and Arden forest, which is dominated by Nature. Here, Fortune signifies not only power and material wealth, but the greed and envy that results from possessing them. By comparison, Nature reflects a more virtuous order that promotes humanity’s higher qualities. According to Hart, the corrupt court gradually becomes absorbed by the more harmonious world of Arden until it disappears from the play altogether. The critic ultimately asserts that those characters who have assimilated the lessons from both worlds—significantly, Rosalind, Orlando, and Duke Senior—emerge from the forest at the end of the play to redeem the degenerate court, replacing it with a more balanced and harmonious order. As You Like It presents an ideal world, just as The Merchant of Venice did. The Forest of Arden has as much romance, as many delightful lovers, more laughter and joy. Like A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Merchant of Venice, it is built by means of two worlds: the world ruled by Duke Frederick and the world of the Forest of Arden. The effect is not the ‘‘separate but equal’’ envelope structure of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, nor the interlocking and necessary alternation of The Merchant of Venice; instead, Frederick’s world first seems dominant and then dissolves and disappears into the world of Arden. Its life seems to be in the play not so much for itself as to help us understand and read its successor. We have seen power presented in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Merchant of Venice. In the former, Theseus rules according to judgment or reason; in the latter the Duke of Venice rules according to the laws of the city. Frederick’s world is like neither of these. Frederick is in complete command of his court.


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When we look for his motives, we discover two kinds. His greed for power and possessions is obvious. But personal attitudes are just as strong. He treats Orlando rudely because he is the son of Sir Rowland de Boys, an old enemy of his. He comes to hate Rosalind, giving as his reasons that he does not trust her, that she is her father’s daughter, that his own daughter’s prestige suffers by comparison; all these are half-hearted rationalizations rooted in jealousy and envy. Frederick’s behavior is echoed if not matched by Oliver’s treatment of his brother Orlando and of his servant Adam. Oliver demeans and debases his younger brother; he plots his serious injury and later his death. He acts ignobly toward his faithful household servant Adam. Again, the motivations are mixed. He states explicitly that he wants Orlando’s share of their father’s bequest. But, beyond that, he wants to get rid of Orlando out of envy, out of fear of comparison made by others: . . . my soul (yet I know not why) hates nothing more than he. Yet he’s gentle, never school’d and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly belov’d, and indeed so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him that I am altogether mispris’d. [I. i. 165–71]

Thus, ‘‘tyrant Duke’’ and ‘‘tyrant brother’’ are described in tandem, public and private

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images of the same behavior. They have the power; they control their world; they do not fear disapproval or reprisal. Charles the wrestler, Lebeau and other lords surrounding Frederick, however many reservations they may have about the morality of their leaders, do not dare to question their authority. They have their own positions to protect. Those chiefly harmed by the ruthless domination of these men are Orlando and Rosalind. They have committed no fault but they are hated. Their presence too gives definition to Frederick’s world. Orlando has virtue, grace, beauty, and strength. Rosalind is beautiful, intelligent, virtuous, honest. Their action, their reputations, the loyalty they command all testify to these wonders. Yet both of them are conscious of what they do not have—their proper place and heritage in this world. Orlando feels deeply his brother’s injury in depriving him of his education and his place in the household. Rosalind is sad at her father’s banishment and then indignant at her own dismissal. Both are too virtuous to think of revenge; but they are fully aware that they are being wronged. Having all the graces, they are nevertheless dispossessed of their rightful positions. Yet, these two have their own power. When they leave Frederick’s world, they draw after them others, too loyal, too loving to remain behind. Celia, meant to profit from her counsin’s departure, follows Rosalind into banishment without question or remorse. She has already promised that what her father took from Rosalind’s father by force, ‘‘I will render thee again in affection’’ [I. ii. 20–1]. And when the test occurs soon after, she meets it at once. In her, love triumphs hands down over possession and prestige. Her example is followed by the Clown. Not only will he ‘‘go along o’er the wide world’’ [I. iii. 132] with Celia out of loyalty to her; he has also, in Frederick’s world, lost place just as Rosalind has. There ‘‘fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly’’ [I. ii. 86–7]. Since he has lost his usefulness as a fool, he may as well leave with Celia and Rosalind. These gifted models of humanity, Rosalind and Orlando, draw out of Frederick’s world the loving, the truthful, the loyal. Frederick and Oliver, seeking to control and ultimately to crush their enemies, only succeed in driving away other worthwhile characters with them.

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The world of Frederick is simply in structure. The powerful control, but they envy the virtuous; the virtuous attract, but they want to have their rightful place. Those in authority triumph in their own terms, but things happen to them in the process. They turn against each other—Frederick would devour Oliver as he has so many others. Their world, as it grows more violent, diminishes in importance until it disappears altogether. The virtuous are undefeated though displaced. In contrast to the specific placing of Frederick’s world, the Forest reaches beyond the bounds of any particular place, any specific time. Its setting is universalized nature. All seasons exist simultaneously. Duke Senior speaks of ‘‘the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind’’ [II. i. 6–7]; but Orlando pins verses to ‘‘a palm tree,’’ ‘‘abuses our young plants with carving,’’ and ‘‘hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on brambles’’ [III. ii. 360–62]; and Rosalind and Celia live at the ‘‘tuft of olives.’’ Again, Orlando does not wish to leave Adam ‘‘in the bleak air’’; but in the next scene Jacques has met a fool who ‘‘bask’d him in the sun.’’ The songs continue this mixture: ‘‘Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather’’ [II. v. 6–8] alongside ‘‘the greenwood tree’’ and ‘‘the sweet bird’s throat’’ [II. v. 1, 4] both in the same song, or the alternation between the ‘‘winter wind’’ [II. vii. 174] and the ‘‘spring time, the only pretty ring time’’ [V. iii. 19], dominant notes in two other songs. If the Forest is not to be defined in season, neither is it limited to any particular place. The variety of trees already indicates this; the variety of creatures supports it: sheep, deer, a green and gilded snake, a lioness. Meek and domestic creatures live with the untamed and fierce. Yet the Forest is more than an outdoors universalized, which largely accommodates itself to the mood and attitude of its human inhabitants. It is a setting in which the thoughts and images of those who wander through it expand and reach out to the animate, as if the Forest were alive with spirits taken for granted by everyone. Even so mundane a pair as Touchstone and Audrey, discussing her attributes—unpoetical, honest, foul—assign these gifts to the gods. Orlando, who is able at first meeting Rosalind only to utter ‘‘Heavenly Rosalind,’’ is suddenly release to write expansive verses in praise of her, some of which place her in a spiritual context:

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. . . heaven Nature charg’d That one body should be fill’d With all graces wide-enlarg’d . . . Thus Rosalind on many parts By heavenly synod was devis’d . . . [III. ii. 141–43, 149–50] Phoebe seconds his view by giving Rosalind qualities beyond the human: Art thou god to shepherd turn’d, That a maiden’s heart hath burn’d? . . . Why, thy godhead laid apart, Warr’st thou with a woman’s heart? [IV. iii. 40–1, 44–5] But in addition to mind-expanding qualities, the Forest produces some real evidence of its extraordinary powers. Oliver, upon his first appearance in the Forest, is beset by the green and gilded snake (of envy?) and by the lioness (of power?), but when these two are conquered, his whole behavior changes. And Frederick, intent on destroying his brother, meets an ‘‘old religious man’’ and After some question with him, was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world. [V. iv. 161–62] And these events harmonize with Rosalind’s producing Hymen, the god of weddings, to perform the ceremony and bless the four pairs of lovers. The Forest is a world of all outdoors, of all dimensions of man’s better nature, of contact with man’s free imagination and magical happenings. The Forest has still another quality in its setting. It is not timeliness but it reflects the slow pace and the unmeasurable change of the earth. The newcomers notice the difference from the world outside. Orlando comments that ‘‘there’s no clock in the forest’’ [III. ii. 300–01]; Rosalind tells us ‘‘who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal’’ [III. ii. 309–11]. And Touchstone, as reported by Jaques, suggests the uselessness of measuring changes in the Forest by the clock: ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill be eleven, And so from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale. [II. vii. 24–8]


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But the qualities of the setting are only part of what goes into the definition of the Forest world. The natives to the Forest make their contributions as well. Corin and Silvius and Phoebe, Audrey and William and Sir Oliver Martext all appear, without seeming consequence or particular plot relevance, put there to show off different dimensions of the Forest, to strike their attitudes, to stand in contrast with the characters newly come from another world, and then, like the deer and the sheep and the snake and the lioness, to retire into the Forest again until or unless called upon by their visitors. In all these natives there is a non-critical quality, an innocence, a lack of competitiveness that suits well with the Forest world and helps to describe it. But Shakespeare gives us still other ways of distinguishing this world from Frederick’s. Early in the play Celia and Rosalind engage in idle banter about the two goddesses, Fortune and Nature, who share equally in the lives of men. Fortune ‘‘reigns in gifts of the world,’’ Rosalind says, ‘‘not in the lineaments of Nature’’ [I. ii. 41–2]. It is a shorthand way of distinguishing the Forest world from Frederick’s. Frederick’s world is a world of Fortune, from which the children of Nature are driven. Power, possession, lands, titles, authority over others characterize that world, and men to live there must advance their careers or maintain their positions in spite of everything. The Forest world is completely Nature’s. In its natives the idleness, the lack of ambition and combativeness, the carelessness about ownership and possession, the interest in the present moment without plan for the future, all are signs of a Fortune-less world. Instead there is awareness of the gifts inherent from birth in the individual, no matter how untalented or unhandsome (Audrey’s response to her foulness or William’s self-satisfaction, for instance). These are ‘‘the lineaments of Nature,’’ the basic materials of one’s being. In the Forest, the natives neither can nor aspire to change them. And the qualities of the setting—universality, gradual rather than specific change, a linkage between the outdoors world and a projected though perhaps imaginary supernatural, these too are compatible with the world of Nature, Fortune having been removed. Both Fortune and Nature, then, are abbreviated terms to epitomize the kinds of worlds represented by Frederick’s on the one hand and the Forest’s on the other.

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One further means of defining the Forest world emerges with the character of Jaques. He has been in the outside world, but he has chosen the Forest and he is its most eloquent spokesman. He is the personification of the speculative man. He will not react when Orlando threatens his life: ‘‘And you will not be answer’d with reason, I must die’’ [II. vii. 100–01]. He will not dance or rejoice in the final scene. He would prevent action in others if he could. He weeps that the Duke’s men kill the deer, he would keep Orlando from marring the trees with his poems, he advises Touchstone not to ‘‘be married under a bush like a beggar’’ [III. iii. 84]. He is like the natives of the Forest, ambitionless, fortuneless, directionless. Duke Senior, like Jaques, has had experience in both worlds. He too is being ‘‘philosophical.’’ Their life in the Forest Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in every thing. [II. i. 16–17] He and his men ‘‘fleet the time carelessly, as they did in the golden world’’ [I. i. 118–19]. But for the Duke and his men, it is only play-acting. They appear in one scene as Foresters, in another as outlaws. He himself has lost his name: he is Duke Senior, not specifically named like Frederick. More than that, he has nothing serious to do. While his brother is seizing Oliver’s lands and organizing a search for his daughter and seeking to destroy him, he is contemplating a deer hunt or asking for Jaques to dispute with or feasting or asking someone to sing. Duke Senior has no function to perform; he cannot be a Duke except in title. All the philosophical consolations he may offer himself and his men cannot alleviate the loss he feels at being usurped and banished by his brother. Touchstone’s is the outsider’s view of the Forest. His responses are the touchstones which set off the Forest natives most clearly. As Jaques is the ‘‘official’’ voice of the Forest, Touchstone is the ‘‘official’’ voice of the world outside. The Forest is liberating for the newly arrived lovers, too. Oliver is freed from the burden of envy and absorption with power; and as a consequence he and Celia can fall immediately in love. So satisfying is it that Oliver would give up his possessions to Orlando and live a shepherd’s

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life forever. Celia has assumed the name Aliena, left her father’s court so completely that she never thinks of him again, and falls utterly in love when she meets the reformed Oliver. She has never been tied to the idea of possession or prestige and so she is easily open to the lures of the Forest. Whereas Oliver’s and Celia’s love experience is muted, described rather than dramatized, Orlando’s and Rosalind’s is the heart of the play. Orlando, idle in the Forest and ‘‘loveshak’d,’’ expresses his love for the lost Rosalind by writing passionate verses for her and hanging them on the trees; later he plays the game of wooing the young man Ganymed as if he were his Rosalind. He makes his protestations of love, he makes pretty speeches of admiration, he takes part in the mock-marriage ceremony, he promises to return to his wooing by a certain time. But his playing the game of courtship is as nothing compared to the game of deception and joyful play that Rosalind, safe in her disguise as Ganymed, engages in when she is with him. Her spirits soar and her imagination and wit expatiate freely and delightedly on the subject of men in love, on their looks, on their behavior, on the cure of their disease, and then specifically on Orlando’s mad humor of love, on how he could woo, on how he can be cured through the lore she (he) acquired from the ‘‘old religious uncle.’’ The Forest gives both of them an opportunity to play parts free of the restraints that might accompany acknowledged wooing. But though their fanciful indulgence leads them to forget the rest of the world—Rosalind cries out, ‘‘But what talk we of fathers, when there is such a man as Orlando?’’ [III. iv. 38–9]— the play is only play and basically incompatible with their real natures. Orlando’s behavior outside and in the Forest suggests responsibility, suggests need for significant action. To him the Forest is a ‘‘desert inaccessible’’ and those in it. ‘‘Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time’’ [II. vii. 110, 112]; he himself will keep appointments with Duke Senior, he will care for his loyal servant Adam, he will save his brother’s endangered life. He has a general distaste for the company of the speculative Jaques, and he finally gives up the wooing game entirely: ‘‘I can live no longer by thinking’’ [V. ii. 50]. He is Nature’s child, but he insists on living by Fortune’s standards.

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And Rosalind is even more emphatic in the attitudes founded in the outside world. Her first act in coming into the Forest is to buy a sheepcote; she uses the imagery of the market place when she is judging others: ‘‘Sell when you can, you are not for all markets’’ [III. v. 60], she says to Phoebe; ‘‘I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then to have seen much, and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands’’ [IV. i. 22–5], she says to Jaques. With Silvius and Phoebe, she has small patience. To him she says, ‘‘Wilt thou love such a woman? What, to make thee an instrument, and play false strains upon thee? . . . I see love hath made thee a tame snake’’ [IV. iii. 67–8, 69–70]. The natives receive short shrift from her, but she herself is in the depths of love for Orlando, and in her playing with Orlando partly mocks her own condition. Given the characteristics of the Forest world, given the attachments of Duke Senior, Touchstone, Orlando, and Rosalind to the outside world, the resolution of the play can be foreseen. Under the spell of the Forest, pretended marriage takes place between Orlando and Rosalind (as Ganymed) with Celia officiating. Marriage almost takes place between Touchstone and Audrey with Martext officiating. In the last scene, all four couples are married in the only way possible in the Forest, by the appearance of Hymen, god of marriage, to perform the ceremony: ‘‘Then is there mirth in heaven, When earthly things made even Atone together’’ [V. iv. 108–10]. Hymen joins the lovers and reintroduces the Duke to his Daughter: ‘‘Good Duke, receive thy daughter, Hymen from heaven brought her . . . ’’ [V. iv. 111–12]. He thus re-establishes the father-daughter relationship first devised through his means at Rosalind’s birth. The hiatus caused by the Duke’s exile and by the disguises in the Forest is broken and the societal structure of father and daughter is made clear once again. With the appearance of Touchstone another relationship is given social standing. When he is introduced to Duke Senior by Jaques, Touchstone immediately resumes his professional position as fool. His comment on the life of the courtier, his long argument on ‘‘the quarrel on the seventh cause’’ is appreciated by the Duke: ‘‘I like him very well’’; ‘‘By my faith, he is very swift and sententious’’; ‘‘He uses his folly like a stalkinghorse, and under the presentation of that he


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shoots his wit’’ [V. iv. 53, 62–3, 106–07]. A rapport is established between them which suggests that Duke will be Duke and master again and Fool will be Fool and servant. A final relationship is re-established among the sons of Rowland de Boys. Through its magic the Forest has brought Orlando and Oliver together. Now a third brother appears, carrier of the news of Frederick’s resignation—‘‘His crown bequeathing to his banish’d brother’’ [V. iv. 163]—and agent for restoring his own brothers to the outside world. His coming not only reunites all three but makes a necessary link to the outside world for them. It also sounds an echo: Charles the Wrestler sought advancement and distinction by breaking the ribs of three of his victims, all brothers. That was a symbol of the way power broke blood relationships in Frederick’s world—Frederick with his niece and daughter, Oliver with his brother. Now separated families are reunited and friends. But they have not yet left the Forest. Duke Senior’s speech assuming his authority shows that he is in command of both the Forest world and his former Dukedom and that each of them is part of his experience and momentarily under his perfect control. Duke Senior’s reference to the lands which will be given to the brothers is balanced and ambiguous: Welcome, young man; Thou offer’st fairly to thy brothers’ wedding: To one his lands withheld, and to the other A land itself at large, a potent dukedom. [V. iv. 166–69] To Oliver, the lands taken from him by Frederick are returned; to Orlando, his son-inlaw, the heritage of his dukedom is given. Yet there is just a suspicion that the gifts might be directed the other way: to Orlando, whose lands have been taken from him by Oliver, will be returned his father’s lands; to Oliver, the Forest world where he has determined to remain; for the Forest is without a ruler and without bounds, a place where he who does not have to own or possess anything may feel himself a powerful ruler. This distinction between the brothers is followed by a statement of the Duke’s own intention in regard to the Forest and the world outside it: First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were well begun and well begot; And after, every of this happy number,

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That have endur’d shrewd days and nights with us, Shall share the good of our returned fortune, According to the measure of their states. [V. iv. 170–75] By ‘‘those ends,’’ presumably, he means the marriages which have been the contribution and the fruit of the Forest world. Then his attention will be turned to the world outside the forest, where they will enjoy their ‘‘returned fortune, According to the measure of their states.’’ Place and prestige are implied here, possession a necessary element. Both Forest and his Dukedom are in his mind and paired. And the retention of both worlds continues right to the end when he repeats the words fall and measure once to apply them to Nature’s world and once to apply them to Fortune’s: Mean time, forget this new-fall’n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music, and you brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heap’d in joy, to th’ measures fall. [V. iv. 176–79]

Source: John A. Hart, ‘‘As You Like It: The Worlds of Fortune and Nature,’’ in Dramatic Structure in Shakespeare’s Romantic Comedies, Carnegie-Mellon University Press, 1980, pp. 81–97.

Nancy K. Hayles In the excerpt below, Hayles discusses Shakespeare’s use of sexual disguise in As You Like It. The critic argues that this device is developed in distinct stages: first, Rosalind assumes layers of disguise for the journey to Arden, then the layers are slowly removed as she gradually renounces the role of Ganymede, and finally they are eliminated altogether when the heroine abandons her disguise to marry Orlando. The layering-on movement, Hayles contends, suggests selfish control and creates conflict in the play, while the removal of layers fosters reconciliation. Moreover, the critic remarks, this unlayering allows Rosalind to convey her true personality to Orlando, which ultimately supplants his idealized notion of her. Hayles also explores how Shakespeare extended the pattern of sexual disguise and unlayering to the play’s epilogue.

‘‘New-fall’n’’ applies to his returned Dukedom, ‘‘fall’’ applies to the current Forest life. ‘‘Measure heap’d in joy’’ could apply to both worlds, but it recalls for us ‘‘the measure of their states’’ and the assumption of rank and position looked upon as normal in Fortune’s world; the final ‘‘measures’’ refers to the dance they will do in the Forest. We are left, after this balanced holding of both worlds at once, with the departure of Jaques and with the dance which is the sign of the harmony of the moment. The Epilogue is all that marks the return to the workaday world, spoken by the boy who has played Rosalind. He has gone from the heights of role-playing—this boy playing Rosalind playing Ganymed playing Rosalind— step by step back down the ladder of fantasy to speak directly to the men and women in the audience before him. He speaks of attraction between the sexes, of possible kisses, of the need for appreciation and applause. It is not the Forest nor the Duke’s realm. It is the theater, the living reality of the image used so extensively in the play.

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Hymen, Duke Frederick, and the lovers in Act V, scene iv, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 2000 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)


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Source: Nancy K. Hayles, ‘‘Sexual Disguise in As You Like It and Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakesperian Study and Production, Cambridge University Press, Vol. 32, 1979, pp. 63–72.

Brigid Brophy Brigid Brophy surveys the elements of pastoralism in As You Like It (pastoralism is a literary form that presents an ideal and virtuous vision of rustic life). In addition, the critic discusses the comedy in relation to its source, Thomas Lodge’s novel Rosalynde. Brophy asserts that among the play’s most moving aspects are Shakespeare’s brilliant dramatization of the romantic love affair between Orlando and Rosalind and the bond of friendly love exhibited by Rosalind and Celia.

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Source: Brigid Brophy, ‘‘As You Like Shakespeare,’’ in The Listener, Vol. 100, No. 2591, December 21–28, 1978, pp. 837–38.

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Jay L. Halio Halio describes time’s two functions in As You Like It: first, as a foil whose two extremes— timelessness and time-consciousness—favourably contrast virtuous rustic life in Arden with dissolute court life, and second, as timelessness alone, as a link between life in the present and life in an earlier, less corrupt, generally better time. The critic maintains that Shakespeare perceives the city and court to be ruthless and degenerate, threatening places from which Arden’s timeless world is a refuge, a world where past and present merge and people flourish. Surveying the dramatic and thematic juxtapositions of these two worlds, Halio especially focuses on Rosalind’s awareness of time; he notes how, unlike Touchstone’s fascination with time’s power to ripen things and rot them, Rosalind is strongly influenced by time’s regenerative power, particularly as it concerns lovers. In As You Like It Shakespeare exploits timelessness as a convention of the pastoral ideal along with other conventions taken from pastoralism, but unlike his treatment, say, of Silvius and Phebe, his treatment of time is not so thoroughly satirical. Though neither will quite do, timelessness in Arden (on the whole) contrasts favorably to the time-consciousness of court and city life which Touchstone, for example, brings to the forest. In addition, timelessness links life in Arden with the ideal of an older, more gracious way of life that helps regenerate a corrupt present. Orlando’s first speech immediately voices several aspects of the time theme. Speaking to Adam, he recalls his father’s will and its provision that Oliver, the eldest son, should educate the younger brothers. This Oliver has failed to do, at least with respect to Sir Rowland’s youngest son; but despite his enforced rusticity, Orlando reveals an innate gentility so wonderful that even his tyrannical brother is brought to remark: ‘‘Yet he’s gentle, never schooled, and yet learned, full of noble device, of all sorts enchantingly beloved . . . ’’ [I. i. 166–68]. These innate qualities derive directly from old Sir Rowland, for the identification between Orlando and his father, as we shall see, is repeatedly and pointedly made. Moreover, Orlando twice remarks in this scene that it is his father’s spirit within him that prompts him to revolt against his present humiliation—a revelation which has more than ordinary implications later. Unlike his counterpart Sir John of Bordeaux in Lodge’s Rosalynde, Sir Rowland de Boys is


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IF ORLANDO, AS WE HAVE SEEN, IS AN AGENT OF REGENERATION, HE APPEARS THROUGH HIS FORGETFULNESS OF TIME TO BE IN SOME DANGER OF NOT REALIZING HIS FUNCTION.’’

dead before the play opens, but his memory is kept studiously alive. In the opening lines of Lodge’s novel we can get some idea of what he stood for: There dwelled adjoining to the city of Bordeaux a knight of most honorable parentage, whom fortune had graced with many favors, and nature honored with sundry exquisite qualities, so beautified with the excellence of both, as it was a question whether fortune or nature were more prodigal in deciphering the riches of their bounties. Wise he was, as holding in his head a supreme conceit of policy, reaching with Nestor into the depth of all civil government; and to make his wisdom more gracious, he had that salem ingenii and pleasant eloquence that was so highly commended in Ulysses: his valor was no less than his wit, nor the stroke of his lance no less forcible than the sweetness of his tongue was persuasive; for he was for his courage chosen the principal of all the Knights of Malta.

But we need not go outside the play to discover what Sir Rowland represents. Adam, the old retainer of the de Boys household and himself a living remember of the former age, provides some important clues. When Oliver apparently consents to his brother’s departure, he throws Adam out, too: OLIVER: Get you with him, you old dog. ADAM: Is ‘‘old dog’’ my reward? Most true, I have lost teeth in your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke such a word. [I. i. 81–4]

Later, when Adam warns Orlando to run from Oliver’s treachery and even offers his life’s savings—and his life—to assist in the escape, Orlando recognizes the gesture for what it is— the product of a gracious ideal: O good old man, how well in thee appears

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The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. It is not so with thee. [II. iii. 56–62] The two dukes also furnish evidence of the esteem in which Sir Rowland was universally held: Duke Frederick, villainously, found him an enemy, but Duke Senior (to Rosalind’s evident gratification) ‘‘loved Sir Rowland as his soul’’ [I. ii. 235]. Orlando, who functions in the play partly to bear out the spirit of his father, naturally attracts similar feelings. It is not for nothing that he attaches to himself repeatedly the clumsy-naive epithet ‘‘old Sir Rowland’s youngest son’’ [I. iii. 28]; besides, his name is both as anagram of Rowland and its Italian translation. The predicament in which the young man eventually discovers himself will test his true mettle and, more importantly, the worth of all that he and his name may symbolize. Adam awakens in him some sense of his plight when Orlando returns home after throwing Charles the wrestler: O you memory Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here? Why are you so virtuous? Why do people love you? And wherefore are you gentle, strong, and valiant? Why would you be so fond to overcome The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke? Your praise is come too swiftly home before you. Know you not, master, to some kind of men Their graces serve them but as enemies? No more do yours. Your virtues, gentle master, Are sanctified and holy traitors to you. Oh, what a world is this when what is comely Envenoms him that bears it! [II. iii. 3–15] Orlando’s world of court and city is a far different world from his father’s. It is a perverse world, where brother plots against brother and virtues become ‘‘sanctified and holy traitors’’ [II. iii. 13]. It is a world ruled over by the usurping Frederick (the ‘‘new’’ Duke), who banishes his elder brother (the ‘‘old’’ Duke) and keeps his niece only so long as convenience allows. When

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he fears Rosalind as a threat to the fame and popularity of his own daughter, he drives her out also—just as Oliver plans to kill the brother he fears he can no longer suppress. In short, it is a world based on expediency and the lust for power [III. i. 15–18], not a brave new world, but a degenerate new one. With no obligation to tradition—to the past—it is ruthless in its selfassertion. But while this ‘‘new’’ world may banish its principal threats, Rosalind and Orlando, it does not thus destroy them (we are, after all, in the realm of romantic comedy). In the timeless pastoral world of the Forest of Arden, where past and present merge, they find refuge and there flourish. The first mention of the life led by Duke Senior and his fellows in the Forest of Arden occurs early in the play in the dialogue between Charles and Oliver. Oliver has decided to use the wrestler to rid himself of Orlando (thus perverting the intention of Charles’s visit), but first he inquiries into the ‘‘new news at the new Court’’ [I. ii. 96–7]. Charles recounts what Oliver already knows: the new Duke has driven out the old Duke, and a number of lords have voluntarily accompanied him into exile. For no apparent reason, Oliver next inquires into Rosalind’s position, and then asks where the old Duke will live. Charles replies: They say he is already in the Forest of Arden, and a many merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood of England. They say many young gentlemen flock to him every day, and fleet their time carelessly as they did in the golden world. [I. i. 114–19]

Here Oliver abruptly changes the subject to the next day’s wrestling match. Now, merely as dramatic exposition this dialogue is at least ingenuous—if not downright clumsy. Obviously it must serve another function to justify itself; that is, by describing the conflict between the two dukes, it provides a parallel to the decisive quarrel between Orlando and Oliver which has just taken place. The inversion of roles played by the younger and older brothers is merely a superficial variation of the plot; the point is to suggest an alignment between Duke Senior and Sir Rowland de Boys, between the ‘‘golden world’’ and the ‘‘antique world,’’ which coalesce in the fabulous Robin Hood life now led by the banished Duke. Should we require any further evidence of this significance, the change in Sir Rowland’s name from its source is clear enough.

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The anagram Rowland-Orlando has already been explained, but the change from de Bordeaux is otherwise meaningful: de Boys is simply de Bois, ‘‘of the forest.’’ Elizabethan spelling commonly substitutes y for i, as everyone knows, but the pronunciation is the same. While older editors, such as Malone and Dyce, modernize the spelling (without comment), more recent ones prefer the spelling of the Folios, a practice which tends to obscure the reference. And Dover Wilson’s note [in his New Cambridge edition of the play], recording the fact that the de Boyses were an old Arden family, gives us more light than it perhaps suspects—or intends. Lest there be any mistake about the kind of forest in which Duke Senior and (later) Orlando, Rosalind, and the others find themselves, we must listen carefully to the Duke’s first speech [II. i. 1ff.]. Its theme is ‘‘Sweet are the uses of adversity’’; only in this way can he and his followers discover ‘‘tongues in trees, books in the running brooks / . . . and good in everything.’’ Here, unlike the conventional pastoral, others besides unrequited lovers may feel the shrewdness of the winter wind; shepherds will confess to smelling of sheep dip; and a Sir Oliver Martex is available for weddings as well as Hymen. The forest may be enchanted—the appearance of a god is only the least subtle indication that it is— but the enchantment is of an unusual kind; the forest still admits of other, qualifying realities. For the right apprehension of a natural, humane order of life, which emerges as Shakespeare’s standard, takes account of both the ideal (what should or could be) and the actual (what is). By contrast, the standard of life in court and city is unnatural insofar as it stifles the ideal aspirations of the human imagination and sinks to the level of a crude, animal existence. If Duke Senior finally returns along with the others to his dukedom (despite his earlier assertion that he would not change his ‘‘life exempt from public haunt’’), he returns not only because his dukedom is ready to receive him, but also (we must infer) because he is prepared to resume his proper role. Tempered by adversity, his virtue matures. To provide this temper, or balance, is the true function of the forest, its real ‘‘magic.’’ Neither the Duke nor anyone else who comes to Arden emerges the same. The trip to the forest is itself exhausting and fraught with danger. Rosalind and her little company are quite unable to take another step.


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Similarly, Adam is close to expiring when he arrives with Orlando. But on each occasion the forest at once works its charm. Corin and Silvius are at hand to entertain Rosalind and her friends and to provide them with a gentle welcome and a home. At the end of the scene even the fainting Celia quickens to remark, ‘‘I like this place, / And willingly could waste my time in it’’ [III. iv. 94–5]. Orlando, seeking food in what he calls an ‘‘uncouth’’ desert [II. vi. 6], comes upon the banquet of the banished Duke. Showing the valor of his heritage, he opposes single-handed the entire host of the Duke and his men. Under the conventions of this romance, this show of valor is not quixotic—it fits rather with Orlando’s defeat of Charles. But, though hardly despised (except by Jaques), it is misdirected; and Orlando is made to recognize the code that here reigns: Speak you so gently? Pardon me, I pray you. I thought that all things had been savage here, And therefore put I on the countenance Of stern commandment. But whate’er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time, If ever you have looked on better days, If ever been where bells have knolled to church, If ever sat at good man’s feast, If ever from your eyelids wiped a tear And know what ’tis to pity and be pitied, Let gentleness my strong enforcement be. In the which hope I blush, and hide my sword. [II. vii. 106–19] Gentleness joins with gentleness; golden world merges with antique world—at least through their modern representatives. If the parvenu at first mistakes the appearance of his surroundings, he is soon instructed: this is no ordinary forest. At the same time, he reminds us of what civilization might be like, or once was. Certainly he perceives another aspect of his new environment accurately, one he will quickly cultivate: the meaninglessness of time in the forest. For unlike the life of the court and the city, ‘‘men fleet the time carelessly’’ in Arden, as Charles earlier remarked. Here are no powerseekers like Oliver and Duke Frederick, impatient

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to rid themselves of encumbrances [I. i. 124, I. iii. 52 ff.], but men who love to lie under the greenwood tree seeking—only the food they eat. Appropriately, this casualness is the theme of many of their songs. Touchstone’s comment on the last—‘‘I count it but lost time to hear such a foolish song’’ [V. iii. 39–40]—briefly expresses the opposing attitude brought from court into the forest. The attitude is shared by the malcontent Jaques, his fellow satirist, and in some respects by Rosalind. Touchstone is, in fact, the play’s timekeeper, as Harold Jenkins has called him [in his ‘‘As You Like It,’’ Shakespeare Survey VII (1955): 40–51], and his most extended disquisition on time is fittingly recounted by Jaques: . . . he drew a dial from his poke, And looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, ‘‘It is ten o’clock. Thus we may see,’’ quoth he, ‘‘how the world wags. ’Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more ’twill be eleven; And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe, And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot; And thereby hangs a tale.’’ [II. vii. 20–8] Later in the same scene Jaques in propria persona also ‘‘morals on the time’’ in his speech on the Seven Ages of Man, calling our attention to the broader divisions of time’s progress and pageant. Between these speeches, it should be noted, occur Orlando’s entrance and his words, quoted above, on the neglect of time by the Duke and his foresters. Clearly, Shakespeare throughout the play contrasts the timelessness of the forest world with the time-ridden preoccupations of court and city life, but here the juxtaposition is both dramatically and thematically emphasized. For the court and city habitue´s, time is a measured progress to the grave—or worse! But for the foresters, time is merely ‘‘the stream we go a-fishing in’’ (to borrow the phrase of a later pastoralist [Henry David Thoreau in Walden]). Neither attitude, of course, will quite do in this sublunary world; hence, to present a more balanced view of time—as of love, pastoralism, and poetry—Shakespeare uses the dialectic characteristic of this play and centers it upon his hero and heroine. For Rosalind’s awareness of time, however related to the preoccupation imported from the ‘‘outside’’ world, is different from Touchstone’s obsession with ‘‘riping and rotting.’’ It is, partly,

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the awareness of a girl in love and impatient for the attentions of her lover, a healthy consciousness that recalls Juliet’s except as it is undarkened by tragic fate. But her awareness has further implications. When she and Orlando first meet in the forest, their dialogue, appropriately enough, is itself about time. Rosalind’s question, ‘‘I pray you, what is’t o’clock?’’ [III. ii. 299], although banal, suits the occasion; for despite her boast that she will speak like a saucy lackey, she is momentarily confused by confronting Orlando and scarcely knows how to begin. What follows in her account of Time’s ‘‘divers paces’’ [III. ii. 308–33], however, is something more than a verbal smokescreen to help her collect her wits, detain her lover, and make sure he keeps coming back: it is a development of Jacques’ Seven Ages speech with important thematic variations. Jaques’ speech describes a man in his time playing many parts and suggests that his speed, or ‘‘pace,’’ will vary along with his role; the series of vignettes illustrates the movement of a person in time. Rosalind not only adds appreciably to Jaques’ gallery, but showing profounder insight, she shifts the emphasis from the movement of a person, to the movement of time as apprehended, for example, by the young maid ‘‘between the contract of her marriage and the day it is solemniz’d. If the interim be but a se’ennight, Time’s pace is so hard that it seems the length of seven year’’ [III. ii. 314–17]. In this way, she more thoroughly accounts for duration, or the perception of time, which, unlike Jaques’ portrait of our common destiny, is not the same for everyone. Naturally, Rosalind is most concerned with the perception of time by the lover, and here her behavior is in marked contrast to Orlando’s. Quite literally—and like any fianceé, or wife— she is Orlando’s timekeeper. When he fails to keep his appointments, she suffers both pain and embarrassment (III.iv) that are relieved only by the greater follies of Silvius and Phebe that immediately follow. When he finally does turn up an hour late—as if to dramatize his belief that ‘‘there’s no clock in the forest’’ [III. ii. 300–01]—Rosalind rebukes him severely: ROSALIND: Why, how now, Orlando? Where have you been all this while? You a lover? An you serve such another trick, never come in my sight more. ORLANDO: My fair Rosalind, I come within an hour of my promise.

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ROSALIND: Break an hour’s promise in love? He that will divide a minute into a thousand parts and break but a part of the thousand part of a minute in the affairs of love, it may be said of him that Cupid hath clapp’d him o’ th’ shoulder, but I’ll warrant him heart-whole.

with Orlando to a proper balance of unharried awareness. For all of these functions—as for others—the timeless world of the forest, with its complement of aliens, serves as a haven; but more importantly, it serves as a school.

ORLANDO: Pardon me, dear Rosalind.

Neither the extremes of idealism nor those of materialism, as they are variously represented, emerge as ‘‘the good life’’ in As You Like It. That life is seen rather as a mean of natural human sympathy educated—since that is a major theme in the play—by the more acceptable refinements of civilization (II. vii) and the harsh realities of existence (‘‘winter and rough weather’’ [II. v. 8]). The ‘‘antique world’’ stands for a timeless order of civilization still in touch with natural human sympathy that, under the ‘‘new’’ regime (while it lasted), had been forced underground. To the forest, the repository of natural life devoid of artificial time barriers, the champions of regeneration repair in order to derive new energy for the task before them. There they find refuge, gain strength, learn—and return. (pp. 197–207)

ROSALIND: Nay, an you be so tardy, come no more in my sight. I had as lief be woo’d of a snail. [IV. i. 38–52]

Rosalind’s time-consciousness goes beyond the mere moment: she knows the history of love—witness her speech on Troilus and Leander [IV. i. 94–108]—and she predicts its future, as she warns Orlando of love’s seasons after marriage [IV. i. 143–149]. Her ardent impulse is thus in comic juxtaposition with her realistic insight, just as Orlando’s ‘‘point-device’’ attire and timeunconsciousness comically contrast with his rimes and other protestations of love. In this fashion we arrive at the theme’s center, or balance. If Orlando, as we have seen, is an agent of regeneration, he appears through his forgetfulness of time to be in some danger of not realizing his function. He might like Silvius, were it not for Rosalind, linger through an eternity of unconsummated loving; certainly, like the Duke, he feels in the forest no urgency about his heritage—at least not until he comes upon his brother sleeping beneath an ancient oak tree and menaced by a starved lioness (the symbolism is obvious). Oliver’s remarkable conversion after his rescue and his still more remarkable engagement to Celia pave the way for Rosalind’s resolution of the action, for under the pressure of his brother’s happiness, Orlando can play at games in love no longer. And despite the play’s arbitrary finale—Duke Frederick’s conversion and the end of exile, in all of which she has had no hand—nevertheless, it is again Rosalind who has had an important share in preparing the principals for this chance. Like her less attractive counterpart Helena in All’s Well That Ends Well, she remains a primary agent for the synthesis of values that underlies regeneration in Shakespeare’s comedy. At the very outset we see her, the daughter of Duke Senior at the court of Duke Frederick, as a link between two worlds, not unlike Orlando’s representative linking of two generations. In love, she is realistic rather than cynical, but not without a paradoxical—and perfectly human—romantic bias. So, too, with regard to time she moves


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Source: Jay L. Halio, ‘‘No Clock in the Forest: Time in As You Like It,’’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500– 1900, William Marsh Rice University, Vol. II, 1962, pp. 197–207.

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Van Doren, Mark, ‘‘As You Like It,’’ in Shakespeare, Holt, 1939, pp. 151–60. Wain, John, ‘‘Laughter and Judgement,’’ in The Living World of Shakespeare: A Playgoer’s Guide, St. Martin’s, 1964, pp. 73–103.

FURTHER READING Carroll, William C., The Metamorphoses of Shakespearean Comedy, Princeton University Press, 1985. Carroll provides a comprehensive analysis of the various personal transformations that the characters in Shakespeare’s comedies undergo. Craun, Edwin David, Lies, Slander and Obscenity in Medieval English Literature: Pastoral Rhetoric and the Deviant Speaker, Cambridge University Press, 2005. In this academic volume, Craun explains how the work of authors writing centuries before Shakespeare was affected by the rising power and influence of Christianity and the medieval clergy. Touchstone’s role in As You Like It gains considerable weight when read with this study in mind. Scheese, Don, Nature Writing: The Pastoral Impulse in America, Twayne, 1996. After surveying the historical development of literary pastoral conventions, Scheese focuses on how attitudes about and references to nature, especially in opposition to industrialization, have shaped the writings of certain Americans. Young, David, The Heart’s Forest: A Study of Shakespeare’s Pastoral Plays, Yale University Press, 1972. Young examines the intersection of romance and nature in all of Shakespeare’s plays featuring pastoral conventions.

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The Comedy of Errors The Comedy of Errors is one of Shakespeare’s earliest plays, quite possibly his first. It was written sometime between 1589 and 1594, although it was not printed until 1623, when it appeared in the First Folio. The Comedy of Errors also happens to be Shakespeare’s shortest play; it has some 1,756 lines. All of the remaining plays number at least 2,000 lines.

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The primary source of the play is an ancient drama called the Menaechmi, by Plautus, a Roman comic playwright. From the Menaechmi Shakespeare took his central plot, which revolves around ‘‘errors,’’ or mistakes of fortune, involving identical twin brothers. Shakespeare also borrowed from Plautus’s Amphitryon, particularly for the episode involving Antipholus of Ephesus being locked out of his home. To these basic elements Shakespeare added additional scenes and characters, most notably another set of twins, who are servants to the twin sons of Egeon. The story of Egeon—his separation from his wife and one of the twin sons—is also a departure from the Roman play. Shakespeare gave greater voice to the primary female characters in the play (and thus to issues of gender and the relationships between men and women), especially to Adriana, who is merely a shrewish ‘‘Wife’’ in Plautus’s play; Shakespeare also downgraded the role of an unnamed Courtesan. Critics tend to agree that Shakespeare greatly expanded on the generally one-dimensional, stereotypical characters in Plautus’s play. Shakespeare’s selection of Ephesus for the play’s setting has been

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noted as a significant alteration, indicating that Shakespeare certainly relied on Paul’s epistle to the Ephesians, as found in the Bible, for the development of certain aspects of the plot. In her essay, ‘‘Egeon’s Debt: Self-Discovery and Self-Redemption in The Comedy of Errors,’’ the critic Barbara Freedman observes, ‘‘No other source includes such elements as years of wandering, a shipwreck, the Aegean (Egeon?) and Adriatic (Adriana?) seas, Syracuse, Corinth, Ephesus and its demonic magic, revenge taken upon evil exorcists, and a conflict between law and mercy, between bondage and redemption.’’ There was a scarcity of commentary on The Comedy of Errors prior to the nineteenth century. Samuel Taylor Coleridge was the first to discuss the play as a unified work of art, asserting that it was a farce and therefore should not be judged by the standards applied to comedy. Some critics view it as an apprentice work, since it was written so early in Shakespeare’s career. Few critics argue that the play displays the full range of Shakespeare’s dramatic talent. Many commentators have seen fit to closely examine the play’s genre—its ‘‘identity’’ as a tragedy, farce, comedy, or a combination of these—and the way in which it explores the issues of identity, love, and marriage. While some consider The Comedy of Errors to have been produced so early in Shakespeare’s career as to merit little recognition, the play has many assets—some more obvious than others—and will continue to entertain audiences and readers alike for centuries to come regardless.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 The Comedy of Errors begins in Ephesus, where the duke, Solinus, is punishing Egeon for having trespassed on Ephesian soil. Solinus explains that since the Syracusian duke punished Ephesian merchants simply for doing business in Syracuse, Solinus has decided to likewise punish Syracusian merchants for simply appearing in Ephesus. As such, Egeon, a merchant from Syracuse, must either pay a penalty of one thousand marks—which he does not have—or be put to death. When asked by Solinus why he had come to Ephesus, Egeon explains his woeful tale: some

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Engraving from Galerie des Personnage de Shakespeare, 1844 (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

eighteen years ago, in Epidamnum, his wife bore him sons, and, coincidentally, an impoverished woman gave birth to her own twin sons in the same inn at the same hour. Since the poor woman could not care for her children, Egeon purchased them as servants for his own children. Later, when Egeon, his wife, and the four young children were sailing back to Syracuse, they came upon rough waters and had to resort to tying themselves to the ship’s masts. As two other vessels were coming upon them, their ship was split apart by a ‘‘mighty rock,’’ such that the wife, one son, and one servant were separated from Egeon, the other son, and the other servant. When the son raised by Egeon reached the age of eighteen, he grew curious enough about his long-lost brother and mother to wish to travel in search of them, in the company of his servant. Egeon also left in search of the family members and had ended up in Ephesus after ‘‘five summers’’ of travels elsewhere. The duke, taking pity on Egeon, gives him

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leave to seek the thousand marks needed to buy his freedom from friends in Ephesus—but Egeon has only that very day to obtain the sum.

Act 1, Scene 2 At the marketplace, the son who has been traveling, known as Antipholus of Syracuse (and referred to as S. Antipholus), is finishing a deal with a Merchant, who warns S. Antipholus that he should deny his Syracusian origins, as just that day a merchant from Syracuse was arrested and will be executed. S. Antipholus sends his servant, Dromio of Syracuse (referred to as S. Dromio), to take the money he has just received to their lodgings, the inn known as the Centaur. When S. Dromio departs, S. Antipholus makes plans to meet the Merchant again later that evening. Dromio of Ephesus (to be referred to as E. Dromio) then arrives and begins telling S. Antipholus about how late he is for dinner; the audience can immediately understand that this Dromio believes he is talking to Antipholus of Ephesus (to be referred to as E. Antipholus). S. Antipholus, in turn thinking that E. Dromio is S. Dromio, imagines that his servant is jesting and demands to know what he did with the large sum of money—one thousand marks—that he had been entrusted with. E. Dromio, however, denies that he has any more marks than the ones he is given when he is beaten. Angered by what seems a sustained jest, S. Antipholus indeed beats E. Dromio, who flees. S. Antipholus then announces that he will return to the Centaur to find out what has become of his money.

Act 2, Scene 1 At the Phoenix, the home of E. Antipholus, Adriana and Luciana are discussing Adriana’s husband’s absence. Luciana advises her sister to be patient and obedient in the extreme, noting that among all animals, the males are the masters of the females. Adriana objects, declaring that within a marriage she ought to have a certain degree of control; Adriana notes that Luciana is only able to advise so much obedience because she is not married herself. Still, Luciana insists that when she marries, she will learn obedience and be patient even if she knows her husband to be cheating on her. E. Dromio then enters to inform his mistress, Adriana, that he has just come from her husband, who denied that he even had a home or a wife there. E. Dromio notes that he was beaten by


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Antipholus, who repeatedly demanded to know about his gold, of which E. Dromio knew nothing. Adriana grows upset with E. Dromio, threatening to beat him and demanding that he depart again to find her husband. Adriana then laments at length about her certainty that her husband is cheating on her. She wonders if he looks elsewhere because she has lost her beauty; she also declares that if she has lost her beauty, she has lost it only because her husband is no longer as kind to her as he used to be. Luciana tries to calm her sister, but Adriana is too sorrowful.

Act 2, Scene 2 S. Antipholus, walking through the marketplace, remarks that he has just discovered that S. Dromio has indeed safely stored the gold at the Centaur. S. Dromio then enters, and S. Antipholus demands that he explain the jest from earlier, when Dromio denied all knowledge of the gold. S. Dromio then denies that he ever made any jests, eventually earning a beating from the angered S. Antipholus. S. Antipholus explains to S. Dromio that he should never jest when his master is not in a jesting mood. The two then start speaking of dinner and of the relationship between a man’s wit and the amount of hair on his head. Adriana and Luciana then arrive, with Adriana immediately launching into a plaint toward S. Antipholus, whom she thinks is her husband. She reminisces about the time when he truly cherished her; she notes that like a drop of water from a gulf, she cannot be separated from him; and she points out that if she were to commit adultery, he would be greatly angered and indignant. She concludes by imploring him to be faithful to her. S. Antipholus professes that he has only been in the town of Ephesus for two hours and that he hardly even understands what people are talking about there. Luciana then notes that they had sent Dromio to speak with him about dinner earlier, of which S. Dromio knows nothing. S. Antipholus, then, imagines that S. Dromio must be conspiring against him along with these women, as Dromio— E. Dromio, actually—had indeed spoken to him earlier about coming home for dinner. S. Dromio, however, denies having ever spoken with Adriana—and Adriana then imagines that Antipholus and Dromio are trying to fool her; at this point she tells S. Antipholus that she is like a vine to his elm, such that he is utterly dependent on her. In an aside, S. Antipholus wonders what is going on and supposes that he may as well go

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along with the ‘‘fallacy,’’ that is, that he may as well join Adriana for dinner. After S. Dromio declares that they must be in a ‘‘fairy land,’’ and likewise wonders what is happening, Adriana bids Dromio and Antipholus to finally come home. Indeed, S. Antipholus will dine with Adriana at their home, upstairs, while S. Dromio guards the gate.

Act 3, Scene 1 Antipholus of Ephesus is leading E. Dromio, Angelo, and Balthazar to his home, where he intends to gain favor with the two businessmen by entertaining them at dinner. On the way, E. Antipholus mentions that his wife is ‘‘shrewish’’ whenever he is late and that Angelo, the goldsmith, should assert that he was busy buying something for her. He also mentions that E. Dromio could ruin his story, as E. Dromio claimed to have met him in the marketplace earlier. Indeed, E. Dromio confirms that he received a beating at Antipholus’s hand. When they arrive at the home of E. Antipholus, E. Dromio calls out to gain them entry, only to hear S. Dromio respond rudely, turning them away. S. Dromio declares that Dromio is his name and that he is the porter, and E. Dromio asserts that his office has been stolen by a counterfeit who is using his name. Luce, the cook, then appears above and also speaks rudely to E. Dromio, as she believes that everyone belonging to the household is already inside. Adriana appears to speak with Luce and to hear E. Antipholus call her his wife—but she cannot see him and also believes him to be an impostor, as S. Antipholus is inside. When the women return inside the house, E. Antipholus declares that he will use force, if necessary to gain entry, asking E. Dromio to fetch him a crowbar. However, Balthazar interrupts to suggest that he refrain from resorting to force, as such an act could ruin his reputation; Balthazar notes that his wife certainly has some reason or another for keeping him out, and he should return later to hear her explanation. E. Antipholus concedes and declares that they will go to the Porpentine—and out of spite Antipholus will give the Courtesan there the chain that he had planned to give to his wife. As they exit, Angelo parts from them to get the chain.

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Act 3, Scene 2 Luciana is speaking with S. Antipholus, counseling him to be more cunning with regard to his character around Adriana. Specifically, Luciana tells Antipholus that if he is cheating on his wife, he should make more of an effort to deceive her, to at least make her feel as though he still loves only her. S. Antipholus professes that he understands nothing of what she is saying, as Adriana is most definitely not his wife—and that he is in fact enamored of Luciana herself. Luciana protests that he is being ridiculous, as he must love only his wife, but S. Antipholus insists that he is interested in Luciana alone. When Luciana leaves to get Adriana, S. Dromio appears to lament that he is being claimed by a woman named Nell (who is understood to be Luce, from act 2, scene 2). He is especially upset by this situation because Nell is quite obese, as his exaggerated comments regarding her girth indicate. S. Dromio makes a number of insulting comparisons between nations and parts of her body. When Nell proves able to tell Dromio about the various marks on his body, he begins to think she is some sort of witch. S. Antipholus then suggests to S. Dromio that he go wait by the harbor; if a seaward wind comes along and a ship is sailing out, S. Dromio should find S. Antipholus in the marketplace, and they will leave immediately. When S. Dromio leaves, S. Antipholus declares his own belief that they are among witches—but also that he will regret leaving Luciana. Angelo then appears and insists upon giving S. Antipholus the chain that E. Antipholus had ordered. S. Antipholus eventually accepts and tries to pay for it then rather than later, so as not to accidentally cheat the man, but Angelo departs without accepting. S. Antipholus notes that only in such a strangely wonderful place would people bestow random gifts upon him.

Act 4, Scene 1 In the marketplace, a Merchant is demanding the repayment of a debt from Angelo, the goldsmith; the Merchant has summoned an Officer to arrest Angelo if he cannot repay the debt. Angelo notes that he simply needs to obtain the money from E. Antipholus, who owes him the cost of the chain. E. Antipholus then arrives, having just left the Courtesan. E. Antipholus orders E. Dromio to fetch him a rope, with which Antipholus plans to physically punish his

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wife and any other people responsible for locking him out of his house. Angelo then meets E. Antipholus and demands the sum he is owed, but E. Antipholus remarks that he does not have the money with him and that he will not pay, regardless, until he actually receives the chain. Angelo insists that he already gave him the chain (which S. Antipholus received), leaving both men greatly confounded.

her a sorceress and tells her to leave, but she only demands the ring of hers that Antipholus had worn at dinner. At last certain that the Courtesan is some sort of witch, S. Antipholus and S. Dromio flee. The Courtesan, thinking Antipholus must be insane, resolves to go to his house and tell Adriana that he had stolen her ring, as the Courtesan does not wish to lose it.

As no one is giving him the money that he is owed, the Merchant has the Officer arrest Angelo; in turn, Angelo, whose reputation will be harmed, has the Officer arrest E. Antipholus, who is likewise greatly offended. S. Dromio then arrives to inform Antipholus that he has found passage for them on a ship that is soon to depart. E. Antipholus is confounded by S. Dromio’s uttering such nonsense—and also by S. Dromio’s failure to bring a rope. Still, as he has been arrested, E. Antipholus promptly sends S. Dromio to fetch money from Adriana.

Act 4, Scene 4

Act 4, Scene 2 In front of the Phoenix, Luciana is telling Adriana about how S. Antipholus had professed to have fallen in love with her. Upset that her husband should have scorned her so, Adriana insults him at length, then admits to still having feelings for him. S. Dromio then arrives to demand the money on behalf of E. Antipholus. When the ladies inquire about Antipholus, S. Dromio notes that he had been arrested for nonpayment of a debt. Luciana fetches the money, and S. Dromio runs off with it.

As E. Antipholus is being led away by the Officer, E. Dromio returns to give him the rope. When E. Antipholus asks about the money he had sent for, E. Dromio declares that he knows nothing about it; E. Antipholus then grows angry and beats E. Dromio. The Officer urges E. Antipholus to calm down, but he continues verbally abusing E. Dromio, who laments that he has long been subject to beatings at the hand of his master. As Adriana, Luciana, and the Courtesan arrive with a doctor named Pinch, E. Antipholus continues to beat E. Dromio—providing evidence of E. Antipholus’s suspected madness. The women declare that he indeed looks ill, and when Pinch tries to take his pulse, E. Antipholus strikes him. Pinch then attempts to exorcise Satan from E. Antipholus; Antipholus dismisses the man, declares that he is sane, and asks his wife to explain why he had been locked out at dinnertime. Adriana insists that he dined at home, leaving E. Antipholus and E. Dromio to insist that they had been locked out as well as taunted by the kitchen maid.

In the marketplace, S. Antipholus observes how everyone in the town seems to know him somehow. S. Dromio then arrives to hand him the money—but S. Antipholus objects that he had asked him for no money. S. Dromio inquires about the officer and where he might have gone, but S. Antipholus fails to understand. S. Antipholus then asks whether they might soon depart by sea, and S. Dromio points out that he told Antipholus earlier of a ship, but Antipholus had expressed no interest, so they had missed it.

As the women and the doctor begin to wonder if E. Dromio has also been infected with madness, E. Antipholus and Adriana relate their respective roles in the fetching of the money by S. Dromio— which E. Dromio knows nothing about. Pinch insists that both men must be mad, and when E. Antipholus threatens to assault Adriana, several men appear to bind E. Antipholus. E. Antipholus pleads with the Officer, who asserts that E. Antipholus is in his charge and cannot be taken by the others. Adriana then offers to go with the Officer to repay the debt, and E. Antipholus and E. Dromio are taken away by the doctor.

The Courtesan then arrives, greets Antipholus by name, and asks whether the chain he holds is the one that he had promised her earlier. S. Antipholus and S. Dromio alike then both wonder if the Courtesan is perhaps the devil, in the form of a ‘‘light wench.’’ S. Antipholus calls

The Officer tells Adriana that the money is owed for a golden chain, which she knows nothing about. The Courtesan then mentions that after E. Antipholus had taken her ring, she met him holding the chain in question. S. Antipholus and S. Dromio suddenly appear with drawn

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swords, provoking the Officer and the women to flee. S. Antipholus is glad that the witches fear their weapons, and despite S. Dromio’s suggestion that they remain in that ‘‘gentle nation’’ after all, S. Antipholus insists that they depart immediately.

Act 5, Scene 1 Angelo is apologizing to the Merchant while assuring him that Antipholus is held in very high regard in Ephesus. S. Antipholus and S. Dromio then arrive, and Angelo sees that the chain is indeed around S. Antipholus’s neck. Angelo questions him, and S. Antipholus declares that he never denied having the chain. The Merchant, who earlier heard E. Antipholus deny having the chain, grows angry; he and S. Antipholus argue and eventually draw swords. Adriana, Luciana, and the Courtesan then arrive with the intentionof binding S. Antipholus and S. Dromio, who flee into the Priory. The Abbess then comes out to ask about the commotion; Adriana demands that the Abbess turn over her husband, as she wants to treat her husband. The Abbess asks of the recent trouble and concludes that Antipholus has only been maddened by Adriana’s jealous nagging. The Abbess then declares that she will not deny Antipholus sanctuary there and that she will herself use potions and prayers to try to cure him. Adriana resolves to ask the duke for assistance, and he presently enters with Egeon, who is to be executed. Adriana tells the duke how she had bound her maddened husband and how he had consequently escaped and was being protected by the Abbess. The duke summons the Abbess, but a Messenger then arrives to tell Adriana that E. Antipholus and E. Dromio have escaped their bonds and were harming the doctor. Everyone is confused, as they believe Antipholus and Dromio to be inside the Priory—but E. Antipholus and E. Dromio indeed then appear. E. Antipholus relates all that he has suffered to the duke, a wartime friend of his. While Adriana and Luciana claim that he had dined at home, E. Antipholus insists that he had been locked out, which E. Dromio and Angelo confirm. E. Antipholus then explains all that had occurred that day from his perspective, speaking of the missing chain, of Dromio’s failure to bring the money, and of the doctor’s efforts at exorcism. As they all relate what they know about the

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Among the various televised versions of The Comedy of Errors is one directed by James Cellan Jones in 1983, which was produced by the British Broadcasting Corporation.

Lorenz Hart and Richard Rodgers created a musical based on The Comedy of Errors entitled The Boys from Syracuse. A film version was directed by A. Edward Sutherland in 1940, and was produced by Universal Pictures.

chain, the duke begins to wonder at how extraordinary the situation seems. Egeon then finally speaks up, as he believes that E. Antipholus must be his son S. Antipholus. However, both E. Dromio and E. Antipholus profess to having never seen Egeon, who imagines that they simply do not recognize him because they have not seen him for seven years. As the duke confirms that E. Antipholus has not been to Syracuse in the last twenty years, the Abbess enters in the company of S. Antipholus and S. Dromio. The Abbess then tells Egeon that she is Emilia, his long lost wife, and that she had been separated from E. Antipholus and E. Dromio soon after the shipwreck, as the two infants were taken by fishermen from Corinth. E. Antipholus then confirms that he had originally been brought to Ephesus from Corinth. Adriana determines that S. Antipholus was the man with whom she dined, and Angelo sees that S. Antipholus is the one who has the chain. E. Antipholus offers to pay the duke to free Egeon, but the duke releases Egeon without accepting the money. E. Antipholus then returns the ring to the Courtesan. The Abbess announces that they will hold a festive gathering to celebrate the reunion of all the family members. After a last instance of confusion, when S. Dromio mistakenly addresses E. Antipholus, the Antipholus brothers exit, leaving the Dromio brothers to wonder which of them is older and should lead the other; they at last decide that they will walk side by side, ‘‘not one before another.’’

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CHARACTERS Adriana The wife of Antipholus of Ephesus, Adriana first appears mourning her husband’s absence from dinner and wondering whether he has lost his romantic appreciation for her. Luciana counsels her to be patient and allow E. Antipholus as much liberty as he wants, but Adriana insists that she cannot always make her own desires and needs be of secondary importance. When the two sisters find S. Antipholus in the marketplace, Adriana pleads and manages to persuade her husband’s twin to ‘‘come home’’ for dinner. Adriana is later told by Luciana that S. Antipholus was professing his love for Luciana. While despairing, Adriana nonetheless sends bail money through S. Dromio to her true husband (which he never receives). After being visited by the Courtesan, Adriana brings Doctor Pinch to cure her husband of his seeming insanity, and when he is taken home, she goes off seeking to pay her husband’s debt. After more confusion at the Priory, Adriana is told by the Abbess, Emilia, that she needs to nag her husband less if she wishes to have a harmonious relationship with him. Although the plot of The Comedy of Errors revolves around the actions of the brothers Antipholus, Adriana is perhaps the play’s most profound and intriguing persona. Where the emotional affectations of the other characters remain fairly static throughout (S. Antipholus is nearly always confused, E. Antipholus is usually angry, etc.), Adriana vacillates between reminiscing fondly over the love she and her husband used to share, growing sad over his frequent absences, and getting angry at his supposed infidelities. In that she seems to be demanding no more than equality between herself and her husband— indeed, she asks her sister, ‘‘Why should their liberty than ours be more?’’—Adriana can be viewed as a prototypical feminist. When Luciana counsels her to be patient and obliging toward her husband, Adriana passionately resists, essentially declaring that she refuses to be submissive toward any man, including her husband. In that E. Antipholus not only intentionally seeks out an untruthful explanation for his lateness on this day, but also frequents the Courtesan enough to make his wife jealous, Adriana seems wholly justified in trying to assert herself in the relationship. To some audience members and readers, the


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The Antipholus twins being separated as infants, Act I, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

Abbess’s lecture of Adriana in the fifth act may seem unnecessarily reproachful. Nevertheless, Adriana certainly has minor flaws that contribute at least to her own happiness, if not to her husband’s waywardness. While Luciana’s general outlook on marriage seems to be oppressively conservative, she also tries to persuade her sister to be more independent: in particular, she denounces Adriana’s ‘‘self-harming jealousy.’’ And Adriana certainly allows her jealousy to carry her away, to the point of believing that her husband must be cheating on her. The play does not clearly indicate whether the husband has ever been unfaithful, how often he is late for dinner, or how often he wrongs Adriana in other ways; as such, Adriana’s despair may seem extreme. In turn, when she believes her husband is in love with Luciana, she thoroughly curses him—then concedes that she was saying things she did not truly think or feel. Thus, the genuineness of her emotional reactions at other times may be called into

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doubt. Another question left unclear by the play is how often Adriana has such jealous outbursts, particularly in the presence of her husband. Overall, while Adriana certainly reacts strongly to the extreme circumstance brought about by the unknown presence of her husband’s twin, the reader cannot necessarily conclude that she behaves this way under ordinary circumstances, and opinions regarding Adriana’s larger role in her marriage may justifiably vary widely.

Angelo Angelo is a goldsmith who is hired by E. Antipholus to make a gold chain for Adriana. When E. Antipholus, Angelo, and Balthazar are refused entry at the home of E. Antipholus, E. Antipholus sends Angelo to finish the chain and bring it to him. However, Angelo ends up bringing the chain to S. Antipholus. When Angelo needs to pay off a debt, he seeks payment from E. Antipholus, who never received the chain and refuses to pay— Angelo is then arrested and has E. Antipholus arrested in turn.

Antipholus of Ephesus Also known as E. Antipholus, he is the twin brother of Antipholus of Syracuse, son of Egeon and Emilia, husband of Adriana. E. Antipholus is a well-known, well-respected merchant in the city of Ephesus. He understands that his wife wants him to be home for dinner, but he nevertheless prioritizes business, such that she suspects him of cheating on her. When he is locked out of his home, as Adriana is dining with S. Antipholus, he grows angry and goes to dine at the Courtesan’s instead. He also asks Angelo to finish the chain he ordered for his wife, so that he can give it to the Courtesan instead. When Angelo seeks payment for the chain, which he gave to S. Antipholus, E. Antipholus refuses to pay for it and gets arrested. As the confusion has left E. Antipholus seeming somewhat maddened, Adriana hires Pinch to cure him of his illness— but E. Antipholus only strikes at Pinch in public, then tortures Pinch after escaping from bondage at his home. When E. Antipholus shows up outside the Priory, within which S. Antipholus is hiding, he explains everything that has happened to him that day, and Egeon mistakes him for his other son. Upon the arrival of S. Antipholus, the confusion is eventually cleared. E. Antipholus can hardly be described as anything but a negative force in the play. He is

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demonstrably violent, and with little provocation; when he is truly upset by his confinement by Pinch and the others, the extent of his violent reaction actually does indicate that he may be mentally unstable, and not just as a result of the day’s occurrences. (Of course, the fact that The Comedy of Errors is so extensively farcical perhaps accounts for the cartoonish hair burning.) E. Antipholus does almost nothing to gain the sympathy of the reader in the course of the play, and only his final long speech, in which he rationally relates the day’s many errors, indicates that he has been suffering anything beyond a schoolboyish frustration. An actor may endow E. Antipholus with decent emotions during this final scene, but his dialogue indicates little to no sentiment—he addresses not a single word to his long-lost brother before they exit together. E. Antipholus may perhaps be viewed as the epitome of the businessman, essentially purchasing, of all things, time away from his wife in the form of a gold chain.

Antipholus of Syracuse Also known as S. Antipholus, he is the twin brother of Antipholus of Ephesus, son of Egeon and Emilia. At the age of eighteen, S. Antipholus goes off to search for his long-lost brother in the company of his servant, Dromio of Syracuse. In Ephesus, S. Antipholus does some business with a Merchant and is then met by E. Dromio, who bids him return ‘‘home’’ to dine with Adriana. S. Antipholus is angered by what seems like a jest carried out by S. Dromio, but he later meets up with his true servant and is reassured. When Adriana finds S. Antipholus in the marketplace, he eventually agrees to dine with her. Later, when Luciana counsels him to be sweeter with Adriana, S. Antipholus finds himself falling in love with Luciana. Nevertheless, the strange goings-on lead him to ask S. Dromio to wait at the harbor and to find him in the marketplace if a ship is leaving. When the Courtesan later addresses him, he becomes convinced that the town is inhabited by witches, and he runs off with S. Dromio. At length, the two seek refuge in the Priory; when they emerge in the company of Emilia, S. Antipholus’s mother, the day’s confusion is cleared. While the plot generally revolves around the actions of S. Antipholus—as framed by the plight of his father, Egeon—few commentators would contend that his character merits the most discussion. In general, S. Antipholus simply

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serves as a vessel of amazement with respect to the strange reception he gets in Ephesus, where everyone knows him by name and has some unexplained concern for him. That is, not counting his initial interaction with a Merchant, S. Antipholus rarely causes any of the play’s action himself; rather, things happen to him, or people address him, and he somewhat passively responds to the situation or person in question. The drama surrounding E. Antipholus’s being locked out of his house, which serves as the foundation for the remainder of the play’s confusion, comes about because S. Antipholus has allowed himself to be swept into the situation by Adriana—and he allows this knowing full well that some ‘‘error’’ has come about. Indeed, S. Antipholus specifically notes that he feels as if he is sleeping and dreaming, suggesting a state of utter passivity and an absence of control. Beyond the plot in and of itself, and regardless of S. Antipholus’s lack of agency, the relationship between his quest for his long-lost brother and his understanding of his identity form the thematic core of the play. This theme is established early on, not only through Egeon’s story and the audience’s understanding of the bare facts of the situation, but also through S. Antipholus’s own words. In his first scene, after he has dismissed S. Dromio and the Merchant exits—leaving S. Antipholus alone on the stage in the first of several such instances—he compares himself, in his search for his brother, to a drop in an ocean in search of another drop. A drop in an ocean, of course, is not truly an individual drop of water. Indeed, in the course of eleven lines in this scene, in reference to his travels, he twice states, ‘‘I . . . lose myself.’’ Thus, S. Antipholus can be understood to lack a feeling of wholeness, and he believes he will only find this wholeness in finding his lost twin brother.

Balthazar A merchant and business associate of Antipholus of Ephesus, Balthazar dines with E. Antipholus at the Courtesan’s when they are refused entry at E. Antipholus’s home.

Courtesan The Courtesan is an acquaintance of Antipholus of Ephesus. When E. Antipholus is refused entry at his house, he goes to dine with the Courtesan. E. Antipholus borrows a diamond ring from her and intends to give her the chain made by Angelo. When the Courtesan finds S. Antipholus, who


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does not have the ring and fails to give her the chain in return, she concludes that he must be out of sorts. In order to get her ring back, the Courtesan goes to Adriana to inform her that her husband is acting strangely, which leads to Adriana fetching Pinch. The Courtesan then accompanies Adriana until her ring is returned to her.

Dromio of Ephesus The personal servant of Antipholus of Ephesus, and the twin brother of Dromio of Syracuse, E. Dromio tries to persuade S. Antipholus to join Adriana for dinner and receives a brief beating for his trouble. In the course of the play, E. Dromio relates this incident to Adriana he orders S. Dromio to let E. Antipholus into his home, without success, and he fetches a rope for E. Antipholus after their dinner at the Courtesan’s. When E. Dromio brings E. Antipholus the rope but no bail money (which S. Dromio had gone to fetch), E. Antipholus likewise beats him, leading E. Dromio to lament his lot in life. E. Dromio is betrothed to Luce, Adriana’s kitchen servant, which leads to additional confusion for S. Dromio. Along with his twin brother, E. Dromio largely serves as a means by which the play’s action moves along, with his constant running of errands for the brothers Antipholus. Also, E. Dromio functions as a servile, humble foil to E. Antipholus and his masterly arrogance.

Dromio of Syracuse Also known as S. Dromio, he is the personal servant of Antipholus of Syracuse, and the twin brother of Dromio of Ephesus. S. Dromio takes his master’s money to the inn at which they are staying, the Centaur, then gets beaten when S. Antipholus believes that he had pretended to know nothing about the money. Both Syracusians later go to Adriana’s for dinner, with S. Dromio refusing entry to E. Antipholus and E. Dromio. When S. Dromio finds that Luce believes him to be betrothed to her, he complains to S. Antipholus, making many insulting remarks about Luce’s size. S. Dromio then waits by the harbor for a departing ship; when he returns, he accidentally tells E. Antipholus about their nearing departure, and E. Antipholus sends him to fetch money from Adriana. He fetches the money, then brings it to S. Antipholus. When the two are met by the Courtesan, they grow convinced that the town is inhabited by witches and flee. They later draw their swords against Adriana

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and company and ultimately take refuge in the Priory. After they exit and resolve the confusion, S. Dromio and E. Dromio share a brotherly moment. Generally speaking, S. Dromio not only pushes the play’s action along, as does his twin, but also provides more comical responses to the strange goings-on than does S. Antipholus. This role is highlighted by his long discourse regarding the physical stature of Luce, who mistakes him for her betrothed, and by comments such as those punningly referring to the Courtesan as a ‘‘light wench.’’

Egeon Egeon is a merchant from Syracuse traveling in Ephesus in search of his long-lost son; he has also been away from the son he raised, S. Antipholus, for some seven years. It is illegal for a Syracusian to travel in Ephesus; he must pay a large penalty or be condemned to death. Egeon tells the Duke of Ephesus his tragic tale of family separation, and the duke, sympathetic to his plight, gives him one day to gather enough money to free himself. Egeon appears again in the final scene and believes that E. Antipholus is actually S. Antipholus. When Emilia, his longlost wife, appears, along with S. Antipholus and S. Dromio, Egeon and his family are at last reunited. While Egeon’s plight serves as the framework for the rest of the play, his appearances are brief, and his character seems to merit little interpretation; he has a problem, and at the end of the play it is solved. On the other hand, one critic has offered a convincing interpretation of the play wherein the greater plot can be understood not just as an actual reunion of Egeon’s family but also as an allegorical resolution to the psychic difficulties that brought about the problem in the first place. This allegory is discussed at length in the Style section.

Emilia Emilia is the wife of Egeon, and the mother of both S. Antipholus and E. Antipholus. Some thirty-three years earlier, Emilia was separated first from her husband, Egeon, and one son in a shipwreck, then from her other son by the fishermen who rescued them. She becomes an Abbess in Ephesus. She is reunited at the end of the play with her husband, as well as with both of her long-lost sons. Her appearance finally resolves the confusion surrounding everyone’s identities. By virtue of her refusal to surrender S. Antipholus and

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S. Dromio from the refuge of her sanctuary, and by her chastising of Adriana, Emilia amounts to a significant moral force in the play.

First Merchant The first Merchant appears early in the play doing business with S. Antipholus and warning him to hide his Syracusian origins.

Jailer Another officer, referred to in a stage direction as a Jailer, tries to prevent Adriana and Pinch from detaining E. Antipholus, his charge. When Adriana offers to accompany him to pay off the debt in question, the Officer lets them take E. Antipholus away.

Luce Luce is the servant of Adriana who is betrothed to Dromio of Ephesus. Luce supports S. Dromio in refusing E. Antipholus entry at his home. Later, Luce reportedly mistakes S. Dromio for E. Dromio, such that S. Dromio reports back to S. Antipholus with great concern for his livelihood.

Luciana The unmarried sister of Adriana, Luciana counsels her jealous sister to suppress her negative emotions and have patience with her possibly adulterous husband. When Luciana in turn counsels S. Antipholus to be more loving to Adriana, S. Antipholus falls in love with Luciana herself. Luciana then tells Adriana about S. Antipholus’s affection, greatly upsetting her sister. Luciana supports Adriana as she tries to cure E. Antipholus of his madness. At first glance, Luciana seems to be something of a model of antifeminism: she seems to find truth in the notion that a woman’s place is in the home, and that a wife should be generally subservient to her husband. Luciana implores Adriana to harbor no jealousy over her husband’s possible relations with other women, even though E. Antipholus’s references to the Courtesan seem to indicate that Adriana’s jealousy is justifiable. Later, in her conversation with S. Antipholus, whom she understands to be E. Antipholus, Luciana seems to be dismissing any possible infidelity on his behalf as acceptable, as long as he makes an effort to show affection for his wife.

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On the other hand, Luciana could simply be understood as attempting to mediate between her sister and her brother-in-law. She eventually decries Adriana’s jealousy not as, say, unwomanly or unbecoming of a wife but as ‘‘selfharming’’; ultimately, then, her interest seems to lie in Adriana’s personal well-being. Also, while she allows for the possibility of E. Antipholus committing adultery, she may simply be wise enough to realize that her counsel is not going to prevent E. Antipholus from slighting his wife. He is obviously antagonistic and perhaps regularly abusive, as evidenced by his frequent beatings of E. Dromio and his declared intent to assault and even ‘‘disfigure’’ Adriana for her actions that day. In this sense, she may simply be a realist. Also, in referring to any possible adultery, in the course of just seven lines she pointedly uses the words ‘‘false love,’’ ‘‘shame,’’ ‘‘disloyalty,’’ ‘‘vice,’’ ‘‘tainted,’’ and ‘‘sin,’’ perhaps in a more subtle attempt to prevent just such adultery from occurring. Overall, then, Luciana can perhaps be understood as primarily an advocate and agent of reconciliation.

Officer One Officer arrests both Angelo and E. Antipholus.

Pinch A doctor, or conjurer of a sort, Pinch is brought in to cure E. Antipholus of his supposed madness; E. Antipholus manages to strike Pinch in public, then later as reported by a messenger, to mildly torture Pinch.

Second Merchant The second Merchant appears later in the play, requesting the repayment of a debt by Angelo. When Angelo cannot get the money from E. Antipholus, this Merchant has Angelo arrested. Later, Angelo and the Merchant come across S. Antipholus, who has the chain that E. Antipholus had denied having. Angered, the second Merchant draws swords against S. Antipholus, who flees with S. Dromio.

Solinus, Duke of Ephesus After informing Egeon of his transgression— that is, appearing in Ephesus as a merchant from Syracuse—the duke listens sympathetically to Egeon’s woeful tale. The duke then grants Egeon the remainder of the day to find the sum needed to buy his freedom. At day’s end, as Egeon is being led to his execution, the family


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is reunited, with the duke serving as a mediator while the confusion is cleared up. The duke then releases Egeon without accepting E. Antipholus’s money.

THEMES Identity The way the various characters in The Comedy of Errors view their respective identities is perhaps the play’s most prominent theme. The central quest for identity, of course, is that of S. Antipholus, whom the audience understands from early on to be seeking himself, to a great extent, in his twin brother; this understanding comes primarily from the speech in the first act in which he compares himself to a drop of water seeking another drop in an entire ocean. Coppe´lia Kahn views S. Antipholus’s definition of identity here as tantamount to a desire to cease to exist: ‘‘He envisions extinction—total merger with an undifferentiated mass—as the result of his search.’’ Kahn proceeds to frame this form of negating self-definition in psychological terms: ‘‘The image of that one drop falling into a whole ocean conveys the terror of failing to find identity: irretrievable ego loss.’’ In these terms, S. Antipholus’s search for identity can be understood as a possible step in the maturational process, whereby an adolescent might test the boundaries of his or her identity by fiercely identifying with someone such as a sibling—with such an identification between twins being especially strong. Kahn concludes, ‘‘The irony . . . is that seeking identity by narcissistic mirroring leads only to the obliteration, not the discovery, of the self.’’ Thus, while S. Antipholus finds his twin, the extent to which he likewise ‘‘finds himself’’ is unclear, as the reunion between the two does not indicate that they share any instinctive connection. Adriana’s conception of her identity is also of great concern and is, in fact, quite similar to that of S. Antipholus, in that she seeks to define herself in relation to another—namely, to her husband. Echoing S. Antipholus’s remarks about feeling like a drop in an ocean seeking a particular other drop, Adriana compares herself to a drop of water in a gulf, where the entire gulf is understood to be her husband. A difference between the two conceptions of identity, then, can relate to the extent to which the two characters wish

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A street before a priory, Act V, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

to be merged, in essence, with others: S. Antipholus feels lost in the ocean and seeks to unite himself only with a single other drop, his brother; Adriana, meanwhile, is perhaps perfectly content to be lost in her gulf, her husband, as long as she is never forcibly removed from it. These dual manners of defining the self through others may fairly reflect the play’s greater conception of identity, as related by Barry Weller: ‘‘The familial embrace with which the community of Ephesus eventually receives and reassembles the scattered members of Egeon’s household intimates the priority of corporate identities over the single and limited life of the individual consciousness.’’ That is, the play’s conclusion perhaps demonstrates the primary importance of the intersection of identities that is brought about by love.

Love and Marriage A second theme that is closely linked to the first and that also relates to certain characters’ motivations concerns the nature of love and of marriage. This topic is discussed at length by Adriana

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and Luciana, who give conflicting views of what it means to be married and to be in love. Adriana harkens back to her husband’s courtship of her and laments that he no longer gives her the attention he once did. Peter G. Phialas points out that Adriana feels a need to maintain control of her husband’s liberty. In this sense, he asserts, ‘‘Adriana’s concept of love is the right to possess, to receive and own and be master of.’’ This concept is problematic largely in that it leads to her jealousy, which may or may not be well founded but, regardless, bears no positive effect on the relationship. The Abbess, serving as a guiding moral force, duly chastises Adriana for failing to deal well with the situation. Phialas claims that another aspect of Adriana’s conception of love that proves problematic is her evident belief that physical beauty plays a central role in attraction; however, Adriana may have formed this conception based on an accurate understanding of her own husband’s inclinations toward women in general. In opposition to her sister, Luciana seems to believe that a woman’s role in a marriage

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is to do everything possible to maintain peace. In her view, the degree of love shared by the couple is not of the utmost importance, as she counsels E. Antipholus not to search within himself to find his love for Adriana but simply to ‘‘comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife,’’ as ‘‘the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.’’ Luciana essentially dismisses the notion that the flattery in question ought to be sincere. Much different perspectives are presented by the men of the play. E. Antipholus’s actions seem to indicate that love is simply not a priority for him; rather, business and his association and friendship with other businessmen, are of the utmost importance. S. Antipholus, meanwhile, demonstrates himself to be afraid to discover how a union with a woman would affect his sense of his identity. In particular, in speaking to Luciana he expresses his desire to avoid drowning in Adriana’s tears—offering an interesting inversion of the situation he described earlier with regard to his search for his twin, where he was already a drop of water in the ocean. Perhaps, however, this can simply be understood as S. Antipholus’s image of what marriage with Adriana would be like; he shows himself to be perfectly amenable to a union with Luciana. S. Dromio offers the most comically negative perceptions of marriage in conjuring the various overwhelming physical images associated with the rotund Luce. As Kahn notes, S. Dromio’s conception of Luce’s physical presence is similar to S. Antipholus’s conception of union with Adriana, as both express fear and confusion when confronted with the notion of being ‘‘engulfed.’’ Beyond the individual characters’ perceptions, issues surrounding love and marriage are extensively presented through the portrayal of Adriana’s relationship to her husband. Specifically, Shakespeare asks a question that Dorothea Kehler notes ‘‘is both timeless and peculiarly modern: can love survive marriage?’’ Indeed, the essence of the situation—that a discrepancy in the levels of affection expressed by husband and wife has led to alienation—has certainly been a subject of discussion ever since the notion of wedding was first conceived. In the marriage in The Comedy of Errors, the imbalance of love between Adriana and E. Antipholus has left Adriana feeling utterly powerless. Her husband is free to roam around and, if he so chooses, to ignore predetermined mealtimes,


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The Comedy of Errors presents a marriage in which the husband seems to prioritize business over his marital relationship, while the wife is relegated to the home. In a report, discuss the extent to which this situation is found in modern times and analyze various other ways that couples arrange their time with respect to both family and business. Use statistics, such as data from the U.S. Census, to illustrate the frequency of different arrangements: make note of how families in your community align with the statistics you find, or how they differ from the statistics.

Read Paul’s epistle to the Ephesians, which is found in the Bible. Write an essay in which you describe any similarities in theme or content between the epistle and Shakespeare’s play. If possible, note ways in which abstract ideas present in the epistle are addressed in the play. Interestingly, Shakespeare provides almost no dialogue between the brothers Antipholus at the close of the play; the confusion is cleared, and they walk off stage. Write a brief additional scene, in verse, presenting a dialogue between the two brothers in which they discuss whatever you choose to have them discuss.

Research laws relating to marriage and debt from Elizabethan times. In an essay, describe several Elizabethan laws of particular interest and compare and contrast them with modern American laws. Discuss whether Elizabethan laws or modern laws seem more just. Read any of Shakespeare’s later comedies and write an essay in which you compare and contrast the play you chose with The Comedy of Errors. Make note of certain respects in which the play you chose seems to be superior in artistic construction to The Comedy of Errors, which was possibly Shakespeare’s first play.

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while she is relegated to simply waiting for him to arrive. Nevertheless, Kehler notes that Adriana wants nothing more than ‘‘to subjugate herself in marriage. It is her misfortune that, in a male-dominated society, the possession who becomes possessive is regarded as a shrew.’’ Overall, Adriana and E. Antipholus’s problematic situation illustrates just two of the psychological states that can be attained by a couple that has found its way into a less loving partnership than once existed.

STYLE Comedy, from Farce to Romance The Comedy of Errors has widely been interpreted as not just a comedy but a farce; a comedic work that features satire and a fairly improbable plot can be considered farcical. In the nineteenth century, the British poet and scholar Samuel Taylor Coleridge affirmed that the play was in fact the epitome of the genre: ‘‘Shakespeare has in this piece presented us with a legitimate farce in exactest consonance with the philosophical principles and character of farce . . . . A proper farce is mainly distinguished from comedy by the license allowed, and even required, in the fable, in order to produce strange and laughable situations.’’ Coleridge goes on to note that the farce is, in a sense, enhanced by the addition of the second set of twins, the two Dromios, to the two Antipholuses; such a situation is indeed so improbable as to be virtually impossible. A variety of other factors contribute to the perception of the play as a farce. A spectator or reader might expect S. Antipholus to deduce exactly what is going on, given that the purpose of his journey is precisely a search for his lost twin, but even when he is recognized on the street, he deduces nothing. Only his inability to understand his situation, of course, allows for the play’s many other misunderstandings. Indeed, Harry Levin notes that such an abundance of ‘‘errors’’ can be another sign of a play’s genre: ‘‘Farce derives its name from a French word for stuffing; literally it welcomes the gags and the knockabout business that fill in its contours ad libitum [without limit].’’ Barbara Freedman relates in her essay ‘‘Egeon’s Debt’’ that a certain degree of aggression can be

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another factor emblematic of farce: ‘‘Farce derives humor from normally unacceptable aggression which is made acceptable through a denial of its cause and effect.’’ In Freedman’s allegorical reading of The Comedy of Errors, the circumstances of the brothers Antipholus can be attributed to the guilt suffered by the father; as characters within the farce, of course, the twins can only think to inflict their aggressions on other characters—usually the brothers Dromio. Certain aspects of the play quite distinctly link it with Shakespeare’s other comedies or distinguish it from his tragedies. Freedman notes that, as Egeon’s condemnation to death constitutes the introductory scene, the play begins with ‘‘the harsh world of law, the cruel and problematic reality with which so many of Shakespeare’s romantic comedies commence.’’ In turn, at the end of the play, the world of law is re-entered—as marked by the duke’s carrying out his official duties—but it has been endowed with a certain degree of mercy as a result of the play’s developments; here, the duke grants Egeon his freedom without accepting E. Antipholus’s money. Freedman also notes that the setting bears significant resemblances to the settings in other Shakespearean plays such as As You Like It and A Midsummer Night’s Dream: ‘‘The main plot’s nightmarish Ephesus corresponds to the improbable, fantastic, dreamlike realm of the imagination, familiar to us as a second stage in Shakespearean comedy.’’ A key difference, however, is that Shakespeare’s other comedies feature worlds that are actually more like dreams than nightmares; The Comedy of Errors, on the other hand, features what Freedman terms ‘‘the imagined fulfillment of repressed fears and desires in everyday reality.’’ Other commentators have pointed out that the extent of character development is often directly related to genre, and The Comedy of Errors has in fact been widely criticized for its general absence of character development. In his introduction to the play, Harry Levin notes that serious drama is typically endowed with more emotional impact when the characterization is as comprehensive as possible, while with farce, plot often takes precedence over character. Levin goes on to describe the basis of this play’s plot—everyone’s repeatedly mistaking one twin for another, with masters and servants alike—as ‘‘the very essence of the farcical: two

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characters sufficiently alike, so that each might fit interchangeably into the other’s situation, could not afford to possess distinguishing characteristics.’’ That is, this comedy would perhaps be hobbled by too much character development. A last aspect of the comedy worth considering is the romantic one. As Peter G. Phialas has pointed out, The Comedy of Errors features a number of romantic elements that will be prominent in the playwright’s later comedies. Phialas highlights the fact that ‘‘Shakespeare introduces the chief structural principle of his romantic comedies: the juxtaposition of attitudes toward love and toward the ideal relationship of man and woman.’’ These notions are explored in the present play through the pairings of Adriana and E. Antipholus and of Luciana and S. Antipholus. Phialas also articulates a more precise view of love that will be seen in more detail in Shakespeare’s romantic comedies to come: ‘‘He is able here to isolate, obliquely and in the briefest compass, one of the central conceptions of those later plays: that love does not possess, that it gives without needing to receive, for it gives to another self.’’ Thus, overall, The Comedy of Errors, with its interweaving of genres as effective as that of any later play, should be recognized as comedy, farce, and romance alike.

The Arrangement of Awarenesses One aspect of The Comedy of Errors that distinguishes it from later Shakespearean comedies is the absence of situational understanding on the part of the play’s characters. Bertrand Evans goes as far as to say that this aspect of the play is of primary importance: ‘‘With neither character nor language making notable comic contribution, then, the great resource of laughter is the exploitable gulf spread between the participants’ understanding and ours.’’ Evans notes that almost from the very beginning, the spectator is aware that the father has been condemned to death in the same city in which both of his sons, coincidentally, are present at the time; throughout the play, however, none of the characters are aware of these facts. Thus, the audience is fully aware of the play’s ‘‘single great secret,’’ while the inhabitants of the play are ignorant, and this contrast produces the majority of the play’s comical interactions. This arrangement of awarenesses among the audience and the characters, then, could not have been more basic, and Evans confirms that


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it is the simplest of all of Shakespeare’s plays. He notes, ‘‘In later ones our awareness is packed, often even burdened, with multiple, complex, interrelated secrets, and the many circles of individual participants’ visions, though they cross and recross one another, do not wholly coincide.’’ Shakespeare would come to use certain dramatic strategies to establish and reestablish levels of understanding among the audience and the play’s characters, particularly soliloquies and asides, wherein a single character can discourse on something without revealing any secrets to any other characters. Indeed, soliloquies and asides are the literary equivalent of narrative descriptions of characters’ thoughts. Evans notes that the few short soliloquies in The Comedy of Errors do not reveal any unknown thoughts; rather, they ‘‘exploit the speaker’s ignorance of what we already know.’’ Shakespeare would also come to habitually plant what Evans termed ‘‘practicers’’ within his plays; these practicers serve to subvert whatever moral or societal order exists by intentionally deceiving other characters. The characters of Iago, in Othello, and Rosalind, in As You Like It, are good examples of such practicers. In a different dramatic respect, Evans notes that in The Comedy of Errors Shakespeare did not even provide moments where characters come close to fully understanding the greater situation, as the playwright ‘‘risks no dialogue that strikes the unsuspected truth.’’ In later plays, on the other hand, moments of conversational foreshadowing are not uncommon. Overall, then, the singular arrangement of awarenesses in this early play is evident in a number of ways.

The Allegory of Egeon In terms of the direct plot, Egeon’s plight seems to serve only as a framework for the rest of the play, with his tragic family story providing a background but bearing little impact on the action. That is, the plot revolves around the mere fact that one twin is in the home city of the second twin and the confusion surrounding their identities; S. Antipholus’s search for his brother is mentioned only by S. Antipholus himself in a few passing asides, such that the reason for and the basic existence of the search are almost irrelevant. However, Barbara Freedman, in her essay ‘‘Egeon’s Debt,’’ has interpreted the plot as presenting an allegorical explanation of the psychic

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process Egeon necessarily undergoes in seeking reunion with his family. Freedman begins by noting the various shortcomings Egeon reveals about himself in the introductory scene, when he relates his tragic story to the duke. Egeon allowed himself to be drawn away from his wife for a full six months by overseas business obligations, as his factor, or agent, had died. Evidently with no assistance from her husband, Egeon’s wife then traveled to join him. After the birth of their sons, his wife alone wished to return home; Egeon agreed to go but was in fact ‘‘unwilling.’’ Once the storm confronted them with the possibility of death, Egeon would ‘‘gladly have embraced’’ that death, perhaps because he was being forced into a strictly domestic situation that he did not care for. Indeed, although he tells his story in a matter-of-fact tone that leaves the reader sympathizing with his misfortune, he is at least guilty of largely neglecting his wife for the sake of his business. With this understanding of Egeon’s past, the personal circumstances of the two twins seem to bear greater relevance. Freedman notes, ‘‘When the action of the storm separated Egeon from his former life, the Ephesian twin was, literally, that part of Egeon which was lost. The Syracusan twin was the part of Egeon which remained with him to the present time.’’ Thus, in E. Antipholus the audience sees precisely the person Egeon was before the shipwreck: a man rooted in a domestic situation, respected in his community, and, generally speaking, focused more on his commercial activity than on his marital partnership. S. Antipholus, on the contrary, is a wanderer in search of his twin—in a sense, in search of his own self—just as Egeon is now wandering in search of the life he lost when he was separated from his wife. Freedman proceeds to demonstrate that beyond the essence of the brothers’ circumstances, the allegory is manifested in the play’s consistent focus on indebtedness. Egeon’s fate can be conceived of as featuring both a marital debt, in that he owes his wife the attention and affection that he neglected to give her, and a monetary debt, as he becomes obligated to either pay a fine for appearing in Ephesus or face the death penalty. Both sons, in turn, undergo experiences with both types of debts, in somewhat inverse manners: ‘‘Just as the Syracusan twin progresses

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from fear of actual monetary debt to payment for a mistaken marital debt, so his brother moves from fear of an actual marital debt to payment for a mistaken monetary debt.’’ Thus, in that one debt is essentially a mirror image of the other, they can together be understood as symbolic of the father’s debts, just as the twins are mirror images of each other and, in the context of the allegory, are symbolic of the father. In summing up the importance of this allegory to an understanding of the play as a whole, Freedman declares, ‘‘Egeon’s story is the missing link which turns an arbitrary plot into a meaningfully directed fantasy.’’

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Room and Board In general, aspects of the historical situation at the time of Shakespeare’s writing his play, and the historical period in which the play takes place, bear little relation to the plot. That is, in what was quite possibly his first dramatic effort, Shakespeare seemed to have been executing a sort of exercise in farcical comedy, rather than seeking to make any political or historical statements. Nevertheless, certain aspects of The Comedy of Errors do seem to reflect the changing nature of Elizabethan society. One of these aspects is the significance attributed to the home, particularly by Adriana; the crux of her frustration with her husband is that he fails to fully value the home that she keeps for him. A problem for Adriana, as Ann Christensen notes, is that in Elizabethan times, ‘‘the modern bourgeois notion of home as safe haven’’ was not yet established. That is, Adriana was perhaps ahead of her time in seeking to insulate her home life from her husband’s business dealings. Christensen eloquently describes the play’s overall relevance with respect to contemporary cultural development: ‘‘The Comedy of Errors registers a historical moment of social transition and dislocation within the not-yet distinct public and private spheres. Forcing oppositions between desire and profit, leisure and work, women and men, Shakespeare explores contemporary anxieties attending the development of the separation of the spheres.’’

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Christensen explicitly ties the rift between Adriana and E. Antipholus to a particular aspect of home life: ‘‘The differences between the masculine world of commerce and law and the feminine domestic environment articulate themselves over the contested cultural form of ‘dining.’’’ Indeed, both Adriana and E. Antipholus voice concerns regarding the other’s dining habits: she reminisces about the time when he only ate meat that she carved for him, while he specifically suspects that she had ‘‘feasted’’ with other men in his absence. In this light, the fact that E. Antipholus chooses to dine with the Courtesan after being turned away from his home can be considered a significant act of marital defiance. Christensen points to Adriana’s speech at the end of act 2, scene 1—in which she speaks of ‘‘starving’’ at home for loving looks from her husband, while he, like a wild animal, has broken loose to ‘‘feed’’ elsewhere—as evidence of the primary importance attributed to the family meal. Christensen writes, ‘‘Adriana’s lament for her neglect ranges fully through connotations of feeding, and suggests how crucially food-service defined the domestic on the Shakespearean stage and in early modern society.’’

Urbanization Directly related to the Elizabethan conception of the home, especially around London, was the extent of England’s urbanization. In general, in any society, the context in which the home exists can be understood to bear a substantial impact on the nature of the home itself. The greater the number of people living in a community of a given size, the less space each individual person will be allotted. Thus, one consequence of urbanization could be increased feelings of claustrophobia—perhaps causing some men to feel a greater need to wander around their community, rather than remaining enclosed in their allotted spaces. E. Antipholus’s waywardness, then, beyond being a prioritization of business matters over domestic matters, could be interpreted as a demonstration of a masculine response to urbanization. On the societal level, Gail Kern Paster finds a significant consequence of urbanization to be the institution of laws that, by their fixed nature, cannot discriminate among various instances of criminality. That is, a law is almost always either broken or not broken; when laws are ‘‘bent,’’ the perpetrator, not the system of justice, typically


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Lithograph of Stuart Robson and William H. Crane as Dromio of Ephesus and Dromio of Syracuse

does the bending. Paster notes that this inherent property of laws is in effect a small argument against the sheer existence of the urban environment. She states that in The Comedy of Errors and also in other Shakespearean plays, ‘‘The city is confronted with the self-imposed necessity of enforcing a law whose consequences are so clearly inhuman that they can only make mockery of a city’s reason for being.’’ In this instance, of course, the inhumanity is Egeon’s being sentenced to death simply for being poor and for looking for his son in a town that has, unbeknownst to him, banned his presence there. In Elizabethan times, when whipping, dismemberment, and beheading were in wide and public use, the breaking of laws and the punishment of criminals were of the utmost popular interest. As such, Shakespeare’s depiction of crime and unjust punishment in ancient times was perhaps intended to stress negative aspects of the everincreasing impersonality of cities.

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

200 B . C . E .: In regions of the ancient Mediterranean Sea, villages and towns are well organized enough to feature marketplaces and bazaars, where commerce is carried out between community members. 1600: Urbanization in the greater London area, with a population of some 200,000, has led to the rise of more crowded, chaotic marketplaces and wider varieties of businesses. Today: London’s population has surpassed seven million, and the city dominates the economy of Great Britain.

200 B . C . E .: The marketplace offers a unique union of domestic and business life, with dwellings surrounding the area, making it a central location in which societal interactions occur. 1600: The constant emphasis of the importance of money has fostered widespread mentalities whereby business can be considered more important than domestic relationships.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Comedy of Errors, being one of Shakespeare’s earliest efforts, is almost universally viewed as inferior to his other plays. Some critics have offered negative reviews of the work not just in relation to his later plays but also in absolute terms—calling, say, the characterization not just worse than in any other Shakespearean drama but simply bad. In the early nineteenth century the literary critic William Hazlitt, in his Characters of Shakespear’s Plays, reflected a certain degree of annoyance with the work, declaring with respect to its source, ‘‘This comedy is taken very much from the Menaechmi of Plautus, and is not an improvement on it. Shakespear [sic] appears to have bestowed no great pains on it, and there are but a few passages which bear the decided stamp of his genius.’’

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Today: In general, the alienation among peoples and nations brought about by the focus on business, money, and economic development has produced many of the world’s most pressing problems, such as global warming.

200 B . C . E .: As with Egeon’s situation, laws allow for people to be convicted of crimes that they could not have known they were committing. 1600: Laws are constructed with considerably more justice, but people are still often tried for crimes under questionable circumstances, such as in cases of heresy against the Church of England. Today: In nations such as England and the United States, legal systems are still being refined, with the existence of the death penalty in the United States, for example, being widely debated.

Hazlitt goes on to express the opinion that the nature of the situation—two twins being mistaken for each other—simply translates poorly into drama, as on the stage the twins will either be impossible to distinguish or so different as to shatter the illusion of their identicalness, while on the written page their characters fail to substantially distinguish themselves from each other. Hazlitt notes that Shakespeare was simply more virtuous as a creator than as an adapter: ‘‘We do not think his forte would ever have lain in imitating or improving on what others invented, so much as in inventing for himself, and perfecting what he invented.’’ Many critics have given the play a fair degree of respect. The renowned German Shakespearean scholar August Wilhelm Schlegel remarked, with regard to the comically ambitious inclusion of two sets of twins, ‘‘If the spectator is to be entertained

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by mere perplexities they cannot be too varied.’’ Making reference to both actual and possible reinterpretations of Plautus’s drama, Schlegel concluded (in direct opposition to Hazlitt), ‘‘This is perhaps the best of all written or possible Menaechmi; and if the piece be inferior in worth to other pieces of Shakespeare, it is merely because nothing more could be made of the materials.’’ This view is directly contrary to Hazlitt’s opinion of Shakespeare’s artisanship, which was that the play was ‘‘not an improvement’’ on Menaechmi. Some critics have gone as far as to bestow The Comedy of Errors with admiring praise. C. L. Barber argued that the presence of certain profound thematic elements cannot be ignored: ‘‘Shakespeare’s sense of comedy as a moment in a larger cycle leads him to go out of his way, even in this early play, to frame farce with action which presents the weight of age and the threat of death, and to make the comic resolution a renewal of life, indeed explicitly a rebirth.’’ T. S. Dorsch, in turn, seems to appreciate the play simply as a source of entertainment: ‘‘The Comedy of Errors is not only very good theatre, it is also very good reading. It is a finely-balanced mixture of pathos and suspense, illusion and delusion, love turned bitter and love that is sweet, farce and fun.’’ In explicating the allegorical aspects of the plot, as tied to Egeon’s plight, Barbara Freedman notes that many critics had reviewed the play negatively owing to their failure to ‘‘resolve two major issues central to an understanding of the play as a meaningful unity: first, the purpose of the farcical confusion of the twins’ identities in the main plot, and second, its relation to their father’s progress in the frame plot from separation to reunion with his family, and from crime and debt to redemption.’’ Indeed, if these issues are not resolved, the play seems little more than a exercise in farce with a few fairly substantial themes; Freedman’s explication of what is perceived as the allegorical aspects of the plot, as tied to Egeon’s self-redemption, leaves the play looking far more profound. As did Hazlitt, many critics have offered perspectives on how the presentation of the play in the theater might affect its dramatic power. The French intellectual Etienne Souriau notes that for such a farcical comedy of errors to be swallowed by the audience, the characters who ‘‘grope among the shadows and . . . play blindman’s buff with their souls’’ are almost required to bear themselves in a very particular


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way: ‘‘The danger, in the theater, is to show those souls as too lucid and too sure of themselves, of what they are doing, and of their situation, rather than to show them as too wild and uncertain, proceeding by trials and errors.’’

CRITICISM Philip C. Kolin Kolin argues that The Comedy of Errors is unusual among Shakespeare’s plays because of the way in which specific locations in the play are related to the transformations of characters. The critic analyzes settings such as the Centaur Inn or the Phoenix Tavern by comparing them to Antipholus of Syracuse, his twin brother Antipholus of Ephesus, and Adriana. Perplexed by the maddening improbabilities in the last act of The Comedy of Errors, Duke Solinus pronounces what could be the topic sentence of the play: ‘‘I think you all have drunk of Circe’s cup’’(5.1.271). In Ephesus, Circean transformations reputedly turn men into beasts, resulting in demonic possession, the loss of self, and the breakdown of social order. Everywhere individuals lose their identity. Shakespeare incorporates Circean transformations into a strong sense of place. In fact, The Comedy of Errors ‘‘is unique among Shakespeare’s plays in the way localities are indicated,’’ including being marked by distinctive signs. The names for three of these locations—the Centaur Inn, the Courtesan’s Porpentine, and the Phoenix, for Antipholus of Ephesus’s house—symbolize the types of transformations that many of the characters undergo. Appropriately, each place is named for a mythic (or fetishistic) animal whose legacy explains a character’s unnatural metamorphosis. Previous commentators have contentedly glossed these names only as specific London taverns (the Centaur, the Phoenix) or a brothel (the Porpentine). Yet on the fluid Elizabethan stage, Shakespeare contextualizes his theatrical environment within the larger mythos of metamorphosis. Xenophobic traveler Antipholus of Syracuse will reside at the Centaur where, with his servant, ‘‘we host,’’ and where, he trusts, ‘‘the gold I gave Dromio is laid up safe’’ (2.2.1–2). The name of this inn resonates with portent about Ephesus’s reputation for ‘‘dark working sorcerers that change the mind / Soul-killing witches that deform the body . . . And many such-like liberties

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of sin’’(1.2.99–102). Half-man, half-horse, the centaur was represented in Greek mythology as being ‘‘bound or ridden by Eros,’’ embodying the lawlessness and lust (see King Lear 4.6.124) that ran amuck in Ephesus. Fearful of being transformed by a wizard’s spell, Antipholus of Syracuse could not have chosen a more ill-advised address. Even more relevant, the history of the mythic beast signals the transformations that Antipholus himself will experience in Ephesus. (The centaurs burst upon Pirithous’s marriage ceremony and carried off his bride and ravished her, earning the stigma as the despoilers of marriage.) When he is mistaken for his married twin brother Antipholus of Ephesus, Antipholus of Syracuse threatens the marital harmony between Adriana and her lawful husband, whom she locks out of his own house so that she may entertain the twin. The mythic strain of the centaurs, if not their literal intent, haunts Antipholus of Syracuse. Shakespeare asks an audience to see Antipholus as a bewitched centaur-guest. Like the centaurs, Antipholus cannot, when in Ephesus ‘‘but two hours old’’(2.2.148) precisely pin down what kind of creature he is—married or single (horse or man). ‘‘What, was I married to her in my dream? . . . What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?’’(2.2.182–84) he asks after Adriana treats him like a spouse. Like the Centaur, the Porpentine (porcupine) is linked in Errors to Circean transformations into bestiality. It is to the porpentine sign of the harlot that Antipholus of Ephesus flees after Adriana refuses to admit him. Under an Ephesian spell himself, Antipholus shouts to his servant, ‘‘fetch the chain . . . to the Porpentine, / For there’s the house—that chain will I bestow / (Be it for nothing to spite my wife) / Upon mine hostess there’’(3.1.115–19). In front of the Porpentine, Antipholus, as the harlot reveals, ‘‘rushed into my house and took perforce / My ring away’’(4.3.91–92) Soon thereafter, Antipholus is declared mad and summarily restrained. Famous for its barbed quills, signifiers of both tainted sex and violent aggression, the porpentine appropriately becomes the totem animal for Antipholus’s transformation from lawful citizen and espoused husband into public threat and enraged cuckold. Antipholus infects his marriage when he gives away his wife’s chain (a symbol of their marital bond) and steals another woman’s ring, a sign of the conjugal sex act, as Gratiano realizes when at the end of The Merchant of

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Title page of The Comedy of Errors from the First Folio, 1623 (By permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library)

Venice he vows that ‘‘while I live I’ll fear no other thing, / So sore as keeping safe Nerissa’s [his wife’s] ring’’(5.1.306–07). The most evocative and sustaining reference to transformation through a symbolic animal occurs at the Phoenix, Antipholus’s house, where much of acts 2 and 3 takes place and where many of the errors originate. Shakespeare often invokes the phoenix—the legendary bird that dies in its own funeral pyre, only to rise from the ashes reborn—to represent immortality through love relationships (see, for example, ‘‘Sonnet 19’’ and ‘‘The Phoenix and the Turtle’’). R. A. Foakes limits the significance of this animal too narrowly, however, in Errors: ‘‘The image of this mythic bird . . . is appropriate to the story of Antipholus and Adriana, whose love is finally renewed out of the break-up of their marital relationship.’’ The phoenix also augurs well for the Abbess’s other son, Antipholus of Syracuse who, like his twin, at first quarrels with, but then is united with, his (intended) mate, thanks to a phoenixlike experience.

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Accusing his servant of madness for claiming that their ‘‘house was at the Phoenix’’ (2.1.11), Antipholus of Syracuse falls in love there with Adriana’s sister Luciana, of whom he asks: ‘‘Are you a god? Would you create me new / Transform me then, and to your power I’ll yield’’(3.2.38–40). Although Luciana is at first incredulous that Antipholus of Syracuse, whom she believes is her brother-in-law Antipholus of Ephesus, would try to court her (‘‘What are you mad that you do reason so?’’ [53]), she does indeed transform him into a new creature by fulfilling his dream of marrying her (5.1.376). Like the self-perpetuating phoenix, Antipholus of Syracuse must die to the old man he was (his brother’s twin), to become the new man he is (his brother’s twin). This is the paradox of the phoenix myth, as well as the secret to solving the maddening confusions in The Comedy of Errors. Source: Philip C. Kolin, ‘‘Shakespeare’s The Comedy of Errors,’’ in The Explicator, Vol. 56, No. 1, Fall 1997, pp. 5–8.

Russ McDonald In the following excerpt, McDonald first surveys previous criticism on the play regarding its classification as a farce and its position in Shakespeare’s canon. He notes that critics have tended to ‘‘elevate’’ the play above the ‘‘vulgar’’ level of farce in explaining its meaning (although its farcical elements are obvious) because it is sometimes perceived as a source of ‘‘embarrassment’’ in the canon. McDonald then examines ‘‘how meaning comes about in farce’’ through the play’s ‘‘theatrical complexity,’’ concluding that the play should be examined for what it is—a farce and a ‘‘source of wonder.’’ Zeus’s sexual lapses notwithstanding, gods are not supposed to be indecorous, and a characteristic of modern Bardolatry has been its insistence on Shakespeare’s artistic dignity, particularly his attachment to the approved dramatic forms. The popular image of Shakespeare as the embodiment of high culture, the author of Hamlet and certain other tragedies, as well as a very few weighty comedies, is merely a version of a bias that also, if less obviously, afflicts the academy. What I am talking about is a hierarchy of modes, or, to put it another way, genre snobbery. That tragedy is more profound and significant than comedy is a prejudice that manifests itself in and out of the Shakespeare


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THE MOST FAMILIAR AND PERNICIOUS TACTIC OF THOSE WHO WOULD DISSOCIATE SHAKESPEARE FROM THE VULGAR CATEGORY IS TO DISCUSS THE EARLY PLAYS AS PRECURSORS OF THE MATURE STYLE, AS SEEDBEDS, THAT IS, FOR IDEAS AND METHODS THAT WILL FLOWER IN THE LATER COMEDIES AND EVEN IN THE TRAGEDIES.’’

Establishment: in the impatience of undergraduates who, taking their first class in Shakespeare, regard the comedies and histories as mere appetizers to the main course, the tragedies; in Christopher Sly’s equation of ‘‘a commonty’’ with ‘‘a Christmas gambol or a tumbling trick’’; in the disdain of the tourist at the Barbican box office who, finding Othello sold out, refuses a ticket to The Merry Wives of Windsor; in the decision of that Athenian student to preserve his notes from Aristotle’s lecture on tragedy but not to bother with the one on comedy. If there is a hierarchy of modes, there is also a hierarchy within modes: de casibus tragedy is less exalted than Greek, for example. So it is with the kinds of comedy, and the play to which I shall address myself, The Comedy of Errors, rests safely in the lowest rank. Farce is at the bottom of everyone’s list of forms, and yet Shakespeare is at the top of everyone’s list of authors. Thus, the problem I mean to examine is generated by competing hierarchies. Most literary critics have little occasion to think about farce, and those who concern themselves chiefly with the creator of texts such as Macbeth and Coriolanus do their best to avoid the form. For many years the earliest comedies were treated unapologetically as farces and Shakespeare was praised, if mildly, for his skill at contriving such brilliant and pleasing trifles. But the need to preserve his association with higher things has led in the last three or four decades to a revision of this opinion. It seems inappropriate that the cultural monument known as Shakespeare should have anything to do with a popular entertainment that we connect with the likes of the Marx brothers (Groucho and Harpo, not Karl

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and Moritz). Criticism resists a Shakespeare capable of wasting his time on such a trivial form. My purpose is to suggest that Shakespeare could be ‘‘bad,’’ but my definition differs somewhat from those of most of the other contributors to this volume. Rather than re-examine texts that may have been overvalued or seek to locate weaknesses in dramatic technique, I shall argue that Shakespeare’s taste was not invariably elevated and that certain plays are less ‘‘significant’’ than others (or at least that they signify different things in different ways). By addressing myself to what is and is not considered ‘‘Shakespearean,’’ I claim an interest in one of the fundamental issues of this collection: canonicity. A work like The Comedy of Errors must be deformed if it is to conform to that category known as Shakespearean comedy—as a farce it is noncanonical—and such misrepresentation demands a rejoinder. The first part of this essay surveys the evasions that critics have devised for treating Shakespeare’s efforts in farce, with concentration on the dodges applied to Errors. The remainder, a straightforward study of that play’s theatrical action, proposes to identify the playwright’s strategies for the production of meaning in farce. In light of the concerns of this volume, to contend that Errors succeeds not as an early version of a romantic comedy or as an allegory of marriage but as an out-and-out farce is risky, for such an argument looks like yet another defense of the artistic experiments of a novice and thus seems to exemplify the very Bardolatry that many of these essays vigorously dispute. In fact, however, my aim is to establish Shakespeare’s delight in and commitment to a dramatic form that has become infra dig. To recognize such a bent is to augment our sense of Shakespeare’s actual range. We whitewash our subject by refusing to admit his attraction to farce and declining to explore his talent for it.

I Suspicion of farce has fostered two main critical maneuvers, here summarized by Barbara Freedman: ‘‘The first is represented by that group of critics who know that Shakespeare never wrote anything solely to make us laugh and so argue that Shakespeare never wrote farce at all. . . . The more popular critical approach, however, is to agree that Shakespeare wrote

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farce, but to consider Errors (as well as Shakespeare’s other predominantly farcical plays) to be nonsensical insofar as they are farce.’’ To begin with the first group, its members are undaunted by Shakespeare’s demonstrable choice of classical or Italian farces for source material: in such cases he may be seen ‘‘transcending the farce which a lesser writer might have been satisfied to make,’’ and thus the form is mentioned so that it can be dismissed. The most familiar and pernicious tactic of those who would dissociate Shakespeare from the vulgar category is to discuss the early plays as precursors of the mature style, as seedbeds, that is, for ideas and methods that will flower in the later comedies and even in the tragedies. (In fact, hothouses would make a better simile, since the ideas and methods are found blooming in the early play itself by the time the critic finishes.) A. C. Hamilton, for example, asserts that The Comedy of Errors provides a foundation for the later comedies by revealing ‘‘their basis in the idea that life upon the order of nature has been disturbed and must be restored and renewed through the action of the play.’’ Hamilton’s reticence to detect inchoate forms of particular dramatic themes from later works is not shared by Peter G. Phialas, who identifies ‘‘certain features of structure and theme, and even tone, which anticipate significant elements of Shakespeare’s romantic comedies.’’ Specifically, ‘‘The Comedy of Errors, though in the main concerned with the farcical mistakings of identity, touches briefly a theme of far greater significance, the ideal relationship of man and woman.’’ This anticipatory practice amounts to reading the career backward: a play is conditioned by what follows it, and its distinctive qualities may be underrated or deformed. The prophetic approach tends to manifest itself in and to merge with the second defensive strategy. Put simply, this way of thinking involves deepening the farces, exposing their profundity. It has become the preferred means of protecting Shakespeare against his own immature tastes or the vulgar demands of his audience, and it has attracted some eloquent and powerful advocates. Derek Traversi, for example, unites the two critical defenses, seeing Errors as both serious in itself and important in its tonal prefiguration of the later work. He emphasizes ‘‘the deliberate seriousness of the story of Aegeon, which gives the entire action a new setting of

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gravity, a sense of tragic overtones which, elementary though it may be in expression, is yet not without some intimation of later and finer effects.’’ In other words, the play is profound but not too profound. That the dignifiers succeeded some time ago in making this serious position canonical is apparent in the following passage from R. A. Foakes’s Introduction to the New Arden edition, published in 1962: These general considerations may help to illustrate the particular quality of The Comedy of Errors. The play has farcical comedy, and it has fantasy, but it does more than merely provoke laughter, or release us temporarily from inhibitions and custom into a world free as a child’s, affording delight and freshening us up. It also invites compassion, a measure of sympathy, and a deeper response to the disruption of social and family relationships which the action brings about. Our concern for the Antipholus twins, for Adriana and Luciana, and our sense of disorder are deepened in the context of suffering provided by the enveloping action. The comedy proves, after all, to be more than a temporary and hilarious abrogation of normality; it is, at the same time, a process in which the main characters are in some sense purged, before harmony and the responsibility of normal relationships are restored at the end. Adriana learns to overcome her jealousy, and accepts the reproof of the Abbess; her husband is punished for his anger and potential brutality by Doctor Pinch’s drastic treatment; and Antipholus of Syracuse is cured of his prejudices about Ephesus. Behind them stands Egeon, a prototype of the noble sufferer or victim in later plays by Shakespeare, of Antonio in The Merchant of Venice, and of Pericles, central figure in a play which uses more profoundly the story on which Egeon’s adventures are based.

A variation of this argument is found in Harold Brooks’s much-cited essay, which associates Errors not with a farce such as Supposes but with a recognition play such as the Ion or The Confidential Clerk. Those who see Shakespeare as ‘‘transcending’’ farce must consent to a divorce between the ‘‘serious’’ issues that they elect to stress and the main business of the play. In other words, the critics analyze delicate sentiments while the characters knock heads. The discovery of gravity requires great emphasis on the frame story of Egeon, or Adriana’s matrimonial laments, or the wooing of Luciana. Brooks candidly declares the incongruity between his emphasis


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and Shakespeare’s: ‘‘The Comedy appeals first and foremost to laughter, as is obvious at any performance. I have dwelt on its serious themes and strands of romance because it is these that student and producer are prone to discount.’’ One might respond that student and producer would in this case be taking their cue from the author, who was himself prone to discount the serious themes and strands of romance at this stage of his career. We should question critical means that seek to convert the early comedies into something other than they are. The Comedy of Errors is a superlative example of dramatic farce, a simple form of comedy designed chiefly to make an audience laugh. Freedman points out that farces are almost always characterized by an ‘‘insistence on their own meaninglessness, an insistence which by no means should be accepted at face value.’’ In other words, to regard the play as a highly developed form of farce is not to outlaw ideas. Mistaken identity is at the heart of The Comedy of Errors, as Antipholus of Syracuse explains in the final moments: ‘‘I see we still did meet each other’s man, / And I was ta’en for him, and he for me, / And thereupon these errors have arose’’ (5.1.388–90). This basic formula is the source of pleasure and of meaning in the farcical comedy. My goal is to increase, if only slightly, our sense of how meaning comes about in farce, and my method for doing so is to concentrate on what an audience sees and hears in the main action. It seems reasonable to conclude—and worth pointing out, given the critical history of the text in question—that dramatic significance ought to proceed as much from the essential as from the ancillary features of a text.

II To err is human, and one way of describing the imperfect condition of our experience is to say that we inhabit a state of division, of disunity, of separation from God, from nature, from one another. Lest this seem too portentous a beginning for a discussion of a farcical comedy, let me hasten to say that splitting (of ships, of families, of other human relations) is one of the most important of the play’s patterns of action. In one sense, of course, the plot of The Comedy of Errors is founded on the natural division of twinship, for nature has split a single appearance into two persons. In the source play, Plautus exploits the confusion inherent in this division by geographically separating the Menaechmus brothers, and Shakespeare

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has increased the complexity of the original plot, as everyone knows, by doubling the twins. What is less familiar is his tactic of making the normal avenues of reconciliation into obstacle courses laid with traps and dead ends. Virtually all comedy represents characters’ attempts to overcome their isolation through marriage or reconciliation, with farce throwing the emphasis on the amusing difficulties involved in such efforts. Marriage, systems of law, commerce, language—all these are forms of communion or institutions through which people seek or give satisfaction, social instruments and (implicitly) comic means for joining human beings in a happy and fruitful relation. And yet, for all their value, these means are naturally imperfect and likely to collapse under various pressures, either of accident or human will or their own liability to misinterpretation. When they break down, the confusion that frustrates the characters delights the audience. To a great extent, the comedy of Errors arises from the number of barriers Shakespeare has erected and the ingenuity with which he has done so. The greatest obstacles arise in the principal characters’ relations with their servants, in the arena of commerce, and in the realm of speech itself. Shakespeare generates amusing conflict by exaggerating the forces that separate people and by weakening the media that connect them. The presence of four men in two costumes leads first to the attenuation of the normal bonds between servant and master and between husband and wife. From the twin Sosias in Plautus’s Amphitruo, Shakespeare creates in the Dromios a pair of agents, go-betweens who link husband to wife or customer to merchant. They are extensions of their masters’ wills, instruments by which each of the Antipholuses conducts business or gets what he wants. In the farcical world of the play, however, the will is inevitably frustrated as these servants become barriers, sources of confusion, gaps in a chain of communication. For Antipholus of Syracuse, lost in a strange, forbidden seaport, his one sure connection, his ‘‘bondman,’’ seems to fail him. This treatment of the twin servants, moreover, is representative of Shakespeare’s method with other characters, including Adriana, Luciana, and the Courtesan. Although the females are often said to contribute to the play’s Pauline analysis of proper marriage, their primary value is as comic troublemakers. Adriana’s eloquence and Luciana’s charm make the two women memorable, to be sure, but they

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are hardly complex. Adriana’s main function is to doubt her husband, to rail against his neglect, to chase him in the streets, to enlist a conjurer to minister to him; Luciana’s role is to attract Antipholus of Syracuse and thereby to fuel her sister’s rage. The disintegration of personal bonds is accompanied by the weakening of the multiple commercial connections. Although the thematic importance of debts is familiar enough, it is also relevant that many of the play’s amusing confrontations are grounded in thwarted commercial exchanges. Ignoring the maxim that it is best to eliminate the middleman, Shakespeare has added a host of them. Angelo the Goldsmith, Balthazar, and the First and Second Merchants are all Shakespearean inventions—businessmen, literal agents who exist to get in the way. Each functions as an additional barrier separating the twin Antipholuses, as another hedge in the maze at the center of the comedy. The Second Merchant, for instance, appears only twice and exists for no other reason than to make demands and increase the comic pressure: he has been patient since Pentecost and now needs guilders for a journey; he presses Angelo to repay the sum; Angelo must seek payment from Antipholus of Ephesus who, not having received the chain for which the money is demanded, refuses to accommodate him. In short, this importunate stranger is unnecessary: Angelo might have pursued compensation on his own initiative. In the critical rush to find ‘‘meaning’’ or ‘‘tonal variety’’ in the addition of Luciana, Egeon, and Emilia, the structural value of the lesser auxiliary figures may be overlooked. Their untimely or mistaken demands for payment increase the confusion on the stage and damage the ties that connect them to their fellow citizens. Adriana joins the line of claimants when she tries forcibly to collect the love owed her by her husband, and her vocabulary indicates that Shakespeare has established an analogy between marital responsibilities and the cash nexus. The setting of the comedy, as the occupations of the secondary figures remind us, is mostly the street, or ‘‘the mart,’’ and from the beginning we observe that the business of the street is business. Most of the confrontations between characters and much of the dialogue concern the physical exchange of money or property, and other personal dealings are

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Forbes Masson as Dromio of Ephesus and Jonathan Slinger as Dromio of Syracuse at the Novello Theatre, London, 2005 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

figured in financial terms. Egeon is a Syracusan trader unable to make the necessary financial exchange—a thousand marks for his freedom— and this fine or debt seems to have resulted from a protracted trade war. Many years before, after a period in which his ‘‘wealth increas’d / By prosperous voyages,’’ Egeon had found himself separated from his wife by his ‘‘factor’s death, / And the great care of goods at random left’’ (1.1.41–42). Now without family or funds, the insolvent businessman leaves the stage, whereupon Antipholus of Syracuse enters with an Ephesian merchant who tells him of the stranger’s plight—‘‘not being able to buy out his life’’— and warns the young traveler to conceal his identity ‘‘lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.’’ The citizen then returns Antipholus’s bag of gold and pleads the need to pay a business call: ‘‘I am invited, sir, to certain merchants, / Of whom I hope to make much benefit’’ (1.2.24–25). He leaves Antipholus to his ‘‘own content, . . . the thing [he] cannot get.’’ This endearing soliloquy is usually said to prefigure the theme of self-understanding in the later comedies, but what is less often said is that


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Antipholus analyzes his dilemma in terms of self-possession: he fears that in seeking to recover his family he will ‘‘lose’’ himself. At the end of the same scene he frets about the loss of his treasure, worrying that Dromio ‘‘is o’er-raught of all [Antipholus’s] money’’ and recalling the city’s reputation for ‘‘cozenage,’’ ‘‘cheaters,’’ and ‘‘mountebanks.’’ The bag of gold that Antipholus gives to Dromio to deliver to the inn is the first in a list of theatrical properties that provoke farcical contention. The initial dispute occurs with the entrance of Dromio of Ephesus, to whom ‘‘the money’’ demanded can only be the ‘‘sixpence that I had o’Wednesday last, / To pay the saddler for my mistress’ crupper’’; the ‘‘charge’’ is not a bag of gold but a command ‘‘to fetch you from the mart’’; the ‘‘thousand marks’’ are not coins but bruises administered by master and mistress. As Antipholus of Syracuse worries about fraud, Dromio of Ephesus reports the misunderstanding to his mistress in a speech whose opposing clauses suggest the nature of the impasse: ‘‘‘’Tis dinner time,’ quoth I; ‘my gold,’ quoth he.’’ The metal becomes a metaphor at the end of the first

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scene of act 2, when Adriana speaks of reputation as a piece of enameled gold (2.1.109–15), and thus Shakespeare uses it to link the end of the scene with the beginning of the next: Antipholus of Syracuse enters puzzling over the bag of money, apparently not lost at all, whereupon his own Dromio enters, denies any knowledge of the recent dispute over the gold, and earns a beating. The pattern of confusion thus established with the thousand marks is repeated in squabbles over control of a chain, a ring, a dinner, a house, a spouse, a bag of ducats, a name, a prisoner, and a pair of strangers seeking sanctuary. The vocabulary of these disputes is almost invariably the parlance of the marketplace: Antipholus of Ephesus and his business cronies politely debate the relative value of a warm welcome and a good meal (‘‘I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your welcome dear’’); Nell ‘‘lays claim’’ to the Syracusan Dromio; to the Courtesan, ‘‘forty ducats is too much to lose’’; the Officer cannot release Antipholus of Ephesus for fear that ‘‘the debt he owes will be required of me’’; Antipholus of Ephesus is known to be ‘‘of very reverend reputation, . . . / Of credit infinite’’; Dromio of Ephesus, declared mad and tied up, describes himself as ‘‘entered in bond’’ for Antipholus; and when the Abbess sees Egeon in act 5, she offers to ‘‘loose his bonds, / And gain a husband by his liberty.’’ The great scene before Antipholus’s house (3.1) becomes a dispute not just over property but over ownership of names and identity. In their efforts to get paid or to pay others back for wrongs suffered, characters often speak of ‘‘answering’’ each other: Eph. Ant. I answer you? Why should I answer you? Angelo. The money that you owe me for the chain. (4.1.62–63) The merchants become enraged when their customers refuse to answer them with payment; Adriana is furious that her husband will not return a favorable answer to her requests that he come home to dinner; Antipholus of Ephesus will make his household answer for the insult of locking him out; and neither Antipholus is able to get a straight answer from either of the Dromios. This financial use of ‘‘answer’’ links cash to language, the most complicated and potentially ambiguous medium of all.

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Exploiting the pun as the linguistic equivalent of twinship, Shakespeare creates a series of verbal equivalents for the visual duplications of the action. Initially, it seems to me, his practice is to please the audience with repeated words and images: most obviously, he develops the conflicts by ingeniously employing the language of commerce. The normal give-and-take of business activity and family life is impaired by the mistakings of the action, and when the members of the household take Antipholus of Ephesus for a troublemaker in the street, his Dromio describes him as having been ‘‘bought and sold.’’ The ‘‘loss’’ of one’s good name or ‘‘estimation’’ is risky in this world of commerce, as Balthazar explains: ‘‘For slander lives upon succession, / For ever housed where it gets possession’’ (3.1.105–6). Adriana’s anger at her husband leads Luciana to charge her with possessiveness, and then when Antipholus of Syracuse confesses that Luciana, Possessed with such a gentle sovereign grace, Of such enchanting presence and discourse, Hath almost made me traitor to myself, (3.2.158–60; italics mine) the diction of ownership (‘‘possessions’’) is cleverly modulated into that of witchcraft and madness (‘‘possession’’). This ambiguity pays its most amusing dividends when Doctor Pinch attempts to exorcise the demons from Antipholus of Ephesus: I charge thee, Satan, hous’d within this man, To yield possession to my holy prayers, And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight; (4.4.52–54) The problems of confused identity and the loss of self-control are soon compounded by the question of freedom of action. The Dromios’ lives are not their own, as they reiterate in complaining that, as slaves, they are not adequately rewarded for service. These various senses of bondage—to service, to customers, to wives, to the law, to business commitments (the Second Merchant is ‘‘bound to Persia’’), to a rope— reinforce each other, especially in the last two acts, as the lines of action intersect: Egeon. Most might duke, vouchsafe me speak a word. Haply I see a friend will save my life, And pay the sum that may deliver me.

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Duke. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt. Egeon. Is not your name, sir, called Antipholus? And is not that your bondman Dromio? Eph. Dro. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir; But he, I thank him, gnawed in two my cords. Now I am Dromio, and his man, unbound. (5.1.283–91) Egeon, expecting to be set at liberty, is mistaken, bound by the limitations of his senses. And here Dromio, the ‘‘freedman,’’ steals from his master the privilege of response. As mistakes are exposed and corrected, Shakespeare relies upon the commercial vocabulary that has served him from the beginning: Antipholus of Syracuse wishes ‘‘to make good’’ his promises to Luciana; when Antipholus of Ephesus offers to pay his father’s line, the Duke pardons Egeon and restores his freedom and self-control (‘‘It shall not need; thy father hath his life’’); and the Abbess offers to ‘‘make full satisfaction’’ to the assembled company in recompense for the confusion of the day. Words offer a way of resolving the divisions that the play explores, but at the same time they entail enormous possibilities for error. Given the present critical climate, some remarks about the unreliability of language are to be expected, but if words are included among the other media of exchange that Shakespeare has chosen to twist and complicate, then such a conclusion seems less fashionable than useful. Shakespeare almost from the beginning expands the wrangling over who owns what to include a series of battles over words and their significance. The two Dromios again offer the sharpest illustrations of such cross-purposes, usually in their interchanges with their masters. In the first meeting of Antipholus of Syracuse with Dromio of Ephesus, the shifts in meaning of ‘‘charge’’ and ‘‘marks’’ I have already cited represent the struggle for control of meaning that underlies the farcical action. Both servants are adept at shifting from the metaphorical to the literal: Adr. Say, is your tardy master now at hand? Eph. Dro. Nay, he’s at two hands with me, and that my two ears can witness. (2.1.44–46)


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When Antipholus of Syracuse threatens Dromio of Syracuse, ‘‘I will beat this method in your sconce,’’ the servant resorts to linguistic subversion: ‘‘Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, I had rather have it a head; and you use these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and insconce it too, or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders’’ (2.2.34–39). Yet the servants can speak highly figurative language as well: both describe the arresting officer in metaphors so elaborate that they baffle the auditors (4.2.32–40 and 4.3.12–30). Some of the verbal excursions resemble vaudeville turns, particularly the banter between the two Syracusans on baldness, and such jests represent verbal forms of what happens dramatically in the main action. In showing that ‘‘there is no time for all things,’’ Dromio of Syracuse jestingly disproves an indisputable axiom, just as the errors of the main plot raise a challenge to the reality that everyone has accepted until now. This is more than what Brooks deprecatingly calls ‘‘elaborations of comic rhetoric.’’ The struggle over what words signify quickens as the characters sense that reality is slipping away from them. The locking-out scene (3.1) depends for its hilarity on the stichomythic exchanges between those outside (Dromio and Antipholus of Ephesus) and those inside (Dromio of Syracuse and Luce, and later Adriana). The contestants, particularly those in the security of the house, manipulate meanings and even rhyme and other sounds as they taunt the pair trying to enter, for possession of the house is apparently an advantage in the battle of words. The Dromios’ attitudes toward language are almost always playful and subversive, so that even at their masters’ most frustrated moments, the servants take pleasure in twisting sound and sense, as in Dromio of Ephesus’s puns on ‘‘crow’’ (‘‘crow without a feather?’’; ‘‘pluck a crow together’’; and ‘‘iron crow’’). The trickiness of language can cause characters to lose the direction of the dialogue: Adr. Why, man, what is the matter? Syr. Dro. I do not know the matter; he is ‘rested on the case. Adr. What, is he arrested? tell me at whose suit? Syr. Dro. I know not at whose suit he is arrested well; But is in a suit of buff which ‘rested him, that can I tell.

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Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk? Adr. Go, fetch it, sister; this I wonder at, Exit Luciana. That he unknown to me should be in debt. Tell me, was he arrested on a band? Syr. Dro. Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; A chain, a chain, do you not hear it ring? Adr. What, the chain? Syr. Dro. No, no, the bell, ‘tis time that I were gone, It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one. (4.2.41–54) Rhetorically, the key to this passage is antanaclasis: Dromio wrests a word from Adriana’s meaning into another of its senses, as with ‘‘matter’’ (trouble and substance), ‘‘case’’ and ‘‘suit’’ (both meaning case in law and suit of clothes), ‘‘band’’ (bond and ruff). The ambiguous pronoun reference in ‘‘hear it ring’’ illustrates the power of words to entrap: Adriana and the audience need a moment to adjust as Dromio abruptly shifts the focus from his narrative to the present. Just as words are apt to slip out of their familiar senses, customers or husbands or servants seem to change from moment to moment. Dialogue and stage action illustrate the limits of human control as characters try to react to these confusing turns of phrase or of event. Antipholus of Syracuse, offered a wife and a dinner, can be flexible: ‘‘I’ll say as they say’’ (2.2.214). But words may conflict with other words and realities with other realities, as the Duke discovers in seeking the undivided truth: ‘‘You say he dined at home; the goldsmith here / Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?’’ (5.1.274–75). Conflicts of personal identity, of contracts, of words, of stories, all make the truth seem elusive and uncertain. Shakespeare’s strategy of breaking the integuments that bind human beings to one another accounts for much of the mirth in Errors and for much of the significance as well. By interfering with familiar and normally reliable systems of relation—master to servant, wife to husband, customer to merchant, speaker to auditor—the dramatist achieves the dislocation felt by the characters and the ‘‘spirit of weird fun’’ enjoyed by the audience. There is, moreover, an additional verbal medium that Shakespeare has twisted to his own use, that of

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the play itself. The ironic bond between playwright and spectator, that relation which Shakespeare inherited from Plautus and cultivated throughout the first four acts and by which he assures us that we know more than the characters know, is suddenly abrogated when the Abbess declares her identity at the end of the fifth act: we have thought ourselves superior to the errors and assumptions of the ignorant characters, but we too have been deceived. Emilia’s reunion with her husband and sons completes the comic movement of the action. This is farce, so the emphasis throughout is on the delights of disjunction; but this is also comedy, so the drama moves toward a restoration of human ties and the formation of new ones. Sentiment asserts itself in the final moments, of course, but Shakespeare does not overstate it, and the shift from pleasure in chaos to pleasure in order need not jar. The confusion must end somewhere, and it is standard practice for the farceur to relax the comic tension by devising a mellow ending to a period of frenzy. Shakespeare attempted to write farce in The Comedy of Errors, and he succeeded. Certain effects and values are missing from this kind of drama: there is no thorough examination of characters, no great variety of tones, no profound treatment of ideas, no deep emotional engagement. But farce gives us what other dramatic forms may lack: the production of ideas through rowdy action, the pleasures of ‘‘nonsignificant’’ wordplay, freedom from the limits of credibility, mental exercise induced by the rapid tempo of the action, unrestricted laughter—the satisfactions of various kinds of extravagance. Indeed, farce may be considered the most elemental kind of theater, since the audience is encouraged to lose itself in play. This is bad Shakespeare in the sense that the young dramatist was content with an inherently limited mode; the play is not Twelfth Night. Its value is in its theatrical complexity. And yet the boisterous action does generate thematic issues. To admit that Shakespeare willingly devoted himself to farce is to acknowledge a side of his career too often neglected or misrepresented. That the author of King Lear was capable of writing The Comedy of Errors should be a source of wonder, not embarrassment. Source: Russ McDonald, ‘‘Fear of Farce,’’ in ‘‘Bad’’ Shakespeare: Revaluations of the Shakespeare Canon, edited by Maurice Charney, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1988, pp. 77–89.

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Robert Ornstein In this excerpt, Ornstein briefly discusses the characters of Adriana and her sister, Luciana, both of whom he terms ‘‘sympathetically drawn intelligent women.’’ He maintains that Adriana’s expectations of her husband, Antipholus of Ephesus, are reasonable, and certainly not shrewish. He assesses Luciana as not simply a pious, moralistic woman, but rather one who ‘‘knows too much about the world to have any illusions about the way men treat women.’’ . . . . There is no place in the dramatic world of Errors for Plautus’s gluttonous Parasite or for the crass Senex, who is replaced as a sounding board for the Wife’s complaints by Luciana, Adriana’s sister, and later by the Abbess. The presence of these sympathetically drawn intelligent women radically alters the nature of the dramatic action because Ephesus is no longer a man’s world in which women exist as household scolds or harlots, but one in which men and women are equally prominent, and the latter are more interesting and fully developed as dramatic personalities. Refusing to see her marriage as simply a domestic arrangement, Adriana regards the bond between husband and wife as intrinsic as that which links father to child. Indeed, when she speaks of her oneness with Antipholus E., it is with the same metaphor that Antipholus S. uses to describe his impossible search for his brother. For her the marriage vow is like a tie of birth and blood in that her sense of self depends on her husband’s love and fidelity and she feels defiled by his adultery: For it we two be one, and thou play false, I do digest the poison of thy flesh, Being strumpeted by thy contagion. (2.2.142–44) These lines evoke the noblest Renaissance ideal of love—one soul in body twain—and do not allow us to dismiss Adriana’s complaints as shrewish jealousy. The lack of any scene in which Adriana directly confronts her erring husband is striking because her misery and insistence on the inequity of her situation give Errors much of its emotional ballast. First she complains to her sister, then to her husband’s twin, and lastly to the Abbess, but her husband is not present to hear any of these speeches. Perhaps Shakespeare feared that any direct confrontation of husband and wife would make the other farcical misunderstandings of the


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play seem trivial by contrast, and he was not prepared to jettison the farcical supposes that keep his plot moving. And yet he allows Adriana to make a powerful indictment of the double standard that must affect an audience even though her speech is directed to the wrong man—her husband’s twin. She protests the conventional attitudes that allow men their casual philandering but condemn an unchaste wife to her husband’s pitiless revenges: How dearly would it touch thee to the quick, Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious, And that this body, consecrate to thee, By ruffian lust should be contaminate? Wouldst thou not spit at me, and spurn at me, And hurl the name of husband in my face, And tear the stain’d skin off my harlot brow, And from my false hand cut the weddingring, And break it with a deep-divorcing vow? (2.2.130–38) Although some critics have suggested that Adriana alienated her husband by a jealous possessiveness, she is not the eternally suspicious comic shrew that other dramatists portray. Her manner is never strident or undignified; her requests are never unreasonable. Balthazar, a voice of sanity in the play, speaks of her ‘‘unviolated honor,’’ of her ‘‘wisdom, / Her sober virtue, years, and modesty’’—hardly the attributes of a jealous nag. The worst that Antipholus E. can say of her is that she is shrewish if he ‘‘keeps not hours’’—that is, if he is not home at a reasonable time. Even Luciana, who at first accuses her sister of ‘‘self-harming jealousy,’’ stoutly defends her against the Abbess’s intimation that her shrewishness caused Antipholus E.’s derangement. Where Plautus’s husband is indifferent to his wife’s continual complaints, Antipholus E. seems ignorant of his wife’s unhappiness and is guilty, so it seems, of insensitivity rather than habitual infidelity. He is obtuse and quick-tempered, ready to engage in a flyting match with his servants or to tear down the gate to his house with a crowbar, but he is not loutish in the manner of his Plautine counterpart. He intended to give the necklace to his wife and presents it to the Courtesan only when he is locked out of his house. Although he is familiar with the Courtesan he does not boast of her sexual favors to

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ALTHOUGH SOME CRITICS HAVE SUGGESTED THAT ADRIANA ALIENATED HER HUSBAND BY A JEALOUS POSSESSIVENESS, SHE IS NOT THE ETERNALLY SUSPICIOUS COMIC SHREW THAT OTHER DRAMATISTS PORTRAY.’’

Balthazar. She is, he claims, ‘‘a wench of excellent discourse, / Pretty and witty; wild and yet, too, gentle.’’ This circumspect description does not come from the lips of a libertine; Antipholus E. is a successful businessman who uses his wife’s mistreatment of him as an excuse for a night on the town. Because he is too coarse-grained and attached to his comforts to spend years in search of a lost brother, one doubts that he would understand Adriana’s ideal of marriage even if he heard her pleas. Antipholus S. is a more interesting character who not only embarks on a hopeless quest for his twin but also demonstrates his romantic temper by falling in love with Luciana at first sight. Like many later romantic heroes he is a rapturous wooer, one who has read many sonnets and knows by heart the literary language of love, the appropriate conceits and hyperboles with which to declare a boundless passion. He protests that Luciana is ‘‘our earth’s wonder, more than earth divine’’; nay, she is a very deity. Like many later heroines Luciana seems wiser than the man who woos her, even though she seems at first priggish in advising her sister to accept her unhappy lot without complaint. A man is master of his liberty, she explains, and his liberty is necessarily greater than a woman’s because he is the provider and must be away from the home. To this practical reason, Luciana adds the metaphysical argument that a husband is the rightful bridle of his wife’s will because of his superior position in the universe. If Luciana’s sermon on order and degree smells a bit of the lamp, it is nevertheless seriously offered, complete with the usual commonplaces about the hierarchy of nature that all animals recognize and obey: Man, more divine, the master of all these, Lord of the wide world and wild wat’ry seas,

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Indu’d with intellectual sense and souls, Of more pre-eminence than fish and fowls, Are masters to their females, and their lords. (2.1.20–24) These high sentences are deflated, however, as soon as they are delivered. ‘‘This servitude,’’ Adriana dryly responds, ‘‘makes you to keep unwed.’’ ‘‘Not this,’’ Luciana says, ‘‘but troubles of the marriage-bed.’’ ‘‘Were you wedded,’’ Adriana suggests, ‘‘you would bear some sway.’’ Luciana’s lame response is, ‘‘Ere I learn to love, I’ll practice to obey,’’ a tacit confession that she will have to school herself to the submissiveness that she claims is natural to women. When Luciana says that she would forbear a husband’s wanderings, Adriana loses all patience with such pieties: Patience unmov’d! no marvel though she pause [in marrying]— They can be meek that have no other cause: A wretched soul, bruis’d with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burd’ned with like weight of pain, As much, or more, we should ourselves complain. (2.1.32–37) Inevitably Adriana has the last word because here as elsewhere in Shakespeare’s plays, platitudinous counsel and painted comforts shatter against the hard reality of suffering and anger. Moreover, Luciana is not simply a spokesman for conventional pieties; she knows too much about the world to have any illusions about the way men treat women. When Antipholus S. woos her, she is not horrified even though she thinks him Adriana’s husband. Indignant at his advances, she does not, however, threaten to expose his ‘‘adulterous’’ (indeed, ‘‘incestuous’’) lust to her sister and she does not rebuff him with pious sentences. Instead she pleads with him to be circumspect in his philandering and thereby considerate of his wretched wife. She would have him be prudent if he cannot be faithful: If you did wed my sister for her wealth, Then for her wealth’s sake use her with more kindness: Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth, Muffle your false love with some show of blindness: Let not my sister read it in your eye; Be not thy tongue thy own shame’s orator: Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty; Apparel vice like virtue’s harbinger. (3.2.5–12)

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Peter McEnery as Antipholus of Ephesus and Henry Goodman as Dromio of Ephesus with Zoe Wanamaker as Adriana at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, England (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

On other lips this might seem Machiavellian advice, but Luciana’s anger shows through her seeming acceptance of the cynical way of the world. She knows too well the emotional dependence of women on men and their willingness to deceive themselves about their marriages if their husbands will give them half a chance: . . . make us but believe (Being compact of credit) that you love us; Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve; We in your motion turn, and you may move us. (3.2.21–24) It is remarkable that the pathos of a woman’s subservience in marriage should be made more explicit in Errors than any other comedy to follow. The issue is not explicitly resolved in the play, but then Shakespeare never assumes the role of social critic or reformer. On the other hand, the prominence that he allows Adriana, Luciana, and the Abbess in the denouement of Errors makes an important if


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oblique comment on the relations of women and men. . . . Source: Robert Ornstein, ‘‘The Comedy of Errors,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comedies, University of Delaware Press, 1986, pp. 29–32.

W. Thomas MacCary In the following excerpt, MacCary examines Antipholus of Syracuse from a Freudian perspective, in terms of his relationships with Adriana, Luciana, Aemilia, and Antipholus of Ephesus. MacCary notes in particular the significance of both Adriana’s and Antipholus of Syracuse’s use of the phrase ‘‘drop of water’’ in separate conversations. . . . If we were to formulate a kind of comedy which would fulfill the demands associated with the pre-oedipal period, it would have many of the aspects which critics find annoying in The Comedy of Errors. The family would be more important than anyone outside the family, and the mother would be the most important member of the family. Security and happiness would be

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I DO NOT THINK THAT MANY CRITICS TODAY WOULD LABEL THE COMEDY OF ERRORS A FARCE AND DISMISS IT AS DESERVING NO MORE SERIOUS ANALYSIS.’’

sought not in sexual intercourse with a person of the opposite sex but in reunion with or creation of a person like the person the protagonist would like to become, i.e., his alter ego, or, more correctly, his ideal ego. There would be an ambivalent attitude toward women in the play, because the young child (male) depends upon the mother for sustenance but fears being reincorporated by the mother. Such fears of the overwhelming mother might be expressed in terms of locked doors and bondage, but the positive, nurturing mother would occasion concern with feasting and drinking. There might even be ambivalent situations, such as banquets arranged by threatening women, and ambivalent symbols, such as gold rings or chains, which suggest both attraction and restriction. How much do we want to know about the pre-oedipal period? Can we really believe that certain conceptions of happiness develop in certain stages and all later experience is related back to these? To what extent is our appreciation of comedy based on our ability to identify with its protagonists? If we answer this last question affirmatively, then we must at least consider the implications of the other two. Most of us do not have twin brothers from whom we were separated at birth, so the pattern of action in The Comedy of Errors cannot encourage us to identify with Antipholus of Syracuse—clearly the protagonist, as I hope to show below—on the level of superficial actuality. There must be a common denominator, and thus the action of the play must remind us, by way of structural similarity or symbolic form, of something in our own experience. If a play has universal appeal, the experience recalled is more likely to be one of childhood than not, since the earliest experiences are not only the most commonly shared, but also the most formative: what we do and have done to us as children shapes all later experience.

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A good comedy ‘‘ends happily,’’ which means it follows a pattern of action which convinces us that we can be happy. Happiness is different things at different periods in our lives, and if the argument on development is accepted, the greatest happiness is the satisfaction of our earliest desires. By this I do not mean that comedy should feed us and keep us warm, but rather that it should cause us to recapture, in our adult, intellectualized state, the sensual bliss of warmth and satiety. I do not think that many critics today would label The Comedy of Errors a farce and dismiss it as deserving no more serious analysis. The patterns of farce, like all the patterns of action in drama, are appealing for some good reason. Clearly the comic pattern involving mistaken identity appeals to us because it leads us from confusion about identity—our own, of course, as well as the protagonist’s—to security. The most effective version of that pattern would be that which presents to us our own fears and then assuages them, so it must speak to us in language and action which can arouse memory traces of our own actual experience of a search for identity. While it is true that this search goes on throughout the ‘‘normal’’ man’s life, it is most intense in the early years. When Antipholus of Syracuse likens himself to a drop of water in danger of being lost in the ocean, he speaks to us in terms which are frighteningly real: He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself. So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself. (I. ii. 33–40) The image is based on a proverbial expression in Plautus’ Menaechmi: ‘‘neque aqua aquae nec lacte lactis, crede me, usquam similius / quam hic tui est, tuque huius autem’’ (‘‘water is not to water, nor milk to milk, as like as she is to you and you are to her’’) (1089–90). From a purely physical comparison, Shakespeare has developed a metaphysical conceit which has vast philosophical implications, but its immediate impact is emotional. The plight of the protagonist is felt almost physically, his yearning for his double accepted as natural and inevitable. Water itself is the most frequent dream symbol

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for birth, and with the mention of the mother and brother, we are set firmly in the child’s world. The brother, in our own experience, is not a brother, but another self, the ideal ego which the mother first creates for us and we strive to assimilate. We are reminded of the Narcissus myth, since water can reflect as well as absorb, and Antipholus of Syracuse seeks himself in his mirror image. The water here, as ocean, is the overwhelming aspect of the mother, the mother from whom the child cannot differentiate himself. She projects to us the image of what we shall become; but it is a fragile image, and if we lose it we risk reintegration with her, reabsorption, a reversal of the process of individuation which we suffer from the sixth to the eighteenth month. Only later, when we have developed a sense of alterity, can we distinguish ourselves from the mother, and her image of us from ourselves. Plautus, of course, does not frame his comedy of twins with a family romance the way Shakespeare does. Neither mother nor father appears; there is not even any serious romantic involvement for either twin. In fact, the negative attitude toward marriage which spreads through Shakespeare’s play derives from Plautus’, where the local twin lies to his wife and steals from her, and finally deserts her entirely to go home with his brother. As Shakespeare expands the cast and develops themes only implicit in the Menaechmi, he provides a complete view of the relation between man and wife and clearly indicates the preparation for this relation in the male child’s attitude toward the mother. In Plautus we have only one set of doubles, the twins themselves, but Shakespeare gives us two more sets: the twin slaves Dromio and the sisters Adriana and Luciana. We see these women almost entirely through the eyes of Antipholus of Syracuse, our focus of attention in the play. From his first speech onwards it is from his point of view we see the action, and the occasional scene involving his brother serves only as background to his quest: he is the active one, the seeker. We meet the two sisters before he does, in their debate on jealousy, and then when he encounters them, our original impressions are confirmed. They are the dark woman (Adriana, atro) and the fair maid (Luciana, luce) we meet with so frequently in literature, comprising the split image of the mother, the one threatening and restrictive, the other yielding and benevolent. The whole atmosphere of the play, with its


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exotic setting and dreamlike action, prepares us for the epiphany of the good mother in Luciana, the bad mother in Adriana. Antipholus of Syracuse, who seems to have found no time for, or shown no interest in, women previously, is entranced and wonders that Adriana can speak to him so familiarly: To me she speaks. She moves me for her theme. What, was I married to her in my dream? Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this? What error drives our eyes and ears amiss? (II. ii. 183–86) The extraordinary aspect of his reaction, though quite natural in the context of the play’s system of transferences, is that he should take for his dream the strange woman’s reality: in other circumstances we might expect him to say that she is dreaming and has never really met him, but he says instead that perhaps he had a dream of her as his wife which was real. She is, then, strange in claiming intimacy with him, but not entirely unknown: she is a dream image, and he goes on to question his present state of consciousness and sanity: Am I in earth, in Heaven, or in Hell? Sleeping or waking? Mad or well advised? Known unto these, and to myself disguised! (II. ii. 214–16) If these women were completely alien to him, had he no prior experience of them in any form, then he could have dismissed them and their claims upon him. As it is, he doubts not their sanity but his own, and wonders whether he dreams or wakes as they persist in their entreaties, suggesting he has dreamed of them before, and not without some agitation. The exact words of Adriana’s address which creates this bewilderment are, of course, very like his own opening remarks. She seems to know his mind exactly, and this makes her even more familiar to him though strange in fact. She takes his comparison of himself to a drop of water and turns it into a definition of married love; this, then, is sufficient to drive him to distraction: How comes it now, my Husband, oh, how comes it That thou art then estrango`d from thyself? Thyself I call it. being strange to me, That, undividable, incorporate, Am better than thy dear self’s better part.

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Ah, do not tear away thyself from me! For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall A drop of water in the breaking gulf And take unmingled thence that drop again, Without addition or diminishing, As take from me thyself, and not me too. (II. ii. 121–31) Most critics would acknowledge the central position of these two passages in the argument of the play, but they do not account for their effectiveness. The impact of the repetition is due to the reversal of the protagonist’s expectations. He came seeking his mirror image, like Narcissus, his ideal ego, his mother’s image of himself, and finds instead a woman who claims to be part of himself; and she threatens him with that absorption and lack of identity which he had so feared: she is the overwhelming mother who refuses to shape his identity but keeps him as part of herself. In his speech he was the drop of water; in her speech the drop of water is let fall as an analogy, but he becomes again that drop of water and flees from the woman who would quite literally engulf him. He flees, of course, to the arms of the benign Luciana, she who had warned her sister to restrain her jealousy and possessiveness, to allow her husband some freedom lest she lose him altogether. This unthreatening, undemanding woman attracts Antipholus of Syracuse, and he makes love to her in terms which recall the two drop of water speeches: Luc. What, are you mad, that you do reason so? Ant. S. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know. Luc. It is a fault that springeth from your eye. Ant. S. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by. Luc. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight. Ant. S. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night. Luc. Why call you me love? Call my sister so. Ant. S. Thy sister’s sister. Luc. That’s my sister. Ant. S. No, It is thyself, my own self’s better part, Mine eye’s clear eye, my dear heart’s dearer heart, My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope’s aim,

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My sole earth’s Heaven, and my Heaven’s claim. (III. ii. 53–64) There is as much difference between Adriana and Luciana as between night and day: Adriana is the absence or perversion of all that is good in Luciana. It is not the difference between dark women and fair women we find in the other comedies—Julia and Sylvia in Two Gentlemen of Verona, Helena and Hermia in Midsummer Night’s Dream—but much more like the difference in the Sonnets between the dark lady and the fair youth: on the one side we have all that is threatening and corruptive, while on the other there is truth and beauty. Again, all is a dream: Antipholus of Syracuse has seen Luciana before, in dreams, in madness, but then she was indistinguishable from Adriana, the two opposites bound up as one. Now, as if by the dream mechanism of decomposition they are separate, and he can love the one and avoid the other. He has overcome his fear of the overwhelming mother and projects now his image of the benevolent mother upon Luciana. The relation between these two young women and Aemilia, the actual mother of Antipholus of Syracuse, becomes clear in the climactic scene. He has been given sanctuary in the priory, after having been locked up by Adriana and escaping her; Aemilia emerges, like the vision of some goddess, to settle all confusion. Her attention focuses on Adriana, and she upbraids her son’s wife for the mistreatment she has given him. It is a tirade not unlike others in early Shakespearean comedy against the concept of equality and intimacy in marriage. We hear it from Katharina at the end of The Taming of the Shrew, and we see Proteus fleeing from such a marriage in Two Gentlemen of Verona, as do all the male courtiers in Love’s Labor’s Lost. In the later romances this antagonism between the man who would be free and the woman who would bind him home is equally apparent and more bitterly portrayed; e.g., Portia’s possessiveness in The Merchant of Venice and Helena’s pursuit of Betram in All’s Well. The identification of the threatening woman with the mother in the man’s eyes is developed to varying degrees in these different instances—the maternal aspect of Portia is remarkable, as are Helena’s close ties to the Countess—but here it is transparent: Aemilia must instruct her daughter-in-law on the proper treatment of her son, and we see this through the eyes of Antipholus of Syracuse: he

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has finally been able to conquer his fear of losing his identity in his mother’s too close embrace because she herself tells him that this is no way for a woman to treat him: The venom clamors of a jealous woman Poisons more deadly than a mad dog’s tooth. It seems his sleeps were hindered by thy railing, And thereof comes it that his head is light. Thou say’st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings; Unquiet meals make ill digestions. Thereof the raging fire of fever bred, And what’s a fever but a fit of madness? Thou say’st his sports were hindered by thy brawls. Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue But moody and dull Melancholy, Kinsman to grim and comfortless Despair, And at her heels a huge infectious troop Of pale distemperatures and foes to life. (V. i. 69–82) This description of madness reminds us of the mythical monsters Harpies, Gorgons, and Furies—all female, like Shakespeare’s Melancholy and Despair—bitchlike creatures who hound men to madness. Clearly this entire race is a projection of male fears of female domination, and their blood-sucking, enervating, foodpolluting, petrifying attacks are all related to preoedipal fantasies of maternal deprivation. By identifying this aspect of the mother in Adriana, he can neutralize it. Antipholus of Syracuse, then, finds simultaneously the two sexual objects Freud tells us we all originally have: his own benevolent and protective mother and the image of himself in his brother he has narcissistically pursued. . . . Source: W. Thomas MacCary, ‘‘The Comedy of Errors: A Different Kind of Comedy,’’ in New Literary History, Vol. 9, No. 3, Spring, 1978, pp. 528–34.

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FURTHER READING Davis, Jessica Milner, Farce, Transaction Publishers, 2002. Davis provides a detailed study of the literary genre of the farce, examining characterization, plot, and general themes used in various farces throughout history. Duckworth, George Eckel, The Nature of Roman Comedy: A Study in Popular Entertainment, University of Oklahoma Press, 1994. Duckworth provides a comprehensive, academic treatment of the development of drama in ancient Rome, addressing the works of Plautus, including Menaechmi, among many other authors. Short, John, and Yeong Hyun Kim, Globalization and the City, Longman, 1999. This work examines the impact of widespread urbanization in the modern era, discussing the topic in the context of globalization and the intermixing of cultures. Wright, Lawrence, Twins: And What They Tell Us about Who We Are, Wiley, 1999. In this well-researched work, Wright discusses a wide variety of aspects of twinhood, from historical cultural perceptions of twins to modern psychological studies examining the way twins interact and relate to each other.

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Coriolanus 1607

There is no record of when Coriolanus was first performed. Nor is there solid evidence of its date of composition, but 1607 or 1608 are the dates generally accepted by scholars since there seem to be echoes of some phrases from the play in Ben Jonson’s Epicoene; or, The Silent Woman (1609). Menenius’s parable of the belly is probably derived from a work published in 1605, William Camden’s Remaines of a Greater Work Concerning Britain. The plebeians’ insurrection suggests the English Midland riots of 1607 by the English peasantry against a food shortage and the practice of enclosure, whereby common lands were being removed from common ownership by the aristocracy. The style of Coriolanus also suggests a late date in Shakespeare’s career. The composition date leads scholars to surmise that the play was also performed around the time it was written, although there are no records, since plays were written so that acting companies could have material to perform. Coriolanus first appeared in print in the 1623 Folio edition published by John Hemminges and Henry Condell; these two fellows in Shakespeare’s acting company published the folio as a memorial tribute to Shakespeare. The text is believed to have been set from Shakespeare’s manuscript, with more complete stage directions, supposedly by Shakespeare himself, than most of his plays have. Coriolanus seems to be a good text, which is marred, however, by a number of printer’s errors.

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The primary source for Coriolanus is Sir Thomas North’s translation of Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, which was first published in 1579. It is believed that Shakespeare also consulted Livy’s Roman History in a translation by Philemon Holland published in 1600. While Shakespeare altered, added to, subtracted from, and reshaped Plutarch’s tale significantly, there are notable passages in which Shakespeare’s language and North’s are remarkably similar, as in the following example. Here is a small section of North’s translation of Plutarch’s account of Volumnia’s petition to her son: ‘‘Thou shalt see, my son, and trust unto it, thou shalt no sooner march forward to assault thy country, but thy foot shall tread upon thy mother’s womb that brought thee first into this world.’’ Here is Shakespeare’s adaptation; thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to tread (Trust to ’t, thou shalt not) on thy mother’s womb That brought thee to this world. As the last of Shakespeare’s tragedies, Coriolanus is always esteemed but, perhaps because it is a political play, or perhaps because of its protagonist’s bristly disposition, or perhaps because of the austerity of its verse, it is not loved as are the great tragedies which preceded it, or the miraculous romances which follow it.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Coriolanus opens with a revolt of the plebeians in ancient Rome. They are out in the streets shouting for bread and the death of Caius Marcius, whom they blame for being the cause of their suffering. They accuse the patricians, members of the upper class, of hoarding the grain for themselves. The plebeians say that the patricians do nothing and thrive while they, the workers, starve. As they talk among themselves, the plebeians acknowledge that Marcius has fought for Rome and distinguished himself in the wars. But, they add, it was done out of pride and for his mother. As they are about to go to join another contingent of aroused citizens, Menenius encounters them and stops to talk with them. He is a patrician who is pleased to argue with the plebeians and instruct them. In response


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to their complaints, he first tells them that the patricians do take care of them and that they ought to rebel against the heavens regarding the scarcity of bread, not against the patricians. Then he tells them a story about the time the other parts of the body rebelled against the belly, complaining that the belly remained idle in the midst of the body, hoarding food, while the other members of the body worked and it did nothing. The belly responded, Menenius tells them, that it was not so, that the belly stored all the food and then distributed it to the other organs of the body through the rivers of the blood stream, keeping only the waste. Menenius explains that his story is a parable. The patricians represent the belly and the people, the parts of the body. He insultingly calls one of the leaders of the group ‘‘the great toe of this assembly.’’ As Menenius is reproaching them for revolting, Marcius enters. His first words are provocations to the citizens. He calls them ‘‘dissentious rogues’’ and ‘‘scabs.’’ When one of them observes ironically that they ‘‘have ever your good word,’’ he retorts that anyone who speaks well to them is a terrible flatterer. He calls them dogs, neither fit for peace nor war, unreliable and untrustworthy, worthy only of being hated. At the end of his harangue he asks Menenius what they want. Grain at an affordable price, Menenius tells him. Marcius is moved again to fury, belittles the people and concludes by saying he wishes the Roman Senate would give him permission to slaughter them by the thousands. Menenius attempts to calm his rage, noting that he had almost subdued the wrath of the people but Marcius re-enflamed it by his rhetoric. Menenius then asks Marcius what the crowds are doing in other parts of the city. Marcius reports that they have broken up, having won some concessions from the patricians, particularly, the appointment of five tribunes to represent them. The two that Marcius recalls, and the only tribunes who appear in Coriolanus are Junius Brutus and Sicinius Velutus. Scornfully, Marcius orders the people to get out of the street and go home. In the midst of this turmoil a messenger from the Senate enters reporting that the Volsces, enemies of Rome, are in arms and preparing to attack. Marcius is excited and begins to speak of Aufidius, the leader of the Volscians, a rival soldier Marcius admires, with whom he has often fought and with whom he longs to fight again. Marcius compares Aufidius to a lion he is

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proud to hunt. The Senate then orders Marcius to join the Roman general, Cominius, in the war. The soldiers and the senators exit in martial joy leaving the two tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus alone. They comment on Marcius’s pride and call him insolent. They are concerned, moreover, that the present war will bring out even greater superciliousness in Marcius.

Act 1, Scene 2 The scene shifts to Corioles, the capital city of the Volsces, where Aufidius and some senators are discussing intelligence briefings. They have determined that the Romans know that they are ready to attack, that there has been a popular uprising in Rome, and that Marcius and Cominius are leading an army, no doubt, toward Corioli. Aufidius maps out his strategy and shows himself to be just as eager to encounter Marcius in a fight to the death as Marcius has said he was to fight with Aufidius.

on remaining at home as Volumnia and Valeria depart.

Act 1, Scene 4 Not far outside the gates of Corioles, Marcius, Titus Lartius and the soldiers they command are camped. Marcius bets Titus Lartius that the Roman and Volscian forces have already joined in battle. He loses his horse in the bet when a messenger informs them the armies are in view of each other but the battle has not yet been joined. Volscian troops pour out of the gates of Corioli and beat the Roman soldiers back to their trenches. Enraged, Marcius follows the Volsces back into Corioles and is locked inside with them. As the leaders of the Roman forces grieve over him and speak tribute to his memory, expecting him to have been slaughtered, Marcius appears at the gates, bleeding and being assaulted by the enemy. The Roman forces led by him charge the gates, enter the city, and rout the Volsces.

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In Rome, in Marcius’s house, Volumnia, Marcius’s mother, is urging Virgilia, his wife, not to be gloomy because her husband is away at war but to be cheerful. Volumnia tells Virgilia of the joy she felt the first time Marcius returned from war a hero. Rather than being excited by heroism, Virgilia expresses her anxiety over the possibility of his death. But Volumnia responds that her dead son’s good reputation would have replaced her son for her, that she would be proud to have her son die for his country. Valeria is announced. Virgilia asks permission to withdraw rather than entertain a visitor. Volumnia refuses and paints a picture of Marcius in battle, reveling in describing him wounded and bleeding. When Virgilia protests, Volumnia dismisses her as a fool; she glorifies bloody warfare over maternal tenderness and predicts that Marcius will vanquish Aufidius.

Inside Corioles, Marcius curses the soldiers who are looting the city before the battle is completely won. Marcius, on the other hand sets out to join Cominius’s forces and to continue fighting. Lartius tells him to rest since he is bleeding and has fought hard already. Marcius rejects both his advice and the praise implicit in it, saying he has hardly warmed to his work and longs to find Aufidius and battle with him.

When Valeria joins them, the conversation turns to how much like his father Marcius’s son is. Valeria describes how she saw him clamp his teeth in rage a few days earlier as he tore apart a butterfly. The women try to persuade Virgilia to lay aside her embroidery and go outside with them, but she refuses any exercise or amusement until her husband returns safely from the war. Valeria cajoles her with news that Marcius and Titus Lartius are camped outside the gates of Corioles and feel sure of victory. Virgilia insists

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Act 1, Scene 6 Cominius is congratulating his troops on having fought well, but warns them that the Volsces will attack them again. A messenger arrives and reports that the Volsces have driven Marcius and Lartius’s troops back to their trenches. When Marcius enters bloody but victorious from the last battle, disdaining the poor fighting of the common soldiers, however, Cominius understands that the messenger reported old news. Cominius informs Marcius that his troops are retrenching after an indecisive battle with the Volscians. Marcius requests a division of men to seek Aufidius. By his heroic presence and his rousing words, Marcius inspires a courageous battalion of soldiers to join him, and they go off to battle.

Act 1, Scene 7 Lartius prepares his troops for battle in the field.

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Act 1, Scene 8 Marcius and Aufidius encounter each other on the battlefield. They exchange words of hate and fight. During the fight, several Volscians come to the assistance of Aufidius. Alone, Marcius drives them all off, including Aufidius, and then laments that Aufidius has shamed and betrayed him, Marcius, by not fighting man to man.

Act 1, Scene 9 Victorious, the Romans assemble at their camp where Cominius pays tribute to Marcius’s valor in battle, insisting on praising him as Marcius shuns the commendations. When Cominius awards him a tenth of all the spoils of war taken from the wealth of defeated Corioles, Marcius refuses it, calling rewards a bribe and flattery. Cominius tells him he is too modest, and, in honor of how he fought at Corioles, confers the additional name of Coriolanus on him. He becomes Caius Marcius Coriolanus. When they are alone, Coriolanus tells Cominius that he must embarrass himself for there is one thing he would request. Of course, Cominius says name it and it is yours. Coriolanus tells them of a poor man in Corioles who gave him hospitality during the battle. Later Coriolanus saw that man was taken prisoner; now he asks that his freedom be granted. Lartius asks for the man’s name in order to carry out Coriolanus’s request. Coriolanus realizes he has forgotten it and says he is weary, his memory is tired, and he asks for some wine. Cominius sends him to his (Cominius’s) tent so that his wounds can be cared for.

Act 1, Scene 10 In the Volsces’ camp, Aufidius concedes to his men that Corioles has been taken by the Romans. A soldier reminds him that the Romans will return the city if certain conditions are met. Aufidius is bitter at having to accept terms, but more incensed that he has not beaten Marcius. He vows that he will kill Marcius the next time he encounters him and that he no longer cares if it is with honor in a fair fight.

Act 2, Scene 1 In Rome, Menenius and the people’s tribunes, Brutus and Sicinius, are discussing the war and waiting for news. The conversation turns to Marcius, whom the tribunes say loves the people the way wolves love lambs, to devour them. Menenius asks them to name Marcius’s faults


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and to show one in him that is not more pronounced in themselves. They say he has a host of faults, but pride and boasting are the greatest of them. In response, Menenius tells them that they are known among the patricians for their incompetence and pride, especially for the way they aggrandize themselves when they perform the functions of their office. Marcius, he says, is far superior to them. As he speaks, Menenius sees Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria approaching; he leaves the tribunes, and greets them. Volumnia informs him that Marcius has written to her, to his wife, to the senate, and to Menenius that he is returning home. They rejoice. Volumnia even rejoices in the anticipation that Marcius is coming back wounded, numbers his wounds (twentyseven), describes them, and compares them to wounds he has received in previous battles. The thought of his wounds distresses his wife, Virgilia. They continue to talk of the war, of Marcius’s heroism, and of his fight with Aufidius. As they speak, Cominius and Lartius, with Marcius between them, crowned with a garland of oak leaves, enter. A herald proclaims Marcius’s feats of war to the assembled crowd, and he is welcomed by all, but demurs, saying such acclaim offends his heart. Seeing his mother, he kneels before her and she bids him stand, calling him by his newly won name, Coriolanus. Coriolanus then greets Virgilia, whom he gently chides for weeping at his return, telling her that tears are for the widows he has made in Corioles, and for the mothers there he has left without sons. He then greets Menenius. There is great celebration among them. Volumnia expresses her pride and notes there is one honor more she hopes to see bestowed upon her son, to be elected consul. Coriolanus responds that he would prefer to serve Rome in his way than have to ask for the people’s votes. As they speak, they move on to the Capitol, leaving the tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus, alone. They acknowledge that Coriolanus is popular with the people for his valor in the war and for saving Rome from conquest. They fear, moreover, should he become consul, that their powers will be severely curbed. They take heart in the belief that Coriolanus has such a temper and a temperament that he will not be able to keep the people’s love for long. They note, moreover, that they have heard him swear he would not go through the vote-getting ritual of putting on a simple gown, standing in the marketplace, showing the scars of his wounds to the people and asking, humbly, for their votes, or

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people for their affection. As the patricians, the tribunes, and their attendants arrive, the officers conclude, nevertheless, that Marcius is a worthy man.

Coriolanus being banished from Rome, Act IV, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

voices. The tribunes hope to take political advantage of that and to remind the people how much Marcius (they continue to call him) has always hated them and treated them with contempt. A messenger enters to report to them that at a rally in the Capitol, it is being suggested that Marcius be named consul. Brutus and Sicinius set off to the Capitol to observe and sharpen their plans for their victory over Marcius.

Act 2, Scene 2 Two officers are preparing the seating for the dignitaries before a rally at the Capitol, where Marcius will be nominated for the office of consul. They discuss his merits and his attitude towards the people. One remarks that the people’s love is unsteady. They easily turn from loving a public figure to hating him. Therefore, Marcius is wise not to care about the people’s love. True, the other agrees, but Marcius is not indifferent but actively, it seems, seeks their hatred. That, he says, is as bad as flattering the

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Menenius takes the podium and reviews their business. Having decided what terms to impose upon the Voscians, he says, the only thing left to do is confer honor upon Coriolanus. He requests, therefore, that Cominius, who is presently the consul and who was the general of the army, speak about Coriolanus. The senators call upon him to speak and ask the tribunes to report to the people what has been said. In their response, there is already the signal of discord when they say they will report the events, but that it will be easier to make a good report of the proceedings if Coriolanus shows himself more kindly disposed to the people than has been his wont. Menenius reproaches them for inappropriate speech and they rebuke him for his reproach. Cominius mounts the podium to speak on behalf of Coriolanus, and Coriolanus rises to leave the assembly, saying he would ‘‘rather have my wounds to heal again / Than hear say how I got them.’’ Brutus, one of the tribunes, suggests that Marcius’s attitude towards the people is really the cause of his leaving the assembly. Coriolanus tells him not at all. But he begins, in heat, to add that he does not much value the people because they have shown him nothing worthy of his admiration. Menenius intervenes, telling Coriolanus to stay, but Coriolanus says that he cannot sit and listen to himself praised, ‘‘To hear my nothings monstered,’’ he says. And he leaves. Menenius points to this as a sign of Coriolanus’s humility. Cominius begins to speak. It is a typical nominating speech, charting Coriolanus’s career and accomplishments. Menenius and the senators cheer him on, and as Cominius finishes his speech, the senate calls for Coriolanus to return. Menenius tells him that the senate is pleased to make him consul and that the only thing that remains to be done is for Coriolanus to speak to the people. Coriolanus thanks them for the honor, accepts it, but begs to forgo the custom of putting on the gown of humility, show his wounds, and solicit the people’s approval. Sicinius, the tribune, explains that the people must have their votes heard and that all customary ceremony must be observed. Menenius encourages Coriolanus to go through the traditional formalities. Coriolanus answers that it will

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embarrass him to go through that ceremony, for it would make it seem as if he had performed his heroic deeds just to win the people’s good opinion, and that the ceremony ‘‘might well / Be taken from the people.’’ The tribunes note that statement as a mark against him, arguing that it shows his antipopulist sentiment. Menenius tells Coriolanus not to make an issue of the matter, to just go through it and get it over with, so that he may become consul. Alone, the tribunes agree that Coriolanus will simply use the people, condescendingly, for his purposes. They leave for the marketplace to inform the people of the events that have just transpired.

Act 2, Scene 3 A group of citizens is discussing the upcoming vote and their own power and responsibility. They decide to give Coriolanus their voices, saying that if Coriolanus ‘‘would incline to the people, there was never a worthier man.’’ Coriolanus enters wearing the gown of humility. Menenius is by his side, gently scolding him, saying he is wrong to object to performing this ritual, that many worthy men before him have done it. Nevertheless, Coriolanus remains disdainful and sarcastically asks Menenius if he ought to show his wounds saying to the people, look at the wounds I got in my country’s service when some of your class fled like cowards from the battle. Exasperated, Menenius tells him to act judiciously or he will ruin everything. Still, as the people approach him, Coriolanus tells Menenius he could treat them a little better if only they would wash and brush their teeth. The scene in which Coriolanus endures the process of standing for election before the plebeians, who enter in small groups, is composed of a series of dialogues between Coriolanus and the people. These exchanges are punctuated by a short soliloquy Coriolanus speaks between interviews in which he says it would be better to die or starve than endure what this custom enforces. The encounters terminate with his apparent success. They are examples of the people’s rather good-spirited and naı¨ ve acceptance of Coriolanus and of his condescending, over-polite mockery and even of his downright antipathy towards them. Moreover, he stands in his gown but never lifts it to bare his wounds to their sight; technically he is not fulfilling his obligation. When Coriolanus departs to change his clothes and go to the Capitol, the tribunes and


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the people recapitulate the events in the marketplace. The people feel that they have been misled about Coriolanus’s sincerity and the tribunes egg them on to rescind their votes; in speeches of deep irony they instruct the people to account for their change of heart by explaining that the tribunes had confused them by their (the tribunes’) strong support for Coriolanus’s candidacy. It is particularly ironic and fitting that, in attempting to undo Coriolanus, the tribunes give the people a true account of all his virtues, telling them to say that is what they had been told by the tribunals before the election (which is not so) and that is why they were wrongly swayed to consent to make him consul. The people leave for the Capitol and the tribunes go by a shorter way, hoping to get there first. They are confident that when the people voice their intention to rescind their approval, Marcius will erupt in a fit of temper, which the tribunes will be able to use to their own advantage against him.

Act 3, Scene 1 In the Capitol, Coriolanus has begun conducting state business as head of state, discussing the Volsces. Lartius has returned from Corioles, reporting that Aufidius has raised a new army and, consequently, the previous Roman victory has not really made Rome safe from the Voscians. Cominius demurs, arguing that the Volsces are, all the same, worn out, that Rome will not have to confront them in their lifetimes. Coriolanus asks Lartius if he saw Aufidius personally. Under safe conduct, Lartius reports, Aufidius visited him; Aufidius was angered by the poor way the Volsces conducted the war and spoke of his profound hatred for Coriolanus and that he wishes nothing more than to confront him once again in combat. Coriolanus echoes his wish so that he might ‘‘oppose his [Aufidius’s] hatred fully.’’ As he sees the tribunes approaching, Coriolanus confides to his colleagues that he does ‘‘despise’’ Brutus and Sicinius because they give themselves airs of authority and provoke the patricians. (It is important to notice that he does not despise Aufidius. He hates him. To despise is to hold in contempt. Hate indicates a passion which is not tainted with disrespect. Coriolanus values Aufidius and counts him a worthy adversary. That is not his attitude towards the tribunes.) As Coriolanus and his party are advancing toward the marketplace, the tribunes stop them, forbidding them to go further. Cominius protests, asking if Coriolanus has not been chosen

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by the nobles and the commons as consul. Brutus answers that he has not been. Astonished, Coriolanus compares the people to irresponsible children. The supercilious prodding by the tribunes as they assert their authority inflames Coriolanus to a fit of temper which causes him to voice his contempt for them, and for the people they represent, even to the point of expressing his opinion that the plebeians must be treated mercilessly, that any concessions to them or their welfare only increases their tendency to assert themselves and flaunt the authority of the nobles. Menenius repeatedly attempts to calm Coriolanus and prevent him from worsening the conflict. The tribunes, of course, do just the opposite and goad him on to greater anger. And when Coriolanus is swirling in the whirlwind of rage and declaring that the people be forcibly suppressed and the tribunes stripped of power, the tribunes summon the aediles, officers with police power, to summon the people. Sicinius declares Coriolanus a traitor. Sicinius and Coriolanus scuffle. Menenius tries to keep peace. The people enter. There is a general melee with shouting and grabbing. The plebeians surround Coriolanus. Menenius continues to try to subdue passions, while the tribunes condemn Coriolanus in their attempt to inflame passions, and quickly call for Coriolanus’s death. When the tribunes order the aediles to seize Coriolanus and bear him to the Tarpeian rock from which they wish to cast him to his death, Coriolanus draws his sword and drives the people and their tribunes to flight. Menenius advises Coriolanus to go to his home and to wait there, as he and other patricians attempt to mend the situation. Coriolanus answers that there are enough of them to take on and defeat the plebeians. But Menenius and Cominius, despite feeling as he does, urge him to go home rather than make matters even worse. Coriolanus, at last, heeds them. Alone, one of the patricians notes that Coriolanus has ‘‘marred his fortune.’’ Menenius answers that, ‘‘his nature is too noble for the world.’’ The tribunes return with the plebeians, armed, searching for Coriolanus, and calling him, ‘‘this viper.’’ Menenius and the tribunes argue about Coriolanus’s merits and his service to Rome. They want to fetch him in order to throw him from the rock. Menenius emphasizes that Coriolanus is a warrior who lacks social grace and a moderate temperament. After much wrangling, the tribunes order the people to lay down their

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weapons and agree that Menenius will bring Coriolanus to the marketplace, where Coriolanus will face a peaceful trial and answer his accusers rather than endure mob frenzy.

Act 3, Scene 2 Speaking with a member of his own class, Coriolanus insists that no matter with what the plebeians threaten him, he will remain as he is. He wonders, however, why his mother does not support him, she who had always spoken with such contempt for the plebeians. Just as he is speaking of her, she enters and he asks her why ‘‘did you wish me milder,’’ rather than being glad he acted like the man he is. She explains to him that it is better to have the power to use before you wear it out. He does not want to hear her. She tells him he would have been more of a man if he had made less of an effort to appear to be one, that he ought to have concealed his views until his adversaries no longer had the power to hinder him from acting on them. ‘‘Let them hang,’’ he responds regarding the people. His mother tartly retorts, ‘‘Ay, and burn too,’’ meaning the city of Rome, and implicitly reproaching him for a dangerously cavalier attitude. Menenius and a number of senators enter, and everyone advises Coriolanus that he has been too rough in his behavior and that he must, for the common good, apologize for the harsh things he has said. Coriolanus says that he cannot do that. His mother speaks at length to him, cajoling and reprimanding, calling him too stubborn, telling him that it does not dishonor him to say something in order to achieve a desired end, even if he does not mean it. She and all the patricians urge him, then, to dissemble and humble himself before the plebeians for the sake of achieving power over them. Coriolanus struggles against them, arguing that he cannot do it: the dishonor is too great. Volumnia trumps him by pointing out how great the dishonor is to her to have to beg this of him. Coriolanus gives in to her, but she behaves coldly to him. He sets off for the marketplace, repeating to himself that he will answer all accusations with mildness.

Act 3, Scene 3 The tribunes Brutus and Sicinius are discussing the charges they are going to bring against Coriolanus, the strategies they will use to have the crowds affirm with their shouts whatever sentence they (the tribunes) impose upon Coriolanus, and how they can best get Coriolanus into

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a rage so that he will speak intemperately and they can impose the most severe punishment. As they speak, Coriolanus enters with Menenius, Cominius, and other patricians. With the encouragement of his friends, Coriolanus is rehearsing the appeasing things he will say. Then the trial begins with Menenius acting as an advocate for Coriolanus, recounting to the crowd the service to the state Coriolanus has done. Coriolanus then asks why, after being granted the honor of being consul, it was rescinded. Sicinius retorts that Coriolanus is not to ask questions but to answer theirs. He accuses Coriolanus of plotting to obtain tyrannical power and states that he is therefore a traitor.

approaching and try to avoid them, but Volumnia sees them and curses them. They call her crazy and leave. She tells her companions that her anger is boundless and self-consuming.

Being called a traitor, despite his attempt at bearing himself mildly, inflames Coriolanus. Menenius’s reminder does not keep him calm. Instead Coriolanus lets loose a volley of anger directed at the tribunes. Sicinius takes advantage of his outburst, and inflames the crowd with his condemnation of Coriolanus’s wrath. In response, they shout that he should be thrown from the Tarpeian rock. Calm is destroyed. Angry shouting prevails. Coriolanus cannot calm himself and the tribunes sentence him to banishment from Rome, with the addition that should he ever return, he will be cast to his death from the Tarpeian rock. Coriolanus accepts his sentence with rage-filled curses against the tribunes and the people, calling them a ‘‘common cry of curs, whose breath / I hate.’’ He ends by saying he turns his back on Rome. ‘‘There is a world elsewhere.’’ The people rejoice that their enemy is gone and they follow Coriolanus to the gates of the city.

Act 4, Scene 4

Act 4, Scene 1 At the gates of Rome, Coriolanus takes his leave of family and friends. While they are angry and mournful at his departure, he is spirited in his courage and optimistic about making a life for himself, telling them that as long as he lives they will always hear from him and that they will never hear anything about him but what is like himself. Refusing to have anyone accompany him in his wanderings, he departs.

Act 4, Scene 2 Once Coriolanus is gone, the tribunes decide it is time to mollify the patricians, who have sided with Coriolanus. They send the people home, saying ‘‘their great enemy is gone.’’ As they speak, they see Volumnia, Virgilia, and Menenius


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Act 4, Scene 3 A Roman spying for the Volscians and a Volscian spy meet as the Roman is going to Antium to give the Volscians news from Rome. The Roman tells the Volscian that Coriolanus has been banished, and the Volscian lets him know what good news that is: Aufidius and the Voslcians are preparing another attack on Rome.

Coriolanus arrives in Antium, poorly dressed and muffled in a cloak. He finds Aufidius’s house and determines to present himself to Aufidius, thinking that friends can turn foes and foes can turn friends. He will offer his services to the Volscians, if they will have him, and if they choose instead to kill him, that’s only fair, he thinks, considering the number of deaths he has brought to them.

Act 4, Scene 5 Inside Aufidius’s house, the serving men are going back and forth bringing wine to guests. Coriolanus enters and is taken for a beggar. He refuses to leave when asked, and when the servants try to remove him bodily he resists. Aufidius is summoned and comes to see what the matter is. Coriolanus opens his cloak to reveal himself but Aufidius does not recognize him. Only when Marcius names himself does Aufidius know him. Rather then calling himself Coriolanus, he says my name is Caius Marcius. Then he narrates the wrongs he has suffered at the hands of the Roman plebeians, explains that he has been banished, and that, for revenge, he wishes to make war against Rome with the Volscians if they will have him. If not, he offers himself to Aufidius, saying he has no desire to live. Aufidius clasps him to his bosom and vows friendship and comradeship with him. He tells him the Volscians are preparing a military campaign against Roman territories, although not the capitol city itself. He offers Coriolanus co-command of his forces and the power to decide if they will assault the city of Rome itself as well as the territories. When Aufidius takes Coriolanus inside to join the diners, the servants, once so contemptuous of the beggar they had thought he was,

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now confess to each other how they each sensed there was something special about him. Another servant enters and informs them excitedly that the man they saw is Caius Marcius and that the Volscians are setting off immediately to make new wars against Rome.

Act 4, Scene 6 In Rome, the tribunes, Sicinius and Brutus, are congratulating themselves on how well everything has gone since the departure of Coriolanus. When they meet Menenius they mention that Coriolanus is not missed. Menenius says wistfully he wishes Coriolanus had been more prudent in his speech. None of them has heard any news of Coriolanus. As Roman citizens pass them on the street and offer them their blessings and their thanks, the tribunes become swollen with pride and opine that ‘‘Caius Marcius,’’ as they call him, eschewing the honorary ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ was a good soldier but had become too proud. As they continue in this vein, an aedile meets them with the news that Rome has captured a Volscian and learned that the Volsces have two armies in the field marching against them. Although Menenius offers the reasonable analysis that when he learned of Coriolanus’s banishment, Aufidius undoubtedly had taken to the field against a substantially weakened Rome, the tribunes refuse to believe it and order the man who reported the approach of the Volscian armies whipped for spreading rumors. Menenius advises they question the man before they whip him, lest they fail to get important information about the coming attack. The tribunes dismiss Menenius with haughty contempt. Another messenger arrives and announces that the senate is convening and that there is bad news. The tribunes in response order the Volscian captive to be publicly whipped to put an end to the panic. But the messenger adds that the report has been confirmed and, even worse news, that Marcius leads one of the Volscian armies against Rome and vows revenge. The tribunes do not believe it, and Menenius himself doubts this part of the news, recalling the fierce enmity between Marcius and Aufidius. But as he is expressing this doubt, another messenger arrives to summon him to the senate with reports that Marcius is indeed leading an army against Rome. Menenius enters, and berates the tribunes

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for bringing on such a calamity. Menenius says Rome must ask for mercy. Cominius retorts with the question, Who shall ask for it? and answers, not the tribunes, nor the people, who wronged him, not even his friends, who did not help him but acceded to the tribunes and the people. A group of the people enter, fearful of the punishment they expect Marcius is bringing. They say now that they never really approved of banishing him. The tribunes tell them to go home. They say the reports are patrician propaganda. Alone, the tribunes leave for the capitol to learn more news, still refusing to believe that reports of the attack are true.

Act 4, Scene 7 In a camp outside Rome, Aufidius is talking to his lieutenant about how the soldiers idolize Marcius. Aufidius says he cannot do anything about it before the attack on Rome because it would weaken the army. But after the Volscian victory, Aufidius says, he plans to take his revenge on Marcius and bring him down.

Act 5, Scene 1 Cominius has been to see Marcius, who has arrived at the gates of Rome with his army. Cominius begs Marcius to relent and spare the city, but to no avail. The tribunes plead with Menenius to go to him and see if he can exert his influence more successfully on Marcius. Menenius is reluctant. He declines, arguing that it will be useless, it will only depress him, Menenius, to see himself scorned by the man who had once called him father; finally Menenius agrees to go. Perhaps Marcius will be more tractable after he has eaten, he says. Once he has gone, Cominius assures the tribunes that Menenius will fail, that only if Marcius’s mother and wife go to him may he possibly show mercy.

Act 5, Scene 2 Menenius, at the Volscian camp, is stopped by the guards from going further. They say Coriolanus, as they call him, will not see him. Menenius assures them he will, but they mock him. When Coriolanus appears with Aufidius he sees Menenius and spurns his petition, only giving him a letter he had prepared to send him. Coriolanus exits with Aufidius, and the guards further scorn Menenius. Menenius leaves them,

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broken but stoic, saying he cares not if he dies; his curse to the guards is that they have a long life.

Act 5, Scene 3 Coriolanus is telling Aufidius how dear Menenius has been to him and how, nevertheless, Menenius could not shake him from his purpose, when Volumnia, Virgilia, Valeria (a renowned matron of Rome) and his little son approach. He sees them and confesses that he is moved, but vows to retain the firmness of his objective. He kneels to his mother after embracing his wife, but tells them he will not be swayed. Volumnia then kneels to him and in a long speech expresses the special grief she feels of having to be grieved at seeing him, which is the thing that ought to bring her joy. She assures him that if he marches on Rome he will also tread on his mother’s womb, for she will die by her own hand if she fails to persuade him to offer Rome mercy. She argues that he can broker a peace between Rome and the Volscians that will be beneficial to both sides and cause both sides to honor him. When he seems unmoved, she calls him proud and taunts him saying she is not his mother; some woman in Corioles is. At this he takes her hand and surrenders to her. He asks Aufidius if he, too, would not be moved to mercy by such supplication. Aufidius says, indeed, he would. But in an aside, Aufidius notes that he will use Coriolanus’s mercifulness to regain his position of dominance over him.

Act 5, Scene 4 Menenius advises the tribune, Sicinius, that there is hardly any hope of Volumnia’s succeeding with Coriolanus where he had failed. A messenger enters with news that the people are enraged and have seized the other tribune, Brutus, and threaten to kill him by slow torture if Volumnia and Virgilia do not return with good news. But at his heels, another messenger rushes in with that very unanticipated good news. In the distance, trumpets and other instruments of joy begin to sound as Menenius and Sicinius leave the stage to join the rest of Rome in celebration.

Act 5, Scene 5 This is a scene of only six lines in which the citizens of Rome welcome Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria back with shouts of gratitude.


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Act 5, Scene 6 Aufidius orders his attendants to summon the people of Corioles to the marketplace, where he will bring accusations of betrayal against Coriolanus, whom he knows intends also to speak there in defense of his capitulation. From his conversation with his henchman, it is clear that Aufidius is plotting to have Coriolanus killed. Their rehearsal of the case they will make against him is interrupted by the shouts of welcome they hear in the distance as the Volscian people welcome Coriolanus with an enthusiasm that Aufidius did not receive. In his jealousy, he is sure that he can rise only if Coriolanus falls. The lords of the city, unlike the cheering commons who greet Coriolanus, greet only Aufidius warmly, and together they berate Coriolanus for his betrayal of the Volscians. Coriolanus enters and presents the nobles with a report of the spoils of war he has brought back and with the terms of the peace he concluded with Rome, which he characterizes as reflecting ‘‘no less honor to the Antiates [the Volscians] / Than shame to th’ Romans.’’ Aufidius interrupts and tells the Volscian lords not to read the peace accords; he accuses Coriolanus of treachery and abuse of power. Coriolanus recoils, challenges the accusation, and Aufidius repeats it, addressing Coriolanus only as Marcius. Aufidius condemns Coriolanus’s behavior and demeans his manhood, saying he ‘‘whined . . . away . . . victory’’ at the sight of ‘‘his nurse’s tears,’’ and calls him ‘‘boy of tears.’’ Enraged, Coriolanus in a temper of wrath confutes the accusation by reminding his auditors how he brought destruction to Corioles in his battles in the past as a Roman fighter against them and cries out how he would kill Aufidius even now were he six times the man he is. Aufidius’s henchmen raise a cry against him and rushing at him, stab Coriolanus, who falls dead. The Volscian senators are horrified by Aufidius’s deed, but Aufidius assures them that he can justify the assassination of Coriolanus when he tells them of the dangers Coriolanus posed to Corioles. The lords agree that Coriolanus’s wrath, mitigates Aufidius’s act. Aufidius says that now his own rage at Coriolanus is past and he is ‘‘struck with sorrow.’’ He orders a ceremonious funeral for

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CHARACTERS Menenius Agrippa

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

In 1807, Heinrich Joseph von Collin launched a drama called ‘‘Coriolan,’’ based loosely on the story of Coriolanus. Ludwig van Beethoven‘s ‘‘Coriolan Overture opus 62’’ was written to accompany this play. It is a short piece mixing sharp, staccato heroic chords with the sort of sweet, middle-period melody characteristic of the Eroica Symphony, Opus 55, and the Violin Concerto, Opus 61. In 1940, August L. Baeyens (1895–1966) wrote a version of Coriolanus as an opera for radio. His version was later made into a stage play which was performed at the Royal Flemish Opera.

In 1958, Croatian composer Stjepan Sulek adapted Shakespeare’s play Coriolanus into an opera in Croatian. The world premiere in that same year received significant critical and popular attention. Coriolanus also ran from 1970–1972 in an opera version written in Czech by the Czechoslovakian composer Jan Cikker.

A New York Shakespeare Festival production of Coriolanus was filmed in 1979. The production starred Morgan Freeman in the title role, with Castulo Guerra, Earle Hyman, CCH Pounder, and Denzel Washington in supporting roles. The production was directed by Wilford Leach and produced by Joseph Papp. In 1984, a film version of Coriolanus was made as part of The Complete Dramatic Works of William Shakespeare series. The film was directed by Elija Moshinsky and starred Alan Howard. It is available on DVD and video as part of the BBC Shakespeare Collection.

Menenius is an aged patrician. He opposes the demands of the people for grain or political power. Nevertheless, he attempts to remain a gentleman in his confrontations with them. He is a friend of Coriolanus, but is rebuffed by him when he pleads with him to spare Rome.

Tullus Aufidius Aufidius is the general of the Volscian army. The Volsces are the enemies of Rome. Aufidius and Coriolanus are personal enemies who have often fought against each other in battles; each longs for the opportunity to kill the other. While Coriolanus admires Aufidius as a rival, Aufidius is jealous of Coriolanus and contrives to destroy him even if he cannot defeat him in combat.

Junius Brutus Junius Brutus is one of the tribunes of the people. Along with Sicinius, the other tribune, he directs the people’s wrath against the patricians and is particularly influential in shaping the defeat of Coriolanus in his bid to obtain the office of consul and in banishing him from Rome. Those opposed to Brutus may see him as a manipulator rather than as a leader.

Coriolanus, not omitting to add, ‘‘though in this city he [Coriolanus] / Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, / Which to this hour bewail the injury.’’

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Cominius Cominius is the Roman general under whom Coriolanus serves. He has tremendous regard for Coriolanus. It is Cominius who confers upon Marcius the name Coriolanus after his victory at Corioles.

Caius Marcius Coriolanus Coriolanus is a soldier of the patrician class who is dearly attached to his class and to his mother, who has formed his character. He is proud, stubborn, prone to anger, and detests the people. He sees them as irresponsible and idle. He earns the honorary name Coriolanus by reversing the tide of battle at Corioles and single-handedly leading the Romans to victory after their near defeat. His pride leads him to greatly alienate the Roman plebeians when he seeks the office of consul that they threaten to kill him and in fact banish him. After banishment, he joins forces with Aufidius to avenge himself on Rome, but

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at the last minute accedes to his mother’s pleas for mercy, spares Rome, and is assassinated by Aufidius’s henchmen in Antium.

Titus Lartius Titus Lartius is a Roman general.

Marcius Young Marcius is Coriolanus’s son. He has the same fierce temper and warlike inclination as his father; he appears to Coriolanus and others as the mirror of Coriolanus as a boy.

Nicanor Nicanor is a Roman spying for the Volscians.

Sicinius Velutus Sicinius, along with Brutus, is a tribune of the people. He feeds the people’s indignation against Coriolanus, engineers his defeat in becoming consul, and is instrumental in banishing him. Brutus is portrayed as manipulative and concerned more with his own power than the people’s good.

Valeria Valeria is a matron of Rome, and a friend of Volumnia, who shares her enthusiasm for war.

Virgilia Virgilia is Coriolanus’s wife. Unlike his mother, she does not celebrate his military prowess but is fearful for his safety. When he is at war, she refuses to leave the house or amuse herself with the other women.

Volumnia Volumnia is Coriolanus’s mother. She has raised him to be a soldier and, in his soldiership, to reflect her glory. She is proud of his heroism, takes pride in his wounds, revels in the sight of him bloodied and values his honor over his life. She is cold and stern. She prods him to seek the consulship when he would rather not, and she persuades him to spare Rome, at the expense of his very life, when no one else could.


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THEMES The Conflict between Honor and Loyalty The concepts of honor and loyalty usually seem to be interconnected. Loyalty to one’s family, to one’s country, to one’s core values seems to be the mark of honor. It is a mark of dishonor to betray family, country, and core values. In Coriolanus, however, rather than being interconnected, loyalty and honor are put at odds with each other. Patriotism, duty to his country, devotion to his mother, and adherence to his code of values, all are fundamental attributes of Coriolanus’s character. Yet, Coriolanus endures dishonor in Rome because he remains loyal to his sense of what is honorable. He will not boast about his feats of heroism, nor submit to the values of the tribunes and the plebeians. He steadfastly maintains his integrity. When he joins with the Volscians in their campaign against Rome, he is confronted with the choice of betraying his commitment to the Volscians, by being loyal to his mother and his motherland, and thus dishonoring himself, or dishonoring his mother by being disloyal to her and ignoring her entreaties. The tribunes, too, are shown to be dishonorable in their loyalty to what they see to be the cause of the people. They are shown manipulating the plebeians, especially when they advise them to rescind their approval of Coriolanus as consul, advising them to say that the tribunes duped them into supporting him by telling them of his virtues. They had not done that before the election. Only afterwards, in order to have the people use that positive information in a negative way do the tribunes recount Coriolanus’s worthy deeds.

The Conflict between Nurture and Hunger Coriolanus begins with the question the plebeians put to each other, ‘‘You are all resolved rather to die than to famish?’’ as they rise up against the patricians in order to have ‘‘corn at our own price.’’ Contrasting themselves to the patricians, they point out that just the excess that the patricians eat could feed them. In order to counter their complaints, Menenius tells them the parable of the belly. When Marcius enters, his disdain for the plebeians is marked by expressions of contempt for their hunger. But Marcius himself has been raised by a mother who nurtured him with a steely passion for warfare

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The Tent of Coriolanus, Act V, scene iii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

rather than milk. In her first appearance in the play, Volumnia says, ‘‘The breasts of Hecuba, / When she did suckle Hector, looked not lovlier / Then [sic] Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood.’’ The tribunes tell Menenius that Coriolanus loves the people the way the wolf loves the lamb, in order to eat them. And Coriolanus says, condemning the people’s votes, ‘‘Better it is to die, better to starve, / Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.’’ Only in Antium, when Coriolanus allies himself with Aufidius, does he go into dinner with him. And Menenius, worrying that Coriolanus will reject his petition to spare Rome, thinks that he will go to him after Coriolanus has eaten. Thus, throughout Coriolanus, there is a constant reference to images of hunger and nurturing as being in conflict with each other and as determining people’s actions and attitudes.

Manhood The insult which overwhelms Coriolanus is being called ‘‘boy’’ by Aufidius at the end of the

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play after he returns from Rome having yielded to his mother’s entreaties to spare the city. He rages in response, and boasts of his power as the soldier who has repeatedly defeated the Volscians in battle. But this outward show of force never achieves for him an inward condition of self-sufficient strength. He is defined by those who oppose him rather than by something in himself. All Coriolanus’s acts are designed to assert his manhood, whether through bravery in war or asserting himself against the plebeians. But his very assertion of manhood is dedicated to pleasing his mother. When he asks his mother, after his confrontation with the Roman people and their tribunes, why she would have had him conform himself to the wishes of the plebeians and humiliate himself, he defends himself saying, ‘‘I play / The man I am.’’ Her retort contradicts him and suggests that his behavior shows he is not a man. She says, ‘‘You might have been enough the man you are, / With striving less to be so.’’

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Read ‘‘The Life of Caius Martius Coriolanus’’ in Plutarch’s The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans (available in the Signet edition of Coriolanus). Then, write an essay of at least five hundred words comparing Plutarch’s account and Shakespeare’s play, paying particular attention to how Shakespeare used, and altered, Plutarch’s account. Research a particular historical event that interests you, perhaps an event from the American civil rights movement, like the Montgomery bus boycott or the bombing of the Birmingham Church, or the integration of Little Rock’s Central High School. Use the characters, the information and the narratives you find as the basis for a play. This ought to be considered a term-long project.

In an essay of a least five hundred words, compare and contrast Coriolanus and Julius Caesar.

Narrate an incident in your life or, from the life of someone you know, where you or your subject faced a conflict between two forces that exerted equal but opposite pressure and where there was, or seemed to be, no solution that did not involve some unwanted consequence. Describe the problem, its circumstances, and how it was finally resolved.

lambs the wolf loves to devour. The rage that drives Coriolanus is shown in his son as aggression against butterflies. Tigers, wolves, lambs, osprey, fish, horses, dogs, sheep, geese, butterflies, lions, hares, curs, foxes all appear as metaphors for human attributes in the play. The people are called hares rather than lions, geese rather than foxes. Animal imagery suggests an undercurrent of brutality and the dominant pattern of prey and predator subverts the apparent humanity of the characters. In the midst of humanity, the play suggests, bestiality is still at work.

Body Imagery In a play in which the opposition of brutality and vulnerability is so strong a theme, the recurrent use of body imagery keeps that theme in the forefront of the reader’s awareness. References to belly, lungs, arms, tongue, eyes, legs, heart, head, chin, forehead, anus, bloody gashes and blood-covered men, maternal breasts, wounds suffered and wounds healing, teeth set in rage or teeth that want cleaning, big toes, a mother’s womb, a fair or blushing face, a soldier’s beard, the buttocks, the bowels, the loins, and the knees are all woven into the text. Besides suggesting the material reality and vulnerability, the nobility and filthiness of the individual, body references suggest another thematic element in Coriolanus. The political question regarding how closely related the body politic is to the human body is of chief concern in the play and, with it, the problem of where the highest authority in the government of a state ought to reside. The tribunes’ model of a state separates the plebeians from the patricians, giving them independent governing rights. Menenius sees the classes as diverse organs united in one body and suggests the patricians must therefore rule over the plebeians.

Crowd Scenes and Military Spectacle STYLE Animal Imagery Running through Coriolanus are images of animals. When Aufidius calls him ‘‘boy,’’ Coriolanus responds that he, Aufidius, is a false hound and that he, Coriolanus, has been like an eagle who has attacked the Volscians as if they were doves in a dovecote. The Roman tribunes compare Coriolanus to a wolf and the people to the


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In a play concerned with the conflict between a single figure and great masses of the population, it is appropriate that there be crowd scenes. Most of the pivotal scenes in Coriolanus, save for the climactic encounter between Coriolanus and his mother, are crowd scenes pitting Coriolanus against either the Roman plebeians or the Volscian army. Thus the stage is often filled with crowds in domestic or martial conflict with Coriolanus, and the domestic crowd scenes at times take on similarities to battle when scuffles break

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out between the plebeians and the patricians. Even the scenes of combat or verbal encounter between Coriolanus and his nemesis, Aufidius, which ought to be scenes between two individuals, become crowd scenes, whether in the first battle against the Volscians when Marcius wins the addition Coriolanus or in the last scene, when Aufidius indicts him for treason. In the first instance, Aufidius does not fight alone but with a group of soldiers backing him up. Even so supported, he cannot defeat Marcius. In the second, it is a group of Aufidius’s conspirators who rush at Coriolanus and kill him.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT King James’s Attempts to Assert Absolute and Unitary Power In Shakespeare’s time, some members of the nobility believed that King James was attempting to assert his absolute power as governing monarch and was determined to undermine their rights, such as had been won in 1215 through the Magna Carta, in which King John surrendered some of his power to the Barons. They asserted that England was made up of three forces, king, nobles, and commons, and that each had rights, and that Parliament functioned as a defense against tyranny. James was aware of this opposition to his ambition, and believed that it was grounded in admiration for republican Rome. In 1606, he condemned, according to Anne Barton, in ‘‘Livy, Machiavelli, and Coriolanus, the ‘‘tribunes of the people whose mouths could not be stopped.’’ He meant those in parliament who opposed him.

The Midland Riots of 1607 in England During the famine of 1607, poor peasants, farmers, and laborers in England protested their condition by rioting for food and against the enclosure of common lands by aristocrats, the practice of which removed farm land from the poor. Significantly, the cause of the plebeian revolt in Coriolanus is lack of food. In Plutarch, Shakespeare’s source, the actual historical cause was the high rate of interest charged the plebeians for their debts.

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Roman Government Until the fifth century before the birth of Christ, Rome was ruled by kings. The last of the kings, Tarquin Superbus, was overthrown and a republic established around 500 B . C . E . The king was replaced by two praetors or, as they are called in Coriolanus, consuls. The consuls had the same power as the kings except that they did not rule for life but were elected for a term of one year. Under the old kings, an aristocracy of old families grew up. They were called ‘‘patricians,’’ and the elders of the patricians formed an advisory body to the king, with no governing or legislative power, called a senate. (The word for an elder, in Latin is ‘‘senex.’’) A socially and economically inferior group of people, immigrants and people captured in wars grew up in the kingdom, too. They were called ‘‘plebeians.’’ After the defeat of the kings, which was accomplished by an alliance between patricians and plebeians, and the establishment of the republic, the patricians assumed governing power and the plebeians were granted some of the rights of citizens, with voting power and representatives. Yet they were denied the power and authority that the patricians exercised. Rome was an aristocratic republic, not a democratic republic.

Roman Plebeian Uprising The patricians were landed, wealthy, and lived within the gates of Rome. The plebeians were poor, lived outside the gates, and eked out a poor living as farmers on land that lay unprotected, especially in times of war when they were off fighting and their farms lay neglected or were ravaged by enemies. Public lands, which in theory belonged to the entire Roman people, in fact were occupied by the patricians. The consequence of economic inequality was that the plebeians were often forced to borrow money, fell into debt, and were subject to usurious interest rates. Having no legal recourse, in 494 B . C . E ., the plebeians refused to fight in the army in the defense of a Rome which exploited rather than supported them; they attempted to secede from Rome and form their own state. Fearing the loss of the army, the patricians capitulated, canceled debts, released prisoners jailed for debt, and created, in 474 B . C . E . a plebeian assembly and the office of tribune of the people. In addition, the patricians granted the plebeians the right to elect two tribunes with veto powers from among

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

Fifth-century B . C . E . Rome: There is domestic strife. Plebeians revolt against patrician rule. At issue are the availability of grain, which the plebeians assert the patricians are hoarding, and the degree to which the plebeians can participate in government. At issue, too, is the attitude of disdain or contempt, best embodied in Coriolanus, which the plebeians feel in the way the patricians treat them.

citizenship. In Great Britain, immigrant populations from Islamic cultures are torn between integrating into English culture and maintaining their own cultural identities.

Seventeenth-century England: King James I is intent on consolidating monarchical power and uniting the kingdoms of England and Scotland under his sole rule. He wishes to restrict the power of Parliament and is wary of echoes of the republicanism of ancient Rome, which it seems to him, are guiding those who are trying to limit his power through a stronger Parliament. At the same time, the people, farmers and laborers are revolting against the nobles because of the practice of enclosure. The aristocracy is taking away common land that the people might farm by enclosing, and thus privatizing it. The enclosures combined with the famine of 1607 lead the people to riot in protest. Today: In countries like England, the United States, and France, all of which are influenced in their governing structures by republican Rome, various critical conflicts reflecting social division and what some see as unjust division of wealth, social privilege, and responsibility, are causing internal strife. Many members of immigrant populations from eastern cultures in western democracies perceive that they are being illtreated because of cultural differences. In the suburbs of Paris, immigrant youth find themselves with no employment and face police harassment; in response, they riot sporadically. In the United States, immigrant populations from Latin America, whose members provide a source of cheap labor, stage large demonstrations petitioning for the civil and economic rights of


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Fifth-century B . C . E . Rome: Rome is locked in a hostile competition with the Volscians which often breaks out into actual war. The plebeians make up the bulk of the Roman armed forces, and their farms and families are put at risk during wartime by the men’s absence and by enemy raids. As a result of their straightened circumstances, plebeians are forced to borrow money and are required to repay it at very high interest rates. Seventeenth-century England: After sixteen years of intermittent war with Spain, dating from the English defeat of a Spanish naval armada in 1588, in 1604, the government of King James I signed the Treaty of London with Spain. The strain on wealth caused by the cost of war affects the people. Today: Great Britain, closely allied with the United States, is engaged in a war in Iraq and a war in Afghanistan. Most of the people affected by these wars, those who fight in them and those who are injured and killed in them, are of a class that could be termed plebeian. They come from the middle to lower classes, rather than from the wealthy, governing sectors of society. The cost of the wars drives the countries into unmanageable debt and causes internal domestic needs and programs to be neglected.

Fifth-century B . C . E . Rome:The exigencies of war and domestic strife cause a constitutional crisis. The patricians attempt to consolidate their power by making the senate stronger and focusing authority in a consul. Menenius compares the state to a body, with the patricians serving as the belly, which works in the interest of the entire state, as it controls the distribution of wealth. The

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plebeians attempt to democratize authority not only by participating in the election of the consul but by electing tribunes, officers of the senate representing them, rather than the interests of the patrician senators. Seventeenth-century England: King James is intent on showing that the nation of England is like a body of which he is the head, while Parliament is intent on curbing his power. Their conflict continues until parliamentary forces prevail, in the 1640s, when Charles is king. In 1660, the monarchy defeats those parliamentary forces and is restored to power. Today: In Britain, the conflict between the government and the people over the war in

themselves to protect their rights. In Coriolanus, these tribunes are Brutus and Sicinius.

Volscians, Antium, and Corioles At the same time as the domestic strife between the Roman patricians and plebeians was occurring, Rome was under attack by a neighboring people called the Volscians. The Volscians lived in Antium, now called Anzio, a seaport city to the southeast of Rome. In 338 B . C . E ., it was conquered by Rome. It became a resort spot for wealthy Romans. The Roman emperors Nero and Caligula were born there. In 1944, it was the scene of an amphibious Allied landing. Corioles was the capitol city of Antium.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW T. S. Eliot, in his famous contrarian essay ‘‘Hamlet and His Problems,’’ argues that Hamlet is not the splendid artistic achievement it usually is considered to be. Eliot asserts that while ‘‘Coriolanus may be not as ‘interesting’ as Hamlet but it is, with Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare’s most assured artistic success.’’ It is the kind of praise that more likely keeps readers away from a work than draws them to it. Harold Bloom, taking another tack, in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, nevertheless similarly suggests a certain wariness regarding Coriolanus when he describes the character,

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Iraq and the British alliance with the United States causes the Prime Minister to step down and call for early elections. In the United States, many see a constitutional crisis looming because of the increased power of the executive branch, which they see as determined to govern without congressional consent or popular support, violating longestablished practices derived from English common law and enshrined in the Constitution. At issue are established rights such as habeas corpus (which is a legal protection against unlawful restraint or imprisonment), individuals citizens’ right to privacy, and the use of torture during the interrogation of prisoners.

Coriolanus, as lacking the inwardness with which Shakespeare endowed the heroes of the great tragedies like Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, and Antony and Cleopatra, which immediately preceded it. Derek Traversi’s assessment of the play in Shakespeare: The Roman Plays, follows Eliot’s essay and precedes Bloom’s, but expresses, more expansively, a synthesis of both: That Coriolanus is conceived with admirable dramatic logic is generally recognized; doubt as to the value of the play by the highest standard only seems to arise when we ask ourselves whether it touches the deeper sources of emotion, whether the hero’s disaster, so ironic and detached in its presentation, so clearly the result of inadequacies in his own moral makeup, can effect us as truly and universally tragic in its significance.

A. C. Bradley, in his 1912 lecture on Coriolanus, had already stated similar doubts about the universality of Coriolanus as a tragic figure. ‘‘Coriolanus is angular, granitic, and hence unlovable,’’ Eugene M. Waith wrote in The Herculean Hero. Critic after critic, while respecting the craftsmanship Coriolanus obviously reflects, seems to be taken up short by the character of the hero himself, while still intrigued by his problem. Rather like the people of Rome, critics have been put off by the man himself. Perhaps Frank Kermode provides the simplest reason: ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ he writes in Shakespeare’s Language, ‘‘is his most political play . . . . It is a study in the relationships between

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citizens within a body politic; the relationship of crowds to leaders and leaders to led, of rich to poor.’’ Its concerns are ‘‘dearth, external enemies, enmity between classes.’’ It is, in fact, just the dynamics that Kermode outlines which might tend to be off-putting to most people, who come to Shakespeare’s theater for a penetrating, intellectually arousing experience of emotional depth and complexity. Bertolt Brecht, the communist playwright who invented the alienation effect, deliberately constructed his plays to prevent spectators in the theater from identifying with individual characters so that they might consider the politics of the characters’ situations. In his ‘‘Study of the First Scene of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus,’’ framed as a multi-person conversation between Brecht and members of his East Berlin theater, The Berliner Ensemble, the focus is precisely on problems of class consciousness, class struggle, and class solidarity. Ann Barton, writing in her essay, ‘‘Livy, Machiavelli, and Coriolanus,’’ sees the play’s strength as a political meditation on the politics of the conflict between King James I and parliament, and considers the play from the perspective of Machiavelli’s analysis of governments and leaders. One of the most persuasive readings of Coriolanus, however, leaps over the political controversies regarding the play and seems to pierce its ‘‘granitic’’ exterior. Janet Adelman begins her penetrating study ‘‘Escaping the Matrix: The Construction of Masculinity in Coriolanus’’ by saying, ‘‘Coriolanus begins in the landscape of maternal deprivation.’’ After summarizing the political situation in Shakespeare’s England and ancient Rome, Adelman discusses the role that lack of maternal nurturing played in forming and undermining Coriolanus’s character, thus revealing some of the inwardness that can give the character of Coriolanus life without denying the historical, economic, and social contexts in which that life confronted itself.

CRITICISM Neil Heims In the following essay, Heims argues that all the conflicts Coriolanus faces with others stem from a fundamental conflict with his mother that has become internalized as a conflict between parts of himself.


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After his candidacy has been approved by the plebeians and he is about to assume the office of Roman consul, when the two tribunes of the people challenge him and rescind the people’s vote, Coriolanus, furious that he is being made to bow to what he believes is an illegitimate authority says, [M]y soul aches To know, when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter ’twixt the gap of both and take The one by th‘ other. In this phrase, Coriolanus expresses the theme of the play, the underlying conflict which has shaped his own personality, and the force which will prove his undoing: the conflict between irreconcilable authorities and the clash of irreconcilable values. The two authorities that are set against each other in Coriolanus are first presented and formulated in the context of political or class antagonism. As the play begins, the people of Rome have taken to the streets and are on the verge of rioting for bread, which they say they are being deprived of by the patricians. Their anger has Caius Marcius (who will later acquire the name Coriolanus) as its particular object, for he is vocal in his contempt for the plebeians. The first representative of the patricians whom the audience encounters, however, is not Marcius but Menenius, an older man, a patrician with a refined disposition, but no less bound to the point of view of his class than Marcius. In his attempt to pacify the plebeians, Menenius tells them the fable of the belly in which he postulates a conflict between all the other parts of the body and the belly. The belly is accused of hoarding all the food the body has taken in through its labor without having earned that nurturance through contributory labor. The belly retorts, correcting the rebellious organs, that it gathers, processes, and distributes the food to all those complaining organs leaving for itself nothing but offal. Menenius proceeds with his tale by declaring it an analogy. The belly is the senate of Rome and the rebelling parts are the plebeians. Fundamental to Menenius’s biological model is his formulation of a conflict between parts that actually form an organic unity. So the State is defined in Coriolanus as an amalgam of conflicting parts rather than an organic community in which all the parts, that is all its people, are joined together in an interdependent unity.

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John Burgess as Sicinius Velutus, Oliver Ford-Davies as Junius Brutus, Alan Howard as Coriolanus, and Graham Crowden as Menenius in Act II, scene ii at the Aldwych Theatre, London, 1979 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

When Marcius arrives and confronts the rebellious Roman plebeians, he does not act like the belly of Menenius’s parable. Rather he expresses disdain and contempt for them, which must insure division and conflict. His argument is simple. They have not earned the bread they demand; they are a lazy, irresponsible rabble without virtue. The virtue that Marcius represents is military prowess. He is a magnificent soldier whose performance in the wars Rome has fought is unequalled in heroism and prowess. The conflict between the plebeians and the patricians, then, is sharpened into a conflict between the plebeians and Marcius. That conflict is set within the framework of the conflict between Rome and its foreign enemy, the Volscians. The conflict between Rome and the Volscians is sharpened in Coriolanus into a conflict between Marcius and Aufidius, the general of the Volsces. The conflict between Marcius and Aufidius is an external conflict, a foreign conflict. The internal, domestic conflict between Marcius

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and the people of Rome takes focus as an antagonism between Marcius and the two leaders of the people, their tribunes, Junius Brutus and Velutus Sicinius. When Marcius returns to Rome after defeating the Volscians in a series of particularly fierce encounters, his conflict, not with the plebeians, but with their tribunes, is greatly intensified when he seeks to become consul, an office in republican Rome with the power of a king, although not accompanied by a king’s life-long tenure. His attaining that office, the tribunes, no doubt properly believe, would constitute a serious threat to the scope of their power and authority. There is an important difference that marks the conflicts between Marcius and his external foe, Aufidius, and his domestic opponents, the two tribunes. Marcius hates Aufidius. He despises the tribunes. The difference is a difference between respect and contempt. Marcius is eager to confront Aufidius. He measures himself against Aufidius. He esteems and values this enemy highly. He even identifies himself with

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him; they are both martial men. Marcius is disdainful in his encounters with the tribunes. Contact with them diminishes him. He considers them unworthy opponents with whom contact is debasing. They deny the measure of his prowess. But all the conflicts which involve Marcius and of which he is aware, whether with the people of Rome, with their tribunes, or with his great foe, Aufidius, seem to be emanations energized by a particular conflict of which he is not aware but which reveals itself as the play proceeds: the conflict within himself with his mother. It is a conflict determined by opposing notions of honor and valor. That conflict with his mother first appears as a relatively insignificant disagreement. It is revealed in passing. After Marcius returns in triumph to Rome, the hero of Corioles, now with the additional, honorary name of Coriolanus, Volumnia, his mother, tells him, I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of my fancy. Only There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will cast upon thee. He knows what she is talking about, and so does the audience, for some fifty lines before, as she, Virgilia, Coriolanus’s wife, and Menenius await his entrance, Volumnia speaks of the wounds she hopes to see him bearing home on his body, wounds he will have to bare to the people of Rome when he stands for the office of consul. ‘‘There will be large cicatrices to show the people, when he stands for his place,’’ she says, overflowing with proud ambition. Is it for him? Or is it for herself, through him? That is the conflict. His response when she speaks of being on the verge of attaining the ‘‘one thing wanting,’’ which she is confident ‘‘Rome will cast upon thee,’’ is that he ‘‘had rather be their servant in my way / Than sway with them in theirs.’’ ‘‘Sway,’’ as Coriolanus uses the word here, means hold power. He wants to be a combat soldier serving the people of Rome, which to him means the patricians, rather than doing the things necessary to obtain governing power, which first means humbling himself to the populace. Volumnia does not respond to his demurral, essentially because it is as if he had not spoken. What he says does not matter to her. It has become so much the case that she wills what


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he will be and fashions what he does and he only enacts it. During her first appearance in the play, Volumnia describes how she fashioned him and, in graphic (and psychologically devastating) terms, conveys how she values him. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honor than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of my womb; when youth with comeliness plucked all gaze his way; when, for a day of kings’ entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding; I, considering how honor would become such a person—that it was no better than picture-like to hang by th’ wall, if renown made it not stir—was pleased to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him, from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved himself a man.

If this is not enough to show that she values the light he casts upon her over the life that might have burned in him, she concludes by saying that, ‘‘had I a dozen sons,’’ she would prefer that they all ‘‘die nobly for their country,’’ than that one live at ease. Thus Marcius is defined by an awful contradiction. He belongs most to himself when he belongs most to his mother. When she wishes him to run for consul, he is put into conflict, not really with himself, since he has no authentic self-driven self, but with the self that she has constructed within him, for him, which she now would see deconstructed and refashioned. No longer is he to be the proud soldier who needs no maternal nurture, who can release his fury at its absence in warfare, feed on the blood of others, and bring back his own spilled blood to feed his mother’s pride. He must become a supplicant, humble himself to those whom he abhors and show the wounds to them which properly belong to his mother. When he is unable to do that, Marcius comes in conflict with the populace and the tribunes of Rome. That encounter enrages him, but it does not undermine him or shake his core identity the way his mother’s response threatens to do. When his failure to satisfy the plebeians becomes a failure to satisfy her, and the cause for a second instance of conflict with her, stronger than the first, that is when his world begins to

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totter. ‘‘I muse my mother / Does not approve me further,’’ he says, in act 3, scene 2, after a tempestuous encounter in which he alienates the people with his scornful wrath. His mother, he protests, ‘‘was wont / To call them woolen vassals, things created / To buy and sell with groats.’’ He was merely displaying towards the plebeians the very contempt his mother had taught him and approved in him. When Coriolanus asks her, ‘‘Why did you wish me milder— Would you have me / False to my nature,’’ he defends himself saying, ‘‘I play / The man I am.’’ I am being true to myself, he says, true to the man you have always had me be. This time she does not remain silent as she did when he expressed his reluctance to seek the office of consul but contradicts him with a reproach: ‘‘You might have been enough the man you are, / With striving less to be so.’’ Volumnia is counseling craft, but craft has never been his way. Marcius is open, forthright, and aggressive. It is the mark of his honor not to dissemble. It is the root of his identity to be what he seems and to seem what he is, to play the man and not the politician. She is teaching him a new lesson: Lesser had been The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not showed them how ye were disposed, Ere they lacked power to cross you. It makes him angry. ‘‘Let them hang,’’ he says directing his wrath where it is permissible, not against his mother, where it is truly directed, but against the people. And she returns his anger, with irony. ‘‘Ay,’’ she says, ‘‘and burn too,’’ warning him of the likely consequences of his forthrightness. But he has never before had to concern himself with the fear of violence directed against himself or Rome. As a soldier, he has confronted and defeated it. As a mother, she had sent ‘‘him [to] seek danger where he was like to find fame.’’ Now she reverses herself and tells him that in order to enjoy fame, he must temporize it with danger. Marcius tries, but he is ill-disposed to remodel himself in the new image his mother presents him with., Fortified by his devotion to his honor and to his integrity, qualities which his mother first shaped in him, he is defeated in his attempt to abruptly change in order to expose himself to the people that he scorns, in order to seek their approval. And so, Coriolanus is

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banished from Rome, betrayed by motherland and mother. In his loss of self he seeks the only other fitting image of himself that he has ever regarded—Aufidius, whom he has made the mirror of himself—and presents himself to his rival for either extermination at his hand or assimilation into his identity. By this move, without even anticipating the consequences, Coriolanus puts his fundamental conflict, the one that must destroy him, out in the open. He becomes an open enemy of Rome and, just as surely, an enemy of his mother. When Coriolanus goes to battle against his motherland, heart hardened against his adversary as always, his mother’s ˆ is to manage to transfer the conflict coup de grace between rivals from the outer realm, where it is a matter of self against other, to the inner, where it is the self against the self. His mother turns his conflict with Rome and with her back into the conflict it has always been, a conflict of her making, a conflict with himself, a conflict in which, no matter which side wins, Coriolanus dies. Source: Neil Heims, Critical Essay on Coriolanus, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.

Jerald W. Spotswood In the following excerpt, Spotswood examines Shakespeare’s portrayal of mobs and social politics in Coriolanus. Whereas in earlier plays such as Julius Caesar, Shakespeare portrayed crowds as unruly mobs, in Coriolanus he depicts the crowd as a potentially legitimate political body in its own right. However, Spotswood argues that in the end, despite the evolution in his portrayal of crowds, Shakespeare ‘‘allows no authoritative voice to emerge from the masses.’’ For several recent critics, Shakespeare’s shift from portraying the crowd as mob in early plays, like 2 Henry VI and Julius Caesar, to portraying the crowd as ‘‘political entity’’ in Coriolanus marks his ‘‘most radical position.’’ Shakespeare’s presentation of ‘‘different political structures’’ generates tremendous ‘‘political risks,’’ according to Thomas Sorge. [in The Failure of Orthodoxy in Coriolanus]. For by offering the audience a choice of models—‘‘the rule of one, the rule of the few, the rule of the many’’—Coriolanus ‘‘potentially challenges authority’s representation of monarchy as the only form of rule beneficial for England.’’ While Sorge is correct in asserting that alternative models question the role of the

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ambivalent relationship of the miners to Jacques Lantier, one of the leaders of the strike who is idealistic and also hot-headed, is woven into the story.

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‘‘John Brown’’ is a lesser-known 1963 ballad by Bob Dylan about a mother’s pride in her soldier son and the terrible wreck of his life made by war.

Julius Caesar (1599) is an earlier play written by Shakespeare using Roman subject matter and set in ancient Rome. This play has characters that are more accessible than Coriolanus, lacks a pivotal female character like Volumnia, and presents the plebeians more as a rabble than the sometimes thoughtful collection of citizens that Shakespeare shows them to be in Coriolanus.

‘‘Coriolan’’ (1932), a fragmentary post– World War I work by T. S. Eliot, is a modernist poem combining Roman and early twentieth century elements focusing first on the triumphal march home from war and then on the breakdown of the warrior leader as a civil servant.

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monarch in society, the ‘‘rule of the many’’ (a model of ‘‘democracy,’’ as Sorge calls it at one point) is not presented as a viable alternative. Too often in both Julius Caesar and Coriolanus, the rule of the many is characterized as ‘‘Dissentious numbers pest’ring streets’’ (Cor. 4.6.7). Contrary to the assertion that Shakespeare endorses majoritarian rule in Coriolanus, I argue that Shakespeare symbolically disarms plebeians by depicting them as a socially indistinct mass: a ‘‘beast / With many heads’’ (Cor. 4.1.1–2) representing ‘‘such as cannot rule / Nor ever will be


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Hard Times is Charles Dickens’s 1854 novel. At the center of Dickens’s novel about the struggle of exploited nineteenth-century English factory workers to live decently are Mr. Bounderby, the proud factory owner who has broken off his relationship to his mother, and Steven Blackpool, a poor worker who struggles to maintain his honor and integrity despite a corrupt union organizer.

Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex, written in 428 B . C . E ., is one of the core works of western literature. It tells the story of a proud king who is humbled by a reversal of fortune. When he learns that he has inadvertently killed his father and married his mother, he puts out his eyes and is exiled from Thebes, his homeland.

Johnny Tremain published in 1943 by Esther Forbes, is a historical novel for young adults depicting the social, economic, and political situation in Boston on the eve of the Revolutionary War. Its focus on the young silversmith, Johnny Tremain, engages the reader in problems of pride, responsibility, humbling experiences, and the role of social as well as individual duties in the development of a person’s character.

In The Weavers (1892), German playwright Gerhard Hauptman tells the story of an uprising of Silesian weavers in the 1840s.

ruled.’’ Shakespeare, of course, does not always fashion commoners quite so monstrously. Bottom, Dogberry, and the first gravedigger in Hamlet are all dignified with either names, occupations, or social histories. Bottom, a weaver, is ‘‘simply the best wit of any handicraftman in Athens’’ (MND 4.2.9–10). Dogberry is a ‘‘Constable in charge of the Watch’’ (Ado 1.1), and the first gravedigger has been ‘‘sexton here, man and boy, [for] thirty years’’ (Ham. 5.1.157– 58). In placing these characters in positions of authority and in granting them the respect of their peers, Shakespeare sets them apart from

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importance—as an individual. Clearly, collective action is something that a ‘‘rabble’’ does, not individuals . . . (Cor. 3.1.262). IN DENYING COMMONERS ANY LEVEL OF STATUS OR ANY MEASURE OF INDIVIDUALITY, WHICH OF COURSE HISTORICALLY THEY DID HOLD, SHAKESPEARE REWRITES INDIVIDUALITY AS A CHARACTERISTIC OF THE ELITE AND DENIGRATES COLLECTIVE ACTION BY ASSOCIATING IT WITH A RABBLE THAT BY DEFINITION HOLDS NO INTEREST IN THE SOCIAL ORDER.’’

the multitude and lends credence to their social commentary. Yet in Julius Caesar and Coriolanus—two plays concerned with the form and structure of body politic—Shakespeare allows no authoritative voice to emerge from the masses. In these two ‘‘political’’ plays, Shakespeare persistently marks off distinctions between elite and common culture by invoking a past in which military prowess determines social merit, thus leaving plebeians to appear as ‘‘fragments’’ to the singularity of patricians (Cor. 1.1.221). Like women portrayed in literature, who according to Virginia Woolf [in A Room of One’s Own] ‘‘have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size,’’ commoners in Julius Caesar and Coriolanus serve to reflect and enlarge the figure of the elite. In denying commoners any level of status or any measure of individuality, which of course historically they did hold, Shakespeare rewrites individuality as a characteristic of the elite and denigrates collective action by associating it with a rabble that by definition holds no interest in the social order. For in contrast in the self-control and individual accomplishments displayed by aristocrats, collective action carries a taint or dishonor. As Claus Offe and Helmut Wiesenthal observe, [in their essay ‘‘Two Logics of Collective Action: Theoretical Notes on Social Class and Organizational Form’’] ‘‘it is only the relatively powerless who will have reason to act nonindividualistically on the basis of a notion of a collective identity that is both generated and presupposed by their association.’’ To speak collectively implies that one lacks voice—and

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The actions of plebeians are more restrained in Coriolanus as their overwhelming numbers are enough to convince patricians to give them ‘‘corn at their own rates’’ from the ‘‘the store-houses crammed with grain’’ (1.1.187, 78, 79) Although a ‘‘company of mutinous Citizens’’ armed with ‘‘staves, clubs, and other weapons’’ opens the play, they do not ‘‘Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay!’’ (JC 3.2.200); instead they remain ‘‘prating’’ (1.1.466) Citing the verbal proficiency of plebeians in Coriolanus (always an attribute prized by literary critics), Annabel Patterson suggests [in Shakespeare and the Popular Voice] that Shakespeare has acquired an ear for the ‘‘popular voice.’’ In Coriolanus the people ‘‘are allowed to speak for themselves; and in so doing present a critique of precisely those assumptions . . . that, in Julius Caesar permitted that easy, contemptuous dismissal.’’ ‘‘Clearly,’’ adds Sorge, ‘‘this is not a mindless, demoralized rabble.’’ Shakespeare’s ‘‘partial solution’’ to the problem of the ‘‘general will’’ is to counter ‘‘the negative implications of ‘multitude’’’ with ‘‘intimations of majoritarianism’’ and ‘‘individualism.’’ Shakespeare speaks the ‘‘popular voice,’’ Annabel Patterson claims, when he represents plebeians as individuals rather than members of a collectivity. Perhaps. But it seems to me that plebeians are powerful in Coriolanus when they act collectively, as demonstrated both in the grain uprising opening the play and, later, in banishing Coriolanus from Rome. When they are granted individual voices, as plebeians are in ceremoniously affirming Coriolanus’s consulship, their power dissolves. Although every citizen is accorded a ‘‘single honour’’ (2.3.45) allowing them to give their ‘‘own voices’’ with their ‘‘own tongues’’ (2.3.46), the ‘‘divide and conquer’’ strategy of the ceremony ensures that the socially powerful Coriolanus meets the plebeians individually, rather than meeting them ‘‘in their ancient strength’’ as a collective force (4.2.7): they ‘‘are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he stands by ones, by twos, and by threes’’ (2.3.42–44). ‘‘[M]ocked,’’ ‘‘flouted . . . downright,’’ and ‘‘used . . . scornfully’’ by Coriolanus, the majority still ‘‘admit’’ him consul (2.3.159–). Although plebeians later ‘‘revoke’’ their ‘‘judgement’’ (2.3.218), they do so in their

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Ian Hogg as Coriolanus in Act I, scene v, at Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 1972 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

strength as a multitude, not in their weakness as powerless individuals. Shakespeare’s plebeians are keenly aware of the limitation of their power as individuals, perhaps more keenly aware than a critic like Annabel Patterson who argues that in Coriolanus plebeian voices equal ‘‘votes.’’ Indeed though plebeians ‘‘have power’’ in themselves to ‘‘deny’’ Coriolanus their ‘‘voices’’ for consul (2.3.1–4), ‘‘it is a power’’ that they ‘‘have no power to do’’ (2.3.5), for their role in the ‘‘ceremony’’ (2.2.142), as the third citizen points out, is not to question or even affirm the validity of Coriolanus’s accomplishments, but to show that they are worthy of recognizing his nobility. To dispute the claim that Coriolanus


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is worth a ‘‘thousand to one good one’’ is to risk being called ungrateful and monstrous (2.2.79): For if he show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so if he tell us his noble deeds we must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude, of the which we, being members, should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. (2.3.5–13)

Audible only en masse—not as individuals—plebeians must band together to claim voice, a voice that must only consent to the demands of political ritual.

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Plebeians in Coriolanus can speak through their ‘‘Noble tribunes’’ (3.1.328), who are granted individuality by Shakespeare. As ‘‘Masters o’th’ people’’ (2.2.51), Brutus and Sicinius are set apart from those they represent by their names and official titles. Yet their status are compromised by their association with the masses. Sicinius is mocked by Coriolanus for being no better than a ‘‘Triton of the minnows’’ (3.1.92) ‘‘[B]eing the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians’’ (2.1.93), both Brutus and Sicinius are taunted by Menenius for their inability to act as individuals: ‘‘I know you can do very little alone, for your helps are many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single. Your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone’’ (2.1.34–37). Yet despite their own compromised status, the tribunes are slow to comprehend the powerlessness of their constituents when acting as individuals. ‘‘[L]essoned’’ and ‘‘fore-advised’’ by the tribunes to pass Coriolanus ‘‘unelected’’ (2.3.177, 191, 199), plebeians still ‘‘yield’’ him their voices (2.3.176). Their ‘‘ignorant election’’ (2.1.175), as Brutus and Sicinius later realize, can be blamed on the plebeians’ ‘‘childish friendliness’’ (2.1.175)—their display of deference toward Coriolanus. Thus despite gaining ‘‘five tribunes . . . Of their own choice’’ (1.1.213–4), the plebeians’ only real claim to political power is the limited power of speaking with ‘‘many mouths’’ as a ‘‘din confused’’ . . . (4.6.66, 3.3.20) Despite the fact that early modern England was pervasively hierarchical—Shakespeare’s own acting company included—Shakespeare persistently ignores distinctions below the level of gentleman in both Julius Caesar and Coriolanus. In doing so, Shakespeare both denigrates traditional modes of collective power and eliminates plebeians from individual rule and responsibility modeled after aristocratic behavior. Portrayed en masse, lacking any individuality, plebeians appear indistinguishable from one another. While plebeians are sometimes identified by their occupations, as the cobbler and the carpenter are in Julius Caesar and the host is in Coriolanus, Shakespeare gives his audience no sense about where these characters stand in relation to other plebeians. Like the grain hoarded by patricians in Coriolanus, individuality and placement within the social hierarchy are ‘‘goods’’ that Shakespeare excludes from plebeians . . . In contrast to the outlines he sketches of the multitude, Shakespeare depicts patricians in vivid

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detail, granting them both individuality and a specific place within the social order. Invoking a past in which military prowess determines social merit, Shakespeare draws clear distinctions between elites and commoners. Being ‘‘Most like a soldier,’’ Brutus is remembered as ‘‘the noblest Roman of them all.’’ Coriolanus ‘‘is simply the rarest man i’th’ world,’’ for he ‘‘does exceed . . . all’’ plebeians ‘‘As far as doth the Capitol exceed / The meanest house in Rome.’’ For Shakespeare’s audience, the figure of the warrior would have remained a strong testament of an aristocrat’s status and his right to rule in early modern England . . . Military confrontation and its guarantee of winners and losers, of conqueror and conquered, displaces this image of communal tranquillity. Unlike the great warrior Aufidius, who clearly occupies a place in Coriolanus’s memory, the poor man represents a function for Coriolanus, not a named and distinct individual. His body, neither notched in scars nor covered in blood, is remembered for the ‘‘kindly’’ service it has performed. Unlike the services of Coriolanus, those of the poor man do not distinguish him or grant him individuality. Not having performed military service, or at least not having been successful at it, the poor man becomes lost in the shuffle of common faces and common deeds, and Coriolanus falters in his attempts to repay his debt of gratitude, remembering not his name but only that a poor man has used him kindly. In contrast to the poor man’s lack of individuality, Coriolanus’s name and reputation earn him status and respect even in Antium. ‘‘[D]isguised and muffled’’ in ‘‘mean apparel,’’ Coriolanus enters the stage in act 4, scene 4, looking much like a poor commoner, and his ‘‘grim appearance’’ and ‘‘torn’’ clothing momentarily dissolve his ‘‘all-noble’’ status. Three of Aufidius’s servingmen attempt to show Coriolanus ‘‘to the door,’’ asking him ‘‘What have you to do here, fellow?’’ When Coriolanus identifies himself as a ‘‘gentleman,’’ the third servingman replies mockingly, ‘‘Pray you, poor gentleman, take up some other station. Here’s no place for you. Pray you, avoid. Come.’’ Even Aufidius, who Coriolanus has ‘‘ever followed . . . with hate,’’ cannot recognize this disguised warrior. Although Aufidius admits that this stranger ‘‘show’st a noble vessel’’ that ‘‘Bears a command in’t,’’ he cannot identify him, ordering Coriolanus to name himself six times in eleven lines. When Coriolanus finally complies—‘‘My name is Caius Martius, who

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hath done / To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, / Great hurt and mischief’’—a ‘‘strange alteration’’ occurs. No longer ushered to the door by common servingmen, Coriolanus is ‘‘set at [the] upper end o’th’ table’’ where ‘‘the senators . . . stand bald before him.’’ Even Aufidius, general of the Volscian army, shows Coriolanus respect, turning ‘‘up the white o’th’ eye to his discourse.’’ As the second servingman reports, Coriolanus’s ‘‘clothes made a false report of him,’’ for ‘‘there was something in him.’’ Concerned primarily with intra-elite conflict and power struggle—not with the struggle of plebeians—Shakespeare focuses on the turbulent shift from a warrior to a ‘‘civilized’’ society . . . In Coriolanus the integrity of patricians is threatened by Caius Martius’s inability to ‘‘temporize’’ his actions. ‘‘[B]red i’th’ wars / Since a could draw a sword,’’ and ‘‘ill-schooled / In bolted language,’’ Coriolanus cannot accommodate himself to ‘‘civilized’’ society. Coriolanus’s actions, as Menenius chides him, ‘‘have been too rough, something too rough.’’ Unlike Menenius, whose practiced paternalism earns him the title of ‘‘one that hath always loved the people,’’ Coriolanus is tagged as ‘‘chief enemy to the people.’’ For despite the twenty-seven ‘‘wounds upon him,’’ which elevate Coriolanus to the status of not only the greatest soldier in Rome but also the patricians’ prime candidate for council, Coriolanus’s inability to mix ‘‘Honour and policy’’ makes him a ‘‘disease’’ within the aristocracy. Refusing to ‘‘perform a part,’’ Coriolanus is ‘‘banished, / As enemy to the people and his country.’’ Focusing on intra-elite conflict, Shakespeare largely neglects the concerns of plebeians in both Julius Caesar and Coriolanus, in part, because he is bound by literary conventions that align tragedy with the most ‘‘high and excellent’’ and that which ‘‘is most worthy to be learned.’’ In placing the ‘‘individual for the species, the one above the infinite many,’’ tragedy sets our attitudes against the collective actions of commoners, as William Hazlitt argues [in The Complete Works]. Even if we do not identify with Coriolanus, the genre demands that we respect his individual accomplishments. Tragedy, [George Wilhelm Friedrich] Hegel insists [in Hegel on Tragedy], elicits ‘‘fear and pity’’ only when such emotions are embodied in a ‘‘man of nobility and greatness.’’ In the estimation of both patricians and plebeians, Coriolanus is ‘‘a worthy man,’’ for the ‘‘services he has


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done for his country’’ are achieved ‘‘all alone.’’ Plebeians, who according to Menenius ‘‘can do very little alone,’’ stand in sharp opposition to the individuality and tragic heroism displayed by Coriolanus. Shakespeare’s juxtaposition of the collective suffering of plebeians embellishes Coriolanus’s individual accomplishments . . . In short, Shakespeare does not ‘‘conceive of ‘everyman’ as tragic.’’ In portraying the elite tragically, that is seriously, Shakespeare isolates the few from the many and, in turn, validates military prowess and ‘‘civility’’ as attributes that privilege the select . . . Source: Jerald W. Spotswood, ‘‘We Are Undone Already’: Disarming the Multitude in Julius Caesar and Coriolanus,’’ in Texas Studies in Literature and Language, Vol. 42, No. 1, Spring 2000, pp. 61–79.

Emmet Wilson In the following essay (originally published in 1968), Wilson offers a psychoanalytic approach to Coriolanus, evaluating language and imagery that suggests Freudian conflicts within the play. The critic begins by analyzing the unique bodily imagery of Coriolanus, through which sexuality and war are thematically linked. Wilson also notes the psychological resonance of aggression in the play’s family relationships. Oedipal, or incestuous, motifs appear as do Coriolanus’s anxieties concerning his symbolic castration by his domineering and masculine—or ‘‘phallic’’—mother, Volumnia. Wilson further explores Coriolanus’s hostility toward his mother and his rebellion against her. This revolt, in turn, is characterized by the homoerotic overtones of Coriolanus’s relationship with Aufidius—who also becomes a surrogate for Coriolanus’s absent father—as the two men join forces to attack Rome, i.e. Volumnia. In Coriolanus, Shakespeare adapted a plot from North’s translation of Plutarch’s Lives into an intensive exploration of a pathological mother-son relationship. It is the story of a son who attempts to rebel against his mother, to whom he has been inordinately attached. The son is ultimately destroyed when he renounces his rebellion and submits to his mother. In this paper, I wish to examine certain aspects of the play for the unconscious fantasies which may have determined the handling of the narrative material from which Shakespeare worked. In particular, I suggest that an examination of the wedding night references in the play is essential

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to his source material are important for a psychological understanding of the play. IN THIS PLAY OF A MOTHER-CHILD RELATIONSHIP, THERE ARE FREQUENT ALLUSIONS TO FOOD, NOURISHMENT, INGESTION, HUNGER, BITING, OR DEVOURING.’’

for an understanding of the work on a psychoanalytical level. The play has sometimes been cited as peculiar among Shakespeare’s works. Critics discern a ‘‘slackness’’ in Shakespeare’s dramatic power. This slackness is supposed to be reflected in the way in which Shakespeare handled his source material. If we compare Shakespeare’s adaptation with the original in North’s translation, we find at several points an almost slavish closeness to the source. This dependence on North is so extensive that at first reading, the play seems little more than a simple dramatization of the plot from North. Editors have been able to make emendations and fill textual lacunae in the play by referring to North, so faithfully has Shakespeare followed his source. The later acts of the play, especially, show a marked increase in borrowing, and tend to rely almost exclusively on North. Shakespeare might, of course, have been under some merely temporal pressure to complete the play, but this marked change in the processing of the material could also have been due to the conflictual nature of the subject matter. At any rate, Shakespeare seems to have adhered doggedly to his source in order to finish his task. Yet, the earlier acts and the characters introduced there involve a good deal of revision and reworking of the material. Shakespeare has developed certain characters and added others, and has elaborated on the relationship of Coriolanus to the various individuals who are significant to him. Further, Shakespeare’s particular choices of expression in the play are striking. The language has been called harsh. The poetry seems at times to disguise only slightly some rather grotesque ideas. As an example of the grossness of thought, consider Coriolanus’ rebuke to the tribunes for their failure to control the mob: ‘‘You being their mouths, why rule you not their teeth?’’ These additions by Shakespeare

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Imagery The peculiar imagery Shakespeare has chosen tends to support the view that the theme of the play was one to which the playwright was psychologically sensitive. The images tend to fall within a narrow range. Caroline Spurgeon found these to be concerned largely with bodily functions, sickness, and loss of diseased bodily parts. Blood, and things made bloody, are constantly mentioned. Stoller calls attention to the numerous staves, pikes, rakes, swords, and other phallic equivalents. There are many references to wounds and to parts of the body, or simply to parts. Coriolanus shouts angrily to the mob, ‘‘Go get you home, you fragments!’’ (1.1.211). Combat and sexuality are often linked. Battles are described in sexual images, or talk of battle provides the opportunity for a reference to sexual activity. Cominius, the Roman commander-inchief, proudly describes some teenage battle exploit of Coriolanus as occurring at an age when he might have acted ‘‘the woman in the scene’’ (2.2.92). Peace is a ‘‘great maker of cuckolds’’ (4.5.225). Coriolanus threatens to beat the Volscians ‘‘to their wives’’ (1.4.41). Volumnia, his mother, says of Coriolanus’ impetuous attitude toward the mob, . . . I know thou hadst rather Follow thine enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. (3.2.90–92) Curiously, while Coriolanus is in battle in Act I, Volumnia and her friend go to visit a lady lying in (1.3.72). Another significant group of images is oral. In this play of a mother-child relationship, there are frequent allusions to food, nourishment, ingestion, hunger, biting, or devouring. To note one important instance: Some servingmen are speaking of the personal rivalry between Coriolanus and his Volscian opponent, Aufidius. They recall the battle of Corioli: First Serv. Before Corioli he [Coriolanus] scotched him and notched him like a carbonado [meat cut up for cooking]. Second Serv. And he had been cannibally given, he might have boiled and eaten him too. (4.5.186–89)

In some images, aggressive impulses are characteristically directed towards the interior

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of the body. Coriolanus’ attacks on Rome are said to be ‘‘pouring war / Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome’’ (4.5.129). When Volumnia entreats Coriolanus to cease warring on Rome, he is said to want to tread upon his mother’s womb (5.3.124). He is charged with Making the mother, wife and child, to see The son, the husband and the father, tearing His country’s bowels out. (5.3.101–03) This juxtaposition of aggression with the family relationships is striking, and provides unambiguous evidence of the symbolic character of the attack on Rome as an attack on those objects whom previously Coriolanus had loved. The repetition of this sort of imagery is impressive, and indicates the extent and strength of certain unconscious fantasies: the fear of being eaten, and the rage against the mother’s engulfing body.

The Wedding Night In the midst of these grotesque images of blood, aggression, and bodily destruction, there is a scene in which Coriolanus rises to intense lyric expression. In the battle at Corioli, he expresses the joy of victory, and greets his general, Cominius with O, let me clip ye In arms as sound as when I wooed; in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And tapers burned to bedward! (1.6.29–32) Here, we find an obvious reference to a specific sexual event, and an unconscious reference in the phallic burning tapers. The significance of the image is further heightened by one other reference to a wedding night. When Coriolanus joins Aufidius as an ally against Rome, Aufidius expresses his joy by referring to his bride on her first crossing the threshold, and he declares that he is even more rapt by Coriolanus than he was by his bride: Know thou first, I loved the maid I married: never man Sighed truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw Bestride my threshold. (4.5.112–17)


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Commentators have noted these two references to the wedding night. Perhaps the most insightful is Rank’s brief discussion. However, the meaning of these two passages in Coriolanus has not been sufficiently explored. Further examination of these passages is important, for the wedding night images condense several major themes of the play. To understand Coriolanus’ reference to his wedding night, we need to examine the scene in which the reference occurs. Preceding Coriolanus’ lyric recall of this event, there is a series of scenes of the battle before Corioli, in which Coriolanus is especially in danger of being deserted by his men and closed up within the gates of the enemy town. Coriolanus exhorts his soldiers to charge the Volscians when the battle first begins at the gates of Corioli. In particular, he threatens any stragglers with his ‘‘edge’’ (1.4.29). This threat proves insufficient. As Coriolanus follows the Volscians to the gates of their city, he still needs to urge the Roman soldiers to enter the gates with him: So, now the gates are ope. Now prove good seconds. ’Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark me, and do the like. (1.4.43–45) Yet precisely before the open gates, he is deserted. The Roman response to his exhortation is: First Sol.: Foolhardiness. Not I. Second Sol.: Nor I. First Sol.: See, they have shut him in. (1.4.46–47) In Plutarch, when Coriolanus stormed the gates, others were with him. The complete abandonment is stressed by the soldiers: ‘‘He is himself alone, / To answer all the city’’ (1.4.52–53). They immediately suppose that he is dead, that he is gone ‘‘to th’ pot’’ (1.4.48). In view of the recurrent theme of being eaten, it is very likely that those commentators are correct who suppose that the pot here is a cooking pot, and that the line means that Coriolanus has been cut to pieces. The battle is carried by the Romans as their commander, Cominius, arrives. Coriolanus reappears, covered with blood. He sees Cominius and asks, ‘‘Come I too late?’’ Cominius replies, ‘‘Ay, if you come not in the blood of others, / But mantled in your own’’ (1.6.27–29).

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Coriolanus responds to the question whether he is wounded by saying that his arms are as sound as before he married, and then refers to his wedding night in an effusion of joy and enthusiasm. Curiously, Coriolanus does not give a direct answer to Cominius’ question until he boasts later to Aufidius: ‘‘’Tis not my blood / Wherein thou seest me masked’’ (1.8.9–10). In these scenes at Corioli, we have a battle in which the important elements are the opening and penetration of the enemy’s defenses with the resulting danger of destruction to the attacker. Following the battle, there is a specific reference to the first sexual union between Coriolanus and his bride. As if to underscore the allusion to defloration, Cominius immediately after the wedding night memory, addresses Coriolanus as ‘‘Flower of warriors’’ (1.6.32). There is, I suggest, a symbolic parallel between the battle at Corioli and unconscious fantasies concerning the experience of the wedding night. The battle is, as it were, a symbolic re-enactment of the anxiety provoking sexual event, defloration. The battle scene at Corioli expresses the unconscious equation of coitus with a violent, damaging assault, an equation which we noted earlier in the imagery of the play. Castration anxieties aroused by coitus are heightened by the actual accompaniment of the sexual act by bleeding and a change in the female’s bodily status. In the unconscious, defloration is equated with the castration of the sexual partner, and there is an associated dread of a mutilating retaliation. The feared punishment, castration, is symbolized in the battle by the danger of becoming entrapped within the gates, to be cut up and devoured. In the memory of defloration which follows the battle scenes, Coriolanus may well be attempting to deal with his terrifying discovery that he had created a sexual difference in his bride, by making her into a woman, i.e., a person who had been deprived of the phallus. Ultimately, the punishment that is dreaded for this act is a revenge by his mother on her son for having entertained these notions of assault against her body and, of course, on a deeper level, the woman who is castrated in the sexual act would be the phallic mother, Volumnia. If I am correct in this analysis of the battle at Corioli, then the award of the name, ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ for exploits in that battle may also be of psychological importance. For this, however, we must turn to a passage in North which has not

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been transferred to the play, but which may very well have influenced Shakespeare in his conception of the battle scenes. In the play, the hero receives his agnomen, ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ as an honorary ‘‘trophy’’ for the events of the battle. The unconscious meaning of such a trophy is familiar to us as signifying the castration of the enemy and the sadistic wish to rob him of his penis. But from North’s translation of Plutarch’s Life of Coriolanus, we learn that the name could also have been given to signify, and to compensate for, an injury which the bearer of the name had received. In North, a lengthy discussion occurs on the Roman habit of according such names. In this passage North states: Sometimes also [the Romans] give surnames derived of some mark of misfortune of the body. As Sylla, to say, ‘‘crooked-nose’’; Niger, ‘‘black’’; Rufus, ‘‘red’’; Caecus, ‘‘blind’’; Claudus, ‘‘lame.’’ They did wisely in this thing to accustom men to think that neither the loss of sight nor other such misfortunes as may chance to men are any shame or disgrace unto them; but the manner was to answer boldly to such names, as if they were called by their proper names.

In view of this comment from North on the secondary meaning of an agnomen as commemorative of mutilation, there is a significant parallel to be noted between the attempt to master the psychological sequellae of mutilation by the award of a compensatory agnomen, and the use Shakespeare makes of the scene before Corioli as a repetition in symbolic form of an experience involving an intense fear of bodily mutilation in retaliation for forbidden sexual wishes. The same psychological mechanism would seem to be operative in the agnomen and in the repetition of the traumatic scene—the attempt to master a traumatic event by some compensatory maneuver after the fact. Coriolanus was wounded at Corioli, and when he stands for the consulship, Coriolanus must display the scars from the battle at Corioli, scars which mark him as having distinguished himself in the service of Rome just as much as his agnomen and other honors do. When Coriolanus rejects the subservient position which he had maintained to Volumnia in the first half of the play, he vehemently rejects his agnomen at the same time, and wants to forge another in the ‘‘fire of burning Rome’’ (5.1.14). There are thus some indications of a reversal of the significance of the name received at Corioli to represent Coriolanus’ continued subservience

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to Volumnia, and his acquiescence in the role that she demanded of him. The wound motif continues and further develops the fantasy which appears in the battle scenes at Corioli. The question of these wounds comes to dominate the scenes subsequent to the battle, and provides us with important information on the relationship between Coriolanus and his mother. The phallic castrating mother rejoices in his wounds for the purpose of going before the people: ‘‘O, he is wounded: I thank the gods for’t’’ (2.1.107) because ‘‘there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his place’’ (2.1.132). It was a traditional requirement that all aspirants to the consulship stand before the populace and display battle wounds. Coriolanus, however, finds this custom ignominious and objectionable. The mob has from the first been presented as a cannibalistic threat to Coriolanus (1.1), and it has been suggested that the mob stands for the aggressive and dangerous aspects of the mother. Coriolanus’ reluctance to display his wounds to the mob is Shakespeare’s modification of his source, for in Plutarch the problem does not arise at all. Moreover, standing for the consulship is Volumnia’s idea, and Coriolanus can be prevailed upon to go to the people with his wounds only at his mother’s insistent cajoling and threats. Volumnia’s wish to see her son as a consul, and her role in forcing him to submit to the people, give evidence of the way in which Shakespeare has adapted the plot to strengthen the dominating influence which Volumnia has over her son. Just as she had rejoiced in his wounds, the mob is to see in these same wounds evidence that Coriolanus loves and will faithfully serve Rome. Volumnia thus forces Coriolanus into a position of pleasing and placating the aggressive aspects of herself which the mob symbolizes. Coriolanus can flatter the mob only if he shows his wounds, i.e., if he shows those symbols of castration which were needed to continue in his mother’s favor. The sexual nature of the display of his body to the populace is suggested when Volumnia says that it is to ‘‘flatter [his enemy] in a bower’’ (3.2.92). Menenius excuses Coriolanus’ insolence by ‘‘He loves your people, / But tie him not to be their bedfellow’’ (2.2.60–61). But it is clear that this is a sexual submission, not a conquest. At the moment of capitulation to Volumnia’s urgings, Coriolanus launches a torrent of petulant language showing that his position is not only ignominious but also a threat to


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his masculinity. To submit will make his voice ‘‘Small as an eunuch . . . ’’ (3.2.114). Finally he begins to speak as a little boy: Mother, I am going to the market place: Chide me no more . . . Look, I am going. (3.2.131–2, 134)

Rebellion against the Phallic Mother I have so far explored Coriolanus in those sections which express the fantasies associated with the active phase of the Oedipus complex and the expected castration by the phallic mother for entertaining aggressive impulses toward her. I now turn to the episodes in which Coriolanus rebels against the phallic mother and seeks an alternative expression of his oedipal striving. Coriolanus abandons Rome and his mother, and turns traitor to the Romans, joining with their traditional enemies, the Volscians. Rebellion is introduced in the opening scene, in which the Roman mob is about to turn against established authority. The mob is quieted, by means of a tale of another rebellion, that of the body’s members against the belly (1.1). This theme of betrayal is sustained throughout the play. In certain passages, a sexual betrayal is clearly suggested. In the scene immediately preceding Coriolanus’ suit to join Aufidius and betray the Romans, a Roman traitor and a Volscian spy meet to exchange information and the following comment is made: I have heard it said the fittest time to corrupt a man’s wife is when she’s fallen out with her husband (4.3.26–28)

These frequent allusions to treachery and betrayal provide a background for the behavior of Coriolanus, who is at first falsely, and later with some justification, labelled a traitor. It is the false charge of treason that provokes Coriolanus and provides him with the excuse to become a traitor in fact by leading an attack on Rome at the head of the Volscian forces. When Coriolanus capitulates to his mother’s entreaties in Act V and leaves off his attack on Rome, he is in the awkward position of betraying the Volscian cause which he had joined. Aufidius can justifiably charge him with treason and demand his death. There are, in addition, some clear indications of Coriolanus’ extreme ambivalence toward his libidinal objects. This ambivalence is expressed in a total repudiation and withdrawal when negative feelings have been aroused. In changing

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allegiance from Rome to the Volscians, Coriolanus plots the total destruction of Rome. When Coriolanus left Rome in Act IV, he was still friendly with his party in Rome, and was ready to acknowledge and express his affection for his mother and his family. In Act V, he rejects all overtures from these friends. In Plutarch, Coriolanus is milder and shrewder. He spares the goods and estates of the nobles in his war on Rome, thereby spreading party dissension in Rome. Revenge on Rome in the form of a humiliating surrender would have been satisfactory for Plutarch’s Coriolanus. In Shakespeare, nothing short of the destruction and burning of Rome itself will do. Coriolanus rejects Menenius, his mother Volumnia, and his wife. At the moment that Volumnia’s embassy arrives at the Volscian camp, Coriolanus resolves to ‘‘stand / As if a man were author of himself / And knew no other kin’’ (5.3.35–37). He had made the same resolve to Menenius earlier: ‘‘Wife, mother, child, I know not. My affairs / Are servanted to others’’ (5.2.75–76). This insistence on a complete rejection is characteristic of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus, who seems unable to tolerate any ambiguity in situations which involve his emotional commitment. In addition, Coriolanus views any struggle for power with extreme anxiety. He resents the newly established office of tribune. Where, in North’s version, Coriolanus’ objection is restrained, in Shakespeare, Coriolanus objects to the Tribuneship because It makes the consuls base! and my soul aches To know, when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter ‘twixt the gap of both and take The one by th’other. (3.1.108–12) It is reasonable to suppose that the prototypes in the unconscious of these two warring authorities are to be found in the original family situation, with parental roles presumably confused and conflicting, providing the opportunity to exploit and intensify the difficulties between the parents, and to play one off against the other. In his soliloquy just before he goes over to the Volscians as an enemy of Rome, Coriolanus also expresses the theme of ambivalence and his concern with the struggle for supremacy: O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,

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Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as ‘twere, in love Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To bitterest enmity. So, fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My birthplace hate I, and my love’s upon This enemy town. (4.4.12–24) Here, Coriolanus anticipates the intensely homoerotic relationship into which he is about to move, when Aufidius will want to ‘‘twine’’ his arms around him (4.5.105). Yet he also anticipates the outcome of the trust he is about to place in Aufidius, for a moment after this extended comment on the transiency of human relationships, we see Coriolanus embraced as a bosom friend, and welcomed with greater joy than the welcome accorded a new bride, by the man who will shortly bring about his death.

Quest for a Surrogate Father I will now examine the aspects of the play which indicate Coriolanus’ attempt to institute a satisfactory expression of the passive phase of the Oedipus complex, in which he aspires to be loved by a powerful father, displacing his mother as his father’s primary object. Coriolanus’ biological father remains vague in both North and Shakespeare. Yet two figures in the play serve as psychological representatives of a father to Coriolanus. One of these is the old family friend, Menenius. The other is Aufidius, who becomes an idealized father after the rejection of Volumnia. Menenius is an apt psychological symbol for the weak and conquered father appropriate to Coriolanus’ wishes in the active phase of the Oedipus complex in which Volumnia is in the ascendancy as Coriolanus’ object. Shakespeare developed the charming and complex character of Menenius almost independently of North, who gives only a few hints concerning a gentle old man who was loved by the people, and was a good choice to carry the

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Senate’s message to a rebellious populace. But Menenius remains a weak person, especially in comparison with the stalwart Volumnia. He fawns over a letter which Coriolanus had written him, in a fashion virtually indistinguishable from the responses of the women who have also received letters (2.1). Perhaps the most masterly touch in the contrast of Volumnia and Menenius is in their parting exchange after Coriolanus has been accompanied to the gates of Rome as he goes into exile. Menenius’ response to this day of emotional trials is to note that he is hungry and to arrange for dinner. Not so for Volumnia: Men: You’ll sup with me? Vol: Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself And so shall starve with feeding. (4.2.49–51) Many passages explicitly refer to Menenius as Coriolanus’ father. In his embassy to save Rome, Menenius declares confidently to a guard who is preventing him from seeing Coriolanus, ‘‘You shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus’’ (5.2.59). It is also apparent that the relationship is erotically tinged. Menenius in his frustration shouts at the guard, ‘‘I tell thee, fellow, / Thy general is my lover’’ (5.2.13– 14), and Coriolanus, after sending the disappointed old man away, says: ‘‘This man, Aufidius, / Was my beloved in Rome’’ (5.2.85– 86). It would seem that Menenius adulated Coriolanus too much to be an ideal substitute for the missing father. Menenius boasts, for example, ‘‘I have been / The book of his good acts’’ (5.2.13–14). Also, Menenius often acts as Volumnia’s agent, i.e., as a person who can appeal to Coriolanus and affect his behavior only through Coriolanus’ respect and awe for his mother. As Coriolanus’ anger against the mob is beginning to get out of control, Menenius attempts to restrain Coriolanus with: ‘‘Is this the promise that you made to your mother?’’ (3.3.87). In opposition to the quasi-familial situation of the earlier scenes of the play in which a strong mother dominates both Coriolanus and his weak, defeated, and castrated father, there is later the alternative oedipal solution in which Coriolanus repudiates his mother, and all her symbolic representatives, to seek out the strong, masculine father. The awesome figure of Aufidius, a marked contrast to Menenius, provides the second father symbol in the play.


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The turn to Aufidius involves an intense and passive homoerotic relationship, for which we have been prepared. Even while Coriolanus and Aufidius are still enemies, Aufidius was admired. Coriolanus tells us in Act I: I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I am, I would wish me only he. (1.1.219–221) Passive homosexual yearnings which Coriolanus had felt for a strong father now find expression in the renunciation of Volumnia in favor of a loving relationship with the virile Aufidius. The second allusion to a wedding night occurs in Act IV, when Aufidius welcomes Coriolanus as an ally. This time, however, it is Aufidius who thinks of his wedding night. Coriolanus is clearly supplanting Aufidius’ previous erotic attachment to a woman. This new and strong father is eager to accept Coriolanus, and he looks on Coriolanus as on a bride crossing the threshold, even preferring his present happiness with Coriolanus to his wedding night. The sexual character of this turning from Volumnia to Aufidius is also shown in the banter with the servingmen in this scene: Serv: How, Sir! Do you meddle with my master? Cor: Ay, ‘tis an honester service than to meddle with thy mistress. (4.5.45–46) A servingman later says that Aufidius now loves Coriolanus as a woman: ‘‘Our general himself makes a mistress of him . . . ’’ (4.5.194). Earlier, Coriolanus was able to express his memory of defloration anxieties as he embraced Cominius, that is, when he is protected in a homoerotic embrace he can recall the threatening heterosexual experience. Another such embrace occurs between Aufidius and Coriolanus. In both scenes containing the wedding night allusions, the same word is used for this embrace, viz., ‘‘clip.’’ Coriolanus had turned to Cominius with the words: ‘‘O, let me clip ye / In arms as sound as when I wooed . . . ’’ (1.6.29–30). In his welcome to Coriolanus, Aufidius uses this word also: Auf: Here I clip The anvil of my sword, and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious strength I did Contend against thy valor. Know thou first,

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I loved the maid I married. . . . (4.5.108–113) In Elizabethan English, ‘‘clip’’ would have meant both ‘‘to embrace’’ and ‘‘to cut off.’’ In this repeated word, we thus have an unconscious continuation of the theme of castration which links the two wedding night allusions. The embrace with Aufidius involves, on the unconscious level, the necessity for undergoing castration as a precondition of the father’s love. To gain the love of Aufidius, Coriolanus must reject his city, his family, his mother, he must hate his birthplace, and turn his love onto the man who had previously been his rival. It is precisely the question of what further price must be paid to be loved by Aufidius that leads to difficulties in the new role as Aufidius’ minion. Earlier, we saw that Coriolanus had feared castration as a retaliation for what he had wished to do to his mother. Now he expects that he must give up his masculinity in order to be loved by the strong and virile father. Coriolanus attempts to meet this condition, on a symbolic level. In his soliloquy he had anticipated an eventual rivalry and falling out with Aufidius (4.4.12). Passages in the play indicate Coriolanus’ self-destructive tendencies which will cause his own downfall. The tribunes had recognized this self-destructive trait and used it to their advantage. Brutus hoped to make Coriolanus angry because then he speaks What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks With us to break his neck. (3.3.28–30) Aufidius’ jealousy is aroused when Coriolanus becomes haughty by the honors bestowed on him by the Volscians. When Volumnia’s pleas prevail and the attack against Rome is called off, Coriolanus has in effect given Aufidius sufficient reason for anger. Coriolanus sees his own downfall, although he feels helpless to control or modify the events: O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome; But, for your son, believe it, O, believe it, Most dangerously you have with him prevailed, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius. . . . (5.3.185–90)

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He has betrayed the Volscians, and it is with this that Aufidius charges him, and justifies killing him. The relationship with Aufidius is incomplete until he has made an attack on Coriolanus’ body. On a deeper level, Coriolanus’ death at the hands of Aufidius is also a love-union with Aufidius, which has been achieved by giving up his masculinity. By the equation of death and castration, Coriolanus has obtained the longedfor union with his father. At the moment of this attack, Coriolanus is denied his agnomen and condescendingly called ‘‘boy’’ instead. Almost the last breath Coriolanus takes is expended in his anger at this name of ‘‘boy.’’ He boasts of his exploits at Corioli: ’tis there That, like an eagle in a dovecote, I Fluttered your Volscians in Corioli Alone I did it. ‘‘Boy!’’ (5.6.114–17) In his anger, Coriolanus recalls his role at Corioli, an episode which symbolized a mutilating attack on the mother’s body. This memory occurs precisely at the moment when he is to succumb to a mutilating attack by the strong father to whom he had offered himself as a love object. His identification with his mother is now complete, for he is about to be attacked and loved by his father in her stead, just as he had once desired to love her. In summary: We may regard the earlier portions of Coriolanus as an articulation of the conflict found in those family constellations in which the father abdicates his function as a masculine figure for the son to identify with and to form an ego ideal. Menenius fulfilled this role symbolically in the initial situation. There is a splitting of the unconscious elements, with the defeat and castration of the father pushed into the past as an historical death, while certain aspects of the father are displaced on to Menenius in the present. In the place of a strong father, there is the ineffectual Menenius, whom Coriolanus may disregard as a feared rival for his mother. However, Coriolanus’ incestuous strivings are constantly stimulated and intensified by Volumnia in her erotization of the relationship. Coriolanus fears being engulfed by Volumnia in her ambitious designs to use him for her own goals. He is to function as her penile projection, by winning victories which will make her proud

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and give her opportunity to extol her blood. She would prefer military exploits to any show of tenderness: If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein he won honor than in the embracements of his bed where he would show most love. (1.3.2–4)

The ego boundaries between mother and son are vague and indistinct. Coriolanus feels undifferentiated from his mother who is inimical to his development as an individual distinct from her. Coriolanus’ view of his male role is thus markedly disturbed. The sexualized attachment to Volumnia is uncomfortable because of the awareness of his hostility toward her, and of his aggressive impulses directed toward her body. Coriolanus has to deal not only with his own aggression and hatred, but also with the tendency to project this aggression on to its object in the form of anticipated retaliation for these angry and hostile feelings. Coriolanus is operating on the phallic dichotomy of ‘‘having a penis’’ vs. ‘‘being castrated.’’ These were precisely the themes involved in the wedding night reference in Act I, viz., the belief that in intercourse violence is done to the woman’s body, and the expectation of castrating punishment for this violence. The symbolic representation of this engulfment and destruction takes place in the battle when Coriolanus is closed off within the enemy gates and supposed dead.

Source: Emmet Wilson Jr., ‘‘Coriolanus: The Anxious Bridegroom,’’ originally published in American Imago, Vol. 25, 1968. Reprinted in ‘Coriolanus’: Critical Essays, edited by David Wheeler, Garland Publishing, Inc., 1995, pp. 93–110.

Frank Kermode In his critical introduction to Coriolanus, Kermode surveys the principal areas of interest in the play. He examines Shakespeare’s departure from the primary historical source of the drama, the writings of Plutarch. He comments on the deeply flawed character of Coriolanus, whose ‘‘aristocratic loutishness,’’ ferocity, and overdeveloped sense of virtus—the duty of a man—culminate in tragedy. Kermode mentions the relevance of Aristotle’s dictum, ‘‘a man incapable of living in society is either a god or a beast,’’ as it applies to the figure of Coriolanus. Kermode likewise envisions the theme of the work as the Roman warrior’s inability to curb the source of his strength— his brutality on the battlefield—when dealing in the political arena, an area that requires cunning and tact rather than the raw might Coriolanus possesses in abundance. Finally, Kermode considers the subject of language in the play, including the overarching metaphor of the diseased body politic, and describes the ‘‘decorous power’’ of Shakespeare’s verse.

Along with the fears of being castrated by the phallic mother, Coriolanus has feminine, passive wishes to submit to a strong father, even if the price is castration as a precondition for the father’s love. The later portions of the play articulate this intense wish for a virile, loving father. Coriolanus joins with Aufidius to war against the mother’s body, pouring war into her bowels, and treading upon her womb. Aggression towards Volumnia, which had in the earlier sections of the play been symbolically channeled on to the mob as representative of the mother, is now expressed by the massive rejection of Rome, birthplace, and mother. Aufidius and Coriolanus unite in love for one another and in mutual hatred for Rome and mother. Yet this solution is not completely successful until Aufidius is provoked to attack Coriolanus’ own body, and Coriolanus achieves a love-death at the hands of the father for whom he had so ardently yearned.


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Jonathan Cake as Coriolanus and Mo Sesay as Aufidius in Act I, scene viii, at Shakespeare’s Globe, London, 2006 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

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FURTHER READING

Source: Frank Kermode, ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ in The Riverside Shakespeare, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1974, pp. 1392–95.

SOURCES Adelman, Janet, ‘‘Escaping the Matrix: The Construction of Masculinity in Coriolanus,’’ in New Casebooks: Shakespeare’s Tragedies, edited by Susan Zimmerman, St. Martin’s Press, 1998, p. 23. Barton, Anne, ‘‘Livy, Machiavelli and Coriolanus,’’ in Essays, Mainly Shakespearean, Cambridge University Press, 1994, pp. 152, 159. Bloom, Harold, ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Books, 1998. Bradley, A. C., ‘‘Coriolanus, ’’ in Coriolanus, by William Shakespeare, edited by Reuben Brower, Signet/New American Library, 1966, pp. 250–51. Eliot T. S., ‘‘Hamlet and His Problems’’ in The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism, 1922. Kermode, Frank, ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ in Shakespeare’s Language, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2000, p. 243. Shakespeare, William, The Tragedy of Coriolanus, edited by Reuben Brower, Signet/New American Library, 1966. Traversi, Derek, ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ in Shakespeare: The Roman Plays, Hollis & Carter, 1963 p. 207. Waith, Eugene M., ‘‘Coriolanus,’’ in The Herculean Hero in Marlowe, Chapman, Shakespeare and Dryden, Columbia University Press, 1962, p. 143. Willet, John, ed., ‘‘Study of the First Scene of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus,’’ in Brecht on Theater, Hill and Wang, 1957, pp. 252–65.

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Cantor, Paul A, Shakespeare’s Rome: Republic and Empire, Cornell University Press, 1976. In a study of Coriolanus and Antony and Cleopatra, Cantor contrasts the roles of republican and imperial Rome with regard to government, liberty, tyranny, and erotic love. Garganigo, Alex, ‘‘Coriolanus, the Union Controversy, and Access to the Royal Person,’’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900, Spring 2002, Vol. 42, No. 2, pp. 335–60. Garganigo argues that the concentration on the body, particularly as it is expressed in the fable of the body, which is prevalent in Coriolanus implicitly alludes to King James’s desire to use the wholeness of the king’s body, his own physical body, as an emblem of the body politic in his effort to unite the kingdoms of England and Scotland into one political body. Pettet, E. C., ‘‘Coriolanus and the Midlands Insurrection of 1607,’’ in Shakespeare Survey 3, 1950, pp. 34–42. Pettet discusses the relation of the Midland riots of 1607 to Coriolanus and suggests that Shakespeare sided with the patricians against the plebeians in the play. Spotswood, Jerald W., ‘‘‘We are undone already’: Disarming the Multitude in Julius Caesar and Coriolanus, in Texas Studies in Literature and Language, Spring 2000, Vol. 42, No. 1, pp. 61–79. Spotswood argues that, in his Roman plays, Shakespeare presents the members of the mobs without granting them individual identities or distinguishing them from each other, consequently denigrating collective action and, at the same time, portraying members of the aristocracy as individuals capable of being tragic.

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Hamlet Two years passed between Hamlet’s being entered in the Stationers’ Register, a journal kept by the Stationers’ Company of London in which the printing rights to works were recorded, and the play’s being printed. In 1602, James Roberts entered ‘‘A booke called the Revenge of Hamlett Prince Denmarke as yt was latelie Acted by the Lord Chamberleyne his servantes’’ in the Stationers’ Register; when the quarto text of the play was published in 1604, the title page read as follows:

1599

The Tragicall Historie of HAMLET , Prince of Denmarke. By William Shakespeare. Newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much againe as it was, according to the true and perfect Coppie. At London, Printed by I.R. [James Roberts] for N.L. [Nicholas Ling] and are to be sold at his shoppe vnder Saint Dunstons Church in Fleetstreet. 1604.

In fact, sometime after Roberts initially registered Hamlet but before he printed it, Nicholas Ling published a pirated edition of the play, with the text assembled from memory by actors who had played in touring companies that took Hamlet to Oxford and Cambridge. This pirated edition is called the first quarto and is a corrupt text. The 1604 quarto, called the second quarto, seems to be based on Shakespeare’s own papers, but it is marred by printer’s errors and by corrupt interpolations from the pirated text. A third and a fourth quarto were subsequently printed, both based on the second. In 1623,

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seven years after Shakespeare’s death, his friends and fellow actors John Heminges and Henry Condell assembled his plays in a single foliosized volume, called the 1623 Folio. The text of Hamlet in the Folio is substantially different from that of the play’s second quarto; the Folio text is thought to have come from the prompt book of Shakespeare’s acting company, the King’s Men, and to be a revision of the second quarto by Shakespeare himself. The later text is shorter than the second quarto by two hundred lines and contains passages not in that quarto. Scholars are uncertain as to when before 1602 Hamlet was written. The best evidence for a date before which Hamlet could not have been written is found within the play itself, as Hamlet discusses how the rise of children’s acting companies has driven the established adult acting companies out of business. Through Hamlet, Shakespeare is understood to be referring to the ‘‘War of the Theaters,’’ which took place during the years 1599 and 1601, setting the date of Hamlet’s composition between 1599 and 1602. Since its first appearance, Hamlet has been immensely popular, as evidenced by the number of times it was reprinted in the seventeenth century and by its performance history. Even during the Puritan Interregnum, between 1649 and 1660, when the theaters were closed and performances outlawed, the gravediggers scene from Hamlet was performed by actors standing alone, illegally, as a ‘‘droll,’’ or a short comic sketch with music and dance. When the theaters were reopened upon the restoration of the monarchy, Hamlet was performed frequently. A gentleman named Samuel Pepys noted in his diary that he saw the play performed in 1661, 1663, and 1668. John Downes, the bookkeeper for the acting company of which the popular seventeenth-century actor Thomas Betterton was the principal, noted that between 1662 and 1706, no tragedy ‘‘got more Reputation, or Money to the Company than’’ Hamlet. In 1695, two rival acting companies each presented performances of Hamlet on the same nights. For those living in the second half of the seventeenth century, the plot of Hamlet could be read to parallel events in England’s immediate past— such as the beheading of Charles I, the years of the Commonwealth, and the restoration of the monarchy—as the play tells the story of a usurper who kills the rightful king and is finally overthrown himself. Beyond historical considerations, in 1698,

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Jeremy Collier, in his Short View of the Immorality, and Profaneness of the English Stage, cited Hamlet as ‘‘lewd’’ for its depiction of Ophelia in her mad scene. That judgment, however, did not diminish Hamlet’s popularity or the esteem it was gaining, particularly because the title role was one that the great actors of the eighteenth century relished, and, in turn, audiences relished their performances. The eighteenth century was also an era of great textual work on Shakespeare. The famous English writers Samuel Johnson and Alexander Pope were both among those who brought out editions of Shakespeare’s works, and in 1725 Lewis Theobald notably collated all existing texts of Shakespeare’s works in order to produce the most authentic text possible. While Hamlet was altered, cut, and adapted over the years, it was never subject to the kinds of radical transformations that plays such as King Lear and The Tempest were. In part because of eighteenth-century textual scholarship, in the nineteenth century, Hamlet, like the rest of Shakespeare’s plays, became something to read as well as to see performed—and in fact, critical opinion largely held that it was better read than seen. The English poet and scholar Samuel Taylor Coleridge affected how audiences and readers would perceive the play ever after with his interpretation of Hamlet as a man averse to action, full of resolve but hesitant and irresolute in action. By the twentieth century, Hamlet had achieved the status of being the most famous and most esteemed play in the English language, if not in any language. The character of Hamlet, meanwhile, achieved mythic status, especially after the 1949 publication of the work Hamlet and Oedipus, by Ernest Jones, an English Freudian psychoanalyst, who argued that Hamlet’s tendency toward inactivity resulted from identification with his uncle, who had accomplished what Hamlet could have only wished for: to kill his father and marry his mother. Hamlet was also given life outside of his play, becoming a subject or an allusion in other works, like James Joyce’s Ulysses and T. S. Eliot’s ‘‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.’’ In the Elizabethan era, Shakespeare’s focus on Hamlet’s intellectual conflicts was a significant departure from contemporary revenge tragedies, like Thomas Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy (c. 1584), which tended to dramatize violent acts graphically on stage. Shakespeare largely

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established dramatic tension in Hamlet by focusing on Hamlet’s dilemma rather than on the depiction of bloody deeds. To achieve this shift in emphasis, Shakespeare created a character with intellectual depth and emotional complexity that had not yet been present in Elizabethan drama. Shakespeare’s genius and his accomplishment are evident in his transformation of Hamlet’s literary sources—especially the nearly contemporaneous Ur-Hamlet. The Ur-Hamlet, or ‘‘original Hamlet,’’ is a lost play that scholars believe was written about a decade before Shakespeare’s Hamlet, providing the basis for the later tragedy. Numerous sixteenth-century records attest to the existence of the UrHamlet, with some references linking its composition to Kyd, the author of The Spanish Tragedy. The scholar Harold Bloom, on the other hand, drawing on internal and thematic elements in Hamlet and also on events in Shakespeare’s life, asserts that the Ur-Hamlet was actually a first draft of Hamlet written by Shakespeare himself in his youth. Other principal sources available to Shakespeare were Saxo Grammaticus’s Gesta Danorum (c. 1200), which features a popular legend with a plot similar to Hamlet, and François de Belleforest’s Histoires tragiques, extraits des oeuvres italiennes de Bandel (7 vols.; 1559–80), which provides an expanded account of the story recorded in the Gesta Danorum. From these sources, Shakespeare created Hamlet, a supremely rich and complex literary work that continues to delight and challenge both readers and audiences with the complexity of its themes, the breadth and depth of its portrayal of human nature and consciousness, and the nearly infinite scope of its interpretability.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Hamlet opens on the battlements of the castle at Elsinore, in Denmark, where the guard is being changed. Bernardo and Marcellus, accompanied by Horatio, come to relieve Francisco. The first words spoken, ‘‘Who’s there?’’ a nervous inquiry by Bernardo indicating suspicion and the need to find something out, set the tone for the rest of the play. Francisco reports that his watch has been uneventful. Alone, Bernardo and Marcellus recount to Horatio how a Ghost appeared the night before but would not stay. Now they are


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waiting to see if it will appear again. If it does, they hope that it will speak to Horatio, who as a scholar may have more success in speaking to the Ghost than they did. As they wait, the Ghost appears. Horatio’s attempt to speak to it fails, however, and the Ghost vanishes. After the men note the Ghost’s resemblance to the deceased King Hamlet, the guards ask Horatio why they are keeping the watch and why war preparations are being made in Denmark. Horatio tells them of a feared invasion by Norwegian troops under the command of young Fortinbras. Fortinbras’s father, in a war with the old King Hamlet, Prince Hamlet’s father, was killed by King Hamlet. Fortinbras is set on avenging his father’s death and recapturing the territory lost to King Hamlet. As they speak, the Ghost appears again, then vanishes again. The three decide to inform Hamlet of what they have seen.

Act 1, Scene 2 Inside the castle, the new king, Claudius, is delivering a state address, touching on his ascension to the throne, the old king’s death, and his marriage to Gertrude, old King Hamlet’s widow and Hamlet’s mother. Next on his agenda is the impending war with Norway. He dispatches Cornelius and Voltimand to Norway to negotiate with Fortinbras’s uncle, the king of Norway, and prevent a war. Claudius then turns his attention to Hamlet, who stands among the courtiers, dressed in mourning black. Claudius calls Hamlet ‘‘our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son.’’ Hamlet’s first words, an aside, showing his alienation from and disgust with Claudius, are ‘‘A little more than kin, and less than kind,’’ acknowledging their kinship but indicating that he thinks of himself as entirely unlike Claudius. When Claudius asks, ‘‘How is it that the clouds still hang on you?’’ Hamlet answers with a pun: ‘‘Not so, my Lord. I am too much in the sun.’’ Hamlet is cryptically suggesting that he is too loyal a son for Claudius’s treacherous world. Claudius’s apparent solicitude is fraught with purpose. In marrying Gertrude, he has effectively usurped Hamlet’s place as successor to the Danish throne. He speaks to Hamlet directly about the prince’s grief for his dead father, arguing that to persist in grief for the dead is actually an offense against heaven, since it seems to reflect rebellion against the will of

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seed. Things rank and gross in nature / possess it merely.’’ He himself would prefer to be dead, even by his own hand, if such an act were not against the laws of God. Beyond his father’s death, a cause of his despair is his mother’s quick and unseemly marriage to Claudius. Hamlet says nothing about his own royal ambitions, presumably not having any. He is powerfully troubled, however, by the differences between his father and his uncle. To him, his father was a god; his uncle is a lecher. Hamlet is most incensed not only at Gertrude’s disloyalty to her dead husband but at her apparent hypocrisy, in that she could cling to his father and grieve for him as deeply as she had and nevertheless be so quickly seduced by his uncle. ‘‘Frailty,’’ Hamlet generalizes from his mother to the sex as a whole, ‘‘thy name is woman.’’ As Hamlet is finishing his painful meditation, Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo enter the chamber and report the night’s encounter with the Ghost of his dead father. Hamlet arranges to meet them on the battlements and watch with them that night and vows to talk to the Ghost should it appear.

Kenneth Branagh as Hamlet and Kate Winslet as Ophelia from the 1996 movie Hamlet (Everett Collection)

heaven. In this address, Claudius also informs Hamlet that he is rejecting the prince’s request to return to school in Germany, in Wittenberg, and wishes him to remain at court, especially since Queen Gertrude, his mother, wishes him to remain near her. Claudius’s refusal to let Hamlet leave Denmark is particularly pointed because he has just previously granted a similar request by Laertes, the son of his Lord Chamberlain, Polonius, to return to Paris. Hamlet agrees to stay; when his mother asks him why his grief for his dead father seems so strong, he tells her that his grief does not just seem strong but actually is strong. Moreover, he tells her that the black mourning clothes he wears and his dejected behavior are outward manifestations of his internal woe. After the court disperses, Hamlet remains behind and in a soliloquy reveals his internal state. He expresses his disgust with the world, which ‘‘is an unweeded garden / That grows to

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Act 1, Scene 3 In the third scene, Shakespeare shifts the focus of the play to Polonius and his two children, Ophelia and Laertes. As the scene begins, Laertes, about to embark on his return journey to France, in parting from his sister, advises her to guard herself against Hamlet’s advances. She promises that she will and reminds him not to counsel chaste and prudent behavior to her while leading a reckless life himself. Polonius enters to bid Laertes farewell and to give him some precepts that he hopes will guide his behavior in France. Once Laertes has departed, Polonius asks Ophelia what they had been speaking about, and Ophelia reports that her brother had warned her to be wary of Hamlet’s courtship. Polonius affirms this warning, telling her that Hamlet is in all likelihood only toying with her and that he wishes her to no longer speak to Hamlet.

Act 1, Scene 4 In the middle of the night, Hamlet, Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo wait on the battlements of Elsinore to see if the Ghost will appear. In the meantime they comment on the nightly carousing and revelry at the court of Denmark, which Hamlet acknowledges give Denmark a

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reputation of being a place of drunkenness. Hamlet then philosophizes about human faults, observing that one fault can overwhelm a person who is in all other respects decent. His discourse is interrupted by the appearance of the Ghost, who signals him to follow. Hamlet’s companions try to hold him back, fearing that the Ghost may drive him mad or move him to take his own life, but Hamlet resists, drawing his sword, and follows the Ghost. The others follow after.

of his faults. Once Reynaldo is dispatched, Ophelia enters and tells her father of a recent, disturbing encounter with Hamlet, who entered her chamber with his clothing in disarray, took hold of her by the wrist, sighed, gazed at her, and left. Polonius interprets the behavior as indicating lovesickness and asks her if she has ‘‘given him any hard words of late’’; Ophelia tells him that she has not, that she has, as Polonius instructed, returned Hamlet’s letters and ‘‘denied / His access to me.’’ Polonius determines to tell the king of the episode.

Act 1, Scene 5 Alone with the Ghost, Hamlet says that he will go no further. The Ghost identifies himself as Hamlet’s father’s spirit, ‘‘doomed for a certain term to walk the night’’ because he died without having had the opportunity to repent. More significantly, he tells Hamlet that although he is said to have died sleeping in his orchard, the truth is that his brother killed him by pouring a ‘‘leperous distillment’’ in his ear; through this lie, Claudius has abused the ear of Denmark. Hamlet tells the Ghost that he had suspected some foul play by his uncle, and the Ghost tells Hamlet that he is obliged to avenge the murder. Further, the Ghost instructs Hamlet not to hurt his mother but to ‘‘leave her to heaven / And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge / To prick and sting her.’’ With the approach of morning, the Ghost vanishes, leaving in Hamlet’s ears the words ‘‘Remember me.’’ Hamlet believes the Ghost and tells Horatio, Marcellus, and Bernardo that the Ghost is honest, but he refuses to reveal what the Ghost imparted. Hamlet instructs the men to mention nothing of what has just occurred and, if they see Hamlet acting oddly, not to indicate even by the smallest gesture that they know the reason why. He commands them to swear that they will be silent. When they resist, saying that such an oath is not necessary, the Ghost’s voice calls out, ‘‘Swear,’’ and they do. Hamlet calls the Ghost a perturbed spirit and tells it to rest. He then remarks that ‘‘the time is out of joint’’ and that it is his misfortune that it is his task ‘‘to set it right.’’

Act 2, Scene 1 Polonius is alone with Reynaldo, a courtier whom he is sending to Paris to find out how Laertes is behaving. Polonius instructs Reynaldo in methods of gathering information, emphasizing how he ought to offer demeaning observations about Laertes’s character to see if others confirm them or even reciprocate with further accounts


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Act 2, Scene 2 Claudius and Gertrude greet Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, old school friends of Hamlet’s, thank them for answering their summons, and explain that neither Hamlet’s ‘‘exterior nor the inward man / Resembles that it was.’’ The king and queen hope that the two might be able to spend time with Hamlet and find out what has caused his ‘‘transformation.’’ The two friends then leave to let Hamlet know of their arrival. Polonius enters and informs Claudius that the ambassadors to Norway, Cornelius and Voltimand, have returned and that he thinks he knows the cause of Hamlet’s madness; he advises the king to first hear from the ambassadors. After Polonius leaves to fetch the ambassadors, Claudius tells Gertrude that Polonius thinks he knows the cause of Hamlet’s madness. She remarks that she does not doubt that the cause is the combination of his father’s death and their ‘‘o’erhasty marriage.’’ Voltimand and Cornelius report that the king of Norway was grieved to learn that Fortinbras was raising an army against Denmark, as he had thought the army was being assembled for an attack against Poland. When he learned the truth, he suppressed Fortinbras’s war effort against Denmark but asked for passage through Denmark for the Polish campaign. With the ambassadors’ business concluded, Polonius informs the king and queen with characteristic long-windedness that he believes the cause of Hamlet’s apparent madness to be love for Ophelia; he reads a letter from Hamlet to her that expresses love and desperation. The queen finds the hypothesis credible, and the king wishes to know how they might test it. Polonius suggests that he will arrange for Hamlet and Ophelia to meet and converse while the king, queen, and Polonius hide behind an arras, or

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long heavy curtain, and eavesdrop. Claudius accepts, and Polonius, noticing Hamlet walking toward them, instructs the king and queen to leave while he engages Hamlet in conversation. Polonius greets Hamlet and, as if talking to a madman, asks Hamlet if he knows him. Hamlet answers that he knows him very well, that he is a fishmonger. Hamlet often speaks in double entendres, expressions that have two meanings, with one of them usually sexually suggestive; a fishmonger is not only a person who sells fish but also a procurer, or pimp. Indeed, Polonius is in a sense using Ophelia (‘‘I’ll loose my daughter,’’ he has told Claudius and Gertrude) to snare Hamlet. Hamlet continues to lead Polonius on, teasing him with references to love, sexuality, Ophelia, and death. Polonius takes leave of Hamlet convinced that he is mad and that love for Ophelia is the cause. As Polonius leaves, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern enter and greet Hamlet, who asks what ill fortune brings them to Denmark, which he calls a prison. They respond that they do not find it to be such, and he tells them that it is one only to him, then, ‘‘for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’’ They observe that he must have too much ambition, but Hamlet dissents and, as he had toyed with Polonius, toys with them, telling them he could live happily in a small space but has bad dreams. After they discuss the nature of dreams, Hamlet again asks why they have come to Elsinore, and they answer that it was to visit him. But Hamlet protests that their visit is not voluntary, remarking, ‘‘Were you not sent for? . . . Come, come, deal justly with me.’’ They equivocate, not knowing what to say, and Hamlet tells them that they need not answer; he knows that they were summoned. Still, they do not respond honestly, asking, ‘‘To what end?’’ Hamlet replies, ‘‘That you must teach me.’’ Finally, the two admit that they were summoned, and Hamlet says that he will tell them why so that they will not be guilty of revealing their mission. Hamlet proceeds to inform them that he has lost his ability to take pleasure in being alive and that ‘‘man,’’ though a wonderful creature with great capabilities, ‘‘delights not me’’; when they smile, he suspects they have a bawdy understanding of his words and adds ‘‘nor woman neither.’’ Rosencrantz asserts that he was thinking no such thing; rather, he recalled that they encountered traveling players on their way to the

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court, and if Hamlet takes no pleasure in the ways of men, he will not enjoy the players. Hamlet responds that they will be welcome, especially the one who plays the king. After discussion on the current state of the theater, with reference to the stage in Shakespeare’s own London and the rise of children’s theater companies, which has forced adult troupes to travel, Polonius enters to inform Hamlet that the players have arrived. Hamlet and Polonius banter about theater and once again about fathers and their daughters. Hamlet refers to the biblical figure of Jephthah, who vowed to God that if he was victorious in battle, he would offer as a sacrifice to God the first thing he saw on his return home. On his return, the first thing Jephtha encountered was his daughter coming out to greet him. ‘‘Still on my daughter,’’ Polonius notes, without realizing that Hamlet is suggesting that Polonius is sacrificing his daughter to his own interests. The players enter, and Hamlet greets them and asks one of the players to recite a speech about the fall of Troy to the Greeks in the Trojan War and the suffering of the king and queen of Troy, Priam and Hecuba. Polonius notes that as the player recites the speech, he is filled with emotion. Hamlet then asks the players if they know a play called The Murder of Gonzago; they do. Hamlet arranges for them to play it before the court the following night with the addition of some lines Hamlet will write. Alone, Hamlet compares himself to the player, who was moved to a passion by his own speech, and berates himself in a soliloquy for his lack of determination in real life in his quest for revenge. His meditation leads him to the idea that ‘‘guilty creatures’’ watching a play that mirrors their misdeeds might become so moved as to confess their crimes, if not verbally then by some facial expression or bodily gesture. Thus, Hamlet plans to watch the king’s response to The Murder of Gonzago, which features a murder similar to King Hamlet’s murder. Hamlet remarks in closing, ‘‘The play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.’’

Act 3, Scene 1 Rosencrantz and Guildenstern report to the king and queen that they were unable to learn much from Hamlet, who, they say, greeted them like a gentleman but avoided their inquiries with a crafty madness. The two inform the king of the players’ arrival and of the performance scheduled for that

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evening. The king is glad that Hamlet seems to be pursuing pleasure and instructs them to continue trying to lead him to reveal the root of his mad behavior. The king then asks Gertrude to leave them. Gertrude tells Ophelia that she hopes it is for love of her that Hamlet is mad; she would not oppose their marriage. Polonius positions Ophelia with a book to wait for Hamlet; he and the king will watch in hiding when Hamlet arrives. Hamlet enters and recites perhaps the most famous speech from any play, the soliloquy ‘‘To be or not to be,’’ in which he ponders the pain of being alive and the fear of death and of what the afterlife may hold. He concludes that fear of the unknown makes people bear the burdens, injustices, and woes of being alive. He breaks off his meditations when he sees Ophelia, who is reading from a book that Hamlet takes to be a prayer book. In greeting her, he asks her to include him in her prayers. She tells him that she has ‘‘remembrances’’ of his, gifts and letters he has given her that she wishes to return to him. He says that he never gave her anything, but she asserts that he knows he did; when he did, he gave them with sweet words, but now that he is cold to her, the gifts no longer have the richness they once had. He interrupts her to ask if she is honest, suspecting that she is the bait in a trap to catch him. She does not understand his question, and he declares that if she is honest and fair, her honesty would not permit her to be used (as she is being used to lure Hamlet into revealing himself). In a speech full of words with double meanings, Hamlet tells Ophelia ‘‘Get thee to a nunnery,’’ meaning both ‘‘sequester yourself in a convent to be away from this sinful, dangerous world’’ and ‘‘go into a brothel, for you are being a prostitute, in being used by Claudius and Polonius.’’ At length, he berates himself and all of mankind. He concludes by asking, ‘‘Where’s your father?’’ and she answers with a lie, ‘‘At home, my lord.’’ Hamlet then calls her father a fool, tells Ophelia that if she marries she ought to be chaste, and concludes with a condemnation of women who apply makeup and act affectedly, making a mockery of God’s creation. He rails against marriage and makes a veiled threat to kill the king. He concludes by once more telling her, ‘‘To a nunnery, go.’’ Alone, Ophelia grieves at Hamlet’s apparent madness. The king and Polonius come out of hiding, and the king remarks that Hamlet did not seem to be talking like a disappointed lover,


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that his words were not really like those of a madman. Furthermore, the king feels that Hamlet is a threat and so resolves to send him to England in an ambassadorial function, to collect some tribute money that England has neglected to pay Denmark. Polonius tells Ophelia that she need not tax herself to relate the conversation as they have overheard everything, thus offering no comfort to the broken-hearted girl. Polonius suggests that after the play, Gertrude ought to talk to Hamlet to see what she can learn; he will hide behind an arras and listen to their conversation. The king agrees and adds that ‘‘madness in great ones’’ must not go unwatched.

Act 3, Scene 2 Before the performance of The Mousetrap, Hamlet’s adaptation of The Murder of Gonzago, Hamlet instructs the players how to act, telling them not to play the scene that evening too broadly and with great gesticulation—not to go for big effects but to perform realistically and to ‘‘hold . . . the mirror up to nature.’’ When the players leave, Horatio enters. Hamlet first tells him how much he loves and admires him for his balanced, stoical disposition, as he is not a flatterer or a slave to the whims of fortune. Hamlet asks Horatio to observe the king’s reactions during the play, which will mirror the circumstances of King Hamlet’s death as the Ghost has related them. With ceremonial flourish the king and the court enter. The king greets Hamlet, asking how he ‘‘fares,’’ and Hamlet responds with a cryptic pun, since ‘‘how do you fare’’ means ‘‘how do you eat?’’ as well as ‘‘how do you do?’’ Hamlet says that he ‘‘eats the air, promise crammed,’’ punning also on ‘‘heir,’’ suggesting that Claudius, by marrying Gertrude and becoming king, has usurped Hamlet’s rightful place in the royal succession. Claudius says that he does not understand Hamlet’s meaning— ‘‘these words are not mine’’—and Hamlet retorts that now that they have been spoken, the words are not his either. Hamlet then turns to banter with Polonius about his past as an actor. The queen invites Hamlet to sit beside her, but Hamlet indicates that he would prefer to sit by Ophelia and proceeds to make a series of obscene sexual puns and cutting references to his father’s death and his mother’s remarriage.

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The play begins with a ‘‘dumb show’’ or pantomime of the action to come. After a spoken prologue, the Player King and Player Queen enter. They are loving, but the king is not in good health and speaks of the possibility of dying. The queen says that she will never marry again; to do so would be like a second death of her husband. But the king objects; as circumstances change, he asserts, so will she. She protests that she will be constant and then leaves the stage, and the king lies down for a nap. As the scene changes, Hamlet asks his mother what she thinks of the play, and she says that it seems to her that ‘‘the lady doth protest too much.’’ A new character then enters and pours poison into the sleeping king’s ear, as Hamlet, like a chorus, narrates what is happening, noting, ‘‘You shall see anon how the murderer gets the love of Gonzago’s wife.’’ At this point, Claudius rises, Gertrude asks how he fares, Polonius orders the play stopped, and Claudius calls for ‘‘some light’’ and leaves; all the court except Hamlet and Horatio follow. Hamlet is euphoric, and he and Horatio agree that the king’s reaction confirms the Ghost’s honesty and the king’s guilt. As they talk, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern enter and tell Hamlet how disturbed the king and queen are at his behavior and also that the queen wishes to speak with him in her chamber. They apologize for their boldness in speaking somewhat reproachfully to Hamlet, citing the great love they bear him as an excuse. Hamlet takes a flute from one of the players and asks Guildenstern to play it; Guildenstern protests that he lacks the skill to do so. Hamlet remarks on how cheaply, then, Guildenstern must hold Hamlet, in that Guildenstern was trying to ‘‘play upon’’ him. Polonius enters to also announce that the queen wishes to see Hamlet in her chamber. Hamlet then taunts Polonius, too, and the scene ends with Hamlet leaving for Gertrude’s chamber, vowing to be severe with her and reprimand her for her remarriage but not to be abusive or violent.

Act 3, Scene 3 Feeling himself to be in danger, Claudius commissions Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to escort Hamlet to England and tells them to arm themselves for the task. They flatter him, telling him how important a king is and how he must protect himself in order to protect all the people of the kingdom who depend on him. As they leave, Polonius enters; he tells the king that

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Hamlet is going to Gertrude’s chamber and that he will hide behind the arras there to listen to their conversation. Polonius adds that a mother is too partial to her son to be trusted in such circumstances. Alone, Claudius contemplates his crime, admitting to himself how terrible the murder of a brother is. He tries to pray but realizes that his prayer is meaningless as long as he still enjoys the fruits of his crime. Meanwhile, Hamlet passes on his way to Gertrude’s chamber and realizes that he might kill the king—but he refrains from doing so because killing Claudius while he is in prayer would send his soul to heaven. That, Hamlet says, would be unfair: ‘‘A villain kills my father, and for that / I, his sole son, do this same villain send / To heaven.’’ He leaves Claudius alive. Claudius, alone, ends the scene saying, ‘‘My words fly up, my thoughts remain below. / Words without thoughts never to heaven go.’’ Ironically, prayer did, this time, despite his ambivalence, protect him.

Act 3, Scene 4 In Gertrude’s chamber, Polonius tells her that Hamlet is coming and that she should scold her son for his ‘‘pranks’’; meanwhile, Polonius will hide behind the arras. As Hamlet approaches, she tells Polonius not to worry and to hide. Hamlet asks his mother, ‘‘What’s the matter?’’ and she answers that he has much offended his father, meaning Claudius, his stepfather. He retorts that she has much offended his father, meaning her first husband, King Hamlet. She tells him that his answer is idle, he tells her that her question is wicked, and they begin to quarrel. She asks if he has forgotten who she is; he says that indeed he has not, that she is her husband’s brother’s wife and, though he wishes it were not so, his mother. She says that if he will not listen to her, she will have others speak to him, and he takes hold of her and sits her down, saying that he will hold up a mirror for her to see her innermost self. Frightened, she cries out, ‘‘What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murder me? / Help, ho!’’ Polonius, hearing her cry, calls out ‘‘Help!’’ too, and Hamlet stabs the man behind the curtain without seeing who it is. When his mother asks, ‘‘What hast thou done?’’ he says that he does not know. He asks if the man was the king, but she only says that it was a ‘‘bloody deed.’’ Hamlet responds that the act is ‘‘almost as bad, good Mother, / as kill a king, and marry with his brother.’’ She responds with the question, ‘‘As

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kill a king?’’ apparently not knowing what he is referring to. He then lifts the curtain and sees the dead Polonius, to call him a ‘‘wretched, rash, intruding fool.’’ The murder seems to spur them to speak more openly, for Gertrude then asks what she has done to leave him so incensed. Hamlet proceeds to answer, and what he does not say is as interesting as what he does, for he fails to mention his meeting with the Ghost, nor does he explain the expression ‘‘as kill a king.’’ Rather, he focuses on the differences he perceives between the two brothers, elevating the old King Hamlet to a divine level and depicting Claudius as a depraved man. He chides his mother for being able to go from a man so fine to a man so base. She breaks down and tells him that he has torn her heart in two. He tells her to throw away the rotten part, the part attached to Claudius. As he speaks, the Ghost enters to remind Hamlet that he has nearly forgotten his mission, to avenge his father’s death. Gertrude sees Hamlet talking to the air and grows afraid that he truly is crazy. Hamlet warns her not to think that he is mad rather than realize that she is at fault; he tells her not to go again to Claudius’s bed or to be seduced into revealing Hamlet’s true condition. She agrees. Hamlet then tells his mother that he is being sent to England, that he suspects a plot against him, that he does not trust Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and that he will beat them at their own game. He leaves, dragging Polonius’s body behind him to deposit it in another room.

Act 4, Scene 1 The king asks Gertrude how the interview with Hamlet went. She asks Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to withdraw and tells Claudius that Hamlet is as mad as the raging sea during a tempest and that he killed Polonius. The king reflects on how he himself might have been killed and on how the people will hold him partly responsible for the killing, as he failed to keep Hamlet in check. He reiterates that he will send Hamlet to England. When Claudius asks Gertrude where Hamlet is now, she reports that he has gone to stow Polonius’s body somewhere. The king summons Rosencrantz and Guildenstern back into his presence, tells them of the murder of Polonius, and orders them to find Hamlet and the body.


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Act 4, Scene 2 No longer as friends but as agents of the king, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern demand Polonius’s body of Hamlet. He does not give them a straight answer, insults them, and runs away as if playing hide-and-seek; they pursue him.

Act 4, Scene 3 The king tells two or three courtiers that he has sent to find Hamlet and the body and that Hamlet is dangerous, though the ‘‘multitude,’’ the people, love him. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern enter and tell the king that Hamlet is outside the chamber under guard but will not say where the body is. The king orders Hamlet brought in and asks him where the body is. Hamlet answers cryptically first that Polonius is ‘‘at supper,’’ ‘‘not where he eats, but where he is eaten,’’ then that perhaps Polonius is in heaven and the king ought to send a messenger there to find him; if he is not there, the king might look in the ‘‘other place’’ himself. Finally, Hamlet says that if the king cannot find him in either place he will soon smell him by a certain staircase. Claudius tells Hamlet that for his own safety he is sending him to England aboard a ship, and Hamlet is removed under guard. In a short soliloquy, the king reveals that he has sent letters to England ordering Hamlet’s murder and that he will not know peace until Hamlet is dead.

Act 4, Scene 4 Fortinbras, of Norway, crosses the stage with his troops, passing through Denmark on his way to fight for a barren piece of land in Poland, as a captain tells Hamlet when he inquires. Hamlet is astonished that men should fight and so many should die for the possession of a worthless piece of ground. He concludes that to be great is to ‘‘find quarrel in a straw,’’ and reproaches himself for not having accomplished the Ghost’s commission yet. He vows that his thoughts will be bloody from then on, thinking that if they are not, they will be worth nothing.

Act 4, Scene 5 In the castle, Gertrude refuses to speak with Ophelia until a courtier tells her that Ophelia is distracted and talks madly in incoherent snatches about her father; Horatio then advises Gertrude to speak with Ophelia lest she bring people to think ill of the king, and Gertrude agrees. Ophelia enters, deranged by grief and singing songs about sexual promiscuity, abandonment, and death. Claudius

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enters and speaks gently to Ophelia, but she leaves them talking of her father’s burial in the cold ground and how her ‘‘brother shall know of it.’’ Claudius instructs Horatio to keep an eye on Ophelia, as he is worried that seeing her grief will turn the people against him; Claudius then tells Gertrude that Laertes has secretly returned from France to avenge his father’s death, for which he blames the king. As Claudius speaks, there is a commotion, as Laertes has incited a mob looking to overthrow Claudius and make Laertes king. They break down the doors of the castle and enter, and Laertes commands the mob to stand outside and demands to know where his father is. Gertrude unsuccessfully tries to calm Laertes, and Claudius bids her let him go, saying that he is not afraid, for a king is protected by God. The king persuades Laertes to be patient and tries to convince Laertes that they are partners in grief, that he is not responsible for Polonius’s death, and that he does not begrudge Laertes his revenge but also does not want Laertes to punish the innocent with the guilty. As Laertes’s passion subsides, Ophelia enters again, mad and strewing flowers, rousing that passion again. Once Ophelia has gone, Claudius tells Laertes that he will answer any questions regarding Polonius’s death and will satisfy Laertes regarding his own innocence.

Act 4, Scene 6 Sailors bring Horatio a letter from Hamlet, who writes that he is back in Denmark, as pirates boarded their ship at sea, and during the battle Hamlet boarded the pirates’ ship. They have dealt fairly with him and for a reward are returning him to Denmark. He requests that Horatio take the sailors to the king and give the king letters from him. Hamlet has much to tell Horatio of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are still traveling to England. Horatio promises the sailors to do as Hamlet requests and asks them to bring him to Hamlet.

Act 4, Scene 7 Explaining what has happened to Polonius, Claudius convinces Laertes of his own innocence regarding Polonius’s death and of Hamlet’s guilt. When Laertes asks why Hamlet was not punished, Claudius explains that he could not punish him outright because of the love his mother and the people both bear him. Laertes vows to take revenge himself, but the king tells him that more news will soon come to satisfy him. As they speak, a messenger enters with Hamlet’s letters,

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and the king reads that Hamlet has returned to Denmark alone and wishes to see him. Laertes asserts that he must now take revenge, and the king concocts a scheme to make Hamlet’s death look accidental. He tells Laertes how much Hamlet admires his skill in fencing and proposes a match between the two. Laertes’ sword, however, shall not have a blunt on its tip. Laertes, roused by the king’s goading to a passion that would allow him to cut Hamlet’s throat in church, agrees. Besides the sword’s being naked, the king proposes that its tip be wetted with a deadly poison and that, should Hamlet become thirsty during the duel, the king will offer him a cup of poisoned wine. Gertrude interrupts their conversation to announce that Ophelia has drowned in a brook near the castle, and Laertes is shattered. The king and Gertrude follow him offstage, with the king noting how terrible Ophelia’s death is, since he has had so much trouble calming Laertes’ rage, and her death has now inflamed it once again.

Act 5, Scene 1 In the graveyard, two clowns are joking and singing as they dig a grave. By their conversation, the audience or reader understands that the grave is Ophelia’s and that owing to a dispute over whether her drowning was accidental or suicidal, she will not be given full burial rites. Hamlet and Horatio then enter, and Hamlet is astonished that the First Clown can go about his gravedigging business in such a carefree fashion and engages him in conversation. The First Clown says that he has been employed at his trade for thirty years, since the young Hamlet was born. They speak of mortality, and the clown shows Hamlet a skull, saying that it was the skull of Yorick, the king’s jester; Hamlet then meditates on the passing of time. As they speak, Claudius, Gertrude, Laertes, a Priest, and members of the court enter for Ophelia’s burial. When she is laid in the earth, Laertes jumps into the grave after her. Hamlet, seeing everything, his passion aroused, jumps in, too, and there grapples with Laertes, proclaiming his greater love. The king has them parted, and Hamlet protests that Laertes has no cause to be angry with him, that he has always esteemed him. Claudius bids Horatio look after Hamlet, and when he is alone with Laertes, the king asks him to be patient in his desire for revenge, reminding him of the plan they have to murder Hamlet in the dueling contest.

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Christopher Eccleston as Hamlet in Act V, scene i, at the West Yorkshire Playhouse, Leeds, 2002 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Act 5, Scene 2 Hamlet tells Horatio how he found the letter that Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were carrying from Claudius to the king of England commissioning Hamlet’s immediate execution. He then notes that he substituted another letter that he wrote and sealed with his own royal signet ring, ordering instead the execution of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, for whose deaths he feels no guilt, so willing were they to go about the king’s business. In the course of this discussion, Hamlet reveals a new calmness of temperament founded on his acceptance that things, with time, will be as they are ordained to be. As they are speaking, Osric, a foppish courtier, enters and tells Hamlet of the fencing wager the king has placed on him against Laertes. Hamlet agrees to the contest and says that he is available immediately. The king, queen, Laertes, and the court then enter, and the contest begins. Hamlet asks Laertes for forgiveness, claiming that his madness, not himself, wronged Laertes, and Laertes, yet planning to kill Hamlet, lies and


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says that he forgives him, provisionally. They choose their foils, with Laertes taking the bare, poisoned one and Hamlet accepting the blunted one without checking the other, as the king had said he would. Between rounds, the king offers Hamlet a drink of poisoned wine, but Hamlet declines until later. The queen then begins to take a sip, and the king tries to stop her, but she protests that she will drink; after drinking, she swoons and realizes that she has been poisoned. Hamlet and Laertes then both wound each other with the poisoned sword, for in a scuffle their foils are exchanged. Laertes then has a change of heart and tells Hamlet of the king’s plot; Laertes asks Hamlet’s forgiveness and dies receiving it. Hamlet then strikes the king with the poisoned sword and forces him to drink some of the wine, and the courtiers call out treason. As Hamlet is dying, Horatio says that he will take the cup and drink as well, thus, like a Roman, following his friend in death. However, Hamlet prevents him, imploring him rather to put off the joys of death for a while and, in the cruel world, to draw his breath in pain and tell Hamlet’s

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Laurence Olivier’s black-and-white film version of Hamlet (1948), for which he won Academy Awards for both acting and directing, cuts Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Fortinbras out of the play and emphasizes Hamlet’s inability to make up his mind and his oedipal fixation on his mother. The film was released by J. Arthur Rank.

Elmer Rice’s 1958 stage adaptation of Hamlet, Cue for Passion, transposes Shakespeare’s play from Denmark to contemporary California. This play offers the story of a widow who remarries to the only witness to her first husband’s apparently accidental death, with her son finding the situation disturbing. The play was first produced by the Playwrights’ Company at Henry Miller’s Theater in New York.

For his 1990 film version of Hamlet, director Franco Zeffirelli rearranged and cut the text but fully retained the spirit of the original, with Mel Gibson performing admirably as Hamlet. The film was released by Warner Bros. Pictures.

story, for as it stands he dies with a sullied reputation. Hamlet notes that he imagines Fortinbras will be selected king of Denmark, and he approves of that. Fortinbras, indeed, then enters, returning across Denmark from victory in Poland, and has Hamlet placed on a funeral platform and given military rites.

CHARACTERS Bernardo Bernardo is a guard at Elsinore. During his watch on the ramparts, along with his partner Marcellus, Bernardo sees the Ghost of Hamlet’s father, the old King Hamlet, and reports the

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Kenneth Branagh’s four-and-a-half-hour film version of Hamlet (1996) is a monumental rendition of the complete play set in the nineteenth century. Branagh adapted the play, directed the movie, and starred as the title character. The film was released by Columbia Pictures.

As he was filming Hamlet, Branagh also filmed A Midwinter’s Tale (1995), a modest blackand-white film of a group of amateur provincial actors putting together a production of Hamlet. A Midwinter’s Tale includes certain scenes from Hamlet, some done as burlesque and some done with an insightful naı¨ vete´. The film was released by Sony Pictures. Let the Devil Wear Black (1999) turns Hamlet into a crime thriller set in the boardrooms of Los Angeles. The film was released by Unapix.

The director Michael Almereyda set his 2000 film version of Hamlet in modern Manhattan, with Ethan Hawke starring as the title character. The film was released by Miramax Pictures.

event to Hamlet’s friend Horatio, who joins the two guards on the night watch.

Claudius Claudius is the old King Hamlet’s brother and Prince Hamlet’s uncle. At the play’s opening, he has secretly murdered his brother, married his brother’s widow, and ascended the throne of Denmark. Claudius soon becomes wary that Hamlet has discovered his crime and is planning to avenge King Hamlet’s murder by killing him. Consequently, he arranges for the murder of Hamlet. Although Claudius is unrepentant and unwilling to forfeit the advantages he has gained through his crime, he is plagued by a guilty conscience.

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First Clown

Guildenstern

As he digs Ophelia’s grave, the First Clown sings and makes grim jokes about death. Hamlet encounters him thus and is surprised at his merriness; Hamlet inquires as to whose grave is being dug and contemplates mortality as he holds what the First Clown declares to be the skull of Yorick, Hamlet’s father’s jester.

Guildenstern is an old school friend of Hamlet’s. Along with his friend Rosencrantz, he is summoned by Claudius to Denmark to spy on Hamlet in order to discover what is troubling him and report back to the king. Hamlet suspects their duplicity. When they are sent by Claudius to escort Hamlet to England, bearing instructions to the English monarch to have Hamlet killed, Hamlet gets hold of the order and substitutes their names for his, and they are later executed.

Second Clown The Second Clown essentially plays the role of straight man to the comedic First Clown as they dig a grave for Ophelia.

Hamlet Fortinbras Fortinbras is the prince of Norway. His father was killed by King Hamlet in combat years before, and he is determined to go to war against Denmark in order to recapture the territories his father lost in that battle. After Claudius persuades Fortinbras’s uncle, the king of Norway, to restrain Fortinbras with respect to Denmark, Claudius, in return, allows Fortinbras to lead his troops through Denmark to conduct war against Poland. At the end of the play, when Hamlet and Claudius are dead, Fortinbras becomes king of Denmark.

Francisco Francisco appears in the first scene as one of the guards who nightly stand watch on the battlements at Elsinore.

Gertrude The queen of Denmark, Gertrude is the old King Hamlet’s widow and Hamlet’s mother. Claudius marries Gertrude two months after her first husband’s death. She dies during the fencing match between Hamlet and Laertes when she insists on drinking from a cup intended for Hamlet, not knowing the wine is poisoned.

Ghost The Ghost is King Hamlet’s spirit. King Hamlet is ‘‘doomed . . . to walk the night’’ for a certain period of time because he died without having the opportunity to repent of his sins, having been murdered in his sleep. He tells his son Hamlet that Claudius, his brother, killed him and commands Hamlet to avenge his murder by killing Claudius. He instructs Hamlet to spare Gertrude, to ‘‘leave her to heaven / and to those thorns that in her bosom lodge / To prick and sting her.’’


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Hamlet, the prince of Denmark, is King Hamlet’s son and Claudius’s nephew. After King Hamlet’s Ghost tells his son that he was killed by Claudius and that he wishes Hamlet to avenge his murder, Hamlet becomes determined to discover whether he saw an honest ghost or a diabolical spirit summoning him to a sinful act. To accomplish this, he decides to feign madness and also to present a play mirroring his father’s murder, called The Murder of Gonzago, before Claudius and watch his reaction. In response to his dead father’s charge, Hamlet is set on a course of meditation on life, death, responsibility, and fate. Far from being an action hero, Hamlet is a protagonist of reflection and philosophical contemplation. He is mortally wounded during a rigged fencing match with Laertes that Claudius has arranged, but not before he kills Laertes with the poisoned sword surreptitiously prepared for him. He stabs Claudius, as well, with that sword and also forces him to drink from the poisoned cup Claudius had prepared for him. As Hamlet and Laertes are dying, Hamlet forgives Laertes for plotting against him, and Laertes forgives Hamlet for the accidental murder of his father, Polonius. Hamlet then forbids his friend Horatio to commit suicide as a gesture of loyalty and friendship; rather, Hamlet charges Horatio to live and tell the prince’s story so that his name will survive in honor after his death.

Horatio Horatio is a stoic scholar and Hamlet’s true and loyal friend. Hamlet notes that Horatio meets good and bad fortune alike with equanimity. When Marcellus and Bernardo invite him to keep the watch with them and the Ghost appears, Horatio tries to speak to it, but without success. He tells Hamlet of the Ghost’s appearance and

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joins him the following night on the battlements; when the Ghost beckons Hamlet to follow, Horatio tries to prevent Hamlet from going off alone with the spirit. He also advises Hamlet not to accept the king’s challenge to compete against Laertes in a duel. At his death, Hamlet forbids Horatio to commit suicide, asking his friend to tell his story, explain his erratic behavior, and clear his name.

Laertes Laertes, Polonius’s son, returns from his studies in Paris after Hamlet kills Polonius. Laertes’ mission to avenge his father’s murder thus mirrors Hamlet’s mission to avenge the murder of his own father. Claudius mollifies Laertes, who is angry over both his father’s death and his sister Ophelia’s madness, and conspires with Laertes, arranging for him to kill Hamlet in a fencing match.

his guilt and the Ghost’s assertions—and indeed, Claudius does so.

Polonius Polonius is Claudius’s Lord Chamberlain—one of his closest advisers—and is the father of Laertes and Ophelia. He is verbose and sententious and seems to love to hear himself talk and to make what he considers wise formulations. Hamlet mocks him with contempt. When Polonius is hidden behind a curtain (an arras) in Gertrude’s closet, seeking to overhear the interview between Gertrude and Hamlet that he has arranged, Hamlet stabs him, thinking Claudius is hidden there.

Priest The Priest presides over Ophelia’s funeral and defines the limits of the religious rites allowed to her, since her death is considered a suicide.

Ophelia

Reynaldo

Ophelia is Polonius’s daughter and Laertes’ sister. When Polonius learns that Hamlet has been courting Ophelia, he warns his daughter that Hamlet may only be toying with her—that, being royalty, his choices in matters like matrimony may not be his own to make. After Ophelia breaks with Hamlet, following her father’s instructions, Polonius suggests that the thwarting of Hamlet’s love for her is what has maddened him; in effect, Polonius uses Ophelia in order to discover the root of Hamlet’s malady. After Hamlet kills Polonius, Ophelia goes mad and eventually drowns. Whether her death is accidental or a suicide is unclear.

Polonius sends Reynaldo to Paris to make inquiries regarding Laertes’ behavior.

Osric Osric is a courtier who conveys Laertes’ challenge to a duel to Hamlet, who mocks Osric without mercy for his affected courtly mannerisms.

Players The Players are a troupe of traveling actors who visit Elsinore. At Hamlet’s request, the principal player recites a speech depicting the fall of Troy and the fate of the king and queen of Troy, Priam and Hecuba. Later, the Players perform The Mousetrap, Hamlet’s revision of a play called The Murder of Gonzago, before Claudius and the entire court. The play presents a situation similar to the murder of King Hamlet and the seduction of his widow. Hamlet hopes to see if Claudius reacts to the play in a way confirming

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Rosencrantz Rosencrantz, along with Guildenstern, is a school friend of Hamlet’s whom the king summons to Elsinore to help discover the cause of Hamlet’s strange behavior.

First Sailor When Hamlet is being conveyed to England, the boat he is on is overtaken by pirates who return Hamlet to Denmark. Among others, the First Sailor delivers letters to Horatio and Claudius from him.

Voltimand Voltimand, along with Cornelius, is an ambassador Claudius sends to Norway to negotiate with the king to prevent Fortinbras’s invasion of Denmark.

THEMES The Active versus the Contemplative Life As the hero of a revenge tragedy, conventionally, Hamlet ought to be a man of action, not of thought; what thoughts he does have ought to concern carrying out the deed he is dedicated to accomplishing. Shakespeare’s hero, however, is

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The group of traveling players performing ‘‘The Murder of Gonzago,’’ Act III, scene ii

a contemplative man. He thinks about the actions he will take and whether taking them will be morally right. He worries about the authenticity and authority of the Ghost. He contemplates the absurdity of war and the meaning of honor when he sees Fortinbras’s army marching to fight in Poland for a tract of land. He meditates on the difficulties and pains of being alive and the fearsomeness of death in his ‘‘To be or not to be’’ soliloquy. When he has the opportunity to slay Claudius when he finds him at prayer, he forbears for fear of sending him to heaven. Still, Hamlet ultimately proves quite active. He kills Polonius; he performs feats of derring-do aboard his ship when it is attacked by pirates; he leaps into Ophelia’s grave and grapples with her brother; and he is an excellent fencer, as his final duel with Laertes shows.

Spying Nearly every character in Hamlet spies on another character or at some point conceals something. Polonius sends Reynaldo to spy on Laertes in France and is killed himself when he hides behind the arras to spy on Hamlet as he speaks to Gertrude. He also counsels Claudius to watch with him as Hamlet and Ophelia converse. The king orders Rosencrantz and Guildenstern


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to spy on Hamlet. Ophelia is used by the king and her father as a bait for their spying. Hamlet himself, in his attempt ‘‘to catch the conscience of the king’’ and authenticate the Ghost’s report, devises a complex series of surveillance strategies, including feigning madness and presenting a play during the performance of which he watches the king. Aboard the ship to England, Hamlet engages in espionage that allows him to discover the plot against his life. Horatio, too, at Hamlet’s request, becomes a spy during the performance of The Mousetrap.

Vengeance A common type of play performed on the Elizabethan stage was the revenge tragedy. In a revenge tragedy, one act of brutality gives rise to a counteract, which gives rise to another, until all the characters are murdered. Usually, the murders are grim and treacherous. Hamlet is a complex example of a revenge tragedy. Hamlet is a man with greater consciousness than the typical heroes of revenge tragedies usually possess, and he struggles with the role of avenger that is cast upon him. After Hamlet’s father dies, his father’s ghost visits and reveals that he was murdered by his brother, and he calls upon Hamlet to avenge his murder. Parallel revenge plots are also present, as the old

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY When Horatio announces, as Hamlet is dying, that he will commit suicide like an ancient Roman, to join his friend in death, Hamlet asks him to instead remain alive and relate his story. Imagine you are Horatio talking to a group of Danish citizens and, either in blank verse or in prose, tell Hamlet’s story. In an essay, compare and contrast Thomas Kyd’s play The Spanish Tragedy and Hamlet.

Sources for Hamlet include historical chronicles. Choose a period in history that interests you and find one or two narrative accounts of that period and of some particular events and people of that time. Then use what you have studied as the basis for a short imaginative play set in that time period and incorporating some of the events and characters you read about. Many filmed versions and adaptations of Hamlet have been produced. Choose two, and in a well-organized essay of around one thousand words describe each and compare and contrast them with each other and with the original play by Shakespeare. Write an adaptation of a scene from Hamlet set in contemporary times, with contemporary characters and dialogue reflecting similar themes and concerns to those found in the original play. Write a rap song or a folk song in which the story of Hamlet is related.

Along with Desdemona in Othello and Cordelia in King Lear, Ophelia is one of Shakespeare’s heroines who is in some way sacrificed to the wishes and passions of the lead characters in those plays. Compare and contrast the three women, focusing on their relations to their fathers and to their beloveds.

King Hamlet had defeated Fortinbras, the king of Norway, in a war, and at the beginning of Hamlet, the young Fortinbras plans to avenge his father’s

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death by warring on Denmark. After Hamlet kills Polonius, that man’s son, Laertes, returns to Denmark in order to avenge his father’s death. The king suggests the climactic duel between Laertes and Hamlet as a way of accomplishing that revenge. In the end, Hamlet not only takes vengeance on the king but also avenges himself against Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who had become the king’s agents in his attempts to murder Hamlet.

STYLE Aside An aside is the term for a remark uttered out loud but understood by the audience as reflecting a character’s thought while not being heard by the other characters on the stage. Hamlet’s first words in the play, ‘‘A little more than kin, and less than kind,’’ constitute an aside. The words are not directed to the king, who has just addressed him, but reveal Hamlet’s own unuttered thoughts. Similarly, when Polonius is trying to sound Hamlet out, in act 2, scene 2, after Hamlet has referred to his daughter, Polonius says to himself, ‘‘How say you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first.’’ And then he addresses Hamlet, asking, ‘‘What do you read, my lord?’’

Blank Verse Most of Hamlet, except for occasional prose passages, is written in unrhymed iambic pentameter, which is called blank verse. Pentameter means that there are five poetic feet in each line, where a foot is composed of a certain number of syllables or beats. Iambic signifies the rhythm of the feet; in an iambic foot the first syllable is unaccented, the second accented. Thus, the iambic pentameter line ‘‘When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,’’ for example, is scanned as follows: ‘‘When WE have SHUFFled OFF this MORtal COIL.’’ Spoken English often falls into an iambic pattern.

Punning Shakespeare is noted for his playing with words—punning—in order to simultaneously suggest multiple meanings in one word or phrase. In Hamlet, Shakespeare can be said to have given punning a rhetorical and dramatic relevance that he had not given it since the very

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1600s: The players report to Hamlet that adult actors have been driven off the London stage and been replaced by children’s companies, which have become very popular. Today: The Broadway theater, which was once the home to plays written by playwrights like Eugene O’Neill, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Wiliams, William Inge, and Clifford Odetts, all writing about complex psychological and political subjects, has become inundated with children’s spectacles and juke-box musicals.

early Comedy of Errors, when confusion regarding two sets of twins makes many comments have at least two contexts. Hamlet plays with language continuously and puns deliberately in order to tease and confuse those with whom he speaks, and he thereby also reveals the complexity of his personality.

1600s: Shakespeare adapted older plays, tales, and historical narratives in the composition of Hamlet. Today: Hamlet continues to serve as the basis for new dramatic, cinematic, and narrative adaptations and reworkings.

1600s: In general, people do not consider it impossible to see a ghost. Today: Seeing a ghost would be, by many people, considered a sign of mental or emotional disturbance.

feature that emphasizes the character’s inwardlooking nature and the activity of his mind.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Children’s Acting Companies

Revenge Tragedy In the 1590s, when Elizabeth I continued to reign, revenge tragedies were extremely popular. Structurally, these tragedies typically involve an initial crime that engenders waves of retribution for the crime and of counter-retribution for the retribution. These plays are often violent, brutal, and graphic. Hamlet follows in the tradition of the revenge tragedy but features a hero who, by virtue of his intellect and philosophical disposition, questions the conventions of his role while undertaking it.

Soliloquy A soliloquy is a speech a character delivers when alone on stage. It is an address to the audience revealing the character’s inner thoughts and feelings. Hamlet is famous for its soliloquies, particularly the one that Hamlet relates in act 3, scene 1, beginning ‘‘To be, or not to be.’’ Shakespeare gave Hamlet several soliloquies, a


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Hamlet speaks about children’s acting companies with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in act 2, scene 2, when they explain to him that the players who are visiting Elsinore have been forced to travel because of the popularity of the newly emerging children’s acting companies. In fact, beginning in 1598, after a decade of inactivity, children’s acting companies, especially the Children of the Chapel Royal, became so popular on London stages that some established adult companies were forced, from 1599 to 1601, to go on the road in search of audiences. This conflict between boy’s and men’s acting companies was dubbed the ‘‘War of the Theaters.’’

The Trojan War One of the players recites for Hamlet the story of the fall of Troy and the grief of Queen Hecuba. The Trojan War was fought between Greece and Troy, ostensibly over the wife of the Greek king Menelaus, Helen, who was seduced

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and kidnapped by Paris, a Trojan prince. That war was known to Elizabethans through a translation of The Aeneid (c. 29–19 B . C . E .), originally written by Virgil, made by the Scotsman Gavin Douglas. That translation appeared in London for the first time in 1553.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Hamlet is regarded as being among the greatest plays ever written, if not the greatest, and is as popular as it is critically esteemed. From its first performances, Hamlet enjoyed such great success that its first printing was an unauthorized pirated edition, reconstructed from memory by several actors who had been in road company productions at Oxford and Cambridge. It became the most popular work on the Restoration stage when the theaters were reopened in 1661, and it retained its popularity throughout the eighteenth century, in large part because great actors like Thomas Betterton, Colley Cibber, and Edmund Kean were drawn to the role of Hamlet. At the beginning of the nineteenth century, the poet and critic Samuel Taylor Coleridge could write, ‘‘Hamlet has been the darling of every country in which the literature of England has been fostered.’’ Undoubtedly, this has been true because of the play’s poetry and because of the scope and depth of human character and complexity which it reveals through and in that poetry. A. C. Bradley, in his 1904 classic study Shakespearean Tragedy, praises ‘‘the dramatic splendour of the whole tragedy’’ and also states that ‘‘the whole story turns upon the peculiar character of the hero.’’ The particular problem that Bradley associates with Hamlet’s character is that Hamlet seems to be slow to act after his encounter with the Ghost. This concern extends backward from Bradley to the beginning of the nineteenth century and was also a chief concern in twentieth-century interpretations of Hamlet. In 1818, reviewing his own critical approach to Hamlet, Coleridge argued, We see a great, an almost enormous, intellectual activity, and a proportionate aversion to real action consequent upon it . . . . This character Shakspere places in circumstances, under which it is obliged to act on the spur of the moment:—Hamlet is brave and careless of death; but he vacillates from sensibility, and procrastinates from thought, and loses the power of action in the energy of resolve.

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In ‘‘Hamlet and His Problems,’’ from 1922, T. S. Eliot argues that rather than being a brilliant creation, Hamlet is an artistic failure. He asserts, ‘‘Hamlet the play is the primary problem, and Hamlet the character only secondary.’’ Eliot contends that Shakespeare failed to find an adequate ‘‘objective correlative,’’ or ‘‘a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.’’ Eliot argues that in Hamlet, the emotional response evoked is greater than the plot can account for. Shakespeare, Eliot asserts, had ‘‘intractable’’ material in Hamlet’s character, which defeated Shakespeare because he was dealing with things he did ‘‘not understand himself.’’ James Joyce, in the novel Ulysses, offers a biographical interpretation of Hamlet, presenting it as a reflection of the character Stephen Dedalus, who is as much concerned about his relationship to a father as he postulates Hamlet is. One of the most influential twentieth-century readers of Hamlet, and one who was likewise concerned with Hamlet’s attitude toward his father and its bearing on his actions, was the British Freudian psychoanalyst Ernest Jones. Jones argued that Hamlet is held back from acting because of his Oedipus complex, which leads him to identify with Claudius because of his unconscious desire to murder his own father and possess his own mother. Jones’s thoughts were published in 1946 as Hamlet and Oedipus but had been introduced in 1910 in a paper called, ‘‘The Oedipus-Complex as an Explanation of Hamlet’s Mystery: A Study in Motive.’’ Jones’s analysis greatly influenced Laurence Olivier’s classic 1948 film version of Hamlet. The majority of critics and interpreters have pursued approaches to the problem of what became known as Hamlet’s delay with greater attention to the text itself or to period scholarship, rather than to external theories or systems. Eleanor Prosser, in Hamlet and Revenge, attempts to determine the credibility of the Ghost and the morality of its injunction to revenge by determining whether it was a Protestant or a Catholic ghost. If conceived of from a Catholic perspective, the Ghost is a tormented spirit from purgatory, which is a Catholic concept. From a Protestant perspective, the Ghost must be a demon from hell.

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(Martin Luther, who sparked the Protestant Reformation, by 1530 had rejected the idea of purgatory, and Protestant teaching does not include belief in purgatory.) Prosser concludes that the spirit is misleading and evil. What seems to unite all critics throughout the centuries is agreement that Hamlet is a profound study of the human condition with great dramatic excitement, exceptional lengths of the greatest poetry, and penetrating studies of human characters and relationships.

I WOULD SUGGEST THAT IN THIS SHAKESPEARE’S EXTRAORDINARY POWERS OF OBSERVATION AND PENETRATION GRANTED HIM A DEGREE OF INSIGHT THAT IT HAS TAKEN THE WORLD THREE SUBSEQUENT CENTURIES TO REACH. . . . IT IS NOW BECOMING MORE AND MORE WIDELY RECOGNIZED THAT MUCH OF MANKIND LIVES IN AN INTERMEDIATE AND UNHAPPY STATE . . . OF WHICH

CRITICISM

HAMLET IS THE SUPREME EXAMPLE IN LITERATURE.’’

Ernest Jones Jones applies Sigmund Freud’s techniques of psychoanalysis to Hamlet’s character, asserting that the prince is afflicted with an Oedipus Complex. This psychological disorder involves the unconscious desire of a son to kill his father and take his place as the object of the mother’s love. According to the critic, Hamlet delays taking revenge on Claudius because he identifies with his uncle and shares his guilt. Thus Hamlet’s inaction stems from a ‘‘tortured conscience,’’ and his affliction is caused by ‘‘repressed’’ feelings. Furthermore, this theory accounts for Hamlet’s speaking to Gertrude like a jealous lover, dwelling on his mother’s sexual relations with Claudius, and treating his uncle like a rival. Significantly, the critic also claims that while his father’s murder evokes ‘‘indignation’’ in Hamlet, Gertrude’s perceived ‘‘incest’’ awakes his ‘‘intensest horror.’’ In addition, Jones maintains that the prince suffers from ‘‘psychoneurosis,’’ or ‘‘a state of mind where the person is unduly, often painfully, driven or thwarted by the ‘unconscious’ part of his mind.’’ This internal mental conflict reflects Hamlet’s condition throughout much of the play. [The] whole picture presented by Hamlet, his deep depression, the hopeless note in his attitude towards the world and towards the value of life, his dread of death, his repeated reference to bad dreams, his self-accusations, his desperate efforts to get away from the thoughts of his duty, and his vain attempts to find an excuse for his procrastination; all this unequivocally points to a tortured conscience, to some hidden ground for shirking his task, a ground which he dare not or cannot avow to himself. We have, therefore, . . . to seek for some evidence that may serve to bring to light the hidden counter-motive.


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The extensive experience of the psychoanalytic researches carried out by Freud and his school during the past half-century has amply demonstrated that certain kinds of mental process show a greater tendency to be inaccessible to consciousness (put technically, to be ‘‘repressed’’) than others. In other words, it is harder for a person to realize the existence in his mind of some mental trends than it is of others. Bearing these considerations in mind, let us return to Hamlet . . . We . . . realize—as his words so often indicate—that the positive striving for vengeance, the pious task laid on him by his father, was to him the moral and social one, the one approved of by his consciousness, and that the ‘‘repressed’’ inhibiting striving against the act of vengeance arose in some hidden source connected with his more personal, natural instincts. The former striving . . . indeed is manifest in every speech in which Hamlet debates the matter: the second is, from its nature, more obscure and has next to be investigated. This is perhaps most easily done by inquiring more intently into Hamlet’s precise attitude towards the object of his vengeance, Claudius, and towards the crimes that have to be avenged. These are two: Claudius’ incest with the Queen, and his murder of his brother. Now it is of great importance to note the profound difference in Hamlet’s attitude towards these two crimes. Intellectually of course he abhors both, but there can be no question as to which arouses in him the deeper loathing. Whereas the murder of his father evokes in him indignation and a plain

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recognition of his obvious duty to avenge it, his mother’s guilty conduct awakes in him the intensest horror. Now, in trying to define Hamlet’s attitude towards his uncle we have to guard against assuming off-hand that this is a simple one of mere execration, for there is a possibility of complexity arising in the following way: The uncle has not merely committed each crime, he has committed both crimes, a distinction of considerable importance, since the combination of crimes allows the admittance of a new factor, produced by the possible inter-relation of the two, which may prevent the result from being simply one of summation. In addition, it has to be borne in mind that the perpetrator of the crimes is a relative, and an exceedingly near relative. The possible inter-relationship of the crimes, and the fact that the author of them is an actual member of the family, give scope for a confusion in their influence on Hamlet’s mind which may be the cause of the very obscurity we are seeking to clarify. Let us first pursue further the effect on Hamlet of his mother’s misconduct. Before he even knows with any certitude, however much he may suspect it, that his father has been murdered he is in the deepest depression, and evidently on account of this misconduct. According to [A. C.] Bradley, [in his Shakespearean Tragedy], Hamlet’s melancholic disgust at life was the cause of his aversion from ‘‘any kind of decided action.’’ His explanation of the whole problem of Hamlet is ‘‘the moral shock of the sudden ghastly disclosure of his mother’s true nature,’’ and he regards the effect of this shock, as depicted in the play, as fully comprehensible. He says: Is it possible to conceive an experience more desolating to a man such as we have seen Hamlet to be; and is its result anything but perfectly natural? It brings bewildered horror, then loathing, then despair of human nature. His whole mind is poisoned . . . A nature morally blunter would have felt even so dreadful a revelation less keenly. A slower and more limited and positive mind might not have extended so widely through the world the disgust and disbelief that have entered it.

But we can rest satisfied with this seemingly adequate explanation of Hamlet’s weariness of life only if we accept unquestioningly the conventional standards of the causes of deep emotion. Many years ago [John] Connolly, a well-

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known psychiatrist, pointed out [in his A Study of Hamlet] the disproportion here existing between cause and effect, and gave as his opinion that Hamlet’s reaction to his mother’s marriage indicated in itself a mental instability, ‘‘a predisposition to actual unsoundness’’; he writes: ‘‘The circumstances are not such as would at once turn a healthy mind to the contemplation of suicide, the last resource of those whose reason has been overwhelmed by calamity and despair.’’ In T. S. Eliot’s opinion, also, Hamlet’s emotion is in excess of the facts as they appear, and he specially contrasts it with Gertrude’s negative and insignificant personality [in his The Sacred Wood] . . . We have unveiled only the exciting cause, not the predisposing cause. The very fact that Hamlet is apparently content with the explanation arouses our misgiving, for, as will presently be expounded, from the very nature of the emotion he cannot be aware of the true cause of it. If we ask, not what ought to produce such soul-paralysing grief and distaste for life, but what in actual fact does produce it, we are compelled to go beyond this explanation and seek for some deeper cause. In real life speedy second marriages occur commonly enough without leading to any such result as is here depicted, and when we see them followed by this result we invariably find, if the opportunity for an analysis of the subject’s mind presents itself, that there is some other and more hidden reason why the event is followed by this inordinately great effect. The reason always is that the event has awakened to increased activity mental processes that have been ‘‘repressed’’ from the subject’s consciousness. His mind has been specially prepared for the catastrophe by previous mental processes with which those directly resulting from the event have entered into association . . . In short, the special nature of the reaction presupposes some special feature in the mental predisposition. Bradley himself has to qualify his hypothesis by inserting the words ‘‘to a man such as we have seen Hamlet to be.’’ We come at this point to the vexed question of Hamlet’s sanity, about which so many controversies have raged. Dover Wilson authoritatively writes [in his What Happens in Hamlet]: ‘‘I agree with Loening, Bradley and others that Shakespeare meant us to imagine Hamlet as suffering from some kind of mental disorder throughout the play.’’ The question is what kind of mental disorder and what is its significance dramatically and psychologically. The

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matter is complicated by Hamlet’s frequently displaying simulation (the Antic Disposition), and it has been asked whether this is to conceal his real mental disturbance or cunningly to conceal his purposes in coping with the practical problems of this task? What we are essentially concerned with is the psychological understanding of the dramatic effect produced by Hamlet’s personality and behaviour. That effect would be quite other were the central figure in the play to represent merely a ‘‘case of insanity.’’ When that happens, as with Ophelia, such a person passes beyond our ken, is in a sense no more human, whereas Hamlet successfully claims our interest and sympathy to the very end. Shakespeare certainly never intended us to regard Hamlet as insane, so that the ‘‘mind o’erthrown’’ must have some other meaning than its literal one. Robert Bridges has described the matter with exquisite delicacy [in his The Testament of Beauty, I]: Hamlet himself would never have been aught to us, or we To Hamlet, wer’t not for the artful balance whereby Shakespeare so gingerly put his sanity in doubt Without the while confounding his Reason. I would suggest that in this Shakespeare’s extraordinary powers of observation and penetration granted him a degree of insight that it has taken the world three subsequent centuries to reach. Until our generation (and even now in the juristic sphere) a dividing line separated the sane and responsible from the irresponsible insane. It is now becoming more and more widely recognized that much of mankind lives in an intermediate and unhappy state charged with what Dover Wilson well calls ‘‘that sense of frustration, futility and human inadequacy which is the burden of the whole symphony’’ and of which Hamlet is the supreme example in literature. This intermediate plight, in the toils of which perhaps the greater part of mankind struggles and suffers, is given the name of psychoneurosis, and long ago the genius of Shakespeare depicted it for us with faultless insight. Extensive studies of the past half century, inspired by Freud, have taught us that a psychoneurosis means a state of mind where the person is unduly, and often painfully, driven or thwarted by the ‘‘unconscious’’ part of his mind, that buried part that was once the infant’s mind and


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still lives on side by side with the adult mentality that has developed out of it and should have taken its place. It signifies internal mental conflict. We have here the reason why it is impossible to discuss intelligently the state of mind of anyone suffering from a psychoneurosis, whether the description is of a living person or an imagined one, without correlating the manifestations with what must have operated in his infancy and is still operating. That is what I propose to attempt here. For some deep-seated reason, which is to him unacceptable, Hamlet is plunged into anguish at the thought of his father being replaced in his mother’s affections by someone else. It is as if his devotion to his mother had made him so jealous for her affection that he had found it hard enough to share this even with his father and could not endure to share it with still another man. Against this thought, however, suggestive as it is, may be urged three objections. First, if it were in itself a full statement of the matter, Hamlet would have been aware of the jealousy, whereas we have concluded that the mental process we are seeking is hidden from him. Secondly, we see in it no evidence of the arousing of an old and forgotten memory. And, thirdly, Hamlet is being deprived by Claudius of no greater share in the Queen’s affection than he had been by his own father, for the two brothers made exactly similar claims in this respect— namely, those of a loved husband. The lastnamed objection, however, leads us to the heart of the situation. How if, in fact, Hamlet had in years gone by, as a child, bitterly resented having had to share his mother’s affection even with his own father, had regarded him as a rival, and had secretly wished him out of the way so that he might enjoy undisputed and undisturbed the monopoly of that affection? If such thoughts had been present in his mind in childhood days they evidently would have been ‘‘repressed,’’ and all traces of them obliterated, by filial piety and other educative influences. The actual realization of his early wish in the death of his father at the hands of a jealous rival would then have stimulated into activity these ‘‘repressed’’ memories, which would have produced, in the form of depression and other suffering, an obscure aftermath of his childhood’s conflict. This is at all events the mechanism that is actually found in the real Hamlets who are investigated psychologically.

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The explanation, therefore, of the delay and self-frustration exhibited in the endeavour to fulfil his father’s demand for vengeance is that to Hamlet the thought of incest and parricide combined is too intolerable to be borne. One part of him tries to carry out the task, the other flinches inexorably from the thought of it. How fain would he blot it out in that ‘‘bestial oblivion’’ which unfortunately for him his conscience contemns. He is torn and tortured in an insoluble inner conflict. Source: Ernest Jones, ‘‘The Psycho-Analytical Solution,’’ in Hamlet and Oedipus Doubleday & Company, 1954, pp. 51–79.

Kenneth Muir Muir discusses imagery and symbolism in Hamlet, beginning with an examination of what he considers the most apparent image pattern in the play— disease. The critic suggests that images of disease are not associated with Hamlet himself, but a sense of infection surrounds both Claudius’s crime and guilt and Gertrude’s sin. Muir attributes Hamlet’s disorder to his melancholic grief over his father’s death and his mother’s frailty. In addition, the critic includes images of decay, flowers, and prostitution with those of disease in the larger patterns of corruption and appearance versus reality. Finally, Muir explores war imagery in Hamlet, noting that it frequently recurs in the text and that its dramatic function is to underscore the fact that Hamlet and Claudius are engaged in a duel to the death. A good many of the sickness images are merely designed to lend atmosphere [in Hamlet], as when Francisco on the battlements remarks that he is ‘‘sick at heart’’ [I. i. 9] or when Hamlet speaks of the way the courtier’s chilblain is galled by the peasant’s. Other images . . . are connected with the murder of Hamlet’s father or with the corresponding murder of Gonzago. Several of the images refer to the sickness of the state, which some think to be due to the threat of war, but which the audience soon comes to realize is caused by Claudius’ unpunished crime. Horatio believes that the appearance of the Ghost ‘‘bodes some strange eruption to our state’’ [I. i. 69] and Marcellus concludes that Something is rotten in the state of Denmark. [I. iv. 90] Hamlet himself uses disease imagery again and again in reference to the King’s guilt. He

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thinks of himself as a surgeon probing a wound: ‘‘I’ll tent him to the quick’’ [II. ii. 597]. He tells Guildenstern that Claudius should have sent for a physician rather than himself, and when he refrains from assassinating him he remarks: This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. [III. iii. 96] He compares Claudius to ‘‘a mildewed ear Blasting his wholesome brother’’ [III. iv. 64–5] and in the last scene of the play he compares him to a cancer: Is’t not to be damn’d To let this canker of our nature come In further evil. [V. ii. 68–70] It is true that Claudius reciprocates by using disease images in reference to Hamlet. He compares his leniency to his nephew to the behaviour of one suffering from a foul disease who conceals it and lets it feed ‘‘Even on the pith of life’’ [IV. i. 23]. He supports his stratagem of sending Hamlet to England with the proverbial maxim: Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliance are reliev’d, Or not at all. [IV. iii. 9–11] In hatching his plot with Laertes, he calls Hamlet’s return ‘‘the quick of th’ulcer’’ [IV. vii. 123]. It is surely obvious that these images cannot be used to reflect on Hamlet’s character: they exhibit rather the King’s guilty fear of his nephew. Some of the disease images are used by Hamlet in reference to the Queen’s adultery at which, he tells her, ‘‘Heaven’s face . . . Is thoughtsick’’ [III. iv. 48–51]. He urges her not to lay to her soul the ‘‘flattering unction’’ that he is mad: It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. [III. iv. 147–49] Gertrude herself, suffering from pangs of remorse, speaks of her ‘‘sick soul.’’ Laertes uses three disease images, two in his warnings to Ophelia not to allow herself to be seduced by Hamlet since in youth Contagious blastments are most imminent. [I. iii. 42]

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Richard Easton as the Ghost and Roger Rees as Hamlet in Act I, scene iv, Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 1984 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

In the third he tells Claudius that the prospect of avenging himself ‘‘warms the very sickness’’ [IV. vii. 55] in his heart. Hamlet uses one image to describe the cause of the war between Norway and Poland— the imposthume of much wealth and peace That inward breaks, and shows no cause without Why the man dies. [IV. iv. 27–9] We have now examined nearly all the disease imagery without finding any evidence to support the view that Hamlet himself is diseased—the thing that is rotten in the state of Denmark. It is rather Claudius’ crime and his guilty fears of Hamlet, and Gertrude’s sin to which the imagery mainly refers; and in so far as it relates to the state of Denmark it emphasizes that what is wrong with the country is the unpunished fratricide committed by its ruler. But four disease images remain to be considered.


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While Hamlet is waiting for his interview with his father’s ghost he meditates on the drunkenness of the Court and of the way a single small defect in a man’s character destroys his reputation and nullifies his virtues in the eyes of the world—‘‘the general censure’’ [I. iv. 35]. The dram of evil,—some bad habit, an inherited characteristic, or ‘‘some vicious mole of nature’’— Doth all the noble substance of a doubt. [I. iv. 24–5] The line is textually corrupt, but the general meaning of the passage is plain. Some critics, and Sir Laurence Olivier in his film of the play, have assumed that Hamlet, consciously or unconsciously, was thinking of the tragic flaw in his own character. But there is no reason to think that at this point in the play Hamlet suffers from some vicious mole of nature—he has not yet been tested. In any case he is not arguing that a single defect outweighs infinite virtues, but merely that it spoils a man’s reputation. The lines cannot properly be applied to Hamlet himself.

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HAMLET SHOWS THAT THINKING ABOUT THE POSSIBLE RESULTS OF ACTION IS APT TO INHIBIT IT.’’

Two more disease images occur in the speech in which Claudius is trying to persuade Laertes to murder Hamlet. He tells him that love is apt to fade, For goodness, growing to a plurisy Dies in his own too much : that we would do We should do when we would [IV. vii. 117–19] If we put it off, this ‘should’ is like a spendthrift’s sigh That hurts by easing. [IV. vii. 122–23] The speech is designed to persuade Laertes to avenge his father’s death without delay. But as Hamlet and Laertes are characters placed in a similar position, and as by this time Hamlet’s vengeance has suffered abatements and delays, many critics have suggested that Shakespeare is commenting through the mouth of Claudius on Hamlet’s failure to carry out his duty. It is not inherently impossible; but we should surely apply these lines to Hamlet’s case only if we find by the use of more direct evidence that Shakespeare so conceived Hamlet’s failure to carry out his duty. Only one sickness image remains to be discussed, but this is the most famous one. In his soliloquy in Act III scene 1 (which begins ‘‘To be or not to be’’ [III. i. 55ff.]) Hamlet shows that thinking about the possible results of action is apt to inhibit it. People refrain from committing suicide (in spite of the miseries of this life) because they fear that death will be worse than life. They may, for example, be punished in hell for violating the canon against self-slaughter. Hamlet continues: Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn awry And lose the name of action. [III. i. 82–7]

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Obviously these lines are an important clue to the interpretation of the play. I used to think that conscience meant both ‘‘thinking too precisely on the event’’ and also the ‘‘craven scruple’’ of which Hamlet speaks in his last soliloquy— conscience as well as conscience, in fact. I now think the word is used (as in the words ‘‘the conscience of the King’’ [II. ii. 605]) only in its modern sense. Since Hamlet foresees that in taking vengeance on Claudius he may himself be killed, he hesitates—not because he is afraid of dying, but because he is afraid of being punished for his sins in hell or purgatory. But, as G. R. Elliott has pointed out [in his Scourge and Minister], Hamlet is speaking not merely of himself but of every man: Thus conscience does make cowards of us all. [III. i. 82] It is apparent from this analysis of the sickness imagery in the play that it throws light on Elsinore rather than on Hamlet himself. He is not the diseased figure depicted by a long line of critics—or, at least, the imagery cannot justifiably be used in support of such an interpretation. On the other hand, the parallels which have been pointed out with Timothy Bright’s Treatise of Melancholy do suggest that Shakespeare conceived his hero as suffering from melancholy. As depicted in the course of the play, he is not the paragon described by Ophelia, the observer of all observers, the glass of fashion, The expectancy and rose of the fair state. [III. i. 152]

But it is necessary to emphasize that his melancholy has objective causes in the frailty of his mother and the death of his father. Closely connected with the sickness imagery is what may loosely be called symbolism concerned with the odour of corruption . . . Hamlet, like Webster in Eliot’s poem, is much possessed by death. He speaks of the way the sun breeds maggots in a dead dog, he refers to the corpse of Polonius as ‘‘the guts’’; he tells Claudius that the dead man is at supper at the diet of worms and he proceeds to show how a king may go a progress through the guts of a beggar. The Graveyard scene is designed not merely to provide a last expression of Hamlet’s love for Ophelia, and an opportunity for screwing up Laertes’ hatred of Hamlet to the stickingpoint. This could have been done without the conversation between the gravediggers, and that between the gravedigger and Hamlet. The

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scene is clearly used to underline the deaththeme. Hamlet’s meditation on the various skulls serves as a memento mori [a reminder of mortality]. We are reminded of Cain, who did the first murder, of Lady Worms, ‘‘chapless and knocked about the mazard with a sexton’s spade’’ [V. i. 89–90], of Yorick’s stinking skull, and of the noble dust of Alexander which may be stopping a bung-hole. Hamlet is thinking of the base uses to which we may return; but his meditations in the graveyard, though somewhat morbid, are calmer and less bitter than his thoughts earlier in the play. All through the play there are words and images which reinforce the idea of corruption. Hamlet, feeling himself to be contaminated by the frailty of his mother wishes that his sullied flesh would melt. He suspects ‘‘foul play’’ when he hears of the appearance of the ghost. The intemperance of the Danes makes foreigners soil their addition with swinish phrase. Denmark’s ear is ‘‘rankly abused’’ by the false account of the death of Hamlet’s father; and later Claudius, at his prayers confesses that his ‘‘offence is rank’’ [III. iii. 36]. The Ghost tells Hamlet that Lust Will sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. [I. v. 56–7] Polonius speaks of his son’s youthful vices as ‘‘the taints of liberty’’ [II. i. 32]. The air seems to Hamlet ‘‘a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours’’ [II. ii. 302–03] and he declares that if his uncle’s guilt is not revealed, his imaginations are as foul As Vulcan’s stithy. [III. ii. 83–4] In the scene with his mother, Hamlet speaks of ‘‘the rank sweat of an enseamed bed’’; he urges her not to ‘‘spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker’’; and he speaks of ‘‘rank corruption mining all within’’. The smell of sin blends with the odour of corruption. [III. iv. 92, 151–52, 148] The only alleviation to this atmosphere is provided by the flowers associated with the ‘‘rose of May’’ [IV. v. 158], Ophelia. Laertes compares Hamlet’s love for her to a violet; Ophelia warns her brother not to tread ‘‘the primrose path of dalliance’’ [I. ii. 50], and later she laments that the perfume of Hamlet’s love is lost. In her madness she distributes flowers and


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the last picture we have of her alive is wearing ‘‘fantastic garlands’’. Laertes prays that violets may spring from her unpolluted flesh and the Queen scatters flowers in the grave with the words ‘‘Sweets to the sweet’’ [V. i. 243]. Hamlet, probably referring to his love for Ophelia, tells Gertrude that her adultery takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love And sets a blister there. [III. iv. 42–4] The rose colour again reminds us of the flower. But the flowers and perfumes associated with Ophelia do not seriously counterbalance the odour of corruption. I have left to the end what by my reckoning is the largest group of images. This is derived not from sickness, but from war. Many of these war images may have been suggested by the elder Hamlet’s campaigns and by the activities of Fortinbras; but we should remember that Prince Hamlet himself is not without martial qualities, and this fact is underlined by the rites of war ordered for his obsequies and by Fortinbras’ final tribute. But the dramatic function of the imagery is no doubt to emphasise that Claudius and Hamlet are engaged in a duel to the death, a duel which does ultimately lead to both their deaths. Hamlet speaks of himself and his uncle as mighty opposites, between whose ‘‘pass and fell incensed points’’ [V. ii. 61] Rosencrantz and Guildenstern had come. All through the play the war imagery reminds us of the struggle. Bernardo proposes to ‘‘assail’’ Horatio’s ears which are ‘‘fortified against’’ his story. Claudius in his first speech tells of discretion fighting with nature and of the defeated joy of his wedding. Later in the scene he complains that Hamlet has a heart unfortified. Laertes urges his sister to ‘‘keep in the rear’’ of her affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire [I. iii. 34–5]

and he speaks of the ‘‘calumnious strokes’’ sustained by virtue and of the danger of youth’s rebellion. Ophelia promises to take Laertes’ advice as a ‘‘watchman’’ to her heart. Polonius in the same scene carries on the same imagery: he urges her to set her ‘‘entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley’’ [I. iii. 122–23]. In the next scene Hamlet speaks of the way ‘‘the o’ergrowth of some complexion’’ breaks down ‘‘the pales and forts of reason’’ [I. iv. 27–8].

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Polonius compares the temptations of the flesh to a ‘‘general assault,’’ The noise of Ilium’s fall ‘‘takes prisoner Pyrrhus ear’’ [II. ii. 477], and Pyrrhus’ sword is ‘‘rebellious to his arm’’ [II. ii. 470]. Hamlet thinks the actor would ‘‘cleave the general ear with horrid speech,’’ and says that ‘‘the clown shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o’th’sere’’ (i.e. easily set off) [II. ii. 563, 323–24]. He speaks of ‘‘the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’’ and derides the King for being ‘‘frighted with false fire’’ [III. i. 57; III. ii. 266]. Rosencrantz talks of the ‘‘armour of the mind’’ [III. iii. 12] and Claudius admits that his ‘‘guilt defeats’’ his ‘‘strong intent’’ [III. iii. 40]. Hamlet fears that Gertrude’s heart is so brazed by custom that it is ‘‘proof and bulwark against sense’’, and he speaks of the way ‘‘compulsive ardour’’ (sexual appetite) ‘‘gives the charge’’ [III. iv. 86]. He tells his mother that he will outwit Rosencrantz and Guildenstern: For ’tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar; and it shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon. [III. iv. 206–09] The Ghost speaks of Gertrude’s ‘fighting soul’. Claudius says that slander’s whisper As level as the cannon to his blank Transports his pois’ned shot. [IV. i. 42–3] He tells Gertrude that when sorrows come, They come not single spies But in battalions! [IV. v. 78–9] and that Laertes’ rebellion, Like to a murd’ring piece, in many places Gives me superfluous death. [IV. v. 95–6] In explaining to Laertes why he could not openly proceed against Hamlet because of his popularity with the people, he says that his arrows, Too slightly timber’d for so loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, But not where I have aim’d them. [IV. vii. 22–4] Hamlet, in apologising to Laertes, says that his killing of Polonius was accidental:

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I have shot my arrow o’er the house And hurt my brother. [V. ii. 243–44] (These last two images are presumably taken from archery rather than from battle.) Gertrude compares Hamlet’s hairs to ‘‘sleeping soldiers in the alarm.’’ Six of the images are taken from naval warfare. Polonius tells Ophelia he thought Hamlet meant to wreck her [II. i. 110] and he advises Laertes to grappe his friends to his ‘heart with hoops of steel’ [I. iii. 63] and, in a later scene, he proposes to board the Prince [II. ii. 170]. Hamlet, quibbling on ‘‘crafts,’’ tells his mother: O, ’tis most sweet When in one line two crafts directly meet. [III. iv. 209–10] In the same scene he speaks of hell that mutines in a matron’s bones; and, in describing his voyage to England, he tells Horatio: Methought I lay Worse than the mutines in the bilboes. [V. ii. 5–6] In addition to the war images there are a large number of others that suggest violence. There are four images about knives, as when the Ghost tells Hamlet that his visitation is ‘‘to whet’’ his ‘‘almost blunted purpose’’ [III. iv. 111]. The images of war and violence should have the effect of counteracting some interpretations of the play, in which the psychology of the hero is regarded as the centre of interest. Equally important is the struggle between Hamlet and his uncle. Hamlet has to prove that the Ghost is not a devil in disguise, luring him to damnation, by obtaining objective evidence of Claudius’ guilt. Claudius, for his part, is trying to pierce the secret of Hamlet’s madness, using Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Ophelia, and finally Gertrude as his instruments. Hamlet succeeds in his purpose, but in the very moment of success he enables Claudius to pierce the secret of his madness. Realising that his own secret murder has come to light, Claudius is bound to arrange for Hamlet’s murder; and Hamlet, knowing that the truth of his antic disposition is now revealed to his enemy, realises that if he does not kill Claudius, Claudius will certainly kill him. We have considered most of the patterns of imagery in the play—there are a few others which do not seem to throw much light on the meaning of the play—and I think it will be agreed

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that . . . the various image-patterns we have traced in Hamlet show that to concentrate on the sickness imagery, especially if it is divorced from its context, unduly simplifies the play. I do not pretend that a study of all the imagery will necessarily provide us with one—and only one— interpretation; but it will at least prevent us from assuming that the play is wholly concerned with the psychology of the hero. And that, I hope you will agree, is a step in the right direction. It may also prevent us from adopting the view of several modern critics—Wilson Knight, Rebecca West, Madariaga, L. C. Knights—who all seem to me to debase Hamlet’s character to the extent of depriving him of the status of a tragic hero. It may also prevent us from assuming that the complexities of the play are due to Shakespeare’s failure to transform the melodrama he inherited, and to the survival of primitive traits in his otherwise sophisticated hero. Source: Kenneth Muir, ‘‘Imagery and Symbolism in Hamlet,’’ in Etudes Anglaises, Vol. XVII, No. 4, October–December 1964, pp. 352–63.

George Detmold Detmold addresses the question of why Hamlet delays taking revenge on Claudius by assessing his status as a tragic hero. According to the critic, a tragic hero has three prominent characteristics: (1) a will-power that surpasses that of average people, (2) an exceptionally intense power of feeling, and (3) and unusually high level of intelligence. From this definition of a tragic hero, Detmold especially focuses on Hamlet’s unorthodox demonstration of will-power in the play, arguing that the protagonist’s preoccupation with moral integrity is what ultimately delays him from killing Claudius. Further, the critic asserts that Hamlet is distinct from other tragedies in that its action commences in the soliloquy of Act I, scene ii where most other tragedies end: ‘‘with the discovery by the tragic hero that his supreme good is forever lost to him.’’ Perhaps the most significant reason why Hamlet hesitates, the critic concludes, is that although he is tempted by love, kingship, and even revenge, he is long past the point where he desires to do anything about them. None of these objectives gives him a new incentive for living. Hamlet is surely the most perplexing character in English drama. Who has not sympathized with the Court of Denmark in their bewilderment at his mercurial conduct? Theatre-


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HAMLET, THEN, HAS THE HEROIC TRAITS OF LEAR, OTHELLO, TAMBURLAINE, MACBETH, AND OEDIPUS: HIGH INTELLIGENCE, DEEP SENSITIVITY, AND STRONG WILL.’’

goers, to be sure, are seldom baffled by him; perhaps the spectacle and melodrama of his undoing are powerful enough to stifle any mere doubts about his motives. But the more dispassionate audience of scholars and critics—if one may judge from the quantity of their published remarks—are often baffled. Seeking an intellectual satisfaction which will correspond to the pleasant purging of pity and terror in the spectator, they are only perplexed by Hamlet’s behavior. They fail to understand his motives. How can a man so dilatory, who misses every opportunity to achieve what apparently he desires, who requires nearly three months to accomplish a simple and well-justified killing—how can such a man be classed a tragic hero? Is he not merely weak and contemptible? How can he be ranked with such forceful men as Lear, Macbeth, Othello, or even Romeo? And yet he is a great tragic hero, as the playgoers will testify. The spectacle of his doings and undoing is profoundly stirring; it rouses the most intense emotions of awe and admiration; it never moves us to scorn or contempt. In order to understand Hamlet, we must be able to answer the old question about him: ‘‘Why does he delay?’’ Granting—as he does—that he has sufficient ‘‘cause, and will, and strength, and means’’ [IV. iv. 45] to avenge his father, why should he require approximately three months to do so, and then succeed almost purely by accident or afterthought? There is only one possible reason why a strong, vigorous, intelligent man does not kill another when he feels no revulsion against the deed, when his duty requires that he do it, when he is not afraid, when the man to be killed is not invulnerable, and when the consequences of the act are either inconsiderable or are not considered at all. Hamlet delays to kill his uncle only because he has little interest in doing so. His thoughts are

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is one of aversion. We worship strength and health and power, and will identify ourselves with the hero who displays these qualities. We may even identify ourselves with a Lear during his temporary insanity, but only because we have known him sane and can appreciate the magnitude of his disaster. For the Fool who is his companion we can feel only a detached and tender compassion. Hamlet rouses stronger emotions than these, and only because we can recognize ourselves in him, because he is in the finest sense a universal man: Homo sapiens, man thinking—and man feeling, man acting. The proper habitat of the freak is the side-show or museum, not the stage.

Marianne Faithfull as Ophelia in Act IV, scene V, at the Round House, London, 1969 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

elsewhere. Most of the time he forgets about it, as we forget about a letter that should be answered—and only occasionally does he remember it and ponder his reluctance to perform this simple duty. Rightly or wrongly, he is preoccupied with other things. Yet revenge, especially when it entails murder, is a tremendously important affair; how can any man overlook it? What kind of man can consider what kind of thing more important? Is Hamlet in any way unique, beyond or above or apart from our experience of human nature? Let us examine him as a man and—more important—as a tragic hero. We must realize that there is nothing curious or abnormal about him. He is recognizably human; he is not diseased or insane. If this were not so he would rouse no admiration in an audience, for it will never accord to a sick or crazy man the allegiance it usually gives to the tragic hero. The normal attitude toward abnormality

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But within this humanity and universality we may distinguish three characteristics which are usually found in the tragic hero. The first of these is a willpower surpassing in its intensity anything displayed by average men; the hero admits of no obstacle and accepts no compromise; he drives forward with all his strength to his desired goal. The second is a power of feeling likewise more intense than that possessed by average men; he rises to heights of happiness forever unattainable to the majority of us, and correspondingly sinks to depths of misery. The third is an unusually high intelligence, displayed in his actions and in his power of language. Aristotle sums up these characteristics in the term hamartia: the tragic flaw, the failure of judgment, the refusal to compromise. Passionately pursuing the thing he desires, the hero is incapable of compromise, of the calm exercise of judgment. It will be seen that Hamlet possesses these three characteristics. His power of feeling surpasses that of all other characters in the play, expresses itself in the impassioned poetic diction peculiar to great tragedy. His intelligence is subtle and all-embracing, displaying itself not only in his behavior but also in word-plays beyond the comprehension of the others in the drama, and in metaphors beyond their attainment. But what can be said of his will-power, the one pre-eminently heroic characteristic? He is apparently a model of hesitation, indecision, procrastination; we seem to be witnessing an examination of the failure of his will. And yet demonstrably it has not failed, and does at odd moments stir itself violently. In no other way can we account for the timidity of his enemies, the respect of his friends, and his own frank

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acknowledgement that he has ‘‘cause, and will, and strength, and means’’ to avenge his father. And though he is a long time in killing Claudius, he does kill him at last, and he is capable of other actions which argue the rash and impulsive nature of a man with strong will. He will ‘‘make a ghost’’ [I. iv. 85] of any man who tries to prevent him from following his father’s spirit. He murders Polonius. He engineers the murder of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. He boards the pirate ship single-handed. He takes so long to kill Claudius only because he has little interest in revenge—not because he lacks will, but because it is inactive. Will-power does not spread itself in a circle around the possessor, but lies in a straight line toward the thing he desires. Hamlet, then, has the heroic traits of Lear, Othello, Tamburlaine, Macbeth, and Oedipus: high intelligence, deep sensitivity, and strong will. There is another characteristic of the tragic hero without which the former ones would never be perceived: his delusion that there is some one thing in the world supremely good or desirable, the possession of which will make him supremely happy. And to the acquisition of the thing he desires he devotes all his will, all his intelligence, all his power of feeling. Thus Romeo dedicates himself to the pursuit of love, Macbeth to power, Lear to filial gratitude—and Hamlet to moral beauty. It is clear that, at some point before the opening of the play, Hamlet has been completely disillusioned. He has failed to discover moral beauty in the world; indeed, by the intensity of his search he has roused instead his supreme evil: moral ugliness. The majority of us, the non-heroes, might disapprove of the sudden remarriage of a mother after the death of her husband—but we would probably not be nauseated. Hamlet, supremely sensitive to the godliness and beastliness in men, was overwhelmed by what he could interpret as nothing but lust. To be sure, the marriage of his mother and uncle was technically incestuous. But his objection to it lies much deeper than surface technicalities. He has worshipped his father, adored his mother (his love for her is everywhere apparent beneath his bitterness). Gertrude has mourned at the funeral ‘‘like Niobe, all tears’’ [I. ii. 149]. And then within a month she has married his uncle—a vulgar, contemptible, scheming drunkard—exposing without shame her essentially shallow, thoughtless, amoral, animal nature.


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The blow has been too much for Hamlet, sensitive as he is to moral beauty. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good. [I. ii. 156–58] That is, it cannot come to his conception of the good, whatever may be said for Gertrude’s. He is unable to offer her understanding or sympathy, since to do so would mean compromising with his ideal of her. He fails to realize that no amount of scolding will ever improve her. Instead of accepting her conduct as inevitable or even endurable, he fights it, exaggerates it into a disgusting and an intolerable sin against everything he holds dear. And because the sin may not be undone, and since it has destroyed his pleasure and purpose in living, he wishes to die. The only thing that restrains him from suicide is the moral injunction against it: O that this too too sullied flesh would melt, Thaw and resolve itself into a dew, Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d His canon ’gainst self-slaughter. [I. ii. 129–32] The longing for death, once the supreme good has been destroyed, is entirely normal and usual in the tragic hero. Romeo, hearing that Juliet is dead, goes immediately to her tomb in order to kill himself: O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh . . . Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark. [Romeo and Juliet, V. iii. 110–14] Othello, when he realizes that in seeking to preserve his honor he has ruined it, prepares to die in much the same state of mind: Here is my journey’s end, here is my butt And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. [Othello, V. ii. 267–68] Macbeth, discovering at last that his frantic efforts to maintain and increase his power have only destroyed it, finds life a tale told by an idiot—and he too longs for death: I ’gin to be a-weary of the sun, And wish the estate of the world were now undone.

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Ring the alarum bell. Blow wind, come wrack, At least we’ll die with harness on our back. [Macbeth, V. v. 48–51] Lear, instead of dying, is driven mad. His counterpart, Gloucester, who also has lived for the love of his children, tries to throw himself from the cliff at Dover. Oedipus [in Sophocles’s Oedipus Rex], too, when he discovers that he has ruined the city he tried to save, finds life worthless—blinds himself, and begs to be cast out of Thebes. As a general rule, whenever the tragic hero discovers that in his efforts to attain his supreme good he has only aroused his supreme evil, he kills himself, or goes mad, or otherwise sinks into a state that is death compared to his former state. Once he has lost all hope of gaining what he desires, he quite naturally finds no reason for continuing to live. Life in itself is always meaningless to him; he lives only for the good that he can find in it. The curious thing about Hamlet is that it begins at the point where most other tragedies end: with the discovery by the tragic hero that his supreme good is forever lost to him. The play is surely unique among great tragedies. Elizabethan drama usually presents a double reversal of fortune—the rise and fall in the hero’s prosperity and happiness—or sometimes, as in King Lear, the fall and rise. Greek tragedy, limited to a single curtainless stage and thus to a late point of attack in the plot, could show only a single reversal—usually the fall in fortune from prosperity to misery, as is observed by Aristotle. But certainly nowhere else is there a tragedy like Hamlet, with no reversal at all, which begins after the rise and fall of the hero have taken place, in which the action does not coincide with his pursuit of the good, and which presents him throughout in despair and in bad fortune. We never see Hamlet striving for or possessing his good. Rather, he knows only the evil which is its counterpart; and in this unhappy condition he find nothing further desirable except death. We are now in a position to understand why Hamlet takes so long to effect his revenge. Everyone in the play, including himself, recognizes that he is potentially dangerous, that he has the necessary courage and will to accomplish anything he desires. But the demand upon these qualities has come at a time when he has forever lost interest in exercising them. Upholding the divinity of man, he is betrayed by the one he

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thought most divine, exposed to her rank shameless adultery, bitterly disillusioned in all mankind, and desperate of any further good in existence. The revelation by the Ghost that murder has cleared a way for the new husband shocks Hamlet to the base of his nature, but it gives him no new incentive for living; it merely adds to his misfortune and confirms him in his despair. The further information that his mother has committed adultery provides a final shock. All evidence establishes him immovably in his disillusion. The Ghost’s appeal to him for revenge is, remotely, an appeal to his good: if he may not reestablish the moral beauty of the world he may at least punish those who have violated it. But it is a distant appeal. The damage already done is irreparable. After giving passionate promises to ‘‘remember’’ his father, he regrets them: The time is out of joint; O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right. [I. v. 188–89] Within ten minutes after his first meeting with the Ghost he has succumbed again to his anguish, which is now so intense after the discovery of his mother’s adultery and the murder of his father that his mind threatens to crack under the strain. His conversation with his friends is so strange that Horatio comments upon it: These are but wild and whirling words, my lord. [I. v. 133] A few minutes later Hamlet announces his intention to feign madness, to assume an ‘‘antic disposition’’—presumably as a means of relieving his surcharged feelings and possibly forestalling true madness, but certainly not as a means of deceiving Claudius and thus accomplishing his revenge. At the moment there is no point in deceiving Claudius, who knows of no witnesses to the murder and who is more vulnerable to attack now than he will be at any point later in the play. Two months later the antic disposition has succeeded only in arousing the King’s suspicions. Hamlet has not effected his revenge; there is no sign that he has even thought about it. All we know is that he is badly upset—as Ophelia reports to her father: My lord, as I was sewing in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac’d,

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No hat upon his head, his stockings foul’d, Ungartered and down-gyved to his ancle, Pale as his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors, he comes before me, [II. i. 74–81] It is doubtful that he wishes to deceive the court into thinking that he is mad with unrequited love—only the fool Polonius is so deceived. Most probably he goes to Ophelia because he loves her as he loves his mother, and fears to discover in her the same corruption that has poisoned his mind towards Gertrude. He suspects that her love for him is insincere; his suspicions are later reinforced when he catches her acting as the decoy of Claudius and Polonius. But the one significant thing here is that his mind is still upon his old sorrow and not upon his father. He does not recall his father until the First Player, in reciting the woes of Troy, speaks of the ‘‘mobled queen’’ who . . . saw Pyrrhus make malicious sport In mincing with his sword her husband’s limbs. [II. ii. 513–14] Shortly afterwards Hamlet asks him to ‘‘play the Murder of Gonzago’’ and to ‘‘study a speech of some dozen lines, which I would set down and insert in ’t’’ [II. ii. 541–42]. This, as we learn in the following soliloquy, is to be a trap for the conscience of Claudius. And why is a trap necessary? Because perhaps the Ghost was not a true ghost, but a devil trying to lure him to damnation. Most likely Hamlet is here rationalizing, trying to find an excuse for his dilatoriness, for forgetting the injunction of his father— yet the excuse is a poor one, for never before has he questioned the authenticity of the Ghost. Furthermore, he does not wait for the trap to be sprung; throughout the performance of ‘‘The Mousetrap’’ he seems convinced of the guilt of Claudius, he taunts him with it. But for a while he has stilled his own conscience and found a refuge from the flood of self-incrimination. Before ‘‘The Murder of Gonzago’’ is enacted we see Hamlet alone once more. What is on his mind? His uncle? His father? Revenge? Not at all. ‘‘To be, or not to be, that is the question’’ [III. i. 55ff.]. He is back where he started, and where he has been all along, with


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The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to. [III. i. 61–2] He is still preoccupied with death. ‘‘The Mousetrap’’ convicts Claudius beyond any doubt; he bolts from the room, unable to endure for a second time the poisoning of a sleeping king. And yet Hamlet, fifteen minutes later, with an admirable opportunity to kill his uncle, fails to do so—for reasons that are evidently obscure even to himself. He wishes, he says, not only to kill the man, but to damn his soul as well, and thus will wait to kill him unconfessed. At this, apparently, the Ghost itself loses patience, for it returns once more to Hamlet in the next scene and exhorts him: Do not forget: this visitation Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. [III. iv. 110–11] The exhortation is wasted. On the same night, Hamlet allows the King to send him to England. Possibly he has no recourse but obedience; probably he knows what is in store for him; quite likely he does not care, may even welcome a legitimate form of dying; certainly he cannot, in England, arrange to kill his uncle. The next day, on his way to exile and death, he meets the army of Fortinbras, whose courage and purposefulness stimulate him to reflect upon his own conduct: How all occasions do inform against me, And spur my dull revenge! [IV. iv. 32–3] He considers how low he has sunk in his despair: What is a man, If his chief good and market of his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. [IV. iv. 33–4] When he returns he is unchanged, still preoccupied with death. He haunts the graveyard with Horatio, reflects upon the democratizing influence of corruption. Overcome with disgust at the ‘‘rant’’ at Ophelia’s funeral (he has seen too much insincerity at funerals), he wrestles with Laertes. He acquaints Horatio with the crimes of Claudius and resolves to revenge himself— and then accepts the invitation to the fencing match, aware that it is probably a trap, but resigned to whatever fate is in store for him.

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And with the discovery of his uncle’s final perfidy, he stabs him with the envenomed foil and forces the poisoned wine down his throat. But there is still no thought of his father or of the accomplishment of an old purpose. He is stirred to action principally by anger at his mother’s death:

edited by David Bevington, Scott, Foresman and Co., 1980, pp. 1622–23.

Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion: is thy union here? Follow my mother. [V. ii. 325–27]

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, ‘‘Hamlet,’’ in Lectures and Notes on Shakspere and Other English Poets, George Bell and Sons, 1904, pp. 342–68, available online at http://shakespearean.org.uk/ham1-col.htm, edited by Thomas Larque, 2001.

The murder of Claudius is simply accomplished. We see how easily it could have been managed at any time in the past by a man like Hamlet, with whatever tools might have come to his hand. Even though the King is fully awake to his peril he is powerless to avert it. The only thing necessary is that Hamlet should at some time choose to kill him. That Hamlet finally does so choose is the result of accident and afterthought. The envenomed foil, the poisoned wine, Laertes and Gertrude and himself betrayed to their deaths— these things finally arouse him and he strikes out at the King. But he has no sense of achievement at the end, no final triumph over unimaginable obstacles. His uncle, alive or dead, is a side-issue. His dying thoughts are of the blessedness of death and of the sanctity of his reputation—he would clear it of any suggestion of moral evil but realizes that he has no time left to do so himself. Accordingly he charges Horatio to stay alive a little while longer: Absent thee from felicity a while, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my story. [V. ii. 347–49] Then, after willing the kingdom to Fortinbras, he sinks into the oblivion which he has courted so long, and which now comes to him honorably and gives him rest. Source: George Detmold, ‘‘Hamlet’s ‘All but Blunted Purpose,’’’ in The Shakespeare Association Bulletin, Vol. XXIV, No. 1, January 1949, pp. 23–36.

SOURCES Bevington, David, ‘‘Canon, Dates, and Early Texts: Appendix 1,’’ in The Complete Works of Shakespeare,

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Bloom, Harold, ‘‘Hamlet,’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Books, 1998, pp. 383–431. Bradley, A. C., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Tragic Period—Hamlet,’’ in Shakespearean Tragedy, 1904, reprinted by Fawcett Publications, 1992, p. 79.

Eliot, T. S., ‘‘Hamlet and His Problems,’’ in The Sacred Wood: Essays on Poetry and Criticism, Methuen & Co., 1920, available online at http://www.bartleby.com/200/ sw9.html. ———, ‘‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,’’ in The Complete Poems and Plays: 1909–1950, Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1952. Jones, Ernest, Hamlet and Oedipus, Norton, 1976. ———, ‘‘The Oedipus-Complex as an Explanation of Hamlet’s Mystery: A Study in Motive,’’ in American Journal of Psychology, Vol. 21, No. 1, January 1910, pp. 72–113. Joyce, James, Ulysses, Modern Library, 1961, pp.187–89. Kyd, Thomas, The Spanish Tragedy (c. 1590), edited by Philip Edwards, Methuen & Co., 1969. Prosser, Eleanor, Hamlet and Revenge, 2nd ed., Stanford University Press, 1971. Shakespeare, William, The Comedy of Errors, edited by Harry Levin, New American Library, 1965. ———, Hamlet, edited by Edward Hubler, New American Library, 1963. Taylor, Gary, Reinventing Shakespeare: A Cultural History, from the Restoration to the Present, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1989, pp. 46, 50.

FURTHER READING Bowers, Fredson, ‘‘The Moment of Final Suspense in Hamlet: ‘We Defy Augury,’’’ in Shakespeare, 1564– 1964: A Collection of Modern Essays by Various Hands, edited by Edward A. Bloom, Brown University Press, 1964, pp. 50–5. Bowers argues that Hamlet accepts the authority of Christian providence and ignores his sense of the ominous in the duel with Laertes, and consequently he achieves salvation rather than damnation because he resigns his attempt to seek revenge and leaves the disposition of the matter to heaven. Gana, Nouri, ‘‘Remembering Forbidding Mourning: Repetition, Indifference, Melanxiety, Hamlet,’’ in Mosaic: A

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Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature, Vol. 37, No. 2, June 2004, pp. 59–78. Gana invokes Hamlet in a discussion of the dangers involved in the process of remembering during psychoanalytic treatment and cites Hamlet as an example of a character beset by the twin afflictions of brooding melancholy and anxious dread of not being. Hinten, Marvin D., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Hamlet,’’ in Explicator, Vol. 62, No. 2, Winter 2004, pp. 68–70. Hintern contradicts the argument that Hamlet knew that Polonius, not the king, was hiding behind the arras in Gertrude’s closet when he killed him. Knowles, Ronald, ‘‘Hamlet and Counter-Humanism,’’ in Renaissance Quarterly, Vol. 52, No. 4, Winter 1999, pp. 1046–69. Knowles sees Hamlet as a framework in which occurs a debate between the medieval view that life is full of misery and the Renaissance idea that existence is something to celebrate. Levy, Eric, ‘‘The Problematic Relation between Reason and Emotion in Hamlet,’’ in Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature, Vol. 53, No. 2, Winter 2001, pp. 83–95. Levy considers Hamlet’s struggle to resolve the conflict between thinking and feeling, especially in relation to Thomas Aquinas’s writing regarding that conflict. McCormick, Frank J., ‘‘Eliot’s ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ and Shakespeare’s Hamlet,’’ in Explicator, Vol. 63, No. 1, Fall 2004, pp. 43–7. McCormick traces the similarities between Eliot’s Prufrock and not only Hamlet but also Polonius and Ophelia, with whom he argues Prufrock most identifies.


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McFarland, Thomas, ‘‘Hamlet and the Dimension of Possible Existence,’’ in Tragic Meanings in Shakespeare, Random House, 1966, pp. 1–59. McFarland puzzles over the problem of determining exactly what constitutes the ‘‘thine own self’’ to which Polonius advises one be true. Sloboda, Noel, ‘‘Visions and Revisions of Laurence Olivier in the Hamlet Films of Franco Zeffirelli and Kenneth Branagh,’’ in Studies in the Humanities, Vol. 27, No. 2, December 2000, pp. 140–57. Sloboda discusses the ways in which Zeffirelli and Branagh both attempted to overcome the influence of Laurence Olivier’s interpretation of Hamlet in their respective film versions of the play. Smith, Kay H., ‘‘‘Hamlet, Part Eight, the Revenge’; or, Sampling Shakespeare in a Postmodern World,’’ in College Literature, Vol. 31, No. 4, Fall 2004, pp. 135–49. Smith examines the use of Hamlet as the basis for and as a significant reference in a number of recent popular movies. Tiffany, Grace, ‘‘Hamlet, Reconciliation, and the Just State,’’ in Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature, Vol. 58, No. 2, Winter 2005, pp. 111–33. Tiffany argues that by fulfilling the Ghost’s commission, Hamlet purges a wound given to the state of Denmark through the murder of the rightful king and shortens the days of the Ghost’s penitential wanderings. Wormald, Mark, ‘‘Hopkins, Hamlet, and the Victorians: Carrion Comfort?’’ in Victorian Poetry, Vol. 40, No. 4, Winter 2002, pp. 409–31. Wormald examines the influence of Hamlet on a sonnet by the late nineteenth-century poet Gerard Manley Hopkins.

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Henry IV, Part One 1596

Henry IV, Part One continues the story Shakespeare began telling in Richard II. To fully understand the events of the later play, readers must know that in the earlier one, Henry IV, who was then known as Bolingbroke, returns from exile, has King Richard II imprisoned, and declares himself king. In Henry IV, Part One, Henry’s former supporters, those who helped put him in power, join forces against him. Henry and his son, Hal, fight together against the rebels. The story continues in Henry IV, Part Two, with civil war still threatening the nation. At length, Henry IV dies and Hal becomes King Henry V. Finally, in Henry V, the last of the group of plays known as the Lancastrian Tetralogy (Lancaster refers to the family, or house, from which Henry IV and Henry V were descended), Henry V conquers France, establishes peace, and marries Katherine, the French princess. Thus, the Lancastrian Tetralogy consists of Richard II, Henry IV, Part One, Henry IV, Part Two, and Henry V. Scholars estimate that Henry IV, Part One was written and performed in late 1596 or early 1597. The play was first published in 1598 and in fact saw the publication of more quarto editions—seven before 1623’s First Folio and two after—than any other Shakespearean drama. For the historical plot of the play, Shakespeare drew from several sources of English history that were written during Elizabethan times. His primary source was Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (2nd edition,

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1586–87). Shakespeare also consulted Samuel Daniel’s The First Four Books of the Civil Wars (1594), Edward Hall’s Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Families of Lancaster and York (1542), and several other historical works. Finally, Shakespeare seems to have drawn heavily from an anonymous play, The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth (1594?), for information on Hal’s youthful escapades. Regarding the reception of Henry IV, Part One, the character of Falstaff, at least, was being popularly quoted and referred to as early as 1598. That character’s renown may have had something to do with the controversy that surrounded his name, as Shakespeare is understood to have been persuaded to revise the original performance name of Oldcastle. Scholars have determined that this change likely took place because descendants of the real-life Sir John Oldcastle, a religious figure from the early fifteenth century, bore relation to certain men who were sponsors of Shakespeare’s troupe. Reflections on and comparisons between the real-life Oldcastle and the fictional Falstaff have been prominent in criticism of the play. One of the major interpersonal conflicts in the play stems from Hal’s strained relationship with his father. Henry IV is concerned that Hal is tarnishing his princely reputation with his association with the corrupt Falstaff and other common criminals. Falstaff is consistently associated with the idea of disorder, and his friendship with Hal appears to threaten the prince’s ability to mature into a responsible ruler. Critics have argued over whether Hal, who after a confrontation with his father suddenly transforms himself into the prince his father wants him to be, was actually only using Falstaff to heighten the impact of his transformation. Hal’s demonstrated affection for Falstaff has also been regarded as wholly sincere. The main action of the play revolves around a rebellion against the Crown and one of its chief instigators, Hotspur. Hotspur’s valor is admired by many, especially by Henry himself, who suggests to Hal that Hotspur would have perhaps been a more deserving heir to the throne. Given the complex characterizations of Hal and Hotspur, spectators and readers of the play are justified in wondering which of the two—if not another character entirely—should be viewed as the chief protagonist. As such, Hal’s ultimate slaying of Hotspur may be seen as a heroic victory or as a tragic defeat. Regardless, the rise of


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Hal and the fall of Hotspur has been interpreted as symbolic of the evolution of English society from medieval times to the age of the Renaissance. In that respect, Henry IV, Part One may be the most monumental of all of Shakespeare’s history plays.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 At the beginning of King Henry IV, the king expresses his hope that a Crusade to the Holy Land will serve to preempt the civil strife that has been plaguing the English nation. However, the Earl of Westmorland announces that Sir Edmund Mortimer—who, in the context of the play, would have been heir to the throne had Henry IV not overthrown Richard II—has been taken in battle by Owen Glendower, a Welsh lord who has been wreaking havoc at the English border. Meanwhile, in fighting in the north, Sir Harry Percy, known as Hotspur, has taken as captives the Scottish lord Archibald Douglas and others—which confounds rather than delights Henry, as Hotspur’s successes only remind him of his own eldest son’s lack of accomplishments. Also, perhaps as influenced by his uncle, the Earl of Worcester, Hotspur intends to hold most of the captives for himself, rather than turn them over to the king. Henry sets aside his intent to commence a Crusade.

Act 1, Scene 2 In a tavern, Prince Henry, often called Hal, and Sir John Falstaff are exchanging remarks on the moon, the fortunes of thieves, and what Hal will do when he is king. Ned Poins then arrives to inform them of a chance for a robbery at Gad’s Hill, near Rochester. Although he had just asked Falstaff about where they might ‘‘take a purse,’’ Hal subsequently asserts that he is no thief and will not join them; Falstaff departs, leaving Poins to try and persuade Hal to go along. In fact, Poins proposes that they play a joke on their thieving comrades: after Falstaff and others commit the robbery, the disguised Poins and Hal will rob them in turn, specifically so that they can enjoy the excuses and lies that Falstaff will certainly provide afterward. Hal agrees to go along. Upon Poins’s departure, Prince Henry offers a soliloquy that is one of the most significant

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passages in the play. Comparing himself to the sun as obscured by clouds, he declares that he will soon expose and reform himself ‘‘by breaking through the foul and ugly mists.’’ In that he remarks, ‘‘I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill,’’ he seems to be asserting that his associating with criminals is only part of a calculated plan to make himself appear all the more virtuous after his ‘‘reformation.’’

Act 1, Scene 3 King Henry is holding an audience with Sir Walter Blunt; the Earl of Northumberland; the earl’s son, Hotspur; and the earl’s brother, Worcester. After Henry scorns the offenses of the latter three, Worcester refers to the king’s greatness as ‘‘portly’’ and as a ‘‘scourge,’’ provoking Henry to dismiss him. Hotspur asserts that he had not explicitly and stubbornly refused to pass the prisoners along; rather, upon the close of the fighting at Holmedon, when he was physically and emotionally exhausted, a neatly dressed lord appeared, fresh, clean shaven, and perfumed, to demand the prisoners on King Henry’s behalf. Thus, pained by his wounds and grieving over the killed soldiers, Hotspur immediately lost patience and could recall only that he responded ‘‘indirectly.’’ Blunt puts forth his belief that under the circumstances Hotspur’s comments ought not be held against him, but Henry remains angered that Hotspur will not turn over the prisoners until the king offers a ransom for Mortimer, whose sister is married to Hotspur. The king then professes his belief that Mortimer had ‘‘wilfully betrayed’’ the men that he had led to death in battle—he notes as evidence that Mortimer married the daughter of Glendower, his supposed enemy—such that he should be considered a traitor and in no way deserved to be ransomed and brought home. Hotspur then cites reports of the extended battle fought by Mortimer and of the multiple wounds he received, but Henry simply refuses to believe these reports and again demands the unconditional delivery of the prisoners. Left alone, Hotspur and Northumberland inform the returning Worcester of what has just taken place; Hotspur notes how the ‘‘ingrate and cankered Bolingbroke’’—he uses the king’s nonroyal name to express his discontent—trembled at the name of Mortimer, whom Richard had indeed named as heir to the throne. Hotspur

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King Henry IV of England, after the portrait at Hampton Court, circa 1400 (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

then expresses anger over the fact that his father, who in assisting Henry in attaining the kingship was essentially an accomplice to Richard’s murder, should then be subject to ‘‘a world of curses’’ by the king. While his father and uncle try to reason with him, Hotspur speaks of revenge and gets carried away by his emotions. Eventually, Hotspur calms down and Worcester declares that they should free the prisoners, thus allying themselves with Scotland, and consult the Archbishop of York, who will wish to avenge his own brother’s death at Henry’s orders. Joining forces also with Mortimer and Glendower, then, they can all plot against Henry.

Act 2, Scene 1 At an inn yard in Rochester, two early-rising carriers are discussing their preparations for departure and the laxity of the ostler, or horse keeper, when Gadshill shows up to ask whether he might borrow a lantern. Suspicious, knowing

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the prominence of thieves in the area, the carriers refuse to give Gadshill even the correct time of day. When the carriers depart, Gadshill converses with the inn’s chamberlain, who assists thieves by providing information about wealthy travelers—in this instance, about a company including a well-off landowner and an auditor. After asserting his honor as a thief, Gadshill assures the chamberlain that he will receive his share of the booty.

Act 2, Scene 2 On the road near Gad’s Hill, Poins has hidden Falstaff’s horse to provide the company of thieves with amusement. Indeed, Falstaff rails against Poins and declares his inability to walk anywhere at all in any comfort. Hal is ineffectually trying to calm Falstaff when Bardolph, Peto, Poins, and Gadshill arrive, with the latter informing the others of the travelers coming their way. Hal declares that he and Poins—who finally informs Falstaff of his horse’s whereabouts—will seal off the escape route farther along the road, and they depart just before the travelers arrive. Falstaff and the others proceed to rob the travelers, only to be robbed in turn by the disguised Hal and Poins.

Act 2, Scene 3 At the home of the Percys, in Warkworth Castle, in Northumberland, Hotspur reads a letter from an anonymous lord who declines to take part in the Percys’ proposed rebellion, citing the uncertainty of the effort. After affirming to himself the trustworthiness of the rebellion’s major players, Hotspur dismisses the lord as ‘‘a frosty-spirited rogue’’ and ‘‘a pagan rascal’’; he also first expresses, then negates concern that the lord will inform King Henry of their plot. Lady Percy, his wife, then arrives to chastise him for being so uncommunicative and solitary a husband and for focusing so much of his energy on warfare. Ignoring her inquiries as to why he has been especially preoccupied as of late, Hotspur asks a servant about preparations for his departure; growing enraged at Hotspur’s stonewalling her, Lady Percy announces her suspicion that he and her brother Mortimer are engaged in some plot against King Henry. Hotspur then asserts that he does not even love his wife, as love is far less important than the political intrigue underway—though he momentarily adds that he will later ‘‘swear / I love thee infinitely’’ but that he


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simply will not inform her of the plot, even though she will be joining him wherever he goes.

Act 2, Scene 4 At a tavern, presumably the Boar’s Head, in London’s Eastcheap district, Hal and Poins emerge from hiding to share in their amusement at their successful robbing of their companions. After boisterously discussing how he has just learned to drink with the peasant servers in the basement, Hal proposes a jest of his own: he will engage the server Francis in conversation while Poins summons him from the other room, such that they can provoke Francis to repeatedly utter ‘‘anon.’’ Indeed, while Hal inquires about Francis’s age and the price of sugar, among other ramblings, Poins repeatedly calls for service, and Francis parrots away as expected. When the vintner announces that Falstaff and the other thieves are waiting outside, Hal expresses his delight in participating in such playful activity while mocking the ever-industrious, Scot-killing Hotspur. Upon entering the tavern, Falstaff rants and raves about nothing in particular, repeatedly declaring, ‘‘A plague of all cowards.’’ As Prince Henry insists that Falstaff explain his consternation, Falstaff begins his tall tale about how he and the others were overtaken by a hundred adversaries after committing the robbery. Falstaff notes how he received various minor wounds (mostly to his clothing), in fending off these men, their number ever changing as Falstaff’s tale continues; he pointedly mentions ‘‘two rogues in buckram suits,’’ as Hal and Poins had been dressed in disguise. At length, Hal accuses Falstaff of lying, and the two comically insult each other; Hal then informs the company that he and Poins were actually the two men who had robbed them—at which revelation Falstaff asserts that he had known all along and had simply seen fit to leave the prince unharmed. When the hostess enters to inform the prince that a nobleman has arrived to speak with him, Falstaff departs to send him away. Meanwhile, Peto informs Hal that Falstaff had compelled them all to hack their swords with their daggers and smear blood on their clothes in hopes of convincing Hal and Poins that they truly had fought valiantly before being robbed of their booty. When Falstaff returns, he relates the news he has learned: that Hotspur, Glendower, Mortimer, Northumberland, Douglas, and Worcester are plotting against the king, and that Hal will need to return to the court

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in the morning. In spite of the obvious peril, Hal insists that he is not afraid Falstaff, in turn, insists that Hal practices interacting with his father, whom Falstaff will impersonate, with a cushion as his crown, to the hostess’s amusement. As Henry, Falstaff castigates Hal for his engaging in thievery and keeping such base company—excluding a ‘‘goodly portly man’’ whom he holds to be ‘‘virtuous.’’ After Falstaff praises himself at length, Hal insists that they switch roles: the prince will play his father, and Falstaff will play the prince. As Henry, Hal seizes the opportunity to thoroughly ridicule the ‘‘fat old man’’ whose company he keeps—and Falstaff pretends not to know the person about whom Hal speaks. When Hal utters his name, Falstaff offers a comical defense of himself; nevertheless, Hal, as king, insists that he will still see fit to ‘‘banish plump Jack.’’ The tavern is thrown into commotion upon the arrival of the sheriff and ‘‘a most monstrous watch.’’ After entreating Hal not to turn him over for his thievery, for which he would surely be hanged, Falstaff hides behind a curtain. Hal assures the sheriff that he will send the ‘‘gross fat man’’ to him the following day, and the sheriff departs. Falstaff is then found to have fallen asleep in his hiding place, and Peto extracts from his pocket a number of papers, one of which is a receipt showing that Falstaff had purchased a good deal of wine and a very small amount of bread. Letting his friend sleep, Hal declares that the stolen money will be repaid and that he will procure for Falstaff a position of command in the king’s military force. Everyone then retires.

Act 3, Scene 1 Hotspur, Worcester, Mortimer, and Glendower are meeting to discuss specifics regarding their intended rebellion. When Glendower asserts that grand natural events occurred at the time of his birth, Hotspur iterates the Elizabethan belief regarding earthquakes: that they are caused by winds pent up within the earth escaping in an eruption. Glendower insists that his magical powers are unequaled on the isle of Britain—and further that he could teach them to Hotspur, who then insists that Glendower summon the devil. Glendower eventually turns their attention to the map and their intended division of the

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country: with the Trent and Severn rivers serving as borders, the archdeacon has allotted the southeastern portion of the nation to Mortimer, the region of Wales to Glendower, and the northernmost region to Hotspur—who remarks that his share seems too small; likewise, Mortimer feels slightly cheated; as such, Worcester helps them agree to divert the river’s course—but Glendower is opposed. Hotspur and Glendower resume arguing, now about the Welsh language, before Glendower finally concedes and departs. After Hotspur disparages Glendower and Mortimer defends him, Worcester chides Hotspur for his brashness. Glendower and the wives of Hotspur and Mortimer then arrive, and Mortimer laments his inability to communicate with his Welshspeaking mate and declares that he loves her and will soon learn to speak with her. Lady Mortimer then offers her husband a song, which she sings while Hotspur continues speaking coarsely to his wife, who tries to hush him. Hotspur goes so far as to chide Lady Percy for swearing such mild oaths before they all depart.

Act 3, Scene 2 Dismissing some attending lords, King Henry engages in a private discussion with his son, lamenting that his son had thus far so disappointed him with respect to the way he was living his life. The prince seeks pardon for his behavior, and the king goes on to point out the advantages a leader can reap by not allowing the common people to know him too well, pointing out how much Richard had lowered opinions of himself by consorting and even arguing with the masses. The king then invokes Hotspur, his son’s peer, as a far better model of a princely warrior, as evidenced by his successes in battle; Henry even mentions his suspicion that his eldest son might rebel against him. The prince then declares that he will soon win his father’s respect and his own honor by slaying Percy. When Sir Walter Blunt arrives to announce that Douglas, the Scot, had held counsel with the English rebels, the king notes that Westmorland and his son, John of Lancaster, have already departed for Bridgnorth, where they will engage the rebels in battle. Prince Henry, called Harry by his father, will travel there by a different route so as to collect more men.

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Act 3, Scene 3 Back in the tavern, Falstaff asks Bardolph whether or not he appears to have lost some weight and claims that he will reform his ways. Bardolph mocks him, and so Falstaff in turn mocks his friend’s red nose at length. When the hostess comes, Falstaff asks whether the person who picked his pocket has been identified; as the hostess responds negatively, Falstaff demands that he be reimbursed for valuables that had supposedly been in his pocket—until Prince Henry marches in to confirm that Falstaff had borne nothing valuable. Falstaff then begins subtly insulting the hostess, Mistress Quickly, who does not comprehend him, and Hal at last admits to having picked Falstaff’s pocket. Hal then notes that he paid back the money that had been robbed and informs Falstaff of his commission at the head of a body of foot soldiers. Finally, the men all depart to soon meet the rebels in battle.

Act 4, Scene 1 At the rebels’ camp, near Shrewsbury, Hotspur and Douglas are praising each other’s qualities as soldiers when a messenger arrives to inform them that Northumberland is bed ridden with sickness and will not be able to join them; in addition, men who had been loyal to Northumberland could not be persuaded to go in his absence, severely reducing the rebels’ numbers. Hotspur tries to rally their courage, but Worcester points out that even those rebels who have already joined them may be confused and disheartened by the untimely absence of one of their purported leaders. Nevertheless, Hotspur and Douglas express optimism. Yet Sir Richard Vernon then arrives to inform them that the king’s forces are indeed on their way, in great numbers—with Prince Henry appearing especially daunting. Hotspur still declares his excitement over the coming battle with the royal forces and especially with the prince; however, Vernon also notes that Glendower will not be able to reach them in time for that battle, and Hotspur is left declaring, ‘‘Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.’’

Act 4, Scene 2 Outside of Coventry, Falstaff sends Bardolph to fetch some wine. Falstaff then confesses in a prose soliloquy that he has been abusing his position as the head of a regiment by taking bribes, such that his collection of men was fairly pathetic and hardly battle worthy. Hal and Westmorland arrive to check in, with the prince


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calling Falstaff’s men ‘‘pitiful rascals,’’ then leave again to prepare for the coming battle.

Act 4, Scene 3 Back at the rebel camp, Hotspur thinks they should attack immediately, while Douglas, Worcester, and Vernon think that they should wait until they have secured supplies and their horses have all arrived and rested. Sir Walter Blunt shows up, representing the king, to inform them of his offer of full pardons and attention to their grievances if they will cease their rebellion. Hotspur recalls how his father had helped the king return to England from his exile, and how the king had gained the favor of the masses before executing supporters of the absent King Richard; at length, Hotspur details the ways in which the king had betrayed the very lords who had helped him attain his power. Still, Hotspur tells Blunt that Worcester will visit them in the morning in the interest of negotiating peace, with Westmorland to be held at the rebel camp to ensure Worcester’s safe return.

Act 4, Scene 4 At his house, the Archbishop of York is dispatching Sir Michael to the rebel forces with urgent messages. The archbishop expresses to Sir Michael his fear that without Northumberland, Glendower, and Mortimer, the rebel forces will be soundly defeated—leaving the archbishop himself, a rebel supporter, in grave danger as well.

Act 5, Scene 1 At the king’s camp, near Shrewsbury, the king and Prince Henry are greeting the day when Worcester and Vernon arrive from the rebel camp. After the king exhorts them to abandon their rebellion, Worcester insists that they had only fallen out of line because they had been so severely disrespected by the king himself. As Hotspur did before, Worcester details how the rebels had helped Henry obtain the kingship and how he had come to oppress them afterward. The king denounces their complaints as hardly worth rebelling over, and Prince Henry offers to fight Hotspur man to man so as to resolve the conflict without mass bloodshed—but the king withdraws his son’s offer and asks Worcester to simply bring his offer of pardons back to his comrades. Prince Henry expects that the offer will be refused by the confident Douglas and Hotspur, and everyone prepares for battle— Falstaff by explaining to himself the worthlessness of honor.

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Act 5, Scene 2 Returning to the rebel camp, Worcester tells Vernon that he will not relay the king’s offer to Hotspur and the others, as he believes that even if they receive the king’s pardons, he will not truly forgive them and sometime in the future will intrigue against them. Indeed, Worcester tells Hotspur that the king has called them to battle, with no offer of mercy, and Douglas sends Westmorland back to the king with words of ‘‘brave defiance.’’ Worcester then tells Hotspur of Prince Henry’s gentlemanly challenge, and Hotspur again expresses his desire to meet the prince in battle. A messenger then arrives to tell them that the king’s forces are on the way, and the rebels rally to fight.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

A television production of Henry IV, Part I, was directed by David Giles for the British Broadcasting Corporation in 1979 as part of ‘‘The Shakespeare Plays’’ series. A DVD collection of the entire series is available for purchase on the B.B.C. website.

Act 5, Scene 3 With the battle raging, Douglas happens upon Blunt, who is impersonating the king. Douglas tells of having already killed one of the king’s doubles, Lord Stafford, and proceeds to kill Blunt as well. Hotspur arrives to tell Douglas that the man he has killed is not the king after all, and the two return to the fray. Falstaff appears, comments on the slain Blunt, and notes that he has led all but three of his men to their deaths. Prince Henry appears seeking to make use of Falstaff’s sword or pistol, but Falstaff has only a bottle of wine to give him.

is to have counterfeit his death so as to remain alive. Fearing that Hotspur, too, may still live, he stabs him in the thigh before hefting the body onto his back. When the two princes return, they express amazement at Falstaff’s being alive, as Prince Henry had seen him dead. Falstaff then insists that Hotspur, too, had risen, and that they had fought for an hour before Falstaff killed him. Prince Henry expresses his indifference toward receiving the credit for Hotspur’s death, and in departing Falstaff once again speaks of reforming himself.

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The king implores Prince Henry, who is wounded, to return to their tents, but the prince refuses to leave the battle, as does his young brother John, who in returning to battle earns praise from Prince Henry. Douglas then comes upon the king and doubts his authenticity; the two fight, and Douglas gains the upper hand— but Prince Henry then storms in and fights Douglas until he flees, saving his father’s life. When the king sets off, Hotspur arrives, and he and Prince Henry exchange words before engaging each other. While watching, Falstaff is set upon by Douglas; when Falstaff falls as if dead, Douglas immediately departs. Then, Hotspur, too, falls to the ground, mortally wounded, and laments his defeat before dying. Prince Henry praises the fallen warrior and shows his respect by hiding Hotspur’s mangled face with a small piece of his battle gear. Prince Henry then discovers Falstaff and laments his passing—but as soon as the prince departs, Falstaff rises and expresses how glad he

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With the battle over, and the royal forces having proven victorious, the king scorns the captured Worcester for having failed to deliver the offer of pardon to the other rebels. The king then announces that Worcester and Vernon will be executed, while Prince Henry declares that the captured Douglas should be freed. To close the play, the king dispatches John and Westmorland to meet Northumberland, while he and Prince Henry will travel to Wales to strike at Glendower, so that the rebellion might be fully quashed.

CHARACTERS Archibald, Earl of Douglas Leader of the Scottish army, Douglas forms an alliance with the Percys, his former enemies, to rebel against King Henry IV; the Scot’s interactions with Hotspur largely reflect their similar warrior-like characters. In the closing act,

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Douglas slays Sir Walter Blunt and nearly kills King Henry IV, but Prince Henry drives him off. Perhaps in that Douglas declines to interfere in Hal’s battle with Hotspur, Hal suggests that the captured nobleman be freed.

Bardolph One of Falstaff’s thieving companions, Bardolph is depicted as even more of a coward and drunkard than the unruly Falstaff.

Sir Walter Blunt Blunt is a nobleman who, with the Earl of Westmorland, leads King Henry IV’s army. While the real-life Blunt was given little attention in historical records, Shakespeare molded him into an embodiment of honor: during the battle at Shrewsbury, when he is disguised as King Henry, he fails to inform Douglas that he is not the true king even when his death is at hand.

Earl of Westmorland The Earl of Westmorland is a nobleman who, with Sir Walter Blunt, leads King Henry IV’s army.

Sir John Falstaff An irresponsible, merry, and often drunk companion of Prince Hal, Falstaff tempts Hal into a variety of mischievous deeds, but eventually loses his influence over the prince, as Hal accepts his responsibilities as heir to the throne. Falstaff is often called a tempter or a corrupting force; upon his first appearance, after he has uttered no more than ‘‘Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad?’’ the prince launches into an invective against his gluttony, drunkenness, and general debauchery, leaving little doubt as to his character. Falstaff proves himself a coward on more than one occasion, such as when Hal and Poins beset his band of thieves after their robbery at Gad’s Hill and when Falstaff leads his regiment to death at Shrewsbury but somehow escapes death himself. Falstaff never really denies his cowardice; rather, he frames it as the simple valuing of life over death, which any reasonable human being should choose. Falstaff may justifiably be seen as the central character in Henry IV, Part One, as an aspect of almost every major theme is illustrated through his personality, and in particular ways he rests in distinct opposition to King Henry, Prince Henry, and Hotspur. In fact, Falstaff


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has more lines than any other character, with 585 lines, as followed by Hotspur (545) and Hal (535). In almost every scene in which Falstaff appears, he is literally and figuratively the center of attention, as demonstrated by conversational patterns and topics, and by the innumerable references to his girth. With respect to the king, Falstaff serves as an alternative role model for Hal. Hal’s private audience with his father features a series of longer speeches produced first by the king, then by the prince; that is, the king is essentially relating his perceptions to Hal, who respectfully receives them. Falstaff, on the other hand, is ever conversationally parrying with Hal, allowing the prince to actively develop and refine his own thoughts (even if they are merely comical ones), rather than leaving him passively absorbing information. The scholar Valerie Traub, for one, has posited that Falstaff in fact serves as more of a mother figure than a father figure in that he embodies certain qualities that Shakespeare denotes as feminine— such as cowardice. With respect to Hal, then, Falstaff is effectively attempting to draw him fully out of the world of the court and join him in the world of thievery. In his introduction to the play, David Bevington characterizes the world Falstaff dangles in Hal’s face as one of eternal immaturity: ‘‘Falstaff offers Hal a child’s world in which he need never grow up, in which even King Henry’s most serious worries can be parodied in the comic language of euphuistic bombast. Falstaff ’s plea is for the companionship of eternal youth: sport with me, he says in effect to Hal, and let those who covet the world’s rewards suffer the attendant risks.’’

Hal, of course, declines to lose himself in Falstaff’s world of irrelevance, largely out of a sense of moral obligation to his father, to his country, and perhaps most prominently to himself. Finally, with respect to Hotspur, Falstaff offers the extreme opposite of Hotspur’s glorification of honor; Falstaff in fact utterly devalues honor through question-and-answer rhetoric, dismissing the notion as little more than a word. The sight of the slain Blunt leads Falstaff to remark, ‘‘There’s honor for you.’’ In general, then, Falstaff lies in opposition to what other characters hold as virtues; as such, Shakespeare’s genius may be evident in the fact that Falstaff is portrayed not as a deplorable monster but as a lovable teddy bear, often placing the other characters’ moral high ground in doubt.

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Francis Francis is a tapster, or server of wine, at the tavern. With the help of Poins, Hal subjects Francis to a prolonged jest, provoking him to repeatedly utter, ‘‘Anon, anon.’’ Commentators have noted that Francis’s dilemma, being caught between two opposing forces (that is, customers), loosely mirrors Hal’s dilemma, as he is caught between the two opposing worlds of court and tavern.

Gadshill Gadshill is the ‘‘setter’’ among Falstaff’s company of thieves, meaning that he obtains information about travelers from inns and relays that information to his companions on the road.

Owen Glendower A Welsh soldier and ally of the Percys, he is reputed to have magical powers. He and Hotspur bicker during the rebels’ division of what they hope to be the conquered English nation, as Hotspur denounces Glendower’s powers as worthless superstition and empty claims. If Hotspur, with his undying devotion to soldierly honor, represents the medieval era, Glendower and his purported magic may be seen as representing the dark ages. Indeed, Glendower’s Wales, where the women commit ‘‘shameless transformation’’ on the bodies of the defeated English soldiers, and where the language is ridiculed as savage by Hotspur, is depicted as less civilized than England.

King Henry IV Formerly known as Bolingbroke, Henry, who won the crown through rebellion, faces the same threat of usurpation that he once posed. In the first scene of the play, Henry decides not to embark on a Crusade to the Holy Land due to the civil unrest in his kingdom. He had originally decided to undertake the journey at the end of Richard II, when he vowed to atone for the guilt he felt when Richard was murdered by Sir Pierce of Exton. Sir Pierce, an associate of Henry’s, acted upon Henry’s comment that the death of Richard would ease his fears. King Henry is fearful that the Percys will succeed in deposing him, perhaps so as to install as king the lord Edmund Mortimer, whom Richard II had named as his heir. Henry refuses to give in to Hotspur’s demand that the captive Mortimer be ransomed, citing the belief that Mortimer had purposely led his soldiers to their deaths at the hands of the Welsh despite

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Hotspur’s insistence that he had fought honorably. This is one of several instances when the spectator may not be sure whether the king truly believes something or is simply demonstrating that he believes it for political purposes. In this case, Hotspur then tells his father and uncle—with no evidence of willful deceit—that he observed the king ‘‘trembling’’ at the mention of Mortimer’s name; as such, spectators likely believe that the king indeed fears the potential popularity of Mortimer. As word spread of the Percys’ intended rebellion, Henry summons his son, whom he entreats to leave behind his life of misdeeds. The king in fact speaks at length about the political benefits he reaped by not allowing the common people to grow too familiar with him. This profession of personal belief helps explain why even the play’s spectators will not be privileged enough to see the king’s most profound depths. Later, in the course of the battle, spectators may be left with the impression that the king is somewhat cowardly, in that he has dressed several men in royal garb to confuse the rebels. Interestingly, Shakespeare gives no indication as to how valiantly the king fought, while in Shakespeare’s Kings, John Julius Norwich writes, ‘‘There can, however, be no doubt that the King—who, it must be remembered, was still only thirty-six—fought with exemplary courage throughout.’’ Shakespeare perhaps wished to shine the spotlight most pointedly on Prince Henry rather than on the king. Overall, Henry’s character ever remains mysterious, as he leaves much unsaid or only hinted at; also, the spectator does not gain insight into Henry through a soliloquy at any point. Different actors might easily play Henry’s character with varying tones of sincerity, such as during his heart-to-heart talk with his son, when his words and sentiments could be presented as utterly honest or as calculated toward bringing about Prince Henry’s reformation. Henry’s voicing the suspicion that his son might even fight against him along with the Percys seems to force Prince Henry’s hand, as at that point the son has little choice but to offer assurance that he will become the man his father needs him to become. From the play in print, Shakespeare’s indirect characterization of Henry forces the spectator to understand the king based on what others say about him and on his actions. Through this indirect characterization, Henry generally comes

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A manuscript of Henry IV, prepared about the year 1611, known as the Dering Manuscript

across as a Machiavellian character, using whatever means he deems appropriate, whether straightforward or manipulative, to achieve his political goals.

Henry, Prince of Wales Known as Prince Hal and called Harry by his father, King Henry IV, Hal is a high-spirited youth who provokes his father’s anger and disapproval by associating with common criminals, most notably with Falstaff. Hal regains his father’s trust when he vows to change his ways, and he fully gains his father’s favor when he both saves his father’s life and bests his rival, Hotspur, in battle. Hal’s motivation to behave the way he does—first irresponsibly participating in illegal activities and tarnishing his reputation as a nobleman and prince, then later undergoing a radical transformation that proves so impressive that Henry allows him to command troops in warfare—is a subject of much debate. Many critics have argued that Hal’s motives are


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Machiavellian: that his political ambitions are such that he can coldly use Falstaff, for whom he has no true affection, to make his transformation from careless youth to responsible prince seem dramatic, deeply impressive, and well timed. Other critics agree about Hal’s calculations but argue that he establishes a true friendship with Falstaff for the purpose of gaining knowledge about the people he will one day rule. Still other critics believe that Hal was genuinely enamored of Falstaff from the beginning, in that the latter served as a favorable alternative to his own father, and that the prince’s transformation is not staged but quite sincere. Finally, some believe that Hal has to deal with two conflicting natures within himself—the carefree youth and the ambitious prince. His ambition is strong and he understands his responsibilities as heir, such that he manages to suppress his easy-going nature in order to assume those responsibilities. The reader can perhaps deduce some of Shakespeare’s intentions regarding Hal’s character

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by examining the ways in which he did not strictly follow the historical record. To begin with, much of the prince’s boisterous youth was passed on as legend, not as fact, and the account of Hal’s early life that Shakespeare used, The Famous Victories of Henry V, was a dramatic account that did not claim to be accurate itself. That anonymous play actually featured a more sudden, unexpected conversion of the prince than Shakespeare presents. Thus, Shakespeare endows his Hal with a greater degree of self-reflection than his unknown predecessor. On the other hand, in real life, the prince had fought in several military engagements over the few years before the battle at Shrewsbury; at one point he even advanced into Wales alongside Hotspur, and he was occupied in Wales, not in the Boar’s Head tavern, when word reached him of the Percy’s rebellion. Overall, then, Shakespeare develops a Prince Henry whose conversion is more dramatic than history would indicate, but is not exaggerated. With respect to the battle at Shrewsbury itself, the real-life prince was not known to have offered to fight Hotspur one on one so as to avoid a full battle. The prince likely did not personally save his father from imminent death, with Norwich noting, ‘‘Holinshed goes no further than to say that the prince ‘holpe his father like a lustie yoong gentleman.’’’ Also, Holinshed only indirectly suggests that Hal himself killed Hotspur. In adding these three aspects to his plot, Shakespeare endows the prince with inflated degrees of courtesy and heroic valor. One last passage that perhaps reveals much about Shakespeare’s intention is the one in which Vernon describes the prince to Hotspur as ‘‘gallantly armed,’’ as rising ‘‘like feathered Mercury,’’ and as ‘‘an angel’’ riding atop ‘‘a fiery Pegasus.’’ In his essay entitled ‘‘The Protean Prince Hal,’’ Matthew Wikander notes, ‘‘The taming of Pegasus was considered in Renaissance iconography to be an allegory of self-mastery, triumph over the appetites, and statesmanship.’’ Thus, in sum, the reader may justifiably conclude that the prince should be viewed in a favorable light—if he is calculating or cunning, he is at least also benevolent, honest, and courageous.

John of Lancaster The younger brother of Prince Henry, John, who in real life was only thirteen during the battle at

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Shrewsbury, fights valiantly there and earns his brother’s esteem.

Richard le Scroop, Archbishop of York The archbishop is a supporter of the Percy rebellion against King Henry IV. The archbishop’s brother, a supporter of King Richard II, was executed at the behest of Henry.

Sir Michael Sir Michael is a follower of the Archbishop of York.

Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March Edmund Mortimer is Lady Percy’s brother, and rightful heir of the deceased Richard II. (For this character, Shakespeare in fact conflated two real-life Edmund Mortimers, one of whom was captured by Glendower, the other of whom was the nephew of the first and was Richard’s heir.) Mortimer marries Glendower’s daughter, effectively allying the Welshman with the Percys. Mortimer’s inability to communicate with his Welsh-speaking wife serves to highlight the distances between men and women in the play.

Lady Mortimer Glendower’s daughter and Mortimer’s wife, she speaks and understands only Welsh, while her husband comprehends only English. Her portrayal as relatively exotic serves to heighten the perceived psychological distance between the men and the women of the play.

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland Hotspur’s father, Northumberland was one of the original supporters of Henry IV, assisting in allowing the exiled Bolingbroke to return to England. Northumberland and his family rebel against the king because they believe he has turned his back on those who helped him gain power. Northumberland fails to assist in the rebel cause, however, in that he falls ill before the battle at Shrewsbury.

Sir Henry Percy Known as Hotspur and also as Harry, Hotspur is a passionate, hot-headed youth who regards honor, chivalry, and bravery in battle above all else. With his father and uncle, Hotspur plots a rebellion against King Henry IV. While the reallife Henry Percy, at around forty years of age during the battle at Shrewsbury, was in fact older even than Henry IV himself, Shakespeare made

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him a younger man, such that Hotspur and Hal are agemates and their rivalry is intensified. While Hotspur’s sense of honor is generally seen as admirable, his obsession with it may also be seen as foolish and deadly; even when the odds have fully turned against the rebels, he announces, ‘‘Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily,’’ but he does not consider avoiding the military engagement so as to save his men’s lives. Shakespeare seems to tie Hotspur’s obsession with honor to an exaggerated, if not absolute, masculinity, as evidenced by his conversations with his wife. In the first, when Hotspur has just read the letter from an anonymous lord and the impending rebellion is foremost in his mind, Lady Percy proves utterly unable to draw out his softer sentiments. She notes that even in his sleep he thinks (and speaks) only of courage and war; when she attempts to turn his thoughts to his love for her, he momentarily denies that he loves her at all rather than concede the argument. Only when he is on horseback, geared toward battle by his activity, will he allow himself to admit his affection. In their second conversation, Lady Percy quite accurately characterizes him as being wholly ‘‘governed by humors.’’ When he disparages the Welshwoman’s singing and she tells him to ‘‘be still,’’ he remarks that he will not do so because stillness is ‘‘a woman’s fault.’’ Indeed, Hotspur seems compelled to always remain in motion. In his dealings with other men, then, Hotspur conversely comes across as childishly unable to control his passions in several scenes. When he, his father, and his uncle are discussing the best course of action after meeting with the king, he repeatedly digresses into angry tirades, and when the rebels are discussing the potential division of the nation he cannot help but express his doubts regarding Glendower’s magical powers. Indeed, he largely fails to mature or evolve over the course of the play, and in certain respects this leads to his extinction.

Lady Percy Hotspur’s witty and affectionate wife, Lady Percy proves her worth as the temperamental Hotspur’s mate; she chides him for being emotionally withdrawn and even threatens to break one of his fingers if he fails to communicate with her.


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Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester Worcester is Hotspur’s uncle. Like his brother, Northumberland, Worcester questions King Henry IV’s treatment of his former supporters. Worcester is held to be largely responsible for the uprising, as Westmorland refers to him as ‘‘malevolent to [the King] in all aspects.’’ Indeed, Worcester declines to communicate Henry’s final offer of pardons to the rebels, as he believes that Henry will never again trust them and will certainly attempt to dispose of them sometime in the future.

Peto Peto is one of Falstaff’s thieving companions.

Edward Poins Poins is a companion of Hal’s and Falstaff’s; he is referred to simply as Ned. Poins draws Hal into the Gad’s Hill jest, leading to Falstaff ’s comical tall tale about the robbing of the thieves. In that Poins and Hal together mock Falstaff, Poins serves to illuminate the distinctions between the prince and the paunchy old soldier.

Mistress Quickly The hostess of the Boar’s Head Tavern, she is portrayed as fairly slow witted, understanding few of Falstaff’s lewd comments and sexual references.

Sir Richard Vernon Vernon is a nobleman and rebel.

THEMES Honor In Henry IV, Part One, different characters signify various distinct versions of honor. Hotspur’s honor is achieved through warfare, and is marked by chivalrous action, family loyalty, and patriotism; to a certain extent, Hotspur’s aggressive pursuit of honor shows his disregard for human life. Hotspur’s conception of honor is partly portrayed as an outdated one, losing its relevance as early as the action of the play, at the turn of the fifteenth century. As such, Hal’s view accords more with what Shakespeare’s audiences would have been familiar with and approving of. Indeed, scholars have cited certain Elizabethan sources as containing references to the type of honor represented by Hal, which

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might also be labeled ‘‘courtesy.’’ Hal’s honor is demonstrated largely by his loyalty to his father, to his country, and to his fellow man. Hal’s sense of honor is more humane than Hotspur’s in that Hal does not seek warfare but fights when necessary; with the battle at Shrewsbury imminent, Hal even seeks to avert the thousands of deaths to come at the possible expense of his own life, offering to engage in one-on-one combat with the pre-eminent Hotspur. A virtual negation of the importance of honor is presented by Falstaff, as he comments on the futility of possessing honor and fully demonstrates that he has no interest in honestly attaining it. Perhaps even more than Hal, Falstaff recognizes the human cost of honor, and he refuses to let that cost prove to be his own life. The short soliloquy Falstaff offers before the Shrewsbury battle demonstrates his ambivalence to the prideful concept of honor: ‘‘Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. ’Tis insensible, then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honor is a mere scutcheon.’’ That is, since the disparagement of others is enough to destroy it—since the attainment of honor depends on the opinions of others—he has no interest in it; as such, he can retain the utmost control of his own life. Thus, while Falstaff will gain no favor with the community through honorable acts, he provides for himself a maximum degree of selfdetermination.

Fathers and Sons The father-son relationship is loosely configured in three different ways in Henry IV, Part One: as between King Henry and Hal, between King Henry and Hotspur, and between Falstaff and Hal. Through the play’s earlier acts, Henry expresses more than once his admiration for Hotspur, especially in contrast to his disappointment with Hal. Henry goes so far as to call Hotspur ‘‘the theme of honor’s tongue’’—thus aligning Hotspur’s and Henry’s high regard for honor—and to declare that ‘‘riot and dishonor stain the brow’’ of his own son. He even wishes that ‘‘some night-tripping fairy’’ had switched the two men at birth, such that Hotspur would in fact have been his son. Still, the king does not personally treat Hotspur with any particular respect, such as in

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the discussion about Hotspur’s prisoners; the spectator might expect as much from so practiced a politician. King Henry instead focuses his fatherly energy on his own son, desperately hoping that his instruction will bring about the youth’s reformation. The interview between the two in the third act is perhaps indicative of why Hal had felt a need to stray from his father in the first place: the king primarily wishes to mold his son to be a good king, allowing little room for the kind of self-exploration that Hal demonstrates a need for. Thus, in accord with his desire for a degree of self-determination, Hal ends up turning to Falstaff, who explicitly teaches Hal very little. Rather, Falstaff is constantly providing Hal with entertainment and, perhaps most importantly, with friendship and love. Valerie Traub argues that in this capacity, Falstaff is in fact filling a maternal role, not a paternal one. She observes that Falstaff is presented as effeminate in that he lacks the masculine inclination toward the pursuit of honor and the personal test of battle. (She notes that his name can be regarded as ‘‘falsestaff,’’ suggesting a negation of a phallic symbol.) In psychological terms, then, Traub views Hal’s outgrowing his attachment to Falstaff and turning toward his father as parallel to the process whereby any son must outgrow his exclusive attachment to his mother.

Role Playing Closely linked to the multiple father-son relationships in Henry IV, Part One is the theme of role playing. This link is most evident in the scene where Falstaff assists Hal in preparing to speak with his father by impersonating King Henry. In this scene, after Falstaff presents a speech similar to the one the king will indeed produce, he and Hal exchange a number of comical comments with respect to Hal’s association with Falstaff. The dialogue features two very significant moments: First, Hal ‘‘deposes’’ Falstaff, switching roles with him, foreshadowing Hal’s actual transferring of his filial feelings away from Falstaff. Second, in portraying his father—thus anticipating the time when he will indeed be king—he confirms that he will indeed ‘‘banish plump Jack’’ even if it means banishing ‘‘all the world.’’ (In Henry IV, Part Two, Hal becomes King Henry V and indeed informs Falstaff that he will no longer associate with him.)

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY The failures and successes of political and revolutionary movements often depend upon the qualities of their leaders. Research the rebellion depicted in Henry IV, Part One and one other rebellion from English history. Then, write an essay comparing and contrasting the personalities of Hotspur and of the leader of the rebellion you chose to research. Make reference to Shakespeare’s portrayal of Hotspur in the course of your discussion. Characters in Shakespeare’s play make frequent reference to lions and to hares. Research the symbolism that would have been associated with these two animals in Elizabethan times and write an essay on the significance of these references. The pursuit of honor is a major theme in this play. Think of times in your own life when you have made decisions based on the pursuit of honor. Present a report to the class in which you discuss one situation where you made a decision that you believe was honorable and one situation where you made a decision that you believe was dishonorable. Where appropriate, compare your actions to the actions of characters from Henry IV, Part One.

Such role playing is perhaps the only way Hal could have communicated to Falstaff what he knew the future would hold for them, because, as David Bevington observes, Falstaff is inextricably immersed in the world of role playing: ‘‘Play-acting to him is more than a means of captivating Hal. It is the essence of the temptation he lays before Hal.’’ Bevington adds, ‘‘This kind of all-consuming play world offers an invaluable critique and means of testing reality, but as an end in itself it becomes an escape.’’ Thus, while Hal has learned much about himself by sharing in the type of role playing that Falstaff encourages, he understands that he


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King Henry IV is given no soliloquies in this play, despite the fact that his name constitutes the title. Write a soliloquy for King Henry IV, in which he reveals what you believe his innermost thoughts might be. As the king always speaks in verse, your soliloquy should likewise be in verse. Indicate where in the play your soliloquy would be placed.

While rulership was almost strictly hereditary in England in medieval times, it is almost never so in the United States of America. Nevertheless, George W. Bush went on to become president eight years after his father, George H. W. Bush, was president. Write an essay examining the lives of the two Bush presidents alongside the lives of Henry IV and Henry V. Include within your essay passages from Shakespeare’s play that bear relevance to the two Bush presidents.

Read a play published before 1600 that could be classified as a morality play. In a report, discuss the various ways in which Henry IV, Part One is similar to, and is different from, the morality play you chose to read.

must eventually cease trivial role playing so as to inhabit the real-life roles of prince and, later, of king. In a more symbolic strain, commentators have noted how Hal’s ability to play different roles at will is characteristic of the evolution of English society from the Medieval period into the Renaissance. R. A. Martin takes care in phrasing the course of this societal change: ‘‘Men come to be seen as actors rather than as mere performers—men play roles rather than embody them.’’ That is, rather than simply exhibiting himself before a crowd as a juggler or circus

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performer does, a man of the new era must be able to inhabit different personae, like an actor, as appropriate to different circumstances. Hotspur, Martin notes, meets with much difficulty in developing genuine relationships and in stepping back from his hyper masculine pursuit of honor: ‘‘He only feels comfortable with his role as a warrior, not his role as a husband. In the end he forsakes single combat with his wife in favor of single combat with Prince Hal.’’ In that Hal emerges from this combat victorious, the spectator can understand that he is the better adapted to the role-playing demanded by the changing times.

Heavenly Bodies Shakespeare makes extensive reference to heavenly bodies throughout Henry IV, Part One, in two contexts in particular. The first context highlights the opposition between sun and moon, or between day and night. In the first tavern scene, Falstaff refers to thieves as ‘‘Diana’s foresters’’ and ‘‘minions of the moon,’’ in that they carry out their thievery at night. Hal replies to these comments by noting that in being governed by the moon, ‘‘the fortune of us, that are the moon’s men, doth ebb and flow like the sea’’; that is, the moon is associated with secrecy and inconstancy. At the end of this scene, Hal informs the spectator that he intends to soon ‘‘imitate the sun’’ by emerging from behind the ‘‘base contagious clouds’’ that have been obscuring his true self from the world. Thus, in maturing, Hal, the king’s son, will prove himself as permanent as the sun in the sky. A second context is revealed most prominently in the passage where King Henry is beseeching Prince Henry to reform himself. The king repeatedly invokes images of heavenly bodies: soon after his return from exile, when he was gaining a good reputation he was wondered at ‘‘like a comet’’; in time, he ‘‘stole all courtesy from heaven’’; and ultimately, he refers to the ‘‘sun-like majesty’’ he certainly believes he possesses. His speaking in such grand terms reflects not only the obvious gravity of the situation—success or defeat in civil war may hinge on the prince’s actions—but also the king’s conception of how life in England truly does revolve around him, as the world was believed to revolve around the sun. The kingship had indeed been historically perceived as a divine position, such that the concepts of God, heaven, sun, and king were all very closely linked. While

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an Elizabethan viewer may have taken such royal and astronomical associations for granted, the modern reader may find them instructive about the perceptions of the era.

STYLE Prose vs. Verse Shakespeare’s alternate uses of prose and verse are more pronounced in Henry IV, Part One than in many of his other plays. In the world of the tavern, Falstaff’s world, prose is spoken, and in the world of the court, also identified as the historical world, verse is spoken. Hal, at ease in both worlds, uses the appropriate language when in the tavern or at court, except for his tavern soliloquy in the first act, which he delivers in verse. Also, when Hal leaves Eastcheap for the last time, at the end of the third act, he finishes his speech with a rhyming couplet, and Falstaff responds likewise. Aside from this couplet, Falstaff speaks only in prose, demonstrating his complete opposition to the courtly world. Hotspur, who embodies honor and a certain historical courtliness, perhaps speaks the best verse in the play, with his speeches especially well metered and ornamented with elaborate phrasings. Richard II, the preceding play in the Lancaster tetralogy, bears not a single line of prose, such that the fairly even split between prose and verse in Henry IV, Part One is especially apparent to a modern reader comparing the two plays. Bevington observes that this marked difference characterizes ‘‘the shift in language from the medieval and ceremonial speech of Richard II to the Renaissance and practical speech of [Part] I, Henry IV .’’

Oaths The extensive use of oaths throughout the play can be seen as reflective of the means by which Henry IV originally obtained the kingship. Speaking to the king before the battle at Shrewsbury, Worcester reminds him, ‘‘And you did swear that oath at Doncaster, / That you did nothing purpose ’gainst the state.’’ Worcester goes on to note how the king later dismissed that oath in gaining the favor of the people and ultimately usurping the crown. With respect to these events, Bevington states, ‘‘King Henry, having instigated the idea that a king’s word lacks sacred ranking, must suffer the consequences: for him, the oath as a

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locutionary act can no longer be binding.’’ Indeed, oaths are produced and contradicted repeatedly by many of the play’s characters, especially Falstaff. By highlighting these instances of dishonesty, Shakespeare highlights the way Henry ushered into history a new era of political ambiguity.

The Morality Play

Aside from the tavern setting and the Vicelike character of Falstaff, the overall framework of Henry IV, Part One also largely reflects the worlds of virtuous and dissipated alternatives presented in moral drama. Shakespeare constantly shifts his scenes from the world of the king and the various lords to the world of thieves and common people, highlighting for spectators the contrasting natures of those two worlds. Bevington notes that the tableau presented when Hal stands over the two apparently dead bodies of Hotspur and Falstaff is a fitting symbolic end to Hal’s evolution: both of his possible extreme choices—that of obsession with honor and that of utter indifference to it—have perished, and he has successfully chosen a moderate path between those two choices. Also, Falstaff’s rising to bear the dead Hotspur on his back is reminiscent of morality play scenes in which the devil carries a man of the world off to hell.

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Overall, Bevington concludes, ‘‘the legacy of moral choice expressed concretely through the pairing and contrasting of characters is central to [Part] I Henry IV’s dramatic structure.’’

HISTORICAL CONTEXT

In devising the plot of Henry IV, Part One, Shakespeare drew to a fair extent on the established tradition of the morality play, as David Bevington discusses at length. Morality plays were typically far less subtle than Shakespeare’s works, with characters bearing names such as Idleness and Gluttony, and with plots often featuring sudden conversions rather than complex characterizations. In The Famous Victories of Henry V, the anonymous author attributes just such a conversion to Hal. Tavern scenes were also common in morality plays, as they provided fitting locales in which the darker, more irresponsible sides of characters could be revealed. The morality play is most pointedly evoked when Hal describes Falstaff as ‘‘that reverend Vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years.’’ Indeed, the Vice was a common morality play character, ever intentionally tempting protagonists to adopt sinful ways. Bevington notes that while Falstaff is not presented as explicitly evil, as the Vice was typically portrayed, the two share ‘‘a double image of witty bonhomie and incorrigibility, thereby giving rise to an inextricable mixture of farce and high moral seriousness.’’


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The Middle Ages vs. the Renaissance Many critics have noted that Henry IV, Part One symbolically documents the evolution of English society from the Middle Ages, also referred to as medieval times, into the Renaissance. The Middle Ages are generally seen as having ended sometime in the fifteenth century throughout the world, with the English Renaissance beginning around the 1520s. Thus, Shakespeare was writing of medieval times from well within the Renaissance period (also called the early modern period), and an awareness of that cultural shift permeates the play, especially as it is viewed in the context of the Lancastrian tetralogy. That tetralogy, also known as Shakespeare’s second tetralogy and as the Henriad, includes the preceding Richard II, and the ensuing Henry IV, Part Two, and Henry V. This monumental cultural shift from medieval to modern world is demonstrated in Henry IV, Part One in a wide variety of ways. Bevington notes that changing religious and theological views played a substantial role in the shift, as provoked in part by the Reformation. The Reformation began in Europe around 1517, when Martin Luther’s objections to the absolutist authority of the Roman Catholic Church led to the rise of Protestantism. In general, then, Europeans began to place less emphasis on divine command—traditionally, the English monarchs claimed that authority was vested in them by God himself—and more on the acts of individual men. This did not entail disbelief in God but simply a greater admission of human impact on the world. Bevington writes, ‘‘Renaissance humanism . . . reconciled a belief in God as the ordainer of a rational and good design with an increased awareness of secondary causes in history attributable to behaviour of men.’’ In Henry IV, Part One, Henry negated the popular perception that English royalty derived their power from God because he himself was not a descendant of previous kings; he was a usurper. Nevertheless, Shakespeare does not offer an unqualified endorsement of either King Henry

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Michael Maloney as Henry, Prince of Wales and Owen Teale as Henry Percy in Act V, scene iv at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, 1991 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

and his supporters, or of the rebels, as he might have done if he himself had believed that, say, God must have been supporting the ultimate victors. Rather, as Bevington declares, Shakespeare ‘‘gives us a whole range of possible answer to questions of rebellion and loyalty in a kind of empirical openness that is characteristic of the best political theorists of the age.’’ Some critics have seen the inception of Renaissance ideals as especially evident with regard to gendered constructs within and between characters; this notion is closely linked with the theme of role playing. R. A. Martin begins his discussion in ‘‘Metatheater, Gender, and Subjectivity in Richard II and Henry IV, Part I,’’ by describing the cultural shift in question as ‘‘a movement from a static, ceremonial view of human life to a dramatic and historical one.’’ With respect to the dramatic aspect, women in particular are keen to demonstrate their individuality and devise roles for themselves within the Renaissance world. Martin notes that in Richard II, ‘‘Women are thoroughly assimilated to the existing values and hierarchies

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of a monolithic patriarchal state even when they might appear to be criticizing them.’’ In Henry IV, Part One, on the other hand, as demonstrated by the willful, aggressive Lady Percy, ‘‘Women are no longer benign extensions of the patriarchal social order: they are autonomous, self-motivated, and problematic.’’ In that women are portrayed as thus asserting themselves, men must come to terms with the broadened emphasis on ‘‘personal relationships and life as opposed to honor and heroic death.’’ This shift in emphasis proves most difficult for Hotspur to deal with. Martin concludes with regard to the ultimate demise of the chivalric, honor-seeking Hotspur, ‘‘He does not solve the problems posed by a heterogenous and sexually differentiated world . . . and he illustrates the extent to which masculine subjectivity is being restructured.’’ David Bevington appropriately sums up the cultural shift Shakespeare demonstrates in this play: ‘‘The ideal world of what ought to be gives way to the unselected, chaotic flow of history, to contingency and temporality.’’ He further speaks

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

Bolingbroke and his son reflect the Lancastrian myth that Providence overthrew Richard II and favoured his successor; Yorkist supporters . . . reflect the Yorkist myth branding the Henrys as usurpers and regicides who deserve providential punishment in the form of civil rebellion. ’’

1400s: Political leaders do not necessarily act with the intent of shaping public opinion about themselves. As asserted by the character of King Henry in Henry IV, Part One, Richard II, his predecessor, fully engaged himself with the common people, frequently appearing before them and responding to their inquiries and accusations alike. Henry IV, on the other hand, limited public access to him under the belief that the less people understood of him, the more he would retain an aura of elevated majesty.

1600s: Elizabeth I, following in the footsteps of Henry VIII, makes England a Protestant nation rather than a Catholic nation; in 1570, Elizabeth herself is officially excommunicated by the Pope. In that Protestantism features a rejection of papal authority, a natural consequence is that divine authority is also farther removed from the English monarch. Thus, while religion continued to play a significant role in the actions of heads of state, humans were seen as possessing greater degrees of control and authority.

1600s: Queen Elizabeth, nearing the end of her reign, has proven a master at shaping the public’s perception of her. Among other image-defining acts, in 1588 she gave a speech before English troops at Tilbury while dressed in a coat of armor and riding on horseback. Russ McDonald notes in his Bedford Companion to Shakespeare, ‘‘Leaving ministers and lackeys to censure, to punish, to refuse, she dwelt on the affirmative themes of unity, forgiveness, and affection for her people, and doing so with graciousness and majesty, she thereby won their hearts.’’ Today: The political consideration and manipulation of public opinion is ubiquitous. In England and America alike, politicians nearly always employ image consultants or, at the very least, assistants who pay particular attention to the public perception of their image and how that perception can be shaped. Politicians often prove unsuccessful because they fail to project a likable and genuine personality; that is, politicians who are not also decent actors may have difficulty getting elected. 1400s: The kingship is seen as directly connected to divine authority, with Roman Catholicism being the official state religion. Thus, treason, or rebellion against the state, and heresy, or rebellion against the church, are often equated. Bevington discusses how Shakespeare’s portrayal of the characters in Henry IV, Part One reflect an awareness of this connection: ‘‘Lancastrian supporters of


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Today: While England retains a statesponsored church and incorporates church teachings and authority into schooling and political bodies in certain respects, political leaders such as the prime minister are not also considered religious leaders. Meanwhile, religion and politics are fully separated by law in America, with intersections such as those between prayer and schools, between the Ten Commandments and federal law, and between religious and secular views of contraception provoking widespread debate.

1400s: The future Henry V reportedly spends much of his youth fraternizing with thieves and scoundrels; however, public awareness of his activities is limited, and since he will bear himself regally, his past will not affect his rule as king. 1600s: James I has been king of Scotland since he was a year old and as such has led a highly supervised life; nevertheless, his manner is crude, and he will prove less respected than his predecessor, Elizabeth. Today: Members of the British royal family still sometimes come under intense public criticism for poor behavior.

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of ‘‘the destruction of a divinely sanctioned culture only to be replaced by cunning and political expediency.’’ Matthew H. Wikander goes on to note that Shakespeare had a number of models of such political intelligence in Elizabethan times— most notably, Queen Elizabeth herself, as well as the Earl of Essex, who was long rumored to be a potential mate for the queen.

depiction of Falstaff perhaps reflects not only Shakespeare’s personal open-mindedness but also the increasing respect for subjective interpretations that was one aspect of the Renaissance era.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Character of Sir John Falstaff The way Shakespeare formulated the character of Falstaff, who is widely understood to have been based on the real-life personage of one Sir John Oldcastle, reveals much about religious and political currents of the era. The true Oldcastle was a devout Protestant who heralded the doctrines of the fourteenth-century theologian John Wycliffe, a critic of the excesses of the Catholic Church. Oldcastle was indeed at one time a friend of the man who became Henry V, but he was nevertheless ultimately burned to death as a heretic, or one who contradicts church doctrine. Both Oldcastle and Wycliffe, then, emphasized personal salvation, especially as obtained through close reading of the Bible, over the institutionalized salvation of the church.

Henry IV, Part One is considered to be one of the more controversial and popular of Shakespeare’s histories, due to its political and moral implications as well as to the fascinating nature of the characters struggling for power in the play. Increasingly, criticism on Henry IV, Part One has shifted from an emphasis on character studies and the historical sources which Shakespeare drew on to define his characters and plot to an emphasis on the language, structure, and deeper psychological truths evident in the play. The debate over the exact relationship between the two parts of Henry IV intensified during the twentieth century, although an understanding of the conjectures on this topic is not necessary to understand and enjoy either play.

As Tom McAlindon describes him in ‘‘Perfect Answers: Religious Inquisition, Falstaffian Wit,’’ Oldcastle was ‘‘a reformed sinner who publicly confessed that in his youth he offended grievously in pride, wrath, gluttony, covetousness, and lechery.’’ Oldcastle went on, however, to thoroughly familiarize himself with the verses and teachings of the Bible. When he went on trial, for both treason and heresy, he responded intelligently, even wittily, to the various accusations put forth by the team of theologians that interviewed him. That is, while his religious conceptions were ridiculed and condemned by those in power, he was without doubt a learned, respectable man in his own right with a thoroughly moral conception of God. What McAlindon finds most interesting about Shakespeare’s portrayal is that he did not simply ‘‘caricature Oldcastle’s biblical babbling’’ and create a wholly despicable character; rather, Shakespeare’s parody ‘‘metamorphosed the object of its mockery into something beguilingly attractive and even admirable.’’ Falstaff is generally perceived as both whimsically and genuinely witty in his responses to accusations regarding his character and in his discourses regarding concepts such as honor and courage. Thus, this partly belittling, partly respectful

Samuel Johnson, the renowned eighteenthcentury Shakespearean scholar, discussed both the first and second parts of Shakespeare’s plays revolving around King Henry IV. As quoted by Howard Staunton in The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, he noted, ‘‘Perhaps no author has ever in two plays afforded so much delight.’’ Regarding Shakespeare’s craftsmanship, he wrote, ‘‘The incidents are multiplied with wonderful fertility of invention, and the characters diversified with the utmost nicety of discernment, and the profoundest skill in the nature of man.’’ Johnson had the most to say about the ‘‘unimitated, unimitable Falstaff,’’ eventually concluding, ‘‘The moral to be drawn from this representation is, that no man is more dangerous than he that, with a will to corrupt, hath the power to please; and that neither wit nor honesty ought to think themselves safe with such a companion, when they see Henry seduced by Falstaff.’’

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David Bevington similarly connotes a positive perception of the play: ‘‘The greatness of Henry IV, Part I is witnessed by its undiminished popularity in both performance and reading, and by an equally undiminished critical debate about its structure, themes, language, and characterization.’’ He goes on to cite the wide array of topics

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over which critics have met with disagreement, such as the actual virtuousness of Hal, the extent to which Falstaff presents himself genuinely, and whether Shakespeare was supportive of one side of the rebellion or the other. Bevington asserts, ‘‘These issues are illuminated by striking motifs and images, including those of vocation and recreation, the redeeming of time, bodily illness and wounding, commercial exchange and thievery, sun and moon, lion and hare, Scriptural iteration and parody.’’ Indeed, the play is so rich with various modes of metaphorical imagery that few critical treatments have even attempted to discuss them comprehensively. Over the years, of course, critical treatments of Shakespeare’s plays have delved ever deeper into the abstract notions exemplified therein. In the course of her own highly complex critical essay entitled ‘‘Prince Hal’s Falstaff: Positioning Psychoanalysis and the Female Reproductive Body,’’ Valerie Traub summarily notes, ‘‘Psychoanalytic criticism of the Henriad has tended to perceive Prince Hal’s developmental problem as a choice between two fathers: a biological father, King Henry IV, standing for conviction, duty, and control, yet burdened by his guilty acquisition of the crown; and a father substitute, Falstaff, whose hedonism, lawlessness, and wit provide an attractive, if temporary, alternative.’’ Traub herself alters this paradigm somewhat in presenting Falstaff as essentially maternal, rather than paternal.

CRITICISM Marjorie Garber Garber offers a detailed analysis of the character of Falstaff. The critic notes that the character embodies Vice, as such symbolizing corruption and decadence. In addition, Falstaff represents the so-called Lord of Misrule, a custom popular during the time of Henry VIII in which a man of low station was temporarily raised to high position to preside over holiday gatherings at a noble’s estate. Garber further discusses other negative aspects of Falstaff’s character, while averring that he serves as an antidote to ‘‘unrealistic idealism’’ in the play as well as offering comic relief in the play.


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Timothy Dalton as Henry Percy, Simon Templeman as Edmund Mortimer, John Franklyn-Robbins as Thomas Percy, and Bernard Lloyd as Owen Glendower in Act III, scene i, at the Barbican Theatre, London, 1982 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)


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THE DISHONOR THAT THE KING ATTRIBUTES TO HIS SON IS NOT SIMPLY THAT HE FAILED TO Source: Marjorie Garber, ‘‘Henry IV Part I,’’ in Shakespeare After All, Pantheon Books, 2004, pp. 325–28.

DISTINGUISH HIMSELF IN BATTLE, BUT THAT BY INDULGING IN RIOT AND BAD COMPANY AT A TIME WHEN THE KING’S INTEREST WAS IN DANGER HE FAILED

Moody E. Prior Prior examines the place of honor in the disorderly world of Henry IV, Part One. On the surface, argues Prior, honor appears to serve only in the context of chivalry and warfare. Prior shows how a closer examination reveals that Hotspur, Hal, and Henry have a deeper understanding of the concept of honor. Prior also illuminates the limitations of honor. He first focuses on how little attention is paid in the play to the broken promises and rebellion related to Henry’s road to kingship. Next, Prior notes that Falstaff denies ‘‘the reality of honor’’ by seeing honor only as an intangible, valueless result of bravery in battle. Prior contrasts Hotspur’s extravagant desire for honor with Falstaff’s rejection of honor, commenting that Falstaff overlooks those aspects of honor that are unrelated to warfare and that could therefore be useful to him. Finally, Prior discusses Hal’s conception of honor, showing it to be demonstrated by Hal’s loyalty to the King and to the nation. The word ‘‘honor’’ occurs frequently in Part 1, and its presence has raised some troublesome questions. What place can honor have in a world in which subjects rebel against a usurper whom they placed in office, the prince plays at robbery with a dissolute knight, and the contending parties in government seem guided by ‘‘policy’’ rather than principle? Superficially, the answer appears to be that honor has little to do with the conduct of most of the characters, and where it is invoked the concept often seems narrow. At first glance honor seems to mean no more than a reputation for prowess and skill in arms gained in battle by noblemen and knights. That is the implication when the word first appears in the opening scene, in which the king contrasts the victorious Hotspur, ‘‘the theme of honor’s tongue,’’ with his son, who was not at the battle and whose brow is stained with ‘‘riot and dishonor,’’ (1.1.80, 84), and also when, later in the play, the king upbraids the prince, comparing his son’s dissoluteness and negligence with the

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IN A PRINCIPAL OBLIGATION OF A PRINCE.’’

boldness of young Hotspur leading his rebellious followers ‘‘to bloody battles and to bruising arms’’ and to the ‘‘never-dying honor’’ which he gained against Douglas. It is also the prince’s meaning when he promises to redeem his bad reputation against the ‘‘child of honor and renown’’ and exchange his own shames ‘‘for every honor sitting on his helm.’’ (3.2.139, 142). Hotspur glorifies the honor to be gained in battle against worthy foes, and the more hazardous the enterprise the greater the chance of gaining honor. The extravagance of his speech about plucking ‘‘bright honor from the pale-faced moon’’ and ‘‘drowned honor by the locks’’ is inspired by Worcester’s warning that the matter he is about to reveal is ‘‘deep and dangerous.’’ (1.3.188). Even in this narrow military context, however, honor demands from these warriors something more than bravery and success in battle. This is a society in which the nobility constitutes and elite expected to bear arms, and honor stands for the special virtues which distinguish this class in the exercise of its vocation—gallantry in combat with a worthy foe, adherence to the accepted code of arms, and individual loyalty to friends, family, and comrades in arms. These qualities are taken seriously and have currency in I Henry IV, even though men accuse each other of breaking their solemn word, rebellions are plotted, and warriors fight for something less than the highest moral principles and national glory. It says something for the world of I Henry IV that such distinctions can be made . . . The battle of Shrewsbury is a deadly serious affair, yet the prince can call Hotspur ‘‘a valiant rebel of that name’’ before engaging him in fair fight to the death.

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There are further shades of meaning which extend the idea of honor in I Henry IV beyond the demands of chivalry and war. Even for Hotspur honor can mean something more than meeting dangers and triumphing over great warriors in battle. His first use of the word is, in fact, not in connection with warfare at all. He upbraids his father and uncle for having dishonored themselves by putting down Richard, setting the crown on Bolingbroke, and having to endure the humiliation of being discarded by him now that he is Henry IV. From these shames, he urges, time serves wherein you may redeem Your banished honors and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again. The dishonor that the king attributes to his son is not simply that he failed to distinguish himself in battle, but that by indulging in riot and bad company at a time when the king’s interest was in danger he failed in a principal obligation of a prince. The king rejoices when his son joins him, not only because Hal has promised to use Hotspur’s glory to redeem his own, but because he has returned to his proper princely role. ‘‘A hundred thousands rebels die in this,’’ Henry exclaims. (3.2.160). Honor, then, goes beyond chivalry and military fame. Nevertheless, at its broadest it is a concept with serious limitations. Henry’s perjury is a case in point. It is charged against him by his former supporters that in taking the crown from Richard II he had broken an oath which he made to them on returning from exile, that he had come only to claim his inheritance; but, in spite of the gravity of this charge, little enough is made of it, because the oath was taken for expedient reasons and broken with the connivance of his then allies, now his enemies. And yet for most of the characters, including the king, honor is a serious matter. Judgment of conduct is referred to it, and it is invoked to bind men to a cause and to inspire the exercise of such private virtues as are demanded by one’s public obligations. Its prominence is thus a mark of the secular atmosphere of I Henry IV, in which the characters do not normally look beyond the immediate present to a cosmic scheme of justice or expect the wrath of God for neglecting a solemn obligation. In a world of politics and civil war it functions as a substitute for moral principle. It is not a static or a univocal concept, however; in the changing patterns of the play its merits are revealed, its


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limitations exposed, and in due course even the reality of honor is questioned. The most direct, and indeed the only, denial of the reality of honor comes from Falstaff. His soliloquy on honor is a virtuoso performance of clever negation. It comes just after the king has ended his interview with the rebel leaders and the royal party awaits the almost certain sign for battle. Falstaff, the realist, says apprehensively, ‘‘I would ’twere bedtime, Hal, and all well.’’ The prince’s casual reply, ‘‘Why, thou owest God a death,’’ provides the cue to the opening line of Falstaff’s reflections, ‘‘’Tis not due yet, I would be loath to pay him before his day.’’ (5.1.125– 28). Restricting honor to its limited sense of the intangible rewards for valor in battle, Falstaff rejects it as empty and valueless, incapable of repairing wounds or surviving detraction after death. The sight of Sir Walter Blunt dead on the field of battle confirms him in his views— ‘‘There’s honor for you’’ (5.3.32–33)—and it leads him to this final word on the subject: ‘‘I like not such grinning honor as Sir Walter hath. Give me life, which if I can save, so; if not, honor comes unlooked for, and there’s an end.’’ (5.3.58–61). ‘‘’Tis not due yet,’’ ‘‘Give me life’’— these phrases sum up Falstaff’s determination to hold on to life as the final good, even if it is only a precarious hold defiantly maintained against the decay of youth and the coming of age, the loss of moral virtue and of the world’s esteem. The direct opposite of this is summed up in Hotspur’s remarks shortly before the battle. A messenger comes with letters and Hotspur dismisses them—‘‘I cannot read them now’’; and as though this incident has suddenly brought home to him the realization that nothing matters now until the dangerous business is over, he continues, O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were too long If life did ride upon a dial’s point, Still ending at the arrival of an hour. There are things which are more important to Hotspur than life. Though addressing his men, Hotspur seems in these lines almost to be speaking to himself, surprised by the circumstances into a moment of self-revelation which suggests something of the depth of feeling that underlies his earlier extravagant sentiments about honor or the apparent flippancy of his comment when he learns of the big odds against

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them in the battle, ‘‘Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.’’ (4.1.134). Shakespeare has made both of these spokesmen for opposing attitudes attractive, each in his own extraordinary way. They have, moreover, some basic traits in common. Both conduct their lives and make their choices in accordance with a settle principle. Both have a distaste for the reserve and calculation of official public life. Their loyalties are narrow. Falstaff’s loyalty is to himself and his cronies when they are useful, and Hotspur’s is personal and clannish. Both reveal a lively extravagance at times when they feel challenged or aroused, and both display a trace of desperation in seeking to extract the full measure of gratification out of life. Both men have a zest for life, though Falstaff’s inclinations carry him to dissoluteness and even degeneracy, and Hotspur’s valor and sense of personal integrity express themselves in discourtesy, eccentricity, and foolhardiness. It is in the aberration of qualities which can enhance life that the danger lies in these two men Hotspur’s sense of honor which makes him despise Henry as a ‘‘vile politician’’ and a ‘‘king of smiles’’ also makes him the victim of politicians who need his virtues to glamorize a rebellion, and his wholly personal coveting of honor ‘‘without corrival’’ inspires him to seek out occasions to exercise his youth and virtues in the destructive enterprise of war. Falstaff’s ridicule of honor is a corollary of his guiding principle, ‘‘give me life,’’ as he understands it; honor at Shrewsbury involves the danger of self-sacrifice, and so he will not seek it. If we see his position as a reply to the extravagances of Hotspur, we may be inclined to agree with him that honor is an empty illusion—Falstaff would not have ordered the charge of the Light Brigade. But by strictly limiting the scope of the term, Falstaff excludes its usefulness in defining a secular idea of loyalty and of dedication to the best demands of a serious calling, and thus as a means of maintaining one’s self-esteem. Oddly enough, Falstaff has not completely lost the need for some modicum of that last quality. When they decide to do a play extempore and the prince proposes, ‘‘the argument shall be thy running away,’’ Falstaff replies, ‘‘Ah, no more of that, Hal, and thou lovest me.’’ (2.4.277–78). But Falstaff’s chief use for the respectable world is to exploit it for his own purposes. He welcomes the rebellion as an opportunity to replenish his purse: ‘‘Well, God be thanked for these rebels, they offend none but the virtuous;

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I laud them, I praise them.’’ (3.3.189–91). Lacking a sense of honor, he is capable of leading his wretched recruits to the thick of the battle where most of them will be killed so that he can keep their pay for himself . . . The prince, early in the play, shows a distaste for the questing after military victory that is the bad side of Hotspur’s love of honor: I am not yet of Percy’s mind, the Hotspur of the North, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, ‘‘Fie upon this quiet life, I want work.’’ ‘‘O my sweet Harry,’’ says she, ‘‘how many hast thou killed today?’’ ‘‘Give my roan horse a drench,’’ says he, and answers, ‘‘Some fourteen,’’ an hour after, ‘‘a trifle, a trifle.’’

Just before this he had described a drinking bout with a group of tapsters at the inn, and tells Poins, ‘‘I tell thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honor that thou wert not with me in this action.’’ (2.4.19–21). This fleering use of ‘‘honor’’ may represent an indirect attempt to justify his present truancy, but the use of the military term ‘‘this action’’ to describe the heavy drinking and the ‘‘honor’’ gained by staying with it may also express some impatience with the cant of the warrior class. In comparison with Hotspur, Hal’s attitude toward honor may be likened to Starbuck’s attitude toward courage in Moby Dick—‘‘one of the great staple outfits of the ship in their hazardous work of whaling, thought Starbuck, and, like her beer and bread, not to be wasted.’’ The prince accepts the idea of honor as a mark of the warrior when he promises to exchange his shames for Hotspur’s honors, but it is not an exact exchange. There are certain features of Hotspur’s code which Hal does not take on. He does not have an excessive craving for military exploits or gloat publicly over his success—he is willing, for the sake of a joke, to allow Falstaff to claim credit for killing Hotspur; and his sense of loyalty is not as clannish as Hotspur’s nor as provincial (‘‘this Northern youth,’’ (3.2.145) he calls him)—it is to this father as king and therefore to the nation. It is an idea of honor more befitting a London courtier than a northern earl, and more useful to a national king than to a feudal lord. Hal appreciates Hotspur’s gallantry—he honors the dead Hotspur by placing his ‘‘favors’’ on the body of this adversary; and in this connection Falstaff shows up to disadvantage, for we see him dishonoring Hotspur’s corpse with a coarse comic bravado that is as unpleasant as it is funny.

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This view of the significance of the scheme of multiple comparisons is in keeping with the way the conflicts are resolved at the end. The victory of the king’s party seems the only acceptable conclusion—not merely the one imposed by history—and even the most unsympathetic critics do not express offense at the defeat of the rebels at Shrewsbury as they do, for instance, at the sophistry of Prince John at Gaultree or the rejection of Falstaff in Part 2. Nevertheless, it is questionable whether Shakespeare ever fully redresses the balance in favor of Henry and his son in I Henry IV, for the rebels are not pictured in a wholly reprehensible light. Once the rebellion gets under way, Hotspur’s leadership lends it an air of gallantry and glamor. Aside from Worcester, who seems incapable of controlling the enterprise of which he was the political engineer, the others all have an almost amateurish quality which contributes to their undoing. This comes out in the one scene in which they all assemble to map out their strategy; (3.1); they quarrel and show themselves more eager to divide the spoils of a hoped-for victory than to resolve the divisions within the kingdom, and hence appear as a worse choice politically than the king. Nevertheless, the conclusion which Shakespeare contrives for this episode comes as a surprising close to a scene of rebellious plotting. Glendower ushers in their wives, and there follows an engaging exchange of sentiments between Mortimer and his Welsh wife, with Glendower acting as interpreter, the contrasting affectionate sparring of Hotspur and his Kate, and finally the ethereal music invoked by Glendower which accompanies the Welsh song sung by Mortimer’s wife. And these are the men who are threatening the center of order in the kingdom! There is nothing in the whole play that associates the king or the prince with as much charm and genial humanity . . . Source: Moody E. Prior, ‘‘Ideas of History: Richard II, 1 and 2 Henry IV, Henry V,’’ in The Drama of Power: Studies in Shakespeare’s History Plays, Northwestern University Press, 1973, pp. 199–218.

Robert B. Pierce Pierce maintains that in Henry IV, Part One, personal, familial order is presented as a way of understanding the larger, political structure in the play. He shows how the basic conflicts in the play—the struggle of Henry, and the nation, to create harmony from civil war, the struggle of Prince Hal to mature from a careless youth into an independent


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IN THE PARABLE THE PRODIGAL SON RESTORED TO HIS FATHER IS MAN RESTORED TO GOD, AND IN THE ELIZABETH SYSTEM OF CORRESPONDENCES THE KING IS TO HIS KINGDOM AS GOD IS TO THE UNIVERSE. HAL’S RECONCILIATION WITH HIS FATHER SYMBOLIZES A LARGER COMMITMENT TO ALL THAT IS GOOD AND ORDERLY IN THE WORLD.’’

king—illuminate the larger conflict—the struggle to create order from disorder—being examined. Pierce shows how the play is essentially divided between the public story of rebellion and the private story of Hal’s adventures with Falstaff and how the additional plot of Hal’s estrangement from Henry links the play’s public and private worlds. Shakespeare’s Henry IV plays explore the theme of political order with a new depth and subtlety. Not only does the state pass through civil war to harmony, but Prince Hal develops into a king fit to lead his newly united state in war against France. Although political order is central to the plays, Shakespeare uses a more personal order, that of the family, to illuminate his theme. In the early history plays harmony and strife in family relationships become symbols of order and disorder in the kingdom. This device expresses political ideas by analogy with another realm of experience. But in the two Henry IV plays the symbol merges with its referent; Shakespeare displays the quest for political order as fundamentally like the quest for personal order within the family. The values are the same, the problems the same; only the scale is different. In Hal and his father the historical given of Shakespeare’s plot combines the two levels: prince and king, son and father. While Henry IV struggles to keep his throne and the rebels to replace him, England is hungry for renewed order. Though he is in many ways a good ruler, he cannot be the hero-king who compels loyalty as well as submission. Prince Hal is to be such a king, but before he can assume his destined role, he must attain personal maturity. He must find a

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viable order for his own life, one centered on his duty to become England’s king. Only thus will he be saved from self-destruction or personal insignificance, and only thus will England be saved (for a time) from civil war. Finding in his sources the legend of Hal the wild prince, Shakespeare turns it into an expression of this theme. Like any young man reaching maturity, Hal must emulate his father’s role, but at the same time he must escape his father in order to establish his autonomy. Even in the ideal family this task is difficult. In 1 Henry VI young Talbot must defy his father’s command to flee the battlefield so that he may be like his father and hence show a family loyalty deeper than explicit obedience. But Hal’s father is a guilty man, one whose piety is tainted by Richard II’s blood on his hands. In his personal inheritance from his father, Hal faces the same problem as the realm, how to generate an ordered future out of a disordered present. He must transcend his inheritance without denying it. It is part of the extraordinary scope of the Henry IV plays to study this spiritual process. An abstractly conceived Providence can bring peace to the England of Richard III because the process is external to Richard, but only a newly personal and psychological drama can show Hal’s development into the king who will lead England to unity and glory. The portrayal of Hal’s growth follows a popular motif in Elizabethan drama, the Prodigal Son story. Hal leaves his responsibilities and his father for a life of tavern brawls, behavior typical of the prodigal, though Hal avoids contamination with the worst evils around him, reckless gambling, wenching, and such. Falstaff, ‘‘that villainous abominable misleader of youth’’ (II.iv.456), parallels a Vice-figure [a stock character in the morality play who, as a tempter, has both evil and comic qualities] . . . Henry IV has much in common with the typical father, noble and sententious but somewhat ineffectual toward his son . . . Appropriately enough, the parable of the Prodigal Son occurs among Falstaff’s frequent allusions to scripture. This theme extends through both plays, since Hal is not completely reconciled to his father until the end of 2 Henry IV. In one sense Shakespeare is burlesquing an old dramatic form . . . After all, it is the prodigal who mischievously denounces his tempter as ‘‘that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that vanity in years’’ (1 Henry

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IV, II.iv.447–49). And Falstaff himself delights in acting the prodigal, corrupted by his evil companions: ‘‘Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing, and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked’’ (1 Henry IV, I.ii.90–92). This lightheartedness suggests even more clearly than Hal’s soliloquy at the end of I.ii that he will not be significantly corrupted. Yet at the same time Falstaff is a serious threat to Hal’s maturity, and the reconciliation with his father is a necessary step in his growth. . . . For all Shakespeare’s modifications to burlesque the pattern and to make it psychologically plausible, he uses the religious theme embodied in it. In the parable the Prodigal Son restored to his father is man restored to God, and in the Elizabeth system of correspondences the king is to his kingdom as God is to the universe. Hal’s reconciliation with his father symbolizes a larger commitment to all that is good and orderly in the world. The first of the two plays has an obvious division into two levels, the public story of the rebellion of the Percies and the private story of Hal’s dissipations [self. indulgent activities] with Falstaff. Part of what raises this play above the typical Elizabethan two-plot drama is the ingenuity with which the two are interwoven, so that the Falstaff scenes parody many of the episodes and characters of the serious scenes. However, there is a third plot, less extended than the other two, that helps to mediate between them. It is the story of Hal’s estrangement from his father and their reconciliation. Only in this plot is Hal clearly the central figure, though all three contribute to the most important theme of this and the next play, Hal’s preparation for kingship over a united England. The rebellion of the Percies provides the battlefield on which he can prove his chivalric merit; and Hotspur, the dominant figure of the Percy camp, gives a dramatic contrast that illuminates Hal’s growth. The scenes with Falstaff show Hal avoiding his duty, but they also help to educate him in the whole order (and disorder) of his future kingdom. Although Shakespeare allows us to glimpse the domestic life of the Percies, they live primarily in a public world, a world of treaties and defiances and battles, of blank verse. Although Falstaff appears, ludicrously out of place, at Shrewsbury, his is essentially a private world without clocks, a world of sack and tavern jests and highway robbery, of prose.

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Prince Henry, Falstaff, and others at the Boars-Head Tavern, Act II, scene iv

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What gives the relationship of Henry IV and Hal special complexity is that in it the public and private worlds merge. As king and prince they embody all the political ideas implied in that relationship throughout the history plays. Hal must inherit the heroic and regal virtues of his father so that he may be a king worthy of his Lancastrian forebears. To teach Hal this lesson, Henry points to the ominous example of Richard II, who betrayed the heritage of the Black Prince with a frivolity that Henry sees in Hal too. Also the public theme of inherited guilt is an important one. Henry fears that his crime in deposing Richard will infect the kingdom even after his death (and Hal in Henry V shares that fear). As a public figure Henry IV has a double significance. He is the king, the center of order and virtue in the realm and hence the prime object of Hal’s duty. But at the same time he is guilty; all the conscious piety of his life cannot entirely justify him, even to himself.


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If Henry were simply a public figure, an emblem like John of Gaunt in Richard II, this ambiguity of meaning would destroy him as a dramatic character. What saves him is that he is given a private identity, an individual nature that expresses itself apart from his public stance. A public symbol cannot be ambiguous, but a man can be so various as to evoke two different symbolisms. In the same way Hal can both laugh at and be the Prodigal Son because he has a private identity that transcends both burlesque and symbolism. Henry IV and Hal are not only king and prince; they are also a very concrete father and son, going through all the painful misunderstanding that fathers and sons have always faced. Henry appears first of all as king. As John Dover Wilson points out [in The First Part of the History of Henry IV, 1946, in a note at I. i. 1], he speaks for himself and the kingdom in his opening words:

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So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant, And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenc’d in stronds afar remote: No more the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children’s blood. (I.i.1–6) The sense of powers declining under strain, the desperate longing for peace, and the vague hope for glory in foreign wars—all these Henry shares with his land. It is a sign of his worthiness as a king that he expresses so accurately the spirit of his realm. The stark family image of lines 5–6, with its biblical echo, is typical of the severe formality of the speech. Henry’s language shows the tightly linked world of Elizabethan correspondences, in which the state is a family and civil war opposes those ‘‘of one substance bred,’’ so that they war ‘‘Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies’’(11, 16). Since most of the audience must have known that this was to be a play about civil war, they would notice the self-deception in Henry’s prediction of peace; and it soon emerges that he is willfully deceiving himself, because he knows that England is still wracked with strife and even that the Percies show ominous signs of disloyalty. Henry represents a generation of Englishmen who have fought each other and will go on fighting until they can hardly remember the purpose of the battles and can only say: We are all diseas’d, And with our surfeiting, and wanton hours, Have brought ourselves into a burning fever, And we must bleed for it. (2 Henry IV, IV.i. 54–57) After his description of civil war in terms of violence within the family, there is irony in Henry’s turning to speak with pain of his son’s degeneracy. At the moment he seems unconscious of any connection between public and familial disorder. It may seem like a heartless repudiation of family bonds when he wishes: O that it could be prov’d That some night-tripping fairy had exchang’d In cradle-clothes our children where they lay, And call’d mine Percy, his Plantagenet!

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But the suffering is clear enough behind the petulant rejection. It is ‘‘my young Harry’’(85) whose dishonor he feels; the repeated ‘‘mine’’ of the passage shows the grief of an estranged father, not unfeeling repudiation. If the audience perceived the irony of his wish to go to the Holy Land, they must also have seen the happier irony of his despair at the character of the future heroking, the legendary example of wildness reformed. This speech establishes a contrast between the two young men that runs through the play and reaches its climax in their confrontation at Shrewsbury. If in the first scene Henry IV seems like an old man, tired and sick from the strains of rule, it soon becomes apparent that he has not lost the strength of will and imposing presence that won him the crown. He sends for the Percies to explain their holding back the Scottish prisoners, and when Worcester shows signs of more pride than is fitting in a subject, Henry abruptly banishes him from the court. Questionable though his accession is, he is a royal king, and Hal can learn only from him the dignity that a king must have. The curious episode of the men in Henry’s coats whom Douglas slays at Shrewsbury raises the issue of who is really king when Douglas challenges Henry: What art thou That counterfeit’st the person of a king? (V.iv.26–27) But Douglas himself gives a worthy answer: I fear thou art another counterfeit, And yet, in faith, thou bearest thee like a king. (34–35) By a great act of will Henry is able to bear himself like a king. If the effort gradually saps his strength, there is little external evidence of his decline until his sickness in 2 Henry IV. Only in one scene of this play does he fully reveal the private man behind the king, when he is alone with his son in III.ii. The sense of tension, of a will kept forcibly taut in his public appearances, suggests the terrible penalty of being king. In contrast with his father in the opening scene, Hal in the second appears young, full of vitality, and gaily irresponsible. While his father wrestles with the problems of state, Falstaff and Hal can jest about how he will behave as king. ‘‘I prithee sweet wag, when thou art king, as God save thy Grace—Majesty I should say, for grace

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thou wilt have none’’ (I.ii.16–18). The fact that the major theme of Hal’s development toward the ideal king can be suggested in a pun shows the characteristic tone of the scene. When he comes to this world where time is irrelevant and chivalry no more than the code of the highwayman, he is escaping from the court, from his father, and from his own place as heir apparent. One can take too solemnly his assertion of virtue in the much-discussed soliloquy that closes the scene. The speech may seem priggish, as though Hal were condescending to sport with Falstaff even while maintaining a severe inner virtue. He says, ‘‘I know you all’’ (I.ii.190), implying that Falstaff’s sinfulness is no threat to his selfconfident virtue. However, direct exposition of one’s moral state is characteristic of Elizabethan soliloquies. It is dangerous to read too much selfconsciousness into Hal’s proclamation of his own worth. Many critics note that this soliloquy is primarily a device to assure the audience of Hal’s final reformation, an assurance especially needed just after he has agreed to join in a highway robbery. And his treatment of Falstaff is not really condescending; he too obviously rejoices in the battle of wits that keeps them on equal terms. On the other hand, the fact that the soliloquy is a conventional device need not compel one to take it as absolutely true. Only someone determined to believe in Hal’s spotless virtue (or his priggishness) could accept at face value the argument that a king gains his people’s loyalty from having been a youthful sinner. No doubt Hal plans to reform, but he has not undertaken his sins in order to abandon them with a spectacular public gesture. There is an undertone to his argument that suggests his main reason for avoiding the court: If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; But when they seldom come, they wish’d-for come, And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents. (199–202) Explicitly he is arguing that the contrast between a dissolute youth and a reformed king heightens the latter, just as the contrast with working days makes holidays pleasant. Yet at the same time he half-admits to snatching a few last bits of pleasure before assuming the heavy duties of kingship . . . Hal’s sport with Falstaff is not only a young man’s escape from responsibility, however. The


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public world of the play is one of disorder and treachery. Hotspur is caught in the political schemes of his father and uncle and manipulated by them. Henry IV is a nobler man than his former allies (except for Hotspur), but even he is trapped by his dubious past into suspicion and cold scheming. His projected crusade to the Holy Land is never more than a dream of expiation. Thus Hal escapes a tainted atmosphere by leaving the court. The evils of the tavern to which he turns are ‘‘like their father that begets them, gross as a mountain, open, palpable’’ (II.iv.220–21). Even though Falstaff’s company sometimes parodies the public world, it is not corrupted by the pervasive disorder of the kingdom. ‘‘A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!’’ (II.ii.27–28). Falstaff’s complaint foreshadows the disintegration among the rebels, but in fact the disloyalty in his band of ‘‘thieves’’ is harmless and even illusory. In general the vices of Falstaff’s group are timeless; the characters themselves are an anachronism brought into the play from Elizabethan life. This habit is not unusual among lowcomedy scenes in Tudor drama, but here it is significant in that it provides an escape from the political disorder of the public scenes. In the three parts of Henry VI disorder spreads out from the court to infect the whole kingdom, but in 1 Henry IV the life of England goes on in spite of treachery and rebellion among the governors. Hostlers worry about the price of oats, and Falstaff about the purity of sack. Leaving the court, Hal finds England with all its vices and jests, but also its abiding strength. What Faulconbridge brings to the court of King John, Hal reaches by going out into London. Yet if Hal can gain strength from contact with English life, there is also the threat of forgetting his special role as England’s future king. Just as he must escape from the court and his father to grow beyond them, so he must escape the unreasonable claims on him of his London companions. ‘‘O for a fine thief of the age of two and twenty or thereabouts: I am heinously unprovided,’’ says Falstaff (III.iii.187–89). He is unprovided because Hal has kept himself a king’s son on a lark. His characteristic defense against Falstaff is his irony, an amused detachment from whatever he is doing. Curiously enough, it is the same quality that allows him to show no concern for the deed when he proves his chivalric merit by killing Hotspur, the key

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symbolic act of the play. His nature is not ‘‘subdued / To what it works in’’ (‘‘Sonnet 111’’), whether he rubs elbows with Falstaff or fights against Hotspur. Critics find this ironic detachment offensive in Hal . . . when it rebuffs Falstaff’s claims to intimacy. There is unconscious humor in the fugitive and cloistered vice of literary scholars who condemn Hal for repudiating the free life of a tavern roisterer and highway robber; one explanation of such a view is the absence in our day of much feeling for the importance of calling. Hal is called to be the next king of England, and so he cannot be an ordinary man. He is not denying his humanity in accepting his duty to prepare for royalty, because a man’s vocation is the center of his manhood. In this play his calling is defined by his rivalry with Hotspur. He must demonstrate to his father and all the land that he is the true prince, not only in title but in worth. Thus he can turn from the boyish jest of giving Falstaff a company of foot soldiers to a vigorous assertion of his family’s destiny: The land is burning, Percy stands on high, And either we or they must lower lie. (III.iii.202–3)

Henry IV and his son come together for the first time at III.ii. Ironically, Shakespeare has just shown the charming domesticity of the rebel camp when he turns to the estrangement of the king and crown prince. Henry’s speeches to his son are curiously poised between his typical stiff formality and a father’s anxious sincerity. His opening words are full of the traditional doctrines of the family. Thus for the first time he acknowledges that Hal’s wildness may be punishment for ‘‘my mistreadings’’(11). He measures Hal against the ideal of aristocratic inheritance, asking how he can reconcile ‘‘the greatness of thy blood’’(16) with such low pursuits. He misunderstands his son, since he assumes that Hal is ‘‘match’d withal, and grafted to’’ these pleasures (15), the imagery suggesting that their corruption has entered the fibers of his being. But this speech is so formal that it suggests only abstract parenthood, and Hal’s reply is in the same vein. They have expressed their abstract relationship, but little of the personal feeling in it. Up to this point Henry has hidden the intensity of his emotions behind a mask of formality, but in his next speech his grief precariously warps the formality. After an affectionate ‘‘Harry’’ in

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line 29, he quickly pulls back into the commonplaces of aristocratic inheritance. He again charges Hal with betraying the tradition of his ancestors and losing the affection of his kinsmen. The king’s hurt ego swings around to brood on his own past successes as he compares Hal with Richard II. He asserts that Hal has repudiated the moral heritage of the Lancastrians for Richard’s corrupted ‘‘line’’(85). (Primarily the word means ‘‘category’’ here, but it suggests the whole idea of a station in life established by birth.) His emotion gradually rises during the speech until he suddenly finds himself weeping as he complains of his son’s neglect in what is no longer a king’s reproof but the complaint of a lonely father. Hal’s reply to this display of emotion is embarrassed and terse, though it may reveal a deeper contrition than did his first speech. But the tide of Henry’s grief cannot stop, and so he returns to comparing Hal with Richard. Now he raises the most irritating comparison, that with Hotspur. He contrasts Hal’s dynastic inheritance with Hotspur’s supposed moral superiority: Now by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy interest to the state Than thou the shadow of succession. (97–99) This pragmatic king has learned that even a title as unstained as Richard II’s is only a shadow without virtu`, the quality that he thinks he sees in Hotspur. The way that he associates Hotspur with himself hints that he wishes Hotspur were his heir. But that wish is no more than a desperate evasion of his parental grief, as the petulance of his next few lines indicates. He even charges that Hal will fight under Percy against his own family. This final turn allows Hal to feel a cleansing anger. His characteristic irony overcome by hurt love and pride, he makes his most complete and open declaration of aims. The abrupt, almost non-metrical beginning suggests his anger: ‘‘Do not think so, you shall not find it so’’(129). And the next few lines illuminate its cause; if Hotspur is the barrier between Hal and Henry’s love, then Hotspur must die. By Henry’s own standard the warrior ideal is the measure of moral worth, and Hal means to establish himself before his father and the kingdom. Already the duel of Act V is foreshadowed and weighted with public and private meaning. Conquering Hotspur will cleanse Hal’s name and make him a hero worthy of

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royalty, but at the same time it will complete the reconciliation of this father and son. Hence the angry reproach of Hal’s contrast between ‘‘This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, / And your unthought-of Harry’’ (140–41). Like most fathers Henry is only too eager to be reconciled. Delighted by his son’s heroic zeal and by the affection implied in Hal’s hurt feelings, he regains his kingly dignity and his confidence together: A hundred thousand rebels die in this— Thou shalt have charge and sovereign trust herein. (160–61) Now that he knows the cleavage in his own house to be healed, he can face the challenge of the Percy rebellion with poise. When Blunt reports the gathering of the enemy, Henry gives orders with brisk efficiency and assigns Hal an important place in the plans. This father and son standing together are a symbol of unity in the realm, just as in 1 Henry VI Talbot and his son fighting together stand for the unity that will die with them. But because Shakespeare has shown their reconciliation in an intensely personal scene, Henry and Hal are more than just symbols of order. Above all, the scene is a step in Hal’s growth toward full readiness for kingship, but it also reveals Henry’s human struggle to endure the weight of kingly office. The symbol of unity is there, but it is surrounded by a richness of meanings such as the early Shakespeare never achieved. The king and Hal appear together again at Shrewsbury, now in perfect harmony. Henry is so full of confidence that he can laugh at the ill omen of a gloomy morning. Throughout the day Hal is the picture of a true prince, extorting praise even from his enemies. With becoming humility in his words, he challenges Hotspur to single combat. Henry forbids that, perhaps because of still-continuing doubts in his son, but mainly because it would be foolish to give up the advantage of superior numbers. In the battle Hal shows brotherly pride at Prince John’s valor, and afterward he allows his brother the honor of giving Douglas his freedom. When Hal saves his father’s life from Douglas, the king recalls the charges that Hal has sought his death. The sincerity of Hal’s indignation is supported by his deeds, and in fact only the king’s remark makes him point out the significance of his act. Finally Hotspur, Hal’s rival, dies under his


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sword, and the last picture of the prince is with his family on the battlefield won by their united valor. If the expression of this newly firm tie between the king and his son is almost entirely public and formal at Shrewsbury, those qualities make the last scenes complementary to the personal reconciliation of III.ii. Shrewsbury establishes the forces of order as dominant in the kingdom, and its final moment is this public symbol of unity, a king and his crown prince, reconciled and victorious. The path of Hal’s growth is a great arc. He must move away from his father and the court so that he may find his personal autonomy. He must revitalize the Lancastrian line by renewed contact with the source of all political power, the commonwealth itself. Yet there is peril in this journey. If he plunges too deeply into the world of Falstaff and his companions, he will lose contact with his own heritage, with the birth that calls him to prepare himself for England’s throne. And so the arc turns back. Hal must return to his father and prove his worthiness to be the Lancastrian heir. Now he must act for himself, yet to defend the primacy of the House of Lancaster. Only half-understanding what has happened to his son, Henry IV senses the ardor and enthusiasm that Hal has brought with him. The returned prodigal is the new hope of the forces of order, and especially of the king his father. ‘‘For this my son was dead, and is alive again: he was lost and is found.’’ Hal, and with him the Lancastrian line, are renewed. Source: Robert B. Pierce, ‘‘The Henry IV Plays,’’ in Shakespeare’s History Plays: The Family and the State, Ohio State University Press, 1971, pp. 171–224.

Maynard Mack Mack provides basic information about the play, discussing the dates it was written, performed, and published. In identifying the historical sources Shakespeare used to write Henry IV, Part One, Mack points out some of the historical facts that Shakespeare alters. The critic explains why topics covered in the play, such as the succession of English monarchs, were of interest to Elizabethan audiences.

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Source: Maynard Mack, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The History of Henry IV, Part One, New American Library, 1965, p. xxiii–xxxvi.

Milton Crane Crane examines the use of prose and verse in the play and shows how the two modes of speech differentiate between the two worlds of the play—the world of the court and Falstaff’s world. Crane demonstrates how Falstaff mimics the play’s serious action through his use of prose. Falstaff’s world, argues Crane, is in complete opposition to the world of the court; therefore it is appropriate that he never speaks in verse, the language of the court. Crane also shows how Hal moves easily from one world to the other, speaking prose in the tavern and verse in court. Crane analyzes Hotspur’s speech as well, arguing that he speaks the best verse in the play. Nowhere in Shakespeare are the boundaries of two worlds so clearly delimited by the use of prose and verse as in the Henry IV plays (1597, 1598). The scenes relating to the historical matter are in verse, the scenes of Falstaff and his followers in prose. There are tri-fling exceptions:


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the conventional usages, as in Hotspur’s letter (II, iii); Hotspur’s short comic dialogue with his lady (III, i), with its startling shifts between prose and verse; and the mock verse of Pistol. [All references to Shakespeare’s text are to George Lyman Kittredge’s The Complete Works of Shakespeare, 1936.] One can hardly say of plays which fall so neatly into two actions and two spheres of influence that the form of either action is basic and the form of the other is the exception. Between the two worlds lies a huge and fundamental opposition, but each is autonomous within itself; Pistol’s verse in the Boar’s Head tavern is burlesque, not a sadly distorted recollection that the ‘‘serious business’’ of the play is going on elsewhere in verse. Falstaff is Shakespeare’s most brilliant speaker of comic prose, as Hamlet is his most gifted speaker of a prose which defies categories. But why does Falstaff speak prose? This may seem an idle question: Falstaff is a clown, although a nobleman, and must therefore speak prose; he must, furthermore, represent ‘‘the whole world’’ that Hal has to banish before he can become England’s Harry, and Falstaff must therefore be opposed in every conceivable way to the world of high action and noble verse in which Hal is destined to move. But beyond all this, Falstaff speaks prose because it is inconceivable that he should speak anything else . . . Burlesque [a form of comedy, typically mockery or ridiculous exaggeration] lies near the heart of Shakespearean comedy, from The Comedy of Errors to As You Like It. In the two Henry IV plays, the Falstaff-plot offers the broadest conceivable burlesque on the serious action. Falstaff derides the chivalric ideal, the forms of noble behavior, the law itself; he robs the travelers, suffers himself to be robbed in turn without fighting, and at last lies grossly and complacently about the whole affair and is totally unabashed at being found out. He is an unrepentant sinner, and, notwithstanding, is handsomely rewarded for his evil life until the moment of his banishment. He is a particularly noisome stench in the nostrils of the godly. His burlesque of their world is conducted on every plane: he robs them, flouts their ideals, and corrupts their prince. And, because he is in such constant opposition to their world, it is only fitting that he should never really speak its language. The powerful contrast is expressed on the

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THE DRAMATIC POINT OF THE SCENE IS WELL MADE AND THE MAIN ACTION IS APPRECIABLY ADVANCED. BUT AT THE SIDE, AND ATTEMPTING ALWAYS TO INTRUDE, IS FALSTAFF, AND WHEN THE REST HAVE LEFT, HE HAS THE STAGE ENTIRELY TO HIMSELF.’’

level of speech as on every other, and thus Falstaff speaks prose because of what he represents as well as what he is. Most of the characters can be assigned easily enough to one group or the other—Hal’s position remaining always ambiguous—but Hotspur’s case is somewhat odd. He accepts the code completely; he is honor’s fool, and is killed for it. But he is a very downright man, whose hard and realistic common sense makes him impatient with both poetry and milk-and-water oaths; language must speak clearly, directly, and forcefully, or he will have none of it. It is therefore inevitable that he should speak the very best of language, and that especially in verse. His verse is so hard, colloquial, and simple that he really has no need for prose. George Rylands [in Words and Poetry, 1928] says that Hotspur’s speech marks an important stage in the development of Shakespeare’s verse style, a stage at which Shakespeare incorporated into his verse many of the qualities of his prose. And yet one feels that Shakespeare must have known what he was about when he made Hotspur speak much more verse than prose. Hotspur belongs, after all, to the world of the knights, and he must speak their idiom even if only to mock them in it. Occasionally he uses prose, and very well, as in the prose letter in II, iii—a furious stream of prose: letter, comment, and vituperation, all well jumbled together. But as soon as Lady Percy enters, we have verse dialogue. The prose of this first long monologue should perhaps be put down to a combination of conventional epistolary prose and the dramatic necessity for continuing the letter scene in prose, even after the reading of the letter is finished. In III, i, where Hotspur taunts and enrages the fiery Glendower, he begins in broken verse:

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Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down? And uncle Worcester. A plague upon it! I have forgot the map. (III, i, 3–5) Glendower’s reply has been rearranged as most irregular verse by Pope from the prose of the Quartos. Hotspur’s next speech is in prose, whereas Glendower at once breaks into the pompous, inflated verse so characteristic of him. Hotspur then varies between prose and verse; the length of the individual speech appears to be the only determinant. Thus he says at first: Why, so it would have done at the same season, if your mother’s cat had but kitten’d, though yourself had never been born. (18–20). But, a moment later, he goes on: And I say the earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook. ... O, then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity. Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth Is with a kind of colic pinch’d and vex’d By the imprisoning of unruly wind Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldame earth and topples down Steeples and mossgrown towers. At your birth Our grandam earth, having this distemp’rature, In passion shook. (22–23, 25–34) After Glendower’s reply, Hotspur returns to prose for a two-line retort, and, a little later, speaks verse again. Hotspur’s prose in this scene appears to be restricted to short gibes, whereas he speaks verse when he becomes aroused. He uses prose again, briefly, toward the end of the scene, when he jokes with his wife and reproaches her for her genteel swearing. It is difficult to assign any specifc reason for this prose, largely because of the general uncertainty of media in this passage. (227–265) Hotspur speaks prose, then verse, then prose again; after the Welsh lady’s song, Hotspur’s protest against


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his lady’s ‘‘in good sooth’’ begins in prose and drops suddenly into verse. His last speech is again in prose . . . The Prince, in general, takes his cue from his company, speaking prose in the tavern and verse in the court with equal facility. His one violation of this division is, consequently, all the more striking. He enters in V, iii, to find Falstaff moralizing over the corpse of Sir Walter Blunt. Hal is now no longer the boon companion, but the variant knight, and reproves Falstaff in straightforward verse. Falstaff replies with a jest in prose, and the rest of the scene—a matter of a half-dozen speeches—is wound up in prose. But Falstaff himself has brought his prose into a verse scene, one of noble words and deeds, and he has used Sir Walter’s ‘‘grinning honour’’ as a telling proof of his conclusions in his own catechism of honor. The scene thus contains a double contrast between prose and verse, and the old use of prose and verse characters within a single scene is here given a new and effective turn. In V, i, Falstaff is for the first time brought into the world of the court, and at once sets about his favorite task of deriding it. Worcester pleads his innocence, and to the King’s ironic question about the rebellion, ‘‘You have not sought it! How comes it then?’’ (V, i, 27), Falstaff interjects a reply: ‘‘Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it.’’ Only Hal’s injunction to remain quiet keeps Falstaff from making further comments on the action of the scene. He must needs hold his peace until the nobles have left, but immediately thereafter rediscovers his vein. Hal is short with him, for he is keenly aware of the seriousness of the situation. And so Falstaff must wait for even Hal to leave before he can make his most devastating comment on the ideals of a world he so ambiguously serves. Shakespeare was too keen a dramatist not to have understood that the most powerful impression a scene creates in the mind of an audience is the final one. The first scene of Act V begins with King Henry, Worcester and the rest; but it ends with Falstaff. The dramatic point of the scene is well made and the main action is appreciably advanced. But at the side, and attempting always to intrude, is Falstaff, and when the rest have left, he has the stage entirely to himself. The net effect is produced not by the heroics of the nobles, but by the cynical realism of Falstaff. This is not to say that Falstaff dominates the play as he dominates this scene; as Professor Van Doren has well

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expressed it [in Shakespeare, 1939]: ‘‘History is enlarged here to make room for taverns and trollops and potations of sack, and the heroic drama is modified by gigantic mockery, by the roared voice of truth; but the result is more rather than less reality, just as a cathedral, instead of being demolished by merriment among its aisles, stands more august.’’ Hal must, as he says, ‘‘imitate the sun,’’ and Falstaff’s charm must be made so great as to convince the spectator that Hal’s enjoyment of low life is not caused by a natural preference for the stew or the alehouse. But so charming (to use the word strictly) is Falstaff that Hal’s necessary renunciation of him cannot be anything but priggish . . . Source: Milton Crane, ‘‘Shakespeare: The Comedies,’’ in Shakespeare’s Prose, University of Chicago Press, 1951, pp. 66–127.

Shakespeare, edited by B. W. Jackson, Gage, 1965, pp. 30–50. Lawlor, John, ‘‘Appearance and Reality,’’ in Tragic Sense in Shakespeare, Chatto & Windus, 1960, pp. 17–44. Martin, R. A., ‘‘Metatheater, Gender, and Subjectivity in Richard II and Henry IV, Part I,’’ in Comparative Drama, Vol. 23, No. 3, Fall 1989, pp. 255–64. McAlindon, Tom, ‘‘Perfect Answers: Religious Inquisition, Falstaffian Wit,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 54, 2001, pp. 100–07. McDonald, Russ, ‘‘The Monarchs,’’ in The Bedford Companion to Shakespeare, 2nd ed., Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001, p. 313. Morgann, Maurice, ‘‘An Essay on the Dramatic Character of Sir John Falstaff,’’ in Shakespearian Criticism, edited by Daniel A. Fineman, Clarendon Press, 1972, p. 444. Norwich, John Julius, Shakespeare’s Kings, Scribner, 1999. Reno, Raymond, ‘‘Hotspur: The Integration of Character and Theme,’’ in Renaissance Papers, April 1962, pp. 17–26. Rogers, Carmen, ‘‘The Renaissance Code of Honor in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part I,’’ in The Shakespeare Newsletter, Vol. 4, No. 1, February 1954, p. 8.

SOURCES Bennett, Robert B., ‘‘Hal’s Crisis of Timing,’’ in Cahiers Elisabethans, No. 13, April 1978, pp. 15–23.

Rowse, A. L., ‘‘The First Part of King Henry IV,’’ in Prefaces to Shakespeare’s Plays, Orbis, 1984, pp. 49–53.

Bevington, David, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Henry IV, Part 1, by William Shakespeare, Oxford University Press, 1987, pp. 1–122.

Shakespeare, William, The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, edited by Howard Staunton, 1858, reprint, Park Lane, 1979.

Bueler, Lois, ‘‘Falstaff in the Eye of the Beholder,’’ in Essays in Literature, Vol. 1, No. 1, January 1973, pp. 1–12.

———, Henry IV, Part 1, edited by David Bevington, Oxford University Press, 1987.

Callahan, E. F., ‘‘Lyric Origins of the Unity of 1 Henry IV,’’ Costerus, Vol. 3, 1972, pp. 9–22.

Siegel, Paul N., ‘‘Shakespeare and the Neo-Chivalric Cult of Honor,’’ in Centennial Review, Vol. 8, 1964, pp. 39–70.

Cohen, Derek, ‘‘The Rite of Violence in 1 Henry IV,’’ Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 38, 1985, pp. 77–84.

Sjoberg, Elisa, ‘‘From Madcap Prince to King: The Evolution of Prince Hal,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 20, No. 1, Winter 1969, pp. 11–6.

Cox, Gerard H. ‘‘‘Like a Prince Indeed’: Hal’s Triumph of Honor in 1 Henry IV,’’ in Pageantry in the Shakespearean Theater, edited by David M. Bergeron, University of Georgia Press, 1985, pp. 130–49. Cruttwell, Patrick, The Shakespearean Moment and Its Place in the Poetry of the Seventeenth Century, Chatto & Windus, 1954, pp. 27–8.

Traub, Valerie, ‘‘Prince Hal’s Falstaff: Positioning Psychoanalysis and the Female Reproductive Body,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 40, No. 4, Winter 1989, pp. 456–74. Vickers, Brian, The Artistry of Shakespeare’s Prose, Methuen, 1968, pp. 1–51, 89–141.

Dickinson, Hugh, ‘‘The Reformation of Prince Hal,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 12, No. 1, Winter 1961, pp. 33–46.

Wikander, Matthew H., ‘‘The Protean Prince Hal,’’ in Comparative Drama, Vol. 26, No. 4, Winter 1992–1993, pp. 295–311.

Goddard, Harold C., ‘‘Henry IV,’’ in The Meaning of Shakespeare, University of Chicago Press, 1951, pp. 161–214.

Wilson, John Dover, ‘‘The Political Background of Shakespeare’s Richard II and Henry IV,’’ in Shakespeare Jahrbuch, Vol. 75, 1939, pp. 36–51.

Gross, Alan Gerald, ‘‘The Justification of Prince Hal,’’ in Texas Studies in Literature and Language, Vol. 10, No. 1, Spring 1978, pp. 27–35.

———, The Fortunes of Falstaff, Cambridge University Press, 1964, p. 143.

Humphreys, A. R. ‘‘Shakespeare’s Political Justice in Richard II and Henry IV,’’ in Stratford Papers on

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Zeeveld, Gordon, ‘‘‘‘Food for Powder’—‘Food for Worms?’’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 3, 1952, pp. 249–53.

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FURTHER READING Bevan, Bryan, Henry IV, Palgrave Macmillan, 1994. Bevan provides a book-length treatment of the life of King Henry IV, addressing his virtues as well as his faults. Cooper, Terry D., Sin, Pride & Self-Acceptance: The Problem of Identity in Theology and Psychology, InterVarsity Press, 2003. In a work that bears relevance to the various psychological states Hal may have experienced over the course of his life, Cooper addresses the notion of how pride can lead a person to imagine an idealized self that can be difficult to develop in actuality.


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Forrest, Ian, The Detection of Heresy in Late Medieval England, Oxford University Press, 2005. Addressing the case of John Oldcastle among many others, Forrest examines the notion of heresy in England in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries and the way it was addressed by church and state authorities. Valente, Claire, The Theory and Practice of Revolt in Medieval England, Ashgate Publishing, 2003. In this text, Valente explores the various rebellions that occurred in England from the thirteenth through the fifteenth centuries, including the one by which Henry IV rose to power as well as the one he faced from the Percys and their supporters.

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Henry V 1599

As a tribute to the king who won back the throne of France for England, William Shakespeare’s Henry V may be narrow in scope, but it is great in majesty. This epic play was probably written sometime between March and early September in 1599. However, there is no record of a performance of Henry V before January 7, 1605, when it was presented at court by the King’s Majesty’s Players. The play is often referred to as a vehicle for inspiring patriotism, which well might have been the case in Shakespeare’s time. Even in 1944, during the Second World War, the British actor Laurence Olivier directed a fresh version of Henry V, adapting the play to film to encourage British troops. In the drama, audiences watch the fictionalized character of King Henry V lead his troops across the English Channel to face a French army that is better equipped and at least five times larger in number. The battle at Agincourt is the central action of the play, and the results are astonishing. Most modern critics maintain that there is strong evidence that Shakespeare consulted both Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotlande, and Irelande (1577; 1587) and Edward Hall’s The Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Famelies of Lancastre and York (2d ed., 1548) as sources for Henry V. Commentators note that such passages as Canterbury’s speech explaining Salic law in act 1, scene 2 is a paraphrase in verse of Holinshed’s narrative of this episode, with only slight variations from the original. On the other

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hand, Shakespeare makes no reference to many events that appear in Holinshed’s and Hall’s accounts of the reign of Henry V. In addition, the dramatist implies only a short passage of time between the battle at Agincourt and the achievement of a treaty with France, when in fact the two were separated by a period of nearly four years. A lost and anonymous play from the 1580s, The Famous Victories of Henry the Fifth, survives only in a corrupt edition of 1598, so that it has proved difficult to determine the degree of Shakespeare’s familiarity with this work. However, several critics have noticed parallels between Shakespeare’s Henry V and The Famous Victories, including similarities in structure, the prominence in each of the Dauphin’s gift of tennis balls to Henry, and the inclusion in both works of a wooing scene between Henry and Katherine. Henry V has been praised by many scholars as an energetic portrayal of one of England’s most popular national heroes. While the central issue for critics has been the character of the king and whether he represents Shakespeare’s ideal ruler, modern commentary has increasingly explored both Henry’s positive and negative attributes. Although the personality of the king has attracted a significant amount of discussion, commentators have also shown renewed interest in Shakespeare’s attitude toward patriotism and war, his use of language and imagery, the absence of Falstaff, a lovable rascal who played an important part in Shakespeare’s Henry IV, and the play’s epic elements, particularly Shakespeare’s use of the Chorus.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Prologue Shakespeare opens his play Henry V with a Chorus (in most productions a single person), who announces that this grand play, with its wars and open fields, powerful characters and armies of men, is unfortunately confined to a small wooden stage. In order to capture the magnitude of the actions and circumstances surrounding the great figure of Henry V, the Chorus asks that the audience generously use its imagination to fill in the missing elements.

Act 1, Scene 1 The first scene opens in England, in the king’s court. The first characters to appear are the


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Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop of Ely, announcing, through their dialogue, that King Henry is planning on passing a bill that will take much of the church’s wealth away. The king wants to use the excess money that the church enjoyed to finance a war and feed the poor. The powerful clergymen have hatched a plan that they hope will go over well with the king. They will offer to finance Henry’s war with France. This will obviously cost them a lot less money; and the war will distract the king, they hope, from going forward with his plan to limit the wealth of the church.

Act 1, Scene 2 The king is in his throne room with his advisers. He calls for the Archbishop of Canterbury, who enters the room. Before the archbishop begins to talk, Henry reminds him of the huge responsibility that hangs over his head. Henry wants to hear the argument that the archbishop has come up with that gives Henry the right to claim the throne of France. If the archbishop can make an educated and rational argument to support that right, Henry is willing to go to war with France to claim the crown and the territory. In a very complicated explanation, the archbishop describes the lineage of the French throne, which, according to what the French call the Salic law (Salic refers to an ancient Frankish tribe), cannot be passed down through the mother. This is why the French deny that Henry is the rightful heir to the French throne, since he is claiming it through his great-great grandmother. This is the French view. The English do not honor such a law. The archbishop gives the council a brief account of the long history of the kings and queens of the French court and concludes that even the French do not fully apply the Salic law to the royal lineage, and therefore Henry’s claim is as good as the current French king’s, Charles VI. But the only way Henry can claim the throne is through battle. Although the church is offering to pay for the war, Henry is concerned that if he and his army leave England, rebels in Scotland, who want to take the English throne away from Henry, will invade the country. Therefore the archbishop suggests that Henry take only a small portion of his army to France and leave the larger portion to guard the homeland. The council agrees.

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Soldiers are selling their land to buy horses. But there is also a warning. The French have found three men, whom they have paid, to kill King Henry. The three men are Richard, Earl of Cambridge, Henry, Lord Scroop of Masham, and Sir Thomas Grey, knight of Northumberland.

Act 2, Scene 1 In a poor section of London, Bardolph and Nym, men who used to hang out with Sir John Falstaff and young Henry, before Henry became king, are sitting in the Boar’s Head Tavern. Mistress Quickly, who is referred to as Hostess because she runs the tavern, and Pistol enter. Nym pulls out his sword. He is angry that Mistress Quickly has married Pistol, for Nym had once asked Quickly to marry him. Bardolph breaks up the fight. The men talk about going to war. Then Falstaff’s servant boy comes to call them to Falstaff’s room. The boy says Falstaff is dying. Quickly says the king has broken Falstaff’s heart. Once Henry became king, he cut off his friendship with these men.

Act 2, Scene 2

Henry V, King of England

Then Henry calls for the delegation that has come from France. Representatives of the king of France and his son, called the Dauphin, come into the room. They have brought a symbolic gift from the Dauphin. It turns out to be a small chest of tennis balls, a symbol of Henry’s socalled reckless youth. The Dauphin’s message is that Henry is too immature to be successful in his attempt to claim the throne. This outrages Henry, who tells the messengers that the Dauphin has made a grave mistake in underestimating and mocking him. He says to tell the Dauphin that the Dauphin’s wit will not be enough to make his own people laugh when Henry’s army ravages France’s villages. After the messengers leave, Henry makes the final decision to invade France.

Act 2, Prologue The Chorus announces that all the men of England are afire with their zest to go to war.

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In Southampton, Henry and his troops are about to set sail for France. Bedford, Exeter, and Westmorland discuss the fact that the king knows about the three traitors. The king enters with Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey (the traitors) and asks the three of them for their advice about another man who was heard talking against the king. Henry, setting them up, says he thinks this man should be excused because he was drunk at the time. But the three traitors tell the king that the man must be punished. Then, leading the traitors to believe that he is praising them, Henry gives each one a letter, saying that he is well aware of their worth. The men open the letters, discovering that the king knows of their plot to kill him. Henry asks what kind of punishment they think they deserve. Then he tells them that they will pay with their lives. After the men are taken away, Henry says that having found them out before they could kill him is a sign that fortune is on England’s side.

Act 2, Scene 3 This is a brief scene that takes place back in London. Hostess announces that Falstaff is dead. Nym, Bardolph, and Pistol all mourn him. Then Pistol kisses his wife good-bye, and the men, including Falstaff’s boy, go off to join the rest of the army.

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Act 2, Scene 4 In France, King Charles VI, his son, the Dauphin, and the king’s advisers discuss the impending confrontation with England. The Dauphin thinks King Henry is a fool, coming to France. He wants to fight the English forces, believing that France will take them down easily. King Charles and the Constable of France, however, disagree. They have heard that Henry’s armies are strong and that Henry himself is greatly changed, no longer the irresponsible youth that the Dauphin still believes Henry to be. King Charles reminds his son that Henry is the descendant of King Edward, the Black Prince of Wales, who once ravaged France. King Henry is now in France and sends one of his noblemen, Exeter, to deliver a message to King Charles. Exeter tells King Charles to abdicate the throne and crown in favor of Henry. King Charles asks what will happen if he does not. Exeter tells him that his country will fall in ruins.

Act 3, Prologue The Chorus describes how swiftly England’s forces sailed to France and landed at Harfleur on the French coast. King Charles sends a message that he will not give Henry the throne, but he will turn over some dukedoms to Henry and will give him his daughter, Katherine, as a wife. Henry refuses the offer.

Act 3, Scene 1 King Henry delivers a long speech to his men, arousing them to take the city of Harfleur. He explains that in peacetime men act with humility but when the horns of warfare blow, they must rise to the occasion and become wild and fierce creatures. They must rid themselves of their fair natures and fill themselves with rage. Then he sends them forth to battle.

Act 3, Scene 2 Nym, Pistol, and Bardolph, after hearing King Henry’s speech, wish they were back in England. Fluellen, a Welsh captain, enters and reprimands the men, pushing them forward with his sword into the battle. Only Falstaff’s boy is left behind. He talks to the audience, saying that he does not want to grow up to be like Nym, Pistol, or Bardolph, who have tried to teach him to steal. Fluellen returns with Captain Gower. The soldiers discuss the mines, or the tunnels, that


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the English have dug to gain access to Harfleur. There is a discussion of the different cultures of the Irish, the Scots, and the English. Fluellen criticizes Captain Macmorris, a Scot, who is, according to Fluellen, building the tunnels incorrectly. Fluellen prefers Jamy, an Irishman. Macmorris appears with Jamy. All the men discuss their different military tactics and their philosophies. The discussion becomes heated, but the men quickly come back to their senses. They have an actual war to fight.

Act 3, Scene 3 Before the gates of Harfleur, horns are sounded, signaling a wish for a cease-fire from the local French leaders of Harfleur. Henry calls out to the mayor of the town, telling him to surrender. If the mayor allows the English soldiers entry to the town, the people will live, Henry tells him. If the mayor insists that the English continue fighting, the old people’s heads will be bashed, the wives will be raped, the babies will be impaled. The mayor, telling Henry that the Dauphin has sent word that he cannot get a French army to Harfleur, reluctantly surrenders. King Henry tells Exeter to secure the town. Henry will allow his men to rest, then they will march to Calais, and English-held territory.

Act 3, Scene 4 At the French palace, Katherine, the daughter of King Charles, is having a conversation with her lady-in-waiting, Alice. The curious thing about this scene is that it is mostly spoken in French. Katherine is asking Alice to tell her how to say certain words in English, such as hand, fingers, nails, neck, and chin. This is a playful scene and the audience’s first glimpse of Katherine, the daughter the king had earlier used as a ploy to talk King Henry out of attacking villages in France. This scene contrasts with the previous battle scene and the bloody fight that waits ahead.

Act 3, Scene 5 The scene moves to a council room in the French palace. King Charles, the Dauphin, the Constable, and the Duke of Bourbon are discussing King Henry’s advance into France. They define themselves as being more refined than the English, referring to the English as barbarous and savage. But they also wonder where the English army gets its strength. The Dauphin comments that the French women are laughing at the

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French lords, saying that they have lost their valor and gallantry and that the women will breed with the English soldiers to bring strength back into the French population. King Charles, who has been reluctant to fully engage in war, changes his mind. He calls on all the lords of France to gather their men and prepare to meet the English on the battlefield. However, the French underestimate the power of Henry. The Constable states he feels sorry for King Henry and his men, who are tired and unprepared for the punishment that France is about to bestow on them. As the men leave, the French king, for some reason, tells the Dauphin to remain behind, to stay with him, telling him to be patient.

Act 3, Scene 6 The English forces have camped at Picardy. They have captured a significant bridge and are thankful. Fluellen and Gower are talking. Gower is telling Fluellen that one of the men, Pistol, wants to talk to him. Pistol comes in and asks Fluellen to forgive a crime that has been committed. Bardolph has been caught stealing from one of the local churches. Fluellen will have nothing to do with the pardon. It is the rule of the king. Fluellen believes Bardolph needs to be used as an example. King Henry appears and talks with Fluellen, asking how many casualties the army has suffered. Fluellen says only one, the man who is about to be hanged for thievery. Montjoy appears, a messenger from the French king. Montjoy tells King Henry that King Charles is ready to go to war. The French king, through Montjoy, explains that he has lost all patience and is ready to punish the English army for all the harm it has done. Henry, the French king states, should consider his ransom to the French court. This means that the French are asking Henry to turn himself in as a prisoner. At the end of Montjoy’s message is a statement that, in essence, King Henry has condemned his men to death. King Henry, although he knows his men are tired and weak and that the French army will outnumber them greatly, does not give in. Instead, he sends Montjoy back to the French court with a defiant message. First Henry says that in every English soldier there is the strength of three of the French. Then Henry apologizes for bragging. He decides to use another tactic.

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He tells Montjoy how broken and beaten his men are; and yet the army will move forward. Henry says he is not seeking a battle but if it comes, he and his men will face it. After Montjoy leaves, Gloucester tells Henry that he hopes the French army will not come. Henry tells him that they are in God’s hands, not in the hands of the French.

Act 3, Scene 7 In this scene, the audience sees the French army camped at Agincourt. The Constable, the Dauphin, Lord Rambures, and the Duke of Orleans are there. They are discussing how solid their armor is, how strong their horses are. Then they brag about how many English soldiers they will kill the next day. After the Dauphin leaves, the Constable says that he thinks the Dauphin is weak. The Dauphin had talked about how many English he would kill, but the Constable thinks the Dauphin will kill no one. Then the French soldiers insult the English, insisting that if King Henry really understood his fate, he would run away with his men that night. The French are so confident that they make jokes about the battle which will begin in the morning. The French army is so much bigger than the English, the sheer numbers alone make the battle look like it will be a disaster for the English.

Act 4, Prologue The Chorus provides an overview of the two different camps—the overly confident French nobility as opposed to the English army, which is mostly common men who expect this may well be their last night of life. The Chorus also mentions how King Henry walks through the camp, talking to each soldier as if he were a brother, cheering his men, inspiring them to face the next day bravely.

Act 4, Scene 1 In the English camp, Henry greets Bedford and Gloucester, reminding them that since the odds are against them in this battle, they need to rouse all their courage. Henry then goes about the camp, not allowing anyone to see his face, talking to his men to find out what they are thinking on the night before the great battle. He first runs into Pistol. Despite the fact that just a little earlier, Henry condemned Bardolph to death, Pistol remains true to the king. Later, Henry speaks to

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other men about who is responsible for the casualties of a war. The men say the responsibility lies with the king, as do the casualties. Henry disagrees. He says the war is the king’s responsibility, but each soldier is responsible for his life. In the end, the men agree. But they hold onto the belief that the king will allow himself to be ransomed, thus saving his own life. The soldiers will not be as fortunate, they say. Henry disagrees, saying that he believes the king will never ransom himself. Henry then prays that his men be instilled with courage.

Act 4, Scene 2 This is a brief scene at the French camp as the sun rises and the noblemen prepare for battle. They are still very arrogant, believing themselves so strong they merely have to blow on the English troops to be rid of them. The Dauphin even offers to send the English army food and new suits before the French fight them.

Act 4, Scene 3 The English have viewed the field and know they are outnumbered by five to one. Henry enters and turns this to their favor by stating that if they win, being so outnumbered, the greater the glory will be. Henry delivers a long, uplifting speech about how, if they outlive this day, the battle will mark them as heroes for the rest of their lives. Montjoy appears once more, offering Henry another chance to turn himself over for ransom. Henry sends Montjoy away.

Act 4, Scene 4 The battle has begun. Pistol fights with a French soldier, who begs for his life and promises Pistol some money. Pistol agrees. Falstaff’s boy is there and sees what Pistol has just done. He claims that Bardolph and Nym were much braver and more valiant than Pistol.

Act 4, Scene 5 This is a scene of the battle from the French point of view, with the French nobles announcing that they have been shamed by the English army.

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Act 4, Scene 7 Some of the English soldiers discover the slaughtered bodies of all the young English boy servants. Henry enters, enraged by the death of the boys. As Henry is ordering that more French throats be cut, Montjoy appears announcing that the battle has been won by the English.

Act 4, Scene 8 The English count the dead and those imprisoned. Exeter says that there are at least 1500 prisoners. A messenger tells Henry that there are ten thousand dead French soldiers. The messenger names the English nobles who are dead. There are four. Among the common men, there are only twenty-five that have been lost. God, Henry claims, as do his men, was on their side.

Act 5, Scene Prologue The Chorus fills in the missing scenes between the end of the battle and the next scene at the French palace. Henry returns to England after the battle at Agincourt. He is welcomed as a hero but disallows a parade to celebrate the victory, playing down his role as warrior king. Time passes, and Henry returns to France.

Act 5, Scene 1 Fluellen and Pistol argue and throw insults at one another. When Pistol is left alone, he mentions that he has heard that the Hostess, his wife, is dead. He bemoans his bad fate.

Act 5, Scene 2 At the French palace, King Henry and King Charles meet. They sign an agreement that will ensure peace between the two countries. King Henry allows King Charles to retain the throne, but demands Katherine as his wife. In this way, their child will inherit the thrones of both countries. Henry and Katherine struggle through the language barriers as Henry tries to get Katherine to agree to marry him. She finally does so.

Act 4, Scene 6

Act 5, Epilogue

King Henry and Exeter discuss the death of two of their men. When Henry sees the French soldiers regrouping, he orders that all the French prisoners be killed.

The Chorus tells of the birth of a son to Katherine and Henry. He will become Henry VI, and he will lose France and put England at war again.


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will be responsible, at Agincourt, the king tells one of his soldiers that the king is not responsible for lives, exposing a contradiction in Shakespeare’s work or in the character of Henry.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Bardolph

Henry V was adapted to film and starred famed British actor Laurence Olivier, who also directed this classic piece in a very innovative manner, giving its audience a sense of what the play might have looked like, in part, in the sixteenth century. It is available from Paramount and produced in 1944 but is well ahead of its time. Henry V was produced by the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) in 1979 as part of the ‘‘Shakespeare Plays’’ series. It is available from Ambrose Video Publishing. Kenneth Branagh, who has starred in many of Shakespeare’s dramas, plays the lead role in a 1989 production of Henry V distributed by CBS/Fox Video. Branagh also directed this adaptation.

Bardolph, a commoner, is a character taken from Henry IV, a friend of Falstaff’s and therefore part of the group that Prince Hal (King Henry in his youth) used to hang out with. In Henry V, Bardolph continues to befriend Nym and Pistol and is present when Falstaff dies. Bardolph goes to France with King Henry, but is hung for stealing from a French church. His death represents a definitive sign that King Henry has turned away from the rabble-rousers of his past and has matured into his role as king. Bardolph explicitly broke one of the king’s rules, and Henry would not save him from hanging.

John Bates Bates is a common soldier in the English army. He is one of the men who talks with Henry the night before the battle at Agincourt, as the king wanders throughout the camp disguised.

Bishop of Ely The role of the bishop is not developed in this play. He is present, mostly just to give the archbishop someone to talk to. The bishop asks questions of the archbishop so as to provide more detailed information for the audience.

CHARACTERS Alice Alice is the lady-in-waiting, attending Katherine. Because she has been to England and has some familiarity with the language, Alice serves as Katherine’s instructor and interpreter. Her only spoken lines occur in act 3, scene 4, a light-hearted scene, which is mostly spoken in French.

Archbishop of Canterbury In order to keep the church’s land and fortunes, the archbishop conceives a plan. He interprets the Salic law in such a way that it proves that King Henry has a rightful claim to the French throne. The archbishop tells Henry that the church will pay for the war against France, thus taking Henry’s mind off a bill he was considering that would have diminished the church’s fortunes. The king, in turn, warns the archbishop to be very sure of his interpretation, as many lives may be lost based on his words. Although Henry tells the archbishop that he

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King Charles VI Though it is not indicated in this play, Shakespeare’s audience knew that King Charles VI of France was called the mad king. His feebleness might have been one of the reasons that King Henry decides to invade France, that and the incompetence of King Charles’s son, the Dauphin. King Charles is also the father of Katherine, whom King Henry marries. King Charles is reluctant to do battle with the English forces until they near Agincourt. When he does give the order, the constable salutes the king with the phrase, ‘‘This becomes the great.’’ This makes clear that the French nobles are anxious to do battle and are glad that the king finally commits to it.

Chorus The Chorus presents either a preview, summation, or conclusion of the dramatic action in the play. The Chorus’s lines are written in blank

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The Duke of Alencon crouching in defeat to Henry V at the Battle of Agincourt (Mansell/Mansell/Time and Life Pictures/Getty Images)

verse and begin each of the acts, filling in information or setting the scene when the staged presentations are limited. Whereas the action of the play takes a realistic approach to the characters and their actions, the Chorus is more idealistic, possibly representing what the English audience wants to believe, while the dramatic action is Shakespeare’s interpretation of what actually happened. Some critics have called the Chorus some of Shakespeare’s worst writing, filled with common phrases, or platitudes, rather than Shakespeare’s normally high standard of poetry.

Alexander Court Court is a common soldier in the English army. Court has only one line in the play, pointing out the rising sun. This one line, however, signals the tension the English are experiencing on the morning of the battle.

calm down the Dauphin who is overly emotional and often blinded as to King Henry’s power. The constable is killed at the battle of Agincourt.

Duke of Bedford The Duke of Bedford is a minor character who makes brief appearances in the beginning of the play. He is one of Henry’s brothers.

Duke of Berry The Duke of Berry is one of the dukes that the French king sends to meet King Henry’s men at Harfleur.

Duke of Bourbon Bourbon is one of the leaders of the French army at the Battle of Agincourt.

Charles Delabreth, Constable of France The constable is probably the most effective of the French noblemen surrounding the king of France. He is level-headed and attempts to


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Duke of Britain The Duke of Britain is ordered by the French king to stop King Henry’s soldiers.

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Duke of Burgundy

Earl of Westmorland

The Duke of Burgundy is French, but he helps Henry V establish power in France by acknowledging Henry’s right to the French throne at the end of the play.

The Earl of Westmorland is an adviser of Henry’s who encourages the king to fight for the crown of France.

Sir Thomas Erpingham Duke of Clarence Clarence is another of Henry’s brothers. He plays a minor role.

Duke of Exeter Exeter is Henry’s uncle and the half-brother of Henry IV. Throughout the play, Exeter is at Henry’s side, advising him, supporting him, following him throughout the play. It is Exeter that Henry sends to meet with the French king when the English land in France.

Duke of Gloucester Gloucester is another of Henry’s brothers. He appears at the Battle of Agincourt and worries about the French. It is to Gloucester that Henry says the results of the battle are in God’s hands, not in the hands of the French.

Duke of Orleans Orleans is a leader of the French army at the Battle of Agincourt. Orleans is one of the characters that demonstrate the arrogance of the French on the night before the battle.

Erpingham is an English officer in Henry’s army. When he and the king are preparing to go to bed in the camp before the Agincourt Battle, Erpingham says it is one of the few times that he can say that he goes to bed like a king.

Captain Fluellen Fluellen is a Welsh captain in the English army. Fluellen helps overtake the French city of Harfleur and helps the king keep discipline among the men. It is to Fluellen that Pistol appeals for Bardolph’s life when Bardolph is caught stealing from a church in France.

Governor of Harfleur After failing to receive help from the Dauphin, the governor yields his city to the English, who occupy it and defend it against the French.

Captain Gower Gower is an English officer in Henry’s army. He is often seen with Fluellen in the battle camp scenes in France.

Sir Thomas Grey

Duke of York The Duke of York is one of Henry’s men. He appears in act 4 and asks to lead one section of Henry’s army.

Grey is one of the three English traitors, along with Cambridge and Scroop. He has conspired with the French against the life of Henry V. Grey is sentenced to death.

Earl of Grandpre´

King Henry V

The Earl of Grandpre´ is with the French army as it prepares to fight at Agincourt. He is impatient with the constable and wants to begin the battle immediately.

King Henry is known as Prince Hal in Henry IV. But in this play, Henry has matured and has recently acquired the title of king. He is concerned about gaining his subjects’ loyalty and decides to wage war on France in order to claim the throne in France and to quiet rebellion at home.

Earl of Huntingdon The Earl of Huntingdon is a British nobleman who helps to command the battle at Agincourt.

Earl of Salisbury The Earl of Salisbury appears in act 5 with Henry V’s men as they fight the French army.

Earl of Warwick The Earl of Warwick is a British nobleman who is one of Henry’s advisers.

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Shakespeare demonstrates that Henry is a complex creature who has many facets to his personality. He can forgive a threat to his life and yet threaten to kill babies. He humbles himself to God and yet massacres French prisoners. He leads a small army to battle against a large, well-equipped French army and then softly woos Katherine. As usual, Shakespeare leaves it up to the audience to decide just who Henry might have been.

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However, Henry is a complicated character whom many audiences cannot figure out. But most agree, after seeing this play, that Shakespeare shows him to be a great military leader who delivers many speeches that have been praised as some of the best in all of Shakespeare’s plays.

Henry, Lord Scroop of Masham Henry is one of the three English traitors, along with Cambridge and Grey. Scroop was at one time close to the king, which makes Henry especially disgusted with him. In the scene in which the traitors are caught and sentenced to death, Henry calls Scroop an inhuman savage.

Queen Isabel The Queen of France is King Charles’s wife and the Dauphin’s and Katherine’s mother.

Captain Jamy Jamy is a Scottish captain in the English army. Jamy, Fluellen, and Macmorris are instrumental in the capture of the city of Harfleur.

Princess Katherine Katherine is the daughter of King Charles and Queen Isabel. She appears only twice. She is seen with her lady-in-waiting as she tries to learn English and then again at the end of the play when she meets with King Henry. Eventually Katherine marries Henry to restore peace to France and unite the two countries. Although it does not occur in the play, the Chorus does announce that Katherine gives birth to a son (who eventually becomes King Henry VI). Shakespeare creates her character as a witty and intelligent woman who is shy in front of the king, mostly because of their language barriers and their different customs, such as when Henry wants to kiss her and she must refuse. Her role is very small in this play, possibly reflecting the fact that she and Henry were not married very long before Henry’s death and he was gone at war most of that time. There were also rumors that Katherine had an affair with another man in Henry’s absence, so Shakespeare may have decided that their love was not strong enough to warrant dramatic scenes inspired by it.

Monsieur le Fer Monsieur le Fer, a French soldier, appears in act 4 with Pistol. The French soldier gives money to Pistol in order to save his own life.


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Louis, The Dauphin The Dauphin (also referred to as the Dolphin) is the eldest son of King Charles and Queen Isabel. The Dauphin constantly overestimates himself and underestimates Henry V and the English army, with disastrous consequences for the French. He is arrogant and frivolous. He claims, right before the Battle at Agincourt, that he will kill many English soldiers. However, the French nobles around him know that the Dauphin is a coward and probably will not kill anyone.

Captain Macmorris Macmorris is an Irish captain in the English army. Macmorris bravely contributes to the victory at Harfleur.

Montjoy Montjoy is a French herald. He brings messages to Henry from Charles first demanding Henry’s surrender, then later acknowledging Henry’s victory. In his first speeches, Montjoy delivers his messages in a defiant tone; but as he grows to know Henry, there is a sense of respect in his voice.

Nell Hostess Formerly Mistress Nell Quickly, in Henry IV and The Merry Wives of Windsor, Hostess is now the wife of Pistol and the manager of the inn. Hostess tells Pistol, Nym, and Bardolph of Falstaff’s death. After the battle at Agincourt, Pistol informs the audience that Hostess, his wife, has died.

Nym Nym, like Bardolph and Pistol, is one of the friends who are associated with Falstaff. When he first appears on stage, he is angry with Pistol for having married Quickly (Hostess). Nym had wanted to marry her. After Falstaff dies, Nym joins the English army and goes to France.

Pistol Pistol is one of Bardolph’s and Nym’s friends. He is married to Quickly (Hostess). Pistol pleads for Bardolph’s life after Bardolph is sentenced to be hung for stealing from a church in France. During the Agincourt battle, Pistol makes a deal with a French soldier, who gives Pistol money so he will not kill him. After the battle at Agincourt, Pistol lets the audience know that Quickly has died.

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Mistress Quickly See Nell Hostess.

Richard, Earl of Cambridge Cambridge is one of the three English traitors, along with Scroop and Grey, who conspire with the French against the life of Henry V. Along with the other two traitors, Cambridge is sentenced to death.

Michael Williams Williams is a common soldier in the English army. He talks with Henry the night before Agincourt as the king wanders through the camp disguised. Williams is the soldier who argues with Henry over the king’s responsibility for his men. Williams gives his glove to Henry, challenging him in a bet that the king will ransom himself to the French if the English lose the battle.

THEMES Kingship The theme of kingship, or how Shakespeare perceived the role of a king, is demonstrated in his play Henry V. Shakespeare’s characterization of King Henry V establishes Henry’s right to kingship by illustrating the qualities required of a true king in several different ways. Henry focuses on both securing his right to the English crown and capturing the French throne. He follows the advice given to him by his father at the end of Shakespeare’s earlier play Henry IV, Part Two, to keep the minds of his subjects busy by diverting attention to foreign quarrels. Henry V accomplishes this task by waging war on France and asserting his claim to the French throne. The throne was denied his great-great-grandmother because of the Salic law, which made succession through the female line illegal. The war against France establishes both Henry’s legal and moral right to the throne. By discrediting the Salic law and defeating the French army, Henry captures the crown; and by accepting responsibility and showing concern for his subjects, he earns the ethical right to kingship as well. Henry’s moral growth and acceptance of his role as king is seen throughout the play. Some of the characteristics of kingship include the king’s relationship to his counselors, his divinity, his valid succession, and the burden of kingship.

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As king, Henry serves as the link between personal order and political unity and is required to show complete dedication to his office. He cannot allow selfishness or weakness to interfere with his duties as king. Most critics agree that although Henry struggles to achieve a balance between the demands of the crown and his own personal desires, by the end of the play he has accepted his role and learned to integrate his humanity with the office of king.

Patriotism and War Many modern critics have explored the pervasive presence of war and patriotism in Henry V. Some commentators contend that the play is primarily concerned with the price of patriotism, arguing that Henry finally becomes controlled by the role he has assumed, despite the costs. The interaction between structure and theme can be seen throughout the three central movements of the plot: the preparation for war, the combat itself, and the concluding of peace. In addition, scholars have praised Shakespeare’s accurate portrayal of Renaissance warfare through his use of specific details such as the slaughter of the prisoners and threats of plundering, sacking, and burning.

Sense of History and Nationalism The idea of nations in the time of Henry V, or even in Shakespeare’s time, was not as defined as it is in the twenty-first century, especially in England and France. Kings and queens were often related to one another, whether they lived in England or France. The English owned land in France because most of the early English monarchs had been born in France and had therefore inherited the lands. Thus, the boundaries between the two countries were relatively blurred. However, the concept of nations was emerging and growing stronger in Shakespeare’s time. Also the Renaissance had arrived in England during Shakespeare’s life, which influenced the portrayal of historical events and the details of how England and France had become what they were up to that point. The sense of history is reflected in this play, which is actually the last in a series of three of Shakespeare’s plays, which includes Richard II and Henry IV. The series is called a tetralogy. The three plays follow the development of France and England through the actions of the English monarchs and their relationships, both political and biological, with

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the monarchy of France. With the battle at Agincourt, King Henry finally wins the right to the throne, though he never actually sits on throne, because he will die two months prior to that opportunity.

Divine Intervention There are several references in this play to God’s intervention on behalf of, or God’s blessing of, the English army in its bid to win the French throne. Although this was not a religious war, Shakespeare has Henry acknowledge the idea that God is on his side. The first time this happens is when the three traitors are discovered before Henry leaves England. He takes the fact that the attempt to assassinate him was thwarted as a sign from God that he is doing the right thing, that in fact the English might even win the war. In act 2, scene 2, Henry says: ‘‘Since God so graciously hath brought to light / This dangerous treason, lurking in our way / To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now / But every rub is smoothed on our way.’’ The hand of God, in other words, has smoothed the path to France for the English army. Henry invokes the power of God again in act 3, scene 7, on the night before the battle at Agincourt. Gloucester hopes that the French might not attack; but Henry says: ‘‘We are in God’s hand, brother, not in theirs.’’ Then again in act 4, scene 3, in his speech to the troops before the big battle, Henry tries to cheer his men up. They all know by now that the French outnumber them overwhelmingly, and yet Henry tells them ‘‘The fewer men, the greater share of honor. / God’s will! I pray thee wish not one man more.’’ With this statement, Henry is telling his men that the fact that the numbers are stacked against them is God’s will. With the French army so big and the English army so small, the English victory will be that much more significant. Henry is also warning his men not to pray for something that God has already ordained. If God means for them to go against a bigger army, then so be it.

Arrogance Leading to Misconception Shakespeare’s French characters are arrogant in many different ways. The first demonstration of this arrogance is the Dauphin’s so-called gift of tennis balls, signifying that the Dauphin takes Henry’s threat to his French crown as insignificant as a game of tennis. Later, the Dauphin plays down the danger involved in Henry’s crossing the English Channel and landing on


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Title page of Henry V from the First Folio (1623) (Ó Bettmann/Corbis)

French soil. His arrogance appears to infect some of the other nobles, even up to the point of the night before the battle at Agincourt, after Henry has ravaged Harfleur. The arrogance of the French makes them blind to their own disadvantages, or weaknesses. They boast about their horses and weaponry and make jokes about the English, instead of investigating the battlefield or spying on them. They do question where the English get their strength, but their attitude is so saturated with arrogance that they cannot perceive that the English might hurt them, let alone completely defeat them. In contrast, Shakespeare has the English appear as humble commoners, men who believe they might see another day. Instead of arrogance, they are filled with the passion to capture what is rightfully theirs. The king bows to a higher source, putting his life and the lives of his men in God’s hands.

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Responsibility Responsibility is another theme that runs through this play. It begins with the first act, when King Henry warns the archbishop to carefully weigh his decision as to whether or not England has a right to the French throne. In essence, Henry is telling the archbishop that what he says and how he has interpreted the law could cost lives and bring hardships, as well as change the course of history. Later, in act 2, scene 2, when Henry confronts the three traitors, he somewhat contradicts himself in terms of responsibility. Henry excuses the man who ‘‘railed against our person,’’ as Henry states it, forgiving the man’s irresponsible behavior because the man was drunk. However, when it comes to Scroop, Grey, and Cambridge, the traitors, Henry tells them that they will lose their lives. As Henry makes clear, they have not acted responsibly, for by assassinating the king, they would have put so many others at risk. Further, Scroop, Grey, and Cambridge received money from the enemy French to execute the plot. The consequences of their actions, Henry says, would have been enormous. It was their responsibility as nobles to have thought the assassination through. Whereas the drunken man might have only muttered a vagrant, impulsive thought, the king holds the nobles to a higher standard because they had a better sense of the consequences. In act 4, scene 1, the idea of responsibility appears for a third time. Henry disguises himself on the night before the battle at Agincourt. He then has conversations with some of his men. Two of those soldiers, Bates and Williams, question the king concerning the battle they are about to fight and whose responsibility it is. The men say that it is the king’s. Henry, however, only takes part of that responsibility. He says the king is responsible for the war, but each man must take responsibility for his own life. Every subject’s duty is to the king, but every subject’s soul is his own. If, in other words, a soldier believes that what the king tells him to do is wrong, then it is on the soldier’s conscience if he does the thing he believes is wrong. If the king knows it is wrong but the soldier carries out whatever act the king requests, then the wrong is on the king’s conscience.

Cultural Stereotypes As in many of Shakespeare’s other plays, there is a discussion about cultural differences. Whether it is the difference between the Italians and the

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Moors in Shakespeare’s Othello or the Italians and the Jews in The Merchant of Venice, some characters clash because they come from dissimilar countries. In Henry V this occurs between the French and English, as well as between the Scots, the Irish, and the English. The French make references to the English, such as in act 3, scene 5, when the Constable refers to the English as being cold and pale because their climate is ‘‘foggy, raw, and dull.’’ In comparison, the Constable claims, the French are enlivened with ‘‘quick blood, spirited with wine.’’ And then before the big battle at Agincourt, the French noble Orleans refers to the English soldiers as King Henry’s ‘‘fatbrained followers.’’ Even when the French Rambures tries to find something good to say about the English, he is put down by his peers. Rambures thinks that the English are valiant. He points to the brave mastiffs (a large breed of dog) that the English raise. But Orleans points out that though the mastiffs are brave, they are also stupid, rushing a large bear only to have their heads chomped off. It is not just the French who point out cultural stereotypes, though. Some of Henry’s men do the same among themselves. Although their conversation is not as blatantly warped in stereotypes, there is a strain in relationships between Fluellen, who is Welsh, and Macmorris, who is Irish. They are both fighting at the command of an English king for a united cause, but Fluellen seems determined to prove that Macmorris knows nothing of Roman war tactics, which Fluellen, obviously holds in high esteem. At one point in their discussion in act 3, scene 2, Fluellen calls to Macmorris by saying ‘‘there is not many of your nation—’’ and is then interrupted by Macmorris, who has taken offense. ‘‘Of my nation? What ish [sic] my nation?’’ It can be assumed that Fluellen was about to make a broad, generalized statement about the Irish. Macmorris would not let Fluellen finish what he was saying because he sensed the stereotypical statement coming. Shakespeare often writes his parts for Irish, French, Welsh, and Scottish characters in broken English. In some plays, he also has some of his English characters make fun of the accents. There were political tensions between these countries, and such tensions can lead to stereotyping. Whether Shakespeare was just reflecting these stereotypes so that his audience could analyze them or think about them, or whether Shakespeare used the

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Research the battle at Agincourt. Bring to class a display of the details you have uncovered. The display can be in the form of a chart, a series of photographs, a PowerPoint demonstration, or any other presentation of your choice. The idea is to try to mimic the battle at Agincourt with as much detail as possible. What were the strategies of the French? Of the English? What types of weapons did each side use? How many soldiers were involved? How many horses on each side? What were the jobs of the young boys? Provide as much information as you can gather. Find as many portraits of King Henry V as you can, then create a likeness of the monarch. You can use any medium you choose: oil paint, charcoal, water color, pen and ink. You can also make a three-dimensional bust out of clay or other material. By some historical accounts, Henry was called an ugly king. What do you think? Ask your classmates to vote on Henry’s looks. Imagine that you lived in the Middle Ages in England. Your cousin lived in France. How would your lives differ? How would they be the same? After doing your research for this

stereotypical statements to make his audiences laugh, or whether he used them because he himself was caught up in the stereotypes is not certain.

STYLE Shakespearian Language Specific to Henry V While analysis of the language in Henry V has yielded different critical interpretations, most scholars agree that the rhetoric used in this play makes a significant contribution to the drama’s theme, tone, and meaning. For example, some critics point out that the language requires strenuous effort from its actors to perform, as well as requiring effort from


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topic, write two letters: one from you as a teenager in England and a response from your French cousin. In the letters talk about the activities, the challenges, the entertainment, and details of your family life that you might have experienced in the course of one week. Read your letters to your class.

Find out about the medical practices at the time of the Battle at Agincourt. How were the wounds of soldiers treated? Were there any antiseptics? Were there pain killers? How did medics fix broken bones? How did they sew wounds closed? How did they treat dysentery? Were there any other typical diseases that the soldiers were vulnerable to, especially on a long march, such as the English soldiers had to endure? Share your research with your class.

Map out the journey that King Henry took from London to Agincourt. How did the army travel? How many miles did some soldiers have to walk? How long did it take them to cross the English Channel? Show all your details on a map and present your findings to your class.

audiences to grasp. These critics point out that this effort relates to the atmosphere of activity in the play as the king decides to go to war and then must prepare his men for the arduous journey and grueling battles that must be fought. Other critics focus on how the language changes as it parallels the preparations for war, the battles, and then the peaceful conclusion. The mode of speech changes from beginning to end, starting with a tone of agreement (the choric appeal to English nationalism, the request for cooperation between the performer and the audience, and the first scenes showing the church and state working together), then moving to a tone of dispute during the war, and concluding with a return to a softer tone as Henry woos Katherine.

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Critics also have often debated whether the language of Henry V equals that found in the first two plays of Shakespeare’s second tetralogy, which includes Richard II and Henry IV. A number of scholars contend that the language is flatter and less powerful in Henry V than in the previous plays. Richard II and Henry IV contain speeches and passages that are more poetic, they say. However, other critics maintain that the prose in Henry V is more natural and deceptively close to common speech, making the depth and artistry of the language more subtle and equally as artful as in the more prominent speeches in Shakespeare’s other plays.

Epic Elements Shakespeare’s use of epic elements in Henry V has elicited much critical attention. By far the most panoramic of his plays, Henry V dramatizes an epic theme and celebrates a legendary hero. According to several scholars, the play therefore fulfills most of the formal requirements of classical epic, in that its hero is of national significance; it emphasizes destiny and the will of God; its action is impressive in scale and centers upon war; and it includes a narrator (the Chorus), an invocation to the Muse, a large number of warriors, battle taunts and challenges, and other traditional epic devices. Most commentators agree that Shakespeare’s use of epic elements contributes significantly to the success of the play, stating that an epic drama is the only fitting way to celebrate the noble deeds of Henry V. Scholars repeatedly focus on the role of the Chorus in exposing the limitations of the Elizabethan stage. Many critics remark that the function of the Chorus is to apologize for the unsuitability of the stage to the grandeur of an epic. However, other commentators point out that Shakespeare’s audience would never have expected the kind of cinematic realism that modern theatergoers have come to expect. Though the Chorus fulfills several functions as narrator— creating atmosphere, explaining lapses of time and shifts in locale, apologizing for the limitations of the theater—its most important function is to evoke an epic mood. The Chorus also creates structural unity in the play by building narrative bridges between the five acts.

Dramatic Soliloquy A soliloquy is a speech given as if the actor were talking to him- or herself, exposing thoughts and

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emotions but supposedly doing so without anyone (but the audience) hearing what is being said. It is like an interior monologue that one might have with oneself. Through the soliloquy, the actor not only offers the audience a glimpse into his or her inner thoughts but also into his or her personality or character. In Henry V, on the night before the battle at Agincourt, Henry considers his role as king through a soliloquy. One of his men has engaged Henry in a discussion of responsibility. Henry reflects on the topic when he is alone. His thoughts are private. It can be assumed that he does not want his men to know how he feels. It is an important reflection, one that Shakespeare wanted the audience to hear and to remember. The soliloquy is written in iambic pentameter, ten stressed and unstressed syllables to each line, providing a regulated rhythm. The form is blank verse, so it flows like poetry but there is no rhyme.

Dramatic Monologue Henry V has many monologues, which are speeches of several lines in length delivered in a drama by one individual to one or more person without expectations of anyone responding. The monologues stand out from the normal dialogue because they are long, for one thing, but also because they too, like soliloquies, are written in blank verse. All of the Prologues that open every act are written as monologues, as are many of the English king’s speeches to his troops. Some of the more powerful monologues of the king include Henry’s rebuttal to the Dauphin after having sent the tennis balls (in act 1, scene 2), that begins, ‘‘We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us,’’ which sets in motion England going to war with France. Another powerful monologue is the one the king delivers to Scroop in act 2, scene 2, which begins, ‘‘God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.’’ This monologue depicts the heavy consequences that the traitors would have inflicted on their country had they killed Henry. Finally, to arouse his men before the battle at Agincourt, King Henry delivers his monologue about the Feast of Crispian. The monologue is found in act 4, scene 3, and begins ‘‘What’s he that wishes so?’’ As these monologues demonstrate, this form of writing makes certain parts of the play stand out. Through the monologues, particular passages are etched in the minds of audiences, so they take home the more important messages of the play.

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pass his own son as heir to the French throne, thus giving it to Henry.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Henry V Henry was born in Wales, in 1387, the oldest son of Henry of Bolingbroke (later to become King Henry IV) and Mary Bohun. In 1398, Henry’s father was exiled by the reigning monarch, Richard II, who kept Henry’s son and raised him in court. Henry’s father snuck back into England the following year, while Richard II was at war in Ireland. He gathered forces and won claim to land throughout the country and was eventually named king. Richard II was imprisoned and later died. The line of inheritance then switched to Henry, which caused much jealousy in the line of Richard II’s heirs, Henry’s cousins. Henry was quite an accomplished soldier, having seen battle at the early age of fourteen. Two years later, at the age of sixteen, Henry commanded his father’s troops at the battle of Shrewsbury. It was at this battle that Henry received a severe wound, an arrow striking him in the face. Until 1408, Henry was often involved in squelching uprisings in Wales. Shortly after his coronation, Henry V fought down an uprising by Lollards (members of a religious and political movement led by the theologian John Wyclif) outside of London and put an end to an assassination plot by some of his nobles who were still seeking to restore the monarchy to the descendants of Richard II. As his reign became somewhat settled at home, King Henry V turned his attention to France. Although Shakespeare puts forward the theory that church officials instigated the move, others have speculated that the feebleness of Charles VI of France, who was said to have a mental illness, and the ineptness of his son might also have concerned Henry, who would have benefited from a more stable France. And so he decided to claim the throne. He asked for the French king’s daughter’s hand prior to leaving England, but the French king refused. Henry had no other choice than to invade France and take the throne by force. After wining the battle at Agincourt, Henry later went on to capture Normandy and Rouen. He was beating a path toward Paris. In 1419, the French gave in to Henry. A year later, Henry signed the Treaty of Troyes and married King Charles VI’s daughter, Katherine. As stated in the treaty, King Charles VI of France would by-


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In 1421, Katherine was crowned Henry’s queen and gave birth to a son, who became Henry VI upon his father’s death. Henry died of dysentery in 1422 while engaged in battle in France. Had Henry lived two months longer, he would have been crowned king of both England and France. Henry V reigned over England from 1413 until his death in 1422.

Charles VI Charles VI of France was known by two subtitles: Charles the Beloved and Charles the Mad. Charles was born in 1368 and ruled France from 1380 until 1422, making him only forty-seven years old at the time of the battle at Agincourt. Although he was not that old, he was infirm by then with what might today be diagnosed as schizophrenia or possibly bipolar disorder. He was known for attacking some of his own men on their way to battle, running naked through the palace, and at times believing he was made of glass. Some believe that the king’s daughter, Katherine, passed the king’s mental illness onto her son, the future king of England, Henry VI. The king’s mental illness also led many people in France to believe that the Treaty of Troyes, which would have made Henry V king of France, was invalid.

English Pastimes during Henry V’s Reign Although war, the plague, and famine were all too familiar in fifteenth-century England, there were ways in which people also celebrated or otherwise enjoyed themselves. There were competitions, such as in archery, a popular sport. Given the military uses of the bow and arrow, archery could be very competitive. But competition could also be seen in an early version of English football (soccer). A game called camp ball, in which teams of men and women engaged, was played with a ball made of a pig’s bladder filled with dried beans. Hunting and fishing were two other sports that not only provided food for the table but were also considered good training for young boys who would more than likely end up serving in the military. The young nobles often rode horses and followed a pack of dogs that either killed the animals or held them at bay, waiting for the young men to arrive with their bows and arrows.

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Tournaments, testing the skill and courage of knights, lords, and other combatants, were often held throughout the country. Lances were most often used by two men who rode at full charge toward one another. Sometimes a wooden barrier would be placed between the two sides of the track to keep the men’s horses from running into one another. Although these tournaments were also looked at as training for military maneuvers, sometimes the two opponents were settling a personal grudge. But not every entertainment related to warfare. There were also parlor games such as cards, dice, and board games, like early versions of backgammon and chess. Card games offered the players a chance to gamble. The cards that were used were often made of wood and painted by hand. There were also sports such as wrestling, horse racing, and cockfighting to while away the time. In the arts, mystery plays, derived from stories in the Bible, were very popular. Morality plays, which were meant to teach a specific lesson, were also common fare. These plays were often acted on stages on the backs of wagons that rolled from one town to the next.

Fifteenth-Century English Longbow One of the reasons the English enjoyed many victories over Ireland, Wales, and France was because of the soldiers’ proficiency with longbows. Rather than the normal bow of about three feet in length, longbows were at least five to six feet long, as tall or taller than the men that used them. The weapons were light to carry, cheap to own, blasted an arrow a long distance, and were easy to master. Arrows shot from longbows were also devastatingly powerful, creating deep and wide wounds. The arrows could fly, by some estimates, two hundred or more yards. Longbows were easily reloaded and a master archer could shoot from ten to twenty arrows a minute, some records state. Even after the introduction of the first firearms, bowmen using longbows could shoot several arrows before the newfangled guns could fire one bullet. It is believed that a typical longbow was made from a single sapling from an English yew. It took several years of curing and shaping for a bow to be fit to use. The string of the bow was made of flax or hemp. Arrows were about twenty-seven inches long, with four-inch arrowheads equipped with barbs that made them difficult to extract.

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The War Campaign to France and the Battle at Agincourt King Henry V needed money to finance programs. He also needed to strengthen his image, which was contaminated by his flamboyant youth. Claiming the throne of France and committing himself and his troops to take it by force would serve those two causes, if he were victorious. King Henry and his ships landed at Harfleur on the northern coast of France on August 13, 1415. The English met with no resistance upon landing and soon marched to the town, which was well fortified with a thick wall more than two miles in diameter with numerous towers. The English had several cannons and catapults. Their troops numbered over ten thousand, with roughly eight thousand archers and two thousand mounted soldiers. The French were said to have about four hundred fighting men. The town had a large cache of food and supplies, however, so there was no hope of starving them into an early surrender. The English battered the walls around Harfleur and dug tunnels under them, crumbling the city’s best defense. The conflict lasted until September 22. Although successful in the battle at Harfleur, the English suffered many casualties, possibly as many as one-third of the men. Most were lost to illness. The battle was fought in the heat of summer; and the makeshift camp had no proper sanitation. Dysentery soon swept through the camp, the same illness that would kill the young king seven years later. After the battle at Harfleur, the town became an English seaport. From Harfleur, Henry drove his troops toward Calais, an English stronghold, hoping to spend the winter there, giving him time to reequip his army. Unfortunately for King Henry and his troops, the French, under Constable d’Albret, had gathered between Calais and Harfleur and forced the English into battle. The English army had marched over two hundred miles, were running out of food, and many were still sick. They were in no condition to fight a rested, well-armored enemy. The English followed the coastline to the Somme River, then they turned east, looking for a safe place to ford the river. The fall had been a very rainy one; and the river was very full and dangerous. The French troops stationed themselves at a place of safe crossing, forcing Henry and his army to travel farther east, away from Calais, before they could cross the river. This added miles as well as days to their march, depleting the food supplies

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1400s: The English forces under King Henry V’s leadership defeat the French heavily armored army, which outnumbered them five to one, by employing longbows and fast-loading arrows. Today: Terrorists wreak havoc on wellequipped United States and British troops in Iraq, employing guerrilla war tactics such as suicide bombings.

1400s: King Henry V leads his troops in battle in an attempt to claim the English right to the French throne.

Today: Queen Elizabeth II visits French president Jacques Chirac to celebrate the one-hundredth anniversary of the signing of the Franco-British Accords, a pact to join forces in military defense of their countries. 1400s: King Henry V marries the daughter of King Charles VI of France, strengthening the royal bond between France and England. The marriage is well received in London.

further and exhausting the men. On the other side of the river, the French army was waiting at Agincourt, in between Henry and Calais. Henry did not want to fight; but he would not back down. He wanted the throne and would not stop at anything less. It had been raining for many days. The field at Agincourt had been recently plowed and was now swampy. This would work to the English army’s advantage. The French were heavy with armor, both the men and their horses. Once they fell down, many became stuck in the mud, which in some places was waist deep. At least one French duke was said to have drowned. The English troops, many in bare feet and bare legs, had less trouble moving on the muddy field. Another advantage was the passion of King Henry as the leader of the English troops. The frail French king did not lead his men, and the French army suffered greatly from disorganization. Most of the nobles


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Today: Heir to the British throne, Prince Charles marries Camilla Parker Bowles, duchess of Cornwall. Camilla, who has a right to be called queen once her husband is crowned, will defer the title, because of public resentment toward her. The public disapproved of Camilla and Prince Charles’s adulterous affair while Charles was still married to Princess Diana.

1400s: The town of Harfleur is a bustling fishing port and a center of the cloth trade with an emphasis on weaving and dyeing. It sits at the mouth of Seine River on the English Channel. Today: Harfleur is a town of industries and is most often considered a suburb of Le Havre. Population is estimated at less than 10,000. Due to heavy silting of the estuary of the Seine, Harfleur is no longer a major port on the English Channel.

led the first line of the French troops. When they fell, the ranks to the rear of the French army fled. France lost ten thousand men, many from the French nobility, including Constable d’Albret. The French military would go on, in future decades, to learn from this experience, taking back the land the English once claimed. But on this day, Saint Crispin’s Day, October 25, the English were victorious.

The Hundred Years’ War The battle at Agincourt was just one of the many bloody conflicts between England and France. A fight for land and kingship had been going on for many decades before King Henry V and would continue for a few decades after his death. England and France fought one another almost continually between 1337 and 1453. This long battle is referred to as the Hundred Years’ War.

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The claim of English royalty to the French crown has a long and complicated history. It all began before the structured nations that are known today had created sturdy foundations. At one time, for instance, the Normans came into the northern part of France in the tenth century and claimed the territory. The Normans then, under the leadership of William the Conqueror, moved across the channel and claimed England in the century that followed. As descendants of William the Conqueror, English kings claimed the right to Normandy and other lands in what is today French territory. As time went by, England, through a series of battles, lost more and more of that French land; and the Hundred Years’ War marks England’s concerted effort to finally reclaim it and the authority to rule the people who lived there. King Edward III, angered by the continual erosion of his control over the lands in France, claimed he was the rightful king of both England and France and went to war to force the French to surrender to him. Edward eventually captured Calais, the English stronghold that Henry V was trying to reach after his battle in Harfleur. Another war ended in 1373, this time with the French winning. That set the scene for Henry V, who regained the right to the French throne. By 1429, England again controlled a lot of French territory. This would be the high point of English control in France. By 1451, almost all land had been restored to France, except that of Calais. England became distracted by its own wars at home after that and stopped pursuing its claim of authority over France.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW In her Introduction to the 1999 Penguin Books published texts of Henry V, Claire McEachern writes that Henry V is both ‘‘the capstone and the keystone of Shakespeare’s engagement with the English history play.’’ This play, McEachern continues, ‘‘portrays a high, and perhaps unique, moment in English national history, when it represents a country both internally unified and internationally victorious.’’ Structurally, McEachern points out, ‘‘Shakespeare signals’’ a ‘‘contrast between ideal and real perspectives on political community.’’ He does so through the use of a Chorus before every act. It is through the Chorus, McEachern writes, that Shakespeare sets up the ideal, ‘‘relentlessly optimistic and positive in presenting future events.’’ This contrasts

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with the scenes that follow, which often conflict with that positive attitude, such as depicting treason and battles that must be fought. ‘‘But if Shakespeare refuses to let the ideal vision of warfare and national unity stand unmolested, at the same time he insists, in an inspiring and rousing rhetoric, on the ennobling capacities of participation in a myth of unity and union.’’ McEachern emphasizes the power of the dramatic monologue that King Henry delivers at Agincourt right before the battle. ‘‘Henry produces what is undoubtedly among the most spine-tingling of calls to battle in Shakespeare or anywhere else.’’ In concluding her critique of the play, McEachern writes, ‘‘The idealizing pressures of Henry V may at times cloy and coerce; but we ultimately forgive the play its glorifications, not only because we too crave a world where the underdog is the victor, few of the good guys die, and the hero gets the girl, but because we also know . . . that such things are all too rare and fleeting.’’ Harold C. Goddard, in his book The Meaning of Shakespeare, begins his analysis of Henry V by summing up other critics’ comments. ‘‘There is near-unanimity among critics that Henry V is not a marked success as a play,’’ Goddard begins. Some critics, Goddard goes on, have written that Shakespeare’s play ‘‘contains much that is splendid and picturesque, these merits cannot atone for [the play’s] intellectual and dramatic poverty.’’ This is not, however, Goddard’s opinion. Goddard writes: ‘‘Before accepting these judgments as final, it is worth noting the presumptive unlikelihood that Shakespeare would have produced a poor play, or even a second-rate one.’’ Goddard is of the opinion that critics who have written against this play might have overlooked Shakespeare’s intentions, because Henry V was the ‘‘culminating play of his great historical series.’’ The critics who relegate this play to such a low position, at this time of Shakespeare’s writing career, Goddard continues, seem to believe that ‘‘Shakespeare more or less goes to pieces as a playwright and substitutes pageantry and patriotism for his proper business, drama.’’ Goddard dispels this thought. He states that telling a story about a hero-king is a difficult task. ‘‘To tell it and to keep the piece in which you tell it popular calls for more than courage. Shakespeare did as life does. Life places both its facts and its intoxicants before us and bids us make out of the resulting clash what we can and will.’’

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Goddard continues, ‘‘God does not indicate what we shall think of his world or of the men and women he has created. He puts them before us. But he does not compel us to see them as they are. Neither does Shakespeare.’’ S. Schoenbaum, writing in his book Shakespeare, His Life, His Language, His Theater, points to some of the criticism of this play, too. Schoenbaum, unlike some other critics, found the contradictions between the Chorus that glorified Henry and the actions of the king in the play to be inviting. In such contraries does criticism rejoice, and by admitting subversive countercurrents, Shakespeare invites liberty of interpretation. Each reader and viewer must decide for himself [sic] whether the hero is an exemplary Christian prince or a self-righteous imperialist, or some combination of both, and his play a sublime testimonial to national purpose or an exercise in wonderfully eloquent but essentially meretricious jingoism—or any of the innumerable gradations between these polarities.

Maurice Charney, writing in his All of Shakespeare, states that ‘‘the emphasis in this final play of the Major Tetralogy is on the heroic celebration of Henry as the ideal English king.’’ Charney found much to enjoy in this play; but one particular part was the soliloquy that Henry delivers in act 4, scene 1, on kingship. ‘‘There is no speech on kingship in Shakespeare more glorious than this one,’’ Charney writes.

CRITICISM Anne Crow In this essay, Crow examines how Shakespeare uses language to illuminate the title character in Henry V. In scenes when he is acting in an official capacity, the King uses blank verse; when talking informally to his soldiers or trying to woo Katherine, in contrast, he speaks in conventional prose. Through the alternating use of these different forms of language, the critic contends, Shakespeare offers a full-blooded portrait of a man beset by doubts but rising above them to do his duty as monarch. Blank verse is a very versatile medium. It can sound majestic and formal, or spontaneous and colloquial. The speed can be varied by judicious choice of words and the introduction of pauses, and the basic rhythm is just asking to be tampered with to make it more interesting. Regular


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SHAKESPEARE HAS PRESENTED US WITH A KING WHO IS A CONSUMMATE ACTOR AND STAGE MANAGER, A MASTER OF THE SPIN DOCTOR’S ART.’’

blank verse moves at a steady walking pace, alternating stressed and unstressed syllables. There are five iambic feet to a line, and this means it starts, usually, with an unstressed syllable: —/—/—/—/—/ Now all the youth of England are on fire Because the movement of the verse is so simple and easy, Shakespeare can introduce any number of variations to suggest the state of mind of the speaker. In [Henry V], Shakespeare uses a Chorus to introduce each act and close the play. The effect is that of a storyteller delivering an epic poem about a home-grown hero, a king who confounds early expectations to restore England’s fortunes and lead a miraculous victory against the French. The style of the Chorus’s poetry is elevated, as befits his lofty theme. The Chorus actually opens the play with a lingering stress on ‘O’ to invoke excitement and anticipation in the audience: ‘O for a muse of fire’. His lines often start with a stressed syllable as he encourages us to use our imaginations, as in the speech opening Act III where he describes the English fleet setting sail for France. Several lines start with urgent commands, ‘Play’, ‘Hear’, ‘Grapple’, ‘Work’, as he tries to compensate for the inadequacies of the theatre. The Chorus projects a heroic and majestic image of Henry at all times, comparing him with the Roman god of war, Mars, and the military hero, Caesar. Nevertheless, he sometimes refers to him as ‘Harry’, because an important aspect of Henry’s image is that he is the people’s king, loved by them for his willingness to put ceremony aside and fight alongside them, to mingle with them before the battle and to share a joke with them. In between each Chorus, Shakespeare gives his audience glimpses of the man behind the myth, and it is significant that when Henry is cultivating his image as a soldier, one of a ‘band

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Patricia Routledge as Mistress Quickly in Henry V at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratfordupon-Avon, England, 1984 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

of brothers’, Shakespeare makes him speak in prose, like the ordinary characters in the play. A prose style forms part of his disguise when, in disguise, he mingles with his men the night before the Battle of Agincourt, and when he chats easily to Llewellyn after the battle, setting up his practical joke with Williams’s glove. He also very quickly drops into prose as he tries to woo Katherine, adopting the pose of a gauche soldier, laughing at himself, embarrassed and lost for words. It seems to be a more intimate way of speaking than the poetry which is appropriate when he is on his dignity as a king rather than a man. His one soliloquy (IV.i.227–81) is a particularly appropriate speech to show how the structure of the poetry helps the actor to portray Henry’s real fears and doubts, which he keeps masked whenever there is anyone with him, and

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which the Chorus never mentions. Near the beginning of this speech he asks eight questions, all beginning with ‘What’. Several lines are shorter than the usual ten syllables, making the actor pause, as if to think about the answers to the questions which are all asking what advantage he has as king over his subjects, what the ‘ceremony’ is really worth. When he answers his long list, ten negatives help to build up the tension as he concludes that none of the symbols that represent royalty can enable the king to sleep as soundly as the most wretched of his subjects. He then summarises his argument so far with more emphatic negatives, ‘No, not all these, thrice gorgeous ceremony, / Not all these . . . ’. As he moves on from lamenting the insubstantial nature of a king’s advantages to expressing envy of ‘the wretched slave’, his subject, Shakespeare gives Henry one long, complex sentence with no repetition, in which to describe in positive terms the apparently idyllic life of the peasant. So caught up is Henry in his self-pity that he fails to see the irony in his words at the end of the speech, describing ‘what watch the king keeps to maintain the peace’, when, in fact, he has led his people into war and put his army in a position where it must fight a battle heavily outnumbered, five to one. This speech most clearly reveals the conflict in a king’s role, what the Elizabethans called the king’s two bodies: he is both a public figure and a private man. A good king will suppress his private feelings in front of others, acting out whatever role he needs to play. Here, however, Shakespeare shows us a man under stress, and this is very important to the way Henry is presented; the audience can see for themselves that, as he tells the soldiers, ‘I think the king is but a man as I am’ (IV.i.102). He chooses an interesting image to illustrate his essential humanity: ‘The violet smells to him as it doth to me’. A violet is a shy, secretive flower, hiding under its leaves in dark, wooded places, not at all like the showy rose, which is the usual emblem of kings. However, it is in the prayer which follows the soliloquy that we learn how vulnerable he feels, begging God not to remember how his father usurped the throne from his cousin, Richard: ‘Not today, O Lord, / O not today, think not upon the fault . . . ’. The repetition and the multiple breaks in the line help to reveal his troubled conscience, as he lists everything he has done to try to atone for this crime and promises to do more, though a note of despair creeps in at the

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end, as he acknowledges that it is too late, because the sin has been committed and all he can do is implore pardon (IV.i.286–302). When he rejoins his army, however, all doubts and fears are masked behind the persona of a calmly confident monarch. There is no hint of the bitterness and panic of the previous night, as he evokes a golden future for the survivors of the battle, who will be honoured as heroes for the rest of their lives. In a magnanimous confidence trick, he declares: /——/—/——/—/ Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host that anyone who does not want to fight will be given more money and allowed to leave (this may sound like a generous offer, but they are in the middle of enemy territory). By placing ‘Rather’ at the beginning of the line so that it alters the expected stress pattern, Shakespeare subtly heightens the contrast of the confidence of Henry’s gesture with the fear which prompted Westmoreland’s wish for more soldiers. In this speech Henry glosses over the brutality of war, because he does not want to frighten his men before the battle. The only mention of wounds is a brief reference to the scars on his arm that a theoretical soldier will show his friends in future years. This is in sharp contrast to the violent and bloody speech in Act III Scene iv with which he frightens the men of Harfleur into surrendering. There, because his men were tired, sick and unwilling to fight, he had to pretend that they were brutal killers. This is a carefully prepared speech, composed in regular iambic pentameters, which suggests control or even lack of emotion. Shakespeare seems to suggest that Henry is not enjoying the prospect of ‘naked infants spitted upon pikes’ or ‘heads dashed to the walls’, but nor is he disturbed by it. This impression is reinforced by the calm composure he shows as the governor submits, and the English army wins its first battle on French soil. There is no gloating, no triumph, just the realisation that ‘winter is coming’ and ‘sickness growing upon our soldiers’, and the gentle command ‘use mercy to them all’ in the town. Shakespeare presents Henry as a king who can be whatever is needed in any situation, threatening or merciful, whichever is appropriate. There are times, however, when his private feelings seem to break through his composure. His answer to the Dauphin’s insulting gift of tennis balls in Act I Scene ii is polite and witty.


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His first reaction to the ‘tun of treasure’ is expressed using the royal ‘we’. His threat is at first disguised in an elaborate metaphor comparing the coming war with a game of tennis. Tongue firmly in cheek, he thanks the ambassador for the gift and seems to take pleasure in turning the insult back on the Dauphin, revealing a quick wit but with very sinister undertones, ‘We will in France, by God’s grace, play a set / Shall strike his father’s crown into the hazard’. He says that he understands why the Dauphin underestimates him because of the ‘wilder days’ of his youth, but warns that he is ‘not measuring what use we made of them’—a reminder to the audience that even while he seemed to be profligate in his youth, a soliloquy at the beginning of Henry IV, Part I reveals that he was already calculating the effect of his actions. Shakespeare now presents Henry as beginning to lose control of his temper and show how much the Dauphin’s gibe has upset him as he stops using the formal plural pronoun ‘we’ and lapses into the personal ‘I will keep my state’. He effectively uses imagery to project a mighty show of strength, declaring that he will ‘show my sail of greatness / When I do rouse in my throne of France’. The sails of his ships crossing the channel, and his army’s flags and banners will announce his right to the kingdom of France, and significantly this is the first time that Henry has explicitly stated to the French that total domination of France is the aim, rather than just claiming back dukedoms that had previously belonged to England. Once again he compares himself to the sun, but, whereas in Henry IV, Part I he intended to appear brighter because of the contrast with his misspent youth (the clouds), here he turns the image into a threat: as he rises in France, the Dauphin will be struck ‘blind to look on us’. He reverts to the royal ‘we’ as he gets his anger back under control to build up to a climactic rhyming couplet in which he warns of the consequences of ‘the Dauphin’s scorn’. He implies that it is the latter which has persuaded him to go to war and turns the blame for the invasion, which had in fact already been planned, onto the Dauphin: ‘his soul / Shall stand sore-charged for the wasteful vengeance’. Shakespeare’s choice of words allows the actor to spit out his challenge and contempt with extra stressed syllables and the plosive final consonant of the four times repeated ‘mock’.

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Nevertheless, we cannot be sure that Shakespeare intended this scene to give insight into Henry’s vulnerability. Since he has an audience, it may be a clever piece of play-acting. He may pretend to be hurt and offended so that he can shift the blame for his invasion of France onto the Dauphin. Because of his father’s usurpation of the throne, Henry feels insecure, and so Shakespeare shows him shifting the blame from his own shoulders onto others at every opportunity. The Chorus persuasively narrates the myth of Henry as ‘the mirror of all Christian kings’, the ‘conquering Caesar’ who modestly attributes his apparently miraculous achievement to God, the caring leader who boosted the morale of his troops with ‘A little touch of Harry in the night’. However, the scenes in between the Chorus’s eulogies raise doubts. Instead of spreading ‘A largess universal like the sun’, Shakespeare shows Henry in disguise, spying on his soldiers because he lacks confidence in their loyalty. When he abandons his former friends, breaking Falstaff’s heart and sending Bardolph and Scroop to be executed, the audience is left with a feeling that, although his actions are politically expedient, a hint of private grief and remorse would have made him a more likeable hero. Shakespeare has presented us with a king who is a consummate actor and stage manager, a master of the spin doctor’s art. However, as with all spin doctors, while we may admire the skill and rhetoric, we rarely sympathise with him; kingship is a lonely office. Source: Anne Crow, ‘‘Henry V Man and Myth: Anne Crow Shows How Shakespeare’s Use of Poetry in Henry V Can Illuminate Our Understanding of the Character of the King,’’ in The English Review, Vol. 13, No. 2, November 2002, pp. 31–34.

D. A. Traversi In the following excerpt from an essay first published in 1956, Traversi observes Henry ’s moral and political conflict between self-control and passion. He contends that as king, Henry must possess a complete devotion to his position and cannot allow selfishness to affect his decisions. Traversi argues that Henry V provides the link between political unity and personal order in England. He also traces Henry ’s struggle throughout the play with personal control and order.

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Kenneth Branagh and Emma Thompson in a scene from the 1989 film of Henry V (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

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Source: D. A. Traversi, ‘‘Henry IV—Parts I and II, and Henry V,’’ in An Approach to Shakespeare, Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1969, pp. 191–258.

Mark Van Doren In the following excerpt, Van Doren criticizes the lack of unity in Henry V, stating that the spectacle of the play does not compensate for the inadequate dramatic matter. He condemns Shakespeare’s use of the chorus, the inflated style, the sentimental appeal to patriotism, and the weak humor in the play. Van Doren also asserts that Shakespeare fails to establish a relation between Henry’s actions and his experiences. Shakespeare in Henry IV had still been able to pour all of his thought and feeling into the heroic drama without demolishing its form. His respect for English history as a subject, his tendency to conceive kings in tragic terms, his interest in exalted dialogue as a medium through which important actions could be advanced— these, corrected by comedy which flooded the whole with the wisdom of a warm and proper light, may have reached their natural limit, but that limit was not transgressed. Henry IV, in other words, both was and is a successful play; it answers the questions it raises, it satisfies every instinct of the spectator, it is remembered as fabulously rich and at the same time simply ordered. Henry V is no such play. It has its splendors and its secondary attractions, but the forces in it are not unified. The reason probably is that for Shakespeare they had ceased to be genuine forces. He marshals for his task a host of substitute powers, but the effect is often hollow. The style strains itself to bursting, the hero is stretched until he struts on tiptoe and is still strutting at the last insignificant exit, and war is emptied of its tragic content. The form of the historical drama had been the tragic form; its dress is borrowed here, but only borrowed. The

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THE FIGURE WHOM HE [SHAKESPEARE] HAS GROOMED TO BE THE IDEAL ENGLISH KING, ALL PLUMES AND SMILES AND DECORATED COURAGE, COLLAPSES HERE INTO A MERE GOOD FELLOW, A HEARTY UNDERGRADUATE WITH ENORMOUS INITIALS ON HIS CHEST.’’

heroic idea splinters into a thousand starry fragments, fine as fragments but lighted from no single source. Everywhere efforts are made to be striking, and they succeed. But the success is local. Henry V does not succeed as a whole because its author lacks adequate dramatic matter; or because, veering so suddenly away from tragedy, he is unable to free himself from the accidents of its form; or because, with Julius Caesar and Hamlet on his horizon, he finds himself less interested than before in heroes who are men of action and yet is not at the moment provided with a dramatic language for saying so. Whatever the cause, we discover that we are being entertained from the top of his mind. There is much there to glitter and please us, but what pleases us has less body than what once did so and soon will do so with still greater abundance again. The prologues are the first sign of Shakespeare’s imperfect dramatic faith. Their verse is wonderful but it has to be, for it is doing the work which the play ought to be doing, it is a substitute for scene and action. ‘‘O for a Muse of fire,’’ the poet’s apology begins. The prologues are everywhere apologetic; they are saying that no stage, this one or any other, is big enough or wealthy enough to present the ‘‘huge and proper life’’ of Henry’s wars; this cockpit cannot hold the vasty fields of France, there will be no veritable horses in any scene, the ship-boys on the masts and the camp-fires at Agincourt will simply have to be imagined. Which it is the business of the play to make them be, as Shakespeare has known and will know again. The author of Romeo and Juliet had not been sorry because his stage was a piece of London rather than the whole of


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Verona, and the storm in King Lear will begin without benefit of description. The description here is always very fine, as for example at the opening of the fourth act: Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp through the foul womb of night The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fix’d sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other’s watch; Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other’s umber’d face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night’s dull ear; and from the tents The armourers, accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation. But it is still description, and it is being asked to do what description can never do— turn spectacle into plot, tableau into tragedy. The second sign of genius at loose ends is a radical and indeed an astounding inflation in the style. Passages of boasting and exhortation are in place, but even the best of them, whether from the French or from the English side, have a forced, shrill, windy sound, as if their author were pumping his muse for dear life in the hope that mere speed and plangency might take the place of matter. For a few lines like Familiar in his mouth as household words (IV, iii, 52) The singing masons building roofs of gold (I, ii, 198)

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start (III, i, 31–2) there are hundreds like The native mightiness and fate of him (II, iv, 64) With ample and brim fullness of his force (I, ii, 150)

That caves and womby vaultages of France

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Shall chide your trespass and return your mock. (II, iv, 124–5) Mightiness and fate, ample and brim, caves and vaultages, trespass and mock—such couplings attest the poet’s desperation, the rhetorician’s extremity. They spring up everywhere, like birds from undergrowth: sweet and honey’d, open haunts and popularity, thrive and ripen, crown and seat, right and title, right and conscience, kings and monarchs, means and might, aim and butt, large and ample, taken and impounded, frank and uncurbed, success and conquest, desert and merit, weight and worthiness, duty and zeal, savage and inhuman, botch and bungle, garnish’d and deck’d, assembled and collected, sinister and awkward, culled and choice-drawn, o’erhang and jutty, waste and desolation, cool and temperate, flexure and low bending, signal and ostent, vainness and selfglorious pride. Shakespeare has perpetrated them before, as when in Henry VI he coupled ominous and fearful, trouble and disturb, substance and authority, and absurd and reasonless. But never has he perpetrated them with such thoughtless frequency. Nor has he at this point developed the compound epithet into that interesting mannerism—the only mannerism he ever submitted to—which is to be so noticeable in his next half-dozen plays, including Hamlet. The device he is to use will involve more than the pairing of adjectives or nouns; one part of speech will assume the duties of another, and a certain very sudden concentration of meaning will result. There is, to be sure, one approximation to the device in Henry V—‘‘the quick forge and working-house of thought’’ (Prologue, v, 23) . . . The third sign is a direct and puerile [juvenile] appeal to the patriotism of the audience, a dependence upon sentiments outside the play that can be counted on, once they are tapped, to pour in and repair the deficiencies of the action. Unable to achieve a dramatic unity out of the materials before him, Shakespeare must grow lyrical about the unity of England; politics must substitute for poetry. He cannot take England for granted as the scene of conflicts whose greatness will imply its greatness. It must be great itself, and the play says so—unconvincingly. There are no conflicts. The traitors Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey are happy to lose their heads for England (II, ii), and the battles in France, even though the enemy’s host is huge and starvation takes

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King Henry, Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey, Act II, scene ii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

its toll, are bound to be won by such fine English fellows as we have here. If the French have boasted beforehand, the irony of their doing so was obvious from the start. But it was patriotism, shared as a secret between the author and his audience, that made it obvious. It was not drama. And a fourth sign is the note of gaiety that takes the place here of high passion. The treasure sent to Henry by the Dauphin is discovered at the end of the first act to be tennis-balls: an insult which the young king returns in a speech about matching rackets and playing sets—his idiom for bloody war. When the treachery of Scroop, Cambridge, and Grey is detected on the eve of his departure for France he stages their discomfiture somewhat as games are undertaken, and with a certain sporting relish watches their faces as they read their dooms. The conversation of the French leaders as they wait for the sun to rise

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on Agincourt is nervous as thoroughbreds are nervous, or champion athletes impatient for a tournament to commerce; their camp is a locker room, littered with attitudes no less than uniforms (III, vii). The deaths of York and Suffolk the next day are images of how young knights should die. They kiss each other’s gashes, wearing their red blood like roses in the field, and spending their last breath in terms so fine that Exeter, reporting to the King, is overcome by ‘‘the pretty and sweet manner of it’’ (IV, vi, 28). And of course there are the scenes where Katharine makes fritters of English, waiting to be wooed (III, iv) and wooed at last (V, ii) by Henry Plantagenet, ‘‘king of good fellows.’’ ‘‘The truth is,’’ said Dr. Johnson, ‘‘that the poet’s matter failed him in the fifth act, and he was glad to fill it up with whatever he could get; and not even Shakespeare can write well without a proper subject. It is a vain endeavour for the most skilful hand to cultivate barrenness, or to paint upon vacuity.’’ That is harsh, but its essence cannot be ignored. The high spirits in which the scenes are written have their attraction, but they are no substitute for intensity. Nor do they give us the king we thought we had. ‘‘I speak to thee plain soldier,’’ boasts Henry in homespun vein. ‘‘I am glad thou canst speak no better English; for, if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say, ‘I love you.’ . . . These fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into ladies’ favours, they do always reason themselves out again . . . By mine honour, in true English, I love thee, Kate’’ (V, ii) . . . Shakespeare has forgotten the glittering young god whom Vernon described in Henry IV—plumed like an estridge or like an eagle lately bathed, shining like an image in his golden coat, as full of spirit as the month of May, wanton as a youthful goat, a feathered Mercury, an angel dropped down from the clouds. The figure whom he has groomed to be the ideal English king, all plumes and smiles and decorated courage, collapses here into a mere good fellow, a hearty undergraduate with enormous initials on his chest. The reason must be that Shakespeare has little interest in the ideal English king. He has done what rhetoric could do to give us a young heart whole in honor, but his imagination has already sped forward to Brutus and Hamlet: to a kind of hero who is no less honorable than Henry but who


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will tread on thorns as he takes the path of duty— itself unclear, and crossed by other paths of no man’s making. Henry is Shakespeare’s last attempt at the great man who is also simple. Henceforth he will show greatness as either perplexing or perplexed; and Hamlet will be both. Meanwhile his imagination undermines the very eminence on which Henry struts. For the King and his nobles the war may be a handsome game, but an undercurrent of realism reminds us of the ‘‘poor souls’’ for whom it is no such thing. We hear of widows’ tears and orphans’ cries, of dead men’s blood and pining maidens’ groans (II, iv, 104–7). Such horrors had been touched on in earlier Histories; now they are given a scene to themselves (IV, i). While the French leaders chaff one another through the night before Agincourt the English common soldiers have their hour. Men with names as plain as John Bates and Micheal Williams walk up and down the dark field thinking of legs and arms and heads chopped off in battle, of faint cries for surgeons, of men in misery because of their children who will be rawly left. Henry, moving among them in the disguise of clothes like theirs, asks them to remember that the King’s cause is just and his quarrel honorable. ‘‘That’s more than we know,’’ comes back the disturbing cool voice of Michael Williams. Henry answers with much fair prose, and the episode ends with a wager—sportsmanship again—which in turn leads to an amusing recognition scene (IV, viii). But the honest voice of Williams still has the edge on Henry’s patronizing tone: Williams. Your Majesty came not like yourself. You appear’d to me but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and what your Highness suffer’d under that shape, I beseech you take it for your own fault and not mine . . . King Henry. Here, uncle Exeter, fill this

glove with crowns, And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap Till I do challenge it. (IV, viii, 53–64) Henry has not learned that Williams knows. He is still the plumed king, prancing on oratory and waving wagers as he goes. That he finally has no place to go is the result of Shakespeare’s failure to establish any relation between a hero and his experience. Henry has not absorbed the vision either of Williams or of Shakespeare. This

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shrinks him in his armor, and it leaves the vision hanging. The humor of the play, rich as it sometimes is, suffers likewise from a lack of vital function. The celebrated scene (II, iii) in which the Hostess describes Falstaff’s death shuts the door forever on Henry IV and its gigantic comedy. Pistol and Bardolph continue in their respective styles, and continue cleverly; the first scene of the second act, which finds them still in London, may be indeed the best one ever written for them—and for Nym in his pompous brevity. I cannot tell. Things must be as they may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at the time; and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may.

Fluellen. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures and comparisons of it. As Alexander kill’d his friend Cleitus, being in his ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his good judgements, turn’d away the fat knight with the great belly doublet. He was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his name. Gower. Sir John Falstaff.

Pistol was never excited to funnier effect.

Fluellen. That is he.

O hound of Crete, think’st thou my spouse to get? No! to the spital go, And from the powdering-tub of infamy Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid’s kind, Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse. I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For the only she; and—pauca, there’s enough. Go to.

(IV, vii, 43–55)

Yet this leads on to little in France beyond a series of rather mechanically arranged encounters in which the high talk of heroes is echoed by the rough cries of rascals. ‘‘To the breach, to the breach!’’ yells Bardolph after Henry, and that is parody. But Henry has already parodied himself; the device is not needed, any more than the rascals are. Shakespeare seems to admit as much when he permits lectures to be delivered against their moral characters, first by the boy who serves them (III, ii, 28–57) and next by the sober Gower (III, vi, 70–85), and when he arranges bad ends for them as thieves, cutpurses, and bawds. There is a clearer function for Fluellen, the fussy Welsh pedant who is for fighting wars out of books. Always fretting and out of breath, he mourns ‘‘the disciplines of the wars,’’ the pristine wars of the Romans, now in these latter days lost with all other learning. There was not this tiddle taddle and pibble pabble in Pompey’s camp. The law of arms was once well known, and men— strong, silent men such as he fancies himself to be—observed it without prawls and prabbles. He has no shrewdness; he mistakes Pistol for a brave man because he talks bravely, and there is his classic comparison of Henry with Alexander

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because one lived in Monmouth and the other in Macedon and each city had a river and there were salmons in both. He has only his schoolmaster’s eloquence; it breaks out on him like a rash, and is the one style here that surpasses the King’s in fullness.


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Fluellen reminds us of Falstaff. That is a function, but he has another. It is to let the war theme finally down. Agincourt is won not only by a tennis-player but by a school-teacher. Saint Crispin’s day is to be remembered as much in the pibble pabble of a pedant as in the golden throatings of a hollow god. Fluellen is one of Shakespeare’s most humorous men, and one of his best used. Source: Mark Van Doren, ‘‘Henry V,’’ in Shakespeare, Henry Holt and Company, 1939, pp. 170–79.

SOURCES Charney, Maurice, All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993. Goddard, Harold C., The Meaning of Shakespeare, University of Chicago Press, 1951. McEachern, Claire, ed., ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Life of King Henry the Fifth, Penguin Books, 1999. Schoenbaum, S., Shakespeare: His Life, His Language, His Theater, Penguin Group, 1990. Shakespeare, William, The Life of King Henry the Fifth, Penguin Books, 1999.

FURTHER READING Allmand, Christopher, Yale English Monarchs—Henry V, Yale University Press, 1992. This is a scholarly study of the English monarch, detailed, and well researched.

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Berman, Ronald, Twentieth-Century Interpretations of Henry V: A Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice Hall, 1968. Some of the top critics of the twentieth century offer their views on Shakespeare’s play.

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Hibbert, Christopher, Agincourt, Cooper Square Press, 2000. A concise history of the short battle that profoundly affected England and France.

Bishop, Morris, The Middle Ages, Mariner Books, 2001. This is the place to read about the monarchs in Europe, the power of the church, the wars, and the customs of the people during the Middle Ages.

Seward, Desmond, The Hundred Years War: The English in France, 1337–1453, Penguin, 2003. A study of the central issues of dispute and the resulting wars between France and England as the two countries fought for control of the French crown.

Gies, Frances, and Joseph Gies, Marriage and the Family in the Middle Ages, Harper Perennial, 1989. Have you ever wondered what life would be like in the Middle Ages? These authors have put together a glimpse into the ordinary lives of citizens of the Middle Ages.

Shapiro, James, A Year in the Life of William Shakespeare: 1599, Harper Perennial, 2006. The author offers a different take on the biography of Shakespeare by telling the reader what was happening around Shakespeare while he was writing some of his plays, including Henry V.


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Henry VI, Part Three 1595

Henry VI, Part Three, first published in 1595, is one of William Shakespeare’s bloodiest plays, with a large portion of the dramatic action taking place either on the battlefield, off the battlefield but involving the details of several murders, or inside courts, discussing the need to go to war or the necessity of disposing of enemies. Ironically, it is a story about a gentle king who was a weak ruler, allowing others to take care of the affairs of his government. Henry VI, the real king, was known to be more interested in book learning and spiritual matters than warfare. Unfortunately, much of his legacy (the part that Shakespeare focuses on in this play) involved bloodshed. This play is the third and last section of the Henry VI trilogy (preceded by the aptly named Henry VI, Part One and Henry VI, Part Two). The trilogy is ostensibly about the life and reign of Henry IV, the son of the great warrior Henry V, about whom Shakespeare also created a drama. Unlike Shakespeare’s play Henry V, however, this particular play, Henry VI, Part Three has very little to do with the monarch himself. The reason for this might be that by the time King Henry VI had reached this part of his life, he had become a recluse. In his place stood his wife, Queen Margaret, a defiant woman who fought harder for Henry’s throne than the king himself did. Other main characters in this drama include members of the Plantagenet family, the noblemen from York, who claim what they believe is their

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legitimate inheritance of the throne. The main action of the play revolves around the battle for the crown between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians (Henry’s clan); both families were legitimate descendants of King Edward III (1327–77). The play begins with Henry on the throne, which quickly changes when the Yorkists take the throne by force. After another battle, Henry is reinstated as king for a short period of time until the Yorkists recapture the throne. These were terrible times for the English, as the country was involved in the conflict which history referred to as the Wars of Roses (1455–87). This was a civil war with the Yorkists (symbolized by a white rose on their badges) and their followers on one side and those allegiant to the Lancastrians (who wore badges with a red rose on them) on the other side. As the English rule switched back and forth between the two families, thousands of soldiers sacrificed their lives, noblemen were killed, as were young children of both families who might claim the throne in the future. Although popular in Shakespeare’s time, this play did not receive as warm a reception as many other Shakespearian dramas did between the seventeenth and nineteenth centuries. It was not until more modern times that scholars and audiences have taken an interest in this drama. Some critics believe that the atrocities of a civil war, with brother fighting against brother, father against son, might have been too much to stomach, at least for some English audiences in earlier centuries. But as a glimpse into English history, especially as Shakespeare demonstrates the human nature behind the scenes of war, this play offers a creatively documented portal into history.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Shakespeare’s Henry VI, Part Three begins in the midst of a battle. The Duke of York enters the Parliament House with his sons, Edward and Richard, and several of his noblemen. They wonder where King Henry is and how they missed capturing him. They discuss their battles, with Warwick, one of the noblemen, claiming that he first wants Henry’s head and next wants to see the duke crowned king. The duke commits to fighting for the title, and to prove his


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intentions, he sits down on the throne. Shortly afterward, King Henry arrives on the scene with his lords. Henry is surprised to see the duke sitting on the throne and asks him what right he has to do so. After all, the duke’s father was not a king, as was Henry’s. York reminds Henry that Henry’s grandfather, King Henry IV, gained the throne through rebellion, not through legal accession. The lords on both sides bicker with one another, each claiming legal right of the throne for their leader. One of King Henry’s lords, the Duke of Exeter, states that York might indeed have legal claim. This worries King Henry, who is afraid all his lords might side with York. Henry tries to work out a compromise by telling York that if York allows him to maintain the crown until Henry’s death, Henry will make the Yorkists heir to the throne thereafter. York agrees. When the two men embrace, some of Henry’s men leave, disgusted. Henry reflects on having disinherited his own son, Edward, the prince of Wales. After York leaves with his sons and nobles, Queen Margaret and the prince arrive. The king tries to slip away from them, but the queen stops Henry. She has heard about Henry’s agreement with York. When Henry says that York forced him to disinherit his son, Margaret asks: ‘‘Art thou King, and wilt be forced?’’ And thus begins the queen’s battle to save the throne for her son. She vows to use her army to destroy the Yorkists.

Act 1, Scene 2 York’s sons, Richard and Edward do not want to wait until King Henry dies before their family can claim the throne. They talk their father, the Duke of York, into forgetting his oath to the king. ‘‘I will be King, or die,’’ the duke finally says, disavowing the oath he has just made with Henry, and then he sends his sons and noblemen out to fight for the throne again. A messenger arrives, warning the duke that the queen is coming to his castle with her army. The duke decides to keep his sons with him. As the queen approaches, the armies go out to meet her in the battlefield. York’s men are greatly outnumbered, but they do not worry, because their enemies are led by a woman.

Act 1, Scene 3 The youngest son of York, Edmund, Earl of Rutland, appears with his tutor, when Clifford,

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one of Henry’s men, encounters them. Clifford is determined to murder all of York’s family in revenge of their having killed Clifford’s father. Edmund pleads for his life, but Clifford is not affected. Clifford says, ‘‘Thy father slew my father. Therefore die.’’ And then Clifford stabs the boy.

Act 1, Scene 4 The next scene is on the battlefield. York and his men are losing. York is captured, and Clifford wants to kill him. Queen Margaret wants Clifford to be patient, while she mocks York about having earlier taken the throne. Now, she asks York where his sons are. She calls his sons names. Where are York’s men? Then she makes a paper crown and sticks it on top of his head, making the Duke of York an imaginary king. York talks back to her, saying she is nothing like a woman. Clifford stabs York; Queen Margaret stabs York, too. Then she orders her men to cut off York’s head and impale it on the gate leading to the town of York.

Henry VI, King of England (Getty Images)

Act 2, Scene 1 On another battlefield, York’s sons, Edward and Richard, wonder where their father is, wonder if he is all right. Edward notices the sun rising, but instead of seeing one sun, he sees three that eventually merge into one. This is a sign, Edward believes, that the three remaining brothers, Edward, George, and Richard, should ban together to unite their power. A messenger arrives announcing the death of York. When the messenger offers details about how their father died, Edward says he wants to hear no more. Richard, on the other hand, wants to hear every detail. Edward cries, but Richard cannot weep because his tears are being used to help cool down his impassioned mind. Richard can only think of vengeance. Edward then realizes that he has inherited the dukedom of his father. But Richard says that Edward has inherited the throne of England. One of York’s men, Warwick, arrives to announce that his men were defeated by the queen. He also tells them that their brother George has arrived from France. A messenger appears to tell them that the queen is coming.

Act 2, Scene 2 The queen and King Henry, with Clifford and the prince, are outside of York. Clifford tries to

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convince the king to be nice to the prince, Henry’s son, to not disinherit him. Then Clifford tells the king that he should treat the Yorkists as enemies. The king defends his position, stating that sometimes sons do not like what their fathers give them. Henry wishes his own father had given him something other than a kingdom. The queen reminds her husband that he had promised to knight their son, which Henry does. Then the prince vows to fight to the death for the Crown. A messenger tells the king and queen that the new Duke of York is marching an army of thirty thousand men toward them. Clifford asks the king to disappear, as the queen fights better when the king is not around. The king decides to stay. The York brothers appear. They confront Clifford, who admits having killed their youngest brother and their father. Then the brothers ask if Henry is going to yield his authority to Edward. Edward tells Margaret that if she had been gentler, like her husband, the Yorkists might not have tried to seize the power. Henry tries to speak, but Margaret silences him. The Yorkists leave, saying they are tired of all the talk and will settle this dispute on the battlefield.

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Act 2, Scene 3

Act 3, Scene 1

In the midst of another battle, the brothers, with Warwick, find each other and swear their allegiance to fight until they gain their revenge of the deaths of their brother and father. Their brother George is now with them.

King Henry is in hiding, north of England. Two hunters, who are hiding from their prey, see Henry, who is talking out loud to himself. In Henry’s ruminations, he makes many references to being a king. He also talks about the queen having traveled to France to talk to the French king. Warwick is also in France to ask for the hand of Bona for Edward. The hunters come out from hiding and ask why Henry knows so much about being king. Henry tries to steer them off track, but in the end they realize who he is and take him captive.

Act 2, Scene 4 Richard and Clifford fight. But when Warwick appears, Clifford sneaks out. Warwick wants to go after him, but Richard says he wants to be the one to kill Clifford.

Act 2, Scene 5

Act 3, Scene 2

King Henry is sitting by himself in another part of the battlefield. He is reflecting on wars and on his life. Clifford and the queen have persuaded the king to leave the battle. Henry thinks about how happy life would be if he were a shepherd. Then a man appears, carrying a dead soldier he has just killed. He turns the dead soldier’s face and sees that he has killed his father. Another soldier appears, also carrying a body. This soldier laments that he has unknowingly killed his son.

In London, Edward, now King Edward IV, is talking to Lady Grey, a widow who is asking to have her land restored to her. She lost the land when her husband died, fighting for Edward. Richard and George are present and are joking about how Edward will probably give the woman her land in exchange for becoming his lover. Edward attempts to woo Lady Grey into his bed, but the widow refuses. Edward then proposes marriage. Lady Grey accepts.

The queen, the prince, and Exeter appear, telling the king that they must flee. Warwick and the York brothers have found a new fierce energy and are winning this battle.

Act 2, Scene 6 In another part of the battlefield, Clifford is wounded, and he acknowledges that he is dying. He reflects on life, wishing that Henry had been more like his father (Henry V), stronger in his role as king, so the Yorkists would not have even thought of trying to take over the Crown. Clifford then calls out to the Yorkists and tells them to come and kill him. Then he faints. Edward and Warwick find Clifford, and they bemoan the fact that they cannot kill him because Clifford is already dead. Warwick tells the brothers to take their father’s head off the gate of York and replace it with Clifford’s. Warwick tells the brothers to go to London to claim the throne. Warwick will go to France to ask King Lewis XI to help them. He will ask the king to allow the king’s sister-in-law, Bona, to marry Edward, to once again bridge the gap between the two countries. Before the brothers leave, Edward names Richard the Duke of Gloucester and George the Duke of Clarence.


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A messenger arrives, telling Edward that Henry has been apprehended. Edward tells the messenger to have Henry taken to the tower. Everyone leaves but Richard, who thinks aloud, scheming about how he might gain the throne for himself. He lists all the people who stand in line before him. He thinks of alternative rewards for himself but concludes that, because his body is so misshapen, the only way he can find any joy is to rule over everyone. He concludes that he must gain the throne in any way possible.

Act 3, Scene 3 In France, Queen Margaret and the prince meet with King Lewis. Bona is also present in the room. The king tries to make Margaret feel comfortable, but she is too agitated. She finally tells the king that she needs his support to retake the throne. The king considers this, but then Warwick appears. Warwick also asks for the king’s support, by giving him Bona for King Edward. King Lewis asks Warwick if King Edward truly loves his sister. Warwick swears that this is true. A messenger arrives, bearing three letters, one for Queen Margaret, one for Warwick, one for King Lewis. The three of them learn of the marriage of King Edward to Lady Grey. Warwick

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is angry. He wonders how Edward could have betrayed him. Warwick tells the king and Queen Margaret that he will switch his allegiance and fight with the queen to regain the throne for Henry. The French king promises to send troops to help them.

Act 4, Scene 1 Back in London at the palace, Edward arrives with his new wife, Lady Grey, now queen. George and Richard do not like this marriage and tell Edward that he has made a mistake. Some of Edward’s men agree. England needs France as an ally. Others of Edward’s men believe England is strong enough to stand alone. Edward tells his brothers that he is king and does not have to listen to them. The messenger arrives and tells them about the reactions in France to Edward’s marriage and of Warwick’s promise to support Queen Margaret. Warwick has sealed his allegiance to the queen by offering his daughter in marriage to the prince. George says he will marry Warwick’s other daughter and he leaves to serve the queen. Richard stays with Edward. He implies that he needs to keep close to Edward in order to find the right opportunity to gain the throne for himself.

Act 4, Scene 2 In Warwickshire, Warwick arrives back in England with French soldiers. He is greeted by George. Warwick tells George about his plan to capture Edward.

Act 4, Scene 3 Edward is encamped in a field, protected only by a small group of watchmen. Warwick and his men surprise the guard and capture Edward. Warwick refers to Edward as duke. Edward questions this, reminding Warwick that before he left for France, Warwick had called Edward king. Warwick says that was before Edward disgraced him when he went to France as Edward’s ambassador. Warwick takes the crown from Edward and says that Henry will wear it now.

allowed out in the field to hunt. He takes some men with him, and when Edward appears, Richard and his men steal Edward away.

Act 4, Scene 6 Warwick and George go to the tower where Henry is imprisoned. They give him back the crown. Henry accepts the crown but tells them that he is going to retire from leading the government. He asks Warwick to take over that role. Warwick says that position should be given to George. So King Henry appoints them both to the position. Warwick and George agree and promise to make Henry’s son, Edward, the rightful heir to the throne. Henry then notices a young boy in their midst. He predicts that the boy will one day bring peace to England. The boy is Henry, Earl of Richmond, the future Henry VII. A messenger arrives with news that Edward has escaped. This worries Henry, Warwick, and George, who suspect that Edward will raise an army and come back to claim the crown.

Act 4, Scene 7 Edward, Richard, and their soldiers arrive at York, demanding that the mayor of York open the gates. Edward claims that, if not king, he is still the Duke of York. Before the mayor opens the gates, Edward also claims allegiance to King Henry. Montgomery arrives with his troops and says he is there to help Edward reclaim the throne. Edward says that he is not ready to do so because his forces are not big enough yet. Montgomery, upon hearing this, says he will then leave. Richard counsels Edward, telling him that now is the time. Edward changes his mind and Montgomery stays.

Act 4, Scene 8

Back in London, at the palace, Lady Grey talks to her brother Lord Rivers, telling him that she fears for Edward’s life. She also announces that she is pregnant with Edward’s child.

Warwick is with King Henry in London. They learn that Edward and his armies are heading to London to retake the throne. Warwick leaves, to prepare to meet Edward. King Henry talks with Exeter about his reign, evaluating things he has done, hoping that he has been fair. Edward enters and orders Henry be taken prisoner and sent to the tower.

Act 4, Scene 5

Act 5, Scene 1

Richard has learned where his brother Edward is being held captive. He also knows that Edward is

Warwick is in Coventry with his troops, waiting for others to join him. More troops come to join

Act 4, Scene 4

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him. Edward and Richard also arrive. Edward asks Warwick if he will support him. Warwick says that he now backs Henry. Edward tells him that Henry is his prisoner once again. When George arrives with his troops, Richard goes to speak to him. Richard changes George’s mind, and George asks his brother Edward to forgive him for deserting him, and he rejoins forces with his brothers. Edward’s men and Henry’s men, the two opposing forces, agree to meet in the countryside to fight.

Act 5, Scene 2 On a battlefield near Barnet, Warwick has been mortally wounded. Edward leaves him to die. Two noblemen, Somerset and Oxford, appear telling Warwick that the French king has sent more troops with Margaret to help them. It is too late for Warwick, who dies.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

King Henry VI, Part Three was adapted for television by the British Broadcasting Corporation in their Complete Dramatic Works of William Shakespeare, one of the most complete renditions of the play, using almost all of the text as Shakespeare wrote it.

Edward, Richard, and George, the three York brothers, enter victoriously. They have won this battle. But Margaret approaches, and they go out to meet her.

fell into the sea. Henry likens his son to Icarus. Henry also predicts that many will mourn all the people that Richard has, and will, kill. Richard then stabs Henry to death. Richard next reflects on his future, stating that his brothers should beware of him.

Act 5, Scene 4

Act 5, Scene 7

Queen Margaret arrives with her troops from France. She makes a grand speech to the troops, especially those who fought with Warwick. She encourages them not to give up. Prince Edward praises his mother, stating that even cowards, upon hearing his mother’s speech, would be proud to fight. A messenger delivers the news that Edward and his soldiers are approaching. Both sides prepare for the battle.

In the throne room, Edward takes his place. His queen and his brothers are with him. Edward asks to see his son, an infant named Edward. He kisses the baby and asks that his brothers do the same. When asked what to do with Margaret, Edward agrees that she should be sent to France, which has promised a ransom for her. The play ends with Edward hoping for ‘‘lasting joy.’’

Act 5, Scene 3

Act 5, Scene 5 The battle is ended. Edward has won. Several of King Henry’s nobles are killed. The prince and Margaret are prisoners. The prince tries to talk down to Edward, but this only riles Edward, who orders the prince killed. Margaret tells them to kill her too, but they take her prisoner instead. Richard disappears. George tells Edward that he thinks Richard has gone to the Tower of London to kill Henry.

Act 5, Scene 6 In London, in the Tower, Richard appears before Henry. Henry has heard of his son’s death and suspects that his death is near. He refers to the story of Icarus, the man who flew too close to the sun on a pair of waxed wings and


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CHARACTERS Bona Bona is the French King Lewis’s sister-in-law. She has very little to say in this drama and plays a very minor role. She is used in an attempt to bridge the relationship between England and France. Warwick goes to France as King Edward’s ambassador to gain the permission of King Lewis to have King Edward marry Bona. When King Lewis asks if King Edward loves Bona, Warwick confirms this to be true. Shortly afterward, letters arrive at the French court, announcing that King Edward has married Lady Grey, although King Edward had sent Warwick to France to ask for the hand of Bona. There is no other communications between

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Bona and King Edward, and yet Bona claims that she has been spurred by her lover (Edward). She is never seen or heard from again.

Lord Clifford Lord Clifford is an ally of Queen Margaret’s. He is angered from the beginning of the play and throughout all of the action until his death. The Duke of York killed Clifford’s father prior to the beginning of this play; Clifford’s main motive throughout this drama is to seek revenge. He wants to kill every member of the York family. Clifford kills York’s youngest son, Edmund, and then proceeds to kill York. He is the avowed enemy of King Edward, Richard, and George, but he does not face them in any of the battles. Clifford is killed while fighting; however, it is not known who has killed him. He appears with an arrow in his neck and knows that he is dying. By the time the Edward, Richard, and George find him, Clifford is already dead.

Duke of Exeter The Duke of Exeter is King Henry VI’s great uncle. Although a supporter of King Henry, Exeter is the lone voice on Henry’s side that agrees with the Duke of York that he is the legitimate heir to the throne. It is Exeter’s statement that makes King Henry worry that all his noblemen might agree with Exeter and therefore desert the king in favor of York. This leads Henry to make his compromise with York in the first act, when he declares that upon his death, Henry will make allowances so that York inherits the crown. Exeter remains loyal to King Henry and Queen Margaret, though, and at one point hopes to make peace between the House York and Henry’s family. The last Exeter is seen is toward the end of the play. King Henry is using Exeter to reflect on some thoughts, right before King Edward seizes Henry and imprisons him.

Duke of Norfolk The Duke of Norfolk is one of King Henry’s and Queen Margaret’s supporters.

Duke of Somerset The Duke of Somerset, in the beginning of the play, supports the Yorks. However, when Edward’s brother, George, goes to the side of the queen, Somerset goes with him. Somerset comforts Warwick when Warwick dies. When Edward wins the last battle, he orders that Somerset’s head be chopped off.

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Earl of Northumberland The Earl of Northumberland is on Henry’s side and is cousin to Lord Clifford. When Henry promises the throne to York, the Earl of Northumberland curses the king but later supports the queen in her battle to maintain the throne.

Earl of Oxford The Earl of Oxford supports the queen and travels with her to France. When Edward wins the last battle, Oxford is sent to prison.

Earl of Warwick Warwick was a nobleman in allegiance with the Plantagenet family, also called the House of York. He was very instrumental in pushing the Duke of York to claim the throne. Warwick was also the force behind Edward gaining the crown. As ambassador for Edward, Warwick goes to France to gain the hand of the French king’s sister-in-law, Bona. While in France, however, Edward goes against Warwick’s plan and humiliates him in front of the king by marrying Lady Grey after Warwick has just sworn to the French king that Edward loves Bona. In anger and frustration, Warwick tells Queen Margaret that he will leave Edward’s side and join her forces. He cements this deal by giving the hand of one of his daughters to the queen’s son; they will marry. Warwick sends a message to King Edward, telling him that he will no longer support him. Later, in a battle between the queen’s forces and King Edward’s, Warwick is killed.

Earl of Westmoreland Westmoreland is on King Henry’s side against the Yorks. However, in the first scene, when Henry promises the throne to the Yorks, Westmoreland becomes disgusted with the king and calls him weak and base. Westmoreland leaves the king and goes to offer his support to the queen.

Edmund, Earl of Rutland Edmund is the youngest son of Richard, the Duke of York. He appears in only one scene, in which Clifford kills him. Later, Queen Margaret taunts the duke with a handkerchief that has been dipped in Edmund’s blood.

Prince Edward Edward is the son of King Henry and Queen Margaret. He is a young man, always in the company of his mother in this play, and seldom

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interacts with his father, who ultimately disinherits him. He is betrothed to Warwick’s daughter, when Warwick wants to prove his allegiance to the queen. Edward has few lines in this play. Possibly the most notable is when he praises his mother after her speech to encourage her army toward the end of the play. Edward claims that after hearing his mother’s remarks, even cowards would be inspired to fight. Edward is killed by King Edward’s brother, Richard, thus eliminating another person in Richard’s way to becoming a king.

King Edward IV Edward is the eldest son of Richard, Duke of York. He has three brothers, George, Richard, and Edmund. Edmund, still a young boy, is killed early in the play. George and Richard are more prominent in this play, either staying at Edward’s side or, in George’s case, at one point actually fighting against him. Edward becomes the Duke of York after the death of his father. He leads his brothers in battle against Queen Margaret. When they defeat her, Edward claims the crown. Edward, in Shakespeare’s point of view, becomes egotistic after he is crowned and is often heard defying his brothers, telling them that he is king and no longer needs to take their counsel. His brothers become increasingly disenfranchised with their brother, especially when Edward decides to marry Lady Grey. It is uncertain if Edward loves Lady Grey or merely lusts after her. His brothers see no advantage in the marriage to Lady Grey, such as the marriage with the French king’s sister-inlaw might have brought. More significantly, Edward also frustrates the Earl of Warwick, whose guidance placed Edward on the throne. Warwick and Edward’s brother George abandon Edward and work against him after Edward’s marriage. In the end, however, George returns and helps Edward defeat Queen Margaret, thus assuring Edward’s reign. At the end of the play, Edward feels no remorse for all the deaths that have been caused in his fight for the throne. He likens those of his so-called enemies that have died to corn that was in need of harvesting.

George, Duke of Clarence George is son to Richard, Duke of York and younger brother to King Edward. He travels to


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France to gain support for his father’s fight for the throne. Upon returning, he learns that his father has been killed. George supports his brother’s fight to gain the throne but is disillusioned when Edward betrays Warwick and marries Lady Grey while Warwick is in France asking for the French king’s sister-in-law as a bride for Edward. When Warwick decides to join forces with the queen against Edward, George decides to do the same. However, in the last battle, George reunites with Edward after his other brother, Richard, talks to him. Edward appoints George as Duke of Clarence. By the end of the play, Richard, his younger brother, says in an aside to the audience that George ought to beware because Richard has ambitions of gaining the throne and George is one of the people who is standing in line in front of him.

Lady Elizabeth Grey Lady Grey comes to King Edward to plead for her husband’s land. Her husband was killed fighting for King Edward’s right to the throne. When King Edward suggests that he will give her the land if she goes to bed with him, Lady Grey refuses. However, when King Edward proposes marriage, Lady Grey accepts and becomes Queen Elizabeth. She gives King Edward a son at the end of the play.

Lord Hastings Lord Hastings is one of Edward’s supporters. He appears only in act four.

King Henry VI King Henry VI is the son of King Henry V. Unlike his father, Henry VI is weak, both physically and mentally. He wants peace but is not strong enough to stop his warring nobles. He has made a lot of enemies and by the time the play opens, he must confront the Duke of York, who is sitting on Henry’s throne. Henry does not completely back down but he is not forceful enough, being willing to compromise with the duke in order to find a settlement. He promises the duke the crown upon Henry’s death. The queen and his noblemen are furious. Suffering from mental illness, handed down to him from his mother’s side, Henry wants to retreat from public life. He dreams about being a simple shepherd and spends most of his time by himself. He delegates the affairs of state to his noblemen and his leadership during battles to his wife and young son. He appears most content

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while imprisoned, which allows him the peace and the time to read and think of spiritual things. Henry is a puppet, doing what he is told and going where he is directed. Henry wishes his father had disinherited him the same way he disinherits his son. Henry does not want the throne. He is told to leave the battlefield because his wife fights better when Henry is not around. Henry flees to Scotland when a battle is lost, but he is found and imprisoned. He regains the throne for a year, but not due to any effort on his part. It is in prison that his murderer (in this play it is Richard, the son of the Duke of York) finds him, at which time Henry resigns himself to his fate. Henry is not a force in this play. He is merely an incident. He appears only when he is forced to, then disappears. He makes no grand speeches and the only forceful move he makes is when he asks (almost pleads) with the Duke of York to allow him to remain on the throne. The duke agrees but only temporarily, canceling out the authority that Henry meekly demonstrated.

Margaret of Anjou (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)

King Lewis XI King Lewis XI (referred to as King Louis XI in some texts) is the king France. He accepts Queen Margaret at court and hears her plea for assistance in putting down the rebellion of the House of York in their attempt to win the crown. King Lewis is also the brother-in-law of Bona and accepts the deal that Warwick proposes—having King Edward marry Bona. The French king is very disappointed, however, when he learns that King Edward has married Lady Grey. At this point, the French king turns all his support to Queen Margaret, sending French troops to England to fight against the Yorks.

Queen Margaret The queen is wife to King Henry VI and mother of Prince Edward. As Shakespeare portrays her, Margaret is very strong-willed and is as fierce as the king is reticent. Throughout the play, Margaret’s main goal is to fight for the throne— not just for her husband, but more importantly for her son. When she speaks forcefully, she is ridiculed for being more like a man than a woman. In turn, she berates her husband for being so mild and giving up the throne without a fight. In the battle victory that she enjoys in the beginning of the play, she is as violent as any of

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her men, helping Clifford, for example, to kill the Duke of York. Her speeches as she attempts to raise the spirits of her exhausted army are of an equal to any of Shakespeare’s monologues written for male leaders in the midst of war. Margaret comes across as a strong, articulate woman, who has a goal in mind that she is determined to bring to fruition. She is not afraid of facing her enemies and is not ashamed that she can lead an army better than the king. Of the three women in this play, Margaret does not represent the ultimate vision of femininity, but is rather a woman who is not afraid to fight for what she believes in.

Marquess of Montague Brother to the Duke of York, the Marquess of Montague supports the Duke of York’s claims to the throne. However, when Warwick changes allegiance after Edward marries Lady Grey, Montague also appears on Queen Margaret’s side in battle. Montague recognized that England needed the alliance with France. Montague is with Warwick in the last battle between Henry’s forces and Edward’s.

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Richard, Duke of Gloucester Richard is the third son of the Duke of York and youngest remaining brother of King Edward. Shakespeare paints Richard as having a very misshapen body, which is not completely confirmed by historical events. However, in the play, Richard refers to his body as the reason he will never do well with women or in the court. Richard therefore decides that the only way to gain power is to ascend to the throne. In order to do this, though, he realizes he must get rid of a long line of people in front of him. Richard’s goal throughout the play is to stick close to Edward, not through allegiance but in order to keep an eye on Edward and be prepared for the chance to kill him. Richard is responsible for several deaths in the play, most importantly Prince Edward, son of Henry VI, as well as Henry VI himself. Richard often mocks his brother, Edward, but he does not become as offended by Edward’s mistakes as does George. Richard’s higher goals keep him disinterested in Edward other than as a stepping stone to Richard’s ultimate goal. Some of Richard’s significant statements include the image of the three suns in act two, scene one, through which he ironically implies that the three brothers should stand together as one. All the while Richard is scheming to kill his brothers. Richard also asks for all the gruesome details of his father’s death, something that Edward cannot bear to hear. This possibly fuels Richard’s own desires to kill. At the end of the play, when Richard kisses Edward’s newborn baby, Richard implies that he kisses the baby boy as Judas kissed Jesus.

Richard, Duke of York Richard is an old adversary of King Henry VI and Queen Margaret. He is related to Henry VI and claims he is the rightful heir to the throne, through the line of Richard II. The duke claims his inheritance from Richard II’s eldest son; while Henry VI is related through Richard II’s younger son. Richard has made this claim prior to this drama, but he takes advantage of King Henry’s lessened involvement in the political affairs of his rule. Richard puts together an army, which includes his sons, Edward, George, and Richard, to fight for the crown. The play begins with Richard sitting on the throne, although he has not actually yet won it. When Henry enters the room in the first act, Richard makes a deal with


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the king, taking an oath that Henry can maintain possession of the crown until his death. At that time, Richard will be crowned king. However, Richard’s sons do not want to wait that long. They talk Richard into breaking this oath and once again going against Henry’s armies. Richard is killed by Queen Margaret and Clifford after one of the battles. His head is placed on the gate of York, the city that he once ruled.

Lord Rivers Lord Rivers supports King Edward and is Lady Grey’s brother. He appears briefly in act four. It is to Lord Rivers that Lady Grey announces that she is pregnant with Edward’s child.

THEMES Bloody Murder and War Most of the action of Shakespeare’s King Henry VI, Part Three takes place on the battlefield, as the two branches of one family, the Lancastrians and the Yorkists, fight for the right to the throne. Warfare is glorified throughout the dialogue, praising men who are proud enough to fight and sacrifice their lives. Little thought is given to the taking of life. Most of the murders are rationalized as merely a means to get what one wants—certain people have to be eliminated in order for one family, or the other, to claim the throne. Whoever has the bigger or the stronger army wins the right to rule. Oaths are broken, and there seem to be no laws that can settle the dispute. The only recourse is to fight to the death in wars. This play focuses on the War of Roses and the bloody results as the two families clash. There is less time given to other human developments in this play other than the desire to completely annihilate one another.

Accession to the Throne The major question of this drama is who deserves the right to be called king. Two branches of one family, descendents from the same relative, Edward III, argue for the throne. Each has a logical, if not legal, case. Bloodlines cross, making the path of accession murky. So it comes down to which side has the most physical power, putting weaker members, especially young princes, at risk. Shakespeare points out the weaknesses in this system, especially through the character of Richard, who commits himself to eliminating all

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those who stand in his way to accede to the throne. He will kill anyone who is in line before him, or so Shakespeare implies. Whether in real life this actually happened was never confirmed, but Richard did eventually win the crown through the mysterious deaths of those who might have attained it before him. Whether Shakespeare was using this play to point out the horrors of such a system gone wrong is not known. But by emphasizing the battles and adding the element of Richard’s scheming, one could argue that this was indeed Shakespeare’s point.

Role of Women There are three women in this drama, Queen Margaret, Lady Grey, and Bona. The most powerful of these women is Queen Margaret, whom Shakespeare endows with the role of saving the crown for her husband and therefore her son, the prince. Margaret’s lines in this play are similar to what Shakespeare usually reserves for male characters. Margaret rallies her soldiers to fight and she also stands up to powerful people such as Richard, Edward, and the Duke of York. Even the old Duke of York chastises her for being too manly. Women are supposed to be soft and therefore pliant, the duke tells her. But not so Margaret, who leads her troops to war and even asks that the king leave her side because she fights better when he is not around. Margaret is portrayed to be almost like Joan of Arc, who led the French against the English in taking back the French land that England had once claimed. Margaret is strong willed, intelligent, and brave. She even fools the Yorkists into believing that they can defeat her merely because she is a woman. The way Shakespeare creates her, Margaret plays the so-called husband role to her diminutive Henry, who shies away from war and hides behind books. In the process, though, as the Duke of York points out, Margaret loses all definitions of femininity. In order to be this strong, Shakespeare implies, a woman can no longer be a woman. She, in all but fact, is a man. Even in her role with her son, she acts more like a father than a mother. It is Lady Grey who plays out the role of femininity. Edward is enamored of Lady Grey’s feminine charms and immediately wants to go to bed with her when he sees her. She is also the maker of children, having already conceived and given birth to three when Edward meets her. Edward seems to want to ensure that he has an heir and latches on to Lady’s Grey’s fertility.

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Lady Grey is strong but soft spoken. She demands her land and refuses to go to bed with Edward. So the king relents and marries her. Lady Grey then produces a son for him. She is the epitome of the perfect wife: someone strong enough to stand up for her rights and yet willing to succumb when she gets what she wants. She supports her husband, worries about him when he is at war, and stays home, rather than joining him in battle, to take care of their son. Bona, the French king’s sister-in-law, plays a very minor, as well as docile, role. She is woman as object, used to create liaisons between one country and another. She has no will of her own; she does what she is told. She is a title, a piece of paper, a puppet. She is, in other words, not real. She merely holds a place. One of Bona’s three lines in the play has her saying to Edward’s messenger: ‘‘Tell him, in hope he’ll prove a widower shortly, I’ll wear the willow garland for his sake.’’ This is a powerful line but it lacks any significance. Is she insinuating that she is going to kill Lady Grey? Or is she just hoping for it, a careless wish? There is no substance behind it. The willow garland is the sign of a disappointed lover. But even this is weak, as there was no love between her and Edward. Bona is the weakest woman of the three women in this play, the complete opposite of Queen Margaret. Through these three women, Shakespeare provides a full glimpse of womanhood of his time—at least, that which is seen in the noble classes.

Allegiance The subject of allegiance sways back and forth through this drama. Starting at the top, King Henry has no allegiance to his son, disinheriting him in hopes that Henry will finally find peace in his life. Margaret and her son, however, have sworn themselves to the recapturing of the throne, a promise from which they do not distract themselves. As wishy-washy as Henry is, Margaret and the prince are completely committed. Shortly thereafter, the Duke of York, who had sworn to accept Henry’s decree, goes back on his word and thus negates any allegiance he had shared with the king. On the side of the Yorkists, Richard is the most committed, although his allegiance is not to his country or to his brothers. Richard’s only allegiance is to himself. It is a strong commitment, one he will keep until he has won the throne, no matter what he has to do to get it.

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Compare the Wars of the Roses in England with the Civil War in the United States. Were there any similarities in the weaponry? Were the military strategies different? How did the casualties compare? What were the various sizes of the armies? How much land did each of the civil wars cover? Were the battles continuous or were there intervals in between? How long did each war last? Record your statistics on a chart and present your findings to your class. One commentator compared Queen Margaret to Britain’s prime minister Margaret Thatcher. Research each woman and the roles they played in the history of England. Did you find any similarities? Write a short summary of each woman’s life, challenges, and accomplishments; then present your findings to your class.

because she thinks all you want is to take her to bed. Write a love poem (in any style, either modern or in an Elizabethan tone) to Lady Grey, convincing her that your love is true and that you want to marry her.

Imagine that you are King Edward IV, and you have fallen in love with Lady Grey. She refuses to have anything to do with you

Richard’s brother George, however, sways one way and then the other, depending on who looks like they might win the war. He stands behind his brother Edward until he believes that having the French king on Queen Margaret’s side will ensure that the queen will win. Then, just before a battle against his brother, George is easily persuaded to ask Edward’s forgiveness and allow him to fight on Edward’s side. Edward’s allegiance is likewise shaky. He appears to want to go forward in attaining the crown, but he is always a bit reluctant to move in that direction. Usually, Richard is the one to push him, telling Edward that now is the time, not later; or reminding Edward that not only is Edward the duke (after their father dies) but also heir to the throne. Edward does not keep his word with Warwick, either, sending his


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One of the most poignant scenes in Henry VI, Part Three occurs in act two, scene five, in which the king thinks about the effects of war. Find two classmates who will present a portion of this scene to your class. Begin with line 55, where a son appears on the scene, dragging with him a dead body, only to find out it is his father. Continue the scene until line 124. Each person should memorize his or her lines and deliver them with as much passion as possible, imagining that each has killed someone they loved. Afterwards, lead a discussion on the topic of Henry VI’s effectiveness as a king. Was he too weak, or was he a man of peace surrounded by times of war? Base the discussion on the speech that Henry makes in this scene.

ambassador to France with one goal, to win the hand of Bona, and then no sooner is Warwick gone than Edward marries Lady Grey. Warwick’s lack of commitment is warranted, to a point. He is embarrassed when he has just told the French king that Edward truly loves Bona, then has to announce that Edward has married Lady Grey. Right on the spot, Warwick, who has spent all his life up until that moment on the side of the Yorkists, turns to his enemy, Queen Margaret, and not only tells her that he will support her in her fight to regain the throne but also commits his daughter to marry the queen’s son. Shakespeare might have presented all these different degrees of allegiance to show the meaningless of such commitments. All of the allegiances in this play are non-binding, completely

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reliant on a person’s word. The drama demonstrates that this is not a strong enough bind.

Rivalry The rivalry between the Lancastrians and the Yorkists, two branches of the same family, brings a whole country into war. It is a longstanding rivalry, going back one hundred and fifty years. Over the course of that time, members of one or another of the families are killed in pursuit of victory. Rivalries are not only present in the larger scope but also on a more personal level, such as is seen in Richard, King Edward’s brother. Richard, who is overlooked as an heir to the throne because he is younger than Edward, is determined to do what he must to ensure that he spends time on the throne. He is not content that his brother is finally king, having won a bloody war against the Lancastrians. Richard must win the crown for himself, even if it means the death of his brothers. Rivalry is not inherently wrong. In other words, it does not always lead to bloodshed. Rivalry, used in a positive way, can make each side stronger. But in this play, rivalry does no such thing. The battles that are fought are to the death. There are few rules of competition. If someone sneaks up on another person and stabs that person, then the one remaining standing is declared the winner. This is the way rivalry is portrayed in this play, at least. There are no noble causes, no good over evil; there is just a fight between two factions. Whoever has the biggest army claims the prize. England is not necessarily stronger or weaker depending on who wins, thus it does not really matter who wins. The best result of this rivalry is that in the end the fighting is done, and hopefully the country can enjoy some peace.

STYLE History Play Henry VI, Part Three is classified as one of Shakespeare’s history plays. Shakespeare wrote ten history plays in all: King John, Richard II, Henry IV, Part One, Henry IV, Part Two, Henry V, Henry VI, Part One, Henry VI, Part Two, Henry VI, Part Three, Henry VIII, and Richard III. Each of these plays covers an English king’s reign between the twelfth and the sixteenth

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centuries. Through Shakespeare’s history plays, a sense of nationalism is expressed. Great heroic speeches are presented by kings and queens who appear bigger than life, for the most part. The source for most of Shakespeare’s history plays came from the study of English history by Raphael Holinshed called the Chronicle (1587). Shakespeare was particular about what he chose to put into his history plays. Not all of the information is historically accurate; and he did not include all the details that were available to him. Instead, he shaped the plays so they would tell a more dramatic story. Shakespeare was also influenced by the politics of his time. For example, Richard, the brother of King Edward IV, is clearly depicted as a malformed villain, which some historians find a very distorted description. Literary scholars argue that the form of the history plays was based on propaganda, to show the evils of civil war, for example, and to celebrate the end of the rivalry between Lancaster and York. Shakespeare’s last play in this series is Henry VIII, which marks the beginning of the Tudor monarchy, of which Queen Elizabeth I was a part. In other words, Shakespeare’s reason behind creating these plays, as well as the form of his stories, may well have been dictated by his allegiance to the queen of his own time. The history plays are broken into different cycles. The first tetralogy includes the three parts of Henry VI and Richard III. The second tetralogy includes Richard II, the two parts of Henry IV, and Henry V. When the whole series of history plays is performed in historic order (with the second tetralogy presented before the first tetralogy), the series is called The War of the Roses.

Use of Rhetoric to Inspire Whether Shakespeare was writing Julius Caesar, Henry V, or any of his other plays that focus on a leader who is trying to persuade a crowd of citizens or group of soldiers, Shakespeare demonstrates his powerful use of rhetoric. Henry VI is no exception. The only difference might be that in Henry VI, most of that rhetoric is spoken by a woman. In act one, scene one, Margaret rails against her husband after he has disinherited their son. The rhetoric is spoken in free verse, a series (usually lengthy) of phrases written in iambic pentameter with no ending rhyme. Margaret’s first speech begins, ‘‘Enforced thee? Art thou King,

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and / wilt be forced? / I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch!’’ Here, Margaret is trying to persuade her husband to change his mind about giving the throne to the Yorkists. She is unsuccessful in encouraging her husband, who has no will to fight, but she does inspire her son and many of the nobles who remain faithful to her. Shortly afterward in the same act and scene, Richard uses rhetoric to persuade his father, the Duke of York, to forget about his oath that he made to King Henry. The oath, Richard tells his father, is not binding because it was not taken in front of a magistrate. ‘‘Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. / Therefore, to arms! And, father, do but think / How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown.’’ Unlike Margaret’s power to influence her husband, Richard is quite effective in persuading his father to forget about the oath and fight against Margaret to win the crown. Another example of how Shakespeare uses rhetorical speeches is in act one, scene four, after Margaret has captured the Duke of York and mocks him before putting him to death. She uses her speech to encourage her troops to continue the fight until they regain the throne completely. In this play, it seems that more rhetoric is used against the king than he himself uses it. In act two, scene two, it is Lord Clifford’s turn to persuade Henry, who is disgusted at the sight of the Duke of York’s head impaled on the gate to the city. But Clifford has not yet seen enough blood. The battles have just begun. Clifford knows he must persuade the king to allow the army to continue the fight. So Clifford begins: ‘‘My gracious liege, this too much lenity / And harmful pity must be laid aside.’’ Clifford continues by describing how lions look upon beasts that might destroy them, an effective way to get the king motivated to leave and let them fight. Throughout the play, this use of rhetoric, with its more lofty and poetic language than the ordinary prose, lifts the spirits of the characters, moving them in a specific direction through the power of Shakespeare’s words.

Shakespearian Language: Viewing versus Reading Shakespeare’s plays were meant to be seen, not read. This is even truer today than in Shakespeare’s time. Because the language is antiquated, with vocabulary that no longer is in use and contains word play whose references are no longer common to the modern audience, it is difficult to


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understand and appreciate the play just by reading it silently to oneself. When reading, it is hard to flow over the words without understanding each and every one of them. Words are the only clues that a reader has in trying to make sense of what is going on. However, when the play is dramatized with real actors and actresses, settings and atmosphere, the play comes alive. Actors use body language and phrasing that can help the audience interpret what is going on. Voice inflection also helps. The action of the play gives the audience more clues, playing out the meaning of words that are unfamiliar. While observing the play being performed, audiences do not get stuck on single words of dialogue but rather let the words flow through them, matching them with the reactions of the actors, even if the specific words do not make sense. Also, after hearing the words for a while, the audience becomes accustomed to their use and begins to make definitions for themselves, making the play so much more enjoyable than a solitary reading of what can seem like dry text. The text can be used to enhance the experience after viewing the performance.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Henry VI (1421–71) The English King Henry VI was born at Windsor castle, the only child of Henry V and Catherine. His father had been a valiant and brilliant military leader, having regained ownership of lands in France as well as a legitimate claim to the French throne. Henry VI was only nine months old when his father died, thus becoming, in name, England’s next king. Henry was expected to follow in his father’s footsteps. Unfortunately for England, Henry was inclined in a different direction. He was also stricken with a mental illness, inherited from his maternal grandfather, King Charles VI of France, which caused him to often disappear from view during the latter part of his reign. Because his mother was French and only twenty years old at the time of her husband’s death, she did not play a strong role in the upbringing of her son. The nobles around her were suspicious both of her heritage and her age. Henry was given a tutor, the Earl of Warwick; Cardinal Beufort and the Duke of Gloucester, uncles of Henry’s, also closely guided his upbringing.

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A council was formed to rule the country until Henry was of age. In 1429, right before his eighteenth birthday, Henry was officially crowned king of England. Two years later, due to his father’s previous victories in the Hundred Years’ War with France, Henry was also crowned king of France. Although this coronation in France was legal, Henry did not pursue the reign, preferring peace over battle. In the meantime, the son of French King Charles VI claimed a right to the throne. With the help of Joan of Arc, Charles reclaimed most of the land the English held in France and was crowned Charles VII, so that technically England’s rule of the land became a moot point. From the beginning, Henry showed little interest in governing his country. Instead, he turned over that job to his noblemen. Instead of fighting France, Henry was advised to pursue peace through his marriage to French King Charles VII’s niece, Margaret of Anjou. They were married in 1445. Henry was twenty-four, Margaret was sixteen. With Margaret’s strong personality and Henry’s reticence, the new queen quickly took over the reign of England. In 1453, Henry and Margaret had a son, Prince Edward. In the same year as his son’s birth, Henry VI had a mental breakdown. Richard, Duke of York, was assigned as regent, protector of the realm, until Henry’s recovery. Headstrong Queen Margaret alienated Richard, and he attacked her troops in 1455 at St. Albans, beginning the War of the Roses. Five years later, Richard captured Henry and forced him to recognize Richard as legal heir to the crown. Henry escaped and, in 1461, started a counter attack against Richard but lost. Richard’s son, Edward IV, was crowned king and Margaret and Henry fled to Scotland. In 1465, Queen Margaret and King Henry were captured and held in the Tower of London for five years. Power was restored to Henry for one year, from 1470 until 1471. When Edward IV regained the throne, Henry and the prince, his son, were killed and Margaret was sent back to France.

Queen Margaret (1430–1482) Margaret was the fifth child of the Count of Anjou (an accomplished artist and author) and his wife, Isabella of Lorraine. Margaret’s father eventually became the king of Naples and Sicily. Margaret was much sought after, so when she was given to King Henry VI, her father got away without offering a dowry. In fact, England’s ambassadors,

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headed by the Earl of Suffolk, as accounted by some historians, approved a deal with the French king to actually give back French lands held by England at that time in order to gain Margaret as a wife for Henry VI. Margaret allied herself with Suffolk and two successive Dukes of Somerset, against the Duke of York. She tried in vain to gain the title of regent when her husband suffered his first mental breakdown, but this title was given to the Duke of York. After her army was defeated and Edward IV took the throne, Margaret first retreated to Scotland and later to her homeland in Lorraine in 1463, where she set up a court in exile with her son. In 1468, the Earl of Warwick combined forces with her, and Margaret returned to England in an attempt to reclaim the throne. Unfortunately, Warwick was killed in battle the day she returned in 1471. Unwilling to give up, Margaret marched her army toward Wales to gather reinforcements. King Edward learned of this and cut off her passage to the bridge across the Severn River. Margaret had to take an alternate route, which further exhausted her already tired troops. She planned to cross the river at Tewkesbury, but Edward was right behind her. She turned her army to face Edward’s on May 4, 1471. Margaret’s forces were defeated. The Duke of Somerset, who had supported Margaret, was tried for treason and killed. Margaret’s son died in the battle. Margaret was taken prisoner and later ransomed in 1478. Margaret spent her remaining years in Anjou and died four years later.

Wars of the Roses, 1455–1487 The Wars of the Roses were a series of battles fought in a civil war in England between two opposing houses, the House of Lancaster (symbolized by a red rose) and the House of York (symbolized by a white rose). The term Wars of the Roses was actually instigated by Shakespeare. At the time of the civil war, no such term was used. This civil war, mostly because of such a high death toll on the nobles of the country, caused many changes in England. It marked the beginning of the end of the feudal system in England and the strong emergence of a merchant class that was accumulating wealth, land, and therefore, power. It also marked the end of Medieval England and the beginning of the country’s Renaissance. Another ending was the line of

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Henry IV’s reign was not an easy one. Having taken the throne by force, he had made many enemies, especially those whose legitimate claim to the throne he had ignored. Henry’s oldest son (who would become Henry V) was a brilliant and courageous warrior and was responsible, on many occasions, for putting down major rebellions against his father—rebellions that came from the other side of the family who wanted the throne. Beginning in 1405, Henry IV suffered from a recurring illness that finally took his life in 1413.

David Oyelowo as King Henry VI, at the Swan Theatre, Stratford-upon-Avon, England, 2000 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

the Plantagenet monarchy and the beginning of the Tudor reign, begun with Henry VII and continued, in Shakespeare’s time, with Henry’s daughter, Elizabeth I. The civil war had its roots in the overthrow of King Richard II (1367–1400) in 1399. Henry Bolingbroke (who would become King Henry IV) brought an army to England from France to reclaim an enormous amount of land that King Richard had taken away from Henry upon Henry’s father’s death. King Richard had a legal right to do so, seeing as Henry’s land and the power it gave him was viewed as a threat to the kingdom. However, Henry was willing to fight for his land, which he did. While King Richard was putting down a rebellion in Ireland, Henry took advantage of the king’s absence, fought with local nobles and gained enough power to declare himself king. Richard, who was not a very popular king, was put into prison, where he died, mysteriously, a year later.


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Henry V (1387–1422) would go on to secure English-held lands in France and strengthen the bond between the two countries by winning the right to the French, as well as to the English, Crown. Henry V died at a young age in battle in France, leaving a nine-month-old son—King Henry VI. While Henry V was busy fighting wars in France and accumulating wealth for his country, the feud between the York and Lancaster Houses was subdued. Only one rebellion occurred, and the leader of that rebellion was tried for treason and killed. However, with Henry V’s death—and only a baby for king, and Henry V’s wife, who was not only young but of French blood—members of both Houses began maneuvering again for power. Henry VI was a weak man, surrounded by poorly managed counselors. Not only did Henry suffer from mental illnesses, he lost most of the land that his father had won in France. Although Henry VI technically was king of France, he lost all authority in that country. Many English nobles, each with his own powerful army, grew discontent with Henry VI’s rule. They saw a chance to overtake what they perceived to be an illegitimate monarch and replace him with one from the House of York. The Duke of York was appointed as regent when Henry had his first serious bout of mental illness in 1453. Two years later, wary of the duke’s rise in power, Queen Margaret made sure the duke was booted out of the court. Then she built a powerful army, ready to face the duke’s anticipated attack, which came in 1455 in St. Albans. The queen’s army lost, and the duke was restored to power as a regent of the court. After several more battles and jockeying for military power, the two armies met in Northampton for a battle that would once again see the defeat of the king’s army. King Henry, as a result,

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1400s: England is involved in a long civil war as rival members of the Plantagenet family claim their right to the throne.

Today: England is involved in a war against terrorism, supporting the U.S. effort in Iraq. British involvement is causing dissention at home among the populace and members of Parliament.

1400s: Queen Margaret forms an army and leads her men into battle to fight for the throne. Today: Queen Elizabeth II tries to keep her family’s secrets out of the tabloids, which expose clandestine love affairs of her children, among other things.

in 1460, was taken prisoner. This gave the Duke of York a surge of power; and he made a claim for the throne. The nobles in parliament were stunned. Even the men who supported York thought this was too bold a move. They had not meant to remove Henry from the throne. The parliament then worked out a compromise, which stated that the duke would inherit the throne upon Henry’s death. The queen and her son were told to leave London, and the duke retained his position as regent, thus he was able to govern England when Henry was incapacitated by his disease. The queen rebelled at these actions, gathered an army around her, and positioned herself outside of York. When the duke learned of this, he went after her, although the queen’s troops were double the size of the duke’s. The duke’s army was easily defeated. The Duke of York was beheaded, as was his seventeen-year-old son. His head, as it was in Shakespeare’s play, was placed on the gate to the city of York. Edward, eldest son of the duke and who was just eighteen at the time, led an army into London. The town favored the House of York and cheered Edward on. Parliament unofficially named Edward king.

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1400s: The Tower of London is used to house imprisoned royalty, including Henry VI and Lady Grey. The Tower also houses a set of ravens, kept there due to superstitions that if they are released, England will fail. Today: The Tower of London is a historic site that tourists often visit. There are souvenir shops and restaurants inside. The Tower also houses a set of ravens, kept there due to long historic traditions.

1400s: London’s population ranges between 60,000 and 100,000 people. Today: The population of London is approximately 7.3 million.

In 1461, the Battle of Towton, one of the bloodiest battles ever fought on English soil at the time, was fought with an estimated 25,000 people dying. Edward’s army greatly defeated the queen’s army, forcing the queen and king, with their son, to flee to Scotland. That same year, Edward was officially crowned king of England, becoming Edward IV. Edward enjoy a few years of peace, but when he married Elizabeth Woodville in secret, he embarrassed Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, a long-time friend, who was working to arrange a marriage for Edward with the French king. Edward also disallowed his brothers, Richard and George, to marry Neville’s daughters. Neville, no longer enjoying privileges at court as he once had, formed an allegiance with Edward’s brother George, who was jealous of his brother’s power. In 1469, they fought against Edward. Neville and George won a decisive battle, held Edward hostage, killed Edward’s father-in-law, and forced Edward to have parliament recognize Edward as an illegitimate king and to give the crown to George. Edward’s younger brother, Richard, rescued the king, and Neville and George had to flee to France.

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In France, it was King Louis XI who suggested the alliance of Queen Margaret and Neville. The two agreed, Neville promised his daughter as wife to the queen’s son, and returned to England with a powerful army. Edward was defeated and had to flee to Holland and then to Burgundy. Edward, supported by the king of Burgundy, returned to England. Shortly after Neville had paraded Henry VI all over London as the restored king, he was defeated by Edward’s new army in 1471. Henry as well as his son were then killed, strengthening Edward’s claim to the throne. Edward died young, in 1483, leaving his twelve-year-old son heir to the throne. Edward V’s reign lasted only a couple of months. Richard, the uncle to the young king, claimed that his brother (Edward IV) had married Elizabeth illegally and therefore his heirs could not be crowned king. Parliament agreed, and crowned King Richard III in 1483. Edward V was placed in the Tower of London, along with his younger brother, and was never again seen. Two years later, in 1485, Richard would meet his death in a battle against Henry Tudor of the House of Lancaster; he would become King Henry VII. Henry married Elizabeth of York, the strongest claimant for the throne from the York house, thus securing his position and ending the long Wars of the Roses.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW King Henry VI, Part Three was a popular drama when it first appeared. As Norrie Epstein, in the book The Friendly Shakespeare, writes, ‘‘The Henry VI trilogy was a box-office smash that turned an unremarkable actor named William Shakespeare into the most successful playwright of the day.’’ Epstein continues that the Elizabethan audiences enjoyed watching dramas that depicted their past. In Shakespeare’s time, ‘‘the Wars of the Roses were still vivid in the minds of Shakespeare’s audience.’’ The stories of the members of the House of Lancaster and the House of York were as familiar to the English audiences in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries as stories about the Kennedys were to twentieth-century citizens of the United States. Knowing the outcome of all the historic events gave the audiences of Shakespeare’s time a ‘‘double perspective,’’ which ‘‘allowed them to


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observe the past while knowing its outcome— both in history and on stage. Thus the characters’ words were given an extra level of meaning that is lost to us today.’’ Epstein then expounds on the merit of Shakespeare’s history plays by stating: ‘‘Shakespeare domesticates history. Kings and queens are mothers and fathers. When not conducting state business, rulers eat, drink, make love, sleep, and gossip.’’ In spite of this, Epstein writes, ‘‘Even many Shakespeare enthusiasts don’t bother to read Henry VI, and it’s rarely performed in its entirety’’ (all three parts). Although ‘‘the plot is a sweeping panorama,’’ Epstein writes, ‘‘there’s no hero, just a succession of characters who temporarily hold center stage and then quickly depart.’’ Epstein adds, ‘‘Even Henry seems almost incidental at times.’’ Despite the lack of production and the length of this play (when all three parts are considered), Milton Crane, a professor at the George Washington University, who wrote an introduction to the text of Shakespeare’s play Henry VI, Part Three, states that in the twentieth century ‘‘more persons have seen the three parts of Henry VI than had ever seen any one of the plays in all the centuries of their existence.’’ Crane credits the explosion of interest to the exciting details of the play. ‘‘Though the framework of Henry VI is serious, moral, and didactic—a history, on the one hand, of France’s efforts to free herself from English domination and, on the other, of the hideous social and political convulsions that we call the Wars of the Roses—these annals of an age of anarchy are full of thrilling and gruesome details calculated to delight the heart of a groundling.’’ Crane then adds that this play, with its bloody feud between the Houses of Lancaster and York, is ‘‘Shakespeare’s inspired anticipation of the Western movie.’’ Maurice Charney, writing in All of Shakespeare, refers to Henry VI, Part Three as ‘‘undoubtedly Shakespeare’s most military play.’’ Then Charney adds that from the very first scene in the play, Shakespeare ‘‘sets the tone for this murderous, savage, and chaotic play.’’ But for all the blood, there is a scene that Charney focuses on in act two, scene five, the famous Father and Son scene, in which a son realizes that he has killed his father; and a father discovers that he has killed his own son. This scene, Charney writes, ‘‘powerfully

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enacts a symbolic tableau . . . . This is a choral scene intended to represent what the savagery of the Wars of the Roses is all about.’’ In John Julius Norwich’s Shakespeare’s Kings, the author writes, ‘‘Nowhere is Shakespeare’s extraordinary ability to turn a chronicle into a drama more impressively demonstrated than in the third part of King Henry VI.’’ It was only in part three of this play, Norwich states, that Shakespeare ‘‘is called upon to encapsulate in little more than two hours what is virtually the entire course of the Wars of the Roses,’’ a process that, in reality, took sixteen years. ‘‘Now at last, with all the inevitability of Greek tragedy, the House of Lancaster suffers retribution for the atrocity committed at the end of the previous century: the deposition and murder of Richard II and the usurpation of his crown by Henry IV are finally avenged.’’ Norwich then goes on to surmise that in the last scene of the play, Shakespeare makes clear the true purpose of this play, the ‘‘villainy and duplicity’’ of Richard, who would go on (in Shakespeare’s next play as well as in history) to become Richard III. ‘‘It was this, above all else, that the Elizabethan audiences would carry home with them; it was to emphasize this that Shakespeare had been deliberately building up the character of Richard; and this that he was to make the theme of the last and greatest play of his series [the tetralogy of Henry V, Henry VI, and Richard III ].’’

CRITICISM Joyce Hart Hart, a freelance writer and published author, digs into the text of this play to find the nature of the king as Shakespeare presents him. There are many descriptions of the historic King Henry VI, the English ruler of the fifteenth century. He was known for having inherited a mental illness from his mother’s side of the family and, therefore, for being an ill and weak monarch. Others refer to King Henry VI as being a bit of a philosopher, who was a voracious reader, and an attempted peacemaker. But Henry was also a descendant of King Edward III, of the Plantagenet family, a line of kings that was not well liked, especially by the Tudors, of whom Shakespeare’s Queen Elizabeth I was a member. Since Queen Elizabeth held a tight rein on the material that was presented on stage

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during her time, audiences might never know for sure how Shakespeare truly felt about King Henry. Shakespeare’s depiction of the king in Henry VI, Part Three may merely reflect what Shakespeare thought Queen Elizabeth might want to see. So the question is not what did Shakespeare like or dislike about King Henry but rather, how he presented him on the stage. What kind of ruler was Henry as presented by his actions and his speeches in this drama? What kind of a father was he? What were some of the thoughts that Shakespeare attributed to him? And how does King Henry compare with some of the other major characters in this play? King Henry’s first appearance in Henry VI, Part Three is in the first scene of the first act. The king enters and sees the Duke of York sitting on King Henry’s throne. King Henry’s tone is mild and timid, first turning to his men, specifically the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Clifford. Instead of Henry directly confronting the Duke of York and stating his outrage (if it is outrage), Henry reminds Northumberland and Clifford that the duke was responsible for their fathers’ deaths. ‘‘You both have vowed revenge,’’ the king tells them, just in case they might have forgotten. Strangely, after trying to rile Northumberland and Clifford by reminding them of the deaths of their fathers, the king then tells them to be patient, as if he has had second thoughts, which is exactly what Shakespeare implies. For the king then mentions that the citizens of London favor the duke and his noblemen, and more importantly, the king knows that the duke’s army is prepared to fight. Although the king’s own noblemen are ready to kill the duke for what they see as an act of treason on the part of the duke, the king informs them that he too wants a war, but it will be a war of words, not of swords. The king’s reason for not wanting bloodshed (other than not having a prepared army to back him) is that the fighting would disrupt the Parliament. The king says: ‘‘Far be the thought of this [killing the Duke] from Henry’s heart, / To make a shambles of the Parliament House!’’ A lot could be read into these words of the king. At first seeing the duke sitting in the throne, Henry was obviously surprised. He must have felt anger or fear to have turned to his men and invited them to act out their revenge. But a bigger fear, that of being unsuccessful in removing the duke or worse that—of being defeated—also existed in Henry’s mind.

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Then there is a third fear, one that he hides more cleverly. It is a fear that if his men realize that their king is afraid, they might also desert him. Henry then summons up as much courage as he can, confronting the duke and telling him to remove himself from Henry’s throne and kneel before him to exhibit the duke’s submission. Of course, the duke refuses and a battle of words ensues. The duke and his sons, as well as his noblemen, make the king rethink his stance. It is true that Henry’s grandfather and father were both kings before him, but the duke has pointed out that they attained the crown through rebellion against Edward III, which is pretty much the same thing the duke is planning on doing against Henry. In an aside to the audience, the king acknowledges that his own argument for a legitimate title to the crown is weak; and at that moment Henry begins to think about compromise. It is at this point that the audience sees that King Henry is not willing to fight for the throne. The king wants to maintain it, and he partially believes that he is entitled to it, but his argument is standing on shaky ground. The way the king looks at it, a compromise is better than completely losing the throne, even if it comes with the high cost of sacrificing his son’s inherited right to be crowned. The king sighs over this thought, pondering what consequences will result, especially in reference to his son; but the king does not change his mind. Instead, he asks the Duke of York to make an oath. In his speech to the duke, Henry sounds regal. He suggests that he is making this compromise, giving the crown to the duke upon his own death, in order to stop the civil war that the country would have to suffer through. Whereas before, Henry’s avoidance of war sounded more fearful, here it sounds passionate. Henry sounds more like a king wanting to spare his people further bloodshed. As York and his men depart, each mentioning where they are going, either to their castle, to their soldiers, or to their followers, the king states that he will be returning to his court ‘‘with grief and sorrow.’’ Since it looks like, at this juncture in the play, Henry has ended the civil war, you would think he would be happy. But he is not. The only thing that could be troubling him is that he has taken the throne away from his son. This proves to be true when Henry hears that the queen is coming and Henry tries to sneak away. It is probably not his son that


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saddens Henry. He is reluctant to confront his wife, just as he was disinclined to confront York, who was sitting in Henry’s throne. The audience can feel the fear rising in Henry once again. There is reason for Henry to be concerned. The queen enters the room in a storm, cursing her husband for the mess he has created. Henry tries to calm her, as he had Northumberland and Clifford. But the queen is not quieted as easily as the king’s men. ‘‘Ah, wretched man! Would I had died a maid / And never seen thee, never borne thee son.’’ How could Henry have disinherited his son, the queen and the prince want to know? Here, Henry appears to be at his weakest in the entire play. He tries to rationalize his actions. He tries to make an excuse for himself. He tells the queen that he had no choice, that the duke made him do it. This is, of course, a rather pathetic statement, one that a child might make when he is caught doing something wrong and is about to be punished. Henry could have told the queen that he wanted to avoid bloodshed, that he wanted to prevent a civil war. He could also have told her that he believed his claim to the throne was illegitimate. These were, after all, the thoughts that he had had before he made the compromise with the duke. The queen sees through Henry’s lame excuses and begins her diatribe against him. She insinuates that Henry is a lamb in the midst of wolves. Had she, a silly woman, confronted the duke, they would have had to kill her before she gave them the throne, she tells Henry. Unlike Henry, the queen has an army prepared and leaves to fight York until she has won back her son’s right to the throne. And thus, the queen takes over the role that will work its way through this play: she will be the warrior, while Henry passes his time reading. In act two, the king turns up in York, after the queen has slain the duke. It is in the second scene that Henry’s wisdom begins to shine through his fear. The queen and Clifford are proud in their accomplishments, but the king has no such feelings and even warns Clifford that ‘‘things ill got had ever bad success.’’ Henry also mentions the battles that his own father fought. His father thought that he had left a legacy that Henry would be proud of. But the king denies this. ‘‘I’ll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; / And would my father had left me no more!’’ Henry says. In other words, what the queen and Clifford have done, Henry likens to actions far less than righteous. Instead, Henry

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is grieved to see York’s head on the post, just as he grieved for the murders that his own father committed in the name of winning land and thrones. The queen, on the other hand, is embarrassed by her husband, saying that his ‘‘soft courage’’ is a poor example to set for her troops. They will become disenchanted if they see the king feeling sorry for the duke. So in this scene, Shakespeare displays Henry as a soft-hearted humanitarian who cannot stand the mutilation and death that comes in war. Shortly after this, the queen and king are confronted by York’s sons and noblemen. The king tries to speak, but his wife and son tell Henry to pick up his sword and fight, and Clifford tells the king to be quiet. This is the last time that Henry will be this close to battle. He will depart, and the queen will do all the rest of the fighting. By scene five in act two, Henry is in a remote field, away from the actual fighting. It is here that Shakespeare has Henry be his most reflective. Henry thinks about war and compares it to storms at sea, swaying first one way and then the other. Ironically, Shakespeare, in the first act, had the queen insinuate that Henry was like a lamb. Here, in this scene, Shakespeare has Henry ruminating on how much sweeter life would be if he were a shepherd of sheep. If he were so, Henry would sit all day and do nothing more than count the minutes. ‘‘How sweet! how lovely!’’ Henry says to spend the day watching his sheep rather than to spend it fearing his ‘‘subjects’ treachery.’’ To be a king, Henry states, is not what it appears to be. Some think that being a king means one sleeps in comfort and eats the best fruits of the land. Henry does not see it that way. Rather, for him, everything in his life is touched by mistrust and treason. In this scene, it is not fear that fills Henry, but compassion. He cries with the son who has just killed his father and with the father who has just killed his son. Shakespeare, through Henry, decries the consequences and suffering of a civil war, a war unlike others because no matter who wins the battles, the country suffers great losses in the war. Removed from battle, politics, and his throne, while hiding in northern England, Shakespeare has Henry admit that he has come to a place in his life where he feels most satisfied. Henry is found out by two hunters who ask him why he talks so much about kings. When Henry admits that he is a king, the hunters ask, if that is so, where is his crown. Henry answers: ‘‘My crown

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is in my heart, not on my head; / Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, / Nor to be seen. My crown is called content: / A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.’’ Here Henry is at his strongest psychologically. He realizes that what he thinks of himself, what definitions he holds, cannot be taken away from him. If he thinks he is king, then that is so, no matter that Edward is sitting on the throne. Henry was crowned king and king he will be to his death. He does not need outward images to prove who he is. He is content with himself. His kingdom is not out in the world but in his heart and soul. Even after Henry temporarily regains the throne, he has no further use of it. He gives Warwick and Clarence the job of ruling the country. Henry has retired from the world. In act four, scene eight, Henry evaluates his kingship. He talks with Exeter about the possibilities of Edward gaining the throne again. Henry has been reinstated to the throne and believes he will maintain it. He is wrong, of course, but he does not yet know this. Even minutes before Edward returns to take the crown once again, Henry mistakenly forgets that he is but a lamb and for a few minutes sees himself as a mighty lion. However, the image that Henry has as a powerful beast is not a brutal one, but rather one that has led his people with pity, mildness, mercy, and moderation. He has listened to his people’s needs and tried to soothe their ailments. He has consoled them when they weep and forgiven them when they did wrong. He sees no reason why the people would choose Edward over him as their king. ‘‘And when the lion fawns upon the lamb, / The lamb will never cease to follow him.’’ This is how Henry quietly and all but passively takes upon himself the image of the lion. However, Shakespeare has set Henry up to fail. As soon as Henry utters these words, he hears Edward and his men approaching. Edward’s men take Henry into custody and imprison him in the tower. Henry had the image backward; he was out of touch with reality. The people do not support him, they do not follow him. Henry is not the gentle lion. He is still the meek lamb. And finally, just before he dies, Henry refers to the shepherd metaphor again. Henry is locked in the tower when Richard enters with the tower guard. When Richard orders that the guard leave, Henry says: ‘‘So flies the reckless shepherd from the wolf; / So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, / And next his throat unto the

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Rose Rage is Edward Hall and Roger Warren’s adaptation of Shakespeare’s three parts of Henry VI, first performed in 2002, which tells the story that led to the Wars of the Roses. These screenwriters set the plays in a slaughterhouse and provide a musical background and choreography when staged. A script can be bought from Theatre Communications Group, also published in 2002.

the father of Henry VI. Reading this play will give you the contrast between the father and son who would succeed him. Also, Shakespeare’s play Richard III will provide you with a more complete view of the monarchs from the House of Lancaster, as Richard takes the throne; he was the last Lancaster member to do so.

To fully gain a picture of Henry VI’s reign, seeing, or reading, all three parts of Shakespeare’s Henry VI is highly recommended. Part One of Henry VI begins with the death of King Henry V, Henry VI’s father, and ends with Henry’s marriage to Margaret. Part Two follows the development of Henry VI as king and the underpinnings of the contested right of the throne that will lead to the Wars of the Roses in Part Three. Shakespeare’s play Henry V provides a glimpse into the valor of this warrior king,

To help you better understand the political background and fuller historical context of Shakespeare’s Henry VI read Allison Weir’s Wars of the Roses (1996). Weir explains the relationships between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians, showing how their counterclaims to the throne led to the bloody civil war in England. Weir also wrote The Princes in the Tower (1995), an account of the last part of the Wars of the Roses, with a focus on the disappearance of Edward IV’s two sons, whom Weir speculates were killed by Richard III in his bid to win the crown.

butcher’s knife.’’ Henry, once again, sees himself as a lamb, one marked for death this time. Henry knows it is his time to die, and he faces it more bravely than any other confrontation in the play. ‘‘Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words!/ My breast can better brook thy dagger’s point / Than can my ears that tragic history.’’

his wife, his men, and his enemies. He might have been incapable of becoming what it took to be a king, powerless of averting a civil war, but in the end, Shakespeare has Henry appear as a selfactualized man, who knew what he wanted and, although he could not attain what he wanted, was content with himself at his death.

So Henry dies maybe with more courage than he lived, at least more courage than he fought for his throne. Shakespeare portrays Henry as a soft-hearted king, who cried more for his people than for himself. Henry was a king who did not want to be king if it meant that he had to fight in wars. But he was not strong enough to keep the peace. He was surrounded by warmongers who thought more of themselves and their power than of the people they led. As Shakespeare creates him, Henry was a man out of step with his court and with his times. He was fearful when forced to confront

Source: Joyce Hart, Critical Essay on King Henry VI, Part Three, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007


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John D. Cox and Eric Rasmussen Cox and Rasmussen provide a general overview of King Henry VI, Part 3. Examining the historical sources of the play, the critics focus on the ‘‘magical thinking’’ that Shakespeare offers in the work.

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Death of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, in the battle of Barnet (Hulton Archive/Getty Images)


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Source: John D. Cox and Eric Rasmussen, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in King Henry VI, Part 3, edited by John D. Cox and Eric Rasmussen, Arden Shakespeare, 2001, pp. 57–64.

John Julius Norwich Norwich provides a historical analysis of King Henry VI, Part 3, comparing the action in the play with the actual historical events. In particular, the critic highlights the various places in the work where Shakespeare telescopes historical time for the sake of literary expedience. Norwich concludes with comments on the character of Richard, the Duke of Gloucester, later King Richard III.

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Source: John Julius Norwich, ‘‘King Henry VI Part III,’’ in Shakespeare’s Kings: The Great Plays and the History of England in the Middle Ages: 1337–1485, Scribner, 1999, pp. 307–18.

Michael Hattaway In his introduction to the play, Hattaway examines the themes of death and battle. The critic compares and contrasts the play with Henry VI, Part 1 and Henry VI, Part 2, noting that by Part 3, ‘‘the political community of England is no more,’’ having been destroyed by violence and treachery.

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Source: Michael Hattaway, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Third Part of King Henry VI, edited by Mihael Hattaway, Cambridge University Press, 1993, pp. 9–19.


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SOURCES Charney, Maurice, All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993, pp. 132–33. Crane, Milton, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Henry VI, Part One, Henry VI, Part Two, Henry VI, Part Three, Scribner, 1999, pp. xxiii–xxxiv. Epstein, Norrie, The Friendly Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1993, pp. 161–63, 191. Norwich, John Julius, Shakespeare’s Kings, Scribner, 1999, pp. 307, 318. Shakespeare, William, Henry VI, Part One, Henry VI, Part Two, Henry VI, Part Three, Signet, 1989.

FURTHER READING Abbott, Jacob, History of Margaret of Anjou, Queen of Henry VI of England, Kessinger Publishing, 2004. Abbott covers all aspects of this fascinating queen, from her time spent in France with her parents, to her wedding and hardships as a queen, a new wife of a troubled king, the loss of her child and her widowhood. Ackroyd, Peter, Shakespeare: The Biography, Nan A. Talese, 2005. Ackroyd focuses on Shakespeare’s life as seen in reference to the development of the Elizabethan theatre.

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Amt, Emilie, Medieval England, 1000–1500, Broadview Press, 2000. Written to help students understand not only medieval times but to question the documents that bring the details of that era to modern readers, Amt’s book provides an understanding of life and politics of the period of, and the ages before, the rule of Henry VI. Baldwin, David, Elizabeth Woodville, Mother of the Princes in the Tower, Sutton Publishing, 2005. Elizabeth Woodville was the wife of King Edward IV and mother of two sons who were imprisoned in the Tower of London by King Richard III. Baldwin presents her story in a more graceful light than many other historical accounts in which she was often referred to as a witch who put a spell on Edward. Griffiths, R. A., The Reign of King Henry VI, Sutton Publishing, 2005. Griffiths has written a very readable and comprehensive biography of King Henry VI, covering details of his private life, his court, and the politics that surrounded the Wars of the Roses. Pendleton, Tom, ed., Henry VI: Critical Essays, Garland, 2001. Pendleton has put together a comprehensive collection of essays covering critical interpretations of the play, customs and reception of the play in various time frames, and interviews with actors who have performed in this play for a well-rounded look at and understanding of Shakespeare’s Henry VI.

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Julius Caesar Scholars generally agree that Julius Caesar was first written and performed in 1599 and may have been the first of Shakespeare’s plays to be presented in the newly constructed Globe theater in London. The drama was apparently quite popular among Elizabethan audiences, most of whom were familiar, from numerous other literary sources, with the historical Julius Caesar.

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Other aspects of this play that Shakespeare’s audiences could relate to included civil wars, which they were forced to endure, and the wide gap between the powerful, wealthy aristocracy and the working class populace. Also, neither political assassinations nor ambitious tyranny, which are topics covered in the play, were novel concepts. In other words, Shakespeare’s audiences were well experienced with the material that made up this tragic drama; even the stories of English history that they studied in school were colored by the conquests of the play’s title military genius. In writing Julius Caesar, Shakespeare chiefly drew on the events in the lives of the historical figures of Brutus, Caesar, and Antony, which he took from biographies written by Plutarch, called Parallel Lives (translated by Thomas North as The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans in 1579). Plutarch was a Greek historian and essayist whose work constitutes a record of the historical tradition, the moral views, and the ethical judgments of ancient Greek and Roman cultures. According to some academic studies, Shakespeare was not

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especially interested in the details of history addressed by Plutarch; rather, he focused on the underlying character strengths and weaknesses, as well as the motives, that Plutarch noted in many of the great ancient leaders. While the action of Julius Caesar closely follows the events described by Plutarch, Shakespeare greatly modified the significance of those events. By Elizabethan times, two sharply contrasting views of this period in Roman history had emerged. One held that Brutus and the other conspirators were ruthless murderers who unjustly killed their would-be emperor; the other interpreted their actions as the rightful deposing of a tyrant. Shakespeare carefully designed his play in such a way that it seems to support, or at least allows for, both views. As a result, critics have long debated whether Brutus or Caesar is the chief protagonist of Julius Caesar and whether either of them qualifies as a tragic hero. This fundamental ambiguity in the play is further complicated by the different political motivations of the play’s main characters. Cassius assassinates Caesar seemingly because he believes Caesar is an alleged tyrant. However, throughout the play are scattered hints that Cassius might have acted out of personal envy. Brutus has nobler ideals; he joins the conspiracy because he wants to preserve the Roman Republic. Mark Antony, on the other hand, rouses the Roman populace against the traitors out of loyalty to Caesar, but he later benefits from the leader’s death when he becomes a co-ruler of the Roman Empire. The circumstances surrounding Caesar’s assassination reveal that although the major characters strive to attain different political ends, the means by which they achieve their aims are often quite similar. Furthermore, despite the supposed good intentions of these men, they all become corrupted in some way, and their actions eventually lead to violence and civil strife. Scholars have increasingly come to regard Julius Caesar as a work of rich complexity. Whereas earlier commentators attempted to provide definitive analyses of Brutus and Caesar, more recent scholars have concluded that Shakespeare’s portraits are not necessarily explicit; rather, they feature ironic, even confusing elements. Today, critics generally agree that the uncertainties surrounding the protagonists and the political issues raised by the drama are intentional. The ambiguities in Julius Caesar,

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they maintain, serve to intensify Shakespeare’s depiction of the limitations of human understanding and the difficulty of defining absolute truths in regard to individuals and historical events.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 At the beginning of Julius Caesar, Flavius and Marullus, two Roman tribunes, appear with a group of various laborers and commoners. They berate the commoners for being in the streets, telling the men that they should be working. When the men reply that they are there to watch the parade honoring Caesar, Flavius and Marullus scorn them. Marullus attempts to belittle Caesar’s victories: ‘‘Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?’’ Then Marullus calls the laborers names: ‘‘You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!’’ Marullus points out the laborers’ fickleness, recalling how these same men once cheered Pompey, and now they applaud the man who defeated Pompey. Flavius then tells the crowd, ‘‘Disrobe the images / If you do find them decked with ceremonies.’’ In other words, Flavius wants all statues of Caesar to be cleared of any special decorations, a statement, or direction, that will later determine both Flavius’s and Marullus’s fate. This first scene is a foreshadowing of the attitudes that will be revealed among the conspirators who plot Caesar’s assassination, which is about to unfold in the next scene. It also foreshadows the fickleness of the crowd that will occur again after Caesar is murdered.

Act 1, Scene 2 Caesar is marching through the streets with his wife, Calpurnia, with both enemies and supporters of Caesar present. Mark Antony is preparing to take part in a ceremonial run to celebrate the holiday, the feast of Lupercal. During this exercise, runners become symbols of fertility, and Caesar reminds Antony to be sure to touch Calpurnia’s hand as he passes by, thus anointing Calpurnia with the power to become pregnant. This signals Caesar’s desire to have an heir and heightens suspicions that Caesar is also thinking about becoming king; that is, if Caesar does become king, he will want a son to inherit the

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crown. For his part, Antony, demonstrating his loyalty, says, ‘‘When Caesar says ‘do this,’ it is perform’d.’’ Soon after, the Soothsayer tries to warn Caesar of the conspiracy plot, telling him, ‘‘Beware the ides of March.’’ The Soothsayer says this twice, but still Caesar brushes the warning aside, saying, ‘‘He is a dreamer.’’ In dismissing the Soothsayer, Caesar demonstrates that he is not superstitious like many of the people around him, as well that he does not wish to show fear. Everyone leaves the stage except Cassius and Brutus. In the course of their conversation, Cassius discovers that Brutus is upset. Cassius attempts to persuade Brutus to do something about Caesar, telling Brutus that many Romans are not pleased with Caesar but are impressed with ‘‘noble Brutus.’’ When horns are heard, Brutus says that he fears the people have asked Caesar to be their king. Cassius jumps on Brutus’s statement and says that if Brutus fears this, he should do something about it. Brutus states that he loves Caesar, yet he listens to what Cassius has in mind. Brutus hints that as long as the plot that Cassius is considering is conceived in honor, he could be a part of it. After relating a story that portrays Caesar as being weak, Cassius observes, ‘‘And this man / Is now become a god,’’ insinuating that Caesar is being worshipped but is not strong enough to become king; Caesar is flawed. Brutus listens to Cassius and finally states that he thinks he understands what Cassius is alluding to. Still, he asks Cassius to say no more and to give him time to think. Caesar and Antony return, and Caesar tells Antony that he does not trust Cassius: ‘‘Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; / He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.’’ Antony tells Caesar not to worry, as Cassius is a noble man, but Caesar is not convinced. Caesar states that Cassius ‘‘reads much, / He is a great observer, and he looks / Quite through the deeds of men.’’ Meanwhile, Brutus stops Casca and asks him why the crowds roared. Casca tells him that Antony offered Caesar a crown three times, and Caesar refused it three times. Each time Caesar refused, the crowd roared. Casca says that he thinks Caesar wanted to accept the crown but could not go against the wishes of the crowd. Casca says that when the crowd cheered


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Caesar’s refusal, Caesar made a motion indicating that the crowd might as well have slit his throat. Casca also tells Brutus and Cassius that Marullus and Flavius were put to death for pulling the decorations off Caesar’s statues; this strengthens Brutus’s opinion that Caesar is beginning to act as a tyrant. Before the scene ends, Cassius, alone, plots to send anonymous letters to Brutus to further persuade him to join Cassius’s plot.

Act 1, Scene 3 One month later, Casca is out in a terrible thunderstorm, which scares him. Cicero passes by, and Casca tells him of many terrifying sights he has seen: a lion roaming the streets and people burned by the lightning signify the torment that is raging in people’s minds, as word has gotten out that some of the Roman senators are planning to offer a crown to Caesar. Cicero, who has vowed to remain politically neutral in regards to Caesar, tells Casca, ‘‘Men may construe things after their fashion, / Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.’’ In other words, omens may be interpreted in many different ways. Then Cicero leaves, and Cassius appears. Cassius is not afraid of the storm and chides Casca for being so timid. Through their talking about the storm, the men understand that beneath their words is a plan to prevent Caesar from becoming king. Casca says that he will join Cassius in whatever he is planning. Cinna next appears, and Cassius gives Cinna the anonymous letters he has written and asks Cinna to deliver them to Brutus. The three men hope that Brutus will join them in their conspiracy, for Brutus is known as a noble and honorable man, and with Brutus among them, the people will respect them no matter what they do.

Act 2, Scene 1 The conspirators, including Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius, meet at Brutus’s house. Cassius wants the men to take an oath, but Brutus does not, believing that their cause is powerful enough in and of itself. Then Cassius discusses the possibility of killing not only Caesar but also Antony. Cassius says, ‘‘I think it is not meet, / Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, / Should outlive Caesar.’’ However, Brutus says that he thinks the plot would be considered too bloody if they were to kill more than just Caesar: ‘‘Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, / To cut the head off

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wound on her thigh, asking, ‘‘Can I bear that with patience, / And not my husband’s secrets?’’ But someone knocks on the door, and Brutus tells Portia to leave; he will reveal his secret later. The man at the door is Ligarius, a sick man who wants to join the conspiracy, even though he does not know all the details. He follows Brutus blindly, as he trusts Brutus to be honorable in whatever he does.

Act 2, Scene 2 At Caesar’s house, the thunderstorm continues to thrash the skies. Caesar is awake and mentions that no one in his house has found peace that night. Besides the loud thunder, Calpurnia has cried out three times in her sleep, saying, ‘‘Help, ho, they murder Caesar!’’

Engraving of the bust of Julius Caesar

and then hack the limbs.’’ Also, Brutus tells the men that when they murder Caesar, they should do it properly; Brutus does not want Caesar to be butchered. Brutus says, ‘‘Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods,’’ asserting that this will make them appear more as ‘‘purgers, not murderers.’’ In this way, Brutus attempts to rationalize what he is about to do. Cassius remains concerned about Antony, because of Antony’s love for Caesar, but Brutus insists that they leave Antony alone and does not believe Cassius should worry about Antony. Brutus suspects that Antony will fall into despair and become harmless. This exchange reveals a weakness of Brutus’s—his inability to properly evaluate other people. At last, the conspirators make their plan concrete, setting the time and place for the assassination. Decius promises to bring Caesar to the Senate at the appropriate time. After the men leave Brutus’s house, Portia, Brutus’s wife, appears and tells Brutus that she is worried about his not sleeping. She knows that something is bothering him and pleads with him to speak with her. Brutus lies, saying that he is sick, but Portia does not believe him, and she then challenges his definition of their marriage. She wants to know if she is his wife only to eat meals with him and share his bed but not to share in all his intimate thoughts. To prove her trustworthiness, she shows him a self-inflicted

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Calpurnia appears, and after telling Caesar of her dreams, she pleads with her husband to stay home and not go to the Senate, as she fears for his life. She tells him of all the bad omens she has either seen or heard about, but Caesar does not want to give in to his wife’s fears. If the gods have ordained his death, Caesar believes, he can do little about it. He remarks, ‘‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; / The valiant never taste of death but once.’’ When a Servant reports that Caesar’s priests also predict that the coming day will not be a good day for Caesar to go out, Caesar finally succumbs to his wife’s wishes. However, Decius then appears and reinterprets Calpurnia’s dream, suggesting that the dream was not a bad omen but rather a sign of greatness to come. Caesar falls for Decius’s trap and leaves with Decius for the Senate. On the way to the Senate, the conspirators appear. Caesar believes that they have risen so early to greet him and walk with him. When Antony appears, Caesar tells him to go ahead and tell the other senators that he is coming.

Act 2, Scene 3 Artemidorus, on stage alone, reads a paper he is holding. The note tells Caesar to be aware of the conspirators, for they are not to be trusted. Artemidorus announces that he will stand there on the street and hand the note to Caesar as he passes: ‘‘If thou read this, O Caesar, though mayest live; / If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.’’

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Act 2, Scene 4 At Brutus’s house, Portia orders the houseboy, Lucius, to run to the Senate and watch what happens. He is then supposed to report back to Portia. The boy leaves, and the Soothsayer enters. Portia tries to get information from the Soothsayer, who says he will try once again to warn Caesar before he reaches the Senate.

Act 3, Scene 1 The Soothsayer once again warns Caesar, and Artemidorus hands Caesar the warning note, but Caesar heeds neither the men nor their messages. The conspirators then gather around Caesar, pretending to plead with him to pardon the brother of Metellus Cimber; this gives the men a chance to surround Caesar without his becoming suspicious. As planned, Casca pulls out his dagger and inflicts the first wound, as followed by the others, with Brutus stabbing Caesar last. In dying, Caesar cries out, ‘‘Et tu, Brute? Then fall Caesar!’’ The word of Caesar’s death reaches the other senators and the general public, and pandemonium sets in. Under Brutus’s guidance, the conspirators wash their hands in Caesar’s blood. Brutus tells them that they will walk out, thus bloodied, and will shout, ‘‘Peace, freedom, and liberty!’’ Brutus believes that the people will support the assassination because the tyrant is dead. One of Antony’s servants enters and delivers a short speech, seemingly praising Brutus and surrendering to Brutus’s power. Brutus tells the servant to fetch his master, and Antony soon enters. He asks Brutus to allow him to speak to the crowd after Brutus has first made his appeal. Cassius does not trust Antony, but Brutus believes that his own speech will persuade the crowd to support the conspirators and that nothing Antony might say will change that.

Act 3, Scene 2 Brutus makes his speech to the crowd, proclaiming his love of Caesar. In defending the assassination, Brutus states, ‘‘Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.’’ Caesar was not good for Rome, Brutus tells them, as he would have eventually enslaved everyone; with Caesar dead, Romans are now free. The crowd supports Brutus. Antony enters carrying the body of Caesar. Antony’s speech proves deceptively clever, as he communicates what he feels without explicitly


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vocalizing it. Antony repeats some of Brutus’s assertions, such as that Caesar was ambitious; Antony then counters this claim by noting times when Caesar was not ambitious. In order to dispute Brutus’s claims about what Caesar has done without appearing to attack Brutus himself, Antony states, ‘‘Brutus is an honorable man.’’ Following this pattern throughout his speech, Antony builds doubt in the minds of the people, so that they finally question if Brutus is truly honorable: how could Brutus be honorable if what he has just said is not true? Antony sways the crowd further by showing them the bloody body of Caesar and reading Caesar’s will, which Antony says promises much good for the common people. At length, the crowd is in an uproar. They shout that Brutus and his co-conspirators are villains and murderers, and they want to burn down Brutus’s house. As they leave, Antony remarks to himself, ‘‘Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot.’’

Act 3, Scene 3 Cinna the poet is confronted by a group of people. They mistake him for Cinna, one of the conspirators and kill him. This occurrence highlights the unruliness of the crowd and foreshadows the series of deaths that will follow.

Act 4, Scene 1 With Brutus and Cassius having left Rome, Antony forms an alliance with Octavius and Lepidus to prepare for the impending war against the conspirators. The three men meet and discuss which Romans should live and which should die under the new government. Once Lepidus leaves, Antony tells Octavius that he deems Lepidus unfit to help rule the soon-to-be-established empire. Octavius does not understand why Antony led Lepidus to believe he is part of the triumvirate if Antony believes Lepidus is so unworthy. Antony asserts that Lepidus will do the hard work and help ensure their success; Lepidus will bear certain burdens just ‘‘as the ass bears gold, / To groan and sweat under the business, / Either led or driven as we point the way.’’ This exchange demonstrates Antony’s cunning, as he uses people as he sees fit, then discards them when he has accomplished his goals.

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Act 4, Scene 2 Near Sardis, Brutus receives word that Cassius is near. Brutus suspects, however, that something has come between the two men; their friendship has cooled. Cassius appears.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Act 4, Scene 3 Cassius expresses anger over Brutus’s decision to condemn one of his men for taking bribes. Brutus and Cassius then have a tremendous argument, during which Brutus accuses Cassius of also taking bribes. The fight continues to escalate until Cassius, deeply offended, bares his breast and offers Brutus his dagger. Brutus overcomes his anger, and the two men are reconciled. Brutus then reveals to Cassius that Portia is dead. Turning to a discussion of battle plans, Brutus resists Cassius’s strategy of making the enemy seek them and decides to engage Octavius and Antony at Philippi. Later, when he is alone, Brutus sees the ghost of Caesar, who tells him that they will meet again at Philippi.

Act 5, Scene 1 Brutus and Cassius meet Antony and Octavius at Philippi to confer; however, after the two sides exchange insults, they agree to face each other on the battlefield. Cassius and Brutus are concerned that they may never meet again, and so they say good-bye to one another.

Julius Caesar was adapted to film by MetroGoldwyn-Mayer in 1953. This critically acclaimed motion-picture version of the tragedy features Marlon Brando, James Mason, and John Gielgud. The film was directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz and produced by John Houseman. An educational version of Julius Caesar was made into a video by BHE Education, in conjunction with Seaborne Enterprises, in 1969. The video offers performances of key scenes in the play. In 1970, another film version of Julius Caesar was produced by Peter Snell, through Commonwealth United. This film stars Charlton Heston, John Gielgud, Jason Robards, Richard Chamberlain, Robert Vaughn, and Diana Rigg. A televised performance of Julius Caesar was presented by the BBC and Time-Life Television in 1979 as part of a series of Shakespeare’s plays.

Act 5, Scene 2 Brutus tells Messala, his servant, to give orders for one of his legions to attack Octavius’s group. Brutus thinks he sees a weakness and wants his men to surprise Octavius’s army and crush them.

Act 5, Scene 3 Brutus’s military decisions prove to be mistakes, with his errors giving rise to a weakness in Cassius’s army. Specifically, Brutus ordered his men to move too quickly, and now they are distracted; they begin looting the camp instead of supporting Cassius’s men. Cassius’s troops, seeing their doomed fate, are running away. Fearing that some approaching soldiers are the enemy, Cassius sends Titinius to find out who they are and orders his servant Pindarus to observe what happens. While the troops are really members of Brutus’s army who welcome Titinius into their ranks, Pindarus mistakenly reports that Titinius has been captured. Cassius, in despair, asks Pindarus to help him commit suicide.

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Act 5, Scene 4 In a battle with Antony, Lucilius pretends to be Brutus in order to keep Brutus from being captured. Antony recognizes that Lucilius is not Brutus and orders that Lucilius be kept safe, remarking, ‘‘I had rather have / Such men my friends than enemies.’’

Act 5, Scene 5 After learning of Cassius’s death, Brutus prepares to engage the enemy again. Brutus’s forces are defeated in this second battle, and Brutus does not want to be taken prisoner, so he commits suicide. Upon finding Brutus’s body, Antony delivers a brief oration, proclaiming, ‘‘This was the noblest Roman of them all.’’ The other conspirators, Antony says, committed their crimes out of envy; only Brutus believed that what he did was for the common good.

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Antony ends his speech by stating, ‘‘Nature might stand up / and say to all the world, ‘This was a man!’’’ In addition, Octavius declares that Brutus will be buried with full honors.

CHARACTERS Mark Antony Mark Antony, whose Latin name is Marcus Antonius, is a Roman general and a loyal friend of Julius Caesar’s. He is angered and sad upon learning of Caesar’s death and persuades Brutus to allow him to speak at Caesar’s funeral. Although Brutus demands that Antony support the conspirators, Antony cleverly uses the occasion to rouse the crowd against Brutus and his coconspirators. Antony displays a high level of cunning in the way he manipulates the crowd’s emotions, such as by making repeated ironic references to the conspirators as ‘‘honorable men,’’ by displaying Caesar’s cloak and corpse, and finally by reading the ruler’s will. An undercurrent of Machiavellian opportunism can also be found in Antony’s character; after he rouses the crowd with his speech, he meets with Octavius to plot how they can take advantage of the turmoil that Caesar’s death and Antony’s speech have caused. Much like the actions of Cassius and Brutus, Antony’s dealings, while initially appearing admirable, reveal a pragmatic political motivation, which has a significant bearing on the dramatic events of the play. These three characters are ultimately linked by the common bond of ambition, which precipitates, and in some respects is thwarted by, the central crisis of the play—Caesar’s assassination. Antony and Octavius defeat Brutus and Cassius at Philippi and, with Lepidus, form the triumvirate that eventually rules Rome.

Artemidorus Artemidorus is a teacher of rhetoric. He gives Caesar a letter revealing the plot to assassinate him, but Caesar does not read it.

Decius Brutus Decius is a Roman general and conspirator of Caesar’s assassination. He persuades Caesar to go to the Senate on the day Caesar is assassinated by interpreting Calpurnia’s prophetic dream as one of honor rather than one that foretells Caesar’s death.


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Marcus Brutus Marcus Brutus is a Roman senator. He joins the conspiracy because he fears that Caesar’s ambition will turn to tyranny, which will eventually destroy the Roman Republic. Brutus is often described as a noble man with high ideals; he is a character of seemingly irreproachable honor and virtue and is often regarded as the tragic hero of the play. But Brutus might also possess the tragic characteristic known as hubris—excessive pride that leads to misfortune. Brutus’s hubris derives from his arrogance, self-righteousness, and lack of self-knowledge. His involvement in the conspiracy is grounded in his earnest belief that Caesar’s death will benefit Rome, but he is blind to the potential repercussions of the assassination and to his accomplices’ lack of moral principles. He is also so sure of the virtue of Caesar’s assassination that he does not believe anyone can convince the Roman people that Caesar’s death was murder. So unaware is he that he allows Antony to speak to the crowd, convinced that not only Antony but also the people will be loyal to the cause. Brutus’s naı¨ vete´, or perhaps more accurately his blindness, catches him off guard as the masses turn against him and the conspirators. Ultimately, Brutus’s tragic flaw is his inability to realize the consequences of his actions, and this lack of self-awareness leads to his downfall at the end of the play.

Julius Caesar Caesar is a Roman general, a consul, and a would-be emperor. He is assassinated by Brutus, Cassius, and others because they fear his ambition. He appears only briefly in the play. After his assassination, his spirit haunts Brutus at Sardis and Philippi later in the play. The character of Caesar is perhaps the most difficult to interpret, since reading him one way or another can alter the perspective on the entire play. If Caesar is viewed as an overly ambitious, vain, and pompous tyrant, as Cassius and Brutus see him, then his assassination might be seen as a necessary act to purge Rome of a potentially corrupt dictatorship. On the other hand, if Caesar is regarded as a wise and benevolent leader, as Mark Antony views him, then the conspiracy appears to be an attempt to overthrow the government by a group of envious and power-hungry politicians. Perhaps the most effective way to resolve the issue of Caesar’s character is to consider that

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Shakespeare intentionally presented an enigmatic figure to emphasize the contradictory nature of the assassination and to leave undecided the question of whether the conspirators’ actions were justified. Often, critics of the play debate who is the more tragic figure in this play, Caesar or Brutus.

Octavius Caesar Octavius is Julius Caesar’s adopted son and heir. Octavius is not in Rome when Caesar is assassinated. Upon his return, he joins Antony in defeating Brutus and Cassius at Philippi. Then, with Lepidus and Antony, Octavius takes part in the triumvirate that rules Rome.

men in the play. He has traditionally been described as a villainous, self-seeking politician who helps murder Caesar out of envy and spitefulness. While acknowledging these traits in Cassius’s character, some critics have also emphasized his shrewd Machiavellianism. Machiavellianism holds that politics are amoral and that any means, however unscrupulous, are justified in achieving and retaining power. Recently, critics have credited Cassius with having more dimension than the typical Machiavellian villain has. Support for this perspective can be found in Cassius’s leadership and keen powers of judgment, his apparent enthusiasm for Brutus’s ideal of republicanism, and his great respect for and friendship with his co-conspirator.

Calpurnia Calpurnia is Caesar’s wife. After having nightmares about his murder, Calpurnia urges her husband not to go to the Senate on the ides of March, or March 15th, the day he is killed. Calpurnia is invested in omens and dreams, all of which point to Caesar’s death. Caesar is almost convinced by Calpurnia’s fears and initially stays home, but he is eventually swayed to leave, not wanting to be seen as a fearful leader. Calpurnia is chastised when Caesar ignores his wife’s anxieties and departs.

Casca Casca is a tribune and member of Caesar’s entourage. Casca reports to Cassius and Brutus that he saw the way Caesar and Antony responded to the offering of a crown in front of the crowds of people; Casca was not fooled by their public display and believes that Caesar was playing with the crowds in refusing the crown. Casca insinuates that Caesar is merely waiting for the right time to accept the crown and the power that comes with it. Casca joins Cassius’s plot and later is the first conspirator to stab Caesar.

Caius Cassius Cassius is a general and a Roman politician. He organizes the conspiracy against Caesar and recruits Brutus to his cause through flattery and by forging letters that suggest that the Roman people support Caesar’s assassination. Caesar refers to Cassius as being a lean and hungry-looking man, one who should not be trusted. Caesar, of course, turns out to be right, but he dismisses his own thoughts later in the play. Cassius appears to be one of the least trustworthy

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Cicero Cicero is a member of the Roman Senate. He is a renowned orator and is considered a noble man. The conspirators consider asking Cicero to join them, believing that his reputation would help to sway the masses in their favor. Brutus does not agree. Later, Antony and the other members of the triumvirate order Cicero’s death.

Cinna Cinna is a tribune and conspirator. He urges Cassius to recruit Brutus for their cause.

Cinna the poet Cinna the poet is mistaken for Cinna the conspirator by the mob. He explains the error, but the crowd kills him anyway for his ‘‘bad verses.’’

Flavius Flavius is a Roman tribune. He wants to protect the commoners from Caesar’s tyranny. He condemns a crowd of men for praising Caesar when not too long before that they had praised Pompey, Caesar’s enemy. During Caesar’s celebratory parade, Flavius removes decorations from Caesar’s statues and is later ‘‘put to silence.’’ Through Flavius’s character, Shakespeare foreshadows the fickleness of the masses as well as the fate of those who go against Caesar, such as Brutus and Cassius.

M. Aemilius Lepidus Lepidus is a Roman politician. He joins Antony and Octavius to rule the Roman Empire after Caesar’s assassination. Antony takes advantage of Lepidus’s weak nature, essentially ordering

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him to run errands. Octavius, however, thinks more highly of Lepidus.

Marullus Marullus is a Roman tribune. Like Flavius, Marullus wants to protect the commoners from Caesar’s tyranny and points out the crowd’s fickle political sentiments. Marullus is later ‘‘put to silence’’ for removing decorations from Caesar’s statues.

Pindarus Pindarus is a servant of Cassius’s. He mistakenly informs Cassius that Antony’s forces have captured Titinius and are about to overtake the camp, which precipitates Cassius’s decision to commit suicide.

Portia Portia is Brutus’s wife. She knows something is bothering her husband and is hurt that Brutus does not open up to her. She does not realize that Caesar’s assassination is being planned, but she know Brutus’s distractions are more than the simple illness that he claims to have. Portia attempts to persuade Brutus to confide in her by demonstrating how strong her character is by inflicting a wound on herself. After the assassination has failed to win the support of the masses, Brutus learns that Portia has died; a little later, he learns that Portia’s death was a suicide.

Soothsayer The Soothsayer is a mystic. He unsuccessfully attempts to warn Caesar twice about his impending assassination, telling him to beware the ides of March.

THEMES Politics The depiction of Roman politics is central to Julius Caesar, especially regarding whether Caesar’s assassination should be considered justifiable or not. One critical argument maintains that Shakespeare portrayed Caesar as a contemptible despot with a seemingly limitless appetite for conquest. Brutus joins the conspirators because he fears that the Roman Republic will be destroyed if Caesar is crowned king. From this perspective, Julius Caesar can be interpreted as presenting a political conflict between liberty


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and tyranny in which the conspirators’ assassination of the would-be dictator is noble and just. A contrary reading holds that Shakespeare created a benevolent, if somewhat vain, leader in Caesar, who is brutally murdered by envious traitors who manipulate Brutus’s republican ideals and rely on his political reputation to give their cause credibility. This interpretation is manifested in the character of Antony, who remains loyal to Caesar and supposedly avenges Caesar’s murder by rousing the Roman populace against the conspirators. The political implications in this interpretation are that politicians use rhetoric, as opposed to truth or facts, to gain power. The politics continue after Caesar’s assassination, with the representative factions of the two opposing views—as led by Antony and Brutus—clashing in a civil war. Although Antony presents the image of a devout friend and loyal follower of Caesar to the crowd, his actions in the war are not completely motivated by the need to avenge Caesar’s death; that is, Antony seeks political power. As Shakespeare interprets the historical events, only Brutus appears loyal to his reasons for taking part in the assassination and the political events that follow. Brutus’s motivations were political from beginning to end; he believed in political ideals that he feared Caesar was not pursuing. Brutus fought in the civil war not for the political power he might gain but for the common good of the Roman people and for the continuation of the Roman Republic.

Power of Persuasion Persuasion is used in many different ways in Julius Caesar. Simple flattery, sly deception, and the art of rhetoric are all used to help sway the minds of the Roman people as well as the minds of otherwise thoughtful and reflective leaders. The power of persuasion is most significantly demonstrated through Antony’s and Brutus’s speeches at Caesar’s funeral in act 3, scene 2. The two men present different verbal strategies, although their goals are in some ways similar. In Brutus’s oration, his principal technique is to imply that the commoners must choose between mutually exclusive alternatives—dying as slaves under Caesar’s tyrannical rule or living as free men in the republic—without proving that these are the only alternatives. For instance,

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Paul Bentall as the Cobbler, Lionel Guyett as the Soothsayer, and Christopher Benjamin as Caesar in Act I, scene ii, at the Barbican Theatre, London, 1996 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Brutus states, ‘‘Had you rather Caesar were living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free men?’’ Of course, Brutus could not prove either of these statements to be representative of reality without living through the continuation of Caesar’s rule or waiting to see what would happen after his death. Antony’s eulogy, on the other hand, is characterized by the extensive use of irony and repetition, as well as by action words; thus, he excites the commoners’ emotions rather than appealing to their sensibilities. For instance, Antony repeats the phrase ‘‘Brutus is an honorable man’’ several times after insinuating that the evidence of Brutus’s good character is faulty. In order to sway the crowd further, Antony tells the crowd that Brutus’s stabbing of Caesar’s body was ‘‘the most unkindest cut of all,’’ because Caesar loved Brutus. Antony also makes certain claims, such as ‘‘When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept,’’ that the crowd is likely to believe but that cannot necessarily be verified. Overall, neither Brutus nor Antony offer rational proofs of their arguments regarding

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Caesar, and consequently the more eloquent rhetorician, not the truth, sways public opinion. Other uses of persuasion in the play include Cassius’s appeals to Brutus to join the conspiracy in the first and second acts. Cassius relies on flattery, constantly referring to how noble Brutus is. Cassius also persuades Brutus by telling him that Caesar is a weak man, as proven by his poor health and his acts of cowardice. Cassius attempts to cinch Brutus’s involvement through deception, writing letters to Brutus that seem to come from Roman citizens who support the idea of ridding the country of Caesar. Immediately before Caesar’s assassination in act 2, Decius persuades Caesar to go to the Senate by reinterpreting Calpurnia’s dream so that it reads as a good omen rather than as a foretelling of Caesar’s death. Decius also attempts to persuade Caesar by insinuating that he would be exposing his fears should he allow Calpurnia’s dream to keep him away from the Senate. Caesar does not want to appear a coward, a fact that is not wasted on Decius. Then, as the conspirators gather around Caesar

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to walk him to the Senate, their appearance quietly persuades Caesar to believe that they are his allies. Rather than being suspicious of their early rising and accompaniment, Caesar says, ‘‘I thank you for your pains and courtesy’’ and then refers to them as his friends. This feeling of assurance might also have led Caesar to ignore Artemidorus’s note, which warned him of the very men who were accompanying him to the Senate.

Private versus Public Personae Another theme concerns the private and public personae of Brutus and Caesar and their relationships to human endeavors and history. While the private Brutus is a sensitive man who loves Caesar and abhors violence, the public figure of Brutus is a noble idealist who puts his personal feelings aside to protect the Roman state from Caesar’s perceived ambition. The private Caesar, on the other hand, is a superstitious man plagued by illness, while the public figure of Caesar is a demigod or superman who, in the words of Cassius, ‘‘doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus.’’ In the private world of the play, characters’ interior motives are revealed, but these motives are not necessarily relevant to their actions in the public world, which, once performed, become independent of them and a part of history. More broadly speaking, then, the play demonstrates humans’ inability to control others’ perceptions of their deeds, as history ultimately neglects a person’s private intentions and records only a person’s public actions.

Ritual Ritual plays a key role in Julius Caesar, as Brutus attempts to exalt Caesar’s assassination to the level of a formal sacrifice. Brutus almost literally states this intent when he declares, ‘‘Let’s kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; / Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, / Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds.’’ Shakespeare provides added theatrical effect to the ritual motif when, after the conspirators stab Caesar to death, Brutus orders them to wash their hands in his blood. This episode emphasizes Brutus’s chief character flaw—self-deception—for he truly believes that he can purify Caesar’s assassination by regarding it as a ceremonial sacrifice.


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Fickleness of the Populace The fickle crowds play an important role in Julius Caesar. The common people are easily shamed in the opening scene, when Flavius and Marullus point out how fickle they are—first they honor Pompey, and then they honor Caesar, who defeated Pompey. Later, the masses are easily swayed, first by the arguments of Brutus, then by the rhetoric of Antony, which demonstrates the crowd’s instability and lack of direction. Shakespeare’s depiction of the populace in Julius Caesar, in fact, has often been viewed as his condemnation of rule by the people, or democracy, in favor of monarchy. In other words, the populace cannot be trusted to make good decisions.

Leadership Qualities Shakespeare’s play raises questions regarding what type of person makes a good leader. Caesar himself can be examined as a brave warrior and cunning military strategist or, as Mark Antony views Caesar, as a benevolent man who is a sensitive and protective father figure. Aside from personality, can a leader have physical weaknesses and still rule successfully? Or should a leader be at the pinnacle of his or her health and a professed athlete, such as Antony? Shakespeare does not answer any of these questions definitively; rather, he merely establishes the personal traits of the various characters in his play. As the play unfolds, the audience watches the characters face different challenges, which eventually expose both their strengths and weaknesses. Thus, the audience is left to evaluate each character’s ability or potential ability to lead. Regarding the character of Brutus, the audience might ask whether his high ideals and noble persuasion make him a good leader. Brutus may represent the most consistent and honest of all the characters in the play, but he proves too trusting—perhaps too naive—which leaves him blind to the consequences of his actions and the actions of others. Cicero, possibly the most thoughtful of all the characters, is relegated to a very minor role in this drama, almost to the point of being totally dismissed. Shakespeare did not give women any more political relevance in the play than they were allowed in actual Roman times, such that attributes ascribed to the feminine mind are rarely relevant in considerations of leadership. Antony comes the closest to rising to a position of leadership in this play. Antony behaves as a loyal friend and

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obedient servant to Caesar, but he also proves deceptively cunning, displaying some of the least virtuous characteristics of the politician. He does, however, think for himself, which Cassius, on the other hand, seems unable to do. Cassius needs support and commitment from others in order to follow through with Caesar’s murder. In essence, Cassius needs to stand behind Brutus, making Cassius more suited to the role of, say, running mate than to the role of leader.


Ultimately, only the individual audience member or reader can decide whether Shakespeare recommends any of these characters as a model of a good leader. Shakespeare seems to be saying, in fact, that all leaders have their faults, and a good leader simply has fewer of them, such that those faults can be overshadowed by the leader’s strengths.

Ambition Ambition is discussed in this play, primarily with negative connotations. Some of the senators believe that Caesar is an overly ambitious man, making him a candidate for assassination. Even noble Brutus, a friend of Caesar’s, rationalizes his murderous behavior based on the understanding that Caesar is overly ambitious. Ambition in this regard is seen as an egocentric drive; Brutus comes to believe that Caesar wants power in and of itself, not for the benefit of the Romans. This concept of ambition is also what Cassius promotes when spurring his coconspirators to attack. However, whereas Brutus is worried about Caesar’s ambition because of the detrimental effects it might have on Romans, Cassius simply seems to be jealous of Caesar’s ambition. Cassius does not like having to help Caesar when Caesar admits weakness.

Death Whether occurring on the battlefield or by the individual characters’ own swords, a constant stream of deaths weaves through Julius Caesar. In the beginning of the play, Flavius and Marullus are put to death for removing ceremonial decorations from statues, thus setting in place a morbid motif that will repeat in every act. Cinna the poet is killed merely for being in the wrong place at the wrong time and having the wrong name. Other people, including Brutus, Cassius, and Portia, take their own lives to save themselves from personal disgrace.

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As a group, set up a court scene in which Brutus is being tried for the assassination of Caesar, assigning a judge, a jury, a prosecutor, and a lawyer for the defense of Brutus. The prosecutor and lawyer should each prepare a ten-minute address to the jury, proclaiming either Brutus’s innocence or his guilt. The lawyers can then interrogate Brutus. The jury should be given time to deliberate before voting on Brutus’s innocence or guilt based on the lawyers’ presentations. If the jury finds Brutus guilty, the judge must decide his punishment.

In an essay, compare Julius Caesar’s assassination to that of President John F. Kennedy, addressing the following questions: How were they similar? How did they differ? What were the political environments like during the lives of each man? How were the assassinators treated? Present your essay to your class. Adapt the character of Portia to modern times. If she were a woman living in Washington, D.C., in 2006, how would she differ? What would she say to her husband if he were in a position similar to that of Brutus? Rewrite the lines in the play featuring these two characters and recite them with a partner. Compare Mark Antony’s funeral speech to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s ‘‘I Have a Dream’’ speech. What similarities can be found? How did King try to move his audience? What were some of King’s most dramatic phrases? Bring in a taped recording of King’s speech and play it for your class. Afterward, guide a discussion, using questions you have prepared. Then ask your classmates to judge both speeches for their ability to rouse the listeners’ emotions.

The emphasis on death can be seen to reflect both the period in which Caesar lived and the era during which Shakespeare was writing. Civil

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wars and wars with other countries were fairly common in both eras. In addition, in England during the sixteenth and early seventeen centuries, pestilence, such as the bubonic plague, killed thousands, as did more common communicable diseases. With regard to medical treatment, antiseptics and sterilized equipment were nonexistent in doctors’ offices at the time. By some estimates, during the worst of the outbreaks of the plague, as much as one-third of England’s population died. Thus, death touched everyone in real life, just as in Shakespeare’s play. Although the number of deaths in Julius Caesar might appear excessive to the modern reader, for the audience of the sixteenth century—as well as for the people living in the first century B . C . E .—frequent deaths were to be expected.

STYLE Iambic Pentameter and Blank Verse Shakespeare wrote much of the text of Julius Caesar in iambic pentameter. With verse written in iambic pentameter, each line has ten syllables, with the second syllable in the five pairs (each pair is called a foot) usually accented. For example, take the opening line in Act 1: ‘‘Hence! Home, you idle creatures, get you home!’’ The syllables would be broken up as follows: hence-home/youid/le-crea/tures-get/you-home. This would be read with the word ‘‘Hence!’’ unaccented; the word ‘‘Home’’ accented; the word ‘‘you’’ unaccented; and the first syllable [id] in the word ‘‘idle’’ accented, and so forth. The unstressed and stressed syllables create a rhythm similar to: ta-DUM/ta-DUM/ta-DUM/ta-DUM/ta-DUM. Iambic pentameter is said to mimic natural human speech; it is also said to match the beating of the human heart. For this reason, some people claim that the lines in Shakespeare’s plays that are written in iambic pentameter are easiest to memorize. In fact, iambic lines are the most commonly found lines in Shakespeare’s works, as well as the most predominant in much of English verse. Although not all of the lines in Julius Caesar are in iambic pentameter, the most important passages are, such as Mark Antony’s speech at Caesar’s funeral. Still, variations in meter can be found within iambic pentameter sections throughout the play. Without such variations, audiences might grow tired of hearing the same


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monotonous, singsong rhythm repeated throughout the play. For instance, lines 6 and 9 in act 1, scene 1 are irregular. After Flavius delivers five lines in iambic pentameter, a carpenter says ‘‘Why, sir, a carpenter’’; then, after speaking two lines in iambic pentameter, Marullus says, ‘‘You, sir, what trade are you?’’ Each of these lines has six syllables, not ten syllables. Also, some lines contain more than ten syllables. Some scholars believe that Shakespeare wrote in iambic pentameter so as to guide the actors who would dramatize his plays with regard to how to deliver the lines. On the other hand, Shakespeare likely did not mean to create steadfast rules about how to present his material but rather to offer the actors some direction. A combination of iambic pentameter and unrhymed ends of lines is referred to as blank verse. Blank verse may look like prose, or regular speech, at first, because of the lack of a rhyming pattern. However, blank verse does feature the purposeful arrangement of meter, while prose has no set meter pattern. Two other differences between blank verse and prose are visual distinctions. In the text of Julius Caesar, for example, many lines do not proceed all the way to the right margin; instead, they terminate after the appropriate number of syllables. Also, with blank verse, each line begins with a capital letter, unlike with the prose in the pages of novels. This difference can also be noted in the speeches given by Brutus and Antony at Caesar’s funeral: Brutus’s is written in prose, while Antony’s is written in blank verse. Indeed, Shakespeare uses prose in his plays for specific reasons. For example, Brutus’s speech is meant to convey a very rational execution; thus, it is written in prose. Antony’s speech, however, is emotional and is one of the most beautiful examples of blank verse in the entire play. Shakespeare also contrasts the dialogue in the beginning of the play between Flavius and Marullus with that of the common workers they come upon in the streets. Most of Flavius’s and Marullus’s lines are written in blank verse, while the common workers speak in prose. Overall, blank verse may be perceived as Shakespeare’s way of elevating conversations, calling attention to important passages, and making utterances sound more poetic without using a rhyming scheme.

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Consonance and Alliteration The sounds of words can be enhanced poetically in many different manners, two of which are consonance and alliteration. When using consonance, an author repeats the same consonant in several closely associated words. Shakespeare used this poetic device throughout Julius Caesar, such as in act 1, scene 1 when Marullus addresses the men walking in the streets by exclaiming, ‘‘You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!’’ These lines feature the repetition of the letter s, the sound of which carries through the line and connects the words together. Alliteration occurs when consonants are repeated at the beginnings of associated words. One example of alliteration is found in act 3, scene 1 when Antony first sees Caesar’s dead body; he uses the phrase ‘‘tide of times,’’ repeating the consonant t. Shakespeare used both consonance and alliteration in line 265, ‘‘Domestic fury and fierce civil strife,’’ in which the letter f is repeated. Consonance and alliteration not only sound pleasing to the ear but also sometimes help to emphasize the emotion behind the words’ meaning.

Metaphors A metaphor is a figure of speech used to compare two unrelated things. Authors use metaphors to provide objects with deeper meanings or connotations. For example, Shakespeare uses a metaphor in act 1, scene 2 when Cassius tells Brutus to use him as a mirror: ‘‘And since you know you cannot see yourself / So well as by reflection, I, your glass, / Will modestly discover to yourself / That of yourself which you yet know not of.’’ Thus, ‘‘I, your glass’’ is the metaphor. Cassius is not a mirror, but he wants to offer Brutus a reflection. Interestingly, unlike a real mirror, Cassius does not give an objective reflection, as a mirror might, but rather the interpretation that Cassius wants Brutus to see. Thus, Cassius uses this metaphor to entice Brutus to reveal his inner thoughts; Cassius pretends to see within Brutus what Brutus cannot see for himself. In act 4, scene 3, Shakespeare uses an extended metaphor that is developed beyond a simple phrase. Brutus compares life—or perhaps fate—to the ocean: ‘‘There is a tide in the affairs of men / Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; / Omitted, all the voyage of their life / Is bound in shallows and in miseries.’’ The ebb and flow of the tide is used to explain the actions that Brutus is recommending that his and Cassius’s

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armies take. Brutus is saying that timing is essential and that the time to move is now, at high tide. Unfortunately, Brutus misread the tides, so to speak, and soon faces defeat. Regardless, through Shakespeare’s use of this extended metaphor comparing life to the ocean, Cassius and the audience alike better understand the concept that Brutus is presenting. Brutus might have simply said that it was time to move; however, that assertion might not have been convincing enough for Cassius to agree with him. But Cassius understood the concept of the tides— how the ocean ebbs and flows according to its own timetable. When the tide is high, boats sail smoothly from the shore. When the tide is low, boats can become stranded on dry land.

Shakespeare’s Language Although Shakespeare’s dramas are rich in meaning and feature a deep understanding of human psychology, many people are discouraged by the form of language Shakespeare used. The English language, like all languages in use, is constantly evolving. Just as the language of the twenty-first century will sound strange to English speakers of the twenty-fourth century, so, too, does Shakespeare’s language sound strange to contemporary audiences. The language that Shakespeare uses can be referred to as early modern English. Some words in Shakespeare’s plays, such as ‘‘may’st,’’ are no longer in use. Also, the order of words in sentences was different in Shakespeare’s time than it is in contemporary times. In the twenty-first century, sentences in English are normally set with the subject first, the verb next, and the object third. An example of this order is the sentence ‘‘Shakespeare wrote plays.’’ The arrangement of many sentences in Shakespeare’s plays, on the other hand, is often different. Examples include ‘‘What means this shouting?’’ and ‘‘This by Calpurnia’s dream is signified.’’ After listening to a scene or two of a Shakespeare play, the language becomes more familiar to many modern audiences, allowing them to be less conscious of the wording and therefore more able to enjoy the play, as they become engrossed in the dramatic action.

Omens Superstition was still quite prominent in daily life in Elizabethan times. Thus, Shakespeare naturally employed omens in the plots of his plays. In Julius Caesar, he primarily uses omens to set a

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mood, mostly one of impending disaster. The play’s most well-known omen is the Soothsayer’s message, warning Caesar to beware of the ides of March. This omen is rather quickly pushed aside by Caesar, who does not want anyone to think of him as being fearful. The omen of the fierce thunderstorm in act 1, scene 3, on the other hand, causes shivers to run down the back of Casca. Although some people in modern times still look for omens, or signs regarding the future, most no longer fear thunderstorms for their foreboding nature. As with other climatic events, meteorologists on television not only explain how thunderstorms are created but also predict when the storms will appear and how powerful they might become, thus taking much of the mystery out of the weather. Such science, however, was not available in either Roman or Elizabethan times. With his mind filled with the terrible assassination plans, Casca easily becomes affected by the clashing thunder and bolts of lightning, fearing that the gods are warning him about his actions. Also, Shakespeare, through the use of this omen and through Casca’s fear, is warning the audience that disaster is indeed on its way. Shakespeare might have intended to use this particular moment both to foreshadow the assassination itself and to set the mood for all the turmoil and death to come after the assassination. Another use of omens as foreshadowing occurs with Calpurnia’s dream. In the dream, Calpurnia sees omens that she interprets as warnings of her husband’s death—an interpretation that turns out to be valid. Here, again, Shakespeare seems to have used the omen for multiple reasons. He shows how Caesar could be manipulated, first by Calpurnia’s interpretation of the dream and then by Decius’s interpretation, which ran counter to Calpurnia’s. In the course of the discussion as to whether Caesar should go to the Senate, Decius points out that the members of the Senate will think Caesar is weak if he allows an omen to keep him away from his office. Thus, in this instance, the omen exposes Caesar’s inability to make decisions on his own as well as his susceptibility to public opinion. Another omen is presented toward the end of the play, when Caesar returns as a ghost to haunt Brutus in act 4. Caesar’s ghost tells Brutus that he has come ‘‘to tell thee thou shalt see me at


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Philippi.’’ With this omen, Shakespeare foreshadows the death of Brutus. The audience cannot be certain that this will occur, but the appearance of the ghost of the man that Brutus assassinated— before Brutus goes into battle, no less—is surely not a good sign. In using the ghost, then, Shakespeare intensifies the action by instilling in his audience the fear that Brutus surely would have felt upon encountering the ghost.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Julius Caesar Gaius Julius Caesar (July 13, 100 B . C . E .–March 15, 44 B . C . E .) is considered one of the most brilliant military minds in history. One of his greatest feats was the conquering of Gaul (modern-day France and Belgium), thus extending the boundaries of the Roman Republic to the Atlantic Ocean. He was also a pivotal influence in transforming the Roman Republic into the Roman Empire, as he was appointed the state’s perpetual dictator in the year of his death, 44 B . C . E . Caesar was raised in a very comfortable setting. His family was not among the wealthiest but did include a long succession of politically influential people. Caesar’s father was a military man who died when Caesar was sixteen. Shortly afterward, Caesar became a priest, a position that he did not hold for very long; had he remained a priest, the world would never have learned of his military genius, as a priest was not allowed even to look at a soldier or to touch a horse. In fact, Caesar’s military conquests were monumental, as was the death toll that his soldiers inflicted as they conquered lands far removed from the city of Rome. Some historians estimate that in Gaul alone, the casualties numbered in the millions. By virtue of his military experiences and his family’s political influence, Caesar helped to form the first governing triumvirate of the Roman Republic in 60 B . C . E ., along with Pompey and Marcus Crassus. In 53 B . C . E ., Crassus died in battle, leaving Pompey and Caesar to jointly rule the republic. These two men did not like one another, and with Crassus’s death, their differences became more evident. Caesar was not in Rome when Crassus died, and Pompey then ordered Caesar to return. Caesar, suspecting that Pompey planned to have him killed, brought his army with him, a sign to

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Pompey that Caesar was prepared to go to war against him. Caesar indeed won the final battle, and this is the point at which Shakespeare’s play begins. Caesar was assassinated in 44 B . C . E ., after he had been awarded the title of dictator for life.

The Roman Republic In the year 510 B . C . E ., the Roman monarchy was overthrown and the Roman Republic was established. At its greatest height, the Roman Republic included lands in present-day Italy, France, Belgium, Spain, Portugal, Greece, and the Balkans and along the coastlines of Asia Minor and Africa. Social status among full citizens in the early centuries of the Roman Republic was based on birth. The two major social groups were the patricians and the plebeians. The patricians owned most of the wealth and controlled the government. Women were not granted as many rights as men—they were not allowed to vote, for example—but some women did own property. Many Roman citizens owned slaves, who were considered property rather than human beings. A slave owner could do anything to his slaves, including murder them, without having to account for his actions. The social class of the plebeians included everyone who was neither a patrician nor a slave. The government in the Roman Republic was made up of various groups called assemblies. Each assembly had specific responsibilities. The two most powerful assemblies were the Senate and the Plebeian Assembly. The highest officers, the magistrates, were appointed for a period of one year and shared rule with at least one other person. The one office that would be held by a single male was that of dictator, which was assigned only at certain times, such as in times of war; this assignment would last for only six months at most. Toward the end of the Roman Republic, discontent began setting in, as the disparities between the very rich and the common citizens were widening. Wars lasted so long that when many soldiers returned home, they found that their farms had been taken away from them owing to lack of payments on loans. Soldiers also had difficulty finding work after they resigned from the armies, as people from conquered lands were brought back to the republic to work for free as slaves. Added land was

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Mark Antony with the body of Caesar and Roman citizens, Act III, scene ii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

quickly claimed by the wealthiest families, most of whom either were directly involved in the government or bore strong influence on those who were. As such, laws were passed to protect their wealth. In 133 B . C . E ., a series of land reforms were proposed by Tiberius Gracchus, a plebeian tribune. These reforms were popular with ordinary citizens, but the more conservative—and more wealthy—politicians were not at all pleased. Thus, they called Gracchus a tyrant and slaughtered him and his followers. When Gracchus’s brother attempted to take up the plebeian cause many years later, he, too, was murdered. A professional Roman army was established for the first time in 107 B . C . E . under the leadership of Gaius Marius. Prior to this, men were called upon to serve in the army only when wars were declared; Marius ensured that his army would consist of trained professionals. Under Marius’s newly passed laws, when new lands were conquered, soldiers received plots as part of their pay for twenty years of service. This policy rewarded soldiers for their work and

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also helped to spread Roman culture throughout what would eventually become the Roman Empire. Under Marius, land reform issues were somewhat abated because soldiers were able to earn land, thus breaking the aristocracy’s hold on land ownership. A second result of Marius’s establishment of a professional army was that Marius himself became a victorious hero, as his men often saved the republic from foreign invasions. When Marius retired from public office, however, the Roman Republic was ravaged by other calamities, such as civil wars and slave rebellions. At the end of the time of the republic, Marcus Crassus, Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus (Pompey), and Julius Caesar ruled as the first triumvirate. Crassus eventually died, and Pompey and Caesar, who disliked one another, clashed in yet another civil war, with Caesar winning the ultimate battle. In 44 B . C . E ., Caesar was appointed dictator for life, setting up his death by assassination, as a group of senators determined that the only way of getting rid of him would be to murder him. The second triumvirate was established after the deaths of Caesar, Brutus, and the other conspirators. Marcus Antonius (Mark Antony), Octavianus (Octavian), and Marcus Aimilius Lepidus took over the rule of the Republic in 42 B . C . E . Lepidus was soon killed in battle. Mark Antony then fell in love with Cleopatra, and Octavian riled the citizens of Rome against Antony, insisting that Antony (who had three children by Cleopatra and gave them one-third of the Roman lands he governed) was not fit to rule. Another civil war then broke out, and Octavian proved the victor. Although Octavian insisted that the republic still existed, the political foundations that had marked the original republic disappeared under Octavian’s autocratic rule.

Early Modern England Shakespeare’s England was, in some ways, like Caesar’s Roman Empire. Aristocrats controlled the majority of wealth and all the power, but the situation was beginning to change. Shakespeare himself was able to gain wealth through his entrepreneurship, as were many others. Aristocrats feared this social movement, however, and eventually passed laws that made it increasingly difficult for those not born within the aristocracy to make substantial amounts of money; they


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even went so far as to decree that certain types and colors of clothes could be worn only among the aristocracy. Despite the aristocracy’s attempts to gain firm control, social change was creeping in, infiltrating almost every aspect of life. From Henry VII to the reign of Bloody Mary and then on to Queen Elizabeth I, the officially condoned religious practices in England were shifted from Catholicism to Protestantism to Catholicism and back again; during one reign, practicing Catholics were put to death, while in another, Protestants were persecuted. While Shakespeare lived and wrote during the relatively stable reigns of Elizabeth I and James I, religion remained a much debated issue. Meanwhile, much confusion was present with respect to scientific matters as well. For ages, standard beliefs about the universe had been based on the ancient Egyptian Ptolemy’s assertion that the earth was at the center of the cosmos. The sun, stars, and planets, Ptolemy believed, rotated around the earth. The astronomer Nicolas Copernicus, however, theorized in 1543 that the sun, not the earth, was the center of the solar system, and in 1610, Galileo Galilei proved Copernicus’s theory true. Regardless of that proof, many were reluctant to concede old beliefs, such that controversy about the center of the universe continued during Shakespeare’s time. During the sixteenth century, England was becoming an increasingly powerful country, in part owing to its strong naval force. British explorers were circumnavigating the globe, setting up colonies wherever possible. London, at the time, was the largest European city, increasing its population in the sixteenth century by 400 percent, to almost 200,000 people. Thus, England was on its way to becoming an empire, not much unlike that of the empire that Caesar helped to build. Shakespeare’s England was also a place of vast disparities. It has been described as a paranoid police state, with some people enjoying unparalleled wealth while others suffered through unthinkable destitution. It was a place of plagues, wars, and malnutrition. Death was ever present in the minds of its citizens, causing great fear and uncertainty, themes that Shakespeare captured in plays such as Julius Caesar.

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

First Century B . C . E .: Julius Caesar, considered by many historians to be one of the greatest military and political leaders who ever lived, is assassinated. As a result, civil war breaks out in the Roman Republic. Sixteenth Century C . E .: William I of the Netherlands is assassinated after declaring independence from Spain. This event leads to the Eighty Years’ War, in which the countries referred to as the Netherlands go to war against Spain. Both countries were once part of the Roman Empire. Twenty-first Century: Several political assassinations occur all over the world, including those of the Serbian prime minister Zoran Djindjic, the Chechen president Akhmad Kadyrov, and the Baghdad governor Ali al-Haidari. All of these leaders held positions in countries involved in wars related to religious or ethnic strife or to fights for independence. First Century B . C . E .: Julius Caesar conquers Gaul and extends the Roman Republic to the Atlantic Ocean. He becomes the first Roman leader to order an invasion of Britain. After his assassination, the Roman Senate declares Caesar a god. Sixteenth Century C . E .: Charles V rules over what is called the Holy Roman Empire,

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Julius Caesar, most historians agree, was first performed in 1599. The first person to record having seen the play was a Swiss traveler, Thomas Platter, who provided a positive review of a performance given on September 11 of that year. Indeed, most of the original audiences, like Platter, enjoyed the play. In 1637, the play was reportedly staged for royalty, namely, Charles I. As time passed, Julius Caesar became one of Shakespeare’s more popular plays, drawing

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which includes Spain, parts of France and Germany, the Netherlands, Austria, Italy, and Portugal, as well as lands in the New World. Twenty-first Century: During his political career, Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi creates his own political party, becomes the leader of Italy’s longest serving government since World War II, and fights off repeated charges of corruption. At the time of his political defeat in 2006, he is the richest man in Italy, owning what is referred to as a business empire.

First Century B . C . E .: Civil war erupts in the Roman Republic as Mark Antony leads a faction against Brutus’s army after the assassination of Julius Caesar. Sixteenth Century C . E .: Peasant rebellions over economic hardships and religious differences erupt in the Holy Roman Empire. Catholics and Huguenots go to war in France. Twenty-first Century: Religious, tribal, and ethnic wars result in the deaths of hundreds of thousands in Serbia, the Sudan, the Congo, the Ivory Coast, Afghanistan, the United States, Iraq, Israel, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Palestine, and many other countries.

audiences well into the seventeenth century in England. As the eighteenth century approached, changes were sometimes made to the play in performance. For example, Brutus’s character was adapted into a more prominent role, as critics and audiences debated the nature of Brutus’s involvement in the assassination of Caesar; those who believed the assassination to be politically warranted emphasized the nobility of Brutus, while those who considered the murder to be the work of a misdirected man portrayed Brutus as corrupt. Other changes made Caesar

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appear more ruthless and likened Antony to a leader of the common people. Also in the eighteenth century, Julius Caesar was first performed in the United States. In 1864, John Wilkes Booth, the man who assassinated President Abraham Lincoln, acted with two of his brothers in a New York production of Julius Caesar, with John playing the role of Mark Antony. The politics of the play are discussed at length by Allan Bloom in an essay in his book Shakespeare’s Politics. Bloom describes some of the political sentiments at the time of Shakespeare’s writing of Julius Caesar, stating, ‘‘The political life of ancient Rome began to attract interest and admiration.’’ Bloom notes that Shakespeare’s ‘‘Roman plays present us with the essential Rome, and in them he tried to re-create those elusive qualities that made the Romans what they were.’’ Bloom adds, ‘‘In Shakespeare’s day, the remnants of the Roman Empire were still alive, and it was still remembered that Britain itself had been a part of it.’’ This situation partly explained the popularity of Shakespeare’s play, according to the critic. Toward the end of his essay, Bloom writes, ‘‘In these last scenes of the play, what was a rigid opposition between Brutus and Cassius dissolves under the pressure of Caesar’s unrelenting spirit.’’ Further, the critic asserts that Shakespeare depicts the two conspirators as ‘‘good but erring men. Shakespeare does all of this very delicately so as not to disturb the superficial and roughly true structure of his message,’’ which Bloom says ‘‘demonstrates the inadequacies of ordinary men to overcome the force of a man like Caesar.’’ In the essay ‘‘Shakespeare and Political Thought,’’ published in A Companion to Shakespeare, Martin Dzelzainis focuses on the funeral speeches of Brutus and Antony, using them to exemplify Shakespeare’s great skills in writing, especially his gift of crafting arguments about great issues. Dzelzainis writes of Shakespeare’s era that ‘‘pupils at grammar schools were expected to acquire proficiency in arguing . . . and routinely honed their dialectical skills by composing orations on controversial themes,’’ such as the assassination of Caesar. Dzelzainis concludes that Shakespeare’s ‘‘unrivalled ability to stage situations requiring the expression of opposed views is displayed to full effect in the competing funeral oration, in prose and verse, of Brutus and Mark Antony.’’


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G. K. Hunter, in his essay, ‘‘Shakespeare and the Traditions of Tragedy,’’ published in Shakespeare Studies, focuses on Brutus and Antony, as well. Hunter writes, ‘‘In the famous scene of Caesar’s funeral Brutus’s speech has only ethos to recommend it; he more or less tells the assembled populace that, being himself, he cannot make a speech. Antony, however, has no such inhibitions. The personae he manipulates—Caesar’s friend, your friend, humble suitor, grieving follower, outraged victim, angry vindicator—each of these is calculated to have a precise effect in a calculated sequence of effects. The brilliant political orator and the tongue-tied visionary—such contrasts show the complexity with which Shakespeare has developed his basic contrast.’’ Hunter goes on to discuss the problems that arise when attempting to determine whether Brutus did the right thing for the wrong reasons or the wrong thing for the right reasons. Hunter thus classifies Julius Caesar not merely as a tragedy or as a ‘‘Roman play’’ but also as a ‘‘problem play.’’

CRITICISM M. W. MacCallum Focusing on Cassius’s intellectual preoccupations, self-sufficiency, championship of liberty and equality, and rejection of the supernatural, MacCallum contends that the character’s behavior is guided by his belief in the philosophy of Epicureanism. Epicurus was a Greek philosopher who asserted that pleasure was the highest good in life. For Epicurus, the greatest joy derived from emotional calm and serenity; he therefore considered intellectual activities superior to all others. The philosopher also extolled the virtues of freedom and denied that gods had any control over human affairs. MacCallum also discusses Cassius’s strengths and weaknesses of character, faulting his spitefulness, jealousy, and lack of fortitude but praising his enthusiasm for the cause of republicanism and his keen powers of judgment. The main lines of [Cassius’s] character are given in Caesar’s masterly delineation, which follows Plutarch in regard to his spareness, but in the other particulars freely elaborates the impression that Plutarch’s whole narrative produces. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look: He thinks too much: such men are dangerous . . .

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THEY BOTH HAVE SCHOOLED THEMSELVES IN THE DISCIPLINE OF FORTITUDE, BRUTUS IN STOIC RENUNCIATION, CASSIUS IN EPICUREAN INDEPENDENCE; BUT IN THE GREAT CRISES WHERE NATURE ASSERTS HERSELF, BRUTUS IS STRONG AND CASSIUS IS WEAK.’’

the theory which identified pleasure with virtue should be the creed of this splenetic solitary: but it is quite in character. Epicureanism appealed to some of the noblest minds of Rome, not as a cult of enjoyment, but as a doctrine that freed them from the bonds of superstition and the degrading fear of death . . . And these are the reasons that Cassius is an Epicurean. At the end, when his philosophy breaks down, he says: You know that I held Epicurus strong And his opinion: now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. [V. i. 76–8] He has hitherto discredited them . . .

He reads much; He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart’s ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. [I. ii. 194–95, 201–10] Lean, gaunt, hungry, disinclined to sports and revelry, spending his time in reading, observation, and reflection—these are the first traits that we notice in him. He too, like Brutus, has learned the lessons of philosophy, and he finds in it the rule of life. He chides his friend for seeming to fail in the practice of it: Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils. [IV. iii. 145–46] And even when he admits and admires Brutus’ self-mastery, he attributes it to nature, and claims as good a philosophic discipline for himself. There is, however, a difference between them even in this point. Brutus is a Platonist with a Stoic tinge; Cassius is an Epicurean [Platonists held that the highest reality is intellectual rather than based on sensory perception. Stoics believed that wise men should be free from passion, unmoved by joy or grief, and submissive to natural law. Epicureans considered emotional calm the highest good, held intellectual pleasures superior to others, and advocated the renunciation of momentary in favor of more permanent pleasures]. That strikes us at first as strange, that

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Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, Can be retentive to the strength of spirit: But life, being weary of these wordly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. [I. iii. 93–7] Free from all superstitious scruples and all thought of superhuman interference in the affairs of men, he stands out bold and self-reliant, confiding in his own powers, his own will, his own management: Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars But in ourselves, that we are underlings. [I. ii. 139–41] And the same attitude of mind implies that he is rid of all illusions. He is not deceived by shows. He looks quite through the deeds of men. He is not taken in by Casca’s affectation of rudeness. He is not misled by Antony’s apparent frivolity. He is not even dazzled by the glamour of Brutus’ virtue, but notes its weak side and does not hesitate to play on it. Still less does Caesar’s prestige subdue his criticism. On the contrary, with malicious contempt he recalls his want of endurance in swimming and the complaints of his sick-bed, and he keenly notes his superstitious lapses. He seldom smiles and when he does it is in scorn. We only once hear of his laughing. It is at the interposition of the poet, which rouses Brutus to indignation; but the presumptuous absurdity of it tickles Cassius’ sardonic humour [IV. iii. 124–38]. For there is no doubt that he takes pleasure in detecting the weaknesses of his fellows. He has

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obvious relish in the thought that if he were Brutus he would not be thus cajoled, and he finds food for satisfaction in Caesar’s merely physical defects. Yet there is as little of self-complacency as of hero-worship in the man. He turns his remorseless scrutiny on his own nature and his own cause, and neither maintains that the one is noble or the other honourable, nor denies the personal alloy in his motives. This is the purport of that strange soliloquy that at first sight seems to place Cassius in the ranks of Shakespeare’s villains along with his Iagos and Richards, rather than of the mixed characters, compact of good and evil, to whom nevertheless we feel that he is akin. Well, Brutus, thou art noble: yet, I see, Thy honourable metal may be wrought From that it is disposed: therefore it is meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes: For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard: but he loves Brutus: If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humour me. [I. ii. 308–15] It frequently happens that cynics view themselves as well as others in their meaner aspects. Probably Cassius is making the worst of his own case and is indulging that vein of self-mockery and scorn that Caesar observed in him. But at any rate the lurking sense of unworthiness in himself and his purpose will be apt to increase in such a man his natural impatience of alleged superiority in his fellows. He is jealous of excellence, seeks to minimise it and will not tolerate it. It is on this characteristic that Shakespeare lays stress. Yet notwithstanding this taint of enviousness and spite, Cassius is far from being a despicable or even an unattractive character. He may play the Devil’s Advocate in regard to individuals, but he is capable of a high enthusiasm for his cause, such as it is. We must share his calenture of excitement, as he strides about the streets in the tempest that fills Casca with superstitious dread and Cicero with discomfort at the nasty weather. His republicanism may be a narrow creed, but at least he is willing to be a martyr to it; when he hears that Caesar is to wear the crown, his resolution is prompt and Roman-like:


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I know where I will wear this dagger then: Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius. [I. iii. 89–90] And surely at the moment of achievement, whatever was mean and sordid in the man is consumed in his prophetic rapture that fires the soul of Brutus and prolongs itself in his response. Cassius: How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown! Brutus: How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport That now on Pompey’s basis lies along No worthier than the dust! [III. i. 111–16] And even to individuals if they stand the test of his mordant criticism, he can pay homage and admiration. The perception that Brutus may be worked upon is the toll he pays to his self-love, but, that settled, he can feel deep reverence and affection for Brutus’ more ideal virtue. Perhaps the best instance of it is the scene of their dispute. Brutus . . . is practically, if not theoretically, in the wrong, and certainly he is much the more violent and bitter; but Cassius submits to receive his forgiveness and to welcome his assurance that he will bear with him in future. This implies no little deference and magnanimity in one who so ill brooks a secondary role. But he does give the lead to Brutus, and in all things, even against his better judgment, yields him the primacy. And then it is impossible not to respect his thorough efficiency. In whatsoever concerns the management of affairs and of men, he knows the right thing to do, and, when left to himself, he does it. He sees how needful Brutus is to the cause and gains him—gains him, in part by a trickery, which Shakespeare without historical warrant ascribes to him; but the trickery succeeds because he has gauged Brutus’ nature aright. He takes the correct measure of the danger from Antony, of his love for Caesar and his talents, which Brutus so contemptuously underrates. So, too, after the assassination, when Brutus says, I know that we shall have him well to friend; [III. i. 143] he answers, I wish we may: but yet I have a mind That fear him much; and my misgiving still

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Jonathan Hyde as Brutus with mob in Act III, scene ii, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratfordupon-Avon, 1991 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Falls shrewdly to the purpose. [III. i. 144–46] Brutus seeks to win Antony with general considerations of right and justice, Cassius employs a more effective argument: Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s In the disposing of new dignities. [III. i. 177–78]

higher moral qualities are required, and the wisdom of the fox yields to the wisdom of the man . . . [however] passionate and wrong-headed Brutus may be in their contention, he has too much sense of the becoming to wrangle in public, as Cassius begins to do. Another more conspicuous example is furnished by the way in which they bear anxiety.

His plans of the campaign are better, and he has a much better notion of conducting the battle.

[When Popilius Lena speaks with Caesar at the Capitol at the beginning of Act III, scene i,] Cassius believes the worst, loses his head, now hurries on Casca, now prepares for suicide. But Brutus, the disinterested man, is less swayed by personal hopes and fears, keeps his composure, urges his friend to be constant, and can calmly judge of the situation. It is the same defect of endurance that brings about Cassius’ death. Really things are shaping well for them, but he misconstrues the signs just as he has misconstrued the words of Lena, and kills himself owing to a mistake; as Messala points out:

All such shrewd sagacity is entitled to our respect. Yet even in this department Cassius is outdone by the unpractical Brutus, so soon as

Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. [V. iii. 65]

He altogether disapproves of the permission granted to Antony to pronounce the funeral oration. He grasps the situation when the civil war breaks out much better than Brutus: In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offence should bear his comment. [IV. iii. 7–8]

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An account of the historic figure of Julius Caesar can be found in Michael Parenti’s The Assassination of Julius Caesar: A People’s History of Ancient Rome (2003). Parenti has been praised for the storytelling skills he demonstrates in this account of why a group of Roman senators plotted the death of Caesar. Parenti speculates about the motives of the conspirators, particularly regarding what they feared about Caesar that led them to murder him.

Julius Caesar, besides ruling the Roman Empire, was also a gifted writer. Caesar’s Commentaries: On the Gallic War and on the Civil War (2005), edited by James H. Ford, provides an insider’s view of the intelligence of this leader; Caesar also offers interesting insight into how he wanted to die. Another Shakespearean play about a great leader is Henry V (c. 1599), which is set in fifteenth-century England. Henry’s father, King Henry IV, has just died, and the new king must demonstrate that he has given up his rowdy and irresponsible past and is capable of leading a war-torn England into a fruitful future. Toward this end, Henry V must face his past as he launches a war against France and must count on some of his old friends to support him in battle.

This want of inward strength explains the ascendancy which Brutus with his more dutiful and therefore more steadfast nature exercises over him, though Cassius is in many ways the more capable man of the two. They both have schooled themselves in the discipline of fortitude, Brutus in Stoic renunciation, Cassius in Epicurean independence; but in the great crises where nature asserts herself, Brutus is strong and Cassius is weak. And as often happens with men, in the supreme trial their professed creeds no longer satisfy them, and they consciously


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Among lighter Shakespearean fare, one of the bard’s most popular comedies is A Midsummer Night’s Dream (1596), a tale of love and fantasies with a bit of pixie dust thrown in for added spice. Four lovers’ lives become strangely entangled when they find themselves in a forest filled with fairies and a traveling acting troupe.

Who—or what—might compare to a figure such as Julius Caesar in the contemporary world? And how might Caesar have affected various European and U.S. cultures? These are some of the questions that are covered in the book Julius Caesar in Western Culture (2006), a collection of essays by Jane Dunnett, Oliver Hemmerle, and others, as edited by Maria Wyke. The writers in this collection offer their thoughts on Caesar’s relevance with respect to religion, art, and political history throughout the ages. Robert Graves’s I, Claudius (1934) provides another view of ancient Roman civilization. Through this fictionalized autobiography, Graves tells the story of a young man who is considered an idiot because he suffers from a speech impediment. Scorned by his culture, Claudius becomes a great observer of the strengths and weaknesses of his contemporaries. Eventually, Claudius rules Rome.

abandon them. But while Cassius in his evil fortune falls back on the superstitions which he had ridiculed Caesar for adopting on his good fortune, Brutus falls back on his feeling of moral dignity, and gives himself the death which theoretically he disapproves. Yet, when all is said and done, what a fine figure Cassius is, and how much both of love and respect he can inspire. Source: M. W. MacCallum, ‘‘Julius Caesar: The Remaining Characters,’’ in Shakespeare’s Roman Plays and Their Background, Russll & Russell, 1967, pp. 275–99.

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Maynard Mack

Shake off their sterile curse.

Mack discusses the public and private values of Brutus and Caesar in terms of what he views as the primary theme of the play: ‘‘The always ambiguous impact between man and history.’’ The private Brutus, the critic asserts, is a gentle, sensitive, and studious man who loves Caesar and deplores violence, while the public figure is a noble idealist who participates in the conspiracy because he believes he must act on behalf of the state. Mack contends that in the first half of the drama Shakespeare focuses on ‘‘human will as a force in history’’ by portraying individuals, such as Brutus, choosing courses of action and controlling events; in contrast, the second half of Julius Caesar demonstrates the inadequacies of noble intentions, rationalism, and human will, once they are displayed in action, in influencing history. Caesar’s dual nature, the crtiic continues, similarly dramatizes Shakespeare’s thesis that history is only partially responsive to human will.

ANT. I shall remember: When Caesar says, ‘‘Do this,’’ it is perform’d. [I. ii. 1–10]

I think the place we may want to begin is with I. ii; for here, as in the first witch scene in Macbeth, most of the play to come is already implicit. We have just learned from scene i of Caesar’s return in triumph from warring on Pompey’s sons, we have seen the warm though fickle adulation of the crowd and the apprehension of the tribunes; now we are to see the great man himself. The procession enters to triumphal music; with hubbub of a great press of people; with young men stripped for the ceremonial races, among them Antony; with statesmen in their togas: Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, Casca; with the two wives Calpurnia and Portia; and, in the lead, for not even Calpurnia is permitted at his side, the great man. As he starts to speak, an expectant hush settles over the gathering: what does the great man have on his mind? CAES. Calpurnia.

Then the procession takes up again. The hubbub is resumed, but once more the expectant silence settles as a voice is heard. SOOTH. Caesar! CAES. Ha! Who calls? CASCA Bid every noise be still; peace yet

again! CAES. Who is it in the press that calls on

me? I hear a tongue shriller than all the music Cry ‘‘Caesar!’’ Speak. Caesar is turn’d to hear. SOOTH. Beware the ides of March. CAES. What man is that? BRU. A soothsayer bids you beware the

ides of March. CAES. Set him before me; let me see his

face. CAS. Fellow, come from the throng;

look upon Caesar. CAES. What say’st thou to me now?

Speak once again. SOOTH. Beware the ides of March. CAES. He is a dreamer. Let us leave him.

CASCA Peace, ho! Caesar speaks.

Pass. [I. ii. 11–24]

CAES. Calpurnia. CAL. Here, my lord. CAES. Stand you directly in Antonius’

way When he does run his course. Antonius. ANT. Caesar, my lord? CAES. Forget

not, in your speed, Antonius. To touch Calpurnia; for our elders say, The barren, touched in this holy chase,

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What the great man had on his mind, it appears, was to remind his wife, in this public place, that she is sterile; that there is an old tradition about how sterility can be removed; and that while of course he is much too sophisticated to accept such a superstition himself—it is ‘‘our elders’’ who say it—still, Calpurnia had jolly well better get out there and get tagged, or else!


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It is easy to see from even these small instances, I think, how a first-rate dramatic imagination works. There is no hint of any procession in Plutarch, Shakespeare’s source. ‘‘Caesar,’’ says Plutarch, ‘‘sat to behold.’’ There is no mention of Calpurnia in Plutarch’s account of the Lupercalian race, and there is no mention anywhere of her sterility. Shakespeare, in nine lines, has given us an unforgettable picture of a man who would like to be emperor pathetically concerned that he

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awe of the marble presence, the message would falter and dissolve: how can a superman need to beware the ides of March? AND NOW THIS LITTLE GROUP OF MEN HAS ALTERED HISTORY. THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE EVIL DIRECTION IT WAS TAKING TOWARD AUTOCRATIC POWER LIES DEAD BEFORE THEM. THE DIRECTION TO WHICH IT MUST BE RESTORED BECOMES EMPHATIC IN CASSIUS’ CRY OF ‘‘LIBERTY, FREEDOM, AND ENFRANCHISEMENT’’’’

lacks an heir, and determined, even at the cost of making his wife a public spectacle, to establish that this is owing to no lack of virility in him. The first episode thus dramatizes instantaneously the oncoming theme of the play: that a man’s will is not enough; that there are other matters to be reckoned with, like the infertility of one’s wife, or one’s own affliction of the falling sickness which spoils everything one hoped for just at the instant when one had it almost in one’s hand. Brutus will be obliged to learn this lesson too. In the second episode the theme develops. We see again the uneasy rationalism that everybody in this play affects; we hear it reverberate in the faint contempt—almost a challenge—of Brutus’ words as he turns to Caesar: ‘‘A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.’’ Yet underneath, in the soothsayer’s presence and his sober warning, Shakespeare allows us to catch a hint of something else, something far more primitive and mysterious, from which rationalism in this play keeps trying vainly to cut itself away: ‘‘He is a dreamer. Let us leave him. Pass.’’ Only we in the audience are in a position to see that the dreamer has foretold the path down which all these reasoners will go to that fatal encounter at the Capitol. Meantime, in these same two episodes, we have learned something about the character of Caesar. In the first, it was the Caesar of human frailties who spoke to us, the husband with his hopeful superstition. In the second, it was the marble superman of state, impassive, impervious, speaking of himself in the third person: ‘‘Speak! Caesar is turn’d to hear.’’ He even has the soothsayer brought before his face to repeat the message, as if he thought that somehow, in


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We hardly have time to do more than glimpse here a man of divided selves, when he is gone. But in his absence, the words of Cassius confirm our glimpse. Cassius’ description of him exhibits the same duality that we had noticed earlier. On the one hand, an extremely ordinary man whose stamina in the swimming match was soon exhausted, who, when he had a fever once in Spain, shook and groaned like a sick girl, who even now, as we soon learn, is falling down with epilepsy in the market place. On the other hand, a being who has somehow become a god, who ‘‘bears the palm alone,’’ who ‘‘bestrides the narrow world like a colossus’’ [I. ii. 131, 135–36]. When the procession returns, no longer festive now, but angry, tense, there is the same effect once more. Our one Caesar shows a normal man’s suspicion of his enemies, voices some shrewd human observations about Cassius, says to Antony, ‘‘Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf’’ [I. ii. 213]. Our other Caesar says, as if he were suddenly reminded of something he had forgotten, ‘‘I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d / Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar’’ [I. ii. 211–12]. Whenever Caesar appears hereafter, we shall find this singular division in him, and nowhere more so than in the scene in which he receives the conspirators at his house. Some aspects of this scene seem calculated for nothing else than to fix upon our minds the superman conception, the Big Brother of Orwell’s 1984, the great resonant name echoing down the halls of time. Thus at the beginning of the scene: the things that threatened me Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. [II. ii. 10–12] And again later: danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he: We are two lions litter’d in one day, And I the elder and more terrible. [II. ii. 44–7] And again still later: ‘‘Shall Caesar send a lie?’’ [II. ii. 65]. And again: ‘‘The cause is in my will: I will not come’’ [II. ii. 71]. Other aspects, including his concern about Calpurnia’s dream,

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his vacillation about going to the senate house, his anxiety about the portents of the night, plainly mark out his human weaknesses. Finally, as is the habit in this Rome, he puts the irrational from him that his wife’s intuitions and her dream embody; he accepts the rationalization of the irrational that Decius skillfully manufactures, and, as earlier at the Lupercalia, hides from himself his own vivid sense of forces that lie beyond the will’s control by attributing it to her: How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. [II. ii. 105–07] So far in our consideration of the implications of I. ii. we have been looking only at Caesar, the title personage of the play, and its historical center. It is time now to turn to Brutus, the play’s tragic center, whom we also find to be a divided man—‘‘poor Brutus,’’ to use his own phrase, ‘‘with himself at war’’ [I. ii. 46]. The war, we realize as the scene progresses, is a conflict between a quiet essentially domestic and loving nature, and a powerful integrity expressing itself in a sense of honorable duty to the commonweal. This duality in Brutus seems to be what Cassius is probing at in his long disquisition about the mirror. The Brutus looking into the glass that Cassius figuratively holds up to him, the Brutus of this moment, now, in Rome, is a grave studious private man, of a wonderfully gentle temper, as we shall see again and again later on, very slow to passion, as Cassius’ ill-concealed disappointment in having failed to kindle him to immediate response reveals, a man whose sensitive nature recoils at the hint of violence lurking in some of Cassius’ speeches, just as he has already recoiled at going on with Caesar to the market place, to witness the mass hysteria of clapping hands, sweaty nightcaps, and stinking breath. This is the present self that looks into Cassius’ mirror. The image that looks back out, that Cassius wants him to see, the potential Brutus, is the man of public spirit, worried already by the question of Caesar’s intentions, the lineal descendant of an earlier Brutus who drove a would-be monarch from the city, a man whose body is visibly stiffening in our sight at each huzza from the Forum, and whose anxiety, though he makes no reply to Cassius’ inflammatory language, keeps bursting to the surface: ‘‘What means this

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shouting? I do fear the people / Choose Caesar for their king’’ [I. ii. 79–80]. The problem at the tragic center of the play, we begin to sense, is to be the tug of private versus public, the individual versus a world he never made, any citizen anywhere versus the selective service greetings that history is always mailing out to each of us. And this problem is to be traversed by that other tug this scene presents, of the irrational versus the rational, the destiny we think we can control versus the destiny that sweeps all before it. Through I. ii, Brutus’ public self, the self that responds to these selective service greetings, is no more than a reflection in a mirror, a mere anxiety in his own brain, about which he refuses to confide, even to Cassius. In II. i, we see the public self making further headway. First, there is Brutus’ argument with himself about the threat of Caesar, and in his conclusion that Caesar must be killed we note how far his private self—he is, after all, one of Caesar’s closest friends—has been invaded by the self of public spirit. From here on, the course of the invasion accelerates. The letter comes, tossed from the public world into the private world, into Brutus’ garden, and addressing, as Cassius had, that public image reflected in the mirror: ‘‘Brutus, thou sleep’st: awake and see thyself’’ [II. i. 46]. Then follows the well-known brief soliloquy . . . , showing us that Brutus’ mind has moved on now from the phase of decision to the inquietudes that follow decision: Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream. [II. i. 63–5] What is important to observe is that these lines stress once again the gulf that separates motive from action, that which is interior in man and controllable by his will from that which, once acted, becomes independent of him and moves with a life of its own. This gulf is a no man’s land, a phantasma, a hideous dream. Finally, there arrives in such a form that no audience can miss it the actual visible invasion itself, as this peaceful garden quiet is broken in on by knocking, like the knocking of fate in Beethoven’s fifth symphony, and by men with faces hidden in their cloaks. Following this, a lovely interlude with Portia serves to emphasize how much the private self, the private world has been shattered. We have something close to discord here—as much of a discord as these very

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gentle people are capable of—and though there is a reconciliation at the end and Brutus’ promise to confide in her soon, this division in the family is an omen. So is that knock of the latecomer, Caius Ligarius, which reminds us once again of the intrusions of the public life. And when Ligarius throws off his sick man’s kerchief on learning that there is an honorable exploit afoot, we may see in it an epitome of the whole scene, a graphic visual renunciation, like Brutus’, of the private good to the public; and we may see this also in Brutus’ own exit a few lines later, not into the inner house where Portia waits for him, but out into the thunder and lightning of the public life of Rome. It is perhaps significant that at our final view of Portia, two scenes later, she too stands outside the privacy of the house, her mind wholly occupied with thoughts of what is happening at the Capitol, and trying to put on a public self for Brutus’ sake: ‘‘Run, Lucius, and commend me to my Lord / Say I am merry . . . ’’ [II. iv. 44–5].

even by prayer and hence superior to the very gods. Finally, Shakespeare puts into his mouth one of those supreme arrogances that will remind us of the destroying hubris which makes men mad in order to ruin them. ‘‘Hence!’’ Caesar cries, ‘‘Wilt thou lift up Olympus?’’ [III. i. 74]. It is at just this point, when the colossus Caesar drunk with self-love is before us, that Casca strikes. Then they all strike, with a last blow that brings out for the final time the other, human side of this double Caesar: ‘‘Et tu, Brute?’’ [III. i. 77].

Meantime, up there by the Capitol, the tragic center and the historical center meet. The suspense is very great as Caesar, seeing the Soothsayer in the throng, reminds him that the ides of March are come, and receives in answer, ‘‘Ay, Caesar, but not gone’’ [III. i. 2]. Caesar is to bleed, but, as Brutus has said, they will sublimate the act into a sacrifice:

Then walk we forth, even to the market place; And waving our red weapons o’er our heads, Let’s all cry, ‘‘Peace, freedom, and liberty!’’ [III. i. 108–10]

Let’s kill him boldly but not wrathfully; Let’s carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds. [II. i. 172–74] Everything in the scene must underscore this ceremonial attitude, in order to bring out the almost fatuous cleavage between the spirit of this enterprise and its bloody purpose. The Caesar that we are permitted to see while all this ceremony is preparing is almost entirely the superman, for obvious reasons. To give a color of justice to Brutus’ act and so to preserve our sense of his nobility even if we happen to think the assassination a mistake, as an Elizabethan audience emphatically would, Caesar has to appear in a mood of superhumanity at least as fatuous as the conspirators’ mood of sacrifice. Hence Shakespeare makes him first of all insult Metellus Cimber: ‘‘If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, / I spurn thee like a cur’’ [III. i. 45–6]; then comment with intolerable pomposity, and, in fact, blasphemy, on his own iron resolution, for he affects to be immovable


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And now this little group of men has altered history. The representative of the evil direction it was taking toward autocratic power lies dead before them. The direction to which it must be restored becomes emphatic in Cassius’ cry of ‘‘Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement’’ [III. i. 81]. Solemnly, and again like priests who have just sacrificed a victim, they kneel together and bathe their hands and swords in Caesar’s blood. Brutus exclaims:

The leader of this assault on history is, like many another reformer, a man of high idealism, who devoutly believes that the rest of the world is like himself. It was just to kill Caesar—so he persuades himself—because he was a great threat to freedom. It would not have been just to kill Antony, and he vetoed the idea. Even now, when the consequence of that decision has come back to face him in the shape of Antony’s servant, kneeling before him, he sees no reason to reconsider it. There are good grounds for what they have done, he says; Antony will hear them, and be satisfied. With Antony, who shortly arrives in person, he takes this line again: Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar You should be satisfied. [III. i. 224–26] With equal confidence in the rationality of man, he puts by Cassius’ fears of what Antony will do if allowed to address the people: ‘‘By your pardon; I will myself into the pulpit first / And show the reason of our Caesar’s death’’ [III. i. 235–37]. Here is a man so much a friend of Caesar’s that he is still speaking of him as ‘‘our

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Caesar,’’ so capable of rising to what he takes to be his duty that he has taken on the leadership of those who intend to kill him, so trusting of common decency that he expects the populace will respond to reason, and Antony to the obligation laid on him by their permitting him to speak. At such a man, one hardly knows whether to laugh or cry. The same mixture of feelings is likely to be stirring in us as Brutus speaks to the people in III. ii. As everybody knows, this is a speech in what used to be called the great liberal tradition, the tradition that assumed, as our American founding fathers did, that men in the mass are reasonable. It has therefore been made a prose oration, spare and terse in diction, tightly patterned in syntax so that it requires close attention, and founded, with respect to its argument, on three elements: the abstract sentiment of duty to the state (because he endangered Rome, Caesar had to be slain); the abstract sentiment of political justice (because he was ambitious, Caesar deserved his fall); and the moral authority of the man Brutus. As long as that moral authority is concretely before them in Brutus’ presence, the populace is impressed. But since they are not trained minds, and only trained minds respond accurately to abstractions, they do not understand the content of his argument at all, as one of them indicates by shouting, ‘‘Let him be Caesar!’’ [III. ii. 51]. What moves them is the obvious sincerity and the known integrity of the speaker; and when he finishes, they are ready to carry him off on their shoulders on that account alone, leaving Antony a vacant Forum. The fairmindedness of Brutus is thrilling but painful to behold as he calms this triumphal surge in his favor, urges them to stay and hear Antony, and then, in a moment very impressive dramatically as well as symbolically, walks off the stage, alone. We see then, if we have not seen before, the first answer to the question why the attack on history failed. It was blinded, as it so often has been, by the very idealism that impelled it. When Antony takes the rostrum, we begin to get a second answer. It has been said by somebody that in a school for demagogues this speech should be the whole curriculum. Antony himself describes its method when he observes in the preceding scene, apropos of the effect of Caesar’s dead body on the messenger from Octavius, ‘‘Passion, I see, is catching’’ [III. i. 283].

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Antony rests his case, not, like Brutus, on abstractions centering in the state and political justice, but on emotions centering in the individual listener. The first great crescendo of the speech, which culminates in the passage on Caesar’s wounds, appeals first to pity and then to indignation. The second one, culminating in the reading of Caesar’s will, appeals first to curiosity and greed and then to gratitude. The management of the will is particularly cunning: it is an item more concrete than any words could be, an actual tantalizing document that can be flashed before the eye . . . It is described, at first vaguely, as being of such a sort that they would honor Caesar for it. Then, closer home, as something which would show ‘‘how Caesar lov’d you’’ [III. ii. 141]. Then, with an undisguised appeal to self-interest, as a testament that will make them his ‘‘heirs.’’ The emotions aroused by this news enable Antony to make a final test of his ironical refrain about the ‘‘honorable men,’’ and finding the results all that he had hoped, he can come down now among the crowd as one of them, and appeal directly to their feelings by appealing to his own: ‘‘If you have tears to shed, prepare to shed them now’’ [III. ii. 169]. The success of this direct appeal to passion can be seen at its close. Where formerly we had a populace, now we have a mob. Since it is a mob, its mind can be sealed against any later seepage of rationality back into it by the insinuation that reasoning is always false anyway—simply a surface covering up private grudges, like the ‘‘reason’’ they have heard from Brutus; whereas from Antony himself, the plain blunt friend of Caesar, they are getting the plain blunt truth and (a favorite trick of politicians) only what they already know to be the truth. At about this point, it becomes impossible not to see that a second reason for the failure of the attack on history is what it left out of account—what all these Romans from the beginning, except Antony, have been trying to leave out of account: the phenomenon of feeling, the nonrational factor in men, in the world, in history itself—of which this blind infuriated mob is one kind of exemplification. Too secure in his own fancied suppression of the subrational, Brutus has failed altogether to reckon with its power. Thus he could seriously say to Antony in the passage I quoted earlier: Antony, even if you were ‘‘the son of Caesar / You should be satisfied,’’ as if the feeling of a son for a murdered

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any sort. With all their reasons, the conspirators and Caesar only carried out what the soothsayer foreknew. There is, in short, a determination in history, whether we call it natural or providential, which at least, helps to shape our ends, ‘‘rough new them how we will’’ [Hamlet, V. ii. 11]. One of the names of that factor in this play is Caesarism. Brutus put the point, all unconsciously, in that scene when the conspirators were gathered at his house. He said: We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar: And in the spirit of men there is no blood: O that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit. And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it. [II. i. 167–71] Then Caesar did bleed for it; but his spirit, as Brutus’ own remark should have told him, proved to be invulnerable. It was only set free by his assassination, and now, as Antony says, ‘‘ranging for revenge . . . Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice / Cry ‘Havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war’’ [III. i. 272–73].

Jonh Nettles as Marcus Brutus with Christopher Benjamin as the ghost of Caesar, in Act IV, scene iii, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1995 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

father could ever be ‘‘satisfied’’ by reasons. And thus, too, he could walk off the stage alone, urging the crowd to hear Antony, the very figure of embodied ‘‘reason,’’ unaware that only the irrational is catching. Meantime, the scene of the mob tearing Cinna the Poet to pieces simply for having the same name as one of the conspirators (III. iii) gives us our first taste of the chaos invoked by Antony when he stood alone over Caesar’s corpse. And as we consider that prediction and this mob, we are bound to realize that there is a third reason why the attack on history failed. As we have seen already, history is only partly responsive to noble motives, only partly responsive to rationality. Now we see—what Shakespeare hinted in the beginning with those two episodes of Calpurnia and the soothsayer—that it is only partly responsive to human influence of


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The rest of the play, I think, is self-explanatory. It is clear all through Acts IV and V that Brutus and Cassius are defeated before they begin to fight. Antony knows it and says so at V. i. Cassius knows it too. Cassius, an Epicurean in philosophy, and therefore one who has never heretofore believed in omens, now mistrusts his former rationalism: he suspects there may be something after all in those ravens, crows, and kites that wheel overhead. Brutus too mistrusts his rationalism. As a Stoic, his philosophy requires him to repudiate suicide, but he admits to Cassius that if the need comes he will repudiate philosophy instead. This, like Cassius’ statement, is an unconscious admission of the force of unreason in human affairs, an unreason that makes its presence felt again and again during the great battle. Cassius, for instance, fails to realize that Octavious ‘‘Is overthrown by noble Brutus’ power’’ [V. iii. 52], becomes the victim of a mistaken report of Titinius’ death, runs on his sword crying. ‘‘Caesar, thou are reveng’d’’ [V. iii. 45], and is greeted, dead, by Brutus, in words that make still clearer their defeat by history: ‘‘O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! / Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords / In our own proper entrails’’ [V. iii. 94–6]. In the same vein, when it is Brutus’ turn to die, we learn that the ghost of Caesar has

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reappeared, and he thrusts the sword home, saying, ‘‘Caesar, now be still’’ [V. v. 50]. To come then to a brief summary. Though I shouldn’t care to be dogmatic about it, it seems clear to me that Shakespeare’s primary theme in Julius Caesar has to do with the always ambiguous impact between man and history. During the first half of the play, what we are chiefly conscious of is the human will as a force in history—men making choices, controlling events. Our typical scenes are I. ii, where a man is trying to make up his mind; or II. i, where a man first reaches a decision and then, with his fellows, lays plans to implement it; or II. ii, where we have Decius Brutus persuading Caesar to decide to go to the senate house; or III. i and ii, where up through the assassination, and even up through Antony’s speech, men are still, so to speak, impringing on history, moulding it to their conscious will. But then comes a change. Though we still have men in action trying to mould their world (or else we would have no play at all), one senses a real shift in the direction of the impact. We begin to feel the insufficiency of noble aims, for history is also consequences; the insufficiency of reason and rational expectation, for the ultimate consequences of an act in history are unpredictable, and usually, by all human standards, illogical as well; and finally, the insufficiency of the human will itself, for there is always something to be reckoned with that is non-human and inscrutable. . . . Accordingly, in the second half of the play, our typical scenes are those like III. iii, when Antony has raised something that is no longer under his control; or like IV. i, where we see men acting as if, under the control of expediency or necessity or call it what you will, they no longer had wills of their own but prick down the names of nephews and brothers indiscriminately for slaughter; or like IV. iii and all the scenes thereafter, where we are constantly made to feel that Cassius and Brutus are in the hands of something bigger than they know. In this light, we can see readily enough why it is that Shakespeare gave Julius Caesar that double character. The human Caesar who has human ailments and is a human friend is the Caesar that can be killed. The marmoreal Caesar, the everlasting Big Brother—the Napoleon, Mussolini, Hitler, Franco, Peron, Stalin, Kruschev, to mention only a handful of his more recent incarnations—that Caesar is the

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ANTONY’S FAMOUS REJOINDER IS A TOUR DE FORCE WHICH COMPLETES SHAKESPEARE’S PICTURE OF THE KIND OF PERSUASION MOST EFFECTIVE WITH THE CITIZENRY.’’

one who must repeatedly be killed but never dies, because he is in you, and you, and you, and me. Every classroom is a Rome, and there is no reason for any pupil, when he studies Julius Caesar, to imagine that this is ancient history. Source: Maynard Mack, ‘‘Teaching Drama: Julius Caesar,’’ in Essays on the Teaching of English: Reports of the Yale Conferences on the Teachings of English, edited by Edward J. Gordon and Edward S. Noyes, AppletonCentury-Crofts, Inc., 1960, pp. 320–36.

Brents Stirling Stirling examines the extent to which Shakespeare relied upon his source material in his presentation of the Roman populace in Julius Caesar. The critic notes that although Shakespeare’s portrait of the commoners as fickle, unreasonable, and opportunistic generally echoes Plutarch’s lives of Caesar and Brutus, the dramatist also elaborated upon Plutarch’s account, notably in Act III, scene II, when Brutus and Antony deliver their funeral orations for Caesar, and in Act III, scene III, when the citizens interrogate the poet Cinna. While the effect of the changes in the first of these scenes is to accentuate the instability of the mob, Stirling maintains, Shakespeare did not deliberately alter his source to further denigrate the populace; rather, the changes were made for dramatic effect and, moreover, were warranted by Plutarch’s descriptions of the mob in other episodes of his narratives. The critic states that the second of these scenes, not recorded by Plutarch, reveals an Elizabethan understanding of mob behavior in its emphasis on the hostility and irrationality of class conflict; similarly, Brutus and Antony’s funeral orations, only briefly outlined by Plutarch, lend political realism to the tragedy. In Julius Caesar the self-interest and sorry instability of the Roman populace turn the tide against Brutus and the other conspirators. Although their ill fortune materializes at

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Philippi, the climactic change from good to ill for the conspirators occurs in Act III with the shift against them of mob sentiment. Accordingly, it will not surprise those familiar with Shakespeare’s methods of exposition that the note of plebeian stupidity and mutability is struck powerfully in the opening scene of the play. There the disorderly citizens, who have decked themselves in their best ‘‘to make holiday, to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph’’ [I. i. 30–1], are denounced by their own tribunes for ingratitude and change of heart. After the cynical speech by Marullus on the crowd’s erstwhile devotion to Caesar’s adversary, Flavius pronounces chorally upon its exit: See, whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. [I. i. 61–2] The next we hear of the Roman mob is from Casca who, in the well-known lines of Scene 2, reports its reception of Caesar’s refusal of the crown: . . . and still as he refus’d it, the rabblement hooted and clapp’d their chapp’d hands and threw up their sweaty nightcaps and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refus’d the crown, that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swounded and fell down at it; and for mine own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. [I. ii. 243–50]

The next appearance of the citizenry is in the second scene of Act III. After the killing of Caesar in the previous scene, Brutus and Cassius enter with a throng of citizens who are given the first line, ‘‘We will be satisfied; let us be satisfied’’ [III. ii. 1]. The citizens divide, some to hear Cassius, others to hear Brutus. The honest and highly epigrammatic speech of Brutus quickly converts the suspicious crowd, and they clamor, ‘‘Let him be Caesar’’; ‘‘Caesar’s better parts shall be crown’d in Brutus’’ [III. ii. 51–2]. The uproar of impulsive approval is so loud that Brutus must implore silence so that Antony may speak, and as Antony goes into the pulpit there are cries, ‘‘’Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here’’ and ‘‘This Caesar was a tyrant’’ [III. ii. 68–9]. In complete contrast with Brutus, Antony is no expounder but rather an evoker who pulls, one by one and each at the strategic moment, all the stops of the organ. Some forty lines following a self-effacing start, his nostalgic reminiscences


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of Caesar and his apparent emotional breakdown have the citizens murmuring in his favor. His mention of Caesar’s will and quick disavowal of intent to read it increase the murmur to a clamor, in the midst of which he produces Caesar’s bloody mantle; the clamor then becomes a frenzy as the citizenry cry, ‘‘About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay!’’ [III. ii. 205]. Caesar’s wounds, ‘‘poor dumb mouths’’ [III. ii. 225] are given tongues as the mob is tensed to the critical pitch. In their upheaval the commoners forget the will, and Antony, with what seems cold-blooded cynicism, calls them back to hear Caesar’s bequests in their favor. After that there is no check which can be put on them as they rush through the city with firebrands; significantly enough, they accomplish only irrelevant violence in killing Cinna the poet who, for want of a better reason, is torn for his bad verses. In his chapter on the source of Julius Caesar, [in Shakespeare’s Roman Plays and Their Background], M. W. MacCallum is not specifically concerned with Shakespeare’s presentation of Rome’s unreasonable populace. At the outset, however, he does discuss the peculiar shiftiness of the mob’s bullying questions addressed to the poet Cinna. MacCallum observes that none of this is in Plutarch and that it is Shakespeare’s realistic contribution based upon intuitive understanding of the behavior of bravoes who have run down a victim. This is valuable. As a short scene in which the bland sadistic stare and the irrelevant retort are thrust upon an innocent who tries to explain himself, the episode deserves more space than MacCallum devotes to it. In its forty lines are packed such an awareness of the hostility and cogent unreason found in class conflict that the scene could be called modern in all senses, sober and ironical, of the term. For in Shakespeare’s conception there is surely none of the wistful expectation that aroused masses will act objectively; the scene rests upon a knowledge of such behavior in crisis which is hard to explain other than by the dramatist’s intuitive observation. While he comments briefly upon this bit of realism as a factor not found in Shakespeare’s source, MacCallum is silent upon a similar and far more elaborate transmutation of source material. It is well known that the speeches of Brutus and Antony in the funeral scene are Shakespeare’s own, but no discussion of altered sources would be adequate which failed to note the political realism which underlies these

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additions. From Plutarch Shakespeare certainly derived Brutus’s high-mindedness and his tactical error in allowing Antony to speak, but there is no implication, in the source, of the kind of speech Brutus made. It has the laconic and functional sparseness of the Gettysburg Address. Tragically, however, it is not delivered as a tribute to men who died in battle, but as justification of a political coup and as an appeal for mass support. Shakespeare conceives of Brutus as an idealist who believes that facts honestly and simply explained are politically adequate. Because of his concern not to sully himself and his pains to represent his opposition fairly, Brutus wins support only until Antony begins to explore crowd responses. And although Shakespeare may not have intended it, Brutus’s speech exhibits perfectly the egocentrism of those who make a religion of objectivity. The scorn of emotionality suggested by it, the conviction implied in it that orderly analysis is pre-eminent, and the perfectionistic compactness of it as a composition, all suggest a self-regard by the inward eye which may be the bliss of solitude, but which is fatal in an emergency requiring audience response. Antony’s famous rejoinder is a tour de force which completes Shakespeare’s picture of the kind of persuasion most effective with the citizenry. Plutarch does give the prescription for this speech, but only in formula. ‘‘When [Antony] saw that the people were very glad and desirous also to hear Caesar spoken of, and his praises uttered, he mingled his oration with lamentable words, and by amplifying of matters did greatly move their hearts and affections.’’ The gist of this is the essence of Antony’s oration. Antony, above all, is an analyst of audience temper; he first finds what his listeners want to hear and then wanders among the bypaths of their ‘‘hearts and affections.’’ Next comes the apparent admission against interest: ‘‘If it [Caesar’s ambition] were so, it was a grievous fault’’ [III. ii. 79]. Now occurs a hint of the common touch, ‘‘When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept’’ [III. ii. 91]. Then, just as Antony is beginning to warm to his subject, comes his first exploratory halt; apparently inarticulate with emotion, he must pause till his heart, ‘‘in the coffin there with Caesar,’’ [III. ii. 106], comes back to him. The commoners begin to mutter and Antony, sensing it, advances to the

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next strategic point: he mentions Caesar’s will but disclaims all intention of capitalizing upon material interest. Another exploratory pause, and as the citizens clamor for the will Antony knows that he can throw caution away. His subsequent move is to produce the concrete object, the evocative thing which men can touch and see, Caesar’s gown with the bloody rents in it. But first he recalls old times and old campaigns: I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; ’Twas on a summer’s evening, in his tent That day he overcame the Nervii. [III. ii. 170–73] And now, in a climax of mingled sentiment and abuse, he holds the grisly thing up for the crowd to see. Next, and in clinching employment of the concrete objective device, he drives the crowd’s attention directly to the hacked body of Caesar, and there is no holding them. They even forget the will which Antony, who has saved material interest as the most telling and final point, must call them back to hear. This is not a pretty example of how to manipulate the electorate, and it is even less so when we perceive two ingredients which do not occur at any one point, but are pervasive. In contrast with the understatement of Brutus, who tells the crowd briefly why he killed his best friend, Antony’s irony, with its six-fold repetition of the ‘‘honorable men’’ phrase, evolves steadily into the most blatant kind of sarcasm. He knows the inadequacy of quiet irony; he also knows the value of repetition and how to use it climactically. In evaluating Shakespeare’s use of Plutarch in this episode, we have not only the demagoguery of Antony’s speech to consider but also a portrait of the populace itself. Concerning the latter, the evidence is conflicting. As the account in Plutarch is followed, it would seem at first that Shakespeare had made a gratuitous and major change in order to emphasize the instability of crowd responses. All readers of Shakespeare know that in his play the citizenry plumps solidly for Brutus, only to change over suddenly at Antony’s provocation. Plutarch’s account of Marcus Brutus, however, runs entirely counter to this: When the people saw him [Brutus] in the pulpit, although they were a multitude of rakehells of all sorts, and had a good will to make some stir:

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yet being ashamed to do it for the reverence they bare unto Brutus, they kept silence to hear what he would say. When Brutus began to speak, they gave him quiet audience: howbeit immediately after, they showed that they were not at all contented with the murder. For when another called Cinna [the conspirator] would have spoken, and began to accuse Caesar, they fell into a great uproar among them and marvelously reviled him.

The account of the same event in Plutarch’s life of Caesar depicts the citizenry as being moved by Brutus neither one way nor the other. There are two reasons, however, why this change taken by itself cannot be relied upon to show a transmutation by Shakespeare with intention of casting discredit upon the populace. The first of these is that there is dramatic reason for the change: it is simply more effective to show a populace swayed first one way and then the other, and the story would be flat without it. Perhaps this principle, if extended, would also account, upon a purely dramatic basis, for the cynical virtuosity exhibited in Antony’s speech . . . A second reason why little can be made of Shakespeare’s change in this episode is that although Plutarch does not exhibit a fickle citizenry first in agreement with Brutus and immediately afterward with Antony, he does elsewhere and generally give clear hints of its instability. In the life of Marcus Brutus, and but a few pages beyond the excerpt just quoted, occurs this description of the populace just after Antony’s winning of their favor: ‘‘The people growing weary now of Antonius’ pride and insolency, who ruled all things in manner with absolute power: they desired that Brutus might return again.’’ Beyond the specific data described in the last few pages, there are some general notions in Plutarch which bear upon the problem and find their way into Shakespeare’s adaptation of the episode. There is material throughout which establishes the opportunistic allegiance of the populace to Caesar. Cato, for example, feared ‘‘insurrection of the poor needy persons, which were they that put all their hope in Caesar.’’ Caesar, moreover, ‘‘began to put forth laws meeter for a seditious Tribune than for a Consul: because by them he preferred the division of lands, and the distributing of corn to every citizen, gratis, to please them withal.’’ The people are described, however, as antagonistic to the idea of Caesar as emperor, and as


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making outcries of joy when he refused the crown. And in direct line with Shakespeare’s conception of a Rome plagued with popular insurrection, we learn from Plutarch that Rome itself also was immediately filled with the flowing repair of all the people their neighbors thereabouts, which came hither from all parties like droves of cattle, that there was neither officer nor magistrate that could any more command them by authority, neither by any persuasion of reason bridle such a confused and disorderly multitude: so that Rome had in manner destroyed itself for lack of rule and order.

Plutarch, in fact, declares that ‘‘men of deep judgment and learning’’ were so concerned with the ‘‘fury and madness’’ of the people that they ‘‘thought themselves happy if the commonwealth were no worse troubled than with the absolute state of a monarchy and sovereign lord to govern them.’’ Unlike his story of Coriolanus, Plutarch’s account of Caesar, and to some extent his story of Brutus, provided Shakespeare with a ready-made aversion to the populace which amounts to contempt. Apparently unnoticed by source studies, which have been more concerned with story and characterization than with social bias, is a brief passage in the life of Marcus Brutus which probably furnished the cue for Shakespeare’s opening scene. This scene is begun by Flavius with a denunciation of the commoners, containing the line, ‘‘What! know you not, being mechanical . . . ’’ [I. i. 2–3]. In the scene, moreover, six of the seven responses from the citizenry are made by a cobbler. The suggestion for this may well have been words in Plutarch addressed by Cassius to Brutus: ‘‘What! knowest thou not that thou art Brutus? Thinkest thou that they be cobblers, tapsters, or suchlike base mechanical people, that write these bills and scrolls . . . ?’’ Whether the passage suggested part of Shakespeare’s opening scene or not, it is typical of the social point of view toward commoners which was available to Shakespeare in his source data. Finally, in a source-play comparison involving Julius Caesar it should be made plain that Plutarch supplied Shakespeare with the flagrant and literally inflammatory action of the mob which follows Antony’s oration. But when they had opened Caesar’s testament and found a liberal legacy of money bequeathed unto every citizen of Rome, and that they saw his body (which was brought into the market place) all bemangled with gashes of swords: then

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there was no order to keep the multitude and common people quiet. . . . Then . . . they took the firebrands, and went unto their houses that had slain Caesar, to set them afire. Others also ran up and down the city to see if they could meet with any of them, to cut them in pieces.

Directly after this comes Plutarch’s description of the mobbing of Cinna the poet. (pp. 27–35) Source: Brents Stirling, ‘‘The Plays: Julius Caesar,’’ in The Populace in Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1949, pp. 25–35.

SOURCES Bloom, Allan, ‘‘The Morality of the Pagan Hero: Julius Caesar,’’ in Shakespeare’s Politics, University of Chicago Press, 1964, pp. 75–112. Dean, Leonard F., ed., Twentieth Century Interpretations of Julius Caesar: A Collection of Critical Essays, PrenticeHall, 1968, p. 120. Dzelzainis, Martin, ‘‘Shakespeare and Political Thought,’’ in A Companion to Shakespeare, edited by David Scott Kastan, Blackwell Publishers, 1999, pp. 100–16. Hunter, G. K., ‘‘Shakespeare and the Traditions of Tragedy,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 25, 1997, pp. 123–41. ‘‘Julius Caesar,’’ in The Oxford Companion to Shakespeare, 3rd ed., edited by Michael Dobson and Stanley Wells, Oxford University Press, 2005, pp. 229–32. Knights, L. C., ‘‘Shakespeare and Political Wisdom: A Note on the Personalism of Julius Caesar and Coriolanus,’’ in Sewanee Review, Vol. 61, No. 1, Winter 1953, pp. 43–55. Shakespeare, William, Julius Caesar, edited by David Bevington, Bantam Books, 1988.

FURTHER READING Ackroyd, Peter, Shakespeare: The Biography, Nan A. Talese, 2005. Ackroyd recounts the life of Shakespeare while weaving in details about life in the Elizabethan era and the effect of live theater on the populace. Using old information in new ways, Ackroyd brings to this telling of the bard’s life a refreshing point of view—that of an enthusiast rather than that of a scholar. Bonjour, Adrien, The Structure of ‘‘Julius Caesar,’’ Liverpool University Press, 1958. Bonjour analyzes the structure, themes, and imagery of Julius Caesar, identifying the

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play’s central issue as the ‘‘twofold theme’’ of political and personal crisis. He maintains that the drama has two heroes, Caesar and Brutus, who alternately evoke praise and blame until, at the end, the audience’s sympathies are divided. Frye, Roland Mushat, ‘‘Rhetoric and Poetry in Julius Caesar,’’ in Quarterly Journal of Speech, Vol. 37, No. 1, February 1951, pp. 41–8. Frye examines Antony’s funeral oration, outlining why it is effective both as poetry and as rhetoric. Frye also explores the continuing appeal of the speech. Goddard, Harold C., ‘‘Julius Caesar,’’ in The Meaning of Shakespeare, University of Chicago Press, 1951, pp. 307–30. Goddard asserts that the central political theme of Julius Caesar, that violent opposition to imperialism only breeds further tyranny, is dramatized through the character of Brutus. Goddard distinguishes between the ‘‘true’’ Brutus, whose innocence and wisdom are symbolized by his relationships with Lucius and Portia, and the ‘‘false’’ Brutus, who, in convincing himself of his own moral infallibility, demonstrates his kinship with the imperious Caesar. Humphreys, Arthur, ed., Introduction to Julius Caesar, Clarendon Press, 1984. This volume offers a broad overview of several issues associated with Julius Caesar. Humphreys provides sections on the play’s composition date, stage history, language, and imagery, as well as on Shakespeare’s sources, his political attitudes, and his treatment of Rome and its values. Levin, Richard A., ‘‘Brutus: ‘Noblest Roman of Them All,’’’ in Ball State University Forum, Vol. 23, No. 2, Spring 1982, pp. 15–25. Levin maintains that the audience’s judgment of Brutus must be based on the notions of friendship and loyalty. Levin questions whether Brutus is capable of true friendship, distinguishing him from the other conspirators through his willingness to betray a man for whom he has expressed deep affection. Brutus’s lack of knowledge about friendship is his undoing, Levin concludes, for he underestimates the depth of Antony’s loyalty to Caesar. Platt, Michael, ‘‘Rome, Empire and Aftermath: Julius Caesar,’’ in Rome and Romans According to Shakespeare, rev. ed., University Press of America, 1983, pp. 185–257. Platt focuses on a wide range of political issues associated with Julius Caesar, including the influence of Caesar’s rise to power on his Roman friends and followers, the justifiability

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of Caesar’s assassination, and Brutus’s motivation for leading the conspiracy against Caesar.

that humankind is incapable of controlling its own destiny.

Taylor, Myron, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar and the Irony of History,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 24, No. 3, Summer 1973, pp. 301–308. Taylor contrasts Cassius’s and Caesar’s philosophical points of view and argues that Shakespeare’s purpose in the play was to show

Velz, John W., ‘‘Cassius as a ‘Great Observer,’’’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. 68, No. 2, April 1973, pp. 256–59. Velz discusses Cassius’s shrewd powers of observation in relation to his pessimism and his ability to distinguish appearance from reality.


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King Lear 1606

King Lear was first acted on December 26, 1606, St. Stephen’s Night, by Shakespeare’s acting company, The King’s Men, before King James I and the court at Whitehall; this is known because, on November 26, 1607, the play was entered along with that identifying information on the Stationers’ Register, a journal kept by the Stationers’ Company of London in which the printing rights to dramatic works were chronicled. In 1608, the First Quarto of the play was published by Nathaniel Butter who, along with John Busby, had made the entry in the Stationers’ Register. The 1608 Quarto is called the ‘‘Pied Bull’’ Quarto because Nathaniel Butter’s shop, where the Quarto was sold was in ‘‘Pauls Church-yard at the sign of the Pide Bull neere St. Austins Gate.’’ There are twelve copies of the Pied Bull Quarto extant today, but they are not uniform because of the way proofreading was done. Sheets were read as the quartos were printed, resulting in the separate volumes having different corrected and uncorrected sheets bound together. A 1619 edition of the First Quarto was printed, although falsely dated 1608, by William Jaggard for Thomas Pavier, reprinting one of the original 1608 editions. In 1623, King Lear appeared in the Folio volume of Shakespeare’s work that John Heminges and Henry Condell, his fellow actors in The King’s Men, published in tribute to him. The Folio text varies significantly from the First Quarto texts. The Folio text has an additional 300 lines that the first Quarto texts do

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not have and the Folio text is missing 100 lines found in the Quarto editions. The 1623 Folio is thought to have been printed from one of the 1608 Quartos that had been corrected and emended, probably by consultation with a manuscript quite close to an original by Shakespeare, perhaps his company’s prompt book of the play. Authoritative contemporary editions of King Lear are consolidations and emendations of the two texts, using the Folio, adding the lines from the Quarto that it lacks, and comparing readings in the two texts when there is confusion about which is better. In 1988, Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor printed both Quarto and Folio texts individually in The Oxford Shakespeare, arguing that they were two substantially different plays, each by Shakespeare, with the Folio text being a revised version of the Quarto text. There are a number of sources for the story of King Lear. The primary source is an earlier play, probably dating from around 1594, with which Shakespeare was undoubtedly acquainted, called The True Chronicle History of King Leir. The story of Lear and his daughters, however, can also be found in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Latin work, History of the Kings of England (c.1136), in the collection The Mirror for Magistrates (1574), in Holinshed’s Chronicles (1577), in William Warner’s Albions England (1586), and in Edmund Spenser’s epic The Fairie Queene (1596). The source for the Gloucester plot is found in Book II, Chapter 10 of Sir Philip Sydney’s Arcadia (1590). Samuel Harsnett’s Declaration of Egregious Popishe Impostures (1603) is the source for much of Edgar’s mad talk and references to demons. King Lear has a strange performance history. In 1642, the English Parliament, politically at odds with King Charles I, and Puritanical in its religious inclination, ordered the theaters closed in London. And closed they remained during the English Commonwealth which the Puritan government established in 1649 under Oliver Cromwell. It was not until 1661, a year after the restoration of the monarchy, when Charles II ordered them to be re-opened. When the theaters reopened, the theater, as well as English culture itself, was quite different from the way it had been in Shakespeare’s day. Boys no longer acted the parts of women—women did. The stage was no longer a bare stage—something like a platform at an inn yard—but a proscenium stage adapted to using, even depending upon, scenery.


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Most significantly, with the restoration of the monarchy, the grim universe of King Lear, with its plot about the defeat of a king, did not fit the official temper of the time. Although it was presented on the stage in its original form a few times, in 1681, Nahum Tate revised King Lear giving it a happy ending. Lear and Cordelia do not die; Lear is restored to the throne and Cordelia marries Edgar. The part of the Fool is excised completely. This version of King Lear held the stage in place of Shakespeare’s version for a 150 years, until 1834, when William Charles Macready at the Drury Lane in London performed Shakespeare’s unaltered original play.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 As King Lear begins, Kent and Gloucester are talking about ‘‘the division of the kingdom’’ and apparently about competing interests regarding that division. Then, pointing to a younger man, Edmund, who has been quiet, Kent asks Gloucester if he is not his son. Gloucester introduces him to Kent, saying he acknowledges him brazenly now for he was often ashamed to do so. Gloucester lets Kent know that Edmund was conceived out of wedlock, noting coarsely how enjoyable his mother had been. Gloucester adds that he does have an older son who is legitimate. Although Gloucester says he loves his sons equally, his behavior might indicate otherwise: Edmund has been away from home for nine years before now and soon will be sent away again. Their conversation is interrupted by the entrance of the court. The king, Lear, commands Gloucester to escort the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy into his presence. Lear then turns to the business of the gathering, and the first lines of the play come into focus. Lear intends to abdicate and turn over his power to his three daughters and their husbands. He wishes to keep for himself only a train of 100 knights and all the ceremonial honors due a king. Otherwise, he explains, he wishes to shake off all earthly cares and ‘‘crawl toward death.’’ His plan is to divide his kingdom in three and give a section to each of his daughters. The ceremonial part of this transfer of power, Lear explains, will entail a profession of love from each of his daughters telling the extent of her love for him. The eldest, Goneril, speaks with stilted eloquence

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Cordelia, Burgundy, Lear, Kent, Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, and Albany, Act I, scene i

about the hardly-describable depth and breadth of her love. Lear offers her her portion of his kingdom. Regan, Lear’s second daughter, speaks much as her sister had. She says, however, that her love is more concentrated and intense than her sister’s. Lear presents her, in turn, with her section of the kingdom. While her sisters are speaking, Lear’s youngest daughter, Cordelia, makes asides to the audience indicating that she will not be able to speak with their oiliness, that her love is not lightly to be spoken of, but that she is sure her love for her father is no less than theirs. When Lear turns his attention, in front of his entire court, to her and asks her to recite her devotion, telling her how dear she is to him, she disappoints his expectations and says that she can say nothing. Astonished he repeats the word, ‘‘nothing,’’ questioningly and she affirms it. Enraged, he banishes her from his sight and divides her portion between her sisters. When the Earl of Kent, whose conversation with Gloucester and his

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bastard son Edmund had opened the scene, intervenes, telling Lear he is making a mistake and that Cordelia does not love him less than her sisters, the enraged Lear repulses Kent’s counsel and banishes him from his kingdom upon pain of death. When the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy are led in and told that Cordelia is now dowerless, has no inheritance, Burgundy withdraws his offer for her hand in marriage, but the King of France willingly accepts her, stating that, in herself, Cordelia is a dowry. When the court withdraws, Cordelia bids farewell to her sisters, voices anxiety about how they will care for Lear, and departs for France. Goneril and Regan, in a private conversation, confirm for the audience the suspicion that they have spoken flattery to their father and have no love for him. They talk about his instability, his rashness, his lack of self-knowledge, and how they must watch out for and deal with unruly behavior from him.

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Act 1, Scene 2 Edmund, Gloucester’s bastard son, who had seemed so personable and courtly in his few words to Kent in the first scene, enters alone. In a soliloquy addressed to the goddess Nature, whom he professes to serve, he expresses his outrage at being denied all the rights and privileges that sons enjoy because he is a bastard. He takes an inventory of his attributes and proudly finds that there is nothing inferior about him in mind or body to a man conceived in wedlock. He then addresses his brother in his imagination saying that he [Edmund] must have his [Edgar’s] inheritance, and that he has a plot devised in order to accomplish his ends. Edmund’s cogitations are interrupted by his father’s entrance. Gloucester is troubled and speaks of the recent ill-occurrences at court. Seeing that Edmund is reading a letter, Gloucester asks what news it conveys. A little too openly making a show of what he wants to appear he is doing surreptitiously, Edmund pockets the letter and says over-calmly, as if trying to conceal his nervousness, that there is no news. Gloucester’s curiosity is whetted and he asks why Edmund then made such an effort to hide the letter. Finally, Edmund relents and, with seeming reluctance, gives his father the letter that looks like it has come from Edgar. Gloucester reads it. It is an invitation to Edmund from Edgar, which Edmund has forged, to join in a conspiracy to murder Gloucester and share his wealth. Questioned about the letter, Edmund confesses with apparent reluctance that Edgar has previously spoken to him about such things as are in the letter. But he advises his father not to be too hasty in judging his brother and offers to ‘‘place you where you shall hear us confer of this,’’ and hear with his own ears what Edgar’s intentions are. Gloucester leaves, disturbed and attributing the ill that seems to be settling on the court— Lear’s trouble with his daughter, his own with his son, Kent’s banishment—to recent solar and lunar eclipses. Alone, Edmund mocks his father’s superstitious attribution of human misfortune to cosmic forces. He declares that he is the architect of himself; his fate, independent of his horoscope. When he sees Edgar approaching, Edmund pretends to be in deep melancholic contemplation. Edgar asks what is preoccupying him. Edmund echoes what Gloucester had said, wondering what next the current eclipses will bring. Edgar asks good naturedly how long Edmund has been a believer


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in astrology, but rather than answering, Edmund asks him when last Edgar saw their father, if he parted from him on good terms, had he seen any indication that Gloucester was upset with him. When Edgar tells him that nothing seemed amiss, Edmund informs him that Gloucester is in a rage against him. Edgar speculates that ‘‘some villain’’ has wronged him, and Edmund with concealed irony tells him that is his fear, too. Showing great concern for his brother, Edmund instructs him to hide in his [Edmund’s] lodgings where he will bring their father so that Edgar can overhear a conversation between them. He tells Edgar, furthermore, to ‘‘go armed.’’ Alone, Edmund congratulates himself on his father’s gullibility, his brother’s noble and unsuspecting nature, and his own power to fashion his own destiny.

Act 1, Scene 3 Goneril complains to her Steward, Oswald, of her father’s behavior, claiming that he and his knights have become ‘‘riotous’’ and that Lear is contentious. She resents that Lear still wishes to exercise his authority. She orders Oswald to treat her father and his knights with disrespect, saying that it is perfectly all right, even desirable, if he provokes a quarrel. She adds that if Lear does not like how he is treated, he can go stay with Regan, who, Goneril adds, agrees with her about the treatment of their father.

Act 1, Scene 4 Determined to continue to serve Lear rather than go into exile, Kent appears in disguise. Lear enters commanding one of his attendants to make sure his dinner is ready and that he will not be kept waiting. Noticing Kent, Lear asks him who he is and what he wants. Kent tells him he is a plain, honest and loyal man, neither too young nor too old, who wishes to serve him. Lear accepts his service provisionally. As they speak, Goneril’s steward, Oswald, passes by and Lear asks him where Goneril is. Disrespectfully, Oswald ignores him and leaves the stage. One of Lear’s knights follows him and returns saying that Oswald said that Goneril was not well and adds that it seems that Lear is not being treated with the affection, kindness, or respect he has come to expect. Lear is grateful to him for giving voice to what he himself has noticed. And he calls for his jester, the Fool. The knight tells him that since Cordelia has gone to France, the Fool has been greatly dejected. Lear is pained to hear what he has noticed himself and sends the knight

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to tell Goneril that Lear wishes to speak to her. As the knight leaves the stage, Oswald, the steward who has just slighted Lear, re-enters. When Lear asks him as a reprimand if Oswald knows who he is, disrespectfully Oswald answers, ‘‘My lady’s father.’’ Lear is angered by his rudeness and strikes him. Oswald protests that he will ‘‘not be strucken,’’ at which point Kent trips him. Lear is delighted, thanks him and accepts him as his servant. At this moment, the Fool enters and says that he will hire Kent, too, and that he ought to take the Fool’s cap because he is a fool to follow one ‘‘that’s out of favor.’’ Taunting Lear and talking backwards, the Fool says Lear has banished two of his daughters and given the third a blessing. The Fool continues in bitter jests to express his own and Lear’s grief. When Lear challenges him for calling him Fool, the Fool retorts that he has given away all his other titles. When Goneril arrives, Lear asks her why she is frowning. The Fool points out Lear once did not have to worry about whether she frowned or not. Goneril rebukes the Fool and complains to Lear that his train is composed of riotous knights and demands that he reduce their number. In his astonishment at the change that has come over Goneril since her profession of love for him, Lear wonders who he is and who Goneril is, for, the way she is acting, she cannot be his daughter and the way he is being treated, he cannot possibly be the king he thought he was. In a rage, he demands his horses be saddled for him to set out for Regan’s house, where he believes he will be better treated. When Goneril’s husband, Albany, enters, he tries to placate the king and admonishes his wife when she argues that she fears Lear’s train poses a threat to their safety. She ignores her husband and is cold to her father. Lear begins to realize he was mistaken to find fault with Cordelia and banish her. In rage he curses and threatens Goneril. She maintains her composure. And Lear, in his fury, begins to feel his impotence. When Lear leaves for Regan’s castle, Goneril sends Oswald ahead with a letter informing her of what has gone on and encouraging her to adopt the same policy towards Lear that Goneril has.

Act 1, Scene 5 Lear sends Kent ahead with letters for Regan. Kent departs and Lear is alone with the Fool, who continues to tease and chide him, but Lear begins to sense the depths of his troubles. As the Fool

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banters, Lear says to himself, ‘‘I did her wrong,’’ and the audience knows he means Cordelia. As the scene ends, Lear is praying that he not go mad.

Act 2, Scene 1 At Gloucester’s castle, Edmund learns from one of Gloucester’s men that Regan and her husband, the Duke of Cornwall, will be arriving and that there is talk of war between Cornwall and Albany. Alone on stage, Edmund considers that their arrival can be used to advance his own plot against his brother, Edgar, who is hiding in Edmund’s lodging. Edmund warns Edgar that he better flee, now, undercover of night, advising him that Cornwall is on his way and questioning whether Edgar has spoken against him. Edgar is sure he has said nothing. Edmund then says that he sees Gloucester coming and that he must draw his sword against Edgar and Edgar must seem to defend himself and flee. As Edgar does flee, Edmund calls after him as if trying to catch him, ‘‘Yield! Come before my father.’’ And before Gloucester arrives, Edmund wounds himself in the arm to make it look as if Edgar had done it. Gloucester enters, demands where Edgar, ‘‘the villain,’’ he calls him, is. Edmund tells him he fled, shows the wound and says that Edgar inflicted it when Edmund refused to participate in Gloucester’s murder. Edmund adds that when he reproached Edgar for his lack of filial devotion, and threatened to inform Gloucester of his plot, Edgar called him a bastard with no possessions or rights whom no one would believe. Gloucester promises to make Edmund his heir and sends servants to find and seize Edgar. Regan and Cornwall arrive and commiserate with Gloucester over the news of Edgar’s apparent betrayal. Regan emphasizes that Edgar is Lear’s godson in an effort to discredit both of them and asks if Edgar were not in fact a ‘‘companion with the riotous knights / That tended upon my father.’’ When Gloucester answers that he does not know, Edmund intervenes to say that Edgar ‘‘was of that consort.’’ It is then that Regan notices him and understands that he is an ally. She asserts that Edgar’s companionship with her father’s knights naturally would corrupt him and complains about their behavior. Gloucester talks more of his grief and Edmund’s virtue. Cornwall praises Edmund, and Regan, once more commiserating with Gloucester, tells him they have come for his advice since there has been a quarrel

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between Lear and Goneril, and she (Regan) prefers to meet her father away from home.

Act 2, Scene 2 Kent disguised as Caius, and Oswald, messengers from Lear and from Goneril, arrive simultaneously at Gloucester’s. When Oswald asks Kent where they may put their horses, Kent begins a quarrel with him, insults him, and finally draws his sword, challenging him to fight. Oswald shrinks from the challenge and cries out for help. Kent, angered by what he sees as cowardice in Oswald, who had been so bold in his impudence to Lear, beats him. Edmund, Gloucester, Regan and Cornwall rush in. Edmund, with sword drawn, orders them parted. The company demand an account from the men Regan recognizes as the messengers from Lear and Goneril. In narrating what happened, Oswald appears the victim. Kent, still hot with anger, speaks bluntly and insults his interrogators. Cornwall orders Kent put in the stocks till noon. Regan insists it be all night. Gloucester begs them not to put the king’s messenger in the stocks, arguing that, although Kent is at fault, the punishment is an insult to Kent’s master, the king, who himself will correct him. Regan retorts that her sister, too, may take offense at her servant being ‘‘abused’’ and ‘‘assaulted’’ when he is carrying out her business. When they are alone, Gloucester commiserates with Kent (although he does not know the messenger is Kent). Kent, for his part, is calm. Alone in the stocks, he reads a letter from Cordelia, who has heard of the troubles and who knows that Kent is still serving her father in disguise. Before falling asleep, Kent addresses the goddess Fortune, who is always pictured with a wheel, and beseeches Fortune to ‘‘Smile once more, turn thy wheel’’ and bring better times.

Act 2, Scene 3 The scene changes to a place in the woods where Edgar has been hiding. He speaks to the audience saying that he has been hunted and has managed to escape. Now he will strip himself of his identity and his clothing, begrime himself with earth, wound and scratch his flesh and go about in the guise of a madman, Poor Tom.

Act 2, Scene 4 Lear arrives at Gloucester’s castle, puzzled. He has been to Regan’s castle and not found her at home. But why, he wonders, did she not send back his messenger informing him of that? And then he


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sees Kent in the stocks. It is another blow to his dignity and he cannot believe it. Kent explains what has happened, providing the audience and readers a clear sequence of the events that have been going on in the previous scenes, particularly the itinerary of the characters. Kent went to Cornwall and Regan’s castle with letters from Lear. At the same time, Oswald came with letters from Goneril. Seeing the letters, Regan set out immediately for Gloucester’s and told the messengers to follow. Oswald and Kent then met, quarreled, and Kent was put in the stocks. When Lear asks to see Regan and Cornwall, Gloucester informs him that they refuse to speak with him. Lear rages at Gloucester, thinks better of it, but rages again when he again looks at Kent in the stocks. Gloucester goes to speak with Regan and Cornwall again, and this time they do come out to meet him. Lear tries to believe that Regan is still true to him and her profession of love. Quickly he learns it is not so and that she is indeed ‘‘made of that self mettle as my sister.’’ (act 1, scene 1) As they are speaking with Lear, who demands to know who put his servant in the stocks, Goneril arrives. The sight of his two daughters confederated against him in their arguments and accusations, showing no sense of their obligation to him, or of gratitude for what he has given them, causes a rage in him of the proportions of the actual storm that is beginning outside and the sounds of the ‘‘tempest’’ play a wild counterpoint to his prayers and curses. When Lear storms out of the castle into the actual storm, despite Gloucester’s appeals, Regan orders the castle gates shut against him and declares whoever attempts to aid the king a traitor.

Act 3, Scene 1 Kent and a Gentleman encounter each other on a heath outside Gloucester’s castle as a storm gains strength. Kent asks after Lear, and the Gentleman, whom Kent recognizes and trusts tells him the king is out on the heath, ‘‘contending with the fretful elements,’’ and is accompanied by no one except the Fool. Kent tells the Gentleman that French spies in Albany’s and in Cornwall’s service report that the two dukes are possibly preparing to make war against each other. He asks the Gentleman to go to Dover, where Cordelia and a French force have landed to report to her how things are with the king. He gives the man money and a ring to show to Cordelia. The Gentleman promises to go on the mission and they both leave the stage in search of the king.

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Act 3, Scene 2 Lear is bareheaded in the middle of a barren heath, a brutal storm pelting him and the Fool. He rages, commanding the heavens to storm, defying their power, and condemning them for being like his two daughters, forces oppressing him. Shivering, the Fool cries out against the pitiless night, advises Lear to beg shelter from his daughters, but Lear, refusing that, vows to ‘‘be the pattern of all patience.’’ Kent finds Lear in this state and as Lear continues to rant and call down justice on all who have been criminal, branding himself as ‘‘more sinned against than sinning,’’ Kent leads him to a hovel on the heath for protection from the elements. As he is led, Lear becomes calm. He feels himself going crazy and he turns to the Fool and asks him how he is, if he is cold, says he is cold himself, and expresses compassion for the Fool’s suffering. As they leave, going towards the hovel, the Fool recites a comic verse essentially saying that open, virtuous, and honest relations are impossible between people and that cheating, dishonesty, and hypocrisy are in fact the rule, and confusion is the result.

Act 3, Scene 3 Inside his castle, Gloucester complains about the lack of pity Cornwall and Regan have shown Lear, and tells Edmund that when he, Gloucester, asked their permission to help Lear, they took control of his house and household away from him. Edmund expresses outrage at their ‘‘savage and unnatural’’ behavior. Gloucester tells Edmund of a growing enmity between Albany and Cornwall, that he has received letters it is dangerous to speak of regarding help for the king, and that they must side with the king. But after Gloucester exits, Edmund resolves to tell Cornwall and Regan of his father’s disloyalty to them and, thereby, advance his own interests.

Act 3, Scene 4 Guided by Kent, Lear and the Fool arrive at a hovel, and Kent invites Lear to go inside. Kent’s kindness and devotion, so different from the scornful and brutal indifference his daughters had shown him, moves Lear to pity himself. Lear tells Kent that the storm is nothing compared to the turmoil within that oppresses him, and he recalls again the ingratitude of his daughters. Kent encourages him to enter the hovel and Lear gently tells the Fool to go in first, that he will stay outside a little while and pray, and then he will sleep. In his prayer, ‘‘Poor naked

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wretches,’’ Lear confronts himself for the first time; he pities the suffering of others, identifies with it, and chastises himself for never having realized it before, or taken pains to help others by giving something of his from the excess of his possessions to those who have nothing. This human action is what makes the justice of heaven, he says. The Fool rushes out of the hovel in fear as a mad voice is heard within. It is Edgar, in the disguise of Poor Tom. Seeing the madman, Lear takes him for a kindred soul and asks, ‘‘What, has his daughters brought him to this pass?’’ Edgar and Lear exchange what seems to be deranged conversation but, in effect, each is relating his misfortunes through that distorting medium. Lear admires Poor Tom’s strange freedom, owing no one anything because he possesses nothing. Lear considers him ‘‘the thing itself, unaccommodated man,’’ and tears off his own clothes, too. The Fool tries to tell Lear to take care and not expose himself so. As he speaks, the Fool notices Gloucester coming towards them, carrying a lantern, seeking the king to give him aid despite Regan’s injunction against helping her father. Gloucester leads Lear, who insists that Poor Tom, whom Gloucester does not recognize as his son Edgar, the Fool, and Kent accompany him to where there is food and fire, telling Kent that he understands the king’s mad grief, considering how his daughters have treated him and that he himself is nearly mad with grief at the treachery of a once beloved son.

Act 3, Scene 5 Inside, the treacherous son to whom he has given his love, not Edgar but Edmund, has just informed on his father, and Cornwall, in furious response, vows to take revenge on Gloucester before he leaves his house. Edmund pretends to grieve at his betrayal of his father, calling it the victory of loyalty (to Cornwall) over nature (a son’s loyalty to his father). Cornwall confers on Edmund all of Gloucester’s titles and possessions. Then Cornwall tells Edmund he will find in him the father he has lost in Gloucester.

Act 3, Scene 6 Gloucester brings Lear and his companions to a farmhouse and leaves them with Kent. Poor Tom speaks of the demons which possess him and Lear sets up a mock trial to arraign his daughters and then he falls asleep. Gloucester returns, and tells Kent that he must carry Lear to Dover because he has discovered that Cornwall and

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Regan are plotting to kill the king and all those who aid him. Kent and the Fool leave, bearing Lear. Gloucester goes back to his castle. Alone, Edgar speaks a soliloquy in his own voice, not as the mad Tom. He meditates on the power of the mind to cause intense suffering and how seeing Lear’s suffering, despite the similarities of their situations (‘‘He childed as I fathered’’), lessens his pain because of the companionship in suffering. He prays for the king’s safety and realizes he must now wait.

Act 3, Scene 7 Cornwall gives Goneril letters he tells her to take swiftly to her husband, Albany, informing him that the French army has landed at Dover. Cornwall sends Edmund along with her, telling him it is not fit for Edmund to see what Cornwall will do to Gloucester, his father, whom he calls a traitor. Before Goneril and Edmund depart, Goneril’s steward, Oswald, informs Cornwall that Gloucester has had the king conveyed to Dover for his safety. Cornwall orders servants to find Gloucester and bring him bound before him. In their presence, Gloucester begs them to consider that they are his guests. Regan and Cornwall curse and vilify him, however, order him bound to a chair, and interrogate him about what he knows and where he has sent the king. To Dover, Gloucester tells them. When they ask why, he answers he did not wish to see Regan’s ‘‘cruel nails / pluck out’’ Lear’s eyes. Gloucester adds that he will see their cruelty avenged. ‘‘See’t shalt thou never,’’ Cornwall responds; he orders servants to hold Gloucester still in his chair and gouges out one of Gloucester’s eyes. Revolted, one of Cornwall’s servants draws his sword against his master to prevent him from causing Gloucester further injury. Cornwall and the servant fight. Regan takes a sword and stabs the servant in the back, killing him. Cornwall, whose injury is fatal, gouges out Gloucester’s other eye and orders that he be thrown out of doors. Then Cornwall dies. Gloucester’s servants take him outside and decide to ask Poor Tom to be Gloucester’s guide. One of the servants goes to get egg whites to apply to Gloucester’s eye sockets.

Act 4, Scene 1 Alone, Edgar is contemplating his own misfortunes and the vanity of life. He has achieved, he thinks, a state of contentment. He is at his lowest. He does not need to be deluded by hope. Change


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in his fortune can only be for the better. But as he speaks he sees his father in the distance, being led. Gloucester tells the Old Man with him to leave him. The man is reluctant. He tells Gloucester, ‘‘You cannot see your way.’’ Gloucester responds, ‘‘I have no way and therefore want no eyes; / I stumbled when I saw.’’ It is possible that Edgar overhears these and Gloucester’s next words. It is possible he does not. There are no stage directions in the text. Directors and readers can shape the nuances of the following scenes between Edgar and Gloucester according to their own determination. What Gloucester next utters is a prayer for Edgar. He wishes he could touch Edgar again. It would be like seeing. Edgar, returning to his previous thoughts, now says to himself that it is impossible to say something is the worst, for upon seeing his father mutilated, he realizes things are worse than ever. It is arranged between the Old Man, Gloucester and Edgar, whom they take for Poor Tom, that Edgar will serve as Gloucester’s guide and lead him to Dover.

Act 4, Scene 2 Goneril and Edmund arrive at Goneril’s house. Oswald reports that Goneril’s husband, Albany, is a changed man—he is disgusted with what is being done against the king. Goneril realizes she cannot rely on him and sends Edmund back to command Cornwall’s forces while she takes her husband’s place at the head of her forces. She also takes Edmund as a lover, and he vows he is ‘‘Yours in the ranks of death.’’ He leaves. Albany greets Goneril with reproaches for her behavior. She dismisses them. He condemns her behavior, and her sister’s, towards Lear. She disdains him and his manhood. Their fight is interrupted by a messenger with news of Cornwall’s death and news of the blinding of Gloucester. Goneril considers Cornwall’s death to be an impediment to her pursuit of Edmund since her sister is now a widow. Alone with the messenger, Albany learns, too, of Edmund’s betrayal of Gloucester. In a prayer he thanks Gloucester for helping the king and vows to avenge his eyes.

Act 4, Scene 3 Kent meets the Gentleman he had dispatched with letters to Cordelia at Dover. He listens as the man describes Cordelia’s heartbreaking responses to the story of Lear’s ill-treatment. Kent tells the Gentleman that Lear is in Dover and, when he is lucid, refuses to see Cordelia because of his deep shame that he has harmed

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her. Kent takes the Gentleman to look after Lear, and then goes about some secret business for the sake of the king.

Act 4, Scene 4 Cordelia describes her father’s condition to a doctor and some soldiers; he is running around the meadows and hillsides of Dover decked with flowers. She asks the soldiers to find him and bring him to her. Of the doctor she inquires what remedies there are. He tells her of the healing power of sleep and of the herbs he has which can induce sleep. A messenger tells Cordelia the British powers are marching toward Dover. Cordelia says she knows that already, and that the French army is in England only to rescue Lear, not to conquer English territory.

Act 4, Scene 5 In conversation with Goneril’s steward, Oswald, who is carrying a letter from Goneril to Edmund, Regan tries to get him to show her the letter, but he remains loyal to his mistress and refuses. She, however, reveals her interest in Edmund and instructs him to tell Goneril of it and to deliver a message to Edmund from her, too. In closing she reminds him that if in the course of his journeys he should encounter Gloucester, there is a reward for killing him.

Act 4, Scene 6 The scene opens on a field in Dover with Edgar trying to assure his blind father that the ground they are walking upon is not flat but that they are climbing to the top of a steep cliff. Gloucester, his despair so great, wishes to fling himself from its summit. Edgar has not revealed himself to his father. He says that he ‘‘trifles’’ with his father’s despair in order ‘‘to cure it.’’ As Gloucester jumps, he calls out a blessing for Edgar. Of course he only falls to the ground at his own feet, but Edgar speaks to him now in a different voice from Poor Tom’s, tells him what a great distance he has fallen, and that he saw a fiendish figure with twisted horns and eyes like moons upon the summit of the cliff from which Gloucester has just fallen, miraculously without injury. Gloucester allows himself to believe that his own self-destructive wish was the influence of the fiend and promises his apparently new acquaintance that from now on he will ‘‘bear / Affliction till it do cry out itself / ‘Enough.’’ As Edgar is telling his father to ‘‘Bear free and patient thoughts,’’ he sees Lear, decked in flowers, wandering through the

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meadows. The account of the meeting between the blind Gloucester and the mad king, which starts at line 85, continuing for some one hundred lines, does not advance the plot. Rather, with an astonishing beauty and intensity of language, it conveys the themes, the texture, the tone, and the feeling of the play. Lear discusses his mortality, condemns hypocrisy, power, and the injustices of authority. Most strikingly, he vents a rage against female sexuality and lust in general, extrapolating from the behavior of his two elder daughters. As he is speaking, Cordelia’s men find him. Lear exits running as they pursue him. Edgar questions one of Cordelia’s men, who tells him that the armies of Goneril and Regan are quickly approaching. Gloucester prays for patience and asks Edgar who he is, but Edgar only identifies himself as ‘‘a poor man made tame to fortune’s blows,’’ that he has learned pity through his own suffering. As they are speaking, Oswald enters. Seeing Gloucester, he draws his sword and goes to kill him. Gloucester blesses his effort, but Edgar intervenes, kills Oswald, and saves his father. Dying, Oswald asks Edgar to bury him and gives him his purse and a letter to give to Edmund. Edgar unseals and reads the letter. In it Goneril, proclaiming her love for him, reminds Edmund to kill Albany, her husband, so that she can be his. Edgar pockets the letter in order to show it to Albany; hearing the approaching army, Edgar conveys his father to the care of a friend and safety.

Act 4, Scene 7 Cordelia enters with Kent, commending his goodness and telling him he may cast off his disguise, but he begs her to let him remain hidden a little longer. She agrees and asks the doctor how Lear is. He suggests they wake him. Music is played and Cordelia hovers above him, speaking gently to him, pityingly, and offering her kisses as restorative medicine. Waking, Lear thinks he has come back from death and says it is wrong to bring him back to life. He is dazed and speaks gently, admitting that he is a foolish man, perhaps not in his right mind, and he thinks that Cordelia is with him. ‘‘And so I am, I am,’’ she weeps in gladness. Lear says he is ready to take poison which he expects she would want to give him since he has in fact wronged her. Whereas he has done no harm to Goneril and Regan, she has cause for anger. ‘‘No cause, no cause,’’ she whispers to him. And he repeats that he is old and

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foolish and begs her to bear with him. She leaves with him, taking him for a walk. Kent is left with the Gentleman who asks him for news, if Cornwall was killed, if Edgar is with Kent in Germany. They agree the coming war will be bloody, but Kent says to himself that the war will determine things for good or ill.

Act 5, Scene 1 Edmund is with Regan, expecting the arrival of Goneril and Albany, and concerned that Oswald has not arrived. She begins questioning Edmund jealously about the nature and extent of his relationship with Goneril. He assures Regan that he has not been unfaithful. Goneril and Albany arrive. Albany makes it clear that he is not in a war against Lear and Cordelia or any of their party, but only against the French army since it is on British territory. Edmund tells him he speaks nobly and they arrange to meet soon to make battle plans. When Albany is by himself, Edgar appears, disguised, gives him a letter, and tells him to read it before the battle. After the battle, if his side is victorious, Edgar tells him to have a trumpet sounded and he will come and, in battle with Edmund, prove the truth of the accusations against him. Edgar departs and Edmund re-enters. He and Albany discuss strategy. Alone, Edmund tries to decide which of the two sisters he ought to choose and decides that if Goneril wants him, it’s up to her to do away with her husband, but Edmund will ally himself with Albany for the battle. As for the mercy Albany intends to show Lear and Cordelia should he defeat them, Edmund says, they will never see it: they block the path of his ambition.

Act 5, Scene 2 Edgar leaves Gloucester, away from the field of battle, by a tree, and promises to bring good news if he returns. There is a battle. Lear’s supporters lose. Lear and Cordelia are taken prisoner. Gloucester falls into depression. Edgar chides him for having bleak thoughts, saying that death comes at the time it ought to come. And Gloucester accepts his words.

Act 5, Scene 3 Edmund orders guards to take Lear and Cordelia to prison and wait for further orders. Cordelia comforts Lear, saying ‘‘we are not the first / Who with best meaning have incurred the worst,’’ She says, in addition, that she is not concerned about herself, that she can bear what fortune brings, but is


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‘‘The Death of Cordelia’’ (Act V, scene iii) and inset of ‘‘Lear on the Heath’’ (Act III, scene iv) (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

‘‘cast down’’ because of his suffering. But Lear responds that there is nothing to regret and says that in prison they will be like birds in a cage. They will sing, tell stories, receive each other’s blessing, and watch with detachment as others carry out the business of the world. He vows that now that they are reunited, they will never be parted. Edmund orders them to prison and sends a captain after them with orders to kill Lear and Cordelia. Albany enters, commends Edmund’s valor in battle, and asks him to turn Lear and Cordelia over to him. Edmund says he has sent them to prison. He argues that if they are freed they will rouse such sympathy that the people will turn against Albany and Edmund. Edmund adds that the question of what to do with Lear and Cordelia ought to wait until they have recovered from the battle. In anger, Albany informs Edmund that he was an ally in war but has no further authority. Regan intervenes, says Edmund led her forces, and because of Edmund’s alliance with her, may be called Albany’s brother. Goneril interrupts her and the two sisters quarrel over who shall have Edmund. In

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

The 1953 television film version of King Lear is a seventy-five minute film starring Orson Welles as Lear. In this severely cut version, broadcast by CBS, the Gloucester plot is entirely eliminated.

In 1970, a Russian film of King Lear was produced. The English subtitles were written by Boris Pasternak, who translated back from the Russian translation. Peter Brook directed a 1971 production of King Lear, with Paul Scofield playing Lear. This film adaptation of Brook’s staging of King Lear was inspired by Jan Kott’s vision in the 1964 book Shakespeare, Our Contemporary of a bleak, existentially godless and meaningless world for the play. The film was produced by Athena Films.

In King Lear (1987), produced by Cannon Films, the great New Wave French filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard used King Lear as the basis for a film that moves very far away from the original and includes a cameo performance by Woody Allen as an alien.

A Thousand Acres, which was released by Touchstone Pictures in 1997, is a film adaptation of Jane Smiley’s novel. This version of the story resituates King Lear on a vast American farm.

Ian Holm played the title role in a 1998 British Broadcasting Corporation re-creation of a highly acclaimed London stage production of King Lear.

My Kingdom (First Look International, 2002) is set in contemporary London. Lear becomes the head of a crime family who divides his operation among his daughters. The elder two lead unsavory lives, and Cordelia is a reformed drug addict and prostitute who is trying to go straight.

In King of Texas, (TNT, 2002) Patrick Stewart of Star Trek fame plays John Lear in a television adaptation set in frontier Texas.

In King Lear, a Channel 4 television broadcast in 1983, Sir Laurence Olivier, at seventyfive, gives a deeply moving performance as Lear in his last Shakespearean role. Ran, which premiered in 1985, is an adaptation of the story of King Lear set in sixteenthcentury Japan. Akira Kurosawa’s film tells the story of a seventy-year old warlord, Hidetora, who is toppled by his three sons. The film was distributed in the United States by Orion Classics.

the course of their argument, Regan says she cannot give her full strength to the quarrel because she does not feel well. When Goneril asks Regan if she intends to marry Edmund, Albany intervenes and arrests Edmund on charges of treason and announces that Edmund has already engaged himself to marry Goneril. He then orders a trumpet to be sounded and says that if a champion does not step forward to do battle with Edmund, he will. Regan again complains that she feels sick. Goneril in an aside lets the audience know she has poisoned her. At the third trumpet, an unidentified champion

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steps forward, challenges Edmund. He says his ‘‘name is lost,’’ but he is noble. They fight and Edmund falls. Goneril protests. Albany silences her with her letter to Edmund plotting Albany’s murder. She leaves the stage refusing to say anything further. Albany sends a servant after her to watch her because, Albany says, ‘‘she’s desperate.’’ Edgar reveals himself and forgives Edmund, who admits his guilt. Albany embraces Edgar and says he never hated Gloucester. Edgar tells him he knows that. Then Albany asks how he has survived and how did he know about Gloucester’s

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‘‘miseries.’’ Edgar tells him the story of how he cared for his father and how, before the fight he revealed himself to him and how Gloucester died torn apart by the passions of joy and grief. He tells also that he has seen Kent, who in disguise has cared for Lear. As he speaks, a Gentleman runs in with a bloody knife and announces that Goneril has poisoned Regan and stabbed herself. Edmund confesses that he was engaged to both sisters and that in death the three of them marry. Kent enters then, saying he has come to bid farewell to Lear and is surprised not to see him among the company. ‘‘Great thing of us forgot!’’ Albany cries. Edmund confesses that he has sent someone to kill Lear and Cordelia and orders a messenger to run to the prison and prevent the killing. It is too late. Lear enters bearing Cordelia dead in his arms and howling in grief. He announces he killed the man who hanged Cordelia and remembers the days of his strength. He looks to see if Cordelia is still breathing, and as he laments for her and recalls his lost strength, he dies pointing to her lips. When Edgar attempts to revive him, Kent says to let him be; he is free of the world’s tortures. Albany proclaims that Kent and Edgar will now rule together. But Kent says that he must follow his master. Edgar becomes king and speaks a eulogy saying those living will never bear as much as Lear has ‘‘nor live so long.’’

CHARACTERS Captain The captain, Edmund’s subordinate, takes Lear and Cordelia to detention when they are captured and kills Cordelia in the prison.

Cordelia Cordelia is Lear’s youngest and most beloved daughter. When she declines to flatter him by declaring her love for him in a public ritual, Lear disowns her. She marries the King of France and, when she hears of how her sisters have mistreated her father, she leads a French army to England to rescue him. When the French forces are defeated, she is captured and imprisoned with Lear. By Edmund’s orders she is hanged in prison.

Doctor In Cordelia’s camp, the Doctor takes care of Lear.


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Duke of Albany The Duke of Albany is Goneril’s husband and Lear’s son-in-law. As he witnesses the ill-treatment of the king by his daughters, Albany becomes disgusted by it and reproaches Goneril, calling her a monster. She characterizes him as ‘‘milklivered.’’ After the defeat of Cordelia’s army and the capture of Lear and Cordelia, Albany declares Edmund guilty of high treason.

Duke of Burgundy The Duke of Burgundy is a suitor for Cordelia’s hand in marriage. When Lear rescinds her dowry, Burgundy declines to accept her as a wife.

Duke of Cornwall The Duke of Cornwall is Regan’s husband and Lear’s son-in-law. Because Gloucester has remained loyal to Lear, Cornwall gouges out his eyes. One of his servants, horrified by this act, intervenes, unsuccessfully, in order to prevent the mutilation. The servant kills Cornwall in a fight and is killed himself when Regan stabs him in the back during the fight.

Duke of Gloucester The Duke of Gloucester is the father of Edgar and Edmund. He is a good-hearted libertine who in his old age is betrayed by one son and, after he has been destroyed, is cared for by his other son. Despite Regan’s interdiction against aiding the king in the storm, Gloucester goes searching for Lear on the heath and brings him to shelter. For his support of Lear’s cause, Gloucester’s eyes are gouged out.

Edgar Edgar is Gloucester’s legitimate son and Edmund’s elder brother. When Edmund fools Gloucester into believing that Edgar desires to kill him in order to take possession of his lands and title, Gloucester proclaims Edgar a traitor. Edgar flees and takes on the identity of a bedlam beggar, a madman called Poor Tom. He and Lear meet on the heath during the storm and exchange mad conversation. After Gloucester is blinded, Edgar, as Tom, cares for him, tries to prevent Gloucester from falling into despair, and leads him to Dover, where Lear has been conveyed to meet Cordelia. After the French forces are defeated, Edgar reveals himself to his father and, without revealing his identity, challenges Edmund to single combat and kills him. After the death of all the principal characters, Edgar becomes king.

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Edmund

King Lear

Edmund is Gloucester’s younger son, born out of wedlock. He is courtly, proud, charming, handsome, cunning, and evil. He sets his father against his brother and then betrays his father. Edmund pledges himself to both Goneril and Regan, and leaves them to fight for who will get him. He is an atheist who believes that there is no law above nature and that he has the power and, consequently, the right to shape himself according to his will and to manipulate situations without regard to the welfare of others, solely for his own good.

Cornwall’s servant tries to prevent his master from blinding Gloucester. Regan stabs him in the back as he duels with Cornwall.

King Lear unleashes immense destructive forces when he resigns his throne, divides his kingdom between his two eldest daughters, and banishes his youngest after she refuses to utter her love in the ritual profession of devotion Lear demands be given him in a public ceremony. When Lear’s two elder daughters betray their professions and Lear is cast out into a storm, he is overwhelmed with grief, bitterness, and a realization of his vanity. His elder daughters say of him that he is rash and does not know himself. Kent finds that Lear embodies the authority he wishes to serve. The Fool thinks he is a fool and ought to be punished for getting old before becoming wise. Cordelia loves him. After first pitying himself when Goneril and Regan betray him, Lear comes to grieve for having wronged Cordelia.

Fool

Old Man

First Servant

The Fool is Lear’s jester. He is bitter because of Cordelia’s banishment and he chides Lear ceaselessly for it, and for being so foolish as to give his power over to Goneril and Regan. The Fool speaks in riddles and comic verse and conveys a sense of wisdom and uncanny insight.

Goneril Lear’s eldest daughter is a sharp-tongued, selfish woman of great appetite and bottomless cruelty. She betrays her father, her sister, and her husband. She goes from hypocritically proclaiming her love for Lear and devotion to him, to making war upon him in the course of the play. She dominates her husband and expresses her contempt for him when he opposes her.

Kent Kent is a true and loyal servant to Lear. He incurs Lear’s wrath when he insists on opposing Lear’s furious and hasty banishment of Cordelia; Kent is also banished. Rather than leave Lear, he disguises himself and, as Caius, becomes Lear’s servant. Kent remains in touch with Cordelia. When she lands at Dover with a French army, Kent conveys Lear to Dover, removing him from the power of his two elder daughters. Kent is the only character in the play who has contact with each one of the other significant characters.

After Gloucester is blinded, the Old Man leads him to Poor Tom.

Oswald Oswald is Goneril’s steward and serves as her messenger to Regan and to Edmund. He is selfserving, cowardly, and disrespectful to Lear. When he finds blind Gloucester, he tries to kill him for the reward, but Edgar kills Oswald instead.

Poor Tom See Edgar

Regan Regan is Lear’s second daughter and, in the ways of treachery and cruelty, she is a double of her sister Goneril. Regan is responsible for Gloucester’s brutal blinding. She dies poisoned by Goneril in their contest over Edmund.

Second Servant Cornwall’s second servant voices outrage at the violence his master has done to Gloucester after Cornwall has gouged out his eyes. The second servant leads blind Gloucester to Poor Tom.

Third Servant King of France The King of France is one of Cordelia’s suitors. After Lear disinherits her, the King of France marries her despite the absence of a dowry.

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Cornwall’s third servant takes it upon himself to aid Gloucester after Cornwall has gouged out his eyes by getting flax and the whites of eggs to apply to his eyes.

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Loyalty and Betrayal

THEMES Egoism King Lear is divided between egoist characters like Lear (at the beginning of the play), Edmund, Goneril, Regan, Cornwall, Oswald, the Captain who kills Cordelia, Burgundy, and even Gloucester, in his sexual profligacy, and sacrificial characters who are motivated by love and adherence to laws above themselves. Cordelia, Edgar, Kent, the servant who defends Gloucester against Cornwall, the King of France, and Gloucester himself, in his loyalty to Lear, are such characters.

The desire for loyalty and the fear of betrayal run throughout King Lear. Lear’s demand that his daughters speak their love is a test and public exhibition of their loyalty. When she refuses, Lear sees Cordelia as betraying him. In response, he betrays himself and his love for her. Goneril betrays her father, her sister and her husband. Regan, too, betrays both father and sister. Lear goes mad because of his inability to understand their betrayals. Edmund betrays his brother and his father, but Gloucester thinks of him, at first, as a loyal son and of Edgar as treacherous. Despite how his father wronged him, Edgar remains loyal to his father, just as Cordelia and Kent remain loyal to Lear.

The Gods Set in pre-Christian Britain, King Lear is concerned with the power and the nature of the gods. Lear and Kent hurl curses at each other in the first scene, swearing by Apollo, as Kent admonishes Lear, ‘‘Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.’’ Gloucester believes in the power of planetary influence on world events, and thinks of the gods as capricious, killing us for sport the way boys kill flies. Lear sees, in his prayer on the heath, that the nature of the gods is partially defined by human action.

Madness

Varieties of Love

Ideas of Nature

King Lear examines the varieties of love. Lear begins the play by demanding of his daughters that they say how much they love him. In his mind love can be measured—it is a quantity rather than a quality. In the last scene of the play, after Goneril and Regan are both dead, Edmund says, ‘‘Yet Edmund was beloved.’’ His idea of love is not very different from Lear’s in act 1, scene 1. To Edmund, love suggests others’ recognition of his power and surrender to him. For Cordelia, love is a quality of tender recognition of the value of the Other, and it shows itself in self-sacrifice and devotion to truth outside herself. Love is also something guided by responsibility and obligation. Goneril and Regan experience love as lust, as a desire to possess. Unlike Cordelia, love for them is selflove. It is not in service to truth but to their wills and appetites. In his bleakest moments, thinking of his elder daughters, Lear sees love as vile and lust-driven rapaciousness. Edgar and Kent, like Cordelia, see love as self-sacrifice in service to truth and to others.

Edmund calls Nature his goddess. By ‘‘Nature’’ he means the impulses of life, independent of any higher power. He takes his own will to be a force of nature and he sees it as sufficient for governing his actions. Cordelia is set against him. She is governed by forces above Nature: duty and love. Speaking of her in act 4, scene 6, a Gentleman says that she ‘‘redeems nature from the general curse / Which twain have brought her to.’’ The two who have corrupted nature are Goneril and Regan, who in their cruelty to their father are deemed unnatural, if nature is defined as a moral force which binds children to their parents. According to Edmund’s idea of nature, Lear’s two daughters are completely natural, impelled and guided by no force but their own will. The other two that the word ‘‘twain’’ suggests are Adam and Eve, who in falling, corrupted nature. Cordelia, by her sacrifice, suggesting Jesus’ sacrifice, undoes their damage and heals nature just as Jesus redeems mankind in Christian thought. Although King Lear is set in pre-Christian times, Christian allusions would resonate with Shakespeare’s audience.


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The idea of madness, real and feigned, in the persons of Lear and Edgar weaves through the play. Lear fears going mad and apparently does, although there is much sanity and even wisdom in his apparently mad utterances on the heath and with Gloucester in Dover. Edgar’s madness is assumed as part of his disguise, and his mad utterances are less expressive of the insights gained from extreme suffering than Lear’s. Edgar shows the cleansing effects of suffering in his same utterances.

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Seeing and Blindness ‘‘See better, Lear,’’ Kent cries out as Lear rages at him, ‘‘Out of my sight,’’ as Kent tries to prevent him from erring in the division of the kingdom. After he is blinded, Gloucester says he ‘‘stumbled when he saw.’’ Throughout King Lear Shakespeare sets vision and blindness against each other, extending the function of seeing beyond eyesight to mean perceiving truly and understanding correctly. Even Cordelia, in act 5, scene 3, confesses to a fault in vision when she says, ‘‘We are not the first / Who with best meaning have incurred the worst.’’


Sexual Revulsion Sexuality is portrayed as a particularly grim and dangerous force in King Lear. Edmund the villain is a bastard, and his father, Gloucester, is portrayed in the first lines of the play as an unrepentant libertine. Goneril and Regan are portrayed as being sexually rapacious as well as power-hungry. Even in the first scene, as she is pledging her love to Lear, Regan introduces the idea of sexuality with an anatomically suggestive reference: ‘‘I profess / Myself an enemy to all other joys / Which the most precious square of sense professes.’’ Both of them vie with each other for Edmund’s love, and in each case, it is an adulterous passion and a passion which leads Goneril to poison Regan and then take her own life. In the storm, Lear cries out to the raging heavens, ‘‘Hide thee thou bloody hand, / Thou perjured, and thou simular of virtue / That art incestuous.’’ Poor Tom, too, speaks of sexual vice. Lear’s most severe indictment of sexuality comes in act 4, scene 6, beginning at line 112 in his speech about sexual licence, which concludes with a hellish vision of female sexuality: Behold yond simpering dame, Whose face between her forks presages snow; That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure’s name; The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to ‘t With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above: But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiends’; There’s hell, there’s darkness, there’s the sulphurous pit, Burning, scalding, stench, consumption;

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Read The History of King Lear from the 1608 Quarto text, and The Tragedy of King Lear from the 1623 Folio text (available in Wells and Taylor’s 1988 Oxford Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Then compare and contrast both works, focusing on the differences that appear to you with regard to plot, characterization, imagery, and overall mood. There have been many filmed versions and adaptations of King Lear. Choose two different versions and compare and contrast them with each other as films, and also with the original play by Shakespeare. Choose a scene in King Lear and using, the Quarto and Folio texts (available in Wells and Taylor’s Oxford edition of Shakespeare’s plays), make your own edition of that scene. Please explain your editorial criteria and choices. Write an adaptation of King Lear set in contemporary times, in contemporary settings and with contemporary characters. Choose situations which reflect similar themes and concerns to those found in King Lear. Make up a rap song or a folk song in which the story of King Lear is told. Along with Desdemona in Othello, and Ophelia in Hamlet, Cordelia is one of Shakespeare’s heroines who is in some way sacrificed to the wishes and passions of the lead characters in those plays. Compare and contrast the three women, focusing on their relationships to their fathers and their beloveds.

STYLE Blank Verse Most of King Lear is written in unrhymed iambic pentameter, which is called blank verse. Pentameter means there are five feet in a line. A foot is composed of two syllables or beats.

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Nick Fletcher as Edgar, Rachel Pickup as Cordelia, and Timothy West as King Lear in Act V, scene iii, at The Old Vic, London, 2003 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Iambic signifies the rhythm of speech. In an iambic foot the accent pattern is unaccented/ accented. The iambic pentameter line ‘‘With reservation of an hundred knights,’’ (act 1, scene 1, line 135) for example, is scanned like this, ‘‘with RE/serVA/tion OF/an HUN/dred KNIGHTS.’’ Spoken English usually falls into an iambic pattern.

minates. At the close of act 3, the Gloucester plot becomes more prominent and begins to occupy more stage time than it had previously. As the play draws towards its end, both plots converge in the Edmund, Goneril, Regan triangle, and in Edmund’s ambition to rise as high as Lear and Edmund’s consequent need to have Lear and Cordelia killed.

Soliloquy

Spectacle

A soliloquy is a speech a character delivers when alone on stage. It is an address to the audience revealing the character’s inner thoughts and feelings. Like many of Shakespeare’s plays, King Lear contains several important soliloquies. An often-quoted one from act 1, scene 2, has Edmund proclaiming, ‘‘Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law / My services are bound.’’

HISTORICAL CONTEXT

Double Plot King Lear combines and integrates two separate plots—the Lear plot and the Gloucester plot. Until the end of act 3, the Lear plot predo-


Unlike classic Greek tragedy, in which violence is performed off-stage and only reported, tragedies in Elizabethan and Jacobean England presented violence as an on-stage spectacle. In King Lear, Shakespeare follows this practice with the on-stage crushing out of Gloucester’s eyes.

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Succession Queen Elizabeth I of England died, unmarried and without an heir, on March 24, 1603. She had

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1600s: Shakespeare’s plays appealed to a mass audience and Shakespeare was regarded as one of the foremost playwrights of his era. Today: Shakespeare’s plays still appeal to a mass audience and he is regarded as one of the greatest playwrights of all time

1600s: Shakespeare adapted older plays, tales, and historical narratives in the composition of his plays. Today: Shakespeare’s plays serve as the basis for new dramatic, cinematic, and narrative adaptations and re-workings.

1600s: James I believed in the absolute power of the king and fought against the power of Parliament.

occupied the throne of England for forty-five years and had made no provision for an heir. It is likely her motive was to prevent the growth of factions contending for power and threatening her own power during her reign. Queen Elizabeth’s reign, in fact, had been threatened from without and from within. Philip of Spain, whose marriage to England’s Queen Mary made him king of England from 1554 until Mary’s death in 1558, remained an external threat after Elizabeth ascended the throne. The internal threat was none other than Elizabeth’s cousin Mary, Queen of Scots, who had conspired with a Catholic faction to assassinate Elizabeth. Mary was imprisoned for years until finally she was executed in 1587. After Elizabeth’s death in 1603, James VI of Scotland, Mary’s son and Elizabeth’s closest relative, was chosen her successor—he became James I of England. Contention was avoided, although Philip of Spain believed that his daughter, Isabella, ought to become England’s queen. Lady Arbella Stuart, James’ cousin, as a direct descendent of Henry VII, might also have had a claim.

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Today: The English monarchy is entirely subservient to Parliament and serves only ceremonial functions.

1600s: In 1605, political conflict set in the context of religious strife broke out between Catholic opposition to the Protestant king. On November 5, Guy Fawkes and a group of Catholic partisans planned to blow up the Houses of Parliament, but the Gunpowder Plot was discovered before it was carried out. Today: On July 7, 2005, Islamic partisans in London detonated a number of bombs on the London subway and on London buses as part of a world-wide political conflict that has taken on religious coloring and is often framed as a conflict between Christianity, Judaism, and Islam.

In France, the problem of succession had arisen, too, and taken a far more violent form than in England, with battles and the massacre of Protestants in August 1572. In 1589, Henri IV became king, but his ascension to the throne did not signal the end of strife. Nevertheless, Henri IV reigned until his death in 1610. It is likely that neither Shakespeare’s royal nor his popular audiences would miss the topicality of Lear’s desire to control the confusion and strife that had recently accompanied two significant monarchies at the moments of succession.

Inheritance Before the Norman Conquest of England in 1066 by William the Conqueror, land in England was passed down from generation to generation in a way that was called ‘‘partible,’’ which means that the land was divided or partitioned among all of a man’s male heirs. After 1066, this practice was replaced in most of England by the French conquerors with the practice of primogeniture. Property, land particularly, under primogeniture

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is handed to the eldest son. This is the model of inheritance, to which Edmund objects, operating in the Gloucester story of King Lear. In the Kent region of England, which is located in the southeast and includes the cities of Canterbury and Dover, there is a channel crossing to France; however, primogeniture did not replace the old system. The old system was known as ‘‘Kentish gavelkind,’’ which meant that upon his death, if a man died intestate, not having made a will, his land was equally divided among all his sons rather than passing by law to the eldest. ‘‘Gavel’’ has its root in the word give. Inheritance in the case of there being no sons but several daughters, as is the case in the story of King Lear, whether under the practice of primogeniture or gavelkind, was governed by a practice called ‘‘coparcenary,’’ which resembles gavelkind. Under coparcenary, each female heir then inherits a part of the whole— this is what King Lear originally sets out to do with his kingdom.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW The great nineteenth-century novelist Leo Tolstoy was very far from the nineteenthcentury consensus when he condemned King Lear, saying he felt ‘‘a boundless tedium,’’ when reading it, and also found the work ‘‘empty and offensive.’’ His position is even further from the position of contemporary critical opinion than it was at the end of the nineteenth century. In 1904, A. C. Bradley, who found structural difficulties in the last acts of King Lear because of the double plot, bridged nineteenth and twentiethcentury Shakespeare criticism and placed King Lear at the top of the world’s literary pantheon: When I read King Lear two impressions are left on my mind. . . . King Lear seems to me Shakespeare’s greatest achievement, but it seems to me not his best play. And I find that I tend to consider it from two rather different points of view. When I regard it strictly as a drama, it appears to me, though in certain parts overwhelming, decidedly inferior as a whole to Hamlet, Othello and Macbeth. When I am feeling that it is greater than any of these, and the fullest revelation of Shakespeare’s power, I find I am not regarding it simply as a drama, but am grouping it in my mind with works like the Prometheus Vinctus [Prometheus Bound] and the Divine Comedy, and even with the greatest symphonies of Beethoven and the statues in the Medici Chapel.


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King Lear has been considered one of Shakespeare’s greatest works at least as long ago as 1765 when Samuel Johnson wrote, The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakespeare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions and interests our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking opposition of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope.

Nineteenth-century critics of King Lear like W. A. Schlegel, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Charles Lamb, William Hazlitt, and A. C. Swineburne all wrote of the play with awe as they considered its problems of hope, despair, evil, and suffering, and analyzed the depths of its characters. This sample from Charles Lamb can serve to illustrate the general tenor of the thoughts of the majority of nineteenth-century writers regarding King Lear: The greatness of Lear is not in corporal dimension, but in intellectual: the explosions of his passion are terrible as a volcano: they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom that sea his mind, with all its vast riches. It is his mind which is laid bare. This case of flesh and blood seems too insignificant to be thought on; even as he himself neglects it. On the stage we see nothing but corporal infirmities and weakness, the impotence of rage; while we read it, we see not Lear, but we are Lear,—we are in his mind, we are sustained by a grandeur which baffles the malice of daughters and storms; in the aberrations of his reason, we discover a mighty irregular power of reasoning, immethodised from the ordinary purposes of life, but exerting its powers, as the wind blows where it listeth, at will upon the corruptions and abuses of mankind.

In the twentieth century, the introduction of psychoanalytic inquiry and, especially Sigmund Freud’s own use of psychoanalysis in the interpretation of cultural symbols, including King Lear, gave new impetus and a new technique for the study of Shakespeare’s characters. For Freud, Cordelia embodied the silence of Death. Scholars in the twentieth century also sought to understand King Lear as an intellectual statement about the nature of Nature itself, as John Danby did in Shakespeare’s Doctrine of Nature. The drama has also been seen as a commentary about the nature of being-in-the-world, about what comprises being human, about the benevolence or malevolence or even the non-existence of providence, of goodness, of charity, and of hope. The inquiry into the play’s

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vision of the place of the gods in the motives of mankind perhaps reached its peak—it is doubtful it reached its conclusion—with William Elton’s study King Lear and the Gods, in which he argues against the position advanced by a number of Shakespeare scholars, like Kenneth Myrick, who argued that within the tragedy and bleakness of experience in King Lear, there is redemption, salvation, and marks of Christian optimism. By the last decades of the century, techniques like the New Historicism focused less on the meaning of King Lear as it might be revealed through a study of its themes, structure, images, and characters, and more on understanding the play in terms of its own time, how it fit into, interacted with, and appeared in its own original historical context. Thus Ben Ross Schneider, Jr., writing in 1995, examines the events of King Lear in ‘‘King Lear in Its Own Time: The Difference that Death Makes’’ in the context of the stoicism of Seneca and Montaigne. In 2001, Terry Reilly brought a study of inheritance laws and customs practiced in the Kent district of England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries to bear on a reading of the play in ‘‘King Lear: The Kentish Forest and the Problem of Thirds.’’

CRITICISM Neil Heims In the following essay, Heims suggests that the source of caprice and evil in King Lear is neither the gods nor the planets and the stars, but human beings who are impelled and shaped by social and psychological forces. When Nahum Tate revised King Lear in 1681, he removed the Fool, made Cordelia and Edgar lovers, kept Lear and Cordelia alive, and restored them at the end of the play to their former stations. Samuel Johnson gave that change his critical and full-hearted imprimatur, in 1765, because he could not bear Cordelia’s dying. Ever since these two events, King Lear has been prized or avoided for the power of its depiction of an unjust world, of a world ruled by capricious gods, a world where good has no more authority than evil and less of a chance, a world in which the good experience pain and suffering randomly and needlessly. King Lear is set in the kind of world in which Gloucester can say, ‘‘As flies to wanton boys are we to th’ gods. They kill us for their sport.’’ To take

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BOTH THE CHRISTIAN READING OF KING LEAR AND A READING THAT SEES THE PLAY MIRED IN HOPELESSNESS DO NOT FUNDAMENTALLY CHALLENGE EACH OTHER.’’

Gloucester’s words as representing the outlook of the play—that everything is bleak because the gods are capricious at best or downright cruel at worst—is an inadequate way of looking at King Lear, however. Making any character’s observation inside a work of the imagination serve as a gloss on the work’s full meaning significantly reduces and misconceives both the work and the observation. Some critics and commentators, trying to come to terms with the story’s bleakness, have read King Lear as a Christian tragedy, a vehicle for presenting and transcending Christian pessimism, as Kenneth Myrick did in ‘‘Christian Pessimism in King Lear.’’ Inside a Christian worldview, pessimism about life is appropriate but despair is not. Redemption comes through suffering. Triumph over the ills of the world comes by achieving bliss in adversity through the attainment of a divine vision, which results from being passed through a refiner’s fire, as Lear and Gloucester, Edgar and Kent, to varying degrees, are. In a reading that sees the play as presenting a vision of Christian pessimism, Cordelia herself represents a version of the Christ figure, the one who takes suffering, adversity, and sacrifice upon herself for Lear’s salvation. In order for this reading to work, Lear has to be seen achieving transcendence through the vision of Cordelia alive as he dies. Although it be a human mistake, when he dies, according to such a transcendental reading, Lear thinks there is the breath of life upon her lips when he points to them and says, ‘‘Look, her lips,/Look there, look there.’’ This is not, however, the only way to understand his dying words. The old king may be pointing at her lips in order to indicate that they are still, unmoving, that there is no breath upon them. Although at line 267 Lear says ‘‘This feather stirs; she lives,’’ he adds, ‘‘If it be so, / It is

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a chance which does redeem all sorrows/That ever I have felt.’’ He is grasping at hope: ‘‘If it be so.’’ But forty-five lines later, in his final utterance, right before he points to her lips, Lear cries out in protest when he realizes there is ‘‘no life’’ in Cordelia, ‘‘Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, / And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more, / Never, never, never, never, never.’’ Then he points to her lips, to their stillness, not to their motion, and as he perceives that stillness of death, audience and readers may recall with ironic awareness the first time those lips were still, in the first scene of the play, when he misunderstood Cordelia’s silence and unleashed the terrible human forces,—not celestial forces—which have silenced Cordelia’s lips more thoroughly. In contrast to the hopeful reading that grows out of Christian pessimism and postulates that in King Lear virtuous life and a vision of eternal salvation are achieved through the suffering that leads to the renunciation of the things of life, there is a non-Christian, although not an anti-Christian, reading. Dr. Johnson did not disagree with the portrayal of the gods as capricious and cruel. His objection to Shakespeare’s text, and support for its alteration, resulted from his belief that the death of Cordelia, no matter how true to life, nevertheless is an aesthetic error. It deprives audiences and readers of the gratification of the human sense of justice, which Johnson understood to be a natural universal craving. Both the Christian reading of King Lear and a reading that sees the play mired in hopelessness do not fundamentally challenge each other. Each chooses to focus on and to privilege certain utterances and events inside the play over others without reflecting that everything uttered in the play is uttered in the context of everything else that is said and that occurs. The essential problem for Christian and non-Christian interpretations of King Lear becomes 1) determining the nature of the gods that rule the world, 2) the nature of the world they rule, and 3) the human responses possible. This is an estimable task, but it may not actually be speaking to what is happening in King Lear. The questions to ask regarding King Lear are 1) how did these characters get into this mess? and 2) how do they think they got into it? The answer to how they think they did, repeated by several characters throughout King


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Lear, is that humanity is governed by capricious gods and subject to astrological influence. But to focus upon the gods as unjust and the arrangement of the planets as having the power to influence the currents of human events, the way the moon controls the ocean tides, is inadequate because it is very clear in the play that misery is generated not by the gods but by the persons of the play. The astrological argument seems weak when Gloucester first presents it, as Edmund rather convincingly demonstrates in a soliloquy immediately after Gloucester advances it. After Edmund hoodwinks Gloucester in act 1, scene 2, into believing that Edgar is plotting to kill him, Gloucester observes, ‘‘These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us.’’ He is using astrological events in order to explain Edgar’s alleged behavior as well as Lear’s irrational banishment of Cordelia and Kent. Upon Gloucester’s exit, Edmund addresses the audience with wiser-seeming words. ‘‘This is the excellent foppery of the world,’’ he says, rather convincingly, that when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits of our own behavior, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves and treachers by spherical predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence, and all that we are evil in by a divine thrusting on.

Edmund stands opposed to this relegation of responsibility to divine forces and celestial influences. He calls it an ‘‘evasion of . . . man, to lay his . . . disposition on the charge of a star.’’ Of himself he says, ‘‘I should have been that I am,’’ no matter what stars ‘‘twinkled’’ on his birth. It seems like an idea shaped by a commendable belief in taking responsibility for your actions and desires. (But in the early seventeenth century, when astrology was less suspect than it is supposed to be today, there would have been many in Shakespeare’s audience who would be loathe to accept Edmund’s repudiation. Undoubtedly, there are many who still are.) The doctrine of individual responsibility is put in the mouth, however, of a very attractive yet terrifically evil, heartless, and base character. That does not make it less true, but it does attach a very serious warning label to the idea. It is easily corrupted. And King Lear is an anatomy of the forms that corruption can take.

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Clive Russell as Edmund and Peter Eyre as Edgar in Act IV, scene vi, at the Old Vic Theatre, London, 1989 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

With the sanction of his philosophy, Edmund betrays his brother and then his father, and rejoices in their misery. Goneril and Regan, Cornwall, Oswald, and the captain who kills Cordelia, all behave as if their actions were grounded on Edmund’s philosophy. Lear’s original self-assertion in the first scene when he sets up the love-trial is, too. But Lear changes during the course of the play; when he says, during the storm, ‘‘Take physic, pomp; / Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, / That thou mayst shake the superflux to them / And show the heavens more just,’’ he asserts the importance of human will and human action, and he defines our idea of the gods’ natures as dependent upon our behavior. Shakespeare weakens the force of Edmund’s critique, moreover, by showing that Edmund himself shifts responsibility away from himself when he is defeated, and also by showing twice that Edmund is, in fact, not as self-determining as he asserts and, consequently, Edmund’s doctrine is itself flawed. It is not the stars and the gods that have a formative influence, as Lear says in the storm, but is instead human actions.

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After Edgar has vanquished him in single combat, Edmund says, ‘‘The wheel is come full circle; I am here.’’ The wheel is the wheel turned by the goddess Fortune, the same goddess and the same wheel to which Kent refers when he waits in the stocks. As his father, Gloucester, had blamed the heavens for human treachery, now Edmund blames Fortune for his fall, rather than his own character or his own acts. One hardly supernatural source of Edmund’s attachment to evil, however, is presented in the first and in the last scenes of King Lear. In the first scene Gloucester speaks of Edmund to Kent, in Edmund’s presence—and an audience cannot help but think how his words must adversely affect and shame Edmund. When Kent asks, ‘‘Is not this your son, my lord?’’ Gloucester answers, ‘‘His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to’t.’’ When Kent responds that he does not understand what Gloucester is saying, using the expression, ‘‘I cannot conceive you,’’ Gloucester puns, using an alternate meaning of

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‘‘conceive,’’ to become pregnant, to respond to Kent jokingly, saying, ‘‘this young fellow’s mother could: whereupon she grew roundwombed, and had . . . a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed.’’ Gloucester continues to say ‘‘there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged.’’ No matter how colloquially or however much in good spirits, Gloucester has just referred to his son Edmund as a whore’s son. He concludes by saying that Edmund has been away the last nine years (undoubtedly why Kent had to ask who he was) and will be sent away again after the king’s transfer of power. In the last scene, as he is dying, when Edmund learns Goneril has killed Regan and herself in their struggle over him, he says, ‘‘Yet Edmund was beloved.’’ The simple fact seems to be that he needed to be loved, and his father did not love or regard him. Despite Gloucester’s protestation to Kent in act 1, scene 1, that he loves his sons equally, he keeps Edmund at a distance. Thus, when Edmund speaks of being who he is no matter what star shone at his birth, he is ignoring the fact that by his evil plots, he is responding to a buried need created by a disdainful father, rather than initiating independent actions—the pride which impels him is a compensation for the shame that blankets him. The self Edmund thinks he is creating is a response to the identity, bastardy, imposed upon him. He says as much in his first soliloquy without realizing that the ambition he believes is fundamental to him has been constructed by his circumstances. Gloucester’s faith in astrological causation has not gained in strength when Kent restates it in act 4, scene 3, line 83, ‘‘It is the stars, / The stars above us, govern our conditions.’’ He is groping for an explanation of the difference between Cordelia and her sisters, ignoring both references in act 1, scene 1—one from Lear himself and one from Goneril—to Lear’s favoring Cordelia with greater love than he has had for her sisters. Not the gods nor the stars, but the characters themselves in King Lear make the misery that afflicts others and themselves. Albany says this quite clearly in act 4, scene 2, when he cries ‘‘Tigers,’’ at Goneril, ‘‘not daughters.’’ And he despairs that ‘‘Humanity must perforce prey on itself/Like monsters of the deep.’’ The only possible redress Lear can imagine is for ‘‘the heavens . . . to tame these vile offenses’’ by ‘‘send[ing] down’’ ‘‘their visible spirits’’ to punish


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those who have acted monstrously. Even here, Albany is not blaming the gods for mankind’s evil actions. He is calling upon them to be avengers. But vengeance in King Lear does not come from the gods. When it does come, it comes from mankind. The noble servant who opposes Cornwall as he is crushing Gloucester’s eyes can be seen as an agent of the gods, but to do that brings in matter extraneous to the play. The servant himself, as he strikes, attributes his behavior to something more humanistic than celestial, suggesting Kent’s first and equally despised service to Lear when he steps between the king and his wrath against Cordelia. ‘‘I have served you ever since I was a child,’’ the servant tells Cornwall, ‘‘But better service have I never done you / Than now bid you hold.’’ Lear avenges Cordelia’s death by killing her murderer. Edgar, however, seems to be the principal avenger. Nevertheless, his defeat of his brother in single combat and Goneril’s related suicide are not enough to save Cordelia and, consequently, Lear. But this is not because of the gods’ injustice, but because once human malice is loosed, it takes its course. When Edgar says, regarding Gloucester’s suffering, which is the result of Edmund’s treachery, ‘‘The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices / Make instruments to plague us: / The dark and vicious place where thee he got / Cost him his eyes,’’ he is talking, really, less about the gods than about the lines of force that are projected by human actions, customs, and institutions. The evil characters in King Lear intend their evil. The characters who are not motivated by evil, like Lear and Gloucester and even Cordelia, herself, nevertheless without intending to do or cause evil, also unleash evil. Their fault is a certain degree of human blindness. It is Cordelia who probably comes closest to embodying Edmund’s egoistic philosophy stripped, however, of its egotism, when she acknowledges the play of unintended consequences and says, realizing, accepting, and even forgiving her own fault, ‘‘We are not the first / Who with the best meaning have incurred the worst.’’ At that time in history, when science and nature, law and philosophy, art and religion were all undergoing evolution and transformation, in King Lear Shakespeare devised a complex depiction of the variety of ways to understand the experience of life, of the world, which he has Lear call a ‘‘great stage of fools,’’ and of being human in that world to which, Lear notes, ‘‘when we are born, we cry that we are come.’’

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WE GET A SENSE OF SHAKESPEARE’S


INTENTIONS BY NOTING HOW DETERMINEDLY HE SWERVES FROM THE HAPPIER ENDINGS OF HIS SOURCES. SHAKESPEARE CLEARLY WENT OUT OF HIS

Jane Smiley’s 1991 novel, A Thousand Acres, transposes the story of King Lear to a midwestern American farm and turns the Lear figure, Larry Cook, into a father who has molested his two eldest daughters. Caroline, the Cordelia figure, is able to love him better than her sisters because she was not similarly abused and is, for most of the novel, ignorant of his past behavior. The novel was made into a film in 1997 with a stellar cast including Michelle Pfeiffer, Jessica Lange, and Jason Robards.

Death of A Salesman, Arthur Miller’s 1949 play, is a modern family tragedy about a patriarch who looses his power because of age and social change. The play also examines the toll his fierce personality has taken on the formation of his sons.

In Shakespeare, Our Contemporary (1964), Jan Kott compares King Lear to Samuel Beckett’s play Endgame (1957), which presents a bleak twentieth-century view of the human condition and the absence of God.

Nahum Tate’s 1681 adaptation of King Lear held the stage for 150 years, although it is almost never performed today. Edgar and Cordelia become lovers. Lear is restored to his throne. The Fool’s part is entirely removed, and Shakespeare’s penetrating verse is made artificial and bombastic. Nevertheless, Tate’s adaptation is skillful and reveals something of the spirit of his time. The text is readily available on the internet. Le Pere ` Goriot (Old Goriot or Father Goriot), written in 1835, is a novel by Honore´ de Balzac in which Old Goriot lives in poverty in order to keep his daughters, who return his kindness with scorn, living luxurious lives.

Source: Neil Heims, Critical Essay on King Lear, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.

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WAY TO MAKE KING LEAR NOT JUST TRAGIC, BUT HORRIFICALLY SO.’’

Craig Bernthal In the following excerpt, Bernthal discusses the several possible sources Shakespeare consulted for King Lear, particularly The True Chronicle History of King Leir and Arcadia. The critic examines how Shakespeare deviated from the ‘‘happier endings’’ of his sources ‘‘to make King Lear not just tragic, but horrifically so.’’ Bernthal also analyzes the elements of nihilism and justice that have occupied other critics of the play. . . . Shakespeare had several potential sources for Lear, including Holinshed and The Mirrour for Magistrates (1574), but for our purposes, two have special relevance. From an earlier dramatization of the Lear story, The True Chronicle History of King Leir (1605), he took the idea of the love contest with which King Lear begins. Goneril, Regan, and Cordelia are to compete with each other to say who loves Lear the most, and the one who makes the most impressive declaration of love will get a larger share of the kingdom for her dowry than her sisters. Cordelia, the youngest, says she cannot ‘‘heave her heart’’ into her mouth, and refuses to play the game, though she is the only daughter who truly loves her father. Her reward is banishment, after which Lear foolishly consigns himself to the care of Cordelia’s older wolfish sisters, Goneril and Regan, who bar him from their homes and force him into destitution. In Leir, the king is rescued by his youngest daughter (Cordilla) and they live to see happier days, but in Shakespeare’s Lear, Cordelia is hanged and Lear dies—apparently of heart failure—shortly thereafter. Shakespeare got his idea for the subplot involving Gloucester, Edmund, and Edgar from Philip Sidney’s Arcadia (1590). Edmund, as the bastard son of Gloucester, convinces his

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father that Edgar, the legitimate son, is plotting patricide. Easily duped, Gloucester seeks to capture and punish his truly faithful son Edgar, who flees for his life. For attempting to help Lear, Gloucester is later accused of treason by Regan’s husband, the duke of Cornwall. Edmund not only informs on his father, but leaves him to his fate, knowing that Cornwall has something dreadful in store. Cornwall gouges out the old man’s eyes. Later, in trial by combat, Edgar wounds Edmund mortally (Edmund is carried off stage, clinging to life). Gloucester dies, his heart bursting with passion when Edgar reveals himself as the loyal son. The major difference between Shakespeare’s version and Sidney’s is that in the latter, the two brothers are reconciled. We get a sense of Shakespeare’s intentions by noting how determinedly he swerves from the happier endings of his sources. Shakespeare clearly went out of his way to make King Lear not just tragic, but horrifically so. The blinding of Gloucester, which occurs on stage, is perhaps the most excruciating scene Shakespeare ever wrote, and the ensuing carnage tops even that of Hamlet. A servant, appalled at what his master Cornwall is doing to Gloucester, gives Cornwall his death wound, and Regan kills the servant by stabbing him in the back. Edgar kills Oswald, one of Goneril’s servants, and, finally, defeats Edmund in trial by combat. Gloucester dies offstage after his heart bursts. Goneril poisons her sister Regan out of jealousy for Edmund and then stabs herself to death when Edmund dies. The bodies of the two dead women are produced on stage. At this point, with the villains (and Gloucester) cleared from the boards, it would be easy for Shakespeare to follow his sources and give Lear and Cordelia a happy ending. Instead, Shakespeare makes a surprising move. Edmund has ordered that Cordelia and Lear be hanged, and before the order can be countermanded, Cordelia is executed. Lear carries her body on stage and dies at her side shortly afterward. ‘‘Is this the promised end?’’ asks Kent, Lear’s faithful retainer. ‘‘Or image of that horror?’’ finishes Edgar. These are questions that many in Shakespeare’s audience who were familiar with the traditional Lear stories, or the earlier Leir, might well have asked. The mirror-like double plot of King Lear is another clue that Shakespeare’s intention was to exhibit human depravity to an extent that far exceeded his previous work. Just as Lear casts


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off his loyal daughter Cordelia, Gloucester casts off his loyal son, Edgar; and just as Lear’s ungrateful daughters seek to destroy him, Edmund seeks to destroy his father Gloucester. As A.C. Bradley notes, this does not just double the pain of King Lear, but suggests that there is a ‘‘malignant influence’’ in the land, and that what is happening in the households of Lear and Gloucester is no aberration. Ending Lear with the death of Cordelia proved so distasteful to later audiences that in 1681, Nahum Tate rewrote the ending so that Lear and Cordelia survived, and Edgar married Cordelia. This played as the standard stage version of Lear until 1838. Audiences agreed with Samuel Johnson: Shakespeare’s original was just too hard to take. With the flourishing of academic criticism in the twentieth century came two versions of Lear. The first, which held sway from the beginning of the century to the mid-sixties, held that Lear was a Christian play about pre-Christian times, in which its audience, observing the play from a more informed Christian viewpoint, would have seen much dramatic irony: pre-Christians attempting to understand the world without the benefit of Christian revelation. Later readings took Lear’s nihilistic element not as a subject of irony, but as a serious statement of universal meaninglessness . . . But is the vision of King Lear really hopeless and nihilistic? Certainly, there is evidence in the play that can be marshaled in support of such an argument. A remarkably prescient Edmund seems to think the world works according to Darwinian principles. ‘‘Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law / My services are bound’’ (1.2.1–2). For Edmund, nature is the realm of dog-eat-dog, and he believes he can get Edgar’s inheritance because he is strong enough and ruthless enough to take it. To the blinded Gloucester, the gods seem different at best, and sadistic at worst. He says, ‘‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, / They kill us for their sport’’ (4.1.38–39). The duke of Albany, Goneril’s decent husband, appalled by what she and Regan have done to Lear, says: If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come: Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep.

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Albany calls upon divine intervention many times in the play, as do others, such as the two servants who see Gloucester blinded. Referring to Regan and Cornwall, one exclaims, ‘‘I’ll never care what wickedness I do / If this man come to good’’ (3.7.98–99); the other replies, ‘‘If she live long, / And in the end meet the old course of death, / Women will all turn monsters,’’ implying that if there is no divine sanction against the wicked, people will infer that there are no gods, and do whatever they want . . . But does the action of the drama consistently support declarations of nihilism and undercut speeches that assert the existence of justice? The deaths of Cornwall, Goneril, Regan, and Edmund might indeed be chalked up to divine justice. Albany gives the gods credit when he hears of Cornwall’s death: ‘‘This shows you are above, / You justicers, that these our nether crimes / So speedily can venge’’ (4.2.79–81). Albany’s assessment is the same when Goneril kills Regan and then herself: ‘‘This judgment of the heavens that makes us tremble / Touches us not with pity’’ (5.3.230–31). Many critics, however, feel that these apparent instances of justice are erased dramatically by the deaths of Cordelia and Lear. Kent’s line, ‘‘Is this the promised end?’’ elicits three syllables from Albany: ‘‘Fall, and cease,’’ which Foakes glosses to mean ‘‘in general terms, ‘Let everything come to ruin, and cease to be.’’’ The final damage to the body politic is incalculable. Kent refuses to be king, and neither Albany nor Edgar seems to want the job. What, they might say, is the point? The apparent absence of heavenly ‘‘justicers’’ in the final scene is paralleled by the absence, throughout the play, of any human institution for trying cases and dispensing justice. The only trial scene Shakespeare gives us is the product of Lear’s deranged mind. In act 3, scene 6, Lear, deep in madness, imagines he arraigns Goneril and Regan. As Lear, Edgar, and the fool wait out the storm in a hovel, Lear seems to see a courtroom before him in which Goneril and Regan stand as defendants. The fool and Edgar, disguised as a madman, become Lear’s co-adjudicators. As Lear gazes into this imagined scene, and begins to question ‘‘Goneril,’’ the fool, looking in the direction of Lear’s gaze, says to her, ‘‘Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint stool’’ (3.6.51). This is all that is left of institutional justice in the world of Lear— wish fulfillment. But even as wish fulfillment,

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Lear’s dream goes astray, for the imaginary Goneril escapes the court: ‘‘Stop her there!’’ Lear cries to the bailiff, ‘‘Arms, arms, sword, fire, corruption in the place! / False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?’’ (3.6.53–55). In the plays we have examined, Shakespeare shows how judicial decision making can go astray, but in this scene the very possibility of justice is rejected. Justice is not even viable in the imagination. But it is not only his desire to punish his daughters that motivates Lear’s trial. Lear also wants answers. How could Goneril and Regan have become what they are? How could they be so evil? How could the gods allow such evil to exist? Lear says of his fellow judges, ‘‘Then let them anatomize Regan; see what breeds / about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that make / these hard hearts?’’ (3.6.73–75). This, of course, is another statement of the play’s central question, implied every time someone invokes divine intervention or interprets events as if such an intervention had occurred. Does God exist? Does he pay attention? Then why is there evil? Shakespeare, I believe, does suggest an answer to this question, for it is in suffering the consequences of evil and his own foolishness that Lear finally attains an understanding of himself and his obligations to the rest of mankind. It is because Lear can find no justice for himself that he begins to ask whether he has been just to others. Certainly he has not been just to Cordelia, and the knowledge of this is at the root of his madness. But Lear becomes aware of a far broader failure to the people of his kingdom. The first inklings of this dereliction occur on the heath, in the storm, where Lear commits his first unselfish act: he offers shelter to the fool and Kent before entering the hovel himself: [To Kent]

Prithee go in thyself, seek thine own ease. This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more . . . [To the fool]

In boy, go first. You houseless poverty— Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray . . . (3.4.23–27) Lear’s prayer is essentially for forgiveness for ignoring the poor people of his realm, all of

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whom will shortly be given dramatic representation through Edgar, as Tom of Bedlam. For us, Tom translates as the homeless schizophrenic, wandering the streets, conversing fiercely with invisible companions. But Lear is aware of these people before Tom appears, and he now feels their poverty and their mental afflictions. [Lear kneels]

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp, Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just. (3.4.28–36) When Lear meets Edgar, who is smeared with dirt and apparently mad, he attempts to give his clothing to the poor man, but the fool and Kent stop him: ‘‘Unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, / bare, forked animal as thou art,’’ he tells Edgar. ‘‘Off, off, you lendings: / come, unbutton here’’ (3.4.105–07). Lear has come a long way from the infantile old man who wanted to retire as king but keep the glory of office. At the beginning of the play, when Regan comments that Lear ‘‘hath ever but / slenderly known himself’’ (1.1.294–95), she must be credited with telling the truth, but by act 4, the description is no longer accurate. In looking back at life as a king, Lear realizes that he was lied to from his earliest years, was always told what he wanted to hear, and that it warped him: They flattered me like a dog and told me I had the white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘‘ay’’ and ‘‘no’’ to everything that I said ‘‘ay’’ and ‘‘no’’ to was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found ’em, there I smelt


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’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was everything; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof. (4.6.96–104) Lear’s suffering is not useless. It finally makes him human. Samuel Johnson characterized King Lear as ‘‘a play in which the wicked prosper,’’ but is there really any evidence to support this view? Regan and Goneril are dead before they have a chance to enjoy their inheritance. Edmund’s prosperity runs a very brief course before his brother kills him. Cornwall is killed by his own servant just one instant after he blinds Gloucester. And against this must be matched the good that is demonstrated in the play. Cordelia and Kent remain true to Lear, despite his rejection of them, as does Edgar to Gloucester. Though Lear dies, he is forgiven by and reconciled to Cordelia first, as is Gloucester to Edgar. Through suffering, Lear is ‘‘redeemed’’ on the heath, or at least ennobled, throwing off a childish egocentricity and finally thinking of the needs of others. Denied justice himself, he comes to realize that he has been less than just to others. King Lear does not refute a Christian view of the world any more than Job does. However, the effect of Lear, appropriate to a great play, is that it arouses a complicated response. Shakespeare strongly introduces nihilism as a possibility, a shadow that haunts our best hopes. We see this in most of Shakespeare’s great tragedies. Hamlet continually doubts the meaningfulness of life. Macbeth sees life as ‘‘a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’’ The existence of a personal, loving God who gives meaning to life is not a foregone conclusion, and cannot be derived from the experience of daily life. If such were the case, there would be little need for injunctions to faithfulness, hope, and charity. Rather, it is because believers have doubts that these virtues are urged. King Lear honestly and openly portrays our reasons for doubt, but the steadfastness of Cordelia and the transformation of Lear give us better reasons to hope than to disbelieve. Evil is able to accomplish nothing in King Lear.The character defects of Lear and Gloucester let evil into the body politic. It exists parasitically on the good and is finally expelled, after much devastation all around. As in Shakespear’s last plays, the tragicomedies, the certainty that justice will prevail is

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Leo Wringer as the Fool at the Albery Theatre, London 2005 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

not emphasized so much as the hope and faith that it will. And although hope and faith—along with charity—are Christian virtues, certainty never has been. Source: Craig Bernthal, ‘‘Conclusion,’’ in The Trial of Man: Christianity and Judgment in the World of Shakespeare, ISI Books, 2003, pp. 262–71.

Marilyn Gaull Gaull argues that King Lear depicts two kinds of love: divine love, associated with universal order, and erotic love, associated with chaos and destruction. When Lear abdicates his royal responsibilities, the critic asserts, he plunges his kingdom into a state of spiritual and emotional disorder. Gaull suggests that Lear’s choice of corrupt, erotic love over divine love results in a transference of sexuality; the king becomes emasculated as he is gradually stripped of the symbols of his traditional role, while at the same time Goneril and Regan increasingly assume masculine attitudes. By contrast, the critic declares, Cordelia adheres to the principle of domestic and political hierarchy, and thus she becomes an agent of divine love in the play.

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Placing King Lear in the intellectual climate in which the play was conceived, one finds a conflict on the thematic level between two kinds of love: divine love, expressed in an ordered cosmic, social, and spiritual hierarchy, and erotic love, a kind of subterranean energy which is the source of chaos, disorder, and destruction. Specifically, when King Lear assumed he could divest himself of responsibility, retiring as any lesser mortal to the obscurity of an ‘‘unburdened’’ old age, he committed an offense against universal order and thereby denied divine love. Then, when he allowed himself to be seduced of his kingdom by Goneril and Regan, he exchanged his role as king for that of love goddess, suffering all the consequences of a submission, however tacit, to the illegitimate order of eros . . . [By] appropriating the privileges of position without the responsibilities, by preferring private interest to public obligation, by investing an inordinate amount of power in inferior indivduals, Lear created the conditions for rebellion by those whom he was enjoined to control. By extension, through his failure to be ruled by

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IT IS THE THREE EXILES IN THE PLAY, CORDELIA, KENT, AND EDGAR WHO, BY MAINTAINING THE THREE BASIC RELATIONSHIPS OF AN ORDERED SOCIETY, EXPRESS DIVINE LOVE.’’

reason, he alienated himself from divine love and forfeited his sovereignty over his own baser passions. His abdication of responsibility released the destructive energies of eros in the social and political sphere and delivered him and all those upon whom his life impinged into psychological and spiritual chaos. It is the three exiles in the play, Cordelia, Kent, and Edgar who, by maintaining the three basic relationships of an ordered society, express divine love. Displaced by the collapse of the social and political hierarchy, they are the most evident victims of Lear’s truancy. Nonetheless, they continue to articulate and perform the services demanded by universal order. Thus Cordelia demonstrates woman’s subordination to her husband; Kent, a subject’s subordination to his king; and Edgar, a son’s subordination to his father . . . Gloucester and Albany may also be considered victims of Lear’s truancy, more helpless than the exiles insofar as their fulfilling their roles in the universal order depends upon circumstance rather than a capacity for divine love. But because they are basically good and adapted, however passively, to their roles in the legitimate hierarchy, they cannot survive in the alternative and subversive hierarchy of eros. The gentle and ineffectual Albany allows his wife to dominate him, creating the conditions for his own cuckolding. And Gloucester, who suffers a defect of vision long before his blindness, was never able to distinguish between the legitimate and the subversive order. His acknowledgment at the opening of the play of the position he allowed Edmund, the product of an adulterous union, is an ominous concession to the order of eros which will ultimately betray him. He admits to Kent: ‘‘But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came something


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saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good sport in the making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged’’ (I, i, 19–26). The desolating consequences of this emotional generosity are summed up by Edgar in the same speech in which he reveals his identity: The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. If the three exiles, Gloucester, and Albany are victims of Lear’s truancy, Goneril and Regan are villains for the same reason. In their mismanaged attempts to fill the vacuum created by Lear, they are simply fulfilling another principle of natural law. The chaos which surrounds them arises from the appetitive or erotic instincts by which they are dominated. But, after all, it was these very instincts to which Lear appealed when he invited his daughters’ declarations of love, declarations which he made the qualification for possessing his kingdom. A comparison between Lear’s overtures and Cleopatra’s at the opening of Antony and Cleopatra suggests rather strikingly the role Lear had assumed. Like Lear, she asks, ‘‘If it be love indeed, tell me how much’’ (I, i, 14). And this Egyptian love goddess is admonished by Antony in terms peculiarly reminiscent of Cordelia’s: ‘‘There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d’’ (I, i, 15). What I am suggesting is that not only did Lear disregard divine love in favor of the profane but also that it was a profane love which was essentially perverted. This idea seems to be enforced by a fascinating transference of sexuality which gradually emerges in the interaction of Lear and his daughters. Lear’s emasculation begins when he places himself in the custody of his daughters thereby forfeiting along with his kingdom his masculine role as superior, ruler, protector, and provider. After Goneril has abused her power over him, he begins to conceive of her as a man, calls her a ‘‘degenerate bastard,’’ claims that he is ashamed of her ‘‘power to shake [his] manhood,’’ and finally in his madness accuses both her and Regan of not being ‘‘men o’ their words’’ (i, iv, 260, 304; IV, vi, 106). Simultaneously, Goneril and Regan assume increasingly masculine attitudes, particularly in their competition for Edmund’s affection. Regan’s masculinity is most evident in the passage in which, expressing decidedly female jealousy of Goneril, she adopts the spare terms of

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the battlefront: ‘‘I am doubtful that you have been conjunct / And bosomed with her, as far as we call hers’’ (V, i, 12–13). Goneril, on the other hand, like an intriguing courtier contrives to have her husband murdered so that she might better pursue Edmund. Her attitude reveals the destructive consequences of investing the political power of a legitimate hierarchy in female figures who are adapted to rule only in the subversive hierarchy of eros: ‘‘I had rather lose the battle than that sister/Should loosen him and me’’ (V, i, 18–19). The Fool and Edmund, initially vagrants or aberrations in the official hierarchy, function as vocal adversaries in the debate between the two major opposing forces of order and chaos. The Fool with his detached and uncompromisingly literal perspective shrewdly if instinctively predicts and interprets the consequences of Lear’s action, measuring it against the norms of hierarchy. For example, when Lear asks him ‘‘When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?’’ The Fool replies: . . . e’er since thou mad’st thy daughter thy mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches, Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep And go the fools among (I, iv, 175–182) The Fool’s musical association is a significant one since it is an indication of his affinity with cosmic order, his instinctive harmony with natural law and divine love. Cordelia similarly uses music to restore Lear’s rationality, to bring him back in tune with the divine principles of the universal hierarchy. Finally, Edmund, the child of eros, serves not only as the voice of the anarchical group but also as the source of its daemonic energy. His superior rationality adapts him to his role of leadership, but his abuse of this faculty for selfadvancement marks him as the most culpable. His is the only purely volitional offense against natural law. An unregenerate individual with an insight superior to Lear’s, Cordelia’s, Edgar’s, indeed to that of any of the major candidates for heroic stature, Edmund ranks among the great literary villains who before their defeat contrive to express and to expose the great sanative values of the drama. As an illegitimate son, Edmund has no position in the social and

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political hierarchy, but this same condition eminently qualifies him to lead the subversive hierarchy of eros, chaos, and destruction. Having been indiscriminately admitted to the hierarchy by Gloucester, Edmund becomes an incipient threat to it, manipulating and exploiting it with a dashing expertise . . . Ironically, it is by emulating the King that Edmund becomes the ruler of his illegitimate kingdom. He formulates his legal code on the authority of Lear’s distortion of natural law: the prerogatives of youth and private interest over age and public responsibility. By the time Edmund articulates the rationale for his treason, he is only interpreting what has been empirically demonstrated by Lear: ‘‘The younger rises when the old doth fall’’ (III, iii, 26). This statement with its Machiavellian disregard of human feeling, its frigid recognition of what the modern temper regards as the inevitable pattern of social evolution, acquires its barb from the ethos of Lear’s world. Although cosmic hierarchy illustrated and natural law proclaimed that age and the fullness of experience were the supreme virtues for wielding power, Lear voted for his own retirement, disqualified himself, relinquished the protection of a position he held by divine right. Then, he appealed to the very order which he had violated: O heavens! If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience, if you yourselves are old, Make it your cause. Send down, and take my part. (II, iv, 188–191) The corrective, the re-assertion of natural law in the development of generations, is offered as an admonition by Edgar to his suicidal father: A man must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither: Ripeness is all. (V, ii, 9–11) The battle lines between the forces of chaos, a grotesque paradox of the legitimate hierarchy, and the forces of order, assembled in the costumes of fools, beggars, and madmen, are clearly defined when Gloucester moves from the castle, now ruled by Edmund, to the moor, the storm, and the insane court of Lear. It is a powerful confrontation, for Gloucester is appealing to the very source of chaos when, disheartened by what he thinks is Edgar’s treachery, he laments to Lear:

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Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it. (III, iv, 148–149) But in this kingdom of the absurd, even this multiple truth is an untruth, or at best a half truth. Fidelity is everywhere evident—in an anonymous retainer, a mad beggar, and an oracular fool. The central and compelling truth distorted beyond recognition is flung at a raging and primordial world by the alienated and insane symbol and minister of virtue, reason, and justice: I am the King himself . . . Nature’s above art in that respect. (IV, vi, 84, 86)

Lear’s insanity involves his recognition of the emotional basis of his relationship with Goneril and Regan, a love professedly filial but essentially corrupt, profane, erotic. Thus he passes from a fixation on filial ingratitude to one on lechery and adultery. This change is initiated when he meets Edgar disguised as Tom o’Bedlam and hears his factitious autobiography. Tom attributes his madness, the ‘‘foul field’’ which pursued him, to his life as a foppish courtier seduced by his mistress and corrupted by his passions: A servingman, proud in heart and mind, that curled my hair, wore gloves in my cap; served the lust of my mistress’ heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven. One that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman outparamoured the Turk . . . Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, they pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend. (III, iv, 85–99).

Lear’s response suggests the essential bestiality which he senses he shares with Tom, both exiles from the protective order of society: Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. (III, iv, 108–110).

The ‘‘foul fiends’’ for Lear are Goneril and Regan who become more explicitly identified with lust and appetitive excess in the mad scenes of Act IV. Vainly grasping the remnants of his royal position, it is with crushing pathos that he confuses the blinded Gloucester with the pagan


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god of eros: ‘‘No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love’’ (IV, vi, 139–140). It is divine love, the love which created and maintained the cosmic order, embodied in Cordelia, which restores Lear both to his rationality and to his royal position. ‘‘Thou has one daughter,’’ says her emissary to the nearly disabled king. Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to (IV, vi, 208–210) Although her success in restoring Lear will be limited, since the ‘‘curse’’ was essentially selfinflicted, Cordelia is eminently qualified for her task. She comes from a politically ordered kingdom, suggested in the text by France’s deserting her to fulfill his first obligation, the reparation of a breach in his own kingdom. (IV, iii, 3–6). Her reason for invading England, not ‘‘blown ambition’’ but ‘‘love, dear love, and our aged father’s right’’ (IV, iv, 27–29), is one of the only two motives for war sanctioned by natural law. Self-defense, the other motive, is expressed, ironically enough, by her temporary opponent, Albany, exonerating him from a violation of natural law but creating an almost insoluable conflict (V, i, 20–27). While both causes are just, because Lear is too feeble to defend his right and because in the absence of France there is no military leader qualified to defend it for him, Albany with the advantage of strength succeeds. It is a facet of natural law which modern revolutionaries have espoused: force until right is ready. Psychologically and emotionally, Cordelia exhibits the internal order of faculties which she expressed in her speech on proportion in the first act. Her response to the news of her father’s suffering is described in appropriately political terms, suggesting the correspondent hierarchies in the internal and external kingdom: It seemed she was a queen Over her passion, who most rebel-like, Sought to be king o’er her . . . There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamor moistened: then away she started To deal with grief alone. (IV, iii, 14–16, 30–34)

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Concomitant with this inner control, proportion, and order are Cordelia’s clear perspective, her immediate apprehension of the sources of Lear’s madness, and her unsuspected power to restore his sanity, his political identity, and his spiritual harmony with the order of the spheres. Thus she prays: O you kind gods! Cure this great breach in his abused nature. Th’ untuned and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father. (IV, vii, 14–17) The cure is affected by three means, each symbolic of one of the major categories in the chain or order of being: sleep induced by herbs, suggesting the subjugation of nature; music, appealing to rationality and the sense of balance; and Cordelia’s kiss, symbol of transcendent love. O my dear father, restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made. (IV, vii, 26–29) Considering, therefore, Cordelia as symbol of the entire range of hierarchy and order, one ought, it seems to me, to be able to interpret Lear’s awakening as a return to a proper relationship with that hierarchy and divine love. But he continues to challenge Cordelia, confessing thereby his failure to recognize the immutable cosmic bonds involved in the familial relationship. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not. (IV, vii, 72–74) Cordelia’s response, ‘‘No cause, no cause,’’ is less a volitional expression of Christian charity than the acquiescence of a sane and virtuous individual to the very sources of sanity and virtue, an affirmation of what Kent had described as ‘‘the holy cords . . . / Which are too intrinse t’unloose’’ (II, ii, 76–77). But there is only a momentary stasis, a temporary suggestion of supernal peace before the violence with which the drama concludes. I would like to suggest several reasons why at the end of the drama Lear is subjected to such apparently unaccountable suffering, why he is unable to reclaim his kingdom, and why Cordelia must become the final though potentially most meaningful sacrifice.

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First, because Lear is redeemed not by the purgatorial experience of his madness but rather by Cordelia’s intervention, he acquires only a passive immunity to further suffering. Secondly, he fails to recognize that his previous suffering was selfinflicted, a miscalculation of the responsibilities of his position which allowed the betrayal of Goneril and Regan. Thirdly, his instincts remain escapist, regressive, expressed in his rationalization of their prospective imprisonment. The pastoral withdrawal, the edinic vision which he depicts so lyrically is the ideal of the courtier rather than the vision of a king; it is a return to a lower order of nature, uncorrupted but outside the pale of human achievement: . . . Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage: When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness: so we’ll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too, Who loses and who wins, who’s in, who’s out, And take upon’s the mystery of things, As if we were God’s spies: and we’ll wear out, In a walled prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by th’ moon. (V, iii, 8–19) Once more Lear disregards that he is by birth and by divine ordination king, God’s minister, and executor of law and order in the secular sphere. In his sanguine willingness to adapt to his environment, to adjust to his surroundings, Lear reveals his decidedly terrestial inclinations. Since Cordelia’s existence in the political order depends upon Lear’s assuming command of himself and of his kingdom, she is for the second, and final time, a victim of his weakness. Finally, the kind of love relationships into which Lear entered and the emotional bases on which he entered them suggest a kind of constitutional defect which prevented him from entering the transcendent emotional realm which Cordelia opened to him. This defect is perhaps best formulated in a statement from Saint Augustine’s City of God, XI, in which appear many of the orthodox principles of cosmic

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order: we are ‘‘endowed with a kind of attraction for our proper place in the order of nature. The specific gravity of a body is, as it were, its love, whether it tends upward by its lightness or downward by its weight.’’ It is somewhat by natural selection that Edgar not simply survives but prevails at the end of the play. On a plane productively human he resolves the major conflict between eros and divine love, between chaos and order. If the sins of the father are truly visited upon the son, as Edgar’s suffering at the hands of Edmund would suggest, then he frees himself and his kingdom of the ‘‘foul fiend’’ when he vanquishes his bastard brother, the ruler of the illegitimate order of eros. Moreover, in his guise as Tom o’Bedlam he has been purged in a preventive fashion of both the vice and the consequences of erotic love. But unlike Cordelia he is a terrestial creature committed to a human sphere, the only sphere in which a human being to remain human may work out his salvation. This salvation, earthly perfection, ‘‘ripeness’’ if you like, is made possible by the emotional affinity he shares with Cordelia, divine or transcendent love, and is the basis for the creation of a new and more stable order. Source: Marilyn Gaull, ‘‘Love and Order in King Lear,’’ in Educational Theatre Journal, Vol. XIX, No. 3, October 1967, pp. 333–42.

John C. McCloskey McCloskey examines the association of images from the world of ‘‘animals, insects, and the more repulsive denizens’’ of the seas with the shifts in Lear’s emotions. The king’s selfishness and moral blindness, together with his inability to understand others, lead him into a world of disordered nature, the critic maintains. McCloskey notes that as Lear moves from resentment in Act I to indignation in Act II, and, finally, rage in Act III, the imagery changes to reflect the increasing intensity of his moods and to underscore the theme of unnaturalness. It has been said that we must accept the passionate, irrational King Lear, with his plan for dividing his kingdom, and the devoted yet strangely reticent Cordelia as data not to be inquired into but taken on poetic faith. Yet Lear’s ‘‘retirement’’ is a sensible thing in itself. What makes it fraught with tragedy is his misreading of human nature. Had all his children been like Cordelia, things might have turned out well. And here is the irony—that what is sensible


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FROM THE EVOCATION OF MERE RESENTMENT AND INDIGNATION THE IMAGERY BECOMES GRIMMER, MORE SERIOUS, AND MORE VIVIDLY SUGGESTIVE OF LEAR’S DESTITUTE MORAL CONDITION AND THE FRIGHTFUL EVENTUALITIES OF THE FUTURE.’’

in itself is made a foolish, senseless thing to do by the characters of those involved. Or to put it another way, imperfect, selfish human nature again wrecks ideals. Consider that Lear is a king who loves his daughters and out of his egoism expects love in return, a king who believes simply that generosity begets gratitude, that children revere and honor their parents, that obedience is of the nature of the filial relation. A king who ‘‘hath ever but slenderly known himself’’, he has not known his courtiers either, for example, Kent. A king who is curiously naive in the ways of human nature, who has no subtlety in human relations, who does not even suspect that power may corrupt and that old age rendered helpless is a thing for contempt. A king who is not wise enough to protect himself but of his own volition throws himself upon the untender mercies of the evil, whom he does not even recognize as evil. Yet Lear embodies the idealism of fatherly love as Cordelia and Edgar are emblems of filial devotion, Kent of loyal service, the Fool of conscience, and France of true love. But Lear’s idealism is tainted by evil, by the moral corruption of self-deluding egoism, while the idealism of the others is not, and the proper end for Lear is, therefore, tragic disaster. In the chaotic and hostile world into which Lear is precipitated by his acts of misjudgment, self-will, and wrath, the tragic disaster toward which he proceeds and which culminates in madness and death in a world against which he cannot contend, a world wild and ferocious, a world of negated values, moral blindness, and unnaturalness, is expressed to a remarkable degree by images from the padding, stalking, creeping, crawling, slithering world of animals, insects, and the more repulsive denizens of the waters,

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and the images are evoked to express or to intensify his anger, rejection, indignation, wrath, and vengeance.

seems to ignore it, it succeeds immediately in condensing the whole moral problem which enmeshes Lear in its inevitable consequences.

The imagery of the lower animals, which suggests the moral derangement of the world in which Lear has hitherto thought himself secure, begins with the cooling of his reception in Goneril’s home, when her servant Oswald neglects to answer Lear’s question as to the whereabouts of his daughter. This breach of decorum and respect and reverence, for authority stirs a mild resentment in Lear, the first stage of the emotional turmoil which brings him at length to madness. His resentment and, perhaps, a touch of proper contempt, the genesis of which is Lear’s instinctive awareness of the social disparity between his kingly state and the lowly status of a servant, are expressed in his epithet ‘‘mongrel’’, an image general, colorless, and uncommitted, since the offence is not at the moment identifiable with the attitude of the daughters or the moral problem of the play. When Oswald describes Lear as not the king but ‘‘My lady’s father’’, Lear’s indignation is spurred, and the imagery becomes more intense and particularized in its connotative derogation as ‘‘whoreson dog’’ and ‘‘cur’’. It is significant that Lear thinks in terms of such lowly, though commonplace images, since he has himself already entered upon his own descent, with the result that eventually his state is reduced as low, in the storm scene on the heath particularly, as that of the animal world in terms of the imagery of which his mind constitutionally reacts.

As Lear enters the incipiency of his rage, irritated by Oswald and shocked by the callousness of Goneril, who desiring to teach him what is properly conventional to age refers to his actions as pranks, thus suggesting his senility, and demands that he be shorn of his knights, the imagery changes to correspond with his emotional state—his indignation and his anger at the filial ingratitude of Goneril, this ‘‘degenerate bastard’’. Since the natural order of things is here disturbed, the expression of this state of affairs, which is quite monstrous, receives its correspondency in its figurative presentment of ingratitude as a ‘‘hideous seamonster’’. This is reinforced by an appropriate shift in the imagery, though the correspondence of destructive intent and power is maintained, to ‘‘detested kite’’. For a kite is a falcon-like bird which preys on small quarry, such as is Lear without his kingship, without his power, moving down the scale from greatness.

From the evocation of mere resentment and indignation the imagery becomes grimmer, more serious, and more vividly suggestive of Lear’s destitute moral condition and the frightful eventualities of the future. The Fool’s bitter statement, For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long, That it had it head bit off by it young. is not only a sharp and crude image of ingratitude, but it is also an image of Lear’s own foolishness, his misjudgment, his improvident helplessness, and his egoistic blindness. The imagery implied in the verb ‘‘bit off’’ is by transference an image of human decapitation and a darkly prophetic forewarning of what Lear is to experience from his children. In the image is implicit the lack of gratitude and love and even common humanity which already are Lear’s destiny. The image is so proper and so apt in its context that though Lear

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Shifting from the image of the kite, Lear intensifies his emotion of frustration and rage, which seethes in him against his unnatural daughter Goneril, whom he has just cursed unnaturally, praying nature to make her sterile, by objectifying his rising obsession of ingratitude in the figure of a serpent’s tooth. In thus juxtaposing images from the sky and from the crawling earth he suggests, perhaps, his subconscious awareness that both heaven and earth are against him. Having employed the images of sea-monster, kite, and serpent to vivify his referent, he gives further extension to the notion of Goneril’s cruelty and sly, cunning nature by additional images from the animal world, ‘‘wolvish visage’’ and ‘‘fox’’, and these images for the first time blend with anger the passion of vengeance, for Lear wrathfully states that when Regan hears of this she will ‘‘flay’’ Goneril’s wolvish visage and the Fool states that had one caught a fox like this daughter it would soon to the slaughter. Now the imagery sinks below the animal stratum to the mollusk, thus intensifying the sense of the moral depths in which Lear, not yet pessimistically, helplessly wanders. The imagery of the snail and the oyster carries to the lowest pitch of figurative expression the blindness of Lear, his lack of judgment, the low order of the

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ratiocination from which proceeded his initial error. Then the image of the foolishness of Lear is carried upward to the animal stratum once again by ‘‘assess’’. If in this connection it is recalled that the animal stratum is often referred to as ‘‘the animal kingdom’’, the irony of Lear’s position is painfully apparent. Just as Goneril has been reduced in the area of imagery to a correspondence with animals that sting, bite, and destroy, organisms which are feral and inhuman, so her servant Oswald is dehumanized as a rat, a dog, a goose, the latter image being peculiarly appropriate to Oswald, who is remarkably consistent in the traits implicit in this figure. With the momentary resurgence of Lear’s old imperious attitude in his indignation at the stocking of his messenger Kent, the scale of the animal imagery rises from the stupid and compliant goose to horses, dogs, bears, and monkeys, thus suggesting the greater degree of the culpability of Cornwall and Regan by creating imagery belonging to animals on a higher ratiocinative plane and thereby rendering their guilt less excusable. Now again irony is blended explicity with the imagery which sets forth Lear’s moral problem. His imperious indignation, in terms of the imagery, is as cogent as learning secured from an ant. His intensified anger becomes adulterated with helplessness, and his orders to Regan and Cornwall to come forth are as ineffective as the cockney crying to the eels when she put them alive in the pastry. While anger is often imaged forth in feral terms, blindness, stupidity, weakness, and helplessness are presented in images from the still lower stratum of animate things, that of the snail, the oyster, and the eel, and in the appropriateness of the imagery is apparent once again its integral relation to the total structure of the play. When Lear, having fled to his ‘‘Beloved Regan’’, reflects upon his love and generosity to his daughters which proceeded from his heart and upon the unnatural ingratitude paid him by Goneril in return, the image which externalizes his emotional state of outraged paternal affection mingled with surprise and shock appears in the form of sharp-toothed unkindness, like a vulture, tearing at his heart, and in his rising anger at Regan’s rejection of his claims and her injunction to ask Goneril’s forgiveness and return to her, this image is reinforced in the collateral one of being struck with a serpent’s


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tongue upon the very heart. In the psychological application of the imagery as expressive of Lear’s emotive states at various stages of his mounting tragedy, the images of the wounding of his heart by vultures and serpents mark a crisis in the rising action, for after this there occurs, eventually in the storm scene, the loss of his wits, in other words, an ironic reduction of Lear himself to that unnatural state which is so essential a theme of the entire tragedy. His estrangement from normal human relations, consonant with the above, is further marked, in passionate reaction to Regan’s rejection of him, by his refusal of her demand to dismiss fifty of his knights and by his determination, instead, to abjure all roofs and be a comrade with the wolf and the owl. Throughout the imagery runs an intensification of the theme of unnaturalness, the basis of which is, of course, filial ingratitude. Even the Gentleman discussing with Kent the storm on the heath uses imagery similar to Lear’s as an atmospheric reinforcement of the psychological mood into which Lear has been precipitated; the stormy night into which Lear has emerged from the previous rejection scene is one from which the cub-drawn bear, the lion, and the bellypinched wolf flee. Contending with the frightful elements, tearing his hair, striving to outscorn the wind, rain, and night, Lear is pursued by his heart-struck injuries. Also the unnatural cruelty of his pitiful state and the savagery of the night are figured forth, to some degree, in the aforementioned famished bear, fierce lion, and hungerdriven wolf. The lowly imagery of the louse employed by the Fool, that of a small, wingless, blood-sucking insect, is an ironic image presenting a vivid, concrete manifestation of the contrast between Lear’s impotent state and his rather imperial, though helpless, arraignment of the elements which have with his two pernicious daughters joined their battles against so old and white a head as his. The image of the louse is implicative of a descent from elevation, a contrast with the soaring evil of the vulture, and a descent from size, the massive evil of the sea-serpent; considered in its context it is also, in contrast with ‘‘head’’, indicative of a lack of intelligence and is, therefore, a further indictment of Lear’s original irrationality. The imagery of the louse is both a presentment of Lear’s impotency, the louse being on a lower level than that of the feral animals, a small wingless thing, almost insignificant though painful, and also a prefiguring of

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the pelican image which soon intensifies it, the image of a blood-sucking animate thing, implicit in the figure of the louse, having for its referent the daughters who have taken all and, draining his blood from him, seek his death. And in an extension of this idea and a logical transmutation of it, that of flesh feeding on the flesh that begot it, Lear’s emotions express themselves in the metaphor of the pelican daughters. So admirable a consistency is there in the images and so vivid a reflection of Lear’s psyche that it is evident that the imagery is of the very texture of Lear’s psyche itself. Habitually and spontaneously his mind expresses itself in imagery, and when his mind is in a disturbed state the imagery is that of the animal world, or at least the world of animate, sub-human things.

animal state with which in the climax he had identified himself. His memory, in the area of his emotions, reasserts itself and with it a reminiscent indignation and anger which bring into prominence once again his obsession of filial ingratitude: ‘‘They flattered me like a dog’’ (IV.iv.98). Blended with it, too, is a critical bitterness which is an image of his renascent awareness of his fallen state. The wren and the gilded fly, the fitchew and the soiled horse become images of copulation and adultery, and in the extension of causes into a relative complexity is suggested not only the advance of Lear’s mind in a tentative way toward humanity once again but the substitution of cynicism for the violated and outraged affection which throughout the play had so obsessed him.

The notion of descent, which inheres in the animal figures, is made explicit by Lear in his assertion that in Edgar’s case nothing could have subdued nature to such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Expressive of this and showing the partial correspondency of Edgar’s state with that of Lear on the stormy heath are the images employed by Edgar:

Lear’s reascent to reason and, therefore, to humanity is arrested by a resurgence of tragedy— the death of Cordelia. The irony of his apparent moral victory in self-recognition, in his awareness of good and evil, and in at least a rudimentary sense of equity and of the real victory of the malevolence of his enemies, carries the essential tensions of the play through to the very end. Lear’s reaction against the injustice of Cordelia’s death, the needless waste of goodness in the world, his questioning of the why of things, are expressed through his characteristic imagery which presents his skepticism in regard to the moral system of the cosmos, an act of ratiocination which is, of course, on a human rather than an animal level:

. . . hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey (III.iv.96–98) With Lear’s climactic statement: Ha! here’s three on’s us are sophisticated! Thou are the thing itself: unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! (III.iv. 110–14)

the descent is accomplished, and the correspondency of Lear to the animal stratum toward which his psychic tragedy has been tending and in terms of images from which he has characteristically expressed himself is complete. Bereft of reason, mad, tearing off his clothes, Lear is now little better than the beasts. He has reached the bottom of the scale which his imagery has prefigured. The climax of descent in terms of animal imagery, if this is not too paradoxical a statement, coincides with the climax of the play. When Lear appears at Dover mad, fantastically dressed with wild flowers, some of his imagery corresponds to his state of mind: crowkeeper, mouse, bird, gilded butterflies; this is the innocent, naive imagery of childhood or senility, a harmless, neutral, non-evocative imagery proper to one whose wits are gone. Yet in the subsequent imagery begins his reascent into partial rationality, his progress upward from the

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Why should a dog, a horse, a rat have life, And thou no breath at all? (V.iii.306–07) And on the curve of his partial reascent toward reason and humanity, presented in terms of animal imagery to the last, Lear dies. Source: John C. McCloskey, ‘‘The Emotive Use of Animal Imagery in King Lear,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 13, No. 3, Summer 1962, pp. 321–25.

Kenneth Muir Muir discusses the theme of ‘‘reason in madness’’ in King Lear and outlines the king’s descent into insanity. Goneril’s sharp complaints, Lear’s discovery of Kent in the stocks, and Regan’s rejection progressively disorder his mind, the critic argues, and the sudden appearance of Edgar as Poor Tom pushes him over the edge. Muir maintains that Lear’s subsequent attacks on hypocrisy

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THE MADNESS OF THE ELEMENTS, THE PROFESSIONAL ‘MADNESS’ OF THE FOOL, THE FEIGNED MADNESS OF EDGAR, AND THE MADNESS OF THE KING HIMSELF TOGETHER EXEMPLIFY THE BREAK-UP OF SOCIETY AND THE THREAT TO THE UNIVERSE ITSELF UNDER THE IMPACT OF INGRATITUDE AND TREACHERY.’’

and worldly justice ‘‘show profound insight’’ into the human condition. However, the critic cautions readers against assuming that these speeches represent Shakespeare’s own point of view.


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The Heath, before a hovel with Gloucester, Fool, Lear, Kent and Edgar, Act III, scene iv (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)


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Source: Kenneth Muir, ‘‘Madness in King Lear,’’ in Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakespearian Study and Production, Vol. 13, 1960, pp. 30–40.

SOURCES Bevington, David, ed., ‘‘Canon, Dates, and Early Texts: Appendix 1,’’ in The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Scott, Foresman and Company, 1980, pp. 1623–24. Bradley, A. C., ‘‘Lecture VII: King Lear,’’ in Shakespearean Tragedy, Fawcett Publications, 1986, p. 201. Danby, John F., Shakespeare’s Doctrine of Nature: A Study of King Lear, Faber and Faber, 1949. Elton, William R., King Lear and the Gods, Huntington Library, 1966. Freud, Sigmund, ‘‘The Theme of the Three Caskets,’’ in On Creativity and the Unconscious: Papers on the Psychology of Art, Literature, Love, Religion, edited by Benjamin Nelson, Harper Torchbooks, 1958, p. 75. Johnson, Samuel, ‘‘On King Lear,’’ in Four Centuries of Shakespearian Criticism, Discus Books, 1965, p. 490. Lamb, Charles, ‘‘King Lear,’’ in On The Tragedies of Shakespeare, http://lambclassicauthors.net/OnThe TragediesOfShakespeare/, accessed January 25, 2007.


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Myrick, Kenneth, ‘‘Christian Pessimism in King Lear,’’ in Shakespeare, 1564–1964: A Collection of Modern Essays by Various Hands, Brown University Press, 1964, pp. 56–70. Reilly, Terry, ‘‘King Lear: The Kentish Forest and the Problem of Thirds,’’ Oklahoma City University Law Review, Vol. 26, No. 1, 2001. Schneider, Ben Ross, Jr., ‘‘King Lear in Its Own Time: The Difference that Death Makes,’’ in Early Modern Literary Studies, Vol. 1, No. 1 (1995), p. 1–49. Shakespeare, William, The Complete Works, edited by Stanley Wells and Gary Taylor, Clarendon Press, 1988, pp. 909–74. Shakespeare, William, The Tragedy of King Lear, edited by Russell Fraser, Signet Classics, 1963. Troyat, Henri, Tolstoy, Doubleday & Company, Inc., 1967, p. 605.

FURTHER READING Battenhouse, Roy W., ‘‘Moral Experience and Its Typology in King Lear,’’ in Shakespearean Tragedy: Its Art and Its Christian Premises, Indiana University Press, 1969. Battenhouse sees King Lear as a ‘‘medicine’’ against a fall from Christian belief by showing the grimness and pain which result from living in a world not governed by Christianity. Bloom, Harold, ‘‘King Lear,’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Books, 1998. In his reading of the play, Bloom emphasizes Edgar’s centrality. Brooke, Nicholas, ‘‘The Ending of King Lear,’’ in Shakespeare, 1564–1964: A Collection of Modern Essays by Various Hands, Brown University Press, 1964.

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Brooke argues that Lear believes Cordelia to be alive and that that is necessary self-delusion in the face of impossibly painful despair. Fraser, Russell, Shakespeare’s Poetics: In Relation to ‘‘King Lear,’’ Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1962. Fraser discusses King Lear and its themes— among them Providence, Fortune, Anarchy and Order, Reason and Will, and Redemption—in the context of Renaissance thought. Maguire, Nancy Klein, ‘‘Nahum Tate’s King Lear: ‘the king’s blest restoration,’’’ in The Appropriation of Shakespeare: Post-Renaissance Reconstructions of the Works and the Myth, edited by Jean I. Marsden, St. Martin’s Press, 1992. Maguire interprets Tate’s adaptation and revision of King Lear as a politically proRestoration response to the regicide of Charles I. Taylor, Gary, Reinventing Shakespeare, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1983. Taylor chronicles the way Shakespeare was understood, adapted, and performed beginning in his own time and extending to ours. Taylor charts the seventeenth- and eighteenthcentury response to King Lear in detail. Thompson, Ann and John O., ‘‘Animal Metaphors in King Lear,’’ in Shakespeare: Meaning & Metaphor, University of Iowa Press, 1987. The Thompsons study the animal metaphors recurring in King Lear and probe their significations. Walton, J. K., ‘‘Lear’s Last Speech,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 13, edited by Allardyce Nicoll, Cambridge University Press, 1966. Walton interprets Lear’s words about Cordelia’s lips not as an indication that she is alive, but as a recognition of her death and the sacred quality of her original taciturnity.

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Lucrece Lucrece, Shakespeare’s most substantial narrative poem, was first published in 1594, during an extended period when the London theaters are understood to have been closed due to an outbreak of the plague. Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare’s second-longest poem, was published the previous year, in 1593. Both poems are addressed to—and written under the patronage of—the Earl of Southampton, with the more intimate address of Lucrece reflecting the increased familiarity between the two men at that later date. Thus, Shakespeare’s bid to secure respect among London’s courtly literary circles was proving successful.

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The title of the work is the object of some uncertainty, as the first five quartos are entitled Lucrece, but the longer title of The Rape of Lucrece is used on some of the pages within. Coppe´lia Kahn notes that an editor was actually responsible for the revision of the title of the 1616 quarto to the longer version. While some critics see The Rape of Lucrece as the fuller title, others have posited that Shakespeare ultimately preferred the shorter title because it better reflected his focus on the character of Lucrece rather than on the fact of her being raped. The tale of Lucrece has been told time and time again since its historical occurrence in 509 B . C . E ., with Lucrece often lauded as a heroine for her role in ending the reign of kings in Rome; a republic led by consuls was established by Brutus and the others who avenged her rape

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and death by exiling the royal family of Tarquin, the assailant and prince. In his introduction to the bard’s narrative poems, Jonathan Crewe points out that Lucrece has also often been painted, perhaps most notably by the Renaissance-era artist Artemisia Gentileschi, who was herself a victim of rape. Thus, one cannot doubt the universal interest in the movingly tragic— and history altering—tale. Given Lucrece’s renown, many critics have sought to more fully understand Shakespeare’s artistry and intentions by comparing his version to the literary precedents that he had undoubtedly been exposed to. Of course, comparisons with various sources—such as the Bible, Roman mythology, Livy’s history, and Ovid’s poetry— have produced various perspectives on the meaning behind Lucrece. Regardless, the modern reader cannot lose sight of the fact that much of the poem’s value lies in its psychological portrayal of both the perpetrator and the victim. Aptly, the rapist can earn himself nothing but condemnation and shame, while in her state of mental and emotional crisis the victim demonstrates that she deserves nothing but sympathy and support.

bears both the red of roses and the white of lilies, and who has no conception of Tarquin’s plot, warmly welcomes him. Tarquin praises Collatine’s deeds in war and ‘‘makes excuses for his being there’’; otherwise, he reveals nothing of his intentions.

Lines 120–280 Tarquin retires after long conversing with Lucrece. The narrator discourses about people wanting to gain something so much that they are content to lose something else in the process; such is the case with Tarquin, who will sacrifice his honor ‘‘to obtain his lust.’’ The night is still, with predators emerging to do horrors to their prey. Tarquin rises from his bed and lights a torch, to weigh his conviction with regard to his ‘‘loathsome enterprise.’’ He is well aware of the baseness of the deed he intends to commit and how it will utterly ruin him—to gain only the most fleeting ‘‘mirth.’’ He imagines Collatine returning home on instinct; he wonders whether he could possibly conceal his guilt afterward. He notes that he owes Collatinus (that is, Collatine) no ill. Eventually, he persuades himself to continue, as he claims that he is so swayed by Lucrece’s beauty that his ‘‘affection,’’ his ‘‘desire,’’ controls him.

PLOT SUMMARY Lines 281–441

‘‘The Argument’’ In the long paragraph of prose that precedes Lucrece, the narrator relates in summary not only Tarquin’s assault of Lucrece and its aftermath but also the events leading up to the assault. Discussed here, but not in the poem, is the episode wherein the Roman military men surprised their wives by returning home unannounced; only Lucrece was found to be humbly spinning with her maids rather than reveling. The Argument also relates in slightly more detail the actions of Brutus and the others after Lucrece’s suicide.

Tarquin begins creeping through the house, still somewhat uncertain—but again, he eventually thinks only of satisfying his lust. He breaks the locks on all the doors leading to Lucrece’s chamber, fearful that he will be heard, and drafts almost extinguish his torch—but he blows the flame back to life and proceeds. He happens upon a glove of Lucrece’s and picks it up only to be pricked by a needle within, but he remains undeterred. When he reaches the last door, he begins to pray but then realizes the absurdity of doing so; he declares that ‘‘love and fortune’’ will be his gods that night.

Lines 1–119

Tarquin enters Lucrece’s chamber, where she sleeps soundly. Looking upon her, he is dazzled by her beauty, as if beholding the ‘‘fiery-pointed sun.’’ He admires various aspects of her countenance and features, such as her hands, hair, and breasts. As he gazes down, he is momentarily stilled, satisfied even by the sight of the woman—but in time he regains his initiative and lays a hand on her.

Sextus Tarquinius, referred to as Tarquin, has withdrawn from the siege at Ardea to lodge with the wife of the soldier Collatine, Lucrece. Collatine has himself boasted of his wife’s exceptional beauty and unfaltering fidelity, which inspired a certain envy in Tarquin. Tarquin now explicitly intends to satisfy his lust and ruin Lucrece’s reputation by defiling her. Lucrece, whose complexion

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such lust and of how vile he would view such an act if committed by another. In the end, she simply begs for pity—but he professes to be unmoved, as if an overbearing tide or huge fire. She offers metaphors depicting the shame he will feel, but he finally cuts her off and demands that she yield.

Lines 673–742 Tarquin extinguishes the light and covers Lucrece’s head with her nightclothes. Through the rape then committed by the ‘‘surfeit-taking’’ Tarquin, Lucrece loses ‘‘a dearer thing than life,’’ while he immediately realizes the extent to which he has disgraced himself. Afterward, he finds that the ‘‘spotted princess’’ (understood to be referring to his soul) has entered a state of ‘‘living death.’’ He flees guiltily, while she lies there in despair.

Lines 743–875 Lucrece begins a long and sad lament about her fate. She reveals that she herself feels profound guilt and shame over what Tarquin has done to her. She castigates the night, which ever abets such horrific crimes, referring to how the ‘‘rotten damps’’ of night fogs ‘‘ravish the morning air’’ and calling Tarquin himself ‘‘night’s child.’’ She rues that she has no one to share her misery with and hopes that day will never come, so that she might never reveal her shame.

Title page of Lucrece, 1594

Lines 442–672 At Tarquin’s touch, Lucrece awakens, terrified by what seems a ghost. As Tarquin does not release her, her heart beats ever quicker. When she demands to know why he is doing what he is doing, he declares that ‘‘the fault’’ is hers, as she is so beautiful that he supposedly cannot still his lust. He expects her to fight back and knows the irrevocable harm that he is doing, but he cares not. He tells her that if she struggles, he will arrange the scene so that it appears that she had been committing adultery with one of the servants—ruining the reputation of her entire family—while if she relents, he will say nothing. Lucrece pleads for mercy, leading Tarquin to pause only as if a cat toying with a mouse. Still, Lucrece speaks at length in an attempt to persuade him to cease. She reminds him of her hospitality and of his friendship with her husband and hopes that he might feel some empathy for her. She observes that he will be ruining his own honor, future king that he is, in committing such a shameful crime. She speaks of the sinfulness of


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She imagines how tales will be told of how Tarquin wronged her and how she thus also wronged Collatine. She conceives that her husband’s honor once lay in her, but that honor has been stolen away. She feels guilty for having lost that honor, even though she entertained Tarquin in the first place for the sake of Collatine’s honor, as well as out of genuine hospitality. She notes how other beautiful and virtuous things are so easily ruined.

Lines 876–1078 She places much blame on ‘‘opportunity,’’ which seems to be given always to those committing the foulest deeds and never to the poor and destitute. Truth and virtue are ever forsaken by opportunity, while sin receives opportunity’s favors at no cost. As such, she condemns opportunity itself as guilty for all crimes ever committed. She also despises ‘‘time,’’ which betrayed her and has tied her to an eternity of woe. Time does better to ‘‘unmask falsehood’’ and to generally

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right whatever wrongs are committed; to allow things to decay over time; and to contribute to life’s cycles. She then hopes that time will manage to curse Tarquin, to make his life unbearable owing to thoughts of ‘‘his committed evil’’—to leave him drowning in his own remorse. She considers how the foul deed will ever stain his character, especially in that he would be king and so examined more closely than other men. At length, she turns to cursing her own words, which can do nothing to change her situation. Her only course of action, then, she imagines, is suicide, though her hand quivers at the thought. She looks for a sharp instrument to use but finds nothing. Still, she is resolved to ‘‘clear this spot by death,’’ especially as she could not bear the thought of bearing Tarquin’s child. She intends not only to kill herself but also to reveal the truth of what happened.

Lines 1079–1211 Day breaks, leading Lucrece to now lament the sun’s mocking beams of light. The narrator describes her as utterly possessed by her grief, such that the birds’ songs, which would otherwise be pleasant, only intensify her sorrow. She speaks to a bird as if to Philomel, a mythical rape victim who metamorphosed into a nightingale. Like a ‘‘poor frighted deer’’ now, Lucrece ponders whether she should truly take her own life and thereby slay her soul, which she might otherwise save; but she feels as though her body has been ruined, and her soul, like the tree beneath the peeled bark, must likewise decay. Still, she will tell Collatine of Tarquin’s trespass, so that her husband might seek revenge. She declares a sort of last testament, bequeathing various aspects of herself and her life to the people and objects that she will be leaving behind.

Lines 1212–1365 Sadly certain, now, about committing suicide, Lucrece summons a maid, who reads Lucrece’s sorrow—though not its cause—in her face and weeps along with her. The narrator describes women’s minds as ‘‘waxen,’’ such that emotional impressions are easily made and discerned. Thus, a woman may feel shame for a foul act inflicted upon her by a man. At Lucrece’s questioning, the maid notes that Tarquin left well before sunrise that morning. The maid inquires about her sorrow, but Lucrece declines to

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announce it. Lucrece then asks for pen and paper and for a servant of her husband’s who might take his master a letter. After the maid departs, Lucrece writes a brief note relating the extent of but not the reason for her grief, as she imagines that the occurrence might be misconstrued if she were not able to show the sorrow of her person while explaining it. Collatine’s servant accepts the letter and blushes out of ‘‘bashful innocence,’’ which Lucrece distressfully interprets as his embarrassment over the knowledge of the shame that she has suffered. Once the man departs, she again sinks into her woe.

Lines 1366–1568 Lucrece finds herself distracted by a painting that depicts the famous invasion of Troy by the Greeks, which was incited by Paris’s ‘‘rape,’’ meaning ‘‘abduction,’’ of the Greek Helen. In showing the tragedy of battle, the painting contains a great number of instances of sorrow and death. The faces and bodies of the famous Greeks Ajax and Ulysses have been painted with especial precision; likewise, the depiction of the Trojan Nestor discoursing to a crowd fascinates Lucrece. On the other hand, little is revealed of the Greek Achilles. Lucrece eventually notes the presence of Hecuba, the wife of Priam, who was the king of Troy, as only Hecuba’s grief in standing over her dying husband seems comparable to Lucrece’s grief. Lucrece even wishes the painted Hecuba had the power of speech. Lucrece then imagines taking revenge on the images of the Greeks, blames the ‘‘strumpet’’ Helen, and laments that one person’s private concerns could cause so much death. At last, her gaze settles on Sinon, the Trojan who persuaded the king to admit the Trojan horse, and the Greeks within, through the city gate. She despises his peacefully content look—and the once-unthreatening image of the similarly traitorous Tarquin is brought to mind. At length, she tears Sinon’s image from the painting.

Lines 1569–1659 The distraction of the painting proves to have only temporarily assuaged Lucrece’s woe. The messenger then returns with Collatine and other men, and Lucrece’s husband immediately recognizes in her mournful face and attire that she has suffered some extreme event. She has trouble

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speaking at first—but then manages to relate what was done to her ‘‘by foul enforcement,’’ at the hands of an armed foe who threatened to murder and defame her if she resisted. She professes, yet, that while her body has been ‘‘stained,’’ her mind and soul remain pure.

Lucrece, in swearing upon her knife and her soul to avenge her death. Thus, while he had theretofore been deemed an idiot, Brutus seizes upon the opportunity to make political use of Lucrece’s suicide

Collatine Lines 1660–1806 Collatine is speechless at first, able only to breathe through the sorrow he in turn experiences. Lucrece implores him not to weep and asks only that he exact revenge on the perpetrator, whom she will not name until all the lords present agree to likewise participate in the vengeance. They all swear as much, and Lucrece then wonders aloud how she might rid herself of the stain she has incurred. The men insist that her mind remains ‘‘untainted’’—but she utters Tarquin’s name and then nevertheless buries a knife in her chest and dies. Collatine and the others are so shocked as to remain motionless, until Lucrece’s father finally falls upon his daughter, while Brutus removes the knife from her body. Pools of her ‘‘stained’’ blood then circle her body, with a watery sheen seeming to evidence its corruption. Lucretius, the father, laments that his offspring, the image of himself, has perished before him. Collatine then falls upon his deceased wife, able only to mutter incoherently. The two men then weep over Lucrece as if trying to out mourn each other.

Lines 1807–1855 At length, Brutus, who had theretofore been viewed as something of a fool, bids Collatine to rise and, instead of weeping and lamenting, to pray to the Roman gods to assist them in their quest for vengeance. Brutus vows on Lucrece’s soul and on the bloodied knife to exact that revenge, and the others all swear likewise. They then determine to bear Lucrece’s body through Rome to reveal Tarquin’s offense; the narrator states that he is indeed afterward banished.

CHARACTERS Brutus Lucius Junius Brutus (an ancient forebear of the Marcus Junius Brutus who assassinated Julius Caesar) leads the other men present in the closing scene, including the father and husband of


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Collatine’s boasting of his wife’s extraordinary chastity in the company of the other military men initially inspires Tarquin to rape her. When Collatine returns to Lucrece afterward, he is struck by her evident sorrow; when she moves to kill herself, he says and does nothing. After Lucrece’s father falls upon the body, Collatine eventually falls likewise, mumbling incoherently, then insists that his deceased wife yet belongs to him.

The Groom Before delivering Lucrece’s letter to her husband, the groom blushes innocently, leading Lucrece to imagine that he knew of the shame she felt.

Lucrece Lucrece is without doubt both the moral and literary heart of the story, as indicated by the title, her tragic suffering, and her heroic death. Philippa Berry notes that Lucrece’s rhetorical performance, which constitutes over a third of the narrative poem’s 1,855 lines, ‘‘is one of the most extended tragic utterances attributed to a woman in English Renaissance literature.’’ And perhaps no literary character merits as much opportunity for discourse about her plight than the victim of rape, who, as in the case of Lucrece, likely has no acquaintance who can truly understand the trauma of her experience. Lucrece is understood to define her identity almost exclusively as the chaste wife of Collatine. In spending her time at home spinning with her maids while other women are reveling, she proves her husband’s boasts accurate, and the narrator notes in line 85 that she is an ‘‘earthly saint’’ and in line 87 that ‘‘unstained thoughts’’ such as hers ‘‘do seldom dream on evil.’’ Indeed, as Coppe´lia Kahn has noted, in accord with the Roman patriarchal tradition, as a woman, she is defined in terms of the man that she is primarily associated with. (At the poem’s close, of course, Lucrece’s father, the first man through whom she defines her identity, vies with Collatine over the ownership of her deceased body.) Jonathan Crewe describes how since Lucrece is ‘‘well

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schooled’’ in the codes of patriarchy, the alteration of the central aspect of her identity—her chastity—essentially destroys her: ‘‘The goods she feels to have been damaged after the rape are principally her husband’s. It thus becomes extraordinarily difficult for her to process the rape subjectively—at first, she can hardly be said to have her own subjectivity—and reconcile herself to her new, damaged, and devalued condition.’’ That is, regardless of how she might be inclined to, or wish to, perceive herself, if she has been ruined in the eyes of her husband and society, then as far as she is concerned she is ruined. Thus, as Kahn notes, since ‘‘no alternative identity is possible’’ for Lucrece, she can only imagine maintaining her integrity through suicide: ‘‘The tragedy of Lucrece is that only by dying is she able to escape from marginality and regain her social and personal identity as a chaste wife.’’ Heather Dubrow notes that while some critics have denounced Lucrece’s meandering lament after her rape as so conventionally rhetorical, in literary terms, as to reduce the realism of the situation, the victim’s mindset is in fact portrayed with profound accuracy. She observes of Lucrece, ‘‘The parallels between her behavior and the responses analyzed in the extensive recent literature on rape are compelling enough to suggest that certain reactions commonly recur, at least in Western culture—and to testify that Shakespeare understood those reactions well.’’ Dubrow explicates a number of Lucrece’s reactions that are understood to be characteristic of victims of rape: she has difficulty relating the trauma to others, speaking to herself at length but to Collatine and the others only in brief terms; she blames herself for not resisting with more determination; she dwells on the fruitless question of how she might have averted the rape; she experiences abrupt shifts in mood; she demonstrates a need to regain some degree of control over the situation and herself (ultimately, through suicide); and, as discussed above, she feels a profound loss of identity. Indeed, Dubrow cites the researchers Kurt Weis and Sandra S. Borges as calling rape ‘‘a total attack against the whole person, affecting the victim’s physical, psychological, and social identity.’’ Thus, through his Lucrece, Shakespeare offers a sympathetic, informative, and sorrowful portrait of a woman who has suffered the trauma of rape.

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Lucretius Lucretius falls upon his daughter’s body before Collatine, and the two consequently engage in a sort of verbal competition over the ownership of her body.

The Maid The maid shares tears with Lucrece, empathetically understanding and feeling her sorrow, though not its cause.

Tarquin In certain respects, little need be said of Tarquin that is not communicated directly through the poem, through both the narrator’s assessment of his character and through Tarquin’s own ruminations before committing the rape. The narrator calls him a ‘‘devil’’ and a ‘‘false worshiper,’’ noting that he will be ‘‘pawning his honor to obtain his lust.’’ Meanwhile, Tarquin admits that the rape he intends to commit will be both ‘‘shameful’’ and ‘‘hateful,’’ and he realizes, ‘‘my posterity, shamed with the note, / Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin / To wish that I their father had not been.’’ Thus, one cannot question the rapist’s understanding of the evil nature of his crime. In fact, Roy W. Battenhouse notes that Tarquin is principally motivated by the illicitness of the act; while he cites Lucrece’s beauty as the deciding factor, he dwells far longer on the lack of morality he would be demonstrating. Battenhouse aptly notes how no more depth of character can be found in the story’s egotistical rapist than in any common criminal; ‘‘Basically what he loves is his own resoluteness, and the illusion of power which his fearlessness of consequences gives him, and in particular the satisfying sense of activity he gets from striking his falchion against flint, or in setting his foot upon the light.’’ Battenhouse also observes how Tarquin’s shallow deviance renders Lucrece’s pleas with respect to his honor utterly useless: ‘‘From the outset of the enterprise, the very blameworthiness of his design has excited his will.’’ Despite the demonstration of Tarquin’s self-conscious immorality, Jonathan Crewe acknowledges that ‘‘a certain sympathy is solicited for’’ Tarquin in the course of the poem. That is, in providing a full account of Tarquin’s thought processes before the rape, Shakespeare is effectively humanizing him; the reader recognizes him not simply as evil but as a person who

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has convinced himself through specious reasoning that he is justified in committing a horrible crime. Crewe points out that even Lucrece herself finds exclusively blaming Tarquin to be difficult, as she decries Night, Opportunity, and Time in search of the ‘‘ultimate perpetrator’’ of the rape. This shifting of blame may stem from the fact that Shakespeare was not only sympathetically portraying the plight of the rape victim but also providing a social commentary; thus, as Crewe writes, Tarquin ‘‘seems driven by destructive social dynamisms he can neither understand nor resist’’ and ‘‘is acting within larger scenarios of gendered violence.’’ That is, Tarquin is presented as a tragically misguided product of an excessively patriarchal culture.

THEMES Guilt and Innocence Shakespeare devotes a fair number of lines in Lucrece to addressing the sentiment of guilt experienced by the title character. Lucrece in fact explicitly professes to feeling guilty after being raped by Tarquin, despite having been promised death (as well as posthumous slander) if she does not allow the act. As a military man, Tarquin certainly needed no weapon to legitimate his threat of using harmful force, and any argument asserting that Lucrece should have prioritized her chastity over her life must contend with the fact that in so doing she would be deliberately deceiving her instinctively selfpreserving nature. (In fact, she later persuades herself that Collatine’s family’s honor is more important than her life and does manage to commit suicide.) Regardless of her obvious faultlessness, Lucrece’s first thoughts after Tarquin’s departure revolve around what she imagines to be her ‘‘sin,’’ ‘‘guilt,’’ and ‘‘helpless shame.’’ In line 819 she ` me, I Collatine,’’ as declares, ‘‘Tarquin wronged if she were in some way responsible for the actions of another beyond her control. Heather Dubrow relates, ‘‘Women who have been raped characteristically blame themselves for not fighting enough.’’ She then discusses how Lucrece ultimately centralizes her guilt in her hand, which she accuses of being ‘‘afeard to scratch her wicked foe’’ and then sentences it to the role of executer. Dubrow remarks, ‘‘Like so many of us, Lucrece


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attempts both to blame and defend herself: by reproaching the hand she is at once censuring herself and deflecting that censure onto only one part of her body, with the implication that the rest may be less guilty.’’ The theme of Lucrece’s guilt is made concrete throughout the poem through the metaphor of the ‘‘stain’’ that she feels. Focusing on the recurrences of words—a common practice in the study of Shakespeare—Coppe´lia Kahn notes that ‘‘the words ‘stain’ and ‘stained’ are mentioned eighteen times in the poem’s 1855 lines, and synonyms such as blot, spot, blur, blemish, attaint, scar, and pollution are frequently used.’’ She connects this association with the black-andwhite characterization of women’s sexual virtue in Shakespeare’s depiction of Rome: ‘‘Marriage makes sex, and woman as sexual object, clean; outside of marriage sex is unclean.’’ Thus, Lucrece can feel corrupted or defiled in the same way that a work of art, say, could be deemed of lesser value—if not worthless—with an accidental blotch of paint in the middle. Kahn posits that the connotations of the metaphor of the stain reveal that Lucrece may not quite feel the sense of guilt she claims to feel: ‘‘Though Lucrece uses moral terms such as sin and guilt, she actually condemns herself according to primitive, non-moral standards of pollution and uncleanness, in which only the material circumstances of an act determine its goodness or evil.’’ Jonathan Crewe draws a similar conclusion regarding Lucrece’s inability to rid herself of her guilt. He notes that her ‘‘peculiar anguish . . . is that of the innocent woman who cannot fully believe in her own innocence or escape an acute sense of shame.’’ He then likewise declares that her words inadequately correspond to her actual thoughts, highlighting ‘‘her inability to find a language in which to come to terms with her new situation: there is no fitting or expressive language for the raped Roman wife.’’ Indeed, in any era, language may have difficulty doing justice to the angst of such an emotional trauma.

Patriarchy A theme that is inherent not only in the attitudes and actions of the characters but also in the overall essence of the plot is the sociological fact of patriarchy, whereby men are given legal priority over women. In fact, as discussed

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Research the history of painted images of Lucrece. For a number of different paintings, comment on the artist and why he or she may have been interested in Lucrece, on what the artist chose to highlight with respect to Lucrece’s story, and on any other aspect of the painting that merits attention. Also, compare the styles of the various works and their effects on the moods of the paintings. If possible, provide photocopies of the paintings you discuss.

In certain eras of history, in certain geographical locations, women have been reduced to the status of second-class citizens. Research how the role of childbearing, as held by women exclusively, has shaped women’s overall societal role throughout the history of the United States specifically. Provide extensive discussion on current cultural norms and developments with respect to the bearing and raising of children. Suicide is viewed differently in different cultures. In an essay, provide a full discussion of hara-kiri, also known as seppuku, the form of ritual suicide viewed as honorable by Japanese samurai. Discuss Lucrece’s suicide in light of this perspective on the respectable killing of oneself. Reflect on your life and recall a time when an artistic product of some sort gave you additional perspective on your own circumstances. The work in question may be a painting, photograph, song, play, or film. Discuss the qualities of the art work, and ideas inherent in the art work, that struck you; also discuss how the art seemed to relate to your circumstances.

thoroughly by Coppe´lia Kahn, the prevailing patriarchal attitudes were largely responsible for Lucrece’s seeing fit to kill herself. Lucrece laments more than once that Collatine’s honor has been compromised by her being raped and

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that her remaining alive, and defiled, will ever be a stain on that honor. Particularly distressing to her is the notion that Tarquin might have impregnated her, in which case Collatine’s entire bloodline would be seen as ‘‘polluted.’’ While Heather Dubrow notes that many of Lucrece’s sentiments following the rape accurately reflect sentiments commonly expressed by victims of rape in the modern era, a twenty-first-century woman might yet be less likely to give the social consequences for her partner such overarching importance. Indeed, Lucrece expresses that the rape is impossible to deal with because through it, regardless of her guilt or innocence, she has lost the identity of chaste wife—an identity that is centered not around herself but around Collatine. Thus, giving primary consideration to Collatine, Lucrece determines that if she can no longer be the ideal of a chaste wife, she must cease to exist. Kahn makes reference to the legal system of inheritance in the Elizabethan era, whereby the production of male heirs was necessary to ensure that a family could retain its wealth. If a woman owned any property, it would belong to her husband at the time of her marriage. As such, among the propertied classes, at least, women were typically subservient to their fathers before marriage and to their husbands after. Nancy Vickers, in turn, notes that the rhetorical descriptions of Lucrece reflect the objectification of women in a patriarchal society. In sum, the story is overlaid with the various patriarchal aspects of Roman society, and these aspects play a substantial role in the unfolding of the narrative’s events.

STYLE An Oft-Told Tale As with many of his works, Shakespeare derived the story of Lucrece from existing materials, in this case largely historical. Different histories, of course, as well as fictionalized versions of history, have different perspectives, and retellings can reflect the ideological priorities of a writer or of an era. In choosing to adopt or readapt the perspectives of authors before him, Shakespeare revealed much about his personal priorities with regard to the tale. As Mercedes Maroto Camino notes, one of these priorities was certainly consideration for Queen Elizabeth, as a ‘‘myth of

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female heroism and virginity’’ could easily be construed as alluding to the chaste queen.

Vickers, have seen the poem’s reliance and emphasis on rhetoric to be highly meaningful.

Among many others, the ancient Romans Livy and Ovid and the fourteenth-century English poets Geoffrey Chaucer and John Gower had retold the story of Lucrece. Shakespeare is understood to have gleaned his own understanding of the tale primarily from the ancient Romans, with Livy addressing the matter in his Historia, and Ovid in his poetic work Fasti. One of the most noted discrepancies between Shakespeare’s Lucrece and the ancient Roman works is the bard’s shifting the instigation of Tarquin’s rape from the sight of Lucrece’s beauty to Collatine’s boasts of her chastity. In fact, as noted by Nancy Vickers, in the ancient sources, Collatine actually advocates that the men forgo discussion so as to simply conduct a test of their wives’ chastity through a surprise return trip. Vickers highlights this alteration as reflecting ‘‘a heightened insistence on the power of description, on the dangers inherent in descriptive occasions. Here, Collatine’s rhetoric, not Lucrece’s behavior, wins over his companions; Collatine’s rhetoric, not Lucrece’s beauty, prompts Tarquin’s departure.’’

A number of critics have pointed out that Shakespeare strayed from his ancient sources in shifting the event that instigated the idea of the rape in Tarquin’s mind from the sight of Lucrece to Collatine’s boasts about her. Vickers describes the particular type of rhetoric in question as ‘‘blazon,’’ whereby an object is described so as to be given praise, often through references to the various parts of the object. Thus, the description of Lucrece provided when Tarquin first enters her chamber can be referred to as a blazon—and in that Lucrece is so blazoned, she is in a sense dehumanized; she is reduced from a whole person to the sum of her parts. Likewise, Collatine’s boasts largely objectify Lucrece. Dubrow asserts that in making Collatine’s rhetorical objectification a source of Lucrece’s tragedy, Shakespeare is in a sense condemning its use—and he highlights its effects by employing it himself: ‘‘The poem is characterized (and, one suspects, inspired) less by a pleasure in poetic adornment per se than by a preoccupation with the moral and psychological issues expressed through—or even raised by—such adornment.’’

Various other discrepancies between Shakespeare’s Lucrece and his ancient sources have been found and discussed. For example, Jane O. Newman mentions that neither Ovid nor Livy make any mention of the possibility that Lucrece was impregnated by Tarquin. Overall, perhaps most prominent is the addition of much of Shakespeare’s innovative character development. As Newman reports, ‘‘The progress of the narrative is frequently interrupted by interior monologues and rhetorical set pieces that dilate Livy’s and Ovid’s essentially political story of Lucrece’s rape and suicide into a lengthy, almost psychological investigation of the motivation for and implications of both Lucrece’s and Tarquin’s actions.’’ Thus, as he often did, Shakespeare truly rewrote a tale that had been presented by others before him.

The Relevance of Rhetoric As a narrative poem produced by Shakespeare early in his career, Lucrece contains a fair degree of rhetoric, or artful speech. While some critics believe the lack of realism behind some of this rhetoric detracts from the poem as a whole, those who have examined the poem more closely, such as Heather Dubrow and Nancy


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Vickers, meanwhile, highlights the prominence of the motif of colors in the descriptions of Lucrece. This motif primarily revolves around her complexion bearing both the red of roses and the white of ivory, reflecting her beauty and her purity. However, a subtext relates to the colors that appeared on shields and coats of arms, which were of great importance with respect to honor in Shakespeare’s time and were thus under a fair degree of regulation; only kings could display the sun on their shields, and certain permanent marks could be added to coats of arms to reveal dishonorable deeds committed by members of a family. Vickers notes the two particular objectifications represented by this emphasis on colors: ‘‘Read as a martial image, Lucrece’s body as shield stands between Tarquin and Collatine to deflect blows, to prevent direct hits; read as a heraldic image, that same body is the medium assuring the passage of Collatium [the estate held by Collatine] from father to as yet unborn son.’’ Thus, in multiple senses, the rhetoric presented by Shakespeare is emblematic of the compromising position in which Lucrece finds herself in the context of a patriarchal society.

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A Foil to Philomela In Greek mythology, Philomela was raped by her sister’s husband, Tereus, the King of Athens. Afterward, indifferent to her own shame, she vowed to reveal his crime—prompting Tereus to cut out her tongue. At length, she was transformed into a bird, alternately a sparrow or a nightingale. In Lucrece, Philomela’s name is invoked twice: first, Lucrece is referred to by the narrator as ‘‘lamenting Philomel,’’ notably, after she has asserted, ‘‘My tongue shall utter all’’; some fifty lines later, Lucrece calls a bird that ‘‘sing’st of ravishment’’ Philomel. Thus, as many critics have noted, Shakespeare makes a nominal comparison between two women who were raped. In her essay ‘‘‘And Let Mild Women to Him Lose Their Mildness’: Philomela, Female Violence, and Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece,’’ Jane O. Newman offers a different perspective on the references to Philomela, asserting that beneath the poem’s surface ‘‘lies an ideology of gender that represses traditions of female political agency more threatening to patriarchy than Lucrece’s.’’ Newman notes that while the aspects of the Philomela myth represented in the poem cast the victim in a subjugated light, the myth in its entirety features both Philomela and her sister, Procne, exacting revenge on Tereus through severe violence. In the course of the festival of Bacchus, the women ritually slaughter and cook Itys, the son of Tereus and Procne. Thus, the mythical women manage to discontinue Tereus’s (as well as Procne’s own) royal line of descent. Lucrece, on the other hand, ultimately accomplishes only the banishment, not the death, of Tarquin’s line, and she accomplishes this only through her own destruction. In turn, as Newman notes, the change from monarchical to consular rule brought about by the banishment of Tarquin’s kin did not remove power from the hands of men or give power to women. Assessing the relationship between the Philomela myth and Shakespeare’s Lucrece, Newman concludes, ‘‘The manifest absence, even deletion, of the revenge alternative from Lucrece’s options is figured in the truncation of the full Philomela story. Women’s responses to rape and their participation in political renewal are thereby limited, ideologically speaking, to actions that require their self-destruction.’’

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HISTORICAL CONTEXT Roman Society Shakespeare’s treatment of the setting of Rome both here and in his plays often evokes the cultural relationship between that ancient culture and Elizabethan London. Coppe´lia Kahn asserts, ‘‘It is a critical commonplace that Elizabethans regarded Rome as a political mirror of their own times, finding in it a series of lessons . . . which they considered to have more than theoretical value.’’ In Lucrece, the depictions of certain societal values reflect and refract both Elizabethan and Roman cultural beliefs. Foremost, perhaps, among these societal value was patriarchy, which Kahn notes was the cultural rule in Elizabethan and ancient Roman times alike. One aspect of patriarchy found in both eras was an institution of marriage that essentially sanctioned sex—for women— only within a relationship so legally defined. Kahn notes that in ancient Rome, ‘‘the national cult of Vesta, goddess of the hearth, virtually institutionalized the virginal wife.’’ In the context of this cult, virgins were given the task of maintaining the sacred fires burning at the temple in Vesta, with these idealized women serving as prominent role models for the remainder of the population, inspiring a belief in the possibility of complete chastity. In England around 1600, meanwhile, Queen Elizabeth, known as ‘‘the Virgin Queen,’’ likewise presented to the population an influential image of a perfectly chaste woman. In addition, institutionalized Christian values frowned upon sex outside of marriage.

The Christian Perspective Certain commentators approaching Lucrece’s tale from a Christian perspective have seen fit to question her integrity. In fact, the topic of Lucrece’s conduct had long been discussed, perhaps most notably by Saint Augustine in his fifth-century work The City of God. According to Christian dogma, suicide is sinful (and thus might be interpreted as an expression of guilt), while the soul can remain pure regardless of what happens to the body. Thus, Augustine asserts, Lucrece’s killing herself must be indicative of either an unspoken consent to the rape or the fact that, as quoted by Kahn, she was ‘‘too greedy of praise’’ to cope with any ambiguous or suspicious reactions from others regarding her victimization.

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Tarquin and Lucretia (oil on panel), by Jan Massys (Tarquin and Lucretia (oil on panel), Massys or Metsys, Jan (1509-75) (circle of), photograph. Lauros Giraudon, Musee des Beaux-Arts, Lille, France/ The Bridgeman Art Library International)

A number of critics have noted that Shakespeare certainly had this Christian perspective in mind in retelling the tale. Indeed, the passages in which she contemplates the virtue of suicide (beginning with line 1156) and notes how ‘‘immaculate and spotless’’ her mind yet remains (line 1656) seem to indicate as much. D. C. Allen concludes that Shakespeare was perfectly aware of the story’s ‘‘tragic import, but he felt that it must be glossed in terms of Christian options. Lucrece should have defended herself to the death, or, having been forced, lived free of blame with a guiltless conscience. Her action was rare and wonderful, but a little beyond forgiveness.’’ Thus, in that Shakespeare nevertheless portrays Lucrece as a heroine, Allen attributes to him a judicious ‘‘recognition of the double understanding of the Lucrece story.’’ Notably, Roy W. Battenhouse claims that the Christian


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perspective influenced not just those isolated passages of moral questioning but the entire work; in fact, he wildly interprets certain clues scattered throughout the poem as revealing that Shakespeare was subtly portraying Lucrece as wholly complicit in the act of ‘‘adultery.’’ Kahn dismisses Battenhouse as displaying ‘‘considerable bias against Lucrece’’ in the course of his inventive argument.

The Fall of Troy Many commentators have offered unique interpretations of the significance of the section of the poem in which Lucrece ruminates on the painting of the mythological fall of the ancient city of Troy. Indeed, her various descriptions of, and reactions to, the event’s different characters seem to demand assessments from multiple perspectives, especially in light of the varied and

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

500 B . C . E .: The cult of the vestal virgins sanctifies the ideal of the chaste woman.

1600s: Christian notions prevalent throughout Western society condemn sex outside of marriage as sinful. Today: In America, Christian notions regarding sex and marriage are increasingly at odds with changing societal norms, with people often having sex before marriage, and marriages between homosexual couples gaining acceptance. 500 B . C . E .: A woman may be reluctant to admit she has been raped because of the effect the revelation will have on the honor of her husband and family. 1600s: Christian ideals allow women to preserve their own honor if they have been raped, despite the ‘‘adultery’’ that their

conflicting emotions Lucrece was herself experiencing at the time. Foremost, perhaps, is the narrator’s recurring identification of Lucrece with a besieged city like Troy. Tarquin’s hand upon her breast is called a ‘‘rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall,’’ and Tarquin is consequently described as intent to ‘‘make the breach and enter this sweet city.’’ Thus, for its connotations alone, the fall of Troy effectively highlights Lucrece’s tragic plight. Beyond the greater situation, Lucrece bears various relationships to the characters depicted in the painting. Lucrece expresses the most loathing for Sinon, who counseled Priam, the king of Troy, to admit the Trojan Horse through the gates: she ultimately tears Sinon’s image from the painting. Lucrece likens Sinon to Tarquin based on the treacheries of the two, yet, as Philippa Berry notes, with his tears and his ‘‘cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so,’’ Sinon seems to somewhat resemble Lucrece herself. In fact, both Lucrece and Sinon bring about the downfall of royalty through orations, as Lucrece’s speech before her suicide inspires Brutus to lead in

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bodies have technically committed, if they never consented in spirit, such that their soul remains ‘‘clean.’’ Today: While women who have suffered rape are perhaps extended more sympathy than at any time in the past, rape remains one of the most under-reported crimes, largely due to the social consequences for the victim.

500 B . C . E .: Women are essentially excluded from the inheritance of property and estates. 1600s: In legal terms, a woman is virtually always under the guardianship of—and thus subservient to—her father, her husband, or some other male relation. Today: In most Western cultures, laws allow for no discrimination against women with regard to property ownership.

the overthrow of the Tarquins. Lucrece also denounces Helen, the exceedingly beautiful Greek woman whose abduction inspired the invasion, calling her a ‘‘strumpet.’’ Different legends depict Helen’s role differently, as she was perhaps made captive by, perhaps simply persuaded to accompany Paris, the Trojan prince (who was assisted by the goddess Aphrodite in his seduction of Helen). Regardless, Lucrece’s disdain for Helen may be interpreted as reflecting the self-loathing she feels in her ‘‘defiled’’ state. As Philippa Berry notes with regard to these crossing of character traits, ‘‘In her intense hostility to Helen and Sinon, Lucrece may imply a buried anxiety about her own ambiguous status as both member of and traitor to her society.’’

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Shakespearean scholars have approached Lucrece from various angles over the years. Coppe´lia Kahn notes that the earlier critical tradition largely

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featured discussions of Shakespeare’s developing artistry, sometimes to the exclusion of dialogue about the implications of the content. This artistry certainly merited ample discussion; D. C. Allen declares that both Lucrece and Venus and Adonis ‘‘are barns in which the young poet is storing up themes and metaphors for the future. They are virtuoso performances in which Shakespeare like a good musician is demonstrating both his repertoire and his skill with his instrument.’’ In fact, Kahn points out that the focus on the artistry of Lucrece was inspired in part by the fact that, as contrasting with the playful romance of the preceding narrative poem, in Lucrece, traditional sex roles ‘‘are taken with deadly seriousness and carried to a logical and bitter extreme, which makes it painful to confront the poem squarely.’’ Kahn notes that the rape demands attention, however, because ‘‘the poem must be understood in a psychosocial context which takes account of sex roles and cultural attitudes toward sexuality.’’ Highlighting the philosophical outlooks of commentators past and present, Jonathan Crewe notes, ‘‘Feminist attention to the poem must largely be given the credit for the intensiveness and high level of recent criticism.’’ In offering her comprehensive treatise on the use of rhetoric in the poem, Heather Dubrow notes that Shakespeare was by no means performing a literary exercise with disregard for the quality of the work. She writes, ‘‘Lucrece’s reactions to the threat of rape and to the crime itself are often cited as prime instances of what is wrong with the poem in which she figures. According to these readings, Shakespeare himself gets as carried away with rhetoric as his heroine: he employs the conventions of set speech with no regard for psychological reality or even common sense, crams in rhetorical tropes with no concern for their appropriateness to the context.’’ Having thoroughly researched the topic, however, Dubrow can astutely note, ‘‘If Lucrece’s lines could be cited as examples in a sixteenth-century textbook on rhetorical declamations, they would be no less appropriate in a twentieth-century textbook on the behavior of rape victims.’’ Thus, echoing the words of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, she concludes that Shakespeare ‘‘manifests an extraordinary ability to work on subjects distant from his own experience.’’


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CRITICISM Peter J. Smith In the following essay, Peter J. Smith examines Shakespeare’s Lucrece in light of the political, social, and cultural structures that could allow rape to occur. The critic argues that Shakespeare’s focus on the ‘‘political aspects of the crime’’ does not constitute a denial of the importance of the rape itself, as some scholars have argued, but rather reveals his interest in highlighting the larger social systems that make rape possible. W.B. Yeats’s ‘Leda and the Swan’ is probably the most famous literary rape of the twentieth century: A sudden blow: the great wings beating still Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill, He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. How can those terrified vague fingers push The feathered glory from her loosening thighs? And how can body, laid in that white rush, But feel the strange heart beating where it lies? A shudder in the loins engenders there The broken wall, the burning roof and tower And Agamemnon dead. Being so caught up, So mastered by the brute blood of the air, Did she put on his knowledge with his power Before the indifferent beak could let her drop? In the original edition, published in The Dial in June 1924, Yeats noted: ‘I wrote Leda and the Swan because the editor of a political review asked me for a poem . . . My fancy began to play with Leda and the Swan for metaphor, and I began this poem; but as I wrote, bird and lady took such possession of the scene that all politics went out of it.’ That Yeats views politics and rape as mutually exclusive is hardly surprising. On the one hand, an offence so clearly directed at the person and so intimately executed seems worlds away from the larger social structures that constitute the political. Even though Jove’s rape of Leda is shown to unleash the violence of the Trojan war—as the reference to ‘the burning roof and tower’ makes plain—the painful focus on the ‘terrified vague fingers’, the seized nape, breast and thighs implants the poem with a physicality which has the effect of evoking the sadistic act rather than exploring the ideological implications of the moment. Moreover,

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LUCRECE IS BOTH A COLONISED LANDMASS AND A BESIEGED CITY AND HER ATTACK IS, IN PLACES, INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM THE LARGER POLITICAL STRIFE—THE SIEGE OF ARDEA . . . ’’

the final lines ask a dangerously leading question—was Leda in some way empowered by her forcible coupling with a god? Did she, in other words, profit by the act? In 1968 William Empson infamously made the same suggestion of Lucrece: ‘She was no virgin, having several children; and it is a basic fact about the young Shakespeare that he considers young men in general overwhelmingly desirable to women, let alone brave young lords. Thus she took an involuntary pleasure in the rape, though she would have resisted it in any way possible; that is why she felt guilty, and why some of her blood turned black’. The fact that Yeats could have seen such questions as apolitical or that Empson could have viewed the episode in terms of personal blame is a sign of the shift in sensibility between 1924/1968 and the present day. For contemporary feminist critics, rape is an act of the most profoundly political nature and it would seem that this view of rape is shared by Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece. As Sara E. Quay has argued, ‘Lucrece is not able to be raped because she is a woman, but because she is constructed as a woman who is able to be raped.’ The feminist rationale is not difficult to see. In cultures in which rape is accepted as an albeit abnormal part of sexual behaviour, it is naturalised and the circumstances that produce it remain unquestioned and therefore dangerously unchallenged. If, on the other hand, rape is viewed as a social or political construction, the reasons for its acceptance and perhaps even its existence are available for interrogation. It is my contention that Shakespeare’s poem sets out to display the ‘constructedness’ of rape and that its concentration on the political aspects of the crime are not due to a shying away from the horror of the act itself, but rather reveal the social and cultural organisations

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that allow rape to occur in the first place. In such a way this essay takes issue with Coppe´lia Kahn’s assertion that criticism of The Rape of Lucrece ‘has so far failed to confront’ the rape in the poem. While she may be right that it is ‘painful to confront the poem squarely’, the poem’s stress on the political consequences of the crime and the political circumstances that led to it, constitutes an empowering rather than a disempowering reading for a feminist agenda in that it makes manifest not the physical details of the assault but rather the patriarchal structures that permit and even sponsor the activity. Rape in Renaissance literature was often set in directly political circumstances. In a horrible instance, Tamburlaine defies the supplications of the Damascan virgins who plead with him to spare the marital security of the city’s population: Pitie the marriage bed, where many a Lord In prime and glorie of his loving joy, Embraceth now with teares of ruth and blood, The jealous bodie of his fearfull wife, Whose cheekes and hearts so punisht with conceit, To thinke thy puisant never staied arme Will part their bodies, and prevent their soules From heavens of comfort, yet their age might beare, Now waxe all pale and withered to the death— [I Tamburlaine, V. i., Christopher Marlowe] The husbands’ ‘jealous’ embrace is to be ruptured by Tamburlaine’s soldiers so that the defilement of the marriage bed is seen to be an act of war. In a moment of thinly veiled phallic aggression, Tamburlaine mocks the virgins by introducing them to Death, who sits on the end of his sword: ‘there sits Death, there sits imperious Death, / Keeping his circuit by the slicing edge’ (V. i. 111–12). Tamburlaine voices his determination to defile the city in terms that suggest the sexual nature of his invasion: ‘I will not spare these proud Egyptians, / . . . for the love of Venus, would she leave / The angrie God of Armes, and lie with me’ (V. i. 121–5); the violation of the city will be even more sexually charged than sleeping with the goddess of love. Even Zenocrate, the woman Tamburlaine claims to love, has been subjected to his sexual assault. Agydas asks her why she appears so

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troubled given that she has had so long to get over her abduction by Tamburlaine: ’Tis more then pitty such a heavenly face / Should by hearts sorrow wax so wan and pale, / When your offensive rape by Tamburlaine / . . . Hath seem’d to be digested long agoe’ (III. ii. 4–8). These instances exemplify the essentially political nature of the sexual crime as well as its ineluctable contiguity with martial conflict. A decade later, this tyrannical sexuality reappears in another fearful example, this time in Shakespeare’s Henry V. Before the siege of Harfleur, the romanticised warrior spits out threats of sexual violation designed to terrorise the Governor into submission: If I begin the batt’ry once again ` Harfleur I will not leave the half-achieved ` Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And the fleshed soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass You fresh fair virgins and your flow ’ring infants . . . What is’t to me, when you yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickedness When down the hill he holds his fierce career? . . . why in a moment look to see The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters. Not only will the female inhabitants be sexually assaulted but, as my emphases demonstrate, the city itself will be laid waste as if it were a female victim of a perverted attack. As Heather Dubrow has pointed out, ‘given the common association of gates with the vagina, the notion of rape is latent in the image of the attacked city.’ Towards the end of the same play the French King describes the hitherto peaceful cities in terms of anthropomorphic landscapes. Their intact walls make them politically virginal: ‘you see them perspectively, the cities turned into a maid—for they are all girdled with maiden walls that war hath never entered.’ (V. ii. 317).


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In his oration to his troops on the eve of Bosworth, King Richard galvanises his men with the threat that if they lose the battle, their lands and wives will pay the price: You having lands and blessed with beauteous wives, They would distrain the one, distain the other. ... Shall these enjoy our lands? Lie with our wives? Ravish our daughters? (V. vi. 51–67) Moreover, this sexually charged intimidation is not merely the warped and twisted oratory of the play’s villain; even the political saviour, Richmond, attempts to arouse his soldiers with threats to their womenfolk: ‘If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, / Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors.’ (V. v. 213–14) Though less blunt and offensive than Richard’s rhetoric, the threat is the same—if you lose this battle, you will be cuckolded. In The Rape of Lucrece the rampaging army appears as a version of Tarquin’s engorged veins which, let loose, run away in a riot of impetuous rape and murder, levelling all in front of them, including the rhyme scheme: And they like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting, In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting, Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge, and bids them do their liking. (428–34) This concatenation between urban devastation and rape is figured most clearly in the poem during Lucrece’s contemplation of the picture of the Trojan war. As she summons up her memory of the whereabouts of the picture, the immediacy of the two events is reinforced: At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Of skilful painting made for Priam’s Troy, Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, For Helen’s rape the city to destroy. (1366–9) Urban and female ravishment are fused.

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In The Rape of Lucrece, as has often been noted, the act itself occupies only a tiny fragment—lines 673–83, that is ten lines out of the poem’s 1855 lines or 0.54 percent. This is a startling statistic and firmly gives the lie to the suggestion that (as far as this poem is concerned) ‘rape is a strangely pleasurable topic to read about because it draws us to what is perceived as a ‘‘closed’’ topic, a taboo’. In fact this poem is quite the opposite of Yeats’s since it lacks any close attention to the process of forced intercourse. Instead the poem dwells on the larger political context that surrounds the attack. In the ‘Argument’, the rape occupies only a single perfunctory sentence: ‘The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away.’ It then goes on to spell out, in much greater detail, the political consequences of the action: with one consent they [Lucrece’s relatives and friends] all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins, and, bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and the manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the King; wherewith the people were so moved that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled and the state government changed from kings to consuls.

The rape, then, is first and foremost a political action with grave political consequences. It is the moment that transforms the Kingdom of Rome into a republic and the poem is thus much more a narrative of cultural formation than an account of a gross act of violence. Its very setting—the siege of Ardea—frames the action, much as the Trojan war frames the action of Troilus and Cressida; the feuding of Verona frames the central affair of Romeo and Juliet; and the civil disorder between the triumvirate defines the world of Antony and Cleopatra. But in addition to the setting, the poem’s metaphorical treatment of its heroine and her violation is quite explicitly and deliberately politicised. As Peter Stallybrass, Georgianna Zeigler and Linda Woodbridge have shown, the female body is frequently a site of masculine occupation and colonial struggle. Examples are legion, the most famous of which are [John] Donne’s ‘Oh my America, my new found lande, / My kingdome, safeliest when with one man man’d, / My myne of precious stones, my Empiree, / How

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blest am I in this discovering thee’ (27–30), as well as Ralegh’s naming of his newly founded colony: Virginia, and his evocative description of Guiana in 1595 as ‘a country that hath yet her maydenhead’. Petruchio’s definition of his new wife as ‘[m]y household-stuff, my field, my barn’ (The Taming of the Shrew, III. iii. 103–4) and Valentine’s description of his love as a ‘principality’ (Two Gentlemen of Verona, II. iv. 150) are further examples. This Renaissance geo-eroticism dramatises the inherent violence as well as the facelessness of masculine desire. These landscaped women are generally supine, still and anonymous from the neck up. In Thomas Carew’s ‘A Rapture’ the female body is itemised, dissected and fragmented as it melts mysteriously into a fervently eroticised landscape: I’le seize the Rose-buds in their perfum’d bed, The Violet knots, like curious Mazes spread O’re all the Garden, taste the ripned Cherry, The warme, firme Apple, tipt with corall berry: Then will I visit, with a wandring kisse, The vale of Lillies, and the Bower of blisse: And where the beauteous Region doth divide Into two milkie wayes, my lips shall slide Downe those smooth Allies, wearing as I goe A tract for lovers on the printed snow; Thence climbing o’re the swelling Appenine, Retire into thy grove of Eglantine. (63–74) Like Donne’s intrepid explorer, Carew’s persona is also a cartographer leaving his trail for others to follow as they certainly will, for in this poem and the female landscape of the Renaissance, woman is sexually available for anyone. The poet of ‘A Rapture’ despises those ‘greedy men that seek to enclose the common, / And within private armes empale free woman’ (19–20), but she is not free herself, rather she is freely available to everyone else, just like Johnson’s Doll Common who speaks of herself as a commonwealth, ‘Haue yet, some care of me, o’ your republique’ (The Alchemist, I. i. 110). Land held in common and women commonly used lose their value. Robert Tofte insists on the consequences of trespassing:

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And so puissant and potent is this our desire, which wee haue to enioy that Party (which wee loue) soly and alone, without the societie and company of any other whatsoeuer, as that (many times) when this our high-pris’d Commoditie chanceth to light into some other merchants hands, and that this our private Inclosure proueth to be a Common for others, we care no more for it, but giue it altogether ouer.

Woman comes to be an object for man’s libidinal pleasure rather than a presence in her own right in these sexually charged pastorals. As Mercedes Maroto Camino writes, ‘woman is nothing other than the unlucky terrain where political struggles are fought and her sexuality the liminal space where a culture establishes its coordinates and fixes its boundaries.’ It is trenchantly significant that the Latin verb rapere, ‘to take by force’, gives us both rapture and rape.

such an ivory wall—’ (463–4); the movement of her breathing ‘moves in him more rage and lesser pity / To make the breach and enter this sweet city’ (468–9); ‘Under that colour am I come to scale / Thy never-conquered fort’ (481–2). Lucrece is both a colonised landmass and a besieged city and her attack is, in places, indistinguishable from the larger political strife—the siege of Ardea—with which the poem opens: Tarquin’s assault is described as a ‘siege that hath engirt his [Collatine’s] marriage’ (221) while Lucrece herself images the violation of her soul in terms of a routed castle: Her house is sacked, her quiet interrupted, Her mansion battered by the enemy, Her sacred temple spotted, spoiled, corrupted, Grossly engirt with daring infamy. Then let it not be called impiety If in this blemished fort I make some hole Through which I may convey this troubled soul. (1170–6)

This vocabulary of geo-sexual assault is employed during Shakespearean rapes. Titus Andronicus addresses the raped Lavinia as ‘[t]hou map of woe’ (III. ii. 12) while the sleeping Lucrece is described, immediately prior to her rape, as a ‘map of death’ (402). Her breasts are ‘like ivory globes circled with blue, / A pair of ` maiden worlds unconquered’ (407–8). As her male relatives attempt to console her she turns from them: ‘with a joyless smile she turns away / The face, that map which deep impression bears / Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears’ (1711–13). Lucrece is landscaped in such a way as to reify her as an object of masculine ownership or occupation—as Collatine pronounces ‘she was my wife. / I owed her, and ’tis mine that she hath killed’ (1802–3). The poem articulates the rape as a kind of trespass just as Tofte describes it: Tarquin’s hand rests ‘[o]n her bare breast, the heart of all her land’ (439) and the final image of the dead and bleeding body is of ‘a late-sacked island [which] vastly stood, / Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood’ (1740–1).

Lucrece appears as yet another spoiled manmade structure: a muddied fountain. She appeals to Tarquin to ‘[m]ud not the fountain that gave drink to thee’ (577), the rape is likened to the poisonous toads that ‘infect fair founts with venom mud’ (850); and as she addresses the possibility of her own redemption she notes that ‘[t]he poisoned fountain clears itself again’ (1707). Lavinia too appears as a polluted fountain. Titus tells her attackers, ‘[h]ere stands the spring whom you have stained with mud’ (Titus Adronicus, V. ii. 169) and he proposes to his daughter that they should ‘sit round about some fountain’ and cry into it: ‘in the fountain shall we gaze so long / Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, / And made a brine pit with our bitter tears’ (III. i. 123, 127–9). Clearly, in a society predicated on primogeniture, rape muddies the line of descent so that the clarity of legitimate lineage is mired in dynastic confusion.

In addition, this imagery of physical geography, that is of natural scenery, is overlaid with the discourse of urban invasion I have already documented. Repeatedly and in a way that emphasises the political rather than the physical, the body of Lucrece is transmogrified into the features of a cityscape—Tarquin’s ‘hand did scale / Left their [her breasts’] round turrets destitute and pale’ (440–1); ‘His hand that yet remains upon her breast— / Rude ram, to batter

In addition to the employment of these ideologically loaded images of country, city and fountain, the outcome of Lucrece’s rape is publicly staged. Just as we witness the aftermath of Lavinia’s ordeal at the hands of Demetrius and Chiron—the actual rape takes place offstage (Titus Andronicus, II. iii. 187)—so the audience that witnesses Lucrece’s ‘confession’ and the procession of her body ensures that her suffering is publicly acknowledged. In this way her


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wounds, like those of Julius Caesar, are displayed to political ends: ‘They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence, / To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, / And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence’ (1850–2, my emphases). Virtue is conspicuous: ‘Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day. / Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly, / But eagles gazed upon with every eye’ (1013–15). Moreover, while men seem to be able to cover their tracks with machiavellian cunning, women have no choice but to reveal their inner corruption: ‘Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, / Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books’ (1252–3). Little wonder then that while Tarquin exits subtly (1280–1), Lucrece’s grief and funeral are public, even state occasions. Lucrece’s account of the previous night is an explicit and civic event. The poem is insistent that the account takes place in front of an assembled audience: ‘Collatine and his consorted lords / With sad attention long to hear her words’ (1609–10); ‘‘‘But ere I name him, you fair lords,’’ quoth she, / Speaking to those that came with Collatine’ (1688–9); ‘Each present lord began to promise aid’ (1696). Also, the vocabulary associated with her description of the rape is drawn from that of the public court: My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; No rightful plea might plead for justice there. His scarlet lust came evidence to swear That my poor beauty had purloined his eyes; And when the judge is robbed, the prisoner dies. (1648–52, my emphases) Injustice is not only done, but it is seen to be done and the reason this is important is because chastity is as much about public—that is political— reputation as personal virtue. As Hamlet instructs his mother, repute is all: ‘Assume a virtue if you have it not’ (III. iv. 151). In The Duchess of Malfi [by John Webster], Ferdinand’s apocalyptic vision links sexual licence with fading reputation: Upon a time, Reputation, Love, and Death Would travell ore the world: and ’twas concluded That they should part, and take three severall wayes: Death told them, they should find him in great Battailes,

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Or Cities plagu’d with plagues: Love gives them councell To enquire for him ’mongst unambitious shepheards, Where dowries were not talk’d of: and sometimes ’Mongst quiet kindred, that had nothing left By their dead Parents: stay (quoth Reputation) Doe not forsake me; for it is my nature If once I part from any man I meete I am never found againe. And so, for you: You have shooke hands with Reputation, And made him invisible: So fare you well. I will never see you more. (III. ii. 123–37) Sexuality (especially female sexuality) is public property, an index of the civilisation of the society in which it resides. Brutus is adamant that the rape of Lucrece is just as much (if not more so) a crime against the state as against her person. Collatinus is not considered to be the wronged ` husband of Lucrece but rather ‘[t]hou wronged lord of Rome’ (1818) and Brutus’ call to action is peppered with conspicuous references to the city: Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such relenting dew of lamentations, But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part To rouse our Roman gods with invocations That they will suffer these abominations— Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced— By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. Now by the Capitol that we adore, And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store, By all our country rights in Rome maintained, And by chaste Lucrece’ soulthat late complained Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, We will revenge the death of this true wife. (1828–41) It is ‘Rome herself [which] doth stand disgraced’—Lucrece hardly figures. At the climax of the poem then, the personal is configured as the political in a way that underlines the cultural significance of the moment, for rape is seen to be not a crime against an individual, but an offence against a civilisation. Diana Fuss questions the ‘tendency to psychologize and to personalize questions of oppression, at the expense of strong materialist analyses

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TO WHAT EXTENT MIGHT BRUTUS’S FAMOUS


COMMITMENT PROCEED FROM COMPASSION OR MORAL OUTRAGE, AND TO WHAT EXTENT FROM PLAIN OPPORTUNISM, WHETHER PATRIOTIC OR SELF-

Shakespeare placed rape in the dramatic context of a tragedy in Titus Andronicus (c. 1593). Cymbeline (c. 1609), one of Shakespeare’s latest plays, also features a man boasting about the chastity of his wife, in this case leading another man to desire to seduce her into committing adultery.

Fyodor Dostoevsky provides one of the most highly regarded psychological studies of a criminal in all of literature in Crime and Punishment (1866), offering much insight into the manner in which the criminal copes with his guilt. In Chaste Thinking: The Rape of Lucretia and the Birth of Humanism (1989), Stephanie H. Jed discusses the progression of the various versions of the myth of Lucrece, and relates them to societal changes.

of the structural bases of exploitation.’ While Shakespeare’s poem acts in the opposite direction, it is a brave critic who will argue that their depersonalised readings of rape must be recognised to be more progressive or radical than those that focus on the victim. Rape is after all not a literary event, but a terrible reality with real-life casualties. Source: Peter J. Smith, ‘‘Rome’s Disgrace: The Politics of Rape in Shakespeare’s Lucrece,’’ in Critical Survey, Vol. 17, No. 3, 2005, pp. 15–26.

G. W. Majors In his excerpt, Majors focuses attention not on the major characters of Tarquin and Lucrece but on the minor character of L. Junius Brutus. Majors contends that only Brutus provides the poem with any amount of ‘‘moral enigma’’ and ambiguity.


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SEEKING?’’

Moral ambiguities scarcely abound in The Rape of Lucrece. For all the attention given their ‘‘psychological aspects,’’ Tarquin and Lucrece are characters no more elusive, ethically, than Lust and Chastity in a morality play. They are humanized, to be sure, racked by doubt, and possessed of a self-scrutiny totally foreign to their allegorical forebears. But their aching hearts still beat in clean sight. However searching the analysis, the essential goodness of Shakespeare’s heroine remains invulnerable to argument. Nor can the evil embodied in the rapist be extenuated, either by his awareness of pain or by our awareness of Freud. If there is a moral enigma in the poem, it waits in the last seven stanzas, those dominated by L. Junius Brutus. Coming where it does, Brutus’s share of the poem would seem to court notice, and his character appears mysterious enough to warrant this attempt to pluck it out. Admittedly, the conclusion always excites more attention as source evidence than as poetry. It concerns the major characters only incidentally and exhibits none of the self-conscious artfulness manifest in the passages most remembered and discussed. Hasty, derivative, these uninspired stanzas have evoked almost nothing from critics, save an occasional remark about Shakespeare’s desire to tie up loose ends before concluding. Of the few who have bothered to comment, Esther C. Dunn is typically sketchy: The end of the poem like the end of many Elizabethan plays carries the story beyond what the modern audiences would call ‘‘the final curtain.’’ After Lucrece has confessed, charged her husband to revenge her upon Tarquin, after the embroidered grief in the speeches by her father and Collatine, we should cry for an end. But Shakespeare carries the

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story on. Neither he nor his public could forego the tidying up of the events.

She does right to assume that the Brutus segment, anticlimactic, invites apology in view of its apparent superfluousness. But to pretend that the purpose of these verses lies in ‘‘the tidying up of the events’’ requires exception of all but the final stanza. Taken as they stand, the last fortynine lines argue strongly to the contrary. Shakespeare, whatever his purposes, was not content to put a hem on the work until he had spun a final thread—one which dangles in the reader’s face long before it is used in stitching the poem to a tidy conclusion. Probably I am not the only reader who has been puzzled by the intrusive stanza that cuts us off from the lamentations of Collatine and Lucretius. With slight regard for continuity, the poet shifts our attention to a character who has been named (line 1734) but hardly noticed: Brutus, who pluck’d the knife from Lucrece’ side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show. He with the Romans was esteemed so As silly jeering idiots are with kings, For sportive words and utt’ring foolish things. (1807–13) Here, Lucrece having already run more than ninety-seven per cent of its lengthy course, we suddenly encounter the only ethically indistinct figure in the poem. To the reader uninitiated in Roman legendary history, the lines at first suggest another villain in our midst. The reader will soon change his mind, however; and by the end of the poem, unless he is more chary than most, he will err again by supposing Brutus a right champion of unambiguous virtue. L. Junius Brutus doubtless belongs with the innocent inasmuch as he opposes the wicked. Yet to view Shakespeare’s Roman hero with so easy an eye is to misunderstand both the character and his function in the poem. From the outset it is evident that Brutus is not the simple instrument we find, for example, in Chaucer’s version of the story. An avenger still, and a means for concluding, Shakespeare’s handy vindicator nevertheless raises as many problems as he solves. When he ‘‘throws that shallow habit by, / Wherein deep policy did him disguise’’ (1814–15), Brutus tempts us to

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Frontispiece to the Rowe edition of Lucrece, 1714 (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

fancy that he reveals nothing less than naked heroism. As it happens, we have already been told of another garment which will replace the shallow habit of foolery, this one woven of ‘‘state and pride’’ (1809) and the rich connotations that attend them. Hero or none, Brutus has put off one role only to put on another. And the rightness of his cause should not blind us to the chance that he may be pursuing his ‘‘deep policy’’ still. After his metaphorical change of costume, Brutus sets about to persuade Collatine to stop sobbing and join with him in seeking revenge— revenge not against the rapist alone, but against Tarquin’s father the King, against the whole government (cf. Lucrece’s insistence [1478–84] that private sins ought to be punished without

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public consequences). For in Lucrece’s rape, Brutus casually alleges, ‘‘‘Rome herself . . . doth stand disgraced’’’ (1833). This point made, he can now tender his dramatic pledge of revenge: ‘‘Now by that Capitol that we adore, And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store, By all our country rights in Rome maintained, And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late complained Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, We will revenge the death of this true wife.’’ (1835–41) Even allowing for the rhetorical flavor of the entire poem. Brutus’s sumptuous avowal smacks vaguely of humbug, especially when we are told (847–48) that he will recite the whole thing over again for those who agree to join him. More striking than the oratory is the curiously indecorous gesture that follows: ‘‘This said, he strook his hand upon his breast, / And kiss’d the fatal knife to end his vow.’’ (1842–43). Probably not since Judas’s was a kiss so sticky with ambiguity. Even Seneca’s revengers had taste enough to avoid this kind of grotesquerie, so we cannot help remarking the incongruousness of the gesture. Though we seek in Brutus such selflessness as befits a proper champion, we are obliged to concede the possibility that his kiss conveys a note of private thanks. The same knife which destroyed Lucrece will, after all, serve as the weapon with which this shrewd republican deposes his enemies and becomes first consul of Rome. Nor is it impertinent to recall Brutus’s political rise. The story being a popular one. Shakespeare likely assumes his audience will know the result of Brutus’s conquest, just as he earlier found it unnecessary to tell us why Brutus had been posing as a fool. He can assume that the educated reader will be familiar with at least the broad outline of the ‘‘history’’ he recounts. Now, before confessing that I have overvalued the argument against Brutus, I should put the case in its simplest form. The poem ends with the banishment of the offender, a direct result of Brutus and his pledgers’ having paraded the martyred Lucrece from spot to spot. ‘‘To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, / And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence.’’ (1851–52) Careful readers at this point will think back to Brutus’s abrupt transformation and ask a question which


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seemed only secondary at the time: what exactly was it that moved him to put aside his show of folly for the sobriety of a determined avenger? From convenience and romantic impulses, we want to reply that it was simple indignation born of the pitiful spectacle he had just witnessed. But Shakespeare tells us only that it was because Brutus saw ‘‘such emulation’’ (1808) in the plaints of Collatine and Lucretius. We are invited to wonder, then, whether Brutus aims to assuage their woe or to capitalize on it. Although a case could be made both ways, surely the final stanza italicizes the less Christly objective. Earlier, in one of several dozen gnomic precepts contained in the poem, Shakespeare teaches a theatrical lesson now implicit in the conclusion: ‘‘To see sad sights moves more than hear them told.’’ (1324). Pointedly commonsensical, this Horatian dictum might just as well have come from an ambitious Machiavel when he spied, in the blood-spattered Lucrece, a ‘‘sad sight’’ that could move the people to join in supplanting a regime which he hated and feared. Though I have reckoned one-sidedly in this preliminary account of Lucius Brutus, it is not because I am keen to insist upon his self-interestedness. The point is that one cannot tell. We watch and applaud the sudden emergence of a leader, and like the Roman onlookers, we are left ‘‘wond’ring at him.’’ (1845). Because the unromantic possibilities loom conspicuous, our ‘‘wonder’’ holds less of admiration. less still of astonishment, as compared to plain doubt. Brutus wears a fog on his heart. Shakespeare gives him an obscurity that prevents us from making the categorical moral judgment we automatically make with respect to the other characters. By recognizing the obscurity we move a step nearer to Brutus’s role in the poem and the way Shakespeare’s character differs from Brutuses who marched before. But other obstacles remain. If the distinctions between Chaucer’s Brutus and Shakespeare’s ask no rehearsing, not so with the versions of Ovid and Livy. The conclusion of Shakespeare’s poem is noisy with source echoes, most of them traceable to one or both of the Augustans. Hence, even long before T. W. Baldwin’s meticulous research, editors were posting quick footnotes to account for the end of Lucrece as a virtual translation of its sources. Over those

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footnotes, however, one hears testimony to a slightly different effect. Traditionally, the most idealistic accounts of the Roman liberator find in his disguise a mere ‘‘protection’’ against the Tarquins, in his uprising an indignant response to the spectacle of innocence wronged. Modified interpretations had been advanced long before Shakespeare. For example: And although Titus Livy assigns but one cause as the ground which induced [Brutus] to practise this dissimulation, namely, that he might live in greater security and preserve his estates, none the less, in view of his conduct, one can well believe that he practised it also in order to escape observation and that he might get a better opportunity of downing the kings and liberating his country, whenever they gave him a chance.

The voice is Machiavelli’s; he is teaching the political lesson ‘‘That it is a Very Good Notion at Times to pretend to be a Fool.’’ Though the Florentine Secretary may have read his Livy a bit too hastily, his point is indicative. Neither Livy nor Ovid does much to encourage speculation about the motives of the giant-killer destined to liberate Rome. Both deal with the shrewd Brutus as well as the valiant one. Both treat the clever pretender, ingenious interpreter of the Delphic oracle, kisser of his mother earth. Yet neither offers to draw motivational connections between the disguised strategist and the avenger who reacts with such heartful determination to the tragedy of Lucrece. From all appearances, they are simply not concerned to qualify the famous patriot’s heroics. Practically, therefore, the vindicator who champions Rome’s cause and Lucrece’s seems as unambiguous as in Chaucer or Painter, where his duplicitous side is completely omitted. Seems, perhaps, but is not so. To readers like Machiavelli or Shakespeare, heroes—even Roman ones—were made of human stuff. Certain questions were bound to arise. Machiavelli could not read Livy’s account without probing for unspoken motives behind Brutus’s dissemblance. As to his shedding of the disguise at a crucial moment later on, Machiavelli confidently assumes that Brutus seized upon Lucrece’s affliction as a political pretext, else why should he have been the one to pull the dagger from Lucrece’s wound in the presence of her relatives and to exact from bystanders a pledge to abolish monarchy

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(Discourses, I, 464)? In Lucrece the same assumption is writ, if not large, at least legibly in the space between the lines. Like other Elizabethans, Shakespeare grew up with the Lucrese story and probably read it or heard it in a dozen versions. But unlike so many of his contemporaries, he was enough a realist to recognize and publicize the fact that the men who slay dragons are as often bounty hunters as chevaliers. To what extent might Brutus’s famous commitment proceed from compassion or moral outrage, and to what extent from plain opportunism, whether patriotic or self-seeking? With a few deft touches, Shakespeare hints at this motivational riddle in the last forty-nine lines of Lucrece. He asks us to be bothered by the same questions that Ovid and Livy seemingly contrived to suppress. Editors are right when they tell us that Shakespeare followed his sources closely in the poem’s final stanzas. Indeed, he followed so closely that he stepped on them. Then he moved ahead, unemphatically, without breaking stride. He did not alter the course taken by his Latin references; he merely went farther than they did. He went farther by insisting on the equivocality that was always there. In the broad outline of the event, and in a number of grammatical and incidental particulars, the last stanzas of Lucrece correspond to the probable sources. But more essential to the total effect are the bits and pieces the Elizabethan poet added on his own. Brutus’s kissing of the bloody knife, the clothing of his wit in ‘‘state and pride,’’ the explicit contradiction between his and Lucrece’s notions of private justice in a political world—these and other such nagging details appear, so far as I am aware, in no previous treatment of the story. At least in the limited way that I have suggested, Shakespeare’s is an original, carefully ambivalent treatment of L. Junius Brutus. If not yet the seriocomic egomaniac that Heywood was to make him, Lucrece’s revenger now shows a dubious side scarcely thinkable in earlier Elizabethan versions. He becomes the second Shakespearean character to be called ‘‘unsounded’’ (1819) and the first who truly deserves the name. We are left faintly suspicious that chastity’s paladin may be polity’s Machiavel, a sly aspirer who, less playfully than Touchstone, ‘‘uses his folly like a stalking horse’’ (As You Like It V.iv.100). He reminds us, possibly, of a certain canny prince who awaits a

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seasonable moment for throwing off his loose behavior, so that ‘‘he may be more wond’red at’’ (1 Henry IV I.ii.189). However minor his role, Brutus emerges as an intriguing character who earns a position in the Shakespearean assembly of politic inscrutables. In this respect, he likely merits notice in an appendix to Harold R. Walley’s provocative study of the connections between Shakespeare’s poem and his later dramatic habits. As plot opportunity and plotting opportunist, Brutus anticipates other minor characters such as Fortinbras. In a more general way, he is kin to those major characters—Bolingbroke, for example, or Octavius Caesar—who would be shown by Shakespeare to combine villainous proficiency with a bland refusal to be villains. But while Brutus’s place in the canon invites consideration, it does not, of course, explain his place in Lucrece. The poet no doubt needed Brutus for the tidying up of the events, but why did he draw the avenger with such riddling lines? Whether he studied Ovid or Livy or both, Shakespeare seems to have found thematic potential in the queer, equivocal genius who presides over the finish and over Rome thereafter. From the moralistic viewpoint that predominates in the poem. Shakespeare’s Brutus is a composite figure, spotty enough to recall both the goodness of Lucrese and the villainy of Tarquin. Outside that perspective, he models a paradox typically Shakespearean: morally indeterminate, he is nevertheless publicly and existentially perfect. By handling his revenger as he did, Shakespeare made a narrative convenience something more. In a poem dominated by two characters not perplexing but perplexed, Brutus comes as a disturbing antithesis. Ethically unfixed, this slippery character nearly slides off the page. The poem that has relied so largely on painstaking exploration of motive, and on the assumption of a normative ethic, can only barely accommodate him. But precisely this difficulty accounts for Brutus’s important, extradramatic role in the poem. His true moral worth matters nothing. Shakespeare encourages us to ask unanswerable questions about Brutus’s intentions and then to recognize that whatever his real motives and whatever his ethical stature, Brutus is self-contained, passionless, unerring. Or to borrow terms from the riskiest of contemporary texts, he embodies what it takes to ‘‘inherit heaven’s


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graces / And husband nature’s riches from expense’’ (Sonnet 94). As such, he stands out like a marginal gloss when set beside the other figures in the story. Structurally, he looks the part of an epilogue. He occupies center stage in the last seven stanzas, outside the boundaries of the main action. From this vantage point Brutus oversees the conclusion while offering an informal review of the other characters. Of course, only three characters really count in the poem: Tarquin, Lucrece, and Collatine. Their vices and virtues have been studied throughout, but their means and strategies remain secondary, their practical failings largely untallied, until the coming of Brutus. In the anticlimactic last stanzas dedicated to a sturdy realist, efficiency supplants morality as the prevailing standard. Here, in other words, Shakespeare finally provides the norm by which to measure his characters on an other than ethical basis. First consider Lucrece, whose tragedy comes in two parts. Responsibility for the rape rests, as always, most immediately with the rapist. But the poet has implied—and now, I would suggest, demonstrates—that the innocent victim owns a share of the blame. Open and unsuspicious, Lucrece flounders for lack of the same skills by which Brutus succeeds. She is beguiled by Tarquin because she trusts appearances (89– 91, 99–105) and because her public sensibility makes her overly dainty about etiquette (841– 44). The suspiciousness that might prompt faux pas she avoids by a gullibility that prompts deadly missteps. The tracks of these missteps show up tellingly when the disguised Brutus shows up at the end. His mere appearance reminds us that Lucrece’s tragedy was avoidable, that not everybody plays gull to a dissembling tyrant. For here, more inscrutable than ever, comes the famous Roman Brutus, Covering discretion with a coat of folly; As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate. (Henry V II.iv.37–40) Lucrece misses such discretion and such a covering. Her trustfulness and openhanded hospitality reflect proper social conduct, but not the conduct needed to survive in a world inhabited by the likes of Tarquin.

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Lucrece’s suicide is another matter. Hers alone is the burden of direct responsibility, yet she seems to have the not too reluctant admiration of Shakespeare (and of most readers) when she makes her fatal decision—a decision which, as Hallett Smith has remarked, ‘‘is a heroically simple one.’’ With the entrance of Brutus, however, the scene shifts to the real world. In this setting passion wants splendor, and heroic virtues appear absurd. With a single stroke, the cool realist would destroy our illusions about the beauty and aptness of Lucrece’s tragic end: ‘‘‘Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so. / To slay herself that should have slain her foe.’’’ (1826–27). He is right. Seen outside a romantic context (and not in Battenhouse’s Christian one), Lucrece’s self-destruction reflects only the fact that she ‘‘mistook the matter,’’ since it neither restored what she lost nor punished the thief who took it. Brutus is a practical man urging practical action. In his Rome goodness and heroism, when they prove ineffectual, translate as folly. Lucrece’s needless suicide issues from a motive to which Brutus, once again, provides the potent counterstatement. Although shame weighs immoderately on such saints, the decisive factor in Lucrece’s tragic choice is not that she herself doubts her innocence: ‘‘Though my gross blood be stain’d with this abuse. Immaculate and spotless is my mind: That was not forc’d, that never was inclin’d To accessory yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poison’d closet yet endure.’’ (1655–59) Instead, it is her fear of what others will think (e.g., 810–19, 1314–23). That the wiser, self-contained Brutus pays tiny regard to such rumor appears plain enough by his willingness to act the public fool in order to further his private strategy. Simply because she makes inexpedient ado about her public standing, Lucrece is obliged to destroy both the ‘‘poison’d closet’’ and the pure mind that hurts within it, rather than risk that the world infer the guilt of the one from the outward shame of the other. Her tragedy, in one important respect, is that no matter how convinced of her indwelling taintlessness, she knows she cannot hide from her countenance the shame that would argue guilt. Unhappily, she lacks Brutus’s aptitude for making outward appearance subject to inner command. While he

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is among those who, lords and owners of their faces, do not do the thing they most do show, Lucrece desponds untutored in such ways of the wise: ‘‘‘And my true eyes have never practis’d how / To cloak offences with a cunning brow.’’’ (748–49). All considered, Lucrece perishes because she is too good, too trusting, too idealistic, too artless for survival in a post-Saturnian world. And that is exactly what Brutus tells us— with his disguise, his actions, his words—when he makes his belated appearance, a realist epilogue in an idealistic fable. Brutus’s commentary on Lucrece’s husband and on Tarquin can be more speedily summarized. Shakespeare has told us that Collatine’s boasting was the spark that ignited lustful flames in Tarquin’s heart. The didactic poet advises, along the way, that some treasures are best kept hidden, that the beauty and virtue of Lucrece ought to have remained the secret blessing of the one man fortunate enough to enjoy them (33–35). And now, in the closing section of the poem, he introduces a character more studious than Collatine of this prudent individualism. By maintaining his show of folly, Brutus has managed to keep his own dearest possession ‘‘long-hid’’ (1816) and thus safe from the envy of tyrants. Far from boasting, as Collatine did, Brutus committed himself to the most self-deprecatory course available. Pretending idiocy and subjecting himself to the reputation that goes with it, the ‘‘unsounded’’ tactician was satisfied to be thought capable of nothing more than ‘‘sportive words and utt’ring foolish things.’’ He belongs with those who husband nature’s riches from expense, just as Collatine joins the lesser group, those but stewards of their excellence. Shakespeare makes his enigmatic revenger the most efficient character in Lucrece, not just for the ways he contrasts with Collatine and his virtuous lady, but also for his superiority over the creature on the other end of the moral spectrum. As already noticed, Brutus shares with his enemy the ability to pretend to be other than he is. In design and execution, however, he reverses the pattern established by Tarquin. When he arrived at Lucrece’s, Tarquin succeeded in masking his ‘‘inward ill’’ by feigning dignity and propriety: For that he colour’d with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty, That nothing in him seem’d inordinate. (92–94)

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Now, when we meet Brutus in the final section of the poem, has he not been turning the same trick in another direction—coloring his true worth with his low estate, hiding his natural majesty in pleats of baseness, so that all about him (since he was playing the fool) seemed more than a little inordinate? Brutus is every bit as furtive as Tarquin, else he had not managed to survive. The signal distinction, with or without the moral overtones, is that the dissimulation in the one springs from wit, in the other from mindless passion. Tarquin makes a somewhat palliative confession in this regard: ‘‘‘My will is strong past reason’s weak removing.’’’ (243). Palliative, that is, because the weakness he attributes to ‘‘reason’’ belongs, more particularly, elsewhere. Although Brutus’s later words are directed against a very different outburst of passion, his commentary, granted the choric privilege it deserves, pronounces judgment on Tarquin as well: ‘‘‘Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds.’’’ (1825). Whether victim or villain, those who err suffer exposure beside the mysterious pragmatist who gets the last word and the last seven stanzas. More than a narrative expedient, Shakespeare’s Brutus earns significance as a community foil. In his role in the poem, however late and slight, he behaves in such a way as to provide a practical assessment of the main characters. Hence, if he comes from Shakespeare’s pen a more blotched and problematic figure than before, he does so to a purpose. The moralizing poet supplies neat ethical determinations but stops short, cannily, when he reaches the last stanzas. Relieved of obligation to the idealistic schema, Brutus affords the means for understanding this sentimental, moral tale on a basis unsentimental and unmoral. Source: G. W. Majors, ‘‘Shakespeare’s First Brutus: His Role in Lucrece,’’ in Modern Language Quarterly, Vol. 35, No. 4, December 1974, pp. 339–51.

SOURCES

Berry, Philippa, ‘‘Woman, Language, and History in The Rape of Lucrece,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 44, 1992, pp. 33–9. Camino, Mercedes Maroto, ‘‘‘That Map Which Deep Impression Bears’: The Politics of Conquest in Shakespeare’s Lucrece,’’ in Shakespeare: World Views, edited by Heather Kerr, Robin Eaden, and Madge Mitton, University of Delaware Press, 1996, pp. 124–45. Crewe, Jonathan, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Narrative Poems, by William Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1999, pp. xxix–lii. Dubrow, Heather, ‘‘‘Full of Forged Lies’: The Rape of Lucrece,’’ in Captive Victors: Shakespeare’s Narrative Poems and Sonnets, Cornell University Press, 1987, pp. 80–168. Kahn, Coppe´lia, ‘‘The Rape in Shakespeare’s Lucrece,’’ in Shakespeare and Gender: A History, edited by Deborah E. Barker and Ivo Kamps, Verso, 1995, pp. 22–46. MacCallum, Mungo W., Shakespeare’s Roman Plays and Their Background, Macmillan, 1910. Newman, Jane, ‘‘‘And Let Mild Women to Him Lose Their Mildness’: Philomela, Female Violence, and Shakespeare’s The Rape of Lucrece,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 45, No. 3, Autumn 1994, pp. 304–26. Shakespeare, William, Lucrece, in The Narrative Poems, Penguin Books, 1999, pp. 50–120. Stimpson, Catharine R., ‘‘Shakespeare and the Soil of Rape,’’ in The Woman’s Part: Feminist Criticism of Shakespeare, edited by Carolyn Ruth Swift Lenz, Gayle Greene, and Carol Thomas Neely, University of Illinois Press, 1980, pp 56–64. Sylvester, Bickford, ‘‘Natural Mutability and Human Responsibility: Form in Shakespeare’s Lucrece,’’ in College English, Vol. 26, 1965, pp. 505–11. Vickers, Nancy, ‘‘‘The Blazon of Sweet Beauty’s Best’: Shakespeare’s Lucrece,’’ in Shakespeare and the Question of Theory, edited by Patricia Parker and Geoffrey Hartman, Methuen, 1985, pp. 95–115. Weis, Kurt, and Sandra S. Borges, ‘‘Victimology and Rape: The Case of the Legitimate Victim,’’ in Rape Victimology, edited by Leroy G. Schultz, Charles C. Thomas, 1975.

FURTHER READING

Allen, D. C., ‘‘Some Observations on The Rape of Lucrece,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 15, 1962, pp. 89–98. Augustine, Saint, The City of God, translated by George E. McCracken et al., 7 vols., Harvard University Press and Heinemann, 1957, p. 72.


Battenhouse, Roy W., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Re-Vision of Lucrece,’’ in Shakespearean Tragedy: Its Art and Its Christian Premises, Indiana University Press, 1969, pp. 3–41.

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Boardman, John, Jasper Griffin, and Oswyn Murray, eds., The Oxford History of the Roman World, Oxford University Press, 2001. This comprehensive volume provides a variety of essays on the evolution of Roman society.

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Burgess, Ann Wolbert, and Holmstrom, Lynda Lytle, Rape: Victims of Crisis, Robert J. Brady, 1974. Among other aspects of the topic, Burgess and Holmstrom discuss reactions to rape such as the blaming of the self by the victim. Donaldson, Ian, The Rapes of Lucretia: A Myth and Its Transformations, Oxford University Press, 1982. In this scholarly work, Donaldson addresses how historical conceptions of sexual morality

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are reflected in the various re-iterations of the myth in question. Lynd, Helen Merrell, On Shame and the Search for Identity, Harcourt Brace, 1958. In the context of a larger discussion revolving around the notion that certain cultures can be classified as ‘‘shame cultures’’ or ‘‘guilt cultures,’’ Lynd provides various reactions to the cultures reflected in versions of the Lucrece myth.

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Macbeth At about 2100 lines, Macbeth is Shakespeare’s shortest tragedy and among the briefest of his plays. Scholars generally agree that the drama was written around 1606 because various references in the play correspond to events that occurred in that year. Many also believe that it was composed for a performance before King James I, who had a deep interest in witchcraft. Quite possibly the play was one of the court entertainments offered to King Christian IV of Denmark during his visit to London in 1606. In addition, researchers suggest that Shakespeare may have written Macbeth to glorify King James’s ancestry by associating him, through the historical Banquo, to the first Scottish king, Kenneth MacAlpin. The principal historical source for Macbeth is Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotlande, and lrelande (1577). However, Shakespeare took great liberties with this source, adapting various historical events to increase the dramatic effect of his tragedy.

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Four hundred years later, students and actors continue to explore and embrace Macbeth for its intriguing portrayal of madness, ambition, and the supernatural. The play has remarkable depth, as it also encourages discussion about gender roles, human motivation, and what makes a good king. For students new to Shakespeare, Macbeth is fairly engrossing, and it is easy to determine early who the protagonists and antagonists are, and what their primary motivations are. Shakespeare displays a sensitive understanding of the human condition by dramatizing not only the way in

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which evil enters Macbeth’s world, but also the devastating effect it has on those who yield to temptation and sin. Shakespeare concludes the tragedy on a hopeful note, however, for as awesome and corruptive as the evil is that pervades Macbeth, it is only temporary. Ultimately, time and order are restored through the actions of the defenders of goodness.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1 Macbeth begins in an indistinct ‘‘open place,’’ where three witches are speaking in chants and planning to meet again to speak to Macbeth. The eerie scene is brief, and the witches depart. Scotland is at war, and in the next scene, Scotland’s King Duncan receives news from the battlefield. Duncan has had Scottish rebels to fight, along with an army of Norwegians. Duncan learns that Macdonwald, a traitor, and his army have been defeated, thanks in part to the violent heroics of Banquo and Macbeth. In fact, Macbeth himself killed Macdonwald. Duncan also learns that the Thane of Cawdor, another traitor, has been captured and the Norwegian army has been driven back. Duncan sentences the traitor to death and names Macbeth as the new Thane of Cawdor. In the third scene, Macbeth and Banquo are journeying to the king’s castle when they are surprised by the appearance of three witches. The hags predict that Macbeth, who holds the title of Thane of Glamis, will also become Thane of Cawdor and then King of Scotland. They also predict that, although Banquo will never rule, his descendants will be monarchs. After the witches vanish, Ross and Angus (Scottish noblemen) appear with word from King Duncan. Macbeth learns that Duncan has condemned the Thane of Cawdor for treason and that the king will bestow the title on Macbeth. Macbeth and Banquo arrive at Duncan’s castle, where the king thanks them for their valor. Duncan also announces that his son, Malcolm, will be heir to the throne. Privately, Macbeth notes that Malcolm now stands between him and the fulfillment of his prophecy to become king. Because Duncan is going to have dinner at Macbeth’s castle (Inverness), Macbeth leaves to talk to Lady Macbeth. Having read a letter from her husband about the prophecies, Lady

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Macbeth receives the news of Duncan’s arrival with a sense of opportunity. She determines that Macbeth will seize this chance to kill the king, thus moving him closer to the throne. Seeing her husband as weak, she pushes him to do it. When the king arrives, Lady Macbeth is the picture of hospitality. Meanwhile, Macbeth has talked himself out of murdering the king, realizing that there is no unselfish reason to do so. After all, Duncan is not an evil man or a bad king. Killing him would be purely an act of ambition. Lady Macbeth chides Macbeth and shares her plan with him on how to carry out the murder. Impressed by her guile, Macbeth agrees to go through with it that very night.

Act 2 Banquo and his son, Fleance, are staying at Inverness. Banquo is having difficulty sleeping and is surprised to find Macbeth also awake. Banquo tells Macbeth that his sleep has been restless, and that he has been thinking about the witches’ prophecies. Banquo is anxious to talk to Macbeth about the matter, but they decide to discuss it later. Alone again, Macbeth sees a floating dagger that does not seem to be real. It seems to be pointing the way to Duncan, with the handle pointing toward Macbeth. Despite the eerie talk of the witches and the hallucination, Macbeth shores up his courage to murder Duncan. Once Lady Macbeth indicates that the attendants are asleep (she has made them drunk with wine), Macbeth proceeds to Duncan’s room. Waiting for her husband, Lady Macbeth reflects on what is happening. She amazes even herself, and says that she would have killed Duncan herself if he had not reminded her of her father. Macbeth enters, covered in Duncan’s blood. He becomes so unnerved by the deed, however, that he forgets to leave the daggers in Duncan’s chamber, and Lady Macbeth must finish the task. She returns to the murder scene, smears the attendants with blood and places their knives with them to make it appear that they are guilty. Just then, there is a knock at the door of the castle. The porter is hung over and has fun pretending he is the porter to hell, as he wonders which sinners he will let pass through the door. The visitors are Lennox and Macduff, who are supposed to meet Duncan early. When Macbeth takes him to Duncan, Macduff makes the grisly discovery. In the ensuing chaos, Duncan’s sons,

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Peter Lindford as Macbeth, Gerald Logan as Banquo and the witches in Act I, scene iii, at the Ludlow Festival, 2001 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Malcolm and Donalbain, arrive. They are given the news of their father, followed by Macbeth’s announcement that he has killed the apparent killers, the attendants. He explains that Duncan’s death caused him to lose his temper, so he flew into a rage and killed the murderous attendants. Lady Macbeth faints, and the others attend to her. Malcolm and Donalbain do not feel safe, and decide it is best if they escape to Ireland and England. Scene 4 takes place outside Inverness where Ross and another man discuss the strange things that have been happening lately. Macduff comes out and tells them that since Malcolm and Donalbain both fled, Macbeth has been crowned King of Scotland. Macduff adds that although the attendants appear to be the guilty parties, there is suspicion that someone may have paid them to kill Duncan. Because Malcolm and Donalbain left so quickly, many think they are involved.

Act 3 Although Macbeth has fulfilled the witches’ prophecy that he will become king, he still feels


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threatened by the prediction that Banquo’s heirs will one day rule Scotland. Banquo sees that the two prophecies given to Macbeth have come true, so he also wonders about the one concerning his lineage. Macbeth enters in king’s robes and invites Banquo to a feast. Macbeth delivers a soliloquy in which he confesses that he fears his friend Banquo. Based on the prophecies, Macbeth’s reign would lead nowhere. Now that he is king, he fears that he will be targeted by Banquo’s family. A servant returns with two men Macbeth has enlisted to kill Banquo. He provokes their sense of manliness by asking if they have what it takes to carry out the murder. When they assure him that they can do it, he adds that they must also kill Banquo’s son, Fleance. Before the feast, Macbeth meets with Lady Macbeth, and they briefly discuss the anxiety about their actions. Although Lady Macbeth intends to calm her husband, she is plagued by many of the same feelings. When Macbeth tells her he has arranged for the murders of Banquo and Fleance, she is surprised.

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The two murderers, joined by a third man, succeed in killing Banquo as he returns to his castle for the feast, but Fleance escapes. At the banquet, Macbeth expresses his regret at the absence of his friend; but as he approaches his seat at the table, he is horrified to find Banquo’s ghost sitting in his chair. Macbeth’s fearful cries startle the other guests, who cannot see the spirit. Lady Macbeth tries to explain away his behavior to the guests by telling them that he has had such visions before, and there is no need for alarm. Once the ghost vanishes, Macbeth recovers until the ghost reappears. Macbeth becomes hysterical, and Lady Macbeth sends the guests away. Once Macbeth calms down, he decides to seek out the witches to receive their assurance about his future as King of Scotland. The paranoia that dominates his thought patterns leads him to believe he will find the comfort he desperately needs by learning more about the prophecies. The witches meet with Hecate, the goddess of witchcraft. She is irate that the witches have involved themselves in Macbeth’s life, and tells them that when he comes to talk to them, they are to conjure up apparitions and visions to confuse him further. Elsewhere, Lennox and another lord discuss Banquo’s murder and reveal that, although they suspect the tyrannous Macbeth, others blame Fleance because he fled. Macduff has gone to join Malcolm in England, where they will ask for help from King Edward in overthrowing Macbeth. Having caught wind of these schemes, Macbeth is preparing for a war that many hope he loses.

Act 4 The witches meet with Macbeth and conjure up three apparitions. The first is a severed head that warns him to beware Macduff; the next is a bloody child that assures him that no man born of woman can harm him; and last is a crowned child telling him that he will not be conquered until Birnam Wood comes to his castle at Dunsinane. Macbeth is disturbed, however, when he asks about the prophecy concerning Banquo and is shown an apparition of a succession of eight kings led by Banquo’s ghost—an indication that Banquo’s heirs will indeed rule Scotland. Later, when Macbeth learns that Macduff has fled Scotland to join forces with Malcolm, he sends assassins to murder Lady Macduff and her children. Meanwhile in England, Malcolm tests Macduff’s loyalty by pretending to be a lascivious and immoral man

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incapable of ruling a kingdom. When Macduff expresses his indignation at Malcolm’s supposed exploits, the prince is satisfied that Macduff is truly loyal to Scotland. Fully trusting Macduff, Malcolm invites him to join his army. While talking with Malcolm, Macduff receives word that Macbeth has slaughtered his family and he vows to avenge their deaths.

Act 5 Driven insane by fear and guilt over Duncan’s murder, Lady Macbeth walks in her sleep and tries to rub out imaginary bloodstains on her hands. Outside, several lords talk about the approaching English army led by Malcolm. A Scottish army will meet them at Birnam Wood to join their effort to bring down Macbeth. Meanwhile, Macbeth confidently clings to the witches’ assurances that he is invulnerable as he prepares to engage Malcolm’s army at Dunsinane castle. He receives word that the army is approaching the castle, and he prepares to don his battle armor. When a doctor tells him that Lady Macbeth is suffering greatly from delusions, Macbeth merely tells the doctor to cure her. He experiences increasing fear and nervousness as a result of his past actions, but when he learns that his wife has committed suicide, his reaction is impassive. Macbeth is initially disconcerted when he hears reports that his enemies approach Dunsinane camouflaged by tree branches from Birnam Wood, but reassures himself that no man born of woman can harm him. He feels invincible as he places all of his trust in the apparent message from the witches. Still, he cannot help but recall the strange prophecy about the woods, and he begins to resign himself to what may be his doom. Outside, Malcolm commands his troops to drop their boughs and prepare to fight. Macbeth fights vigorously, certain that no one can kill him. Macduff seeks Macbeth out personally, as Malcolm enters the castle. When Macbeth encounters Macduff on the battlefield, he learns that his opponent was ‘‘untimely ripp’d’’ from his mother’s womb (meaning he was born by Caesarean section). Realizing that his fate is sealed, Macbeth nevertheless battles on until he is killed by Macduff. Upon defeating his enemy, Macduff triumphantly holds Macbeth’s severed head aloft to Malcolm, who is proclaimed King of Scotland.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS Macbeth has been adapted for numerous film productions all over the world. A 1948 film featuring Orson Welles (who also directed), Jeanette Nolan, Dan O’Herlihy, and Roddy McDowell, was released by Republic and was distributed by Republic Pictures Home Video. In 1971, Roman Polanski wrote a controversial adaptation, which featured realistic design, graphic violence, and a fatalistic atmosphere. It was produced by Andrew Draunsberg and Hugh Hefner, and was distributed by RCA/Columbia Pictures Home Video.

The British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) and Miami Dade Community College produced a 1978 film adaptation narrated by Jose´ Ferrer and distributed by Films, Inc. Numerous television adaptations of Macbeth have also been produced worldwide. The BBC and Time Life Television produced a television adaptation in 1976; it was distributed by TimeLife Video. In 1979, Trevor Nunn wrote a television adaptation that starred Ian McKellan and Judi Dench; it was produced by the Royal Shakespeare Company and Thames Television.

In addition, audio adaptations include releases by Caedmon (1995); Cambridge University Press (unabridged, 1998); Canadian Broadcasting Company (2003); and Audio Partners (unabridged, 2005).

CHARACTERS Banquo Banquo is a nobleman and a general in Duncan’s army. With Macbeth, he encounters the witches, and from their prophecies, he learns that his descendants will be kings. Although Banquo savors the thought of his heirs becoming kings,


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he never considers speeding the process along with evil-doing as Macbeth does; he remains loyal to King Duncan. Banquo believes Macbeth is still his friend, despite knowing what the prophecies say. This trust leaves him vulnerable. Macbeth arranges the murder of Banquo, and his son Fleance, to thwart the witches’ prediction. Banquo’s ghost later haunts Macbeth at a banquet. While much of the action of Macbeth revolves around the protagonist and his wife, Banquo is also an important figure. One critical perspective views Banquo’s function as essentially symbolic: he is portrayed as a man who, like Macbeth, has the capacity for both God’s grace and sin; but unlike Macbeth, he puts little stock in the Weird Sisters’ prophecies and does not succumb to their temptations. Banquo’s reluctance to dwell on the witches’ predictions therefore underscores, by contrast, the nature of Macbeth’s descent into evil. Another critical viewpoint, however, suggests that Banquo is just as guilty as Macbeth of succumbing to the witches’ temptations. By complying with Macbeth’s accession to the throne and not raising suspicions about his role in Duncan’s murder, Banquo reveals a secret hope that the Weird Sisters’ prophecy for him will also come true.

Donalbain Donalbain is Duncan’s son and Malcolm’s brother. After the king’s murder, he flees to Ireland in fear of his life, while his brother flees to England.

Duncan Duncan is the King of Scotland when the play begins. He is depicted as a good and just king with a sense of honor toward his men and his subjects. He seems to be a man of wisdom, grace, and order. But he is perhaps too trusting, as he allows himself to be vulnerable in Macbeth’s home, even though he just endowed Macbeth with the promoted position of thane. Having just been betrayed by the Thane of Cawdor, one might expect him to be more cautious in his assessments of those near him, but he is not. While a guest at Macbeth’s castle, Duncan is murdered by his host. Shakespeare contrasts Duncan and Macbeth. Through his benevolence, graciousness, and almost naive trust, Duncan embodies a sense of harmony which generally inspires loyalty among his followers. These attributes become inverted in Macbeth,

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who introduces tumult and disorder into the kingdom when he murders the king and assumes his place on the throne. The sense of order inherent in Duncan’s reign is thus displaced. His assassination sets into motion a series of evil actions and unnatural disturbances that are not corrected until Malcolm and Macduff restore order at the end of the play.

Fleance Fleance is Banquo’s son. Macbeth attempts to assassinate him along with his father in order to thwart the witches’ prophecy that Banquo’s descendants will become kings. Fleance escapes, however, thus assuring the survival of the family line.

Macbeth At the beginning of the play, Macbeth is the Thane of Glamis and a general in Duncan’s army. He is fierce and heroic on the battlefield, and his valor wins him the admiration and gratitude of his king. The play begins with Macbeth on the battlefield, and it ends with him on the battlefield, although the two situations are markedly different and clearly demonstrate the degree to which Macbeth has fallen. Yet for all his leadership and courage in the face of battle at the beginning of the play, Macbeth is easily manipulated by the witches and Lady Macbeth. Macbeth encounters three witches who predict that he will become King of Scotland; these prophecies begin the process of awakening his personal ambition for power. Influenced by this ambition and Lady Macbeth’s urgings, Macbeth plots to murder Duncan and take the throne. His evil deed introduces corruption and unnatural disturbances into the kingdom. As quickly as he rose to power, he begins to unravel and descend into paranoia and madness. He is the epitome of a tyrannical king, abusing power and wielding it for his own personal agenda without regard for the kingdom. Macbeth is ultimately conquered by Malcolm and Macduff. One of the most significant reasons for the enduring critical interest in Macbeth’s character is that he represents humankind’s universal propensity to temptation and sin. Macbeth’s excessive ambition motivates him to murder Duncan, and once the evil act is accomplished, he sets into motion a series of sinister events that ultimately lead to his downfall. But Macbeth is not merely a cold-blooded, calculating murderer; even before he kills the king, he is greatly troubled by his

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conscience. While plotting Duncan’s murder, his better nature warns him that the act is wrong; he nearly persuades himself to reject the plan, but his wife forces him to reaffirm his determination. The fact that Macbeth possesses a conscience seems to be established from the beginning of the play, and it is this conscience that fuels such anxiety and madness. He finds himself caught in a tug-of-war between his hubris compelling him to push past his conscience and commit violent crimes, and his conscience that punishes him for ignoring it. In addition, Macbeth possesses a powerful imagination—demonstrated by his excessive philosophizing over his condition—that sways his actions. In fact, the hero’s imagination contributes greatly to his decision to murder Duncan: after his first meeting with the Weird Sisters, Macbeth acknowledges that he can wait to see if their prediction of his imminent kingship will come true, but his imagination persuades him to fulfill the prophecy with his own hands. Later, Macbeth’s overworked imagination produces feelings of guilt and betrayal that throw his mind into disorder, gradually eroding his bravery and replacing it with inexplicable fear and paranoia. Several critics remark that although Macbeth fully embraces evil, his philosophizing over the hopelessness of his situation results in some of the greatest poetry ever written on the human condition. Others argue, however, that the hero’s rhetoric becomes less sincere as his actions become more ruthless. Macbeth is the character who reveals the most about himself throughout the play, although the audience likely never develops much sympathy for him. His psychological workings (rise of ambition, hallucinations, belief in prophecy, madness) provide the development necessary for the themes of ambition, evil, and kingship. Through his soliloquies, the audience learns the truth about Macbeth’s thoughts, feelings, and ambitions.

Lady Macbeth Lady Macbeth is Macbeth’s wife. She is cold, scheming, and ruthless. She coerces her husband into murdering Duncan, first chiding Macbeth for his reluctance. Shakespeare shows the audience from the beginning that this is a woman who knows her husband very well; she anticipates his reluctance to kill Duncan, and she plans for how she will pressure him into doing

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it anyway. She challenges his manliness so she can manipulate him, and unfortunately, she is his only advisor throughout the play. It is she who devises the plan to kill Duncan and frame the chamberlains for the regicide, all the while keeping up her appearance as the lady of the castle. After the murder, however, Lady Macbeth is driven insane with guilt and commits suicide. She is ultimately unable to handle the horror she has set into motion. While initially she seemed to know herself, by the end of the play it is clear that she had an exaggerated perception of how much evil her psyche could handle. Her descent into madness ends where it began—with killing. Although it is not explicit, the play strongly suggests that she commits suicide. She wanted nothing more than to be queen, yet the means by which she attained it would not allow her to have any peace or enjoyment of it. Most critics contend that Lady Macbeth’s principal dramatic function in Macbeth is to persuade her husband to commit evil. Some critics further suggest that Lady Macbeth embodies a feminine malevolence in the play that corresponds to a masculine fear of domination by women. This antagonism is particularly evident in the unusual level of control Lady Macbeth exerts over her husband. Further, she serves much the same role as the witches do in manipulating Macbeth to murder Duncan, but her influence is of a more frightening nature. As supernatural beings, the witches represent a remote, abstract evil, and their mode of exploitation exists only on a cosmic level. Lady Macbeth’s coercion of her husband is more terrifying because she brings the full magnitude of the witches’ evil influence to the domestic level by calling on demonic forces to suppress her femininity and give her the power to make Macbeth murder Duncan. This unholy contract does not endure, for, after she actively participates in covering up Duncan’s murder, Lady Macbeth’s feminine nature reasserts itself, and she is driven insane. Many commentators assert that Lady Macbeth’s mental breakdown manifests itself in the sleepwalking episode (act 5, scene 1), in which she is not so much distracted by the guilt over her role in Duncan’s murder as she is by the inability to escape the memory of it.

Macduff Macduff is the Thane of Fife, and one of Duncan’s generals. He is depicted as honorable,


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loyal, and level-headed, even in crisis. Macduff is the one who discovers Duncan’s murdered body. As he sees the destruction wrought by Macbeth and harbors suspicions toward him, Macduff becomes an avenger. He sees not just revenge or power, but peace and order for the Scotland he so loves. He flees to England to join forces with Malcolm, who is seeking military assistance to bring down Macbeth. Upon learning that Macbeth has killed his family, Macduff swears revenge. When Macduff returns to Scotland with Malcolm’s invading army, he meets Macbeth on the battlefield. He kills his enemy after informing him that he was ‘‘untimely ripp’d’’ from his mother’s womb, thus fulfilling the witches’ prophesy that no man born of woman can harm Macbeth.

Lady Macduff Lady Macduff is Macduff’s wife. Macbeth sends assassins to murder Lady Macduff and her family when he learns that her husband has fled to England.

Malcolm Malcolm is Duncan’s son, Donalbain’s brother, and heir to the Scottish throne. He is a loyal, determined, brave, and careful young man. He seems to have a good idea of whom he can trust (as when he goes to King Edward for help), and he knows how to test those he is not sure he can trust (as when he tests Macduff). After his father’s murder, Malcolm flees to England in fear of his life. There, he recruits an army to invade Scotland and conquers Macbeth’s forces at Dunsinane. Malcolm ultimately regains his rightful place on Scotland’s throne. Because he was originally the rightful heir to the throne through his father, he reinforces the theme of divine right of kingship that was so important to King James. Unlike Macbeth, who stole the throne, Malcolm has a right to the throne.

The Witches The Witches, or the Weird Sisters, are three hags who practice black magic under the authority of the goddess of witchcraft, Hecate. They speak in chants and riddles, and they are both mischievous and sinister. While they may seem nonsensical, the text proves that they are cruel and violent. They talk about what they have done prior to their meetings, and their actions include killing a hog and setting about revenge because a woman would not give one of them a chestnut.

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The witches’ prophecies to Macbeth and Banquo suggest that Macbeth will rule Scotland and that Banquo’s descendants will be kings. These prophecies effectively set the action of the play in motion. Later, the witches conjure up three apparitions who warn Macbeth against Macduff, assure him that no man born of woman will harm him, and declare that he will not be conquered until Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane. Readers are never quite sure how much of the prophecies delivered by the witches are merely their relaying information from the future and how much is their direct doing. Regardless, their malevolent intentions are clear in their delight in deception and destruction of Macbeth. In act 1, scene 3, the witches refer to themselves as the ‘‘weird sisters,’’ which is a significant word choice. In Shakespeare’s first folio, he spelled it ‘‘weyward,’’ and most scholars point to the origins of these words as the Old English ‘‘wyrd’’ and the Middle English ‘‘werde.’’ Both words have to do with fate, destined, or becoming. The Norse had the three Norns, goddesses of destiny, and the Greeks had the three Fates (one who spun the thread of a person’s life, one who measured it, and one who cut it.) By aligning the witches with these past mythological women, Shakespeare invokes a powerful and serious role for the witches.

THEMES

Macbeth’s ambition is within him from the beginning, but without the encouragement of the witches and Lady Macbeth, it might have been restrained. But had it not been in him at all, the women would never have been able to awaken such a cruel and violent force. This insight into Macbeth’s character forces the audience to wonder what the outcome would be if their ambitions were fully awakened. What is also interesting about Macbeth’s ambition is that there seems to be no objective beyond sitting on the throne. Macbeth does not have lofty plans of becoming a great king, expanding Scotland’s holdings, or building a thriving economy. His thoughts are only for himself, so once he ascends to the throne, his ambition turns to paranoia and madness in his resolve to keep his place on the throne. Shakespeare demonstrates that ambition does not reside only alongside evil. After all, Banquo is taken with the prophecy that his heirs will sit on the throne one day, even though he never will. Anyone would be proud to hear such a thing, and Banquo is no exception. Unlike Macbeth, however, Banquo’s ambition is perfectly content in the future of his family. He has no aspirations of his own to overthrow Macbeth, even though he sees no way that his own heirs could become royalty. Banquo is also different from Macbeth in that he wants to discuss the prophecies with the man he thinks is still his friend, Macbeth. Just as anyone would talk about important matters like this with confidants, Banquo wants to talk to his friend about it. Macbeth, however, now sees Banquo as a threat that must be eliminated.

Ambition The predominant theme in Macbeth is ambition unchecked by morality. Initially, Lady Macbeth is the character who personifies this theme. It is she who first considers killing Duncan in her own home so that Macbeth might become king, and it is she who pressures her reluctant husband into committing the crime. She has no thought for right and wrong, only a lust for power. As the play progresses, however, Macbeth becomes the one who is unyielding in his determination to protect his claim to the throne. Once he wears the crown, his ambition takes flight. He readily has his friend Banquo killed, and even tries to have Banquo’s son killed to ensure that there is no threat to him from Banquo’s family. Carried to its conclusion in Macbeth, ambition without moral boundaries is utterly destructive.

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Kingship Macbeth explores the theme of kingship—good and bad, legitimate and illegitimate. In Macbeth, the audience sees what happens to a country when it falls under the reign of a self-centered, immoral, and evil king. Not only are the means to his ends evil, he rapidly descends into cruel immorality to the point that he uses monarchical means (his power and his men) to carry out purely personal revenge (the murder of Macduff’s family for no other reason than spite). Where a good king places his personal interests below the good of the kingdom, a bad king makes the kingdom subservient to his own personal whims. In a short period of time, Macbeth’s court becomes afraid for the future of the country, and hopes that Malcolm and

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Sean Bean as Macbeth and Samantha Bond as Lady Macbeth in Act I, scene vii, at the Albery Theatre, London, 2002 (ÓDonald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

England’s army will defeat their king. Macbeth is also an example of a king who appears to have legitimate authority, but the audience knows that the only reason he has been crowned is because he got away with murdering the rightful king. So, Macbeth represents a monarchy of bad kingship and an ultimately illegitimate claim to authority. In contrast to Macbeth are the characters Duncan, Malcolm, and King Edward. Before his death, Duncan appears to have been a noble, kind, and just king. Malcolm is the rightful heir to the throne and is, by all indications, a man who will be a good king to Scotland. He is perceptive, bold, moral, shrewd, militarily gifted, and deeply loyal to Scotland. His only apparent weakness seems to be his youth, but Shakespeare proves to the audience that he is discerning enough to learn from the wisdom of older, honorable men like Macduff. When he is crowned king at the end, the play seems to have achieved a happy ending. Although less obvious, King Edward is also presented as an example of a good king. Not


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only is he characterized as a compassionate man who uses his healing powers to help his people, but he also hears Malcolm and Macduff and agrees to help them oust the unjust King Macbeth. He seems to be free of personal ambition, yet discerning enough to know to whom he can trust his army.

Evil Macbeth is a complex study of evil and its corrupting influence on individuals. Some critics argue that Shakespeare adapted historical accounts of Macbeth to illustrate his larger view of evil’s operation in the world. The particular evil that the protagonist commits has widespread consequences, causing a series of further evils. As a result, the tragedy is not fully resolved through the fallen hero’s death, but through the forces of good that ultimately correct all the evil Macbeth has unleashed. The witches, through their ambiguous prophecies, represent a supernatural power that introduces evil into Macbeth. Their equivocations—the intentional stating of half-truths—conceal the sinister nature of their

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY There is an intriguing bit of theater lore surrounding Macbeth called ‘‘the curse of Macbeth.’’ Do some research on this curse to see what supposedly triggers the curse, and what supposedly happens as a result of the curse. Are there are any countermeasures for the curse? How seriously do actors and producers take this legend, and how do you think it began? Prepare a multimedia presentation explaining the origins and specifics of the curse, and how you explain it. Your presentation should be persuasive in tone. Both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth seem overwhelmed by their guilt. Consider these two characters from a psychological standpoint by first researching the effect of guilt and conscience on the psyche. You may read conflicting reports based on different research or theories, so you will have to determine which you think are the most reliable. Write up a report as if you were the psychotherapist for the Macbeths, and you have been assigned to assess their psychological states. Assuming they are both still alive, what course of action do you recommend for them? Banquo is based on a historical figure from whom James I descended. See what you can find out about the real Banquo, and write a speech for James I about him. To the best of your ability, write in language of the time. Macbeth is thematically rich and relevant to today’s world. What theme do you find most closely parallels something you see in the world around you? It might be a person, a cultural tendency, an event, or anything else that appears parallel to you. Using quotes from the play, prepare a five- to ten-minute speech about the relevance of Macbeth to today’s readers. Your speech should be memorized and delivered to your class or another small audience.

years. Find photos from various productions of the play and choose the ones you think are especially evocative of the play. Make copies of the pictures and put them in order as a slideshow or some other visual presentation to show scenes from the play from start to finish. You will not have a picture for every scene, which is fine. If you are able, choose music and set your presentation to a score.

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Because of the popularity of Macbeth among actors and theater-goers, there have been many major productions over the


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Shakespeare penned some of the great soliloquies and speeches of dramatic literature. Among them is the one in act 4, scene 5, beginning, ‘‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.’’ Memorize this speech and practice delivering it in a way that conveys Macbeth’s feelings at this moment in the play. Deliver it to a beginning acting class, explaining why you made some of the choices you made regarding delivery. Does this exercise give you a greater appreciation for Shakespearean actors?

Malcolm goes to England to seek help from the king to overthrow Macbeth. How common a practice was this in Britain’s past? Why would one country help another country become stronger? Read about Britain’s past with special attention to military endeavors. Look for patterns or themes explaining the relations between these countries. Using maps and diagrams, put together a lesson to illuminate this issue for your class. Be sure to leave time for questions.

Although the audience does not have the chance to know Duncan very well before his murder, he is presented as an example of a good king. Drawing from the text of the play and your imagination, write a character sketch of Duncan as we might have known him if given the chance. Write one scene from a play that takes place in his court to show what kind of man and king he was, according to your sketch.

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predictions, and Macbeth does not consider the possibility that they are trying to deceive him. In fact, the witches’ attempts at misinformation succeed not only because they favorably interpret the hero’s future, but also because their revelations seem to come true almost immediately. Although inherently malevolent, the witches’ prophecies do not necessarily signify the actual existence of evil, but suggest instead the potential for evil in the world. The witches themselves do not have the power to enact a diabolic course of events such as those seen in Macbeth; rather, their power lies in tempting humans like Macbeth to sin. When Macbeth succumbs to the temptation to commit murder, he himself is the catalyst that unleashes evil upon the world. The evil that initially manifests itself in Duncan’s murder not only disintegrates Macbeth’s personal world, but also expands until it corrupts all levels of creation, contaminating the family, the state, and the physical universe. For example, Macduff’s family is murdered, Scotland is embroiled in a civil war, and during Duncan’s assassination ‘‘the earth was feverous, and did shake’’ (act 2, scene 3).

Gender Roles Another important issue in Macbeth is Shakespeare’s ambiguous treatment of gender and sex roles. In many instances, the playwright either inverts a character’s conventional gender characteristics or divests the figure of them altogether. For example, Shakespeare makes the witches less human by taking away their femininity. Macbeth and Banquo find them repulsive and comment on their beards. Lady Macbeth is perhaps the most obvious example of this dispossession. In act 1, scene 5, she prepares to confront her husband by resolving to ‘‘unsex’’ herself, to suppress any supposed weakness associated with her feminine nature, so that she can give Macbeth the strength and determination to carry out Duncan’s murder. After the king is killed, however, her feelings of guilt gradually erode her resolve and she goes insane. Macbeth is perhaps the character most affected by the question of gender in the tragedy. From the beginning of the play, he is plagued by feelings of doubt and insecurity which his wife attributes to ‘‘effeminate’’ weakness. Fearing that her husband does not have the resolve to murder Duncan, Lady Macbeth cruelly manipulates his lack of self-confidence by questioning his manhood. Some critics maintain that as a


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result of his wife’s machinations, Macbeth develops a warped perspective of manliness, equating it with the less humanistic attribute of self-seeking aggression. When he talks to Banquo’s hired assassins, he incites their anger by challenging their manliness, just as his wife had done to him. The more Macbeth pursues his ideal understanding of manliness—first by murdering Duncan, then Banquo, and finally Macduff’s family—the less humane he becomes. Commentators who subscribe to this reading of Macbeth’s character argue that the ruthlessness with which he strives to obtain this perverted version of manhood ultimately separates him from the rest of humankind. Through his diminishing humanity, Macbeth essentially forfeits all claims on humanity itself—a degeneration, he ultimately realizes, that renders meaningless his ideal of manliness.

STYLE Symbolism Shakespeare infuses Macbeth with symbolism, giving the play a greater sense of drama and foreboding. The weather in the play symbolizes Macbeth’s—and, later, Scotland’s—condition. Upon the play’s opening, with the witches’ first appearance, and also on the night Macbeth kills Duncan, there are thunderstorms, symbolizing the violence and chaos being stirred up in Scotland. When Duncan is killed, there is even an earthquake, symbolizing Scotland’s throes of grief for its king. Blood is used to symbolize two elements: the ascension to the throne, and also the guilt from which the Macbeths can never escape. Duncan’s blood on Macbeth and Macbeth’s blood on Macduff represent changes in the monarchy; this is a fitting symbol, as kingship is usually based on bloodlines. But the blood Macbeth must clean from his hands, and that which Lady Macbeth seems never able to clean from hers, symbolizes the guilt of their heinous acts. Blood is a stain on their conscience that cannot be removed.

Oxymoron The witches speak extensively in oxymoron. From the very beginning, in the first scene of the play, the audience hears them say, ‘‘When the battle’s lost and won,’’ and ‘‘Fair is foul, and foul is fair.’’ In act 1 scene 3, they say such inscrutable and contradictory things as, ‘‘Lesser

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than Macbeth, and greater,’’ ‘‘Not so happy, yet much happier,’’ and ‘‘Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none.’’ The things the witches say, coupled with their incantation-like delivery, create an atmosphere of mystery and eeriness. They seem to speak truth, but they do it in riddles. This makes Macbeth and Banquo believe that what they are saying is extremely important and fateful. Macbeth never seems to consider that at least some of the prophetic statements made were self-fulfilling, and so the witches and their oxymoron become the very voice of fate. The witches are not the only ones to speak in contradictions. The first words out of Macbeth’s mouth in the play are, ‘‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen.’’ This indicates a divided nature and a sense of disorder about him that acts simultaneously as oxymoron and foreshadowing.

Depiction of Time Shakespeare’s depiction of time is another central concern in Macbeth. Macbeth dislocates the passage of time—a process fundamental to humankind’s existence—when he succumbs to evil and murders Duncan. Shakespeare uses this displacement as a key symbol in dramatizing the steady disintegration of the hero’s world. Macbeth’s evil actions initially interrupt the normal flow of time, but order gradually regains its proper shape and overpowers the new king, as demonstrated by his increasing guilt and sleeplessness. Ironically, the witches can be seen as an element that contributes to the restoration of order. Although Macbeth disrupts the natural course of events by acting on the witches’ early prophecies, their later predictions suggest that his power will shortly end. This premonition is apparent in the Birnam wood revelation; while Macbeth believes that the prediction insures his invulnerability, it really implies that his rule will soon expire. Some critics observe that different kinds of time interact in Macbeth. The most apparent form of time can be described as chronological. Chronological time establishes the sense of physical passage in the play, focusing on the succession of events that can be measured by clock and calendar, as well as the movement of the sun, moon, and stars. Another aspect of time, identified as providential, overarches the action of the entire play. Providential time is the divine ordering of events that is initially displaced by Macbeth’s evil

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actions, but which gradually overpowers him and re-establishes harmony in the world. Macbeth conceives of another kind of time that seems to defy cause and effect when he unsuccessfully attempts to reconcile his anticipation of the future with the memory of his ignoble actions. This dilemma initiates a period of inaction in the protagonist’s life that culminates in his resigned acceptance of death as the inexorable passage of time. This confused displacement of time pervades the action of Macbeth until Malcolm and Macduff restore a proper sense of order at the end of the play.

Imagery Various image patterns support the sense of corruption and deterioration that pervades the dramatic action of Macbeth. Perhaps one of the most dominant groups of images is that of babies and breast-feeding. Infants symbolize pity throughout the play, and breast-milk represents humanity, tenderness, sympathy, and natural human feelings, all of which have been debased by Macbeth and Lady Macbeth’s evil actions. Another set of images focuses on sickness and medicine, all of which occur, significantly, in the last three acts of the play, after Macbeth has ascended the Scottish throne. These patterns are given greater depth through Shakespeare’s graphic depiction of blood in the tragedy. The numerous references to blood not only provide Macbeth’s ruthless actions with a visual dimension, they also underscore Scotland’s degeneration after Macbeth murders Duncan and usurps the crown. Ironically, blood also symbolizes the purifying process by which Malcolm and Macduff—the restorers of goodness—purge the weakened country of Macbeth’s villainy. Other major image patterns include sleep and sleeplessness, order versus disorder, and the contrast between light and darkness.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Reign of King James I England’s James I (also James VI of Scotland) was born in 1566 in Edinburgh. At the end of Elizabeth’s reign in England, she had produced no heir. The ascension of her cousin James (the only son of Mary, Queen of Scots) to the throne brought much-needed dynastic stability to the throne of England. James had been careful in

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his rule of Scotland not to do anything to jeopardize his claim to the English throne. He had an eye toward England, and Elizabeth’s chief minister, Robert Cecil, had corresponded with James for two years before Elizabeth’s death. These letters prepared James for the daunting task of ruling England. Upon first taking the throne in England, James’s insensitivity to English ways made waves with Parliament, and the English people found him a very disappointing successor to Elizabeth. Where she had been a grand people-pleaser, James was frumpy and lacking in social graces or respect for tradition. James found that Elizabeth had left a sizeable debt, but he only grew it over his first five years. Further, many people in England had high hopes that James would be able to solve the long-standing problem of unity with Scotland. But James’s move to London kept him apart from his native Scotland, and the chasm between the two nations remained. Still, James’s reign is remembered as one of peace and security that brought stability to the issue of religion, although political conflicts burdened his rule. Shakespeare’s career was in full force from Elizabeth’s reign when James came to power, and James embraced the playwright as fully as his predecessor had. Not only was Shakespeare a favorite of James, but it was he who gave Shakespeare’s company the title of King’s Men. Macbeth reflects James’s kingship and court in several ways. First, James descended from the historical Banquo, so Shakespeare’s inclusion of Banquo as a sort of father of the English monarchy is a nod to James’s heritage. Second, the apparition Macbeth sees of the procession of kings includes, in the original stage directions, a king holding a mirror. This is interpreted by some scholars to be a way of including England’s current king (James, who did not allow references in plays to living monarchs) at the time in the lineup. Third, the theme of kingship was one of special interest to James, who was working out his version of the theory of the divine right of kings over their people and land. In 1598, he had written a treatise titled Trew Law of Free Monarchies. Fourth, James had a particular interest in the power of witchcraft, an interest shared by many people in his day.

Shakespeare’s English Theater A prolific writer of comedies, tragedies, and histories, Shakespeare is credited with authorship of thirty-seven plays, many of which are frequently


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performed in today’s theater. As a playwright, Shakespeare’s achievement is considered by many to be unparalleled and his era is considered a pivotal time in Western literature. Historians frequently observe that Shakespeare’s arrival on the London theater scene was well-timed. The theater was coming into its own as a serious literary venue, and plays were diverse in subject matter. The theaters in London were also wellattended and patronized. Shakespeare’s unique ability to write about universal human experiences and truths brought depth and accessibility to his dramas as well as his comedies. By also writing histories, he reinforced the popular interest in national, classical, and monarchical history, while paying homage to the monarchs on whose support he depended. Shakespeare wrote during the reigns of Elizabeth and James, and he found different preferences between the two monarchs. Jacobean drama, in particular, tended to feature the royal court and London, although King James forbade overt references to living monarchs. Where Elizabethan drama had encouraged justice-seekers, Jacobean drama was drawn to pathetic, manipulated characters. Also common in Jacobean drama were conniving women, which is certainly a prominent feature in Macbeth. Macbeth also typifies Jacobean drama in its elements of violence, terror, and darkness. Even Jacobean comedy was often satiric and biting. Although Shakespeare may have been less productive under James’s patronage, many scholars believe that his works in these years were more refined and intense.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Not surprisingly, Macbeth has received volumes of critical commentary over the years. Not only is the play an audience favorite, but its complex characterization, deeply woven themes, and characteristic Shakespearean style make it rich ground for scholarly inquiry. Critics such as Harold Bloom have remarked on the importance of Macbeth in the context of Shakespeare’s works. In Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Bloom writes, ‘‘The rough magic in Macbeth is wholly Shakespeare’s; he indulges his own imagination as never before, seeking to find its moral limits (if any).’’ Bloom also remarks, ‘‘Macbeth is an uncanny unity of

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1000s: Scotland has a monarchy. During the 1000s, three different dynasties ruled Scotland. 1600s: Scotland has a monarchy. During the 1600s, the House of Stuart maintains authority on the throne.

Today: Scotland has its own parliament, established in 1998. This is the first time Scotland has had an independent parliament since 1707, when the Scottish Parliament and the English Parliament united into the British Parliament under the Treaty of the Union. 1000s: Drama in the eleventh century is often religious, and is born out of the tradition of retelling biblical stories in Latin. But a trend toward performing plays outdoors, in native languages, and with secular subjects is growing. Acting troupes rely on trade guilds to sponsor their productions. Mystery plays became popular; in these plays, the biblical account of salvation was presented. Mystery plays focused on Old Testament subjects such as the Fall or the prophets, or on New Testament subjects such as Christ’s birth, or on Christ’s death and resurrection. Together, these were known as cycle dramas. Eventually, these would become secularized to the point that the church raised serious objections. 1600s: London theater is thriving as the English language is considered a major vehicle for literary expression. By combining English interests and culture with conventions of classical drama, the English theater is full of potential. Besides portraying stories about relationships, history, and politics, the London theater has become a vital instrument in the passionate religious debates of the day. Today: Theater must compete with television and film for audience interest. Although many theaters still attract large audiences, the most popular plays tend to be well-known plays or musicals, or those by already-established playwrights. While there is room in the theater

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world for experimental and modern drama, audiences for these types of plays tend to be niche theater-goers.

1000s: With respect to marriage in common households, keeping up the home is the priority for families. In the early Middle Ages, only the eldest sons marry, so that the others can stay and help the family. Men perform the labor necessary to work a farm or bring in income, while the women perform domestic duties. Men are considered the leaders of the home, and they generally exercise authority over money and other major decisions. 1600s: It is common for families to arrange marriages, and they can be arranged while the bride and groom are young teenagers. The parents make these deals with one another to try to improve the social or financial standing of their families. Gender roles in marriage remain traditional, with the man working to support his family and the woman overseeing domestic responsibilities. Women possess no political power (with the obvious exception of monarchs) and they are not empowered to own land. Submission to their husbands is important for the family to run smoothly and for the family to be respected in society. Today: Not just in England, but throughout the Western world, gender roles in marriage are more fluid than ever. Men and women decide whether they will both work, and if not, which will stay home. Men and women share an abundance of work opportunities, based on their education and experience rather than gender. This gives married couples a greater degree of flexibility than in the past to make decisions about how their work will factor into their marriage. At home, gender roles are no longer assigned or assumed. Either the husband or the wife may perform domestic duties, manage the family finances, or make social plans. The norm is for the couple to make major decisions together in equal partnership.

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setting, plot, and characters, fused together beyond comparison with any other play of Shakespeare’s.’’ Bloom is not alone in his admiration for this enduring play. In his article ‘‘Macbeth: The Pattern of Idea and Action’’ for Shakespeare Quarterly, Irving Ribner states, ‘‘Macbeth is a closely knit, unified construction, every element of which is designed to support an intellectual statement, to which action, character, and poetry all contribute.’’ Critics continue to debate the characterization of Macbeth as a tragic hero. There is no consensus as to whether Macbeth is technically tragic or whether he is to be considered a hero. In drama, a tragedy traditionally recounts the significant events or actions in a protagonist’s life which, taken together, bring about the catastrophe. Classical rules of tragedy also require that the hero’s ruin evokes pity and fear in the audience. Some critics assert that since Macbeth’s actions throughout the play are inherently evil, he gets what he deserves in the end and therefore his downfall is not catastrophic in a tragic sense. Critic Mary McCarthy takes the position that Macbeth is actually an average man who is easily duped by superstition and the will of others. In ‘‘The Writing on the Wall and Other Literary Essays,’’ McCarthy describes Macbeth as gullible because he never question the witches’ predictions. Knowing that they are witches, he still does not consider that they may be trying to confuse and mislead him. She writes, ‘‘Macbeth is not clever; he is taken in by surfaces, by appearance. He cannot think beyond the usual course of things.’’ Although he is bold and takes initiative in battle, at home he is submissive to the will of his wife. This facet of his personality, however, compels other commentators to argue that his feelings of guilt, combined with the coercion of the witches and his wife, generate pity and fear among readers and spectators at his ruin, a feeling identified in classical tragedy as catharsis. In College English, J. Lyndon Shanley contributes an article titled, ‘‘Macbeth: The Tragedy of Evil.’’ In this essay, Shanley writes that Macbeth’s downfall is caused by his decision to sin willingly and knowingly. He adds: Macbeth is terrified by the warnings of his conscience, but he cannot surrender. That he acts with full knowledge of the evil only increases the pity and fear aroused by his deed. For this knowledge causes much of his suffering; it makes his condition far worse than


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it would have been had he acted with less than complete knowledge.

Shanley is not the only critic to find something sympathetic in Macbeth, despite his ruthless and violent ways. In his article ‘‘Macbeth as Tragic Hero,’’ Wayne C. Booth claims that Macbeth’s failing was less about having deplorable character and moral fiber, and more about lack of perception. He maintains that Macbeth does not understand the external forces working so hard to manipulate him (namely, the witches and Lady Macbeth); he does not understand the distinction between killing on a battlefield and killing in civilian life; and ‘‘he does not understand his own character—he does not know what will be the effects of the evil act on his own future happiness.’’ Still, there is a difference between pitying a character and relating to him. Bloom maintains that readers and audience members have difficulty not relating to Macbeth. He answers the question of why this is so by explaining that Macbeth ‘‘so dominates [Shakespeare’s] play that we have nowhere else to turn.’’ As evidence, he notes how, although she is a strong character, Lady Macbeth is onstage very little; and readers do not have the chance to get to know other characters, such as Duncan, Malcolm, Banquo, and Macduff very well. Although the minor characters appear only briefly (usually because they are murdered) and their personas are not fully developed, readers and critics are drawn to them. Duncan, for example, is held up as an example of a good king in contrast to Macbeth’s figure as a bad king. Van Doren remarks, ‘‘Duncan was everything that Macbeth is not. We saw him briefly, but the brilliance of his contrast with the thane he trusted has kept his memory beautiful throughout a play whose every other feature has been hideous.’’ Similarly, Lady Macduff and her son appear fleetingly, but their fate evokes the pity of the audience and rouses more indignation toward Macbeth. A substantial body of criticism addresses Lady Macbeth. Her importance in the play and her position as a dominant woman in Western literature have prompted lengthy discussion and character evaluation. Ribner juxtaposes Lady Macbeth with Banquo in her role in Macbeth’s psychological makeup. He maintains that while Banquo represents the part of Macbeth’s divided nature that would ‘‘accept nature and reject

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evil,’’ Lady Macbeth represents the other side. Numerous critics believe that left to his own devices, Macbeth would not have murdered Duncan and set into motion the tragic events of the play. Shanley explains that Lady Macbeth ‘‘could sway him because she understood him and loved him, and because he loved her and depended on her love and good thoughts of him.’’ While most commentary centers on the sheer strength and determination of Lady Macbeth, there are critics who find her less powerful than she seems, and even less powerful than her husband. Mark van Doren in Shakespeare asserts: When the crisis comes she will break sooner than her husband does, but her brittleness then will mean the same thing that her melodrama means now: she is a slighter person than Macbeth, has a poorer imagination, and holds in her mind less of that power which enables it to stand up under torture.

Aligned with Lady Macbeth are the witches, who are also female figures who seem in control of themselves and of Macbeth. He is easily manipulated by them, intellectually and emotionally. Critics often note that the witches and Lady Macbeth work in tandem (although not intentionally) to undo Macbeth. Commenting on the witches’ influence on Macbeth’s will, Bloom explains, ‘‘Between what Macbeth imagines and what he does, there is only a temporal gap, in which he himself seems devoid of will. The Weird Sisters, Macbeth’s Muses, take the place of that will.’’ In her article ‘‘‘Born of Woman’: Fantasies of Maternal Power in Macbeth,’’ Janet Adelman describes the dual influence of the witches and Lady Macbeth. She writes, ‘‘Lady Macbeth brings the witches’ power home: they get the cosmic apparatus, she gets the psychic force.’’ The themes in Macbeth, including evil, guilt and conscience, ambition, time, and the supernatural have garnered a great deal of critical attention. In his article for Shakespeare Quarterly, Ribner explores the theme of evil in depth. He boldly writes: Macbeth is in many ways Shakespeare’s maturest and most daring experiment in tragedy, for in this play he set himself to describe the operation of evil in all its manifestations: to define its very nature, to depict its seduction of man, and to show its effect upon all the planes of creation once it has been unleashed by one man’s sinful moral choice.

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Ribner applauds Shakespeare’s use of blood imagery and darkness to reinforce his theme of evil, and he notes that Macbeth carries out evil in every aspect of his life. His personal relationships are destroyed by evil, as is his selfperception. An because he sought only the power of the crown and not the responsibilities, he invited evil into Scotland. Ribner explains, ‘‘On the level of the state Macbeth unleashes the greatest evils of which Shakespeare’s audience could conceive, tyranny, civil war, and an invading foreign army.’’ One of the more subtle themes running through Macbeth is time. The introduction of prophecy and the rush to fulfill it makes time seem to Macbeth and his wife something that can be controlled and manipulated by temporal beings. They see in the present signs of the future, and they look to the past for the same reason. Perhaps because of its subtlety, scholars often find the theme of time extremely pervasive and influential. Bloom comments, ‘‘What notoriously dominates this play, more than any other in Shakespeare, is time, time that is not the Christian mercy of eternity, but devouring time, death nihilistically regarded as finality.’’ Tom F. Driver in The Sense of History in Greek and Shakespearean Drama states plainly, ‘‘Much as he would like, Macbeth cannot separate the present from the past and the future. By the act of murder he has made his own history, and the rest of the play is the account of the fulfillment of that history, ultimately self-defeating.’’ Few playwrights have demonstrated the kind of enduring popularity as Shakespeare has. As for Macbeth, its relevance is still upheld by scholars, students, professors, readers, and audience members. To some, the play’s relevance is topical. In The Penguin New Writing, contributor Stephen Spender points to Macbeth as an obvious choice when seeking Shakespearean drama relevant to today’s world. He explains, for example, ‘‘It is impossible to read the lines beginning, ‘Our country sinks beneath the yoke; it weeps, it bleeds’ [act 4, scene 3, lines 38–39], without thinking of half a dozen countries under the yoke of a tyrant.’’ Although Spender’s comment was made in 1941, the observation is equally true today. To others, Macbeth endures for its universal appeal to the human spirit, even at its darkest. As Bloom suggests, ‘‘We are to journey inward to Macbeth’s heart of darkness, and there we will find ourselves

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more truly and more strange, murderers in and of the spirit.’’ Ribner suggests a more positive, if surprising, reading of Macbeth when he points out that Macbeth’s ultimate downfall is the result of his own choices. He concludes, ‘‘We may thus, viewing the play in its totality, see good, through divine grace, inevitably emerging from evil and triumphant at the play’s end with a promise of rebirth.’’

A CLEARLY INTELLIGENT AND AMBITIOUS WOMAN, LADY MACBETH’S ROLE IS COMPLETELY DETERMINED BY HER HUSBAND’S. WITHOUT EVEN A NAME OF HER OWN, THE ONLY WAY SHE CAN ACHIEVE POWER IS IF HER HUSBAND FIRST ATTAINS IT.’’

CRITICISM Mary Ives Thompson and Francesco Aristide Ancona Thompson and Ancona analyze how the characters of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth undergo such dramatic transformations from the beginning of the play to the end. The critics contend that these transformations are rooted in the issue of gender roles, and specifically in the characters’ desire to escape from the rigidly defined roles that society has created for them. In Macbeth, both the title character and Lady Macbeth undergo a role reversal of sorts by the end of the play. In a world where fair is soul and the natural order is completely subverted, Macbeth becomes completely confident in his grab for power, while Lady Macbeth wanders the castle corridors at night bemoaning her unclean hands following the murder of Duncan and his guards. The question, then, is why these two characters change so much in their attitudes in the relatively short space of the drama. What could cause Macbeth, referred to by his own wife as ‘‘too full o’ the milk of human kindness to catch the nearest way’’ (1.5.17–18), to become completely remorseless in his bid for the crown, even to the point at which he eliminates not only his competitors for the throne but their progeny as well? And why has Lady Macbeth, who was so bent on ambition and power in the opening acts that she begged whatever spirits might be listening to ‘‘unsex me here / and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full / of direst cruelty!’’ (1.5.41–43), become a guilt-ridden somnambulist? Clearly, this role reversal revolves around the question of gender, specifically, the attempt to break out of rigidly defined roles for which persons might be unsuited. Lady Macbeth has several problems, the most notable of which are as follows: She is intelligent, she craves power, she is strong enough to determine what action


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she must take to achieve her goals, and she is willing to turn to unsavory means to achieve her ends. Oh, yes, and she happens to be a female living in medieval Scotland. In short, Lady Macbeth’s dramatic role reversal and subsequent demise at her own hand can be traced back to one source: her own desire for some sort of power and the attempted overthrow or altering of the patriarchal order of her society that dictates a passive role for which she was completely unsuited. Tellingly, Macbeth opens with an initial act and scene populated entirely by female characters, the only Shakespeare play to do so. Immediately, by the very presence of the weird sisters, the audience is given to understand something unnatural is afoot. While clearly women, the witches display androgynous characteristics, leading Macbeth and Banquo to question their gender: ‘‘You should be women, / And yet your beards forbid me to interpret / That you are so’’ (1.3.53–47). The difficulty of gender characterization and the attempt on the part of the male characters to neatly file other people into a clear, gender-specific role (the witches should be women) foreshadows Lady Macbeth’s plea two scenes later—she too wishes for sex to be taken away or at least fundamentally changed, so she will not display the weaknesses inherent in all females: compassion and tender-heartedness. The reason for her desire for this change is apparent when the audience beholds her ambition. Macbeth refers to her as his ‘‘dearest partner of greatness’’ (1.5.11), something unheard of in the paternalistic and bloodyminded society in which she lives. How else can Lady Macbeth hope to live up to the faith that Macbeth has placed in her unless she rids herself of her female imperfections of kindness and mercy? In a society that rewards bloody murder if done in the service of

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and then covered with blood and gore. While most characters in the play cling to this warlike and vengeful ideal of the masculine, one character displays what more modern readers might determine to be a ‘‘real man,’’ one who exemplifies the often conflicting characteristics of physical strength and emotional depth. When Macduff discovers his wife and children are slaughtered, he is understandably moved. Malcolm, however, advises him to ‘‘Dispute it like a man’’ (4.3.221), or take up arms against Macbeth and bring him down. In this masculine world, the only acceptable reaction to treachery and murder is vengeance. Macduff acknowledges action is important and that he will soon seek revenge, but emotions also must play a role: I shall do so; But I must also feel it as a man. I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me.

Brid Brennan as Lady Macbeth in Act V, scene I, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1996 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

the state (three scenes earlier, the captain is heard praising Macbeth for dispatching the traitorous Macdonwald when he ‘‘unseamed him from the nave to the chops / And fixed his head upon our battlements’’ (1.2.22–23)), how can a mere woman hope to achieve any power if not through her husband? And if that husband is too plagued by conscience or kindness to commit murder without cause, how can Lady Macbeth not pray to have her feminity revoked, so she may be the one to do the deed herself? The only way for a man to be successful in Macbeth’s world is to take arms and end the life of another. Macbeth’s early success against the traitorous Macdonwald paves the way for other bloody acts that will allow him to gain greater glory and fame. At first unsure of his course toward what he views as greatness, he progresses nevertheless toward his destiny. The speech in which he speaks of his hallucination of the bloody dagger indicates the only tools of his creativity: an unsheathed weapon, first clean

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This brief interlude into acknowledgment and even valuing of emotion is short lived, for in the next few lines Macduff ‘‘pulls himself together’’ and steels himself for what he must do as a man: Oh, I could play the woman with mine eyes And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, Cut short this intermission. Front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword’s length set him. The only male character willing to recognize his ‘‘feminine side’’ is quickly pulled back into the world of brutality and vengeance, and it is in this world and against this backdrop of violent tendencies that Lady Macbeth exists. A clearly intelligent and ambitious woman, Lady Macbeth’s role is completely determined by her husband’s. Without even a name of her own, the only way she can achieve power is if her husband first attains it. Only with Macbeth as king can Lady Macbeth be queen. How frustrating it must be for such a strong woman to be forced to rely on such a weak vessel! Following the lead of all the successful males of whom she knows, Lady Macbeth plans a quick succession to the throne for her husband and taunts him into participation with what she views as his own weakness and lightness of affection towards her. When Macbeth’s conscience torments him to the

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point at which he decides he cannot go through with the planned murder, she responds: . . . Was the hope drunk Wherein you dressed yourself?. Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. (1.7.36–40) This response to her husband’s qualms makes her seem cruel and manipulative, a shrew who must use her sexuality to twist her husband’s love to her own selfish ends, and to a certain extent this is true. On the other hand, what other options were available to her? If she wanted power for her husband (and, by extension, for herself) she must force Macbeth back on the bloody path to regicide. And when Macbeth responds he cannot kill Duncan because, ‘‘I dare do all that may become a man; / Who dares do more is none,’’ (1.7.46–48) Lady Macbeth rightly points out what manly behavior means in her experience: . . . What beast was’t, then, That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. The idea for the murder was her husband’s—Lady Macbeth has simply determined a practical course of action to help fulfill the weird sisters’ prophecy and now that the time for completion is nearing, Macbeth is having pangs of conscience that are disrupting the scheme. How intolerably infuriating this must be to the ‘‘dearest partner of greatness,’’ to see everything she had been allowed to hope for slipping away through the perceived weakness of one man! In one sense, Lady Macbeth fulfills her role as helpmate of her husband, although in an admittedly gruesome fashion. She attends her husband at the murder, eggs him on, and completes the task of incriminating the grooms by smearing them with blood, all of which is completely outside the guidelines of acceptable female behavior but is done to assist her husband. Had she been a stereotypical Scottish wife of the period, she would have known nothing of her husband’s business dealings and would have been content to wait for Macbeth to bring home guests for her to entertain. Instead, when


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Duncan is admitted to her home, she plans and participates in the murder, and she shows much self-awareness of prospective guild as she does so, informing Macbeth, ‘‘These deeds must not be thought / After these ways; so, it will make us mad’’ (2.2.37–38). The realization of wrongdoing is upon her; nevertheless, she knows that her own mind might turn on her if she dwells too heavily on what she has done. Macbeth’s mind already displays some misgivings, but as the play progresses, he will follow the second counsel of the witches and rush headlong toward his doom in the surety of his invincibility. The strong female in this case is the one whose mental capacities will degrade as the drama moves to its end, since the idea of a thinking woman in a position of power was still viewed as unnatural and could not be allowed. It would not be possible to have Macbeth killed and Lady Macbeth left alive—what would the male-governed society do with her? Would Malcolm or any of the others hold her guilty for her actions? Could they even conceive of the idea of a woman so filled with cunning and treachery? After all, Macduff speaks of Malcolm’s mother in 4.3 as an ideal woman who was ‘‘Oft’ner upon her knees than on her feet.’’ (111) In this society, all women are fit to do is watch, wait, and pray. Would Malcolm have been able to execute a woman, even one he knows to be a ‘‘fiendlike queen’’? No, leaving Lady Macbeth alive and having the question of punishment appropriate for a female would have been a loose end in an otherwise tight drama, and so Lady Macbeth must punish and quietly remove herself from the reach of male justice by taking her own life. She operates completely in her own sphere, untouched by interaction with any character other than her husband. Even in her dealings with him, Lady Macbeth is the stronger of the two, taking the lead and pushing for her goals. Only in her sleep does her femininity of her conscience have free reign, and even then the physician recognizes she is the only one who can minister to herself. Throughout the drama, no man can truly assist Lady Macbeth. Perhaps this isolation occurs because, through much of the play, Lady Macbeth is viewed as an outsider even by herself. The laws of nature do not apply to her in the same way they do to everyone else in the play. When the grooms are lulled to sleep by alcohol, Lady M notes, ‘‘That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; / What hath quenched them that

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given me fire’’ (2.2.1–2). Even strong drink acts differently in her system, making her appear an aberration indeed. When Macbeth realizes the extent of his villainy immediately after Duncan’s murder and begins to fear he hears knocking, Lady Macbeth responds to his qualms: My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. (Knock.) I hear a knocking At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed. How easy is it, then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. Lady Macbeth hears the same sounds as Macbeth, but they raise no feelings of guilt or panic; rather, they bring out her practical nature, and she supports her husband as he falters in his purpose. She will continue fulfilling at lease one role of the attentive wife and will be at Macbeth’s side to assist him when his hallucinations worsen, and he sees the ghost of Banquo. It is Lady Macbeth who again subverts the natural order by allowing all the guests to leave the chamber quickly and without regard for rank as she directs them to, ‘‘Stand not upon the order of your going, / But go at once.’’’ (3.4.120–121) Attempting to function in male society while still outwardly appearing to be a dutiful wife, she throws aside the masculine rules of order, perhaps out of ignorance or perhaps out of desperation. None of this is meant to excuse the reprehensible actions of either character, however. It is merely an explanation of why one woman could act with such a stony heard and dauntless purpose to kill an old man of whom she was admittedly fond. (Indeed, the only reason Lady Macbeth cannot bring herself to kill Duncan when Macbeth falters is Duncan’s passing resemblance to her own father. The primitive ban against patricide still exists in her psyche, even if regicide is an acceptable course of action in her desperation and ambition.) Both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth are acting in unnatural ways, or at least in ways in which a perversion of the ‘‘might makes right’’ principle is in play. They have departed from violence in service of the State and moved to violence for personal gain, something which the playwright has a duty to condemn. The messages of the drama resonates: Unnatural behavior on the part of both sexes can only lead to calamity as Nature itself rebels and rises up to restore accepted order. In this,

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one of the only Shakespeare plays in which the protagonist can be classified as evil rather than simply flawed, Shakespeare seems to be indicating that a woman as unnatural as Lady Macbeth cannot be allowed to live or flourish. The only acceptable outcome for this rebel against her sex is for her to take her own life. Lady Macbeth is not the first unruly woman in the drama to be constrained or returned to her acceptable role. We see the three witches have overstepped their bounds when Hecate appears in 3.5 and chides them for their support of Macbeth, ‘‘ . . . a wayward son, / Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, / Loves for his own ends, not for you’’ (11–13). Even the witches have an established hierarchy, and their prophecies can only be used for the benefit of an acceptable subject. Macbeth is not a good choice for the hearing of the prophecy, and the three sisters must now restore the balance they had disturbed. Their last prophecy to Macbeth, of course, leads him to the false sense of security when he believes he can never be harmed. When he listens to and heeds this prophecy, he and Lady Macbeth begin to switch roles in the drama. He becomes completely blind to any danger to himself, and Lady Macbeth changes from a murderer who philosophically states, ‘‘Things without all remedy / Should be without regard. What’s done is done’’ (3.2.13–14) to a disturbed sleepwalker who paces futilely every night in search of enough water to cleanse her of her sins. Macbeth is stepping up to the role he wanted but was afraid to kill for, and Lady Macbeth’s strength is no longer needed. A displaced person, she has no further role in the support of her husband and will revert to the more traditional feminine role. As he becomes stronger, she weakens, for two such blindly driven characters are not needed to rule. Finally, with her suicide, she removes herself from the stage completely, leaving her husband not to mourn her passing but to simply comment, ‘‘She should have died hereafter.’’ Lady M’s downfall comes more quickly than Macbeth’s, for she has rebelled more against her femininity than he has against his masculinity. Macbeth has taken society’s approval of state-sanctioned murder too far, to the extent of killing and supplanting the head of state, but his behavior is an extension of appropriate masculine action for his military-minded world. Lady Macbeth, however, has stepped

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WHAT DO I READ NEXT? Clarence Valentine Boyer’s chapter on Macbeth in The Villain as Tragic Hero in Elizabethan Tragedy (1914; reprint, 1964) presents a detailed examination of Macbeth’s character, tracing the development of his thought throughout the play’s action. Edited by John Russell Brown, 1982’s Focus on ‘‘Macbeth’’ contains eleven essays on the play by prominent critics. The subjects of these essays range from thematic concerns and language to theatrical considerations of the play. Herbert R. Coursen provides a reliable and informative guide to Macbeth in Macbeth: A Guide to the Play (1997). Chapters cover the background of the play, general thematic considerations, and comments on various productions.

apparent in its language and imagery. Foakes argues that the drama’s simplicity of action and character belies the fact that Shakespeare was attempting to develop a new kind of tragedy distinct from Hamlet, King Lear, and Othello.

In a chapter about Macbeth in Arnold Kettle’s 1964 work, Shakespeare in a Changing World, J. K Walton analyzes Macbeth’s individualism and associates it with the play’s imagery of isolation and sterility. Walton also notes that opposed to this individualism is a combination of forces that challenge Macbeth; he states that the play’s optimism is partly suggested by ‘‘the fact that a unified people overcome the tyrant.’’

L. C. Knights provides a general overview of Macbeth’s major themes and images in Some Shakespearean Themes (1959), noting that ‘‘the essential structure of Macbeth . . . is to be sought in the poetry.’’

Editor Edwin Quinn analyzes the world of Macbeth in 1978’s How to Read Shakespearean Tragedy. He divides Shakespeare’s world into four parts: the physical, the psychological, the political, and the moral. Leary considers each of these aspects separately, but maintains that they are ‘‘all parts of a unified whole.’’

In Stratford Papers on Shakespeare (1963), editor B. W. Jackson demonstrates the overall intensity of Macbeth, which is chiefly

In an article for Shakespeare Quarterly, (October 1953) titled ‘‘The Unity of Macbeth,’’ Brent Stirling proposes that the poetic and dramatic structures of Macbeth are unified in four traditionally Elizabethan themes: darkness, sleep, raptness, and contradiction.

completely outside the bounds of femininity and must be punished, even if it is by her own hand. More self-aware than Macbeth to the end, she does not wait for anyone else to end her unnatural existence—she does it willingly to herself,

quietly and offstage. Macbeth, on the other hand, determines not to surrender and not to fall upon his sword, for at the end his overconfidence blinds him to any possible danger, and he only completely understands his own doom

In James I and the Politics of Literature: Jonson, Shakespeare, Donne, and Their Contemporaries (1990), Jonathan Goldberg provides important historical and cultural information about the context in which Shakespeare and his peers (and rivals) penned classic and enduring works of literature. Anthony Holden’s 2002 book, William Shakespeare: An Illustrated Biography, offers readers an honest attempt to present the facts of Shakespeare’s life, separate from the legends that surround the playwright. The book is brought to life by the inclusion of illustrations and ephemera related to the Bard’s life.


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when nature itself, in the form of a mobile Birnam Wood, and another man outside of nature yet willing to restore order, Macduff, takes his life away from him. Of final interest in this commentary on gender psyche in the drama, one last area of symbolism exists and is particularly important in the context of Lady Macbeth’s suicide. If nature is personified as a female presence, it is interesting to note the male use of the feminine boughs of the Wood as a shield until subterfuge is no longer needed, at which time nature is cast away and steel swords again become the most important implements. Likewise, Macduff was once sheltered by a woman who was later discarded as unnecessary in the birth process—after all, ‘‘Macduff was from his mother’s womb untimely ripped.’’ (5.8.16) Even the witches who opened the play are displaced, and it is a male figure who will offer the final words to sum up the moral and message of the work. The drama ends with the natural (and, what else? patriarchal) order of society and rank being restored, as is evidenced by Malcolm’s final statement, ‘‘ . . . what needful else / we will perform in measure, time, and place’’ (5.8.73–73). However, try as Malcolm might, the audience knows that his reign will end with or shortly after his own death, for according to the prophecy it is the murdered Banquo whose children will gain the throne. If the weird sisters’ prophecy is correct, how long can it be until nature is again in upheaval? While Shakespeare himself must stress the return of the genders to their rightful places, it seems only a matter of time until the feminine intrudes once again in this masculine world, no matter how carefully kings attempt to structure their legacy.

THE MURDER OF A SLEEPING GUEST, THE MURDER OF A SLEEPING KING, THE MURDER OF A SAINTLY OLD MAN, THE MURDER, AS IT WERE, OF SLEEP ITSELF, CARRIES WITH IT THE APPROPRIATE RETRIBUTION OF INSOMNIA.’’

Images of sickness, the critic contends, signify the ‘‘disease of tyranny’’ which has infected Scotland, and which can only be cured by ‘‘bleeding or purgation.’’ Muir also observes a contrast between the powers of light and darkness in Macbeth. Darkness pervades all the action in Macbeth’s world, whereas light manifest itself in the scenes in England and those in which Malcolm and Macduff restore order at the end of the play. Other dualities related to the light/dark motif include contrasts between angel and devil, heaven and hell, and truth and falsehood.

Source: Mary Ives Thompson and Francesco Aristide Ancona, ‘‘He Says/She Says: Shakespeare’s Macbeth (a Gender/Personality Study),’’ in Journal of Evolutionary Psychology, Vol. 27, No. 3–4, October 2005, pp. 59–69.

Kenneth Muir Muir analyzes various image patterns in Macbeth. The first pattern the critic examines is that of babies and breast-feeding. According to Muir, infants symbolize pity throughout the play, and breast-milk represents ‘‘humanity, tenderness, sympathy, natural human feelings, [and] the sense of kinship, all of which have been outraged by the murderers.’’ Another group of images focuses on sickness and medicine, all of which occur, significantly, in the last three acts of the play, after Macbeth has ascended the throne.

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Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, and Banquo’s Ghost, Act III, scene iv


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Source: Kenneth Muir, ‘‘Image and Symbol in Macbeth,’’ in Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakesperian Study and Production, Cambridge University Press, Vol. 19, 1966, pp. 45–54.

J. Lyndon Shanley Shanley considers the tragic context of Macbeth’s evil actions in an attempt to determine whether or not his downfall warrants sympathy or arouses


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fear at the end of the play. The critic maintains that Macbeth has a fundamentally different experience from Shakespeare’s other great tragic heroes: he does not achieve a great recovery in the end because his actions throughout the play were ignoble. Shanley suggests, however, that Macbeth’s end is perhaps more tragic than that of the other heroes because he ultimately loses himself to a degree that none of them does. According to the critic, our pity for Macbeth might therefore lie in the fact that by declaring that life signifies nothing, he acknowledges ‘‘the almost complete destruction of the human spirit.’’ Shanley also observes that our ability to pass judgment on the hero’s ruin is further complicated by several factors. Nowhere can we see the essential humanity of Shakespeare more clearly than in Macbeth, as he shows that the darkest evil may well be human, and so, though horrible, understandable in terms of our own lives and therefore pitiable and terrible. Yet nowhere apparently are we so likely to miss the center of Shakespeare’s view of the action; for Macbeth, while less complex than Shakespeare’s other major tragedies, frequently raises the crucial question: Is Macbeth’s fall really tragic? Many who are deeply moved by the action of the play cannot satisfactorily explain their feelings. The doctrine of Tout comprendre, c’est tout pardonner [if all is understood then all is pardoned] leads them to think (most of the time) that there is no guilt, that there should be no punishment. When faced with unpardonable evil and inescapable punishment for the guilty, and when moved at the same time to pity and fear by the suffering of the evil-doer, they are confused. Since they confound the understanding of an act with the excusing of it, they are prevented from understanding acts (and their reactions to them) for which excuse is impossible. Some, of course, find an excuse for Macbeth in the witches. But those who do not see him as the victim of agents of destiny appear to wonder if they have not been tricked into sympathy by Shakespeare’s art. How, they ask, in view of Macbeth’s monstrous career and sorry end, so different from those of Hamlet, Lear, or Othello, how can his fortunes win our pity and arouse our fear? Macbeth is defeated as is no other of Shakespeare’s great tragic figures. No pity and reverent awe attend his death. Dying off-stage, he

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MACBETH IS DEFEATED AS IS NO OTHER OF SHAKESPEARE’S GREAT TRAGIC FIGURES. NO PITY AND REVERENT AWE ATTEND HIS DEATH. DYING OFF-STAGE, HE IS, AS IT WERE, SHUFFLED OFF, IN KEEPING WITH HIS DREADFUL STATE AND THE DESIRE OF ALL IN HIS WORLD TO BE RID OF HIM.’’

is, as it were, shuffled off, in keeping with his dreadful state and the desire of all in his world to be rid of him. The sight of his ‘‘cursed head’’ is the signal for glad hailing of Malcolm as king; all thought of him is dismissed with ‘‘this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen’’ [V. ix. 35]. The phrase is dramatically fitting, but it does not express the whole truth that Shakespeare shows us of Macbeth’s story. Seldom do we feel so strongly both the justice of the judgment and the retribution and at the same time pity for him on whom they fall; for behind this last scene lies the revelation of Macbeth’s almost total destruction. Hamlet, Lear, and Othello lose much that is wonderful in human life; their fortunes are sad and terrible. So near, their stories seem to say, is man’s enjoyment of the world’s best gifts—and yet so far, because his own errors and weakness leave him unable to control his world. To lose Hamlet’s delight in man and his powers, and the glory of life; to have Cordelia’s love and tender care snatched away, after such suffering as Lear’s; or to have thrown away the jewel of one’s life as did Othello—this is painful. But their fortunes might have been worse. At one time they were: when the losers thought that what they had served and believed in were mere shows that made a mockery of their noblest love; when life and all their efforts seemed to have been utterly without meaning. But before the end they learned that their love had value and that life had meaning. On this knowledge depends the twofold effect of the heroes’ deaths: death at once seals, without hope of restitution, the loss of the world and its gifts, but at the same time it brings relief from the pain of loss. Furthermore, this knowledge restores the courage and nobility of soul that

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Macbeth with the witches and apparitions, Act IV, scene I, at the Young Vic Theatre, London 1975 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

raise them far above their enemies and the ruins of their world. Without this knowledge, Hamlet and Lear and Othello were far less than themselves, and life but a fevered madness. With it, there is tragedy but not defeat, for the value of what is best in them is confirmed beyond question. But in the end of Macbeth we have something fundamentally different. Macbeth’s spirit, as well as his world, is all but destroyed; no great recovery is possible for him. He does not, for he cannot, see that what he sought and valued most was good and worthy of his efforts. He is aware that he has missed much; shortly before Lady Macbeth dies, he broods over the ‘‘honour, love, obedience, troops of friends’’ [V. iii. 25] he has lost and cannot hope to regain. But this knowledge wins no ease for his heart. It does not raise him above the conditions that have ruined him. Macbeth, it is true, is no longer tortured as he once was, but freedom from torture has led only to the peace of despair in which he looks at life and denounces it as ‘‘a tale told by an idiot’’ [V. v. 26–7].


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Bitter as life was for Hamlet, Lear, and Othello, it was not empty. But all Macbeth’s efforts, all his hopes and dreams were in vain, because of the way he went; and when he discovers that they were, he concludes that nothing can be realized in life. Hence his terrible indictment of life—terrible because it reveals him to be all but hopelessly lost in the world of Shakesperean tragedy, as he desperately and ironically blasphemes against a basic tenet of that world, to the truth of which his own state bears overwhelming evidence: that man’s life signifies everything. It is the despair and irony in this blasphemy that makes Macbeth’s lot so awful and pitiful. We see the paralyzing, the almost complete destruction of a human spirit. The threat of hostile action galvanizes Macbeth into action to protect himself, but the action is little more than an instinctive move toward self-preservation and the last gesture of despair. He has not even the bitter satisfaction of rebelling and saying, ‘‘As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods’’ [King Lear, IV. i. 36]. Only

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sheer animal courage remains to flash out and remind us of a Macbeth once courageous in an honorable cause. This reminder is pitiful, for Macbeth has not even the slim hope of a trapped animal which, if it fights loose, has something to escape to. All Macbeth did resulted in nothing; whatever he does now will result in nothing but the anguish of meaningless action. It is hard enough to realize that one has been on the wrong track for part of life; to be convinced that there is no right track to get on because there is no place for any track to go—this is to be lost with no hope at all. At the very end we see some saving touches of humanity in Macbeth: he has not lost all human virtue; he would have no more of Macduff’s blood on his soul; and even with the collapse of his last security, his bravery does not falter. These touches show him a man still, and not a fiend, but they by no means reestablish him in his former self. There is no greatness in death for him. Rather than the human spirit’s capacity for greatness in adversity, we see its possible ruin in evil. Because we never see Macbeth enjoying the possession of the great prize he sought, and because from the beginning of his temptation we have no hope that he will be able to enjoy it, his loss of the world’s gifts is not so poignant as that of Hamlet, Lear, or Othello. But to a degree that none of them does, Macbeth loses himself, and this is most tragic of all.

Shakespeare presents Macbeth as one who had hardly any chance to escape guilt. The concatenation of circumstances which make Macbeth’s temptation is such as to seem a trap. At the very moment when he is returning victorious from a battle in which he has played a chief part in saving his country from disaster, there comes to him a suggestion—touching old dreams and desires—that he may be king. Shakespeare uses the witches to convey the danger of the suggestion. The witches and their prophecies are poetic symbols of the bafflingly indeterminate character of the events that surround men. The witches force nothing; they advise nothing; they simply present facts. But they confound fair and foul; just so, events may be good or ill. The witches will not stay to explain their greetings any more than events will interpret themselves. The witches’ prophecies and the events that forever surround men are dangerous because they may appear simple and are not, because they may be so alluring as to stultify prudence, and because their true significance may be very hard to come at. Depending on conditions, they may be harmless, or they may be delusive, insidious, and all but impossible to read correctly.

It may be objected, however, that Macbeth alone of Shakespeare’s great tragic figures is fully aware of the evil of the act by which he sets in motion the train of events leading to his ruin. His culpability seriously weakens the sympathy of many. In the face of this difficulty, some interpreters justify sympathy for Macbeth by seeing him as the victim of the witches, the agents of destiny. This point of view, however, seems to cut through the complex knot of human life as Shakespeare saw it, instead of following the various strands which make it up. We cannot dodge Macbeth’s responsibility and guilt—he never does.

Macbeth is in no condition to read them aright. He had restrained his desire for greatness in the past since he would not do the wrong which was needed to win greatness. The hunger of his ambitious mind had not died, however; it had only been denied satisfaction. Now, when the sense of his own power and his taste of it are high indeed, the old hunger is more than reawakened; it is nourished with hope, as immediate events seem to establish the soundness of the suggestion. Enough hope to lead him to ponder the suggestion seriously, and then, in spite of an attempt to put it out of his mind since he recognizes the evil of his thoughts, to retail the wonderful news of possible greatness to his wife.

His ruin is caused by the fact that he sins: he wilfully commits an act which he knows to be wrong. This ruin and sin are seen to be tragic, as Shakespeare, like Dante, reveals the pity and fear in a man’s succumbing to grievous temptation, and in the effects of sin on his subsequent thoughts and deeds. Macbeth’s guilt and the circumstances upon which it depends do not decrease our pity and fear; they produce it; for

There follow immediately two events which press the matter on most hastily. The king proclaims his eldest son as his heir, and in the next breath announces his visit to Macbeth’s castle. Thus, while desire and hope are fresh, Macbeth sees put before him, first, an obstacle which time will only make greater, and then an opportunity for him to prevent time from working against him. ‘‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere

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well it were done quickly’’ [I. vii. 1–2]. In fact, it must be done quickly if it is to be done at all. Desire, apparent promise of fulfillment, need for speedy action, and immediate opportunity fall together so rapidly as to create an all but inescapable force. Yet Macbeth would have resisted temptation had he been left to himself. Great though his hunger for power and glory, especially when whetted by such circumstances, it would not have completely overcome his fears and scruples. Even if he were to jump the life to come, he knew that if he could and would kill Duncan, another might well do the same for him. On a higher plane, the double loyalty he owed to the king held him back. Finally, a point that reveals the virtue that was in him, he felt the goodness of Duncan so strongly that killing him seemed too terrible a thing to do. Worldly prudence, loyalty, reverence for what is good—these turned Macbeth back. Lady Macbeth’s fears were well founded; his nature was not such as to let him ‘‘catch the nearest way.’’ But that nature could, as she felt, be worked. It was good, but not firm in its goodness. Macbeth is a moderately good man, no better, but also no worse, than the next one. The point is (and it is a grim one) that the virtue of the ordinarily good man is not enough to keep him from disaster under all possible circumstances— especially when some of them are such as may be for good or evil. This was the nature of Lady Macbeth’s influence on Macbeth. She could sway him because she understood him and loved him, and because he loved her and depended on her love and good thoughts of him. She could and would have urged him to noble deeds had occasion arisen. To prevent her from urging him on to evil ones, he needed more than the ordinary firmness to act as he saw right. But to cut clear of such a source of strength and comfort is difficult; too difficult for Macbeth. It is the old story of the perversion of the potentially good, and of the problem of getting only the good from the baffling mixture of good and evil in all things. Just after Macbeth has decided to give up his murderous plot, but before intention can harden to resolve, Lady Macbeth adds the force of her appeals to that of Macbeth’s desires and the press of circumstances. She sees his chance to win the prize of life; she knows he wants it, as she does not know in their full strength his


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reasons for renouncing it. She beats down, at least long enough for her immediate purpose, the fears and scruples which would otherwise have kept him from the crown, and murder and ruin. She does not answer Macbeth’s scruples; her attack is personal. Whether she knows or simply feels his need of her admiration and support, she strikes at the right point. The spur of ambition did not drive Macbeth too hard toward his great opportunity, but her goading taunts he could not withstand, though they drove him on to horrors. All this does not excuse Macbeth; no excuse is possible for one who, with full knowledge of the nature of the act, murders a good man to whom he owes hospitality, loyalty, and gratitude. Shakespeare makes us realize, however, how dangerous the battle, how practically irresistible may be the forces arrayed against a man. Some men are saved from evil because they marry a Cordelia or a Viola [in Twelfth Night]; others because opportunity never favors their desires; and still others because the stakes do not justify the risk of being caught in evil doing. For Macbeth, the stakes are the highest, the opportunity golden, and the encouragement to evil from a wife whom he loves and needs. Macbeth is terrified by the warnings of his conscience, but he cannot surrender. That he acts with full knowledge of the evil only increases the pity and fear aroused by his deed. For this knowlege causes much of his suffering; it makes his condition far worse than it would have been had he acted with less than complete knowledge; and, finally, it emphasizes the power of the trickery, the lure, and the urging to which he was subjected. We pity his suffering even as he does evil because we understand why he could not hold on to the chance which he ought to have taken to save himself; and we are moved to fear when we see his suffering and understand how slight may be the chance to escape it. Once that chance is lost greater suffering and evil follow inescapably. The bloody career on which Macbeth now embarks can no more be excused than could his first crime, but it increases rather than detracts from our pity and fear. The trap of temptation having been sprung, there is no escape for Macbeth, and his struggles to escape the consequences of his sin serve only to ensnare him more deeply. As we witness that struggle, our pity and fear increase because we

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feel how incompetent he is to do anything but struggle as he does. Evil brings its own suffering with it, but Macbeth cannot learn from it. The unknown fifteenth-century author of The Book of the Poor in Spirit wrote of evil and suffering: ‘‘One’s own proper suffering comes from one’s own sins and he suffers quite rightly who lives in sins, and each sin fosters a special spiritual suffering . . . This kind of suffering is similar to the suffering in hell, for the more one suffers there the worse one becomes. This happens to sinners; the more they suffer through sin the more wicked they become and they fall more and more into sufferings in their effort to escape.’’ Just so did Shakespeare conceive of Macbeth’s state. Macbeth has no enemy he can see, such as Iago or one of Lear’s savage daughters; he is within himself. In first overriding the warnings of his conscience, he brings on the blindness which makes it impossible for him to perceive his own state and things outside him as they really are, and which therefore sends him in pursuit of a wholly illusory safety. When he puts away all thought of going back on his first evil deed, he deals the last blow to his conscience which once urged him to the right, and he blinds himself entirely. No sooner does he gain what he wanted than he is beset by fears worse than those he overrode in murdering Duncan. But having overridden the proper fears, he cannot deal rightly with the new ones. His horror of murder is lost in the fear of discovery and revenge, and the fear of losing what he has sacrificed so much to gain. Briefly at least he wishes the murder undone and Duncan waking to the knocking at the gate. But just as earlier he thought, but failed, to put the witches’ prophecies and his evil thoughts out of mind, so now his better thoughts die. By the time he appears in answer to the knocking at the gate, he is firmly set on a course to make good the murder of Duncan and to keep himself safe.

I had liv’d a blessed time; for from this instant There’s nothing serious in mortality; All is but toys; renown and grace is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. [II. iii. 91–6] Irony could not be sharper. At the very moment when he seems to himself to be complete master of the situation, Macbeth, all unknowingly, utters the bitter truth about his state. He is still to be troubled by thoughts of evil, but the drive of his desire for peace from fear is greater; and to win security he is hurrying on the way in which he thinks it lies, but it is the way to the utter, empty loneliness he describes for us here. Macbeth finds that the death of the grooms was not enough; Banquo and Fleance must go if he is to be free from torment. Through Macbeth’s conversation first with Banquo about his journey, then with the murderers, and finally with Lady Macbeth, we comprehend to its full extent the disastrous change in him; he now contemplates murder with hope rather than horror. He still sees it as something to be hidden: ‘‘Come, seeling night, scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day’’ [III. ii. 46–7]. But he is willing to do more evil since he believes it will insure his safety: ‘‘Things bad begun make good themselves by ill’’ [III. ii. 55]. With the appearance of Banquo’s ghost comes the last flicker of conscience, but also an increasing terror of discovery and revenge which drives Macbeth further than ever: ‘‘For mine own good all causes shall give way’’ [III. iv. 134–35].

All is terrible irony from this point on. With a new decisiveness Macbeth kills the grooms in Duncan’s chamber; alive, they were potential witnesses; dead, they can serve as plausible criminals. Then he plays brilliantly the part of a griefstricken host and loyal subject:

The only thing he can gain in his blinded state is the very worst for him. He now seeks out the witches to get that reassurance in his course which he cannot find in himself. Although they will not stay for all his questions, he unhesitatingly accepts their equivocations; since they do reassure him, his doubts of them are gone. With their answers, and having lost ‘‘the initiate fear that wants hard use’’ and being no longer ‘‘young in deed’’ [III. iv. 142–43]. Macbeth enjoys the sense of security of any gangster or tyrant who has the unshrinking will to crush any possible opponents, and who thinks he has power to do so with impunity. All that he has gained, however, is the freedom to commit ‘‘every sin that has a name to it’’ [IV. iii. 59–60].

Had I but died an hour before this chance,

His delusion is complete; his ruin inevitable. Not until he experiences the bitter fruition of his

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earthly crown does he discover what has happened to him. Even then, however, he sees only in part; the blindness he suffered when he succumbed to temptation was never to be lightened; and hence the final irony of a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. [V. v. 26–8] The action of Macbeth evokes a somber ‘‘there but for the grace of God.’’ We understand but we do not therefore pardon all. Rather we acknowledge the evil and the guilt and so acquiesce in the inevitable retribution, but at the same time we are deeply moved by Macbeth’s suffering and ruin because we are acutely aware of the dangerous forces before which he falls, and because we recognize their power over one like ourselves—a moderately good man who succumbs to temptation and who, having succumbed, is led to more evil to make good the first misstep, until there is no chance of withdrawal or escape. As we watch him, we know that he should not have fallen; he might have resisted; but Shakespeare’s vision here is of a world in which men can hardly do better amid the forces of circumstance; and in which, if men do no better, they must suffer, and lose not only the world but themselves as well. Of such suffering and loss is tragedy made. Source: J. Lyndon Shanley, ‘‘Macbeth: The Tragedy of Evil,’’ in College English, Vol. 22, No. 5, February 1961, pp. 305–11.

SOURCES Adelman, Janet, ‘‘‘Born of Woman’: Fantasies of Maternal Power in Macbeth,’’ in Cannibals, Witches, and Divorce: Estranging the Renaissance, edited by Marjorie Gruber, Johns Hopkins University Press, 1987, pp. 90–121. Bloom, Harold, ‘‘Macbeth,’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Books, 1998, pp. 516–45. Booth, Wayne C., ‘‘Macbeth as Tragic Hero,’’ in The Journal of General Education, Vol. 6, No. 1, October 1951, pp. 17–25. Driver, Tom F., ‘‘The Uses of Time: The Oedipus Tyrannus and Macbeth,’’ in The Sense of History in Greek and Shakespearean Drama, Columbia University Press, 1960, pp. 143–67.


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McCarthy, Mary, ‘‘General Macbeth,’’ in The Writing on the Wall and Other Literary Essays, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1970, pp. 3–14. Ribner, Irving, ‘‘Macbeth: The Pattern of Idea and Action,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 10, No. 2, Spring 1959, pp. 147–59. Shakespeare, William, Macbeth, 2nd Series, edited by Kenneth Muir, Arden Shakespeare, 1997. Shanley, J. Lyndon, ‘‘Macbeth: The Tragedy of Evil,’’ in College English, Vol. 22, No. 5, February 1961, pp. 305–11. Spender, Stephen, ‘‘Books and the War—II,’’ in The Penguin New Writing, No. 3, February 1941, pp. 115–26. Van Doren, Mark, ‘‘Macbeth,’’ in Shakespeare, Henry Holt & Company, 1939, pp. 252–66

FURTHER READING Asp, Caroline, ‘‘‘Be bloody, bold and resolute’: Tragic Action and Sexual Stereotyping in Macbeth,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 78, No. 2, Spring 1981, pp. 153–69. Asp discusses the effect that stereotyping sexual roles has on the major characters in Macbeth. Fosse, Jean, ‘‘The Lord’s Anointed Temple: A Study of Some Symbolic Patterns in Macbeth,’’ in Cahiers E´lisabe´thains, No. 6, October 1974, pp. 15–22. Fosse studies a group of images in Macbeth concerned with the human body to demonstrate that they are closely related and that they form an important symbolic pattern. Heilman, Robert B., ‘‘The Criminal as Tragic Hero: Dramatic Methods,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 19, 1966, pp. 12–24. This article focuses on Shakespeare’s attempts to evoke sympathy for Macbeth despite the character’s increasing villainy. Heilman asserts that the playwright ‘‘so manages the situation that we become Macbeth or at least assent to complicity with him.’’ Jaarsma, Richard J., ‘‘The Tragedy of Banquo,’’ in Literature and Psychology, Vol. 17, Nos. 2–3, 1967, pp. 87–94. Jaarsma maintains that Banquo undergoes a radical change as a result of the witches’ prophesies and becomes Macbeth’s ‘‘silent accomplice’’ to Duncan’s murder. Jaarsma argues that by illustrating how evil affects a man ‘‘who is more realistic and less susceptible to it than Macbeth,’’ Shakespeare generalizes the tragedy of yielding to temptation. Kimbrough, Robert, ‘‘Macbeth: The Prisoner of Gender,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 16, 1983, pp. 175–90.

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Kimbrough examines the role of gender in Macbeth, asserting that the protagonist’s ‘‘failure to allow the tender aspects of his character to check those tough characteristics which are celebrated by the chauvinistic war ethic of his culture [and] championed by his wife’’ results first in his emotional, then his physical death. Moorthy, P. Rama, ‘‘Fear in Macbeth,’’ in Essays in Criticism, Vol. 23, No. 2, April 1973, pp. 154–66. Moorthy asserts that fear is a unifying theme in Macbeth. Moorthy examines how fear affects Macbeth in particular, noting that it is his peculiar fate to be continually exposed to its horrifying consequences.

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Rackin, Phyllis, ‘‘Macbeth,’’ in Shakespeare’s Tragedies, Frederick Ungar Publishing Co., 1978. Rackin Offers a general discussion of Macbeth. Rackin’s book, which she states is ‘‘written for amateurs,’’ includes photographs from numerous theatrical productions. Sadler, Lynn Veach, ‘‘The Three Guises of Lady Macbeth,’’ CLA Journal, Vol. 19, No. 1, September 1975, pp. 10–9. Sadler declares that Lady Macbeth is more imaginative than her husband and that she projects three guises in the play: the public Lady Macbeth, the woman who plays to the audience of her husband only, and the private Lady Macbeth.

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Measure for Measure The first record of performance indicates that Measure for Measure was acted before King James I on December 26, 1604, in the banqueting hall at Whitehall, by Shakespeare’s acting company, the King’s Men, referred to in the Revels Account as ‘‘his Maiesties plaiers.’’ In the account, authorship of the play is attributed to ‘‘Shaxberd.’’ The play was not published until 1623 when it was included in the First Folio, the commemorative volume of his collected plays issued by John Hemminges and Henry Conddell two fellow members of Shakespeare’s acting company. The play was probably set from a copy of Shakespeare’s own manuscript made by Ralph Crane, scrivener, or secretary–copyist for the King’s Men.

1604

The incidents in the story recounted in Measure for Measure are thought to be taken from what might have been an actual historical event. Joseph Macarius, a Hungarian student living in Vienna in the sixteenth century, tells in a letter written to an acquaintance, the story of a wife who submitted to the demands of an Italian magistrate in return for his promise to spare her husband, who was charged with murder. The magistrate, having failed to keep his promise and, having executed her husband nonetheless, the wife complained to the duke, Don Ferdinando de Gonzago. The duke ordered the magistrate to give the widow a dowry and to marry her. That being done, the magistrate was executed.

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In 1556, using this incident, Claude Rouillet wrote a bloody, Senecan tragedy, in Latin, called Philanira, which was translated into French in 1563. Three years later, Giraldi Cinthio turned the play into a novella, which he included in his collection of tales called the Hecathommithi. Cinthio also used it as the basis for a play, Epitia, published posthumously in 1583. Cinthio’s account was the basis for a play written in English by George Whetstone, in 1578, called Promos and Cassandra, which, along with Whetstone’s prose version of this story which appeared in his Heptameron of Civil Discourses (1582), probably served as the chief source for Shakespeare in the composition of Measure for Measure. Measure for Measure has often troubled critics either because of what seemed like its strange, hybrid structure or because of its often disturbing theme of the conflict between sexual license and sexual puritanism. Audiences, during the eighteenth century, apparently were not similarly put off by the play. Despite adaptations like Sir William Davenant’s The Law against Lovers (1673), and Charles Gildon’s 1700 adaptation, David Stevenson reports in The Achievement of Shakespeare’s ‘‘Measure for Measure’’ that the play was staged forty-six times between 1720 and 1800. In the Victorian era, the play nearly vanished from the London stage, largely because of its content. In the twentieth-century, Measure for Measure became classified, along with All’s Well That Ends Well, with which it shares the bed trick, the surreptitious substitution of one woman for another in a guilty assignation, and Troilus and Cressida as a ‘‘dark comedy’’ or ‘‘problem play.’’ By the end of the twentieth century, however, Measure for Measure had become a favorite among Shakespeare’s plays and one that was frequently staged.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Measure for Measure opens with Vincentio, the Duke of Vienna, announcing to Angelo and Escalus that he must leave the city and that in his place he is appointing Angelo his deputy and Escalus, Angelo’s second. Escalus is the more learned in the law but Angelo is reputed for his virtue. Angelo protests that he ought to be put to a test before being given such great responsibility, but the duke assures him that he has chosen

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him for the office after careful consideration and leaves him with the charge to enforce the laws of the city according to his wisdom. Angelo offers to see the duke a little on his way out of the city. The duke demurs, saying he must leave hastily and does not wish to be seen by the people. After they wish him farewell and he leaves, Angelo and Escalus agree to meet and determine just what is the extent of their powers.

Act 1, Scene 2 Lucio and two Gentlemen are lounging in a public square discussing politics, the possibility of war with Hungary, and trading barbed insults and sexual innuendos. Mistress Overdone, a brothel keeper, enters and informs them that Claudio has been arrested at Angelo’s orders for getting Julietta pregnant. Lucio fears that what she says is true because he was supposed to meet Claudio two hours ago and Claudio has not shown up. Lucio leaves to find out what has happened. As Mistress Overdone is complaining about how bad business is, her servant, Pompey, enters repeating her news that Claudio is being taken to prison for getting Julietta pregnant. Following in that vein, Pompey asks her if she has not heard the new proclamation ordering the closing of all the brothels. Mistress Overdone is alarmed because she will be put out of business. Pompey advises her not to worry, that she will always have customers and he will help procure them for her under the guise of a tapster working in what she can present as an ale-house. As they are speaking, they see Claudio being led through the street by the provost, on his way to prison, followed by Julietta. The provost explains to Claudio that Angelo has ordered this public display of their shame. Lucio is also with them and Claudio explains to him that he and Julietta are legally contracted to marry and that all but the final ceremonies had taken place because they have been waiting to make arrangements with Julietta’s relatives regarding the amount of her dowry. Angelo has revived old laws that have for years lain dormant and used them to prosecute Claudio. Moreover, Angelo has rejected Claudio’s appeals for clemency. There is one last hope, Claudio tells Lucio. His sister, Isabella, is about to enter a convent. Claudio implores Lucio to acquaint her with the news of his imprisonment and forthcoming execution and to persuade her to petition Angelo for mercy. Lucio agrees to see her, and Claudio is led off to prison.

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Act 1, Scene 3 The duke confides to Friar Thomas that he wishes him to shelter him in secret, not because he is carrying out a secret amour but because he has turned his power over to Angelo and let it be known that he has gone to Poland. He explains to Friar Thomas that he has let a number of strict laws go unenforced over the past fourteen years and, consequently, Vienna has become morally corrupt. However, he fears that if he himself were to reinstitute them, it would seem too much like capricious tyranny, since it was he who, by neglecting to enforce the laws, has given the people permission in their moral laxity. Therefore he has deputed Angelo to use his power, yet he will be protecting his own good reputation among the people. Now Duke Vincentio wishes to disguise himself as a friar and go among the people to see the effects of Angelo’s use of power and also to see how Angelo uses power and what effect the command of power has on Angelo. Vincentio’s final words to Friar Thomas suggest that everything he has said to him up until then was only a pretext for something he is not saying. He ends by pointing out that Angelo is reputed for his purity, that he has a stern and icy bearing and seems to be the highest model of absolute virtue. Vincentio says he wishes to ‘‘see / If power change purpose, what our seemers be,’’ if Angelo truly is what he seems to be.

Title page of Measure for Measure from the First Folio (1623) (By permission of The Folger Shakespeare Library)

Act 1, Scene 4 Inside a convent, Isabella is preparing to enter into her novitiate and is inquiring of a nun about the restrictions to be imposed, suggesting that she wishes to submit herself to the strictest possible discipline. Their conference is interrupted by Lucio’s shouts from outside the walls of the convent. Francisca, the nun with whom Isabella has been speaking, informs her that she [Francisca] is forbidden to speak with men except in the presence of the Prioress and asks Isabella to see what the man’s business is while she withdraws. Lucio enters the convent with the same gaiety, flirtatiousness, and irreverence of spirit that he displays in all situations, addressing the nun playfully and speaking suggestively. He asks to see Isabella regarding her ‘‘unhappy brother.’’ She tells him she is Isabella and asks why Claudio is unhappy. Lucio tells her he has been taken to prison for getting Julietta with child. She thinks he is mocking her, but when he


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repeats the story, she asks why Claudio does not marry Julietta. Lucio explains that Angelo has been deputized, will not permit the marriage, but instead insists on Claudio’s execution. The only hope, he tells her is for her to go to Angelo herself and plead for her brother’s life. Isabella promises to notify the Mother Superior of her business and to go to Angelo immediately.

Act 2, Scene 1 Discussing Claudio’s case, Escalus attempts to reason with Angelo and convince him to show mercy, first arguing that Claudio’s father was a good man of the nobility, and then asking Angelo if he could not think of a situation in which he himself might not have been tempted to act as Claudio had. Angelo responds that it is one thing to be tempted, quite another to fall,

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that just because a juror or judge has faults does not mean that the juror or judge cannot pass judgment on one caught at fault. Finally, Angelo asserts that should he, one day, be guilty as Claudio is, then he too ought to be condemned to die. Escalus, although not in agreement, makes no further objection. The provost enters. Angelo orders the beheading of Claudio ‘‘by nine tomorrow morning.’’ There is a swift shift in tone from serious to comic as Elbow, a constable, directs some officers to bring Pompey and Froth before the magistrates. The issue is not entirely clear, especially since Elbow ‘‘misplaces,’’ using the word ‘‘respected,’’ for example, when he means to say suspected, and Pompey is a fast-talking con artist. Essentially, however, Elbow brings Pompey before the magistrates accusing him of being a bawd and working in a brothel, which seems to be doing business as a bath house. In irritation, Angelo leaves the adjudication to Escalus. Escalus releases Pompey for lack of evidence, with a warning not to appear again before him and suggests that Elbow has been too long in office and asks him to bring him the names of some of his neighbors who might take over his job. Escalus then invites a fellow justice home to dinner with him, expressing his regrets regarding Claudio’s execution and lamenting that ‘‘there is no remedy.’’

Act 2, Scene 2 The provost, pitying Claudio and regretting that he will be executed for a simple human failing, visits Angelo at home in the evening inquiring once again if he ought to go through with the execution and advising him that sometimes, afterwards, one has regrets for having passed a severe sentence when it is too late to change it. Angelo is irritated with him, saying he has already given the order for the death and that if the provost is uncomfortable carrying them out, he is welcome to resign his office and spare himself. The provost apologizes and asks what ought to be done with Julietta in her present condition. Angelo orders her removed to a fitting place for her lying in, saying, ‘‘Let her have needful, but not lavish means.’’ A servant announces that Claudio’s sister has come to see Angelo. Isabella enters, accompanied by Lucio, and explains to Angelo that she is torn because while she wishes to ask for mercy for her brother, she deeply condemns his fault and begs Angelo to

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condemn his fault but to spare him. Angelo responds that the fault has already been condemned, and that it would be absurd to condemn a fault but pardon the man who committed it. Isabella agrees that, severe though it is, the law is just, and prepares to withdraw. Lucio, however, whispers to her that she is ‘‘too cold,’’ not to give up, and to try again. She does and engages Angelo with strong arguments about mercy, power, authority, the redemption Jesus offered mankind, whose lives had been forfeited through sin, by the sacrifice of his own life, and even asks Angelo to consider if he can find in himself any fault similar to her brother’s. To himself, Angelo says that as Isabella speaks he is almost convinced by her and that he is aroused to desire her. But he turns away from her to leave, and she asks him to turn back. He tells her he will think about what she has said and asks her to return tomorrow. She says she will tell him how she will bribe him. He becomes severe, but she catches him by saying she will bribe him not with gold, etc., but with prayers to heaven. He tells her again to come back tomorrow. As she leaves she offers a standard farewell, ‘‘Save your honor.’’ When she and Lucio and the provost are gone, in a soliloquy Angelo says, ‘‘From thee, even from thy virtue,’’ suggesting what will become central—that he lusts for her.

Act 2, Scene 3 Visiting the prison in his disguise as a friar, Duke Vincentio meets Julietta and questions her. She says she repents her action, bears her shame patiently, loves Claudio, and is as culpable in the act for which he will be executed as he is.

Act 2, Scene 4 Angelo appears, distraught, complaining that he is unable to pray and can only think lustfully of Isabella. A servant announces her and he receives her. Innocently, she says, ‘‘I am come to know your pleasure,’’ which as it applies to Angelo’s tormented musings has a secondary meaning she does not intend. He tells her Claudio must die. But then he equivocates and suggests that, although Claudio must die, it may be only in the way that everyone must die, but not immediately. Through a series of twists and turns Angelo finally tells Isabella that he loves her and that if she yields her body to his pleasure, he will release her brother from his sentence. Astonished, Isabella retorts that she will proclaim Angelo publicly for this outrage. He

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assures her that no one will believe her. Her word against his will seem like the trick of a hysterical woman slandering a just judge. His lie, he asserts, will have more weight than her truth. As he leaves her, he tells her to return tomorrow to give him her answer. Alone, she despairs, realizing that it is true: she has no one to tell what has happened. She decides she must live chaste and Claudio must die, that her chastity is more precious than his life.

Act 3, Scene 1 The duke, in his role as the friar, visits Claudio in prison to offer consolation and prepare him for death. In his famous speech, ‘‘Be absolute for death,’’ the duke/Friar enumerates the reasons that life is a contemptible thing. When he finishes, Claudio thanks him saying that he sees that life only makes him wish for death and that it is in death that he will find life. Isabella now comes to visit her brother in the prison, and the duke/Friar takes his leave of Claudio. As Isabella begins to speak with Claudio, the duke asks the provost to conceal him in a place where he may overhear their conversation. Claudio asks Isabella what comfort she brings. She tells him she brings the comfort of heaven, for that is where Angelo intends to send him. He asks if there is nothing to be done. She tells him there is one chance of life for him. When he shows eagerness to know what it is, she says she is fearful that his desire for life may overwhelm his ability to condemn the cost. He says that if he must die, he will. She says with joy she hears their dead father’s voice in his virtue and tells him then that Angelo will let her brother live if she surrenders her virginity to him. He is shocked and says, ‘‘Thou shalt not do’t.’’ She says if it were her life, she would sacrifice that without thought for him and she tells him to be ready for death tomorrow. Then Claudio begins to think: first, how terrible that Angelo would do the thing he sets the law against Claudio for having done! And then he wonders whether it is so terrible a sin if Angelo himself is willing to perform it. And then he cries to Isabella that ‘‘Death is a fearful thing.’’ She responds that a life of shame is a fearful thing. But he reminds her of the terrors and torments of death and suggests that the worst of life is better than death and begs her to let him live, that a sin performed for charity’s sake will become a virtue.


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Isabella responds fiercely to him, calls him a beast, a ‘‘faithless coward,’’ a man who would take his life from his sister’s shame. She wonders if her mother had not betrayed her father at his conception and assures Claudio she will only pray for his death, that she would not make the slightest effort to save his life. He begs her to hear him, but she rages against him. The duke in his friar’s robe at this moment steps forward from his hiding place and tells Isabella he wishes to speak with her. She steps aside and waits for him as he says a few words to Claudio outside of her hearing. Angelo, he tells Claudio, never meant what he said, was only testing Isabella’s virtue, and Claudio must remain steadfast for death. Claudio says he wishes to beg Isabella’s pardon, that he is ‘‘out of love with life,’’ and wishes only for death. The duke then asks the provost to leave him alone with Isabella, that they may talk privately. Alone with her, the duke commends her virtue and tells her that it is her virtue gives value to her beauty. He tells her, too, that he has heard what she told Claudio about Angelo and asks her what she intends to do. She repeats that she will resist Angelo and let Claudio die. She also says that the duke ought to be informed about his deputy and that if the duke returns she will tell him of his perfidy. Although that is the right thing to do, the duke agrees, he warns her it will be ineffective, that Angelo will deny her accusation and say he was only testing her. But Vincentio tells her there is a way she can remedy the situation and do a good deed for ‘‘a poor wronged lady,’’ save her brother, and do herself no dishonor. Isabella asks him to tell her more and assures him she is ready to do anything as long as it ‘‘appears not foul in the truth of my spirit.’’ The duke now proceeds to tell Isabella Angelo’s story. It reveals him to be quite different from how he seemed at the start of the play and it shows that the duke’s purpose was more focused when he left Vienna and put Angelo in charge than the audience was apprised of at the play’s inception. His purpose, however, was hinted at when he spoke of finding out what ‘‘seemers be.’’ The duke tells Isabella that Angelo had been contracted to a woman named Mariana by the same sort of legal contract that bound Claudio and Julietta. Before the final ceremony was performed, Mariana’s brother was drowned at sea when the ship carrying his fortune, and her dowry, sank. In consequence, since she could bring no

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dowry with her, Angelo abandoned Mariana and proclaimed his reason to be that he had found out dishonorable things about her. Despite his bad treatment of her, Mariana continued to love him. Moved by this tale of Angelo’s perfidy, Isabella asks the friar what relation it has to her situation. He explains that she may save her brother if she tells Angelo she will consent to give herself to him sexually, but it must be in a place where she designates, in total darkness, only for a brief span of time, and with no words spoken. Mariana, however, he explains, will be substituted for Isabella. Consequently, Claudio will be saved, Isabella’s chastity will not be violated, and, should the assignation become publicly known in the future, Mariana may gain advantage, for then Angelo will be compelled to marry her. Isabella agrees to the plan enthusiastically.

Act 3, Scene 2 Upon leaving the prison, Vincentio comes upon Elbow once more leading Pompey before Angelo for being a bawd and a thief. The duke in his role as the friar castigates Pompey for the vileness of his profession. At the approach of Lucio, Pompey takes heart, hoping Lucio will be able to provide his bail, but Lucio only taunts and teases him and refuses to help him. As Pompey is being led away, Lucio notices the friar, greets him and asks him if he has any news from abroad and especially, if he has heard anything of the duke. Vincentio, saying he has none, turns the question back on Lucio. Lucio, who has already shown himself to enjoy a fanciful use of language and to delight in wild improvisations that are careless of the truth and full of sexual innuendo, says he has heard the duke is with the Emperor of Russia or in Rome. Vincentio says, with equivocation, that wherever the duke is he wishes him well. Lucio then begins a fanciful account of the duke’s personality. Contrasting it with Angelo’s iciness, he describes the duke as a madcap lecher who savored immorality. The duke in his role of Friar protests that Lucio speaks falsely of the duke, but Lucio assures him that he knew the duke well and speaks truth of him. The duke asks Lucio his name and asks him to be prepared publicly to defend what he has said when the duke returns. Lucio boasts that he has no fear of doing so and repeats before he leaves the friar that the duke was a man of loose morals and certainly rather than punishing Claudio would delight in his pleasure.

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As the duke meditates on the power of slander that even a king cannot defeat, Escalus and the provost pass him as they take Mistress Overdone to prison for keeping a bawdy house. Mistress Overdone complains that she is being framed, that Lucio informed on her while she has kept his secret—that he had a child with Kate Keepdown while the duke was still governing Vienna and has reneged on his promise to marry her. Escalus acknowledges that Lucio is known for his licentiousness and orders that he be brought before him. He also informs the provost that Angelo will not be shaken in his judgment against Claudio and that the provost see, therefore, that Claudio be made ready for death. Escalus, having finished his business, greets the friar as he is leaving, and asks him where he comes from. Vincentio says he has come from Rome. Escalus asks him what news he brings and Vincentio tells him that vice is rampant in the world and that there is a scarcity of truth. He asks Escalus what kind of man the duke was. Escalus paints a picture quite contrary to Lucio’s, describing the duke as virtuous, generous, and temperate. They then speak of Claudio. Escalus once again regrets that he cannot persuade Angelo to temper his justice with mercy. Vincentio reports that he has given Claudio spiritual guidance in preparation for death. Escalus leaves the friar and goes to visit Claudio. The third act ends with Vincentio alone. He speaks a soliloquy in which Shakespeare alters the verse to rhymed couplets; when the actors speak in verse in the rest of this play, they are speaking in blank verse, which is called that because it does not rhyme although it has meter. This change in verse signals a strong conclusion to the first part of the play and prepares audiences and readers for the change in tone, from intractably tragic to providentially comic, which is about to take place. Vincentio says that those who would represent justice must be virtuous, not merely severe. He denounces Angelo for ignoring his own offenses when judging Claudio’s; Vincentio explains that he will meet vice with craft, and he reviews the plot of substituting Mariana for Isabella—the bed trick, which he will use later that night.

Act 4, Scene 1 As the last scene of the third act has ended with rhymed couplets, so the first scene of the fourth begins with a song sung by a newly introduced

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character, Mariana, the woman whom Angelo has wronged. The song, in six lines, tells of her unhappy love for Angelo. It ends with a wish for a return of kisses and with a lament for a love sealed in vain. The duke enters, still disguised as a friar. She excuses herself for singing, saying it is not for mirth but to console her sadness. He tells her it is not amiss even though the power of music is such that it can make bad seem good. But his purpose for his visit is to know if anyone has come to her seeking him. No, she answers. But someone soon will, he tells her, and asks her to leave him for awhile, for he has something in mind that will be for her good and he will summon her to return soon. She leaves. Isabella enters. She tells him Angelo has agreed to meet her in his garden, shown her the way to it, and given her the keys to its several gates. The duke then calls for Mariana, introduces Isabella to Mariana, and tells her to walk apart with her so that Isabella can tell her of his plan, which he assures her does not compromise her virtue. Mariana agrees to the plan, and the duke reassures her, explaining that by the pre–contract, the legal betrothal agreement (the same as the one Claudio and Julietta had signed) Angelo is her husband and to engage in sexual intercourse with him is not a sin.

Act 4, Scene 2 In the prison, the provost makes Pompey, incarcerated for being a bawd, assistant to Abhorson, the executioner, telling him that Claudio and Barnardine, a convicted murderer, are both to be executed that day. But when he summons the prisoners, only Claudio presents himself, reporting that Barnardine is deep in peaceful slumber. There is a knocking at the prison gates and the duke, still disguised as a friar, enters inquiring if Isabella or a messenger has come to the prison. When the answer is negative, he assures the provost that a messenger will be arriving soon. The duke then asks directly if there has not been an order countermanding Claudio’s execution, and when the provost says there has not been, the duke assures him it will come. Just then there is knocking at the gate. A message arrives from Angelo. The duke presumes it is an order to spare Claudio and, mistakenly, apostrophizes about the irony of how vice in authority makes authority merciful. It is a command, however, to proceed with Claudio’s execution that morning and have his head sent to Angelo. In the same


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message Angelo orders the execution of Barnardine later in the day. Questioning the provost, the duke learns that Barnardine has been imprisoned nine years on a murder charge which has only been conclusively proven since the duke’s departure and to which Barnardine has confessed. Barnardine, however, is unprepared for death, gets drunk every day and, even when given the opportunity, has not attempted to escape the prison. Learning of this, the duke asks the provost if he will postpone the execution of Claudio, execute Barnardine and send Angelo his head in place of Claudio’s. When the provost hesitates, not because he is unsympathetic to Claudio, but because of his fear of disobeying Angelo, his superior, the friar shows him letters with the duke’s seal and in the duke’s handwriting, which the provost recognizes. The friar tells the provost that the duke will be returning in a few days, unbeknownst to Angelo, who received letters from the duke, which informed him he would not be back and perhaps was entering a monastery. The friar assures the provost all will be well and goes to Barnardine to prepare him for death.

Act 4, Scene 3 Pompey begins the scene with a comical account of all the small time crooks he recognizes in the prison. Abhorson, the executioner, enters and orders him to bring in Barnardine for beheading. Barnardine, annoyed by their yelling, curses at them and tells them to go away, that he is sleepy. Pompey tells him he can sleep after he is executed. The duke as Friar comes to attend his death, but Barnardine says he’s been drinking and he simply will not consent to die today and that’s that—he’ll be in his cell if they have anything more to say to him. The duke says that he’s fit neither to live nor to die. To execute him while his soul is so unprepared, the duke tells the provost, would be a damnable act on their part. The provost tells him of another prisoner, Ragozine, a pirate, the same age as Claudio, who has just died that morning in the prison. He suggests they send his head to Angelo instead of Claudio’s. The duke approves, saying it is an accident provided by heaven. The duke then writes a letter to Angelo, which he gives to the provost to deliver. In it he informs him that he will be returning to the city, that he wants his entrance to be public, and that he wishes Angelo to meet him at a fountain a little way from the city.

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As the provost leaves, Isabella enters the prison. The duke in an aside says he will keep her ignorant of what has happened so that he can bring her comfort from her despair. He tells her that Claudio has been executed. She is furious and says she will pluck out Angelo’s eyes. The duke advises her to be calm and patient, that the duke will be back in Vienna tomorrow and she may present her case to him. Meanwhile, he gives her a letter to give to Friar Peter, asking Peter to meet him at Mariana’s house that evening, where he will tell him of Isabella and Mariana, and arrange for him to bring them before the duke when he enters the city. He himself, he says, because of a vow, must be absent. Lucio meets them in the prison. He expresses his sadness at Claudio’s death, yet his language is too light for the occasion. He calls Isabella ‘‘pretty Isabella,’’ and says if the ‘‘fantastical Duke of dark corners’’ had been in Vienna, Claudio would not have been executed. Isabella departs, but the duke, as the friar, tells Lucio that the duke would not appreciate being described as he has described him. Lucio persists, says the friar does not know the duke as well as he does, that the duke is a ladies man. The duke advises him that he will have to ‘‘answer this one day,’’ and bids him farewell, but Lucio says he will accompany him saying he can tell him stories about the duke. The duke tells him he has said too much already, but Lucio continues. He tells the friar that he was once brought before the duke for getting a prostitute pregnant, that in fact, it was true although he denied it because he would have been forced to marry her.

Act 4, Scene 4 Escalus and Angelo are reviewing the letters they have received from the duke and express concern about how erratic his behavior appears. Essentially, the duke commands them to meet him at the city gates and proclaim an hour before he enters that if any subjects have complaints or grievances for which they wish redress, they should come forward then in the street. They arrange to carry out his orders, and Escalus says good night. Alone, Angelo expresses his torment over what he has done, especially the anxiety that he will be discovered. He also feels guilty about Claudio’s death but reasons that, had he lived, Claudio might have taken revenge on him.

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Act 4, Scene 5 The duke appears as himself, gives Friar Peter various letters to deliver and reviews what they will do when he enters the city.

Act 4, Scene 6 Isabella and Mariana at the city gates are going over what they will say and imagining what Angelo will counter with. Friar Peter arrives and takes them to a place to stand as the trumpets sound and the duke begins his entrance into the city.

Act 5, Scene 1 With ceremony and celebration, the duke returns, giving especial welcome to Angelo and praising his virtue in oratorical phrases until Isabella rushes towards him crying out for justice. The duke asks her to speak and, as if assuring her, points to Angelo and says that he will give her justice. She begs the duke to hear her himself, for to ask Angelo for justice is like seeking redemption from the Devil. Angelo interrupts and says that Isabella is crazy, out of her mind because her brother has been executed in the course of carrying out justice. He says she will speak bitterly and strangely. She says indeed she will say strange things but true things, that Angelo is a liar, a murderer, an adulterer, a hypocrite, and a violator of virgins. The duke, after hearing her orders her taken away saying she is deranged. But she begs with eloquence, and the duke says, although she must be mad, nevertheless, her speech is coherent. He asks her to tell her story. She begins to tell of Claudio and how Lucio came to her in the convent. Lucio interrupts her and introduces himself. The duke tells him he was not bid to speak. Lucio retorts that he did not wish to remain silent. The duke silences him. Throughout the scene, Lucio will interject himself and the duke will silence him until he chooses to deal with him regarding his own case of getting the prostitute Kate Keepdown with child. Isabella continues to tell her story as Angelo thinks it happened, not the plot that the friar concocted. The duke dismisses her charge, suggesting that she has been set up by people wishing to slander Angelo, arguing particularly that Angelo would never do something for which he would punish someone else. Isabella despairs of relief and starts to leave, but the duke stops her and orders her taken to prison on charges of slander. He asks her who knew she would come

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before him to make these charges. She answers Friar Lodowick (the duke in the guise of the friar). The duke asks if any of the assembled know Lodowick. Lucio responds that he does and says that Lodowick had spoken to him against the duke, which is, of course, precisely the opposite of what had occurred. Lucio had spoken against the duke to the friar. The duke orders the friar be found and brought before him. At this point in the proceedings, Friar Peter interrupts, saying he has stood by to listen to Isabella accuse Angelo falsely, since he did not touch her. The duke says it is just as he thought. He asks Peter if he knows Lodowick and Peter answers he does and that Lodowick is not at all as Lucio reports but a holy man. Peter says, in addition, that he has come in place of Lodowick who is ill, to tell what Lodowick told him. Isabella is removed by guards and Mariana is brought in. She is veiled and her face is hidden. The duke demands she show her face, but she says she will only show it when her husband asks her to. When he asks her if she is married, however, she says she is not, nor is she a maid, nor a widow. She offers a riddle that she is not married but she has had sexual intercourse with her husband but her husband does not know that he has had sexual intercourse with her. The duke asks how she is a witness in defense of Angelo against Isabella’s accusation. Mariana says she is such a witness because Angelo thinks he never had sexual intercourse with her but knows he thinks that he did have sexual intercourse with Isabella. Saying that her accusation is strange, Angelo demands to see her face. Now, Mariana says, that her husband bids her to, she removes her veil, proclaims herself, and recounts the history of their contract and his betrayal. The duke asks Angelo if he knows her. Angelo confesses that he does and that there had been some possibility of marriage five years before but that he broke it off in part because the dowry fell short of what had been promised but more because he found her character faulty. Mariana then proclaims that Angelo has known her as his wife, in other words has had sexual intercourse with her. Angelo then asserts that this is becoming too much and asks the duke’s permission to deal with Isabella and Mariana. Vincentio gives his blessing to Angelo’s inquiry and recommends he punish the women severely. He appoints Escalus to sit as judge with Angelo, sends the provost to find Friar Lodowick, and, excusing himself, leaves them to sit in judgment.


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Escalus and Angelo recall Isabella as they await Lodowick’s appearance, and they order Lucio to remain in their presence so that he can testify against Lodowick when the friar does appear. As they discuss the case, Lucio continuously interjects scurrilous jokes based on double entendres. The duke, once again disguised as a friar, the provost and Isabella reenter. Escalus asks the friar if he connived to have Mariana and Isabella testify falsely against Angelo. He denies it. Escalus asks him to consider that he is testifying before magistrates and not to lie. The friar says, although he respects them, it is the duke who should be hearing the case. Escalus retorts that the duke’s power is invested in them and he ought to speak justly. The friar responds that he will speak boldly and says that if the duke cannot hear the women, their cause is lost since they are coming to seek justice from the very man, Angelo, who has caused them injury. Lucio interrupts saying the friar is the ‘‘rascal’’ he spoke of, and Escalus condemns him to be tortured for setting the women on and for contempt, since he has called Angelo a ‘‘villain’’ and the proceedings ‘‘unjust.’’ The friar tells those who would seize him to hold off, that the duke would no more do harm to him than to himself. Moreover, the friar continues, while he has been in Vienna he has seen great corruption. Escalus orders him to prison for slandering the state. Angelo intervenes, asking if there are any present who can testify against the friar. As usual, Lucio comes forward and attributes to the friar words against the duke which he actually spoke himself. Escalus again orders the provost to take the friar to prison. When he resists there is a scuffle and Lucio, declaring that he ought to show himself and not hide under his monk’s robe, pulls the cowl from his head only to reveal the duke. When Lucio, realizing what he is in for, tries to make himself scarce, the duke orders that Lucio ‘‘sneak not away.’’ The duke immediately pardons Escalus for unknowingly having spoken and acted with disrespect towards him. Turning to Angelo, however, he challenges him to say anything in his own defense. Angelo with a sweep of selfdebasing language confesses his ‘‘guiltiness.’’ He admits he was contracted to Mariana. The duke orders them to go with Friar Peter and the provost to be married immediately and then to return.

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Turning to Isabella, the duke tells her that although he is her Prince rather than her friar, he is still her servant. She begs his pardon for having troubled so important a man with her business. He pardons her and excuses himself for her brother’s death, explaining that he had thought to prevent it, but the speed of events overtook him. Mariana and Angelo are brought back to the duke, married. The duke asks Isabella for Mariana’s sake to forgive Angelo for having assaulted her virgin honor, but he adds that for having executed Claudio, there can be no forgiveness and Angelo must die. Mariana protests that the duke cannot so mock her as to give her a husband and then take him away from her and begs him to forgive Angelo. The duke refuses, saying he had them married to insure that she would not have been dishonored by having it thought that she had unmarried sexual intercourse and he says all of Angelo’s wealth, which belongs to the state at his death, he confers upon her. Still she begs for mercy for Angelo and asks Isabella to join in her petition. The duke says that she asks an impossible thing, for how could Isabella possibly seek mercy for the man who murdered her brother. But as he speaks, Isabella kneels and joins Mariana in begging for Angelo. The duke still refuses to grant Angelo mercy, and Angelo himself, still the rigid Puritan, says he prefers death to mercy. The duke abruptly shifts focus and asks the provost why Claudio was executed so early in the morning. The provost answers it was commanded, but the duke, establishing there was not a special warrant for it, relieves the provost of his authority and takes the keys of the prison from him. The provost says he had suspected something was not right and kept one of those ordered executed, Barnardine, alive. The duke regrets he had not done so with Claudio, too, and the provost says there is another one he spared. Claudio then appears, first muffled in his cloak and then revealing himself. At this, the duke releases Angelo from his punishment and tells him to love Mariana, and he instructs Claudio to marry Julietta. He then turns to Lucio, whom he first condemns to marry Kate Keepdown and then be whipped and hanged for slandering him. But he relents and only enforces the marriage, which Lucio says is worse than whipping and hanging. The duke thanks the provost for his service and promotes him to a

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS Measure for Measure was reinterpreted in a 1994 contemporary film version in modern dress. Made for British television, the film was directed by David Thacker and stars Tom Wilkinson as Duke Vincentio, Corin Redgrave as Angelo, and Juliet Aubrey as Isabella. It is available on DVD. In 1979, as part of the Complete Dramatic Works of Shakespeare series presented on British television, an orthodox production of Measure for Measure was filmed starring Kenneth Colley as Duke Vincentio, Kate Nelligan as Isabella, and Tim Pigott-Smith as Angelo. The film was directed by Desmond Davis and is available on DVD.

higher office, instructs all who have been wronged to forgive their wrongers and proposes marriage to Isabella. The text itself does not indicate whether she accepts or not.

CHARACTERS Abhorson Abhorson is an executioner in the prison in Vienna.

Angelo Angelo is the apparently virtuous deputy the duke commissions to fill his place as ruler of Vienna during his absence. Angelo condemns Claudio to death for having had premarital sexual relations with his fianceé. But Angelo succumbs to temptation when Claudio’s sister comes to beg for his life; he propositions her, saying he will show Claudio mercy if she yields herself to him. In the course of the play, it is revealed that Angelo has been engaged and has abandoned his fianceé when the size of her dowry did not meet his expectations.

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Barnardine

Friar Lodowick

Barnardine is an unrepentant prisoner who refuses to be executed.

See Vincentio, Duke of Vienna

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Lucio Claudio Claudio is a young man whom Angelo sentences to death for having had sexual intercourse with his fianceé, Juliet, before all the legalities of their marriage were completed. He is Isabella’s brother.

Elbow Elbow is a comic constable who appears before Angelo when he brings Pompey before him on the charge of being a bawd.

Escalus Escalus is a learned magistrate in Vienna who advises the duke and Angelo on matters of law. He is inclined to favor mercy over severity in legal matters.

Lucio tells Isabella about her brother Claudio’s plight and encourages her to petition Angelo for mercy. Lucio is a loquacious, bawdy and comical character who boasts to the duke, when the duke is disguised as a friar, that, like Claudio, he has gotten a woman with child but had denied it when he had been brought before the duke on the charge. In the last act of the play, he is forced to marry the mother of his child.

Mariana Mariana is a woman whom Angelo had been contracted to marry and whom he jilted after her fortune was lost at sea and her brother drowned. She, nevertheless, continues to love Angelo. The duke arranges for Isabella to agree to Angelo’s proposition to save her brother but to have Mariana take her place for their tryst.

Froth Froth is a tapster who works in a bawdy house run by Mistress Overdone and Pompey.

Mistress Overdone Mistress Overdone runs a bawdy house, which Angelo has ordered shut down.

Isabella Isabella is Claudio’s sister. At the beginning of the play, she is about to enter a convent known for the strictness of its discipline. A summons from Lucio to help Claudio when he is condemned to death, leads her to postpone entering the convent. When she petitions Angelo for Claudio’s life, Angelo tells her he will have mercy on her brother if she surrenders herself sexually to him (Angelo). She refuses, but is saved from exercising such severity against her brother as her stance demands when the duke, disguised as a friar enlists her in a plot to expose Angelo’s perfidy. At the end of the play, when she thinks that Angelo has betrayed his part in the agreement and has had Claudio killed, she nevertheless begs for mercy for him when his crimes are exposed.

Friar Peter Peter is a friar whom the duke takes into his confidence while he himself is disguised as a friar.

Pompey Pompey is a bawd who works for Mistress Overdone. After he is arrested for his profession, he is sent to jail and becomes the assistant to Abhorson, the executioner.

Provost The provost runs the prison and cooperates with the duke, whom he thinks is only a friar, in his attempt to save Claudio. He is a kind and virtuous man.

Ragozine Julietta Julietta is Claudio’s fianceé. When she becomes pregnant, it becomes known that the two of them have engaged in pre–marital sexual intercourse.

Ragozine is another prisoner, a pirate, who dies in prison the morning Claudio is supposed to be executed. The provost suggests sending Ragozine’s head to Angelo as proof that Claudio has been executed.

Kate Keepdown Kate Keepdown is the woman whom Lucio has gotten pregnant and whom he is forced to marry at the end of the play.


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Friar Thomas Thomas is a friar whom the duke makes his confidant when he himself is in disguise.

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Vincentio, Duke of Vienna Vincentio is the Duke of Vienna. Saying that he must leave the city, he deputizes Angelo to take his place because he hopes, he says, Angelo will enforce laws he has neglected, which it would seem tyrannous for him (the duke) to enforce. The real reason is to test Angelo. He knows of faults in Angelo that Angelo thinks are hidden. Disguised as Friar Lodowick, the duke remains in Vienna and directs the action of the play. At the conclusion of the play, he asks Isabella to marry him.

THEMES Chastity and Lewdness Angelo and Isabella both represent chastity. Lucio, Pompey, and Mistress Overdone all represent lewdness. Both chastity and lewdness are thus presented as flawed. Chastity is presented as too icily inhuman. Lewdness is presented as too debased. In Measure for Measure, the institution of marriage, threatened by both the chaste and the lewd characters, is presented as the instrument of moderation between chastity and lust, allowing for a chaste expression of sexual passion.

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Justice and Mercy In its opening scenes, Measure for Measure presents justice and mercy as being antithetical to, and in conflict with, each other. Although both are strict puritans, Angelo stands for justice and Isabella stands for mercy. In her pleas, she does not deny that Angelo’s condemnation of her brother is just, she only begs for mercy, which he claims would subvert justice. The duke attempts to show, by his manipulation of the plot and by his adjudications in the final act, that justice and mercy are actually aspects of each other. Justice without mercy is unjust. Mercy which does not take justice into account, as the mercy the duke shows to Angelo for Mariana’s sake does, violates humanity.

The Conflict between Liberty and Restraint When Isabella first appears, in act 1, scene 4, her first utterance is the question, ‘‘have you nuns no farther privileges?’’ She seeks to know the limits of the restraint she is undertaking. When a nun responds with an implicit reproach, ‘‘are not

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Emma Fielding as Isabella and Daniel Evans as Angelo in Act II, scene iv at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 2003 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage.


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these large enough?’’ Isabella makes it clear that she does ‘‘speak not as desiring more, / But rather wishing a more strict restraint.’’ Somewhat more than a hundred lines before this, at act 1, scene 2, line 127, when Claudio, her brother, first appears, as he is being led to jail, Lucio questions him, ‘‘Whence comes this restraint?’’ Claudio replies, ‘‘From too much liberty.’’ It seems then, that the opening hypothesis of Measure for Measure is that there can never be enough restraint, but there can always be too much liberty. There is a corollary, too. Liberty when it is excessive, leads to restraint. Restraint, similarly, leads to an eruption of liberty, or license, as it is called when restraint breaks its fetters. Despite Isabella’s desire for as much restraint as possible in the convent, she herself will see, as Angelo will show her, that too much restraint is not a good thing. The duke himself has set up the opposition as a governing theme of

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Write a short story set in the present which uses the plot, conflicts, and themes of Measure for Measure.

Write a detailed psychological profile of four of the characters in Measure for Measure as you have come to understand them from your reading of the play.

Write an essay in which you explore the conflict between justice and mercy. Choose a particular practice or behavior which is commonly considered immoral and discuss whether it ought or ought not to be so considered. The subject you choose may concern sexual behavior or practices, but it does not have to. Choose a case of hypocrisy in high places (such as in government, business, or academia) from your reading of current events and compare it to the story of Measure for Measure.

the play when he explains that he has been lax in the enforcement of laws that he wants Angelo to resurrect.

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tragedies. As You Like It and You Can’t Take It With You are comedies. There are particular characteristics that define the genre of a play. Tragedies usually end in the death of the hero, or in his downfall and exile from the community, as in Oedipus Rex. Comedies end in marriage and the re-integration of the outsider into the community, as in The Merry Wives of Windsor or The Taming of the Shrew. However, genres can be mixed within one play. Many plays are not only comedies but musicals, too. Musical comedies usually integrate music and comedy, hence the genre name. Measure for Measure is a mixed genre play with elements of tragedy and comedy. Occasionally, a play will be called a tragi-comedy or a comi-tragedy, but that is a more modern term. These plays are not as well integrated as music and comedy are in, for example, Kiss Me Kate, which is a modern musical comedy version of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. In Measure for Measure, tragedy gives way to comedy at the end of the third act. As a signal for the change, the concluding soliloquy of act 3, scene 2 is composed in rhyming couplets, a verse pattern not otherwise found in Measure for Measure (except in the play’s last two couplets). By its aa, bb, cc rhyme scheme, these couplets indicate closure and resolution rather than openendedness or irresolution, which is often the mark of unrhymed verse. Immediately following the duke’s speech in rhymed couplets at the end of act 3, act 4 opens with a song, further signaling that there has been a genre shift.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT STYLE

King James I

The Embedded Author The duke in Measure for Measure is not only a character in the play. He frequently functions as the author of the play, as he manipulates the characters and the plot, and determines both the action and the play’s outcome.

Mixed Genre Genre is a means of literary classification. Tragedy, comedy, musical, thriller, western, etc.—are of these are genres. Usually, but not always, a play can be classified according to one genre. Hamlet and Death of a Salesman are


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Much scholarly opinion and research has indicated that in Measure for Measure, which was performed before the new king during the Christmas season in 1604, Shakespeare intended to celebrate various traits and beliefs of the king in the character of the duke and in the themes of the play. James I became king of England in March 1603, after the death of Queen Elizabeth I. He was the author of several books, one on witchcraft and another on the role of the king. In Basilikon Doron, James asserted the divine right of kings and argued for the king’s unitary power against Parliament. He also condemned sexual ‘‘immorality’’ and homosexuality in

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1603: In London, the Black Plague is responsible for over thirty thousand deaths. Today: While the AIDS epidemic in England, Western Europe, and the United States may not be as virulent as it was twenty years ago, and the disease is often managed with medication, it still is an epidemic and has the characteristics of a plague on the African continent.

1603: King James I and ecclesiastical leaders condemn sexual immorality, and especially homosexuality, and homosexuals are executed. Today: There has been a great reduction among the mass of people, and inside many religious denominations, in the condemnation of homosexuality and the vilification of gay people. Strict laws punishing homosexuality have been rescinded in many countries, and some legal protections have been granted to gay people and to same-sex unions. Still, there remains a strong condemnatory

particular. He was known to be an intellectual and, despite his belief in his absolute power, he was also known for shunning great public displays. Although raised a Protestant and governing as a Protestant, James, who was also King James VI of Scotland, was born of a Catholic mother, Mary I, Queen of Scots. Queen Elizabeth had had Mary, who was her first cousin, executed in 1587 for plotting to overthrow her.

The Plague References are made in Measure for Measure to the negative effects of a plague on Mistress Overdone’s business. In 1603, the bubonic plague, also called the Black Death, was responsible for the deaths of over 30,000 people in London alone. (Measure for Measure was written in 1604.) During the time of the plague, the London theaters were forced to be closed to stop the spread of this virulent disease. The plague

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current among national leaders, large segments of the population, and high-ranking religious leaders against homosexuality; and in some countries, homosexuality remains a punishable offense.

1603: In a debate between Angelo and Escalus (act 2, scene 1), Shakespeare focuses on the problem of which kind of law is more effective and just, severe punishment or merciful restraint in punishment. Today: The argument is hardly resolved. Advocates of draconian punishment, harsh sentences and the death penalty argue that ‘‘being tough’’ works and makes people ‘‘think twice’’ before committing an offense. Advocates of less harsh measures want punishment to incorporate rehabilitation, offenders to be given a sense of their own humanity, and argue that there are social causes for criminal behavior and that root social problems must be addressed.

first struck Europe in the 1340s, having begun in south-western Asia; some seventy-five million people are reported to have died from it, worldwide, at that time. From then on, until the 1770s, the plague recurred at irregular intervals throughout Europe. A year after Shakespeare’s death, in 1617, there was an epidemic of smallpox (another disease caused by a virus), and then the Black Death returned to London in 1625, killing somewhere in the range of 60,000 people. In 1636, it took another 10,000 souls in London, and in 1641, some thirty thousand more. But the plague was not confined to London. Throughout many of the years between its attacks in London, during the seventeenth century, it raged in places as distant from London and from each other as Venice, Holland, France, and Egypt, killing people in the millions. The cause of the plague was a bacteria that is believed to have been transferred from rats to humans by fleas bearing the illness.

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These fleas lived on rats, which also carried the disease far and wide as they rode with trade goods on merchants ships. It was presumed that the rats were the culprits, as they were visible, whereas fleas were not as noticeable. The spread of disease by germs was not understood at that time. It was not until the 1890s that scientists discovered the bacteria responsible and traced the spread of the plague to fleas that lived on infected rats.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW In 1922, Sir Arthur Quiller–Couch, in the preface to his edition of Measure for Measure, asked, ‘‘What is wrong with this play?’’ summing up a centuries–old attitude. In 1765, in his ‘‘Prefaces to Shakespeare,’’ Dr. Johnson declared that ‘‘[t]here is perhaps not one of Shakespeare’s plays more darkened than this by the peculiarities of its Author.’’ He wrote that ‘‘the light or comick part is very natural and pleasing, but the graver scenes, if a few passages be excepted, have more labour than elegance.’’ And ‘‘the plot,’’ he wrote, was ‘‘rather intricate than artful.’’ In 1818, Samuel Taylor Coleridge wrote in his Lectures and Notes on Shakspere that Measure for Measure was a ‘‘hateful work, although Shakspere’s throughout,’’ that it was ‘‘painful’’ because ‘‘the pardon and marriage of Angelo not merely baffles the strong indignant claim of justice—(for cruelty, with lust and damnable baseness, cannot be forgiven, because we cannot conceive them as being morally repented of); but it is likewise degrading to the character of woman.’’ The year before, in 1817, in Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays, William Hazlitt gave a more thorough account than Coleridge of what many throughout the nineteenth and into the twentieth centuries would continue to find unsettling about Measure for Measure. Granting that the play is ‘‘full of genius as it is of wisdom,’’ Hazlitt found, ‘‘[y]et there is an original sin in the nature of the subject, which prevents us from taking a cordial interest in it. . . . our sympathies are repulsed and defeated in all directions.’’ There is something repulsive in ‘‘Isabella’s rigid chastity.’’ The duke ‘‘is more absorbed in his own plots and gravity than anxious for the welfare of the state.’’ Claudio’s transgression is of a nature, despite his amiability, ‘‘which almost preclude[s] the wish for his deliverance. Mariana is also


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in love with Angelo, whom we hate.’’ And the ‘‘principle of repugnance seems to have reached its height in the character of . . . Barnardine.’’ Twentieth-century critical responses to nineteenth-century subjectivity tried to explain away the difficulties which offended critics, who had objected to the licentious aspects of the play and to what was considered its too liberal acts of forgiveness. Critics also felt called upon to defend the play against the sort of repugnance Hazlitt expressed for the rigidity of its presentation of virtue, as represented by Isabella and Angelo. Angelo’s failing, critics like George L. Geckle have asserted, is not his austere puritanism but a combination of faults. He is ‘‘a man sadly lacking in self-knowledge’’ who is guilty of an ‘‘assault against ‘sacred chastity’’’ and of breaking a ‘‘promise to Isabella to spare Claudio’s life in return for her favors.’’ In place of subjective readings, twentiethcentury critics marshaled historical, religious, and philosophical scholarship in hopes of understanding the play by understanding its historical, religious, and philosophical contexts. Often the play was seen as an allegory. In 1931, W. W. Lawrence, in Shakespeare’s Problem Comedies argued that ‘‘The duke in Measure for Measure combines the functions both of State and Church in his person. As Duke, he is supreme ruler . . . as Friar, he represents the wisdom and adroitness of the Church . . . advising stratagems so that good may come out of evil.’’ In his essay ‘‘Theological Exegesis’’ (1966), however, David Stevenson argued the ideologically imposed interpretations of Christian critics: ‘‘ . . . all attempts to make Measure for Measure into an analogue of religious doctrine, or into some kind of religious allegory or parable, heavily restrict and contain its inferential power and thereby diminish its ability to communicate.’’ Stevenson’s book marks a return by writers on Measure for Measure to character analysis and structural analysis, to consideration of how characters represent human beings and confront human problems and how the parts of a play interact with each other to form a central set of meanings. Rather than seeing characters representing particular humors, aspects, or ideas, Stevenson sees them as complex persons with living, conflicting characteristics, faults, virtues, confusions, and vacillations. In 1972, in ‘‘Theatrical ‘Trompe L’Oeil’ in Measure for Measure,’’ Jocelyn Powell argues that ‘‘the variety of the play’s structure is held

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together by a pattern of images which move between word and action.’’ In ‘‘Isabella’s Choice,’’ (1994), Karl F. Zender considers Measure for Measure in terms of the interplay of Isabella’s character and the genre of Romanic Comedy, weighing the effect each has on the other, and arguing that Measure for Measure is the culmination of Shakespeare’s attempts to write in that genre. He sees Isabella as a transitional figure who tends towards such tragic figures as Cordelia, in King Lear, who, he argues, openly asserts female independence over male authority. In Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, 1998, Harold Bloom offers a reading of Measure for Measure that can appeal to lay readers by concentrating on the complexities and contradictions of the characters themselves as persons with the same depths as actual human beings. The return to humanist criticism, did not, however, preclude a return to historical and contextual criticism. Rather than the early and midtwentieth-century focus on conforming the figures in the play to ideas and beliefs found in the Renaissance, the new historical readings attempt to see how historical influences affected the way Shakespeare used historical events and beliefs to think about history and character. Rather than making Measure for Measure conform to Jacobean or Christian doctrine, Stephen Cohen, in ‘‘From Mistress to Master: Political Transition and Formal Conflict in Measure for Measure,’’ for example, argues that the play represents, and comments upon, the transition from the rule of the virgin queen, Elizabeth, to the patriarchal King James, who represented himself as divinely appointed. Also focusing on the historical context, Maurice Hunt, in ‘‘Being Precise in Measure for Measure, ‘‘considers the connotations of the word ‘‘precise’’ during the years preceding the composition of Measure for Measure—its positive, its negative, and its puritanical echoes, and the meanings constituted by its various uses in the play, as well as how the varying use of the word reflects on the characters who use it or about whom it is used.

CRITICISM Neil Heims In the following essay, Heims argues that the ambiguity of the central conflict of Measure for Measure pervades the play’s action and characterizations.

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AMBIGUITY GIVES CREATIVE LICENSE TO DIRECTORS, ACTORS, AND READERS. THEY BECOME COLLABORATORS WITH THE AUTHOR IN THE CREATION OF THE PLAY.’’

The text of a play is like the score of a symphony. It exists as a blueprint. It comes to life when performers construct it. Both musical scores and texts of plays, of course, can be read by those who know how to read them. And, there have always been and still are people who argue that their own reading, in the study, is more satisfying than any actual performance. But readers, whether of scores or scripts, are actually mounting productions in their heads and making interpretive choices regarding how to see and how to hear the scripts or scores which they are reading as surely as actors or musicians are when they prepare to present them. Most people, however, prefer or, more especially in the case of music—since a great majority of us are barely literate when it comes to reading music—need to have performers construct the work for them. The work that performers do in realizing a script or a score is primarily interpretive. How ought this phrase to sound? At what tempo ought that passage to be played? How ought the actor’s voice to be inflected? Ought a particular scene to be played for its comic potential, or ought some, perhaps underlying, sinister element to be emphasized? How does actor A respond as actor B is speaking? In a musical score, there are the composer’s markings directing the players to play loud or soft, slow or fast, to accelerate or to play with feeling, but not always. Scores by Johann Sebastian Bach often do not even indicate which instrument or instruments ought to be used. Play scripts, too, have markings called stage directions. But not always! Shakespeare’s plays, as they have been passed down to us, have hardly any. If one looks at the beginning of a play by George Bernard Shaw, for example, before there is a line of dialogue there may be pages of directions in italic type describing in intricate detail the stage set, the characters, the

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Stephen Kennedy as Claudio and Penny Layden as Juliet, in Act 1, scene ii at the Swan Theatre, 1998 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

weather outside. So with most modern plays! These directions help directors and performers in their production of the play, just as they help readers. But they can also constrain and restrict, narrowly specifying voice tones, emotional attitudes, and physical gestures. In the plays of Shakespeare, there are hardly any stage directions. (In Measure for Measure there are almost none; a quick leafing through the text will show that the few there are, are nearly all in brackets: they have been introduced by an editor.) The absence of stage directions allows directors and performers and readers a freedom that heavily annotated scripts do not, unless, of course, one chooses to ignore or defy the author’s indicated intentions. Absence of annotation also forces the script of the play to carry a great degree of ambiguity. Is the speaker open, guarded, sly, ironic, distracted? Ambiguity gives creative license to directors, actors, and readers. They become collaborators with the author in the creation of the play. But with license comes responsibility, the responsibility to make sense of the play as a coherent whole,


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to bring its characters to life, to decide how they say what they say and what they are doing as they are saying it. There often are some indications in the words themselves, but not always, and seldom definitively. Measure for Measure offers particular challenges to those who would mount the play, whether in their minds or on the stage. It is a play full of ambiguities with regard to the ideas, possible beliefs, and conflicts it presents; is full of ambiguities with regard to the motivations of its characters, and even with regard to what they do or how they behave. When a character speaks, the interpreter of that character, whether reader or actor, has at least some sense of what the character thinks and feels and what he or she is doing. Claudio, for example, when he first appears, is being led to prison. His exchanges, first with the Provost and then with Lucio, convey a great deal about him beside the essential fact that he has made love with his contracted fianceé before the final marriage ceremony and she has become pregnant. But much of what is conveyed about him, regarding the person he is, is not fixed and

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definitive. Here is the dialogue between Claudio and the Provost: CLAUDIO: Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to th‘ world? Bear me to prison, where I am committed. PROVOST: I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge. CLAUDIO: Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight. The words of heaven: on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so. Yet still ’tis just. Much is revealed in these mere eight lines, but what, exactly? How ought Claudio’s first words to be read or spoken: with an emphasis on Claudio’s anger at being put on display as a criminal, or on his shame at being shown, or how much of each if a blending of both? Is he pleading or demanding or defiant when he says ‘‘Bear me to prison.’’? As for the Provost, when he responds, is he defensive, or compassionate, or simply indifferent? And when Claudio meditates on his situation and the power that has him in its grip, what exactly is his attitude? When he concludes, ‘‘Yet still ’tis just,’’ does he really mean that? Does he accept the fact that the act which he committed is and ought to be an offense to the law and deserves the punishment of death? (His sister does.) Or is he speaking with bitter irony, suggesting something like, ‘‘that’s what is taken for justice; that sort of abusive treatment is called just.’’ Both readings are possible, but each makes a very different man. They are varying interpretations, differing stances that a reader, actor, or director may take towards the outlook of the play. And it begs the question to think that there is one proper interpretation of Claudio’s speech which can be ascertained from a reading of the whole play, for nearly every line can be read in such a variety of ways as to validate any number of interpretations of other lines. When Claudio responds to Lucio’s question, ‘‘Whence comes this restraint?’’ by saying ‘‘From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty,’’ is he speaking like a well–chastened choir–boy or is he bitter and ironic, or has he resigned himself to the strange and risky fluctuations and interactions of our biological and social economies? An example of a perhaps even more ambiguous situation comes when the duke counsels Claudio, beginning at act 3, scene 1, line 5 to ‘‘Be absolute for death.’’ Is this speech to be read

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or recited as a sermon, as if it were an infusion of real truth, easily extractable from its context in the play and ready for framing and posting on the wall? Is the audience supposed to accept the contempt for life the duke is counseling or hear it with a great degree of suspicion? Both are perfectly reasonable responses, and both can find authorization from human experience. Both, like John Milton’s paired poems, L’Allegro and Il Pensoroso reflect authentic, even if opposing, human attitudes towards life. Perhaps a less ambiguous moment comes in Isabella’s outburst against Claudio beginning at line 136 of act 3, scene 1, after he has shown himself less than absolute for death. He wonders if her sacrifice of virginity in order to save his life would really taint her with an eternally damning stain. She rages, calls him ‘‘beast,’’ ‘‘faithless coward,’’ and ‘‘dishonest wretch.’’ She wonders if their mother had not cheated on her father when she conceived Claudio. She wishes death upon him and says she will pray for it. Isabella seems to be drawn unambiguously here. Still, a good actress can imbue her rage with a range of motivations which can bleed into and shape her performance. Is she moved by Christian anger? Or does his desire for life stir a similar desire, deeply repressed and unacknowledged, in her, and therefore provoke her to fury? And what of the audience? Accepting, for example, that this speech reveals Isabella’s true Christian belief, and even assuming (although there is no warrant to do so and doing so would make for slipshod reading, in any event) that Shakespeare believed it, too, response to her will vary according to the reader’s or the spectator’s own evaluation of and attitude toward that belief. What for some may appear righteous saintliness may to others appear vile and ghastly. In addition, how then is this Isabella to be reconciled with the Nancy– Drew–like figure of act 4, scene 1, who eagerly lays out for the duke the midnight route to Angelo’s garden and explains which key fits which door’s keyhole? These problems of interpretation are challenging. But far more challenging is the problem of staging, in the mind or in the theater, what happens, what meaning is to be derived, when a character says nothing, as Isabella, Angelo, and Claudio all do for the last hundred or so lines of Measure for Measure. Then, interpreters must impose upon those characters an understanding

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of them entirely unguided by any present utterance. For a reader, because it is the nature of reading to focus only on what is being read, and for what is not being read to fade into the background of consciousness, the problem of what to do with the silence of these characters is not as pronounced as it is for a director who has actual actors on a stage, in view of the audience, who must, even if silent, remain in character and actively participate, somehow, in the scene. After Isabella completes her plea for Angelo, at line 453 of the act 5, arguing that Angelo’s ‘‘act did not o’ertake his bad intent, / And must be buried but as an intent / That perished by the way. Thoughts are no subjects,[to law] / Intents but merely thoughts,’’ she remains silent. When Claudio is brought on and shown to be alive, the duke says, ‘‘If he be like your brother, for his sake / Is he pardoned.’’ This ought to be a climactic moment in the play. But as far as the script is concerned, it is not. Not one word do brother and sister say to each other, nor to anyone else. Nor are there any stage directions which indicate their responses. Presumably they embrace, but maybe not. No matter, it is not a moment for any lingering reaction or emotion. Before the line in which ‘‘Is he pardoned’’ appears is ended, at the caesura, the break in the middle of the line, the duke shifts the focus, seemingly onto Isabella, but actually onto himself: ‘‘and for your lovely sake,’’ he continues, ‘‘Give me your hand, and say you will be mine.’’ To this second startling event, as momentous as her brother’s re-emergence from apparent death, Isabella, once again, says nothing. Nor is there a stage direction indicating what her response is. Perhaps she does, perhaps she does not extend her hand. Presumably, for that is what happens conventionally, Isabella is overcome with happiness at the proposal of her Duke Charming. All the writers who see the play as a Christian allegory assume they marry. Bertrand Evans, in ‘‘Like Power Divine: Measure for Measure suggests Isabella is ‘‘speechless at the sensation of blood flowing in her veins.’’ But, really, there is no textual indication that this is or ought to be the case, nor any reason to assume that Shakespeare is writing conventionally. The sacrifice of her own self-interest or desire for vengeance which led her to kneel for Angelo’s pardon might well suggest that she is even more prepared for the self-abnegation of the life in the Franciscan


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Sisterhood which first she sought. Her silence may even remind us that she was entering the cloister to find and practice silence. But there is no time to consider this, either. The duke continues unfolding his plot. The duke concludes his marriage proposal decorously adding that now, Claudio ‘‘is my brother too,’’ and adds—why? because he sees no enthusiastic reaction on Isabella’s part? or because he thinks that the public space they are in is not the proper place for the overflow of the joy he sees on her face?— ‘‘but fitter time for that.’’ Turning his attention and ours to Angelo, then, the duke does give a kind of stage direction in his speech. ‘‘By this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe,’’ the duke says: ‘‘I see a quick‘ning in his eye.’’ But Angelo, like Isabella, now says nothing. And the description of him is only the duke’s response—not an omniscient stage direction—perhaps even only what he wishes to see. Angelo’s last words had not indicated a great softening in his icy righteousness or a desire for safety. Directly before Isabella’s intervention, Angelo had professed himself penitent, but added, ‘‘I crave death more willingly than mercy; / ’Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.’’ If he is sincere, he is perfectly in accord with the self he was at the start of the play. And if this is merely rhetoric, he also is. For he has been both a righteous man and a hypocrite. The conclusion of Measure for Measure is not definite. It is not the unambiguously happy resolution that Puck suggests in the little rhyme ending act 3, scene 2 of A Midsummer Night’s Dream where ‘‘Jack shall have Jill’’ and ‘‘Nought shall go ill.’’ The only coupling that approaches Puck’s ideal is Claudio and Julietta’s, but their love is not the matter of the play, only the instrument that sets the central human and philosophical conflicts in motion. That the young lovers remain in the background at the conclusion is of no consequence. In the script, it is not clear how Angelo feels about his restoration to the world, and there is no direct indication of how he feels about Mariana or marriage to her. And Isabella seems ironically to have found that she may exercise her silence in marriage rather than in a convent, ‘‘if’’ she accepts the duke’s proposal, an ‘‘if’’ which remains unanswered when the play ends. As for the duke, may it be in her thoughts that by saving her brother’s life, he hoped to gain possession of what Angelo sought to have, Isabella herself, and by the same strategy?

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Source: Neil Heims, Critical Essay on Measure for Measure, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.


Allan Bloom

‘‘Abu Hassan, or The Sleeper Awakened,’’, in The Arabian Nights (850 C . E .), is one of the tales in which the caliph Haroon al Rashid goes among his people disguised as a common man. In this tale, the caliph tricks Abu Hassan into believing that he himself is the caliph. The Charterhouse of Parma, Stendhal’s 1839 novel of romance and political intrigue set principally in the court of Parma after the fall of Napoleon, introduces a sexual–political conflict when the Duchess Sanseverina consents to yield herself to the Prince of Parma for the sake of her beloved nephew’s safety.

In Oscar Wilde’s play, The Importance of Being Earnest, the principal character, who actually is unaware of his true identity, counterfeits an identity different from the one he thinks is his. This most well-known play by Wilde was written in 1894, was first produced in 1895, but did not appear in print until 1899.

Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic American novel, The Scarlet Letter (1850) pits the forces of Puritanism against the forces of desire and has as its focus a minister tormented by a sexual lapse that he simultaneously struggles to conceal and to confess.

Indeed, when the duke proposes marriage to Isabella a second time—does that indicate that she failed to respond to his first offer?—in the couplet preceding the final couplet, there seems to be some significance resonant in the fact that instead of echoing something like Puck’s pastoral ditty, he somewhat recalls Angelo with the suggestive turn embedded in his risque´ rhyme: . . . if you’ll a willing ear incline, What’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.

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In the following essay, Bloom examines the sexual mores on display in Measure for Measure. Specifically, the critic analyzes Duke Vincentio’s efforts to restore the laws governing sexual conduct in Vienna, which Shakespeare portrays as ‘‘a sexual mess.’’ The duke’s decision to disguise himself as a priest while studying the city’s habits ultimately leads to his reinforcement of the institution of marriage. Bloom contends that the play treat marriage as somewhat unnatural but nevertheless politically important. Measure for Measure is another play that is dominated by a priest’s plot, but, unlike the plot in Romeo and Juliet, this equally contrived solution to a problem works. The happy result makes us laugh. The solution to sexual problems is comic both because it is so improbable and because coping reasonably with these desires somehow makes them look ridiculous. Perhaps the plot works because the priest is not really a priest but a genuine political ruler who uses the cloak of religion to hide himself and his designs. Political wisdom seems to require some such religious coloring in order to make itself acceptable to the unwise subjects. Certainly this false friar escapes the law’s narrow concentration on men’s deeds by using the Church’s capacity to get inside men’s thoughts. The explicit intention of Duke Vincentio’s ruse is to restore the force of law, which has for either fourteen or nineteen years been allowed to fall into desuetude. The laws in question are perhaps the most decisive of laws, those concerning sexual conduct. They appear to be the most necessary and the harshest, those that go most against nature’s grain. Precisely why the Duke has neglected to enforce the laws is difficult to understand. Either he was, like Prospero, too involved with his own thought to pay attention to the unpleasant business of governing, as Escalus suggests, or, as a bachelor, he himself profited from the laxness in the city. There is a hint of this latter interpretation when Friar Thomas takes the Duke’s petition for haven to be a request to carry on an affair in his monastic abode (I.iii.1–6). This immediate supposition on Friar Thomas’ part would seem to be based on prior experience. And as we shall see, the Duke is

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THE PUNISHMENT OF ANGELO IS RENDERED MORE MORAL THAN WAS REMIRRO’S, BECAUSE ANGELO IS ACTUALLY DISLOYAL TO HIS MASTER, WHEREAS REMIRRO WAS NOT.’’

too honest a man to be simply a hypocrite in condemning practices in which he participates. The Duke knows the legislator is beyond the law, but the law requires his conviction and support. There may be need for terror in order to put law in the seat usurped by lust, but the Duke respects nature and will not lend himself to the dishonesty required simply to deny it. The mercy that tempers the harshness of the newly reapplied law stems from the reflection that ‘‘there but for the grace of God go I,’’ that is, both you and I have the same desires and perhaps the same experiences as those who are condemned. The law that condemns erotic activity is made by erotic men. This leads to the heart of the play’s ambiguity. Vienna is the seat of the Holy Roman Empire, and the Church, in both its purity and its corruption, is highly visible there. The Duke effects a kind of Reformation in Vienna, and the astounding fact of the play is that throughout it untamed sexual desire is accepted as a fact of life. Those who do not admit it are as much reformed as those who do. Vienna is a sexual mess. Bawdy houses are the accepted way to get sexual satisfaction. People talk of them as they do about food markets, and take it for granted that they can be no more easily suppressed than are the food markets, which are necessary. If the proprietors and clients of the bawdy houses, or, in general, all the loose individuals, are something less than admirable, they are either merely comic, which means harmless, or pleasant persons of good company. They are not like criminals who knew they were breaking the law and got caught; they are really surprised that there can be such laws and that they are to blame. Nobody, but nobody, is married in this town. There is no family, and marriage is not understood to be necessary for procreation. Natural children are hardly thought to be


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bastards, and the Christian’s insistence that a child not born in holy wedlock is a counterfeit has no weight in Vienna. Escalus, a remnant of the old regime, asks Pompey whether Mistress Overdone had more than one husband. He responds, ‘‘Nine, sir; Overdone by the last’’ (II.i.198–199). People once had fathers and mothers, but they are gone. The extreme expression of what is sexually wrong in Vienna is that there is a great deal of venereal disease, the result of promiscuity. The Duke apparently finds this situation intolerable. His response, as we shall see, is not ‘‘get thee to a nunnery,’’ in either sense. He wishes to reestablish the institution of marriage, which is a mode of sexual expression, although one constrained by law. He apparently is ready to do so because he is now at the point where he is himself willing to marry. It should not be forgotten that his plot culminates in his own marriage, which would have been impossible if the reform had not taken place. What appears to be an extremely severe reform turns out to be actually a gentle one, with license given even to the houses of ill fame for the sowing of wild, that is, unlawful, oats, on the condition that they be less open and be ashamed before respectable institutions. But getting a lot of people married is the central intention of this political deed. The naturalness of marriage is questioned by the action of the play while its political necessity is affirmed. The Duke’s withdrawal from Vienna is an assumption of a god-like behavior. He is an absent god for whom a human deputy acts. This deputy is watched by another branch of the god’s presence in absence, the Church and its priests. The Duke, disguised as a friar, spies out what the law would never see or take into account. This actually reveals a weakness in the written law itself and in its executors. The priest acts deceptively, dishonestly, and abuses the Church’s doctrines in order to attain his ends. His behavior is innocuous in Measure for Measure because the priest is actually the ruler. The supplement to the law provided by the Duke’s prudence, his exceptions of persons, and his privately gained knowledge of the inner life of souls would be requisite for full justice. However, its political institutionalization by means of the Church would be as fraught with difficulties as is the appointment of a deputy. Shakespeare, following [fifteenth-century author and political theorist Niccolo] Machiavelli as well as the whole classic tradition, is disapproving

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Flora Robson as Isabella in a 1933 production of Measure for Measure (Ó Hulton-Deutsch Collection/Corbis)

of the rule of priests. In this case, however, the real ruler in the guise of priest is able to make Angelo, his deputy, assume that his position is

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invulnerable because nobody other than Isabella knows what he has done, whereas the false priest knows it all. Here the Duke’s disguise permits

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him to be omniscient, as is a god, and to manipulate and to mitigate the omnipotence of the political ruler. In extreme cases, such as the basic reform the Duke is effecting, what Machiavelli calls unusual modes are necessary and just. The Duke’s withdrawal and the appointment of an efficient and severe deputy to do the nasty business is a tactic Machiavelli applauds. He gives as an example for imitation Cesare Borgia’s appointment of Remirro de Orco as his deputy when he wanted to reduce the Romagna to peace and obedience. When de Orco had successfully completed the tasks given him by Cesare, the latter, because he knew that past rigors had generated some hatred for Remirro, to purge the spirits of that people and to gain them entirely to himself, . . . wished to show that if any cruelty had been committed, this had not come from him but from the harsh nature of his minister. And having seized this opportunity, he had him placed one morning in the piazza at Cesena in two pieces, with a piece of wood and a bloody knife beside him. The ferocity of this spectacle left the people at once satisfied and stupefied.

Shakespeare, in his sweeter way, actually imitates Machiavelli’s example with his play. The punishment of Angelo is rendered more moral than was Remirro’s, because Angelo is actually disloyal to his master, whereas Remirro was not. One gradually becomes aware that the Duke’s purpose is as much to humiliate Angelo as to punish fornicators. As a matter of fact, the person who most suffers punishment and humiliation in the play is Angelo, a strange way to go about restoring sexual morals. Rather than being cut in half, Angelo suffers an equally fearsome fate—he must marry. The populace is impressed by both the Duke’s harshness and his mercifulness. The Duke, on the one hand, acts like the Moral Majority in the sanctifying of the family. On the other, he acts like the ACLU [American Civil Liberties Union] in impugning the motives of the Moral Majority. He obviously thinks that neither is quite the right thing. The Duke tells Claudio, ‘‘Be absolute for death’’ (III.i.5), whereas the play is absolute for life. Aside from the hapless Claudio, the only person other than Angelo to suffer greatly in the play, in which such severe punishment threatens and in which executioners are so visible, is Isabella. And Isabella is also the only other person with high moral pretensions.


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Much of Measure for Measure’s message is conveyed when Pompey the pimp is appointed deputy executioner. This play illustrates the humanizing of the law by making sure that it is not made by beings who have never felt the human movements of soul and body. A godlike law applied to humans rather than angels results in a perversity that is worse than lechery. The Duke surely knows what Angelo is prior to appointing him and suggests to the more humane Escalus, more humane in that he remembers in his old age the desires he had when he was young, that he wants to see what Angelo will do. He also knew prior to the action of the play that Angelo had abandoned Mariana in spite of his pledges to her. Angelo is much worse than Claudio, who merely put off marriage until the dowry came through but remained faithful, if that is the word, to Juliet, whereas at the loss of the dowry, Angelo jilted Mariana. Still, he appears honestly tormented when he becomes attracted to Isabella. A sophistry of the heart could have allowed him to forget his bad behavior to Mariana, and there seems to have been no sexual relationship with her. There money seems to have been the theme. Whether the Duke could have counted on Isabella’s attracting the attention of Angelo or not, the Duke did expect some such abuse of power. It would seem likely that her brother, Claudio, the first and only real sufferer from the reawakened law, was pointed out to Angelo by the Duke. It is not necessary to assume that Angelo is a Tartuffe [the hypocritical priest in Jean Baptiste Moliere’s seventeenth-century play of the same title], self-consciously using his reputation for piety to gain access to women. What we see in the great scene with the lecherous Lucio, urging Isabella to heights of rhetoric, is the welling up in Angelo of an erotic attraction to the notion of corrupting virtue (II.ii.26–187). This is a perversity beyond any that might be attributed to the low persons in the play who have frank sexual attractions to good-looking persons or merely have a need for sexual release. There is a refinement in Angelo that sets his senses in motion in the presence of innocence and virginity. It is eroticism heightened and refined by its being forbidden. He confesses to himself that this is infinitely more attractive than natural sexual appeals. Angelo’s imperious need for Isabella is inconcievable without the attraction of its being a sin.

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The two encounters between Angelo and Isabella are the highlights of this play. He moves, in his own self-understanding, from god to sinner. Before our eyes we see the genesis of guilt. He wills and he does not will. Before, he thought that will and deed are identical in him. He elevates sexual desire into the realm of the forbidden, forbidden by his own standards and his position, and then hates himself for his sexual desire. He becomes disgusted by sexual desire in others, because he attributes to them the same criminality he finds in himself. This makes him into a criminal: he forces Isabella to have sexual intercourse with him and murders Claudio to cover up the rape. At least he thinks he commits these terrible deeds and is foiled only by the Duke’s manipulation of appearances. He begins as the cold instrument of the law and metamorphoses into the only malevolent person in the play. This means he delights in doing harm while struggling with his conscience. Sinning and repenting become a way of life for him. Presenting himself as the enforcer of law on fallen man, he actually reenacts the harshness of God at the fist Fall. Shakespeare has very little sympathy for this kind of moralistic sexuality. He has a particular need to humiliate men who make claims like Angelo’s. Henry V, in his typically cold fashion, uses the severe Chief Justice to punish the inhabitants of the Boar’s Head Inn, especially Falstaff, with whom he has spent his youth and for whom Shakespeare has a great deal of sympathy. He does so for the sake of public morals, as opposed to private satisfaction, now that he is king. He does so also to satisfy the puritanical passions that are rife among the people and which Shakespeare rightly saw would threaten civil peace. These were not the simple moral demands that frighten liberals so, but real puritanical passions of the sort that are today making parts of the Islamic world ungovernable. Something like this is what the Duke is after, though he accomplishes it much more nicely than does Hal. Not only does he wish to channel the sexual affections more or less into family attachments, but he also wants to fend off the threat of extreme reactions by Puritans, whose souls have been prepared for extremism by their religion. The sense of sin grafted on to sexual desire, not a thing to be found in Mistress Overdone’s house, accounts for the distortions of Angelo’s soul, and Shakespeare’s dislike of Puritans is subjected here to profound and fundamental analysis. [Nineteenth-century philosopher Friedrich] Nietzsche said, ‘‘Christianity gave Eros

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poison to drink. He did not die, but became vice.’’ Most of the others in the play are indulgent of dirty-minded but not perverse. It is imagination, not the body, which causes Angelo to be attracted to the conquest of purity. Source: Allan Bloom, ‘‘Measure for Measure’’, in Shakespeare on Love and Friendship, University of Chicago Press, 2000, pp. 59–64.

Linda Anderson In this excerpt from her study of the pervasiveness of revenge ‘‘as a useful social instrument in Shakespeare’s comedies,’’ Anderson reminds us that the duke temporarily leaves Vienna in Angelo’s hands not only to correct the city’s excessive vices but also to test Angelo’s ability to wield power fairly. Further, Anderson observes that as Isabella is forced to make decisions regarding her chastity, her brother’s life, and Angelo’s hypocrisy—and as the duke himself steps in to draw the play to a close—the concept of revenge is intermingled with the concepts of justice and mercy to the extent that the three become ‘‘almost indistinguishable’’ from one another. None of Shakespeare’s titles is more suggestive of revenge than Measure for Measure. Although the phrase itself may mean no more than strict justice, it recalls the Old Testament law often cited as vengeful: . . . thou shalt paye life for life, Eie for eie, tothe for tothe, hand for hand, fote for fote, Burning for burning, wonde for wonde, stripe for stripe.(Exod. 21:23–25) This is the spirit in which the Duke uses the phrase: The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, ‘‘An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!’’ Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure. (5.1.407–11) Yet the phrase itself is from quite another context: Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgement ye judge, ye shal be judged, and with what measure ye mette, it shal be measured to you againe. (Matt. 7:1–2; see also Luke 6:37–38)

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the Duke has made it clear that he has no respect for a fugitive and cloistered virtue: ALTHOUGH MERCY IS CERTAINLY A THEME IN THE PLAY, IT IS NOT PRESENTED IN ISOLATION OR IN OPPOSITION TO JUSTICE OR REVENGE.’’

That the Duke in judging Angelo for judging Claudio should condemn him with a paraphrase of a biblical injunction condemning judging suggests a more complex irony than merely that ‘‘the ending of the play, then, really contradicts the title.’’ Although a traditional objection to the play is that Angelo escapes any real revenge, revenge is not absent from the play but is so intertwined with justice and mercy that what are elsewhere separate and even opposing qualities become, in Measure for Measure, almost indistinguishable. The standard reading of the play, based on the Duke’s explanation to Friar Thomas (1.3.19–43), is that Vincentio intends Angelo to (re)enforce the ‘‘strict statutes and most biting laws’’ of Vienna ‘‘to strike and gall’’ the citizens. But this is not what the Duke says to Angelo; rather, he links severity and leniency: Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart. (1.1.44–45) Your scope is as mine own, So to enforce or qualify the laws As to your soul seems good. (1.1.64–66) Since the Duke does not tell Angelo to be severe, but tells Friar Thomas that this severity is his aim in temporarily abdicating, if we take his words at their face value we can only assume that his knowledge of Angelo’s character leads him to believe that Angelo will not err on the side of mercy. Although he is certainly correct in that belief, it has been asserted that the Duke fails to understand his deputy’s character and is thus responsible for Angelo’s actions. Not only does it seem rather harsh to condemn the Duke for accepting Angelo’s character as Angelo presents it, but such a reading ignores another of Vincentio’s purposes. In deputizing Angelo,


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Angelo: There is a kind of character in thy life, That to th’ observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ‘twere all alike As if we had them not. (1.1.26–35) Not only does the Duke wish to make use of Angelo’s virtue for the good of the state, he wishes to observe how Angelo’s professed character is affected by power: . . . Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses That his blood flows; or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see If power change purpose: what our seemers be. (1.3.50–54) Angelo’s trial begins with his judgment on Claudio, who enters not merely arrested but exhibited publicly through the streets at Lord Angelo’s ‘‘special charge.’’ Claudio at first seems resigned to a just punishment for an admitted crime: Claudio: Thus can the demigod, Authority, Make us pay down for our offense by weight The words of heaven: on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still ‘tis just. Lucio: Why, how now, Claudio? whence comes this restraint? Claudio: From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty: As surfeit is the father of much fast, So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil, and when we drink we die. (1.2.119–30) But having explained the extenuating circumstances of his offense (1.2.145–55), Claudio’s tone changes. Although still admitting that he broke the law, he expresses feelings of persecution:

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And the new deputy now for the Duke— Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up, I stagger in—but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscour’d armor, hung by th’ wall So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round And none of them been worn; and for a name Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me—’tis surely for a name. (1.2.157–71) Our next glimpse of Angelo is likely to incline us to Claudio’s latter view. Angelo’s first argument in favor of executing Claudio is not that the punishment fits the crime but that the ultimate penalty is needed pour encourager les autres. When Escalus argues for mercy and suggests that in a similar situation Angelo himself might have acted similarly, Angelo rejects the argument (2.1.1–31). Not until later in the play does the irony of this rejection become clear: ‘‘Moreover—and it is one of the dramatist’s most subtle and original uses of parallelism—Claudio’s relation to Juliet had been almost of a piece with that of Angelo to Mariana. But where the one for worldly reasons left his already affianced bride in the lurch, the other with generous impetuosity had preferred disregard of an outward form to heartless desertion. Thus Claudio’s transgression is in itself most venial, and Angelo is the last man justified in visiting it with condign penalties’’ (Boas 1896, 362). Whether or not Angelo would equate his situation with Claudio’s, he calls down vengeance upon his own head if he ever commits Claudio’s offense: When I, that censure him, do so offend, Let mine own judgment pattern out my death, And nothing come in partial. (2.1.29–31) Our opinion of Angelo’s severity is influenced by that of the other characters who enforce

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the laws in Vienna. Not only does Escalus plead for and pity Claudio, but the Justice remarks that ‘‘Lord Angelo is severe’’ (2.1.282) and the Provost risks Angelo’s anger by questioning the order for execution (2.2.7–14) and comments to himself on Claudio’s state: Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream! All sects, all ages smack of this vice, and he To die for’t! (2.2.3–6) These characters serve to support the opinion that ‘‘Angelo (the name is patently ironical: he puns on it himself) is law or legalism, rather than justice. His hard, prim, precise ruling by the book is not felt to be just, because his rule makes all offences the same size; and to think of incontinence or fornication as if it were murder does violence to all normal human feelings’’ (Rossiter 1961, 121). In a minor key, however, Angelo’s severity triumphs over his legalism when he expresses his hope for punishment in the case against Pompey and Froth, which he does not bother to hear: I’ll take my leave, And leave you to the hearing of the cause, Hoping you’ll find good cause to whip them all.(2.1.135–37) Isabella, at first, seems to find it difficult to argue with Angelo. Admitting that Claudio’s offense is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice (2.2.29–30) she is easily swayed by Angelo’s statement that his function is to punish criminals; declaring it a ‘‘just, but severe law’’ (2.2.41), she would abandon Claudio to his fate, if it were not for Lucio. Her succeeding (though unsuccessful) arguments are rather an odd mixture. She first suggests that Angelo might pardon Claudio ‘‘and neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy’’ (2.2.50); to this, Angelo replies that he will not. She then argues that mercy is the greatest ornament of authority, and that if their positions were reversed Angelo would have sinned as did Claudio, but Claudio would not have condemned him for it; Angelo asks her to leave. She then pleads as a Christian:

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Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once, And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. How would you be If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that, And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. (2.2.73–79) Angelo replies that ‘‘It is the law, not I, condemn your brother’’ (2.2.80), and Isabella again shifts her ground, first requesting a reprieve and then asking ‘‘Who is it that hath died for this offense?’’ (2.2.88). Angelo responds that the reawakened law, enforced, will prevent future evils. When Isabella asks him to ‘‘show some pity’’ (2.2.99), he equates that quality with justice: I show it most of all when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss’d offense would after gall, And do him right that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. (2.2.100–104) But Isabella replies to this with another equation, asserting that what Angelo calls justice is in fact tyranny (2.2.106–9, 110–23, 126–28, 130–31, 134–36), adding, Go to your bosom, Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That’s like my brother’s fault. If it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother’s life. (2.2.136–41) This argument now seems to affect Angelo, although he has already heard it from Escalus and rejected it (2.1.8–31). But we soon learn that it is not Isabella’s varied pleas that justice be tempered with mercy that have affected Angelo’s professed conviction that harsh justice for Claudio is mercy for Vienna. Angelo’s final speech in this scene reveals how her arguments have touched him: ‘‘Isabella has insisted that there is a natural, sexual man hidden below Angelo’s exterior of virtue. And at her bidding the sexual man steps forth with a ve[n]geance’’ (Stevenson 1966, 42). Realizing this, Angelo (in soliloquy) completely reverses his previous argument:


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O, let her brother live! Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. (2.2.174–76) Finally, he sounds the first note of vengeance in the play with his invocation of the tempter who seeks to avenge his fall on mankind: O cunning enemy, that to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! (2.2.179–80) With these lines Angelo, the villain of the piece, reveals that he feels himself a victim of diabolical revenge. But since he attributes the revenge to his righteousness, it is difficult to feel much sympathy for him even before he begins plotting his crimes. At their second meeting, Angelo and Isabella continue to debate justice and mercy even though the subject of the argument has widened to include Isabella’s chastity as well as Claudio’s life. Isabella, however, is concerned now with divine justice, rather than the divine mercy she invoked in their previous argument, while Angelo concentrates on earthly concerns: Angelo: Which had you rather, that the most just law Now took your brother’s life, [or,] to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stain’d? Isabella: Sir, believe this, I had rather give my body than my soul. Angelo: I talk not of your soul. . . . (2.4.52–57) Angelo insists that divine justice is earthly cruelty, that there might be ‘‘a charity in sin’’ (2.4.63), but Isabella insists on maintaining distinctions: Isabella: Better it were a brother died at once, Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever. Angelo: Were not you then as cruel as the sentence That you have slander’d so? Isabella: Ignomy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses; lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. (2.4.106–13) Ultimately, their debate results in threats of revenge:

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Isabella: Ha? little honor to be much believ’d, And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for’t! Sign me a present pardon for my brother, Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world aloud What man thou art. (2.4.149–54) Angelo: Redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will, Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To ling’ring sufferance. (2.4.163–67) While Angelo’s righteousness crumbles, we see the disguised Duke combining justice and mercy by trying Juliet’s repentance (2.3.21–36) and counseling Claudio to be absolute for a death that the Duke’s presence insures he will not suffer (3.1.5–41). Moreover, this presence, and in particular the Duke’s eavesdropping on Claudio and Isabella, may direct our opinion of her passionate outburst against her brother’s plea that she yield to Angelo. Various critics have found repugnant Isabella’s conviction that ‘‘more than our brother is our chastity’’ (2.4.185). But the Duke, our principal standard of ethics in the play, expresses no such repugnance; on the contrary, he describes Isabella as ‘‘having the truth of honor in her’’ and tells her ‘‘the hand that hath made you fair hath made you good’’ (3.1.164, 180–81). As for the possibility that she is affected by ‘‘her recoil from her rage at Claudio’’ (Stevenson 1966, 46), there is no evidence of it; not only has she previously threatened to expose Angelo, but before the Duke proposes his plot and assuming that Claudio will already have been executed, she tells Vincentio ‘‘But O, how much is the good Duke deceiv’d in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government’’ (3.1.191–94). If Isabella suffers any loss of innocence, it is due to the discovery of evil in Angelo and cowardice in Claudio; both discoveries make her justifiably angry, but they do not affect her virtue, which, as the Duke says, is bold (3.1.208). As for the ‘‘duplicity’’ of the plot, the Duke has answered the question before it was asked: ‘‘the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof’’ (3.1.257–58).

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The deceit is particularly interesting for the multiplicity of purposes it serves, as the Duke suggests more than once (3.1.199–204, 251–55). It allows the Duke to provide justice for Mariana and Angelo, mercy for Claudio, and pleasure for himself, in addition to allowing Isabella revenge on Angelo by turning his own scheme against him. The rightness of the plot is reinforced by the various episodes in the remainder of act 3, in which we see the Duke act justly toward various transgressors. After attempting in vain to persuade Pompey of the error of his ways, he concludes Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit. (3.2.32–33) Similarly, he tries to dissuade Lucio from slandering the Duke and, failing that, challenges him to stand by his slanders when the Duke returns (3.2.116–57). Finally, he comments on Angelo and on his own plans: If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenc’d himself. (3.2.255–57)

Craft against vice I must apply. With Angelo to-night shall lie His old betrothed (but despised); So disguise shall by th’ disguised Pay with falsehood false exacting, And perform an old contracting. (3.2.277–82) The Duke’s use of craft is further justified when Angelo compounds his tyranny with treachery, refusing to pardon Claudio after all (4.2.120–26). Driven to further shifts to save Claudio, the Duke also tries to deal both justly and mercifully with ‘‘the magnificent and horrible Barnardine’’ (Rossiter 1961, 166), seeking to advise, comfort, and pray with him before his deserved execution (4.3.50–52). But being unwilling to damn Barnardine’s soul, he is compelled to spare him. But though Barnardine is spared, Isabella is not, for the Duke tells her that Claudio has been executed. His excuse for this cruel lie— But I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair, When it is least expected (4.3.109–11)

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—is hardly convincing. A more likely explanation for such behavior from a character who throughout the play tests and interrogates others is that he is preparing to test Isabella. The actual test, however, will not take place until the last act. Although Isabella’s reaction to the news of her brother’s death—‘‘O, I will to him [Angelo], and pluck out his eyes!’’ (4.3.119)—is that of a stage revenger rather than a novice nun, it meets, in tenor if not in immediate action, with the Duke’s full approbation: If you can pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go, And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, And general honor. (4.3.132–36) Revenge is likewise on Angelo’s mind. Apprised of the Duke’s return and of his proclamation that citizens craving redress of injustice may petition him upon his arrival, he is forced to consider, although he rejects, the possibility that Isabella may avail herself of this opportunity. Further, he explains his reason for proceeding (as he thinks) with Claudio’s execution: He should have liv’d, Save that his riotous youth with dangerous sense Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge, By so receiving a dishonor’d life With ransom of such shame. (4.4.28–32) Just as the Duke administers to Isabella a physic That’s bitter to sweet end (4.6.7–8) so to Angelo he administers praise that will make the blame to come more bitter (5.1.4–8, 9–16). After Isabella has made her accusation, he twists the knife further, pretending to disbelieve what he knows—in intent, at least—to be true and expressing an opinion of Angelo’s character that—though popularly thought true—he knows to be false: By heaven, fond wretch, thou know’st not what thou speak’st, Or else thou art suborn’d against his honor In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason


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That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself. If he had so offended, He would have weigh’d thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. (5.1.105–12) The Duke’s behavior toward Angelo is compounded of justice, mercy, and revenge. It is just to make him suffer the mental anguish that he has inflicted on Claudio, Isabella, and Mariana. Like the criminals the Duke advised in his role as a friar, Angelo can receive mercy only after he has been made to feel true remorse. Finally, the entire plot against Angelo, with its disguises, accomplices, and presentation to him first of Isabella’s false charge (which he believes to be true) and Mariana’s true charge (which he believes to be false), is a classic revenge. Angelo is hoist with his own petard—caught doing what he condemned Claudio for doing, although he thought he was doing something much worse. Although the Duke is entrapping Angelo, and allowing Lucio to entrap himself, we can feel little sympathy for them because of their shameless persistence in their evil ways. Angelo, still believing he can bluff his way out of the case against him, calls down the law’s vengeance on his own head, even though he is perceptive enough to see that his secret is out and that several people are plotting against him: I did but smile till now. Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice, My patience here is touch’d. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out. (5.1.233–39) Similarly, Lucio attempts to cover his own guilt by slandering an innocent friar (and thereby, although he doesn’t know it, again slandering his prince). It is therefore appropriate that, urged on by Angelo, ‘‘when Lucio plucks off the Friar’s hood and discovers the Duke, the impudent buffoon also accomplishes his own exposure’’ (Oscar James Campbell 1943, 130)— and Angelo’s. Although both Angelo and Lucio recognize that they are caught, they react very differently to the knowledge. Lucio merely remarks ‘‘This

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may prove worse than hanging’’ (5.1.360), while Angelo begs to be punished: O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your Grace, like pow’r divine, Hath look’d upon my passes. Then, good Prince, No longer session hold upon my shame, But let my trial be mine own confession. Immediate sentence then, and sequent death, Is all the grace I beg. (5.1.366–74) The Duke, having given Mariana justice by marrying her to Angelo, seems willing to grant Angelo’s request for immediate execution, but he phrases the sentence in such a way as to reassure the audience that death will not be allowed to mar the ending of this comedy. ‘‘An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!’’ (5.1.409) would be strict justice; but in fact no death has occurred, and it would therefore be unjust to execute Angelo. As Isabella says, in another context: His act did not o’ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perish’d by the way. Thoughts are no subjects, Intents but merely thoughts. (5.1.451–54) But at this point in the play, neither Angelo nor Isabella knows that Claudio is still alive. In addition to drawing out Angelo’s punishment, the Duke seems to be testing Isabella’s reaction to her brother’s ‘‘murderer,’’ although he is subtle about it. When Mariana asks Isabella to join her in pleading for Angelo’s life, the Duke maintains that for her to do so would be so unnatural as to call down (or, in this case, up) supernatural vengeance: Against all sense you do importune her. Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother’s ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror. (5.1.433–36) Isabella nevertheless does join Mariana in her pleading, but her charity changes nothing, since the Duke continues to uphold Angelo’s death sentence and Angelo himself professes to

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prefer death to mercy (5.1.455, 474–77). It is not until Claudio is revealed to be alive that the Duke pardons Angelo, and the ‘‘quickening’’ in the latter’s eye indicates, presumably, that he has resigned himself to life (5.1.494–95). Yet even as he forgives Angelo, Claudio, and Barnardine, the Duke declares I find an apt remission in myself; And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon. (5.1.498–99) Since Lucio’s crime seems to us far less serious (and far more amusing) than Angelo’s, this statement and the Duke’s later speeches concerning Lucio have been taken by some critics as indications that Vincentio is vengeful rather than just in this case. In fact, however, the Duke behaves toward Lucio very much as he has toward Angelo, allowing him to suffer the apprehension of justice for his crimes and then extending mercy. Even the punishment that Lucio suffers is merely justice to the woman he has wronged. If the Duke is more vindictive in his threats to Lucio than in those to Angelo, it may be excused on a number of counts. Angelo has, up to the point of his ‘‘temptation’’ by Isabella (and excluding his treatment of Mariana), been reputed a righteous man; even his condemnation of Claudio, although harsh, is within the law. It is difficult to imagine Lucio being able to plead a previous good character, and his victim, the Duke, is apparently entirely innocent of the accusations Lucio makes against him. Angelo’s wicked designs remain merely ‘‘intents’’; Lucio, on the other hand, actually commits the crime of ‘‘slandering a prince.’’ Finally, Angelo professes remorse and craves punishment; Lucio makes excuses and seeks to avoid punishment. At the end of the play, there is hope that Angelo may truly reform; Lucio, like Barnardine, is forgiven because of the virtue of the Duke, not because he has deserved forgiveness or because we can even imagine him deserving it. The play as a whole, and particularly the ending, have provoked a variety of critical responses. Oscar James Campbell, who sees the play as a satire on hypocrisy—as embodied by Angelo—and libertinism—as embodied by Lucio—finds the ending false: ‘‘the play does not end as a satire should. Angelo is exposed but not ejected from the play with a final burst of derision. . . . Angelo deserves not a wife, but

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scornful ridicule’’ (1943, 125). If we assume that the ‘‘darker’’ aspects of the play do, in fact, indicate a satirical intention, this may be a valid criticism, but not every critic is willing to make such an assumption: ‘‘however much incidental gloom or bitterness may be there, the themes of mercy and forgiveness are sincerely and not ironically presented’’ (Tillyard 1950, 139). Knight takes an entirely different angle, viewing Angelo and Lucio as neither satiric figures nor objects of mercy but, in some degree, the heroes of the piece: ‘‘The punishment of both is this only: to know, and to be, themselves. This is both their punishment and at the same time their highest reward for their sufferings: self-knowledge being the supreme, perhaps the only, good’’ ([1930] 1949, 94–95). Finally, Chakravorty sees the play as a statement that mercy is superior to justice: ‘‘Punishment is the function of justice and belongs to the State which is an impersonal machinery; mercy or forgiveness, on the other hand, is the function of a superior ethic and belongs only to the individual’’ (1969, 259). None of these positions seems to me to be completely accurate. Measure for Measure does not appear to be any kind of sustained satire. Angelo is not, at least at the beginning, entirely without merit, and even Lucio behaves well in trying to help his friend Claudio and urging Isabella on against Angelo. Although there are elements of the puritan in Angelo and of the swaggerer in Lucio, neither character is merely a conventional type; they are too individual to be the straw men of satire. On the other hand, there is no direct evidence that either character attains self-knowledge, except insofar as Angelo learns that he is not proof against temptation; Lucio merely attains self-pity. Although mercy is certainly a theme in the play, it is not presented in isolation or in opposition to justice or revenge. Rather, what the Duke achieves at the end of the play is a balanced combination of these three qualities, in which malefactors are lured by the devices of the stage revenger into betraying themselves, threatened with the force of justice, and finally pardoned. Angelo and Lucio do not get off without suffering or without making at least some restitution; Isabella does not declare that she loves Angelo, nor the Duke that he loves Lucio. The Duke alone is able to extend mercy (though others can ask for it), but he does not do so by nullifying justice. Rather, by applying ‘‘craft against vice,’’ he takes revenge against


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wrongdoers, establishes justice for everyone, and at last extends a limited forgiveness to Angelo and Lucio not because they deserve it, but because his power, wisdom, and magnanimity allow him to be generous. Source: Linda Anderson, ‘‘Problem Comedies,’’ in A Kind of Wild Justice: Revenge in Shakespeare’s Comedies, University of Delaware Press, 1987, pp. 156–68.

Northrop Frye Frye uses the title of Measure for Measure to organize his essay around some fundamental components of the play: characterization, theme, and genre. He demonstrates, for example, how the play measures one character against another (such as Angelo versus Claudio) and one theme against another (such as justice versus mercy, or ‘‘a justice that includes equity and a justice that’s a narrow legalism’’). Frye also looks at the duke’s role as stage manager in the drama that occurs between Isabella, Angelo, and Mariana, and concludes by remarking on the ways in which Measure for Measure ‘‘proceeds upward’’ from potential tragedy to fulfill the requirements of comedy through marriage, forgiveness, and reconciliation. Most critics link the title of this play with a verse from the Sermon on the Mount: ‘‘Judge not, that ye be not judged: for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’’ The phrase is a common one, and was used by Shakespeare in an earlier play, but the link with this quoted passage seems to be clearly there, and suggests that this play is concerned, like much of The Merchant of Venice, with the contrast between justice and mercy. Only it doesn’t talk about Christians and Jews; it talks about the contrast between large-minded and small-minded authority, between a justice that includes equity and a justice that’s a narrow legalism. The title also suggests the figure of the scales or balance that’s the traditional emblem of justice. The play seems to me very closely related to the late romances, and that’s why I’m dealing with it here, although it’s earlier than King Lear and Antony and Cleopatra. The story used in the play has many variants, but the kernel of it is a situation where a woman comes to a judge to plead for the life of a man close to her, husband or brother, who’s been condemned to death. The judge tells her that he’ll spare the man’s life at the price of her

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I THINK SHAKESPEARE USES CONCEPTIONS TAKEN FROM THE IDEOLOGY OF HIS TIME INCIDENTALLY, AND THAT WE ALWAYS HAVE TO LOOK AT THE STRUCTURE OF THE STORY HE’S TELLING US, NOT AT WHAT GETS SAID ON THE WAY.’’

sexual surrender to him. In some versions she agrees and the judge double-crosses her, having the man executed anyway. She then appeals to a higher judge, king or emperor, who (in stories where it’s a husband she’d pleaded for) orders the judge to marry her and then has him executed. All these elements of the story are in Shakespeare’s play, but he’s redistributed them with his usual infallible instinct for what fits where. The versions closest to his play are a long (two-part), crowded, rather cumbersome play called Promos and Cassandra, by George Whetstone, which goes back to 1578, and a story in a collection by an Italian writer who used the name Cinthio, a collection that also seems to have provided, whether in the original or in a French translation, the source of Othello. Shakespeare used such collections of stories a good deal: one reason, and we’ll see in a moment why it is a reason, is that a lot of the stories are very close to being folk tales; in fact a lot of them are folk tales that the author has picked up somewhere and written out. This play, as most critics recognize, has three well-known folk-tale themes in it: the disguised ruler, the corrupt judge and the bed trick. If we look at the first of these themes, the disguised ruler, we run into a difficulty that’s central to this play. The Duke of Vienna, Vincentio, feels that his town is getting morally out of hand, especially in its sexual permissiveness, so he disappears, leaving a subordinate named Angelo to administer a law very strictly providing the death penalty for adultery. Our reactions to this may be very unfavourable to the Duke. Surely he’s being a coward when he runs away from his responsibilities, leaving someone else to administer an unpopular and perhaps sick law because he’s afraid of spoiling his nice-guy image (at least, that’s more or less

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the explanation he gives); he’s being incompetent in putting Angelo in charge instead of his more conscientious and humane colleague Escalus; and he’s a sneak to come back disguised as a friar to eavesdrop on the consequences of what he’s done. But whether our reactions are right or wrong, they clearly seem to be irrelevant to the play. Why are they irrelevant? We can see that Lear is being foolish when he abdicates, and our knowledge of that fact is highly relevant: what’s different here? I haven’t any answer to this right now, except to say that this is a different kind of play: I have first to explain what I think is going on. We saw in King Lear that when the king abdicates, his kingdom is plunged into a lower level of nature, and when Lear has reached the bottom of that, on the heath with the Fool and Poor Tom, he starts to acquire a new kind of relation to his kingdom, where he feels his affinity with the ‘‘poor naked wretches’’ he prays to. Because King Lear is a tragedy, this doesn’t get far before Lear is involved with other things, like madness and capture. In Measure for Measure what happens as a result of the Duke’s leaving the scene is not that we descend to a lower order of nature, but that we’re plunged into a lower level of law and social organization. The Elizabethans, like us, attached great importance to the principle in law called equity, the principle that takes account of certain human factors. Angelo is out simply to administer the law, or rather a law against fornication, according to legalistic rules. Authority is essential to society, but what we called in King Lear ‘‘transcendental’’ authority, with an executive ruler on top, depends on the ruler’s understanding of equity. If he hasn’t enough of such understanding, authority becomes a repressive legalism. Legalism of this sort really descends from what is called in the Bible the knowledge of good and evil. This was forbidden knowledge, because, as we’ll see, it’s not a genuine knowledge at all: it can’t even tell us anything about good and evil. This kind of knowledge came into the world along with the discovery of self-conscious sex, when Adam and Eve knew that they were naked, and the thing that repressive legalism ever since has been most anxious to repress is the sexual impulse. That’s why a law making fornication a capital offence is the only law the abdicating Duke seems to be interested in.

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for Measure, I suggested, deals with the same target of narrow-minded legalism, but without the very dubious attachments to assumed Christian and Jewish attitudes. What Jesus attacked in the Pharisees is as common in Christianity as it is anywhere else, and Angelo’s breakdown illustrates the fact that no one can observe the law perfectly. Portia’s point is repeated by Isabella when she says to Angelo: ‘‘Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once’’ (II.ii. 73).

Engraving from Galerie des Personnage de Shakespeare, 1844 (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

In the framework of assumptions of Shakespeare’s day, one was the doctrine in the New Testament that the law, as given in the Old Testament, was primarily a symbol of the spiritual life. The law in itself can’t make people virtuous or even better: It can only define the lawbreaker. You’re free of what Paul calls the bondage of the law when you absorb the law internally, as part of your nature rather than as a set of objective rules to be obeyed. Under the ‘‘law’’ man is already a criminal, condemned by his disobedience to God, so if God weren’t inclined to mercy, charity and equity as well as justice, nobody would get to heaven. This is what Portia tells Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, where Shylock symbolizes the clinging to the ‘‘bond’’ of the literal law that was the generally accepted view of Judaism in England at the time. It’s a very skewed notion of Judaism, naturally, but there were no Jews legally in England then, and so no one to speak for another point of view. Measure


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I’ve often referred to the ideology of Shakespeare’s day, the set of assumptions his audience brought into the theatre with them. Every society has an ideology, and its literature reflects the fact. But I don’t think any culture is really founded on an ideology: I think people first of all make up stories, and then extract ideas and assumptions from them. The Christian ideology of Shakespeare’s day, as of ours, was a derivation from Christian mythology; that is, the story that Christianity is based on. Our word ‘‘myth’’ comes from the Greek mythos, meaning plot, story, narrative. The Christian myth, the complex of stories it tells, is, we said, structurally closest to comedy. Critics a hundred years ago said that Measure for Measure was a play in which Shakespeare was trying to discuss serious issues like prostitution and the theory of government, but couldn’t get far because of censorship and other obstacles. Of course he couldn’t have got far with such themes: the assumption is that he wanted to discuss them, and that’s an assumption I very much distrust. Other critics think the play is a kind of dramatic exposition of Christian doctrines and principles. I distrust the assumption in that even more. I think Shakespeare uses conceptions taken from the ideology of his time incidentally, and that we always have to look at the structure of the story he’s telling us, not at what gets said on the way. That is, as a dramatist, he reflects the priority of mythology to ideology that I’ve just spoken of. Further, he reflects it increasingly as he goes on. Because of this, his later plays are more primitive than the earlier ones, not, as we might expect, less so. They get closer all the time to folk tales and myths, because those are primitive stories: they don’t depend on logic, they don’t explain things and don’t give you room to react: you have to listen or read through to the end. That’s what brings Measure for Measure so close to the romances at the end of Shakespeare’s productive period, both in its action and in its mood.

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Well, it’s time we got to the second theme, the crooked judge. We saw from A Midsummer Night’s Dream how often a comedy begins with some kind of irrational law—irrational in the sense that it blocks up the main thrust of the comic story, which somehow manages to evade or ignore it. Usually such a law is set up to block the sexual desires of the hero and heroine, and sometimes it isn’t really a law, but simply the will of a crotchety parent who lays down his law. Sometimes, instead of the law, we start with a mood of deep gloom or melancholy, and that’s the main obstacle the comic action has to scramble over. Twelfth Night, for example, begins with Duke Orsino overcome with love melancholy— at least he thinks he is—and Olivia in deep mourning for a dead brother. These elements in comedy are those connected with the corrupt judge theme in Measure for Measure. The ugly law is scowling at us from the beginning, and Angelo’s temperament, in both his incorruptible and his later phases, ensures that there will be enough gloom.

therefore one of the people the newly enforced law is aimed at. The scene seems to be pure comic relief, but it establishes three important points. First, Angelo walks out on the proceedings before long and leaves Escalus to it: his speech on doing so ends with the line ‘‘Hoping you’ll have good cause to whip them all’’ (II.i. 136). Angelo despises the people before him so much that he can’t bother to listen to their meanderings. The phrase from the Sermon on the Mount, ‘‘Judge not, that ye be not judged,’’ comes to mind. What it surely means, among other things, is: If you despise other people for their moral inferiority to yourself, your own superiority won’t last long; in fact, it’s effectively disappeared already. Second, even Escalus can hardly figure out who did what to whom, so we wonder about the ability of law ever to get hold of the right people, or understand what is really going on about anything. Third, while Claudio, who is a decent man, is going to be beheaded, Pompey, who at least is an avowed pimp (and incidentally quite proud of it), is let off with a warning.

Angelo, to do him justice (we can’t seem to get away from that word), expresses strong doubts about his fitness for the post. Nonetheless he’s put in charge of Vienna, ready to strike wherever sex rears its ugly head. He has a test case immediately: Claudio is betrothed to Julietta (I call her that for clarity), and betrothal in Shakespeare’s time could sometimes be a fully marital relation, complete with sexual intercourse. Claudio and Julietta have got together on this basis, but have failed to comply with all the provisions of the law about publicizing the marriage. So he’s guilty of adultery, and has to have his head cut off. Lucio, a man about town, is horrified by this, not because he’s a person of any depth of human feeling, but because he sees how enforcing such a law would interfere with his own sex life, which is spent in brothels. So he goes (at Claudio’s urging, it is true) to Claudio’s sister, Isabella, who is almost on the point of becoming a novice in an order of nuns, to get her to plead with Angelo for her brother’s life. Isabella is not very willing, but Lucio finally persuades her to visit Angelo, and accompanies her there.

We may notice another feature of the scenes with the bawds: very little is said about the relatively new and then terrifying disease of syphilis; it’s clearly in the background, but it stays in the background. ‘‘Thou art always figuring diseases in me,’’ says a fellow patron to Lucio, ‘‘but . . . I am sound’’ (I.ii. 49). That isn’t because Shakespeare felt reticent about the subject: if you think he did, take a look at the brothel scenes in Pericles. But to pull down houses of prostitution because of the danger of syphilis would give the law in this play a more rational motive than Shakespeare wants to assign to it. He’s no more out to justify the law than to attack it: he merely presents the kind of hold that such law has on society, in all its fumbling uncertainty and lack of direction.

Before this happens, though, there’s a broadly farcical scene in which a dimwitted constable named Elbow comes into the magistrate’s court presided over by Angelo and Escalus, with a charge against Pompey, who is a pimp and

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We’re ready now for the big scene with Angelo and Isabella. I’ve suggested to you that when you’re reading Shakespeare you might think of yourself as directing a performance, which includes choosing the kind of actors and actresses that seem right for their assigned parts. If I were casting Angelo, I’d look for an actor who could give the impression, not merely of someone morally very uptight, but possessing the kind of powerful sexual appeal that many uptight people have, as though they were leading a tiger on a leash. If I were casting Isabella, I’d want an actress who could suggest an attractive,

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intelligent, strongly opinionated girl of about seventeen or eighteen, who is practically drunk on the notion of becoming a nun, but who’s really possessed by adolescent introversion rather than spiritual vocation. That’s why she seems nearly asleep in the first half of the play. If the setting of the interview weren’t so sombre, with a man’s life depending on the outcome, the dialogue would be as riotously funny as the strange case of Elbow’s wife. Let’s resort to paraphrase. Isabella: ‘‘I understand you’re going to cut my brother’s head off.’’ Angelo: ‘‘Yes, that is the idea.’’ Isabella: ‘‘Well, I just thought I’d ask. I have to go now; I have a date with a prayer.’’ Lucio: ‘‘Hey, you can’t do that! Make a production of it; weep, scream, fall on your knees, make as big a fuss as you can!’’ So Angelo and Isabella start manoeuvring around each other like a couple of knights who are in such heavy plate armour that they can’t bend a joint. The effect is that of a sombre Jonsonian comedy of humours. The humours in this case are two forms of predictable virtue, in people paralyzed by moral rigidity. We’ve already heard Isabella telling a senior nun that she would like her convent to be as strict and rigid as possible; we’ve heard Angelo saying out of his shell of righteousness: ’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall. Isabella goes into general maxims about the beauty of combining strength with gentleness, and Angelo, genuinely bewildered, says: ‘‘Why do you put these sayings on me?’’ (II.ii. 134). But something keeps them going; Isabella gets increasingly interested in her role, another meeting without Lucio is arranged, and eventually the serpent of Eden thrusts itself up between Justice in his black robes and Purity in her white robes, and tells them both that they’re naked. At least, I’m pretty sure that the serpent speaks to them both, although of course it doesn’t get through to Isabella’s consciousness. Her overt reaction, when she finally understands what Angelo is proposing, is simply horror and outrage. But I wonder if she isn’t suppressing the awareness that she’s much more attracted to Angelo than she would consciously think possible, and that in her gradual warming-up process Angelo has done more warming than Claudio. However that may be, she goes off to visit Claudio in the prison and tells him that he will


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now have to die, not to fulfil the demands of the law, but to save his sister’s honour, which naturally he will do with the greatest willingness. She’s utterly demoralized to discover that Claudio is very unwilling to die, and quite willing to have her go along with Angelo to preserve his life. To paraphrase once again: ‘‘But it’s my chastity,’’ screams Isabella. ‘‘Yes, but it’s my head,’’ says Claudio. Isabella then explodes in a furious tirade (in which, incidentally, a Freudian listener would hear a strong father fixation, even though the father does not exist in the play). She pours all the contempt on Claudio that her very considerable articulateness can formulate, tells him that the sooner he dies the better, and even that ‘‘I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death’’ (III.i. 145). She’s awakened out of all her dreams, and the world around her that her awakened eyes see is a prison. A real prison, not the dream prison she’d like her convent to be. So far the action has been fairly unrelieved tragedy for the major characters. The Duke has disappeared. The Friar, not generally known to be the Duke, is a prison chaplain, or seems to be functioning as one. His opening gambit as Friar doesn’t seem to have much promise: it’s a speech addressed to Claudio, telling him to ‘‘be absolute for death,’’ that he should welcome death because if he lives he may get a lot of uncomfortable diseases. It is doubtful that any young man was ever reconciled to immediate death by such arguments: certainly Claudio isn’t. The terror of death he expresses to Isabella, in the wonderful speech beginning ‘‘Ay, but to die, and go we know not where,’’ shows that the Friar’s consolations have left him untouched. Angelo has betrayed his trust; Claudio is about to die; Isabella’s dreams of a contemplative spiritual life, free of the corruptions of the world, are shattered forever. We notice that as we go on we feel less and less like condemning people, because of the steady increase of a sense of irony. We can’t condemn Claudio for his fear of what he feels to be, despite Isabella and the Friar, a totally undeserved death; we can’t condemn Isabella for turning shrewish when she feels betrayed by both Angelo and Claudio. As for Angelo, he now knows what it’s like to fall as well as to be tempted. As almost an incarnation of the knowledge of good and evil, he’s in a state of schizophrenic war with himself, the newly born impulse to evil determined on its satisfaction,

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the repudiated impulse to good despising, hating, and being miserably humiliated by its rival. This sense of a dramatic irony replacing an impulse to make moral judgments again points to the limitations of law, or at least of this kind of law. It was generally accepted in Shakespeare’s day that the writing of a play was a moral act, and that the cause of morality was best served by making virtue attractive and vice ugly. Whetstone’s play, mentioned earlier, says this in its preface, and Hamlet endorses the same view. No doubt Measure for Measure accomplishes this feat too in the long run, but in the meantime we wonder about the dramatic pictures of virtue and vice that we’ve had. Angelo is certainly not more likable as a hypocritical fraud than he was in his days of incorruptibility, but he seems somehow more accessible, even more understandable. Perhaps we can see, if we like, that what finally broke him down was not Isabella’s beauty, and not even his own powerfully repressed sexuality, but the combining of the two in a sadistic position of authority over a supplicating girl. But Isabella, in her invulnerable virtue, would not be anyone’s favourite heroine, and, at the other extreme, there’s Lucio, who retains something about him that’s obstinately likable, though he’s clearly a basket case morally, and Barnardine, whose vitality makes it pleasant that he gets away with his refusal to be beheaded. In any case, the action in the prison scene reaches a complete deadlock, with Claudio still begging Isabella to do something to help him, and Isabella telling him in effect, in every possible sense, to go to hell. Then the disguised Duke steps forward to speak to Isabella, and the rhythm abruptly switches from blank verse to prose (III.i. 150). This is the most clearly marked indication of structure, I think, that we’ve yet reached in any of the plays we’ve talked about. The play breaks in two here: the first half is the dismal ironic tragedy we’ve been summarizing, but from now on we’re in a different kind of play. One of the differences is that the Duke in disguise is producing and directing it, working out the plot, casting the characters, and arranging even such details as positioning and lighting. So it’s really a play within a play, except for its immense size, a half play that eventually swallows and digests the other half. Within the Duke’s own conventions,

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he’s playing with real-life people, like those nobles who used to play chess games using their own servants for pieces. In anything like a real-life situation, such a procedure would almost certainly meet with disaster very quickly, like Lear staging his love test. But in Measure for Measure, where we’re in the atmosphere of folk tale, our only reaction is to see what comes next. It’ll all work out just fine, so don’t you worry. The first element in this new play that the Duke produces is the story of Mariana, who provides a close parallel and contrast to the Claudio situation, and one which involves Angelo. Angelo had previously been engaged to a lady named Mariana, who still loves him, but the engagement fell through because the financial arrangements weren’t satisfactory. According to the way the law works things out, Angelo’s uncompleted engagement leaves him a person of the highest social eminence, whereas Claudio’s uncompleted betrothal leaves him a condemned criminal. So much for the kind of vision the knowledge of good and evil gives us: even if Angelo had remained as pure as the driven snow, the contrast in their fates would still be monstrous. The way the Duke proposes to resolve this situation is the device of the bed trick, where Isabella pretends to go along with Angelo’s proposal and assign a meeting, but substitutes Mariana in her place. It sounds like a very dubious scheme for a pious friar to talk a pious novice into, but something in Isabella seems to have accepted the fact that she’s in a new ball game, and that the convent has vanished from her horizon. I’ve talked about the affinity of this play with folk tales, and we can’t go far in the study of folk tale without coming across the figure of the trickster. The trickster may be simply mischievous or malicious, and may be associated with certain tricky animals, like the fox or the coyote. But in some religions the trickster figure is sublimated into a hidden force for good whose workings are mysterious but eventually reveal a deep benevolence. There are traces of this conception in Christianity, where a ‘‘providence’’ is spoken of that brings events about in unlikely and unexpected ways. I don’t want to labour the religious analogies, because they’re structural analogies only: if we try to make them more than that, they get very misleading. I think the Duke in this play is a trickster figure who is trying to turn a tragic situation into a comic

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one, and that this operation involves the regenerating of his society: that is, of course, the dramatic society, the cast of characters. A trickster, because, while tragedy normally rolls ahead to an inevitable crash, comedy usually keeps something hidden that’s produced when it’s time to reverse the movement. Let’s go back to King Lear and his abdication. I said that when he’s reached the bottom of his journey through nature, he discovers a new awareness of the ‘‘poor naked wretches’’ of his kingdom. He abdicates as ‘‘transcendental’’ ruler and takes on another identity in an ‘‘immanent’’ relation to his people, especially the suffering and exploited part of his people. As I said, this theme can’t be completed in a tragedy, but a comedy like Measure for Measure can take it a bit further. Duke Vincentio opens up, by leaving his place in society, a train of events headed for the bleakest and blackest tragedy. By his actions in disguise, he brings the main characters together in a new kind of social order, based on trust instead of threats. I’m not talking about the moral of the play, but about the action of the play, where something tragic gradually turns inside out into something comic. The trickster element in him comes out in the fact that his schemes involve a quite bewildering amount of lying, although he assures Isabella that there’s no real deception in what he does. He starts by telling Claudio privately, in the prison, that Angelo is only making trial of Isabella’s virtue. He gets Isabella to agree to the bed trick scheme, which necessitates lying on her part; Isbella is told the brutal lie that Claudio has been executed after all; he gives such strange and contradictory orders to Angelo and Escalus about his return that they wonder if he’s gone off his head; his treatment of that very decent official, the provost of the prison, would have a modern civil servant heading for the next town to find a less erratic boss. Whenever he remembers to talk like a friar, he sounds sanctimonious rather than saintly. We have only to put him beside Friar Laurence in Romeo and Juliet to see the difference between a merely professional piety and the real thing. There are two or three references in the play to frightening images that turn out to be harmless: an induglent father’s whip, a row of extracted teeth in a barber shop, and, on the other side, Angelo’s ‘‘We must not make a scarecrow of the law’’ (II.i. 1). In this play most of the


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major male characters are threatened with death in some form; the two women are threatened with the deaths of others. Yet in the long run nobody really gets hurt: even the condemned criminal Barnardine is set free, except that he has another friar attached to him. A pirate in the prison who died of natural causes has his head employed for some of the deceptions, that’s all. It’s an ancient doctrine in comic theory that one of the standard features of comedy is what’s called in Greek the basanos, which means both ordeal and touchstone: the unpleasant experience that’s a test of character. This seems to be why the Duke starts off with his ‘‘Be absolute for death’’ speech to Claudio in the prison. He doesn’t seriously expect Claudio to be reconciled to death by hearing it, but it leaves him with a vision of seriousness and responsibility for the whole of his life that will make him a proper husband for Julietta and ensure that he doesn’t drift off into being another Lucio. Sounds farfetched, but you won’t think that an objection by now. Angelo, of course, gets the bed trick deal, which is a popular device in literature. Shakespeare used it again in a comedy that’s usually thought of as a companion piece to this one, All’s Well that Ends Well. Even the Bible has such a story, when Jacob, who wanted and expected Rachel, woke up to find Leah in his bed instead. Jacob’s society being polygamous, he got them both in the long run, but in Shakespeare’s bed trick plays the device is used to hook a man to a woman he ought to be married to anyway. It’s one of the devices for the middle part of a comedy, the period of confused identity in which characters run around in the dark, as in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, or the heroine puts on a boy’s clothes. One thing it represents in the two comedies where it occurs is the illusory nature of lust, in contrast to genuine love. Angelo’s lust tells him that he wants Isabella and doesn’t want Mariana, but in the dark any partner of female construction will do, and on that basis his wakened consciousness can distinguish between what he wants and what he thinks he wants. For Angelo the bed trick is the agent both of his condemnation and of his redemption. When his deceptions are uncovered in the final scene, he welcomes the death sentence as the only thing appropriate for him: he’s still a man of the law, even if his conception of law has matured. Mariana is the spark plug of the second half of the play: without her steady love for Angelo,

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no redeeming force could have got started. It nearly always happens in Shakespearean comedy that one of the female characters is responsible for the final resolution. Her importance, I think, is marked by the fact that when we meet her we hear a song, no less, and a very lovely song, in this grim clanking play. But of course Isabella is the Duke’s staged masterpiece. After being instructed how to act, she brings her accusation against Angelo, and there follows a great to-do about not believing her and a stretching of tension to the limit. Eventually Angelo is publicly humiliated, ordered to marry Mariana, and condemned to death immediately afterward. Mariana’s pleas for his life are rejected, so she turns to Isabella. Isabella’s speech corresponds dramatically to Portia’s speech on mercy in The Merchant of Venice, but the latter is a rhetorical set speech: Portia after all is a lawyer, or pretending to be one. Isabella’s speech is short, thoughtful, painfully improvised, as the rhythm shows, and full of obvious fallacies as a legal argument. She is also making it at a time when she believes that Angelo has swindled her and had her brother executed after all. The essential thing is that the woman who earlier had told her brother that she would pray a thousand prayers for his death is now pleading for the life of the man who, as she thinks, murdered him, besides attempting the most shameful treatment of herself. People can’t live continuously on that sort of level, but if one’s essential humanity can be made to speak, even once in one’s life, one has a centre to revolve around ever after. The Duke is so pleased that he announces that he is going to marry her, though later he speaks of proposing to her in a private conference. The final confrontation is with Lucio, and that one is perhaps the strangest of all. Lucio was the spark plug of the first half, as Mariana is of the second: without his efforts on Isabella, all the Duke’s schemes would, so far as we can see, have ended in nothing but a dead Claudio. Yet he is the only one of the Duke’s characters (apart from Barnardine, whose inner attitude is unknown to us) on whom the Duke’s benevolent trickery makes no impression whatever. The Duke transfers to him the penalty he assigned to Angelo: Lucio is to marry the whore he has made pregnant, then executed. The threats of whipping and hanging are ignored by Lucio, and he doesn’t seem to notice that they are

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remitted, but he protests strongly against the violation of his comfortable double standard. He seems to be possessed by a peculiarly shabby version of the knowledge of good and evil. What is ‘‘good,’’ or at any rate all right, is what other fashionable young men do. Slandering a prince is all right because it’s only the ‘‘trick,’’ the fashion; visiting whorehouses likewise. But of course the whores are ‘‘bad’’ women. And yet the final scene would be much poorer without him: he gets all the laughs, and the Duke’s rebukes of him are simply ineffective bluster. He represents in part the sense of vestigial realism that we still have, the part of ourselves that recognizes how unspeakably horrible such snooping and disguised Dukes would be in anything resembling actual life. His slanders are forgiven, perhaps because he was describing the kind of person he would admire more than he does the actual Duke. And while the bulk of what he says is nonsense, one phrase, ‘‘the old fantastical Duke of dark corners’’ (IV.iii. 156) is the most accurate description of him that the play affords. The title of the play is quoted by the Duke when he speaks of the retribution in the law: ‘‘An Angelo for a Claudio, life for life’’ (V.i. 407). This is the axiom of tragedy, especially revenge tragedy, with its assumption that two corpses are better than one. From there, the action proceeds upward from this ‘‘measure for measure’’ situation to the final scene with which Shakespearean comedy usually ends: the vision of a renewed and regenerated society, with forgiveness, reconciliation and the pursuit of happiness all over the place. Forgiveness and reconciliation come at the end of a comedy because they belong at the end of a comedy, not because Shakespeare ‘‘believed’’ in them. And so the play ends: it doesn’t discuss any issues, solve any problems, expound any theories or illustrate any doctrines. What it does is show us why comedies exist and why Shakespeare wrote so many of them. And writing comedies may be more valuable to us than all the other activities together, as we may come to realize after the hindsight of three or four hundred years. Source: Northrop Frye, ‘‘Measure for Measure,’’ in Northrop Frye on Shakespeare, edited by Robert Sandler, Yale University Press, 1986, pp. 140–53.

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Shakespeare, William, Measure for Measure, edited by S. Nagarajan, Signet Classics, 1964.

SOURCES Bloom, Harold, ’’Measure for Measure’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Press, 1998.

———, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, edited by Wolfgang Clemen, Signet Classic, 1963, p. 96.

Cohen, Stephen, ‘‘From Mistress to Master: Political Transition and Formal Conflict in Measure for Measure,’’ in Criticism: A Quarterly for Literature and the Arts, Vol. 41, No. 4, Fall 1999, pp. 431–64.

Stevenson, David L., The Achievement of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, Cornell University Press, 1966, pp. 65, 73, 111.

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, Lectures and Notes on Shakspere, edited by T. Ashe, 1818.

Zender, Karl F., ‘‘Isabella’s Choice,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 73, No. 1, Winter 1994, pp. 77–94.

Evans, Bertrand, ‘‘Like Power Divine: Measure for Measure,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comedies, Clarendon Press, p. 219. Geckle, George L., ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Twentieth Century Interpretations of ‘‘Measure for Measure,’’ edited by George L. Geckle, Prentice-Hall, 1970, pp. 6, 9. Hazlitt, William, Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays, 1817. Hunt, Maurice, ‘‘Being Precise in Measure for Measure,’’ in Renascence: Essays on Values in Literature, Vol. 58, No. 4, Summer 2006, pp. 243–67. Johnson, Samuel, Prefaces to Shakespeare, 1765. Knight, G. Wilson, ‘‘Measure for Measure and the Gospels,’’ 1930, revised, 1949, in Twentieth Century Interpretations of ‘‘Measure for Measure,’’ edited by George L. Geckle, Prentice-Hall, 1970, pp, 36, 49. Lawrence, W. W., ‘‘The Duke from Measure for Measure,’’ in Shakespeare’s Problem Comedies, 1931, reprinted in Twentieth Century Interpretations of ‘‘Measure for Measure,’’ edited by George L. Geckle, Prentice-Hall, 1970, pp. 103–104. Pope, Elizabeth M., ‘‘The Renaissance Background of Measure for Measure,’’ 1949, reprinted in Twentieth Century Interpretations of ‘‘Measure for Measure,’’ edited by George L. Geckle, Prentice-Hall, 1970, pp. 50–72. Powell, Jocelyn, ‘‘Theatrical ‘Trompe L’Oeil’ in Measure for Measure,‘‘ in Shakespearean Comedy, edited by Malcolm Bradbury and David Palmer, Edward Arnold, 1972, p. 183. Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, and J. Dover Wilson, eds., Measure for Measure, in The Achievement of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure, edited by David Lloyd Stevenson, Cornell University Press, 1966, p. 65.


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FURTHER READING Bennett, Josephine Waters, Measure for Measure as Royal Entertainment, Columbia University Press, 1966. In the context of providing a close reading of the play and an analysis of its characters, Bennett discusses the resemblance of the duke to King James I, for whom the play was written, especially with regard to James’s love of diplomacy and manipulating actions from behind the scenes. Fly, Richard, ‘‘Ragozine’s Head,’’ in Shakespeare’s Mediated World, University of Massachusetts Press, 1976. Fly sees Shakespeare as having created in Measure for Measure a play which attempts a ‘‘valid harmonization of opposites’’ which remain, nevertheless, ‘‘unbridgeable differences.’’ McGinn, Colin, Shakespeare’s Philosophy: Discovering the Meaning Behind the Plays HarperCollins, 2006. McGinn attempts to discover Shakespeare’s philosophy by investigating the themes and philosophical ideas that can be found in the bard’ plays. Rosenbaum, Ron, The Shakespeare Wars: Clashing Scholars, Public Fiascoes, Palace Coups Random House, 2006. Rosenblum provides a synopsis of the views of leading Shakespeare scholars and directors, and also discusses how an ‘‘authoritative’’ Shakespearean text is constructed.

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The Merchant of Venice 1596

The Merchant of Venice (c. 1596–1597) ranks with Hamlet as one of William Shakespeare’s most frequently performed dramas. It is a puzzling play. Many critics debate if the play is antiSemitic in and of itself or if it is a play about antiSemitism. There are several lines in the play that are hard to listen to because of the hatred, the Christian and Jewish mistrust and dislike of one another, that is portrayed on both sides of the issue. The plot line, as well as the complexity of some of the major characters, draws producers and audiences alike to this drama. Rather than creating stock characters that are easily mocked, Shakespeare has positioned his characters so that empathy is aroused. His characters have flaws; but that is what makes them human. Although Antonio, the Christian shipping merchant whose flesh is at stake in this drama, is often referred to as the title character of the play, it is Shylock, the Jewish moneylender who is the source of much of the critical discussion. Some of Shylock’s speeches point out the same prejudices that were alive in Elizabethan times and are still alive today in any culture that creates stereotypes of a particular race or religion and then establishes laws that discriminate against them. This is one of the elements that makes this play not only controversial but timeless. The date that Shakespeare wrote this play is not certain. Scholars generally try to place it somewhere between 1596 and 1597, after Shakespeare

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wrote Julius Caesar and Romeo and Juliet, but before he wrote Hamlet. This play is said to have been based, in part, on Il PecoTone (1378), a collection of tales and anecdotes by the fourteenth-century Italian writer Giovanni Fiorentino. One of the stories in this Italian collection focuses on a rich heiress who is living at Belmont. She marries a man who has a friend who owes money to a Jewish man, who demands a pound of flesh in payment. The young woman saves the day in court. The plot is the backbone of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. There is another story contained in this play, that of a riddle that suitors of the beautiful heiress Portia must solve in order to win her hand. This part of the play might have come from another collection of fairy-tale type stories—a book, whose author is unknown, called Gesta Romanorum. The English translation of this book was very popular in Shakespeare’s England. Another possible influence might have come from one of Shakespeare’s contemporaries, the popular play The Jew of Malta (1589) by Christopher Marlowe. Critics are quick to point out, however, that Marlowe’s Jewish character was more ruthless and much less human than Shakespeare’s Shylock. In spite of the controversies caused by The Merchant of Venice, it continues to fascinate its audiences. The characters are complex, leading to several interpretations of their personalities and actions. The play is harsh but fascinating, exposing some of humanity’s greatest shortcomings.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 The first act of Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice opens in Venice. Antonio, a merchant who owns several cargo ships, is talking about a sadness that he feels but cannot explain. Bassanio, a dear friend of Antonio’s, arrives; they greet one another, and shortly afterward, Bassanio asks Antonio if he can borrow some money. Bassanio has devised a plan, he says, by which he can pay back all his debts. There is a beautiful woman in Belmont, Bassanio tells Antonio, whose father was a king. The father has died, leaving all his wealth to his daughter, Portia. Suitors, wishing to become Portia’s wife, are lining up at her door, hoping to win her hand. However, they first must guess a riddle that Portia’s father has devised. Bassanio needs


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the money to buy new clothes in order to make a good impression and to sail to Belmont and try his luck in figuring out the puzzle and thus winning the beautiful (and rich) Portia. Antonio replies that he would do anything for Bassanio. However, all Antonio’s money is tied up in his ships. He gives Bassanio a signed slip of paper and tells him to go out and see if he can gain credit in Antonio’s name. This scene establishes the close relationship between Antonio and Bassanio and also sets up the events that will occur as a consequence of Antonio’s and Bassanio’s actions.

Act 1, Scene 2 Scene 2 is set in Belmont, where Portia lives. Here the audience hears Portia complaining about her father’s will that commands her to stand passively by, watching suitors try to win her by guessing which out of three chests contains her picture. She feels helpless, unable to choose her own husband and unable to deny a suitor to whom she is not attracted. Portia’s servant maid, Nerissa, teases Portia, telling her that the whole world should have the problems of Portia—a woman who does not want for any material goods. Nerissa also reminds Portia that Portia’s father was a wise and virtuous man and must have known what he was doing. By having suitors challenged by the test, her father knew that the one who figured the puzzle out would be the man best suited for his daughter and would provide Portia with a man she could truly love. Portia and Nerissa look out at the suitors who have lined up to test their luck. The two women privately judge them by their appearances and manners and make fun of them. Then Nerissa remembers a handsome man who once visited Portia’s father at Belmont and asks Portia if she remembers the man called Bassanio. Portia does recall Bassanio as having been very attractive and intelligent. Nerissa states that of all the men who have come to Belmont, she believes Bassanio is the most deserving of Portia.

Act 1, Scene 3 In Venice, Bassanio meets with Shylock to ask him if he will lend him money. Bassanio mentions Antonio’s name when he asks to borrow money. Shylock tells Bassanio that he is well acquainted with Antonio and knows Antonio is a good businessman. Shylock also mentions that shipping can be a tricky business because a ship

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Launcelot, Shylock, and Jessica from Act II, scene v (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

can go down in a storm. However, he suggests that he is willing to consider the loan. Bassanio asks Shylock to dine with him and Antonio, but Shylock points out the disparity between Christians and Jews. Shylock tells Bassanio that he will walk, talk, sell, and buy with them, but he will not eat or pray with him. Antonio enters the scene. In an aside (as if Shylock is talking to himself or directly to the audience), Shylock states that he hates Antonio because he is a Christian. Then Shylock discusses the interest rate that he will charge, how long he will hold the loan, and other terms of lending money. Shylock chides Antonio, reminding him that Antonio used to say he would neither lend nor borrow money. Shylock also reminds Antonio how he has, in the past, insulted Shylock in the Rialto, the meeting place of businessmen in Venice. Antonio, in the past, has called Shylock

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names and has also spit on him. Shylock finds humor in the fact that Antonio must now come to him to borrow money. Antonio makes it clear to Shylock that this loan in no way should be interpreted that he wants to be friends with Shylock. He tells Shylock that it is best that they remain enemies. Then, if Antonio should fail to pay back the loan, Shylock can gain great happiness in the forfeiture. Shylock pretends to be offended by this. He mockingly tells Antonio that to prove he lends this money to Antonio in friendship, he will not charge him any interest. Instead, Shylock will write up a bond that Antonio must sign, a contract that states if Antonio does not pay the money back in three months, Shylock can take his payment in the form of one pound of Antonio’s flesh from any part of Antonio’s body that Shylock determines.

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Bassanio is shocked. He does not want this heavy weight on his conscious and tells Antonio not to sign the contract. Antonio waves Bassanio off. Antonio is sure that he will have ten-fold the money he owes Shylock in three months. Shylock again contends that he loans this money in friendship. What profit would he gain from a pound of flesh, he asks Antonio?

Act 2, Scene 1 Back at Belmont, Morocco, a king from northern Africa, arrives to try his hand at solving the puzzle of the chests.

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to stay away from the windows and to lock the doors. Launcelot whispers to Jessica that she should look out for a masked Christian who will come calling for her.

Act 2, Scene 6 Gratiano and Salerio arrive at Shylock’s house later that evening. They wait for Lorenzo to appear. Lorenzo calls out for Jessica, who is dressed like a boy. She goes with Lorenzo, stealing a large portion of her father’s money as a dowry. The two young people profess their love for one another.

Act 2, Scene 2 In Venice, Launcelot Gobbo, a servant to Shylock, decides to leave Shylock’s service and prepares to ask Bassanio to employ him. Launcelot meets with his old father, whom he has not seen in many years and asks him to go with him to Bassanio’s. There, the father offers some of his wares to Bassanio, enticing him to hire his son. Bassanio agrees to do so. Next, Gratiano appears. He is a friend of Bassanio’s. Gratiano begs Bassanio to take him to Belmont. Antonio tells Gratiano that he is too wild, rude, and bold. Bassanio, who enjoys Gratiano at Venice’s parties, is concerned that Gratiano will not make a good impression on Portia in Belmont. Gratiano promises to behave; and Bassanio agrees to take Gratiano with him.

Act 2, Scene 7 At Belmont, Morocco, the prince from northern Africa, is with Portia and is about to take the test. He must choose one chest among three. The first chest is made of gold. It has a note attached to it that reads: ‘‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.’’ Morocco then reads the note on the silver chest. ‘‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.’’ The chest made out of dull lead also has a note. It reads: ‘‘Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.’’ Morocco analyzes the three notes. Then he chooses the gold chest, the only chest worthy of Portia’s beauty, he assumes. However, Morocco has chosen the wrong one.

Act 2, Scene 3

Act 2, Scene 8

At Shylock’s home in Venice, Jessica, Shylock’s daughter, says good-bye to Launcelot. But before the servant leaves, Jessica asks him to deliver a letter to Lorenzo, a friend of Bassanio’s. Later, while Jessica is thinking out loud, she claims that if Lorenzo truly loves her and comes for her, she will become a Christian.

In Venice, Salerio and Solanio relate the events of the past night. The audience learns that Bassanio has set sail for Belmont and has taken Gratiano with him. Shylock has discovered that Jessica is missing. He went to the duke to try to have Bassanio’s shipped searched. Antonio swears to the duke that Jessica is not with Bassanio.

Act 2, Scene 4 Lorenzo and Gratiano plan a small entertaining skit and a party for Bassanio that night. But when Launcelot delivers Jessica’s letter, small revisions in their plans must be made. Lorenzo and Gratiano plan how they will go into the Jewish quarters that night and steal away Jessica from her father.

Solanio then states that he heard Shylock wailing in a very strange way in the streets that night. First Shylock cried for his daughter; then he cried for the loss of his money. Shylock moans that if he finds his daughter, he is sure he will also find his money. Salerio says that he heard a rumor that a ship from Venice has capsized. He hopes it is not one of Antonio’s.

Act 2, Scene 5

Act 2, Scene 9

At Shylock’s house, Launcelot returns to invite Shylock to eat with Bassanio. Shylock agrees, this time. Before Shylock leaves, he tells Jessica

In Belmont, the prince of Arragon arrives to try his luck in winning fair Portia. He chooses the silver chest; and he chooses wrong.


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Act 3, Scene 1 At the Rialto in Venice, news is out that one of Antonio’s ships has indeed sunk. Shylock is still lost in his misery of having lost his money and his daughter. He is seen wandering around, asking Solanio and Salerio if they knew Jessica was planning her escape or if they had seen her in the town. They are able to tell him nothing. They do mention, though, that one of Antonio’s ships has gone down and wonder if Shylock knows this. Saleria, who is worried about Antonio, asks what good a pound of flesh would be to Shylock. Shylock answers: ‘‘It will feed my revenge.’’ Shylock then relates how Antonio has disgraced him, over and over again. He says Antonio has laughed at him, mocked him, and spit on him. It is at this point that Shylock makes his famous speech, noted by some as one of the more impelling speeches against prejudice ever written. Shylock begins with the statement that Antonio has done all these hateful things against him merely because Shylock is a Jew. Then he continues: ‘‘Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands?’’ Shylock’s point is that a Jew is the same as a Christian. He uses his speech, however, to also justify his own revenge against Antonio because Shylock is doing only what has been done to him. He has learned about revenge, he claims, from the Christians. Tubal, a friend of Shylock’s, then appears. He tells Shylock that he has heard news of Jessica. She has been spending a lot of money. Tubal also tells Shylock that Antonio has lost another ship. Then Tubal switches back to the topic of Jessica. She has sold a family ring in order to buy a monkey. Then he talks of Antonio again, pushing Shylock back and forth emotionally, from feeling sad about his daughter to feeling glad that Antonio is failing. Tubal assures Shylock that Antonio is sure to fail. Shylock tells Tubal that if Antonio cannot pay back the loan on time, he plans to take Antonio’s heart, the pound of flesh, in payment.

Act 3, Scene 2 In Belmont, Bassanio arrives. Portia sees him and debates in her mind whether she should help him choose the correct chest. She knows she cannot really do this without breaking her vow to her father, but she wishes that she could. Bassanio and Portia talk, hinting at one another’s love. Portia tells Bassanio that she is locked inside one of the chests. As Bassanio stands in front of the chests, he thinks out loud, trying to

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figure out the scheme behind the notes accompanying each one. ‘‘The world is still deceiv’d with ornament,’’ Bassanio tells himself as he looks over the silver and gold chests. Then, as he stands in front of the lead chest, he claims: ‘‘Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence.’’ He chooses the lead chest and is right. He finds a picture of Portia inside. Bassanio and Portia celebrate. In the midst of this, Gratiano and Nerissa announce that they too want to be married. A messenger from Venice arrives with a letter for Bassanio from Antonio. Portia notices the changes in Bassanio’s expression and wants to know the news. Bassanio confesses that he came to Portia not only a man without money, but a man who is in debt. He owes everything to Antonio. And now Antonio is in jail and must pay off that debt with his flesh. Portia says the amount of money is small. She will double it and give it to Shylock. Jessica warns them that her father has sworn that if Antonio, himself, does not pay back the money, he will have Antonio’s flesh. Portia believes she can solve this problem, but first she wants to become Bassanio’s wife.

Act 3, Scene 3 Antonio is in prison. Shylock insists on having Antonio’s flesh, no matter how much Antonio and his friends beg for mercy. When Shylock refuses, Antonio is resigned to his death. He knows that Shylock has the law on his side. There is nothing anyone can do. Antonio signed the bond, which is binding.

Act 3, Scene 4 Lorenzo praises Portia for coming to the aid of Antonio. Portia tells him that if Antonio is Bassanio’s friend, then he must be as good as Bassanio and is worth anything she can do. She tells Lorenzo that he must look after her estate as she and Nerissa are going to a monastery to pray until this ordeal is over. Portia then turns to a servant and gives him a letter to take to Padua to her cousin Doctor Bellario. Then he is to bring the things that Bellario will give him and deliver them to Portia in Venice. Portia tells Nerissa that their husbands will see them sooner than they think but they will not recognize them because the wives will be disguised as men.

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Act 3, Scene 5 Launcelot teases Jessica that she is like her father but then says maybe Shylock is not really Jessica’s father. Jessica comes back by saying that would be no better, since that would make her tainted by the sins of her mother. Jessica then says that she is not concerned about her relationship to Shylock because by marrying Lorenzo, a Christian, she has been saved. Lorenzo comes in and upon finding out what they have been talking about, Lorenzo further develops the topic of racism, chiding Launcelot that the black servant he has been sleeping with is pregnant with Launcelot’s baby.

Act 4, Scenes 1–2 In the courtroom in Venice, Antonio is brought in. The crowd, which now includes Bassanio and Gratiano, jeers when Shylock appears and when he denies Antonio any mercy. Even when Bassanio presents a chest filled with money, Shylock says that Bassanio could have brought multiple chests similar to the one there and he still would refuse to release Antonio from the bond. Shylock wants his pound of flesh and will not settle for anything less. He points out to the court that this is his legal right. The court tries to persuade him, asking for mercy. Shylock absolutely will not give in Antonio finally tells everyone that it is senseless to try to reason with ‘‘the Jew.’’ ‘‘You may as well go stand upon the beach, / And bid the main flood bate his usual height; / You may as well use question with the wolf, / Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb.’’ In other words, Antonio is saying that it is against Shylock’s nature, because he is a Jew, to grant mercy. The duke asks how Shylock could ever hope for mercy from the court if he is unwilling to provide mercy to Antonio. Shylock claims he has done no wrong, so why should he worry about the court granting him any mercy. Shylock then points out that there are people in the courtroom who own slaves. He asks if he should tell them to let the slaves go. If he does, Shylock claims, the owners would say that the slaves are theirs. So too does Shylock say that Antonio is his. ‘‘The pound of flesh which I demand of him / Is dearly bought; ‘tis mine, and I will have it.’’ At this point a messenger enters the court, delivering a letter from Dr. Bellario to the duke, telling the duke that he is ill but in his place, he has sent two young men (which is in fact Portia, disguised and referred to as Balthazar, and Nerissa). Portia/Balthazar gives Shylock a short lecture on


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the benefit of mercy; but Shylock still does not give in. Bassanio and Gratiano call Shylock a dog, a devil, and other names. Portia continues to dicker with Shylock, offering him three times what is owed him. Shylock refuses all offers. Antonio prepares to die. He says good-bye to Bassanio. Bassanio tells Antonio that nothing is greater than Antonio’s life, not his own life, his new wife, or anything in the whole world. Portia hears this and comments: ‘‘Your wife would give you little thanks for that, / If she were by to hear you make the offer.’’ Then Portia tells Shylock to go forward and collect his pound of flesh from Antonio. He proceeds; but Portia suddenly stops him. She says that he is lawful in taking the pound of flesh, but if he extracts one drop of blood in the process it will be considered a crime. ‘‘One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods / Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate / Unto the state of Venice.’’ Shylock could lose everything that he owns. Shylock abruptly changes his mind. He tells the court that he will now take thrice the amount of the contract and will let Antonio go. Portia denies him this. All he is entitled to is the pound of flesh. Shylock then turns to leave, but Portia tells him to stay. She says the court will take everything from him. Antonio protests, telling the court that he will take half of what Shylock has, but the other half should go to Lorenzo and Jessica upon Shylock’s death. In the meantime, Shylock must give up his faith and become a Christian. The courtroom empties. Bassanio and Gratiano approach Portia and Nerissa, still in disguise and ask what payment they might request for their having saved the life of Antonio. Portia says she needs nothing, except for the ring on Bassanio’s finger. It is the ring that Portia gave to Bassanio before they were wed, telling him that if he ever takes it off his finger, it would mean that his love for her has ended. Bassanio gives the young lawyer the ring. In this way, Portia appears to test Bassanio’s love for her. Some critics believe that there is a tug of war going on between Antonio and Portia to see whom Bassanio loves more. Portia intends to teach Bassanio a lesson. Acting as if Portia’s shadow, Nerissa also asks for Gratiano’s ring and receives it.

Act 5, Scene 1 Back in Belmont, Portia welcomes her husband and shortly after, asks to see his ring. When he cannot produce it, Portia brings the ring forth,

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS A classic version of this play starred noted British actor Lawrence Olivier, in a 1973 production by Universal/Artisan. The play is set in Venice, but it is set in the 1880s rather than the 1500s. Olivier plays Shylock. It is available on video. In 1981, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) recorded The Merchant of Venice as part of the broadcaster’s series The Shakespeare Plays. This video stars Warren Mitchell, Gemma Jones, and John Franklyn-Robbins. Henry Goodman played Shylock in a 2000 DVD formatted version of the play, directed by Trevor Nunn. Goodman’s Shylock is said to be a soft-spoken and less spiteful version of this character.

In 2001, the Royal National Theatre produced an award-winning version of The Merchant of Venice for the BBC, starring David Bamber and Peter De Jersey.

Michael Radford’s 2004 film production of The Merchant of Venice starred Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons, and Lynn Collins. Containing beautiful photography and great acting performances, this version is available on DVD.

confessing that she was the young lawyer. She berates Bassanio for having given it away. He promises never to do that again. Nerissa does the same to Gratiano. Some critics have complained that the rest of this act is used to merely tie up loose ends, especially the part in which Antonio finds out through a letter, which Portia mysteriously produces, that all of Antonio’s ships are safe.

CHARACTERS Antonio Antonio is a successful Venetian merchant and the title character of this play. He owns several

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ships that travel all over the world. Antonio’s best friend is Bassanio. Antonio’s situation is that he would do almost anything for Bassanio, but in the beginning of the play, when Bassanio asks for a loan, Antonio is short of cash. Bassanio, who has been frivolous with his money in the past, promises that he has a plan that will allow him to pay back Antonio everything he owes him. Because of his love of his friend, Antonio seems unable to refuse him. Since Antonio has no cash, he does the next best thing, he offers his credit to Bassanio. Whether Bassanio knows it or not, he ends up borrowing money from a man Antonio detests, Shylock. Antonio, who is a proud and confident man when it comes to money, signs a bond authorizing Bassanio to borrow 3,000 ducats (gold coins) from Shylock. The bond with Shylock states that Antonio will owe no interest; but in its place, Antonio must give Shylock a pound of his flesh if he cannot pay the debt back in the stipulated time period. Antonio barely squirms, so sure is he of having triple that amount in three months. He signs the agreement without a shrug. Antonio’s emotions lie elsewhere—not in business dealings. In the first lines of the play, Antonio admits to sadness. It appears that he does not know the reason for this sadness. It is possible, he says, that it is his fate to be melancholy. People around him find no reason for Antonio to be depressed. He is one of the most successful businessmen in the city. If it is not money, then it must be a lack of love or maybe it is too much love. The curious circumstances surrounding Antonio’s melancholy at the beginning of the play have generated some debate among critics. Some commentators interpret the merchant’s sadness as an indication of his inability to reconcile the accumulation of wealth with his Christian faith; others read Antonio’s sorrow as a manifestation of his unconscious homosexual love for Bassanio. In some productions of this play, Antonio appears to be in love with Bassanio, not necessarily in a sexual way, but nonetheless he is very affected by Bassanio. He feels a strong friendship and bond with Antonio. He will do anything for him. Toward the end of the play, Portia questions just how deep that love is between Bassanio and Antonio, and whether it might be threatening to her love affair with Bassanio. There is no specific reason given for Antonio’s sadness, unless one might read into the play that he could sense the

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impending fate that would fall upon him, the threat against his life. Of all the characters in the play, Antonio is the most outspoken in terms of his hatred of Jews. He is disgusted at the thought of Shylock, calls Shylock names, and continually makes prejudicial statements about him. To some degree, due to Antonio’s hatred, audiences might be persuaded to accept, or at least understand, Shylock’s lack of mercy toward the man. Critics generally agree that while the merchant Antonio is generally overshadowed by both Shylock and Portia, he nonetheless remains crucial to the interweaving of the Belmont and Venice plots. Commentators note that while Antonio is depicted as the consummate Christian because of his humility and charity, his treatment of Shylock conforms to conventional attitudes toward Jews rather than the unconditional love advocated in the New Testament. Is Antonio a hypocrite? Or is he a man fashioned by his times? These are some of the questions that are raised by this play in reference to Antonio.

Balthazar Balthazar is one of Portia’s servants. However, when Portia goes to Venice, this is the name she uses when she is disguised as a young lawyer in the courtroom—the young lawyer who eventually saves Antonio’s life.

Bassanio Bassanio is a Venetian gentleman and Antonio’s close friend. He borrows money from Shylock and therefore commits Antonio, who signs the bond, to a loan with a heavy payment should Antonio forfeit payment. Bassanio appears young and irresponsible in the beginning of the play, spending money without much care on meaningless things like parties, and then borrowing more. However, once Bassanio solves the riddle of the caskets by choosing the lead chest and thus winning Portia for his bride, Bassanio seems to take a turn toward maturity. He realizes the heavy cost of his frivolity of the past, putting Antonio’s life on the line, and does his best to try to save his friend. However, Bassanio makes one more mistake when he gives his ring to Balthazar after the trial, failing to live up to his promise to his wife. By the end of the play, however, there appears to be hope that Bassanio has learned his lesson and has matured.


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Shakespeare invented Bassanio by exploiting a popular dramatic convention of the time in which a hero of a play wins the hand of a maiden by solving a perplexing riddle. Because of the significance Bassanio places on Portia’s wealth early in the play, his character has been interpreted in two conflicting ways. Some commentators maintain that Bassanio is a scheming opportunist, drawn only to Portia’s wealth and position. By contrast, others view the character as a portrait of the ideal Elizabethan lover, arguing that Shakespeare’s audience probably considered Bassanio’s actions perfectly acceptable. Women of that time were supposed to offer their husbands a dowry. Bassanio merely follows with the fashion of the day.

Launcelot Gobbo Launcelot was, at one time, Shylock’s servant. He convinces Bassanio to employ him because Shylock does not treat him well. Shakespeare uses Launcelot in this play mostly as comic relief. Launcelot is witty at times, but quickly dismissed when not needed, which is for most of the play.

Gratiano Gratiano is a Venetian gentleman and a companion of Bassanio’s. He is mostly a party boy, and is less practical than Bassanio. He follows Bassanio around, mimicking many of Bassanio’s moves, such as marrying Nerissa, Portia’s handmaiden, in a double wedding with Bassanio and Portia. Gratiano also gives away the ring that Nerissa has given him, thus further mirroring Bassanio. Whereas, at the end, Bassanio seems to have matured, Gratiano ends his appearance on the stage with a crude joke, exhibiting his attachment to—and reluctance to give up—his youth.

Jessica Jessica is Shylock’s daughter. She elopes with Lorenzo, stealing a portion of her father’s wealth for her dowry. She leaves her home without noticeable regret, portraying her father as the enemy. She feels she is saved from her father’s reputation because she has married a Christian, as if this has absolved her from some nonexistent crime, that of being a Jew. Her role is a minor one, used mostly to further deepen the hatred of Shylock that is exposed elsewhere.

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Lorenzo

Prince of Arragon

Lorenzo is Antonio and Bassanio’s friend. He falls in love and elopes with Jessica. His role is used to set up another facet of the relationship between Christians and Jews. His Christianity is seen as a way for Jessica to cleanse her soul from being a Jew, at least that is what Jessica believes. She is saved because she will now become a Christian. This reflects the sentiment in Elizabethan England. Queen Elizabeth I was willing to kill anyone who professed a faith other than that of the Protestant Church of England. People, in that time, were truly saved when they either converted to Christianity or at least pretended to.

A suitor to Portia, he incorrectly selects the silver box during the casket test.

Nerissa Portia’s lady-in-waiting, Nerissa marries Gratiano and later accompanies Portia to Venice disguised as a law clerk Nerissa’s character is not fully developed. She appears to be in this play mostly to help Portia reflect on her thoughts. Nerissa, if she acts on her own, merely mimics what Portia does.

Portia Portia is a rich heiress living in Belmont. She marries Bassanio, who successfully passes the casket test. Determined to help her husband save Antonio from Shylock’s bond, Portia travels to Venice disguised as a lawyer named Balthazar to represent the merchant at the trial. Many commentators assert that Portia is one of Shakespeare’s finest dramatic creations. Highly intelligent and resourceful, she is viewed as a paragon of femininity, with much more complexity of character than the fairy-tale princesses found in the literary sources available to the playwright. Some critics view Portia as an initially disruptive force in the play because, as an unmarried and wealthy young woman, she poses a threat to the male-dominated Elizabethan worldview—her situation is similar to the unmarried Queen Elizabeth I’s problem. This dramatic tension is relieved, however, when Portia conforms to societal conventions through her marriage to Bassanio. On a more symbolic level, Portia represents the influence of Christian mercy and forgiveness. Perhaps the two most notable instances of Portia’s benevolence occur when she attempts to persuade Shylock to have compassion on Antonio during the trial scene, and when she pardons Bassanio for forfeiting her ring.

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Prince of Morocco A suitor to Portia, he incorrectly chooses the golden box during the casket test.

Shylock Shylock is a Jewish moneylender living in Venice. He is also Jessica’s father. He loans Bassanio 3,000 ducats on Antonio’s behalf, stipulating that he will take a pound of Antonio’s flesh if the sum is not repaid on time. Shylock suffers a lot of abuse in this play, representing the treatment of Jews in Venice during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Although Venice was a fairly religious-tolerant city, Jews were still not considered equal to Christian citizens. This play clearly demonstrates the demeaning attitudes toward Jews through the attitudes and actions of Antonio. This is not to say that Shylock is a virtuous man who suffers without any cause. For example, when Jessica runs away, it is unclear if Shylock misses her or merely misses his money. In anger, he also says that he would see his daughter dead. In addition, Shylock does not hide his hatred of Antonio. But despite his poor treatment at Antonio’s hands, it is hard to forgive Shylock for wanting to kill Antonio merely because he was late in paying his loan. Of course, this is not the only reason for his anger. It is merely an excuse for Shylock to get his revenge for the abuse that Antonio has given him in the past. The Merchant of Venice is often considered to be Shylock’s play, for the reading of his character generally influences the interpretation of the drama as a whole. If Shylock is perceived as a comic villain, with all the stock characteristics associated with such a role, then he receives his due in the trial scene, and the work is truly a comedy. However, if Shylock is seen as the hero of the drama, then his humiliation indicates that the work is a tragedy. Both views can be argued based on the ambiguous content of the play. Numerous commentators have discussed the extent to which Shakespeare was influenced by the anti-Semitic sentiment of his day. While it might be true that the playwright began writing his play with the stereotypical Elizabethan conception of a Jewish usurer in mind—a figure that was quite common in drama at that time— Shakespeare created in Shylock a complex and

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memorable figure who defies those conventional attributes and who overshadows the rest of the work. By giving Shylock sympathetic human traits—most notably his feelings of persecution at the hands of the Venetians—Shakespeare raises the question of whether Shylock’s villainous behavior toward Antonio is purely malicious, or whether his actions reflect the desperate attempts of an outsider attempting to secure justice and revenge against the enemies who have wronged him

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that even though Bassanio is virtually penniless because of his extravagant spending prior to marrying Portia, his open desire to marry her for her money—in addition to her charm and beauty— should not be construed by modern readers as the shrewd enterprise of an unscrupulous fortune hunter. In fact, an Elizabethan audience probably would have interpreted Bassanio’s suit of love as an ordinary and perfectly acceptable arrangement. A similar situation occurs when Jessica steals her father’s money before eloping with Lorenzo; in a sense, she is helping herself to her dowry.

Love

Economics Economics is a prime concern in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, and critical perspectives often treat the play as a clash between emerging mercantile sensibilities of the times and religious traditions. During Shakespeare’s era, usury (lending money for interest) grew to be an accepted business practice as profits became increasingly more important than religious principles. Usury was one of the few ways that Jews were allowed to make a living in Elizabethan England. Pressure was mounted on this profession when Christian moneylenders lent funds without charging interest. This made it more difficult for Jewish people to make a profit. The rivalry between Antonio and Shylock, in this play, is often viewed as an example of two conflicting business ethics. Although Shylock represents usury as a pragmatic and legitimate business practice, Antonio embodies a more idealistic perspective of the practice of lending money. Following Christian precepts, merchants were to generously lend their money interest-free because their wealth was such that they could afford to do so. This fundamental economic contention, in addition to the two characters’ religious differences, establishes their enmity toward one another and creates a rivalry that reaches its climax in the trial sequence in act 4. Bassanio’s marriage to Portia demonstrates another economic dimension of the play. Because of rising costs during the Renaissance, aristocrats, in many cases, had to concern themselves with obtaining more wealth to maintain their expected lifestyle, and a generous dowry (from a woman to her future husband) was considered a respectable means of achieving this end. Many critics contend


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Different types of love and rivalry are other important topics in The Merchant of Venice. The suitors who vie for Portia’s hand all represent different types of love. The Princes of Arragon and Morocco—the two unsuccessful petitioners—symbolize a shallow and limited form of love. Arragon, by selecting the silver casket on the basis of its inscription (‘‘Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves’’), in act 2, scene 7, reveals that his concept of love is selfserving and vain. Morocco’s choice of the gold casket indicates that his notion of love is based on superficiality or physicality (‘‘Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire’’). However, when Bassanio correctly identifies the lead casket, he demonstrates a superior understanding of love, as he judges the box on the inner qualities it may possess rather than on its dull, outer appearance. This represents a deeper and more spiritual type of love. The issue of rivalry in love is evident in the association between Antonio, Portia, and Bassanio. Some critics argue that the relationship between Antonio and Bassanio may be a homosexual one, citing the merchant’s unexplained melancholy at the beginning of the play as the result of Portia displacing him as the object of Bassanio’s affection, as well as Antonio’s desire to keep Bassanio happy by continually supplying him with money, despite the consequences. In addition, the two couples—Bassanio and Portia and Jessica and Lorenzo—represent two antithetical kinds of love in this play. Bassanio and Portia demonstrate a socially acceptable courtship; not only do they obey her father’s request that Portia’s suitor successfully pass the casket test, but they also uphold the legal provisions of the test as mandated in the father’s will. Jessica and Lorenzo’s courtship, however, illustrates a romantic love linked to the great

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immediately redressed with legal action. In other words, usury, which supposedly goes against Christian principles, is sanctioned by Venetian civil laws. Hypocrisy is also exposed in the Christian attitude toward Jewish people in the city. Although accepted by the Venetians on an economic level, Shylock and his fellow Jewish families remain outsiders in the city. They are cursed by the Christians, who profess love and acceptance for all mankind.

‘‘Bassanio’s Choice,’’ Act I, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

lovers of myth, particularly in the illicitness of their elopement. Unlike Portia and Bassanio’s union, Jessica and Lorenzo’s defies social traditions because their aspiration to get married causes them to step out of the bounds of the accepted rules of society as well as the rules of the father.

Portia and Belmont represent the ideal, the counterpoint to Venice, by embodying the qualities of an idealistic world that markedly contrasts with the hypocrisy, revenge, and commercial exploitation that dominate affairs in Venice. In essence, Belmont represents a fairy-tale realm where happiness and love flourish and Christian charity and forgiveness are actually upheld. These benevolent qualities manifest themselves in Portia, whose confrontation with Shylock in the courtroom can be interpreted as a direct clash between the retributive justice ordained in the Old Testament (which Shylock represents) and the mercy and charity advocated in the New Testament. Shakespeare provides The Merchant of Venice with a happy ending by emphasizing the love, joy, and forgiveness that thrives in Belmont. Nevertheless, the reader is left with the unsettling impression that hypocrisy and hatred persist just down the road in Venice.

Religious Prejudice Real vs. Ideal Shakespeare’s delicate balancing of the worlds of Venice (the real) and Belmont (the ideal) is another central issue in The Merchant of Venice. On one side is the city of Venice, which reflects a complex reality that includes many different principles but also many contradictions. Venice is supposedly governed by Christian values. However, the Christians are shown to be hypocritical. Christian values advocate charity, mercy, and virtue, and yet Antonio discriminates against Shylock and further denigrates him by ultimately forcing Shylock to renounce Judaism completely and embrace Christianity. In addition, although Christian values support the idea of loaning money without charging interest, Shylock and other Jewish businessmen contribute a mercenary dimension to the affairs of the city, in which lending money for interest is considered a legitimate business practice. Further confirming this practice, breaches of lending contracts are

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Religious prejudices prevail in this drama. From the opening act to the courtroom scene toward the end of this play, debilitating, prejudicial insults are thrown from one character to another. Shylock is the target for many of these hurtful remarks, but he demonstrates that he is also capable of delivering them. Prejudice makes a person see a group of people as stereotypical stick figures, contaminated with negative characteristics. These impressions are based merely on the fact that a group of people may look different, embrace different principles, or act in different manners. A prejudiced person does not consider that individuals in that group might differ from one another. Nor does he or she allow that there is a common core that runs through all human beings—a place where everyone can relate to one another. For example, Shylock confesses in the beginning of this play that he hates Antonio because Antonio is a Christian. Shylock does this in spite

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of the fact that he makes a magnificent speech in act 3, scene 1, in which he attempts to make Christians understand how hurtful prejudice can be. Shylock states that just because he is a Jew does not mean that he is not human. Conversely, Antonio spits on, mocks, and rails against Shylock, because Shylock is a Jew. When Antonio suspects that Shylock is doing something good, such as when Shylock insists on not charging interest on his loan to Antonio, Antonio tells Bassanio, ‘‘This Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind,’’ as if only Christians practice charity. Also, in the courtroom scene, Antonio states that trying to change Shylock’s ‘‘Jewish heart’’ would be as impossible as changing nature.

Mercy and Hypocrisy The concept of mercy comes to a head in the courtroom scene. It begins earlier, once rumors are spread that Antonio might have lost one or more of his ships. As the tension grows toward the date that Antonio’s loan to Shylock is due, the cries for mercy begin to rise among the Christian citizenry. Mercy implies the ability of one person to forgive another, a strong Christian principle that is advocated in many Christian pulpits on Sunday morning. Though this virtue of mercy is often preached, Shakespeare shows that his Christian characters in this play do not always practice it, thus demonstrating their hypocrisy. Shakespeare allows his Christian characters in this play to cry out for mercy when one of their own is in trouble. Portia even increases the value of mercy in her courtroom speech, when she equates mercy to godly power. Mercy, Portia states, ‘‘is an attribute to God himself, / And earthly power doth then show likest God’s / When mercy seasons justice.’’ This is how Portia attempts to get Shylock to show mercy for Antonio and therefore to spare Antonio’s life. However, when it is time for Portia to show mercy on Shylock, what does she do? What does the court do? And especially, what does Antonio do? These are all Christians, the same Christians who asked Shylock for mercy. Though, when it is their turn to practice mercy, they strip Shylock of all his goods and worldly wealth. Antonio amends this verdict and, claiming he is being merciful, says he only wants half of Shylock’s wealth. The other half is to be handed over to the Christian man who stole Shylock’s daughter. To top it all, Antonio also demands that Shylock forsake his religion and


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become that which he hates, a Christian. Had Antonio been on trial, would he have thought it merciful if he had been forced to become a Jew? Shylock, on the other hand, does not see why he is being asked to show mercy. His mind is set on revenge, which he believes he deserves. He also knows that he has done nothing wrong, so he does not have to worry about receiving mercy from the court. It is not until the court turns on him, making him realize that he cannot have his pound of flesh—that he cannot eke out his revenge on Antonio—that Shylock begins to see the power of mercy. He tells the court he will now take the money Bassanio has offered. The court, of course, refuses him. Shakespeare points out the hypocrisy in this fictitious Venetian society. The principle of mercy might be deeply imbedded in the Christian religion but it is not so deeply set in the actions of the people who cry out for it.

Daughter and Father Relationship There are two daughter-and-father relationships in this play. First, there is the heiress of Belmont, Portia, and her relationship with her deceased father. Then, there is the relationship between Jessica and Shylock. Although Portia sounds depressed because she is tied to her vow with her father not to become involved in the selection of her husband, she is a devoted daughter. She honors her father, though she could easily break her vow and technically he could do nothing about it. She respects her father’s integrity, intelligence, and wisdom. She does not, for instance, give Bassanio any hints as to which chest holds her picture, though the thought of his not finding it tears at her heart. She goes against her own instinct, in this case, and puts her future in her father’s hands. On the other end of the spectrum is Jessica, who not only runs away from her father and steals a large sum of his money, she also has little respect for him. She lavishly throws her money away. She gives away a precious family heirloom, having not sentiment attached to it though her father’s memory of the ring is so imbued with emotions. She does not in so many words claim that her father is wrong for his beliefs, but she feels saved having married a Christian and thus rids herself of being Jewish. She exhibits no emotions toward her father except for happiness in getting away from him.

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With a friend or classmate, discuss the similarities and differences between Antonio and Shylock. What traits do they have in common? How do they act differently? How do their beliefs differ? Keep track of the details that you generate. Then, each of you take on one of those characters, remembering the traits about their personalities that you have uncovered. Prepare a speech, in character, as if you were running for president. Present your speeches to your class. Invite them to ask you questions and then, at the end, ask them to guess whether you are playing Antonio or Shylock. The Merchant of Venice is classified as a comedy. What, if anything, did you find funny about this play? Choose a scene or a particular dialogue between two or more characters and act it out with a partner. Do whatever you must to emphasize the humor and record your audience’s reaction. Did you make them laugh?

Shakespeare does not condemn Jessica for her lack of feelings for her father, so the theme is, in some ways, incidental. He uses Jessica’s actions more as a contrast between Jews and Christians than as an example of a daughter’s dislike of a father. Portia, on the other hand, represents an ideal—what an ideal daughter would feel for an ideal father.

STYLE Structure: Comedy or Tragedy? The Merchant of Venice is often listed under the category of Shakespearean comedy. Keep in mind that comedy, in Elizabethan times, did not mean the same thing it does today. If someone were to tell you there was a comedy playing at one of your local movie theatres today, you

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Research the history of the Jewish people. Why have they been discriminated against throughout the centuries? Where were some of the larger populations of Jews located in the Renaissance? How did they come to claim Israel as their home? Write a paper about your findings.

Interview an economics professor. Make sure you choose someone who is familiar with the history of usury. Find out if there are any differences between the interest rates and the policies of the Renaissance period and the twenty-first century in terms of how loans are made. How do interest rates compare to current mortgage loans, for instance. What about the interest rates on credit cards today; are they higher or lower than those charged in the fifteenth and sixteen centuries? Create a chart demonstrating the facts and figures that you have collected and explain it to your class.

would expect to see a movie that makes you laugh a lot. In Shakespeare’s time, a person going to the theatre to see a comedy would expect to see a play about love. A Shakespearean comedy often includes the trials and tribulations of a young man and woman who have fallen in love at first sight and then must contend with a variety of challenges to realize that love. By the end of the play, they are married. In The Merchant of Venice, audiences find these elements in the structure of the play. There are three marriages, actually: Portia and Bassanio; Nerissa and Gratiano; and Jessica and Lorenzo. Bassanio must face the challenge of money and the guessing of the correct casket in order to win the hand of Portia. Lorenzo must secretly steal Jessica from her father’s house at night. Gratiano appears to have little or no challenge, except for winning permission from Bassanio to go to Belmont.

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However, it is the stories of these three couples that makes this play a comedy. Shakespeare appears to mix the elements of comedy and tragedy in this play, therefore leading some critics to classify The Merchant of Venice as a problem play. In other words, it is a combination of tragedy and comedy, and therefore, there is difficulty in placing it completely in one category or the other. Certainly, if you look at this play through the eyes of Shylock, there would be no comedy seen at all. Shylock loses everything by the end of the drama, including his right to maintain his own identity as a Jew. Shakespearean tragedies involve death; and even though there is no actual death in The Merchant of Venice, Shylock tells the court that if they take away everything he has, they might as well kill him. In Shylock’s case, life after the courtroom scene might be more tragic than death.

Divided Setting Reflecting the division that is inherent in this play between comedy and tragedy is the division in the setting between Venice and Belmont. Venice is the place of business, where money is made, lent, and lost; where cultures clash; where fathers and daughters do not get along; and where courts decide who will live and who will die. Venice is the world of challenges, unhappy people, and prejudice. In Venice, Antonio is filled with sadness, though he has much wealth. Likewise Shylock is embittered because his wealth does not earn him respect. The people of Venice, as portrayed in this play, center their lives on money instead of on love. Belmont, the other half of the setting in The Merchant of Venice, represents the opposite of Venice. It is separated from Venice in many ways. Belmont is the fairy-tale city of music and love. Although there is much money there, fortunes are secondary to love. Whereas Venice is portrayed in darker tones, Belmont is light and colorful. People are happy, festive, and generous in Belmont. The play itself is divided in form and themes; so the setting of the two varied places helps to emphasize the double visions of the underlying currents of the play.

Use of the Fable Portia’s father was determined to find a good husband for his loving daughter even after his death. So he set up a challenge, as any good


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fairy-tale father would do. He makes his daughter’s suitors face an interesting puzzle, which they must solve to prove their worth. He does so in a set of three chests, three being a somewhat magical number in most traditional fairy tales. The riddles that are presented are very simple on the surface, but the analyses of these riddles will identify what each suitor contains in the depth of his heart and soul. Will the suitor be fooled by the luster of the gold chest, thus demonstrating his lust for surface beauty? Will he go for the silver, arrogantly believing that he deserves Portia? Or will he rightly choose the leaden chest, as Bassanio does, realizing that true beauty lies within. This part of the play is didactic in the sense that it teaches the audience that, as Shakespeare writes on the note inside the golden casket, ‘‘All that glisters is not gold.’’ Like a fable, the play teaches a lesson.

Plot: Four Separate but Intertwined Stories There are four different stories going on in this play. First there is the most serious one, that of Antonio, Bassanio, and Shylock’s connection with the borrowed money and the bond. This story gives the play its tragic structure. The scenes involved in this story are tense because of the anti-Semitism that is portrayed and because of the threat to Antonio’s loss of money and the threat to his life, as well as Shylock’s losses. Many critics view this as the major plot of the drama. The next story of importance is that of the three caskets. This story has a little tension but it is light-hearted and often quite humorous, especially when the extravagant suitors, Arragon and Morocco, try to decipher the messages and choose the correct casket. This story reflects some of the elements in the bond story in that it involves the glitter of gold and the weight of making decisions. A third story is that of Lorenzo and Jessica’s love, deception, and elopement. This story is used to compare the two daughter’s relationships with their fathers: Jessica and Shylock; and Portia and her deceased father. By Jessica leaving and taking her father’s money, this story adds tension and depth to Shylock’s losses at the trial in the bond story. Finally, this story demonstrates a reconciliation between Jews and Christians that is lacking in the bond story. Finally, as if tacked on to the end of the play to lighten the tension of the courtroom scene,

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there is the story of the rings. Portia and Nerissa trick their husbands, testing their husbands’ loyalty by asking for their rings (while disguised as young male lawyers). Bassanio and Gratiano, indebted to the young lawyers for saving Antonio’s lives, give the rings away. In the final scene, the husbands are shamed and ask forgiveness. They are given a second chance, thus ending the play on a happy note, rather than ending with the trial scene, which would make this play resonate with tragedy.

accused of steeling Christian children at Easter time and using them in bloody rituals. In Elizabethan times, although still banished, some Jews lived in England. If they practiced Judaism, they did so secretly. Outwardly, they tried to conform to Christian ways, even professing conversion to the Christian faith. Even so, Jews were still restricted to two main professions: usury and peddling.

Jewish Ghetto HISTORICAL CONTEXT Jews in England One of the first documented statements of Jews in England was recorded in 1075 in Oxford. At this time, and for another hundred years or so, Jews, unlike their counterparts in other European countries, were not forced to live in a ghetto— especially designated sections of a town or city. Jewish people in England were banned from certain professions, though, with most taking up jobs peddling wares and moneylending. They also could not own land. In the twelfth century, sentiments against Jews were on the rise. The Christian Crusades were in full force and heretics were being burned to death in nearby Spain. Christians called Jews heretics because Jews did not believe that Jesus was the true Messiah. During the twelfth century, Jews suffered through two massive massacres in England, one in 1189 and another in the following year. Things did not improve in the next century. Laws were passed stating that Jewish people could no longer make a living lending money; Jewish families also suffered through having to pay unusually heavy taxes. Then in 1290, King Edward I decreed that Jewish people were a threat to England and banished them from the country. In the sixteenth century, in Shakespeare’s time, most English people would have been familiar with Jewish people not from acquaintance but from the stories told about them, most of which would have been prejudicial. Some of these stories included such false statements as Jewish people were spreading the dreaded Bubonic Plague. Other false beliefs included that Jewish people worshipped the devil and had been granted magical powers because of a pact they made with Satan. Jews were also

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Although there were no Jewish ghettoes in England in Shakespeare’s time, there were ghettoes in Venice. The absence of ghettoes in England were a result of Jewish people having been technically banned from England. Those Jews who did live there were supposedly assimilated into the Christian faith and lived as Christians, scattered throughout the cities’ neighborhoods. Ironically, it is from the Venetians, from a city that was at that time known for its tolerance of different religions, that the word ghetto is derived. Venice was not the first city to create a ghetto for Jews. It was, however, the city that first devised the term ghetto, in 1516, when it established a special section in the northern part of the city. This was not the most pleasant part of the city. It was a place of industry, in particular iron foundries were located there with their polluting exhausts and smells. This was also an isolated part of the city, cut off by water from the main section of Venice. In order to gain access to the city proper, people had to cross one of two bridges. At night, these bridges were barred, forcing the Jewish people who lived in the ghettoes to remain at home until the gates were re-opened. The land area in the Venetian Ghetto was not large enough to house the Jewish population, so homes built in that area tended to have five or more stories, unlike the typical houses in other parts of the cities. As the population continued to expand, additional lands were dedicated to the ghettoes. In 1630, there were about 4000 Jewish people living in the Venetian Ghetto, in what would amount today to about two and a half city squares. When Napoleon took control of Venice in the eighteenth century, he ordered the gates on the bridges to the city to be torn down. Jewish people gained some rights after this but not the right to citizenry.

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Allan Corduner as Tubal and Al Pacino as Shylock in the 2004 film The Merchant of Venice (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

Charging interest on loans was for a long time prohibited by many different religions and declaimed as a poor practice by many philosophers in ancient times. Religions that preached against usury included the Moslem faith and the Christian faith. There was even a precept in Judaism that forbade usury; but it was limited. Jewish people could not charge interest on loans to other Jews. However, they could collect interest from non-Jews. There are passages in the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the Qur’an that speak out against usury.

Authors such as Geoffrey Chaucer (c.1343–1400, the English author and poet who wrote The Canterbury Tales, written over the course of a decade from 1380 to 1390), John Gower (1330–1408, poet and friend of Chaucer, whose most famous work was Lover’s Confession, tales of courtly love written around 1390), as well as Shakespeare, were known for borrowing some of the stories from Gesta Romanorum. It was a very popular book in England over a period of decades, and English authors used the collection to enhance their own tales and dramas. It is believed that originally the stories in the Gesta Romanorum were thought to have been put together for church ministers and priests.

Gesta Romanorum

Italian Renaissance

Usury

The portion of The Merchant of Venice that includes the challenge of the three caskets to win the hand of Portia was taken from a story in the Gesta Romanorum, a collection of short didactic stories, such as fables and anecdotes, originally written in Latin. It has been estimated that the stories in this collection were written either in the late thirteenth or early fourteenth century.


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The Italian Renaissance was a period of time roughly between the fourteenth and seventeenth centuries (although there are arguments for even earlier and later Renaissance movements in other parts of the world) when scholars, philosophers, and other students of history and culture examined the past, evaluated it, took the knowledge they collected, and slowly began to create a new

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1500s: Jews are forced to live inside the walls of a ghetto in Venice. In Berlin, thirty-eight Jews are deemed heretics and are burned at the stake. A Catholic priest, who converts to Judaism, is burned at the stake in Rome. 1800s: Many European countries grant right of citizenship to Jews. Ghettoes in Italy are abolished. However, in Germany, the antiSemitic political party called the German Christian Social Party demands that all German Jews convert to Christianity. Moses Haim Montefiore is the first Jewish person knighted by Britain’s Queen Victoria. Today: A United States senator from Connecticut, Joseph Liebermann, is the first Jewish person to run for the vice presidency of the United States, backed by a major political party (Democrats). Jewish people are forced to evacuate the Gaza Strip as the Israeli government makes an amendment to stop suicide bomber attacks by Palestinians who demand the return of the Gaza Strip to the Palestinian people. 1500s: The Reformation, led by Martin Luther, sweeps across Europe. Queen Eliza-

society based on new scientific and artistic ideas. Often, the Renaissance is used to mark the end of the Middle Ages and the beginning of the modern age in Europe, although the changes happened gradually and the dates of one era beginning and another one ending are rather arbitrary. In Italy, however, approximately during this time span, scientific and artistic discoveries enjoyed new, exciting, and dramatic changes. Some of the earliest of the Renaissance writers in Italy were the poet Dante (1265–1321, known for his poem The Divine Comedy, written somewhere between 1310 and 1314) and the poet Petrarch (1304–1374, known for his series of love poems, written about a woman called Laura,

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beth I demands a unified England, outlawing all religions except for Protestantism, under the Church of England. 1800s: The development of Orthodox Judaism is begun in an attempt to counteract the move toward modernization in the Jewish faith that is spreading across Europe. Today: Radical Muslims engage in gorilla warfare against what some of them refer to as infidels—Christians in the Western world.

1500s: Venetians make fortunes as their city is the greatest shipping port in Europe. Typical cargo ships improved over the Middle Age models and now have as many as four masts with two sails each. 1800s: Using steam for power, and iron to replace wood for the body of cargo ships, the modern shipping industry is born. The time it takes a steamship to cross the Atlantic Ocean is cut in half. Today: Although cargo is still shipped in boats, packages can be delivered around the world overnight via jetliners.

begun somewhere around 1327). Both of these writers’ works would seriously affect authors in other parts of Europe, especially in England, as the changes of the Renaissance swept through Europe. The Elizabethan Age in England is said to represent the height of the Renaissance in England. Authors such as dramatists William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe (1564– 1593, who wrote The Jew of Malta), as well as poet John Milton (1608–74, who is known for his poem ‘‘Paradise Lost’’), and many others wrote enduring works which are still studied today.

Venetian Economy in the Renaissance The city of Venice is built on marshy islands, with many so-called streets actually comprised

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of water canals. Boats and ships were a part of most every Venetian’s life because water was everywhere in the city. Because of its strategic position on the Adriatic Sea, Venice became a major shipping port, controlling most of the trade between Europe and the Far East up until the end of the Renaissance. Shipping was a very important part of the city’s economy, and money flowed into the hands of the many families involved in the trade. In past ages, the money had been controlled by the nobility, whose wealth was invested in the land. With the large shipping industry in Venice, though, the power of money moved into the merchant class. People in the banking industry also gained wealth, as aristocrats began a trend of borrowing money for frivolous things, such as gambling and partying, and then failed to repay their loans. Bankers often took portions of the nobility’s landholdings in payment, thus increasing the bankers’ profits. The business class of merchants grew drastically during the Renaissance. Many merchants invested large amounts of money into the building of great mansions and churches during this time. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries of the Venetian Renaissance are considered the golden age of Venetian wealth.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Maurice Charney, writing in his book All of Shakespeare, begins his chapter on The Merchant of Venice by stating that this is ‘‘an odd sort of comedy.’’ He goes on to say that despite the fact that many critics try to argue that this play is not anti-Semitic, ‘‘it is no good to try to discard the hate that energizes the play.’’ Charney adds that ‘‘Once you admit that The Merchant of Venice is blatantly anti-Semitic, you also have to admit that it has the most sympathetic defense of Jews in all of Shakespeare and probably in all of Renaissance literature.’’ Charney also points out that it is through this play that audiences can see ‘‘Shakespeare’s skill in controlling the sympathies of the audience.’’ Shakespeare does this to provide the audience with multiple points of view of his characters. Norrie Epstein, writing in the book The Friendly Shakespeare, calls The Merchant of Venice a troubling play, for the same reason


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that other critics have come to this conclusion. It is difficult to say, after you have seen it, if it is ‘‘a tragedy or a comedy, a love story or a tale of hate.’’ Epstein’s conclusion, however, is that in the end, ‘‘in its infinite ambiguity, it is quintessential Shakespeare. No sooner have you reached one conclusion about the play than it’s immediately contradicted in the next scene—or line.’’ Despite the fact that Shakespeare’s audiences in Elizabethan times enjoyed coming to the theater and ridiculing stock, stereotypical Jewish characters, as was a routine at that time, Epstein states that ‘‘yet embedded within this caricature there’s a real human being [in Shylock’s character], and every so often Shakespeare lets him out.’’ Shylock shows sadness, and he respects his own culture, Epstein writes. And he displays many other emotions in this play. ‘‘He’s like a survivor of the Great Depression who grows up valuing money more than love.’’ Shakespeare’s talent is demonstrated in that he is able to go beyond his ‘‘age’s prejudices’’ and present ‘‘the world from the alien’s perspective.’’ Like almost everyone else, Andrew Dickson, writing in his The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, found that audiences can view The Merchant of Venice from two different perspectives: Antonio’s and Shylock’s. ‘‘Both sides of the story are there in this brilliant and troubling play, and it’s easy to feel that they’re irreconcilable.’’ But Dickson continues: ‘‘It is impossible to sit on the fence when watching The Merchant, and the issues it raises about religious intolerance and conflict seem more pressing now than ever before.’’ David Daniell, in his essay, ‘‘Shakespeare and the Traditions of Comedy,’’ praises the ambiguities in this play. He writes how various characters can be seen in two different lights: Bassanio as an adventurer or as a ‘‘self-seeking’’ bully; Shylock as a victim or ‘‘as a villainous stage ‘Jew’.’’ Then Daniell states that this is a sign of Shakespeare’s maturity as a writer. ‘‘We are seeing clearly, now, one of the principles of mature Shakespeare, that of indeterminacy. The plays are more open, more patient of interpretation, than is comfortable.’’ In Allan Bloom’s book Shakespeare’s Politics, the author writes that Shakespeare did ‘‘not understand Judaism, for he saw it from the outside.’’ But that was not the point of the play, Bloom contends. Shakespeare was interested in ‘‘man’s attempt to become man and man alone. He was of the conviction that it was of the nature

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of man to have varying opinions about the highest things and that such opinions become invested in doctrine and law and bound up with established interests. When confronted with one another, these opinions must quarrel.’’ And that is what happens between Shylock and Antonio. They were men who believed in different things. They would never understand one another. ‘‘The consequences of this must be either conflict or a bastardization of all that is noble and true in each of the separate points of view.’’ Shakespeare was not willing to smooth the conflict over just to make a few people in his audience happy, Bloom writes.

CRITICISM Anne Crow Crow examines how Shakespeare’s decision to name The Merchant of Venice after a minor character serves to increase attention on the true hero of the play, Portia. Throughout the play, Portia proves herself to be more knowledeable and clever than any of the male characters. Given how Portia dominates the action of the play, Crow contends, ‘‘Shakespeare must surely have intended the title of the play to be ironic.’’ In The Merchant of Venice, Shakespeare has woven together two stories. One is a revenge drama, set in Venice and based on the tensions between two business practices. Antonio represents the Christian merchants, who make their living trading with other nations, running risks posed by storms and pirates. Shylock represents the Jews, a marginalised group, locked into the ‘ghetto’ at night, who, because of restrictions imposed by the ruling Christians, can only make a living by lending money at fixed rates of interest. Antonio’s contempt for Shylock is not just because he is a ‘misbeliever’ (I.iii.103), but also because he is a ‘cut-throat dog’, taking no risks and making profit out of the merchants. The other story is a romantic comedy, set in the fictional world of Belmont, and based on the fairy tale device of a wealthy woman bound by her father’s will to marry the first man to choose the correct casket from gold, silver and lead. The eponymous hero of the play, Antonio, has a relatively small part, appearing in only six scenes and speaking fewer than 200 lines. However, he, or at least a pound of his flesh, is central to the Venetian story once he has contracted to give this

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PORTIA’S STRENGTH IS NOT THE ONLY ATTRIBUTE WHICH MAKES HER A MEMORABLE CHARACTER; SHE IS ALSO REALISTICALLY FLAWED.’’

forfeit if he fails to repay a loan within 3 months. Having signed the bond, the character has nothing more to do except await the return of his ships and then, when they are apparently lost, his fate at the hands of the moneylender. Apart from financing Bassanio with the money he borrowed, he is marginal to the romantic comedy, although he can be blamed for Bassanio giving away a ring which has symbolic significance for the two lovers. So why has Shakespeare named the play after a relatively minor character? Throughout the history of theatre, the part of the villainous Shylock has attracted the best actors of the day, and Portia, the heiress, is arguably the best female part for an actor that Shakespeare ever wrote. The obvious hero of this play is Portia. She is not only central to the romantic comedy, she is also the one who saves Venice from the predicament it finds itself in when its apparently impartial legal system is twisted into an instrument of revenge and used to threaten a barbaric act of cruelty. However, no Shakespearean play features a woman as the sole eponymous heroine; three of his women share the title with their partners, but the men are always named first (for example, Antony and Cleopatra, Romeo and Juliet). The playwright could have sidestepped the issue with another abstract title such as Measure for Measure, but it is much more effective to draw attention to the strong female lead by promoting a minor character as title-bearer. Portia’s strength is not the only attribute which makes her a memorable character; she is also realistically flawed. The audience does not always like her—she makes racist remarks about the Prince of Morocco and leaves Antonio suffering in the courtroom while she enjoys her 15 minutes of fame—but it is always possible to understand and empathise with her. Shakespeare reveals his genius at what Keats called ‘Negative Capability’ as he loses his own

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identity in the portrayal of an intelligent, independent-minded woman trapped in a man’s world. How frustrating it would have been for a woman like Portia that her cousin, Bellario, was able to go to the university at Padua and become a ‘learned doctor’ of law, while she had to stay at home and learn to be a good wife to the man her father chose to inherit his estates. If she had been born a man, she would have been able to follow a profession and exercise her undoubted intelligence. In Portia’s first scene, when she bemoans her fate, Shakespeare captures the exact tones of female conversation as she admits to a ‘hot temper’ and the ‘madness’ of youth (I.ii.16–17) which wants to break out from the constraints imposed on her. She mocks her prospective suitors to her friend Nerissa in an irreverent way. Her chatter, littered with words from the semantic field of law— ‘decree’, ‘counsel’, ‘come into court’, ‘became his surety and sealed under for another’—hints that Portia might dream of becoming a barrister. She soon creates an opportunity for herself to go to Venice and take Bellario’s place when the court judges Shylock’s claim to a pound of Antonio’s flesh. Her cousin risks his reputation so readily in recommending her erudition, ‘the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend’ (IV.i.156–57), that he must surely have helped her to become as knowledgeable as himself. The implication is that they have even planned such an escapade together, because, as soon as he receives her message, he sends books, notes and appropriate clothes without question. It is interesting to compare Portia with another frustrated Shakespearean character, Katherina Minola, in The Taming of the Shrew. Kate has had only a very rudimentary education and therefore has no resources to call on in her angry battle against male oppression. Portia is much more subtle. As Bassanio prepares to choose a casket in the lottery devised by her father, Portia plays the submissive woman to perfection. She pretends to be so much in love with Bassanio that she is flustered and confused: ‘One half of me is yours, the other half yours— / Mine own I would say: but if mine then yours— / And so all yours’ (III.ii.16–18). She continues to act the model daughter and wife, delivering a carefully prepared and formal speech of dedication. She tells him ‘But now I was the lord / Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, / Queen o’er myself’ (III.ii.167–69). The fact that she has to use two masculine forms in ‘lord’ and ‘master’


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‘‘A Plea for Mercy,’’ Act IV, scene I (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

to suggest supremacy but can use the feminine ‘Queen’ is a reminder to the audience that there was a similarly strong, intelligent and independent woman on the throne of England at the time of writing. Elizabeth may have been well pleased to see her sex valued so highly in this play. Portia subjects herself entirely to ‘her lord, her governor, her king’. This is almost a direct echo of Katherina’s final speech in The Taming of the Shrew in which she similarly refers to a husband as ‘thy lord, thy king, thy governor’. In The Merchant of Venice, however, Shakespeare clearly demonstrates that, though a woman may say this, it is probably merely to allay the suspicions of her husband while she follows her own agenda. Portia meekly pretends to be ‘an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised’ (III.ii.159), although the audience heard her reminding Nerissa that she speaks three languages, including Latin. However, Portia creates an escape clause. When she hands Bassanio a ring which symbolises everything she has given him, she reserves the right to ‘exclaim on’ him if he loses it or gives it away. Even as she dedicates herself to her husband, she is planning to trick him into giving the ring away so that she can embarrass him into accepting her dominance.

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Portia sets up the ploy with the ring before she hears about Antonio’s bond, so she is obviously prepared to take whatever opportunity is offered to her. When the letter arrives from Antonio, Bassanio is forced to admit that he deceived her and is, in fact, heavily in debt. Jessica warns that her father, Shylock, ‘would rather have Antonio’s flesh / Than twenty times the value of the sum / That he did owe him’ (III.ii.285–87). Portia plays the naive little rich girl, apparently thinking that, if she throws enough money at Shylock, he will retract his claim, but secretly she is hatching a plan. She humours Bassanio, telling him confidently that everything is going to be fine, and declares that she and Nerissa ‘Will live as maids and widows’ (III.ii.308–09) until their husbands return. The playwright has created a character who is obviously used to hoodwinking her father, playing the obedient daughter to allay his suspicions, and now she smoothly lies to her new lord and master. Perhaps she fears that he would forbid her adventure, or that, just as she could not trust him to choose the right casket, begging him to delay his decision and contemplating teaching him ‘how to choose right,’ she cannot now trust him to keep her secret. It could be that the deceit adds to the excitement, but it seems more likely that we should deduce that she is already planning how to trick Bassanio out of the ring. Two scenes later, the audience is permitted to see through her act as she tells Nerissa of the ‘device’ through which they will see their husbands ‘before they think of us’ (III.iv.58–59). She has planned the adventure with consummate efficiency, presumably perfected through similar tricks played on her father, and demonstrates the ease with which she will adopt the persona of a ‘fine, bragging youth’ (III.iv.69). When she arrives in the courtroom, the audience is in the privileged position of sharing the joke at Bassanio’s expense. Whether Bellario told her about the two ancient laws which had apparently lain dormant for so long that all the Venetians had forgotten about them, or whether she found them herself in the books lent by her cousin, she plays her part most skilfully. On entering, she takes centre stage and controls the action, leading Shylock to believe he has won, the audience and the courtroom to brace themselves for a bloody end to the trial, and taking poor Antonio to the brink of death with chest bared

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and sentence pronounced. At the last second, she says the words which stop Shylock short, ‘Tarry a little’ (IV.i.301), and reveals the existence of those two racist laws which save Antonio. The playwright has written a play in which a woman proves herself conclusively to be more astute, more shrewd and, indeed, more knowledgeable than the men, beating them at their own game. In the final scene, she makes a fool out of her husband through her trickery with the ring and also has the key role of tying up all the loose ends. She basks in the role of Lady Bountiful, giving Antonio news of the safe return of his ships (revealing her extensive network of contacts) and giving Lorenzo and Jessica a deed of gift from Shylock even though Antonio had negotiated it. Once more she takes control of her own inheritance, declaring, in front of Bassanio, ‘I have not yet entered my house’ (V.i.272–73). The Merchant of Venice features not one strong woman but three. Nerissa, having looked after her own financial interests by stipulating that she will only marry Gratiano if Bassanio wins Portia, takes the lead in the final stage of the ring game. Similarly, Jessica provides her own dowry by stealing from her father not one but two caskets of jewels and ducats, and, as Lorenzo tells Gratiano, she devised the plan for their elopement: ‘She hath directed / How I shall take her from her father’s house.’ Shakespeare gives Jessica the speech which proves conclusively that Portia is the hero of the play. Having told Lorenzo that Bassanio does not deserve the lady in whom he finds ‘the joys of heaven here on earth’ (III.v.64), she concludes that ‘the poor rude world / Hath not her fellow’ (III.v.70–71). With such a character dominating the action of the play, central to both the romantic comedy and to the climax of the revenge drama, Shakespeare must surely have intended the title of the play to be ironic. Source: Anne Crow, ‘‘The Poor Rude World Hath Not Her Fellow’: Anne Crow Explores the Possible Irony in the Title of The Merchant of Venice,’’ in The English Review, Vol. 15, No. 2, November 2004, pp. 33–36.

William Leigh Godshalk Godshalk discusses the unity of The Merchant of Venice in terms of the Pound of Flesh story and the Story of the Three Caskets, emphasizing in particular the elements of ‘‘bond’’ and ‘‘choice.’’ According to the critic, the characters are bound

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METAPHORICALLY, FROM THIS BOND BETWEEN ANTONIO AND BASSANIO, THE SOCIAL BONDAGE SPREADS AND GROWS, AND IS EMPHASIZED IN THE PATTERN OF ALLUSIONS TO EATING.’’

to each other and to different courses of action in many ways. Godshalk also examines ‘‘choice’’ as an extension of the ‘‘bond’’ issues, noting that even though the characters are bound by legal constraints, religious vows, and social obligations, they are free to determine into which bonds they enter. The critic concludes with a discussion of the ring scene (Act V, scene i) in which Shakespeare ironically dramatizes the issues of ‘‘choice’’ and ‘‘bond.’’ [Graham Midgley states in his ‘‘The Merchant of Venice: A Reconsideration,’’ Essays in Criticism X (1960)]: ‘‘The problem of The Merchant of Venice has always been its unity, and most critical discussions take this as the centre of their argument, asking what is the relative importance of its two plots and how Shakespeare contrives to interweave them into a unity.’’ The two plots are, of course, the Pound of Flesh Story and the Story of the Three Caskets, and the successful critic must account for Shakespeare’s success in molding the two divergent stories into one whole. The strategy of the present study will be to examine both plots to ascertain their basic elements—what these two stories at bottom involve—and then to show how these elements interpenetrate the play as a whole. The Pound of Flesh Story is found in The Merchant’s Italian source, Il Pecorone, and in outline it is the same in both. In the source and the play, an older man is bound to a Jew so that a younger can obtain enough money to seek an heiress. Shakespeare, however, emphasizes two points not found or emphasized in Ser Giovani’s tale. First, Shylock and Antonio are known to each other, and their relationship as financial enemies seems to be an old one. Their enmity stems from an ideological conflict over the morality of usury. Shylock, if you will, is a capitalist, Antonio a socialist; and both claim religious sanction for their economic positions. Second, the bond is emphasized.


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In the first minutes of his negotiations with Shylock, Bassanio says, ‘‘Antonio shall be bound’’ [I. iii. 4–5]. Throughout the scene, ‘‘bound’’ is used three times and ‘‘bond’’ seven. As Shylock prepares to exit, Antonio assures him, ‘‘I will seal unto this bond’’ [I. iii. 171]. Apparently Shakespeare is at pains to underline the concept of the bond here, and the words ‘‘bound’’ and ‘‘bond’’ echo through the play. Thus, it may be suggested that the Pound of Flesh Story as it is presented in The Merchant embodies two basic ideas: personal relationship (enemy to enemy as well as friend to friend) and bondage. And further, uniting the two ideas, we may see that the story is, at very bottom, about the binding of one man to another, with a consequent limitation on complete freedom of action. ‘‘And Antonio bound.’’ The Caskets are not found in Il Pecorone and may well have been taken from Robinson’s translation of the Gesta Romanorum. Here the Emperor asks a young maiden to prove herself worthy of marrying his son by choosing among three caskets of gold, silver, and lead. The same procedure is, of course, used in The Merchant, where to prove himself worthy of Portia, the lover must make, under the influence of his love, the proper choice. Both in the source story and in the play, ‘choice’ is the basic idea in the Casket Story. If one would have that which one desires, one must choose, and in so choosing, one reveals something of one’s true self. In the two basic stories out of which the play grows, there are, then, two underlying ideas: bondage and choice. The theme of the bond in various manifestations proliferates throughout the play and even penetrates the Story of the Caskets. For the characters are bound to each other and to different courses of action in many ways. Most apparent in the play is the legal bond, the bond that gives Antonio to Shylock. But if Antonio is legally bound to the evil will of Shylock, Portia is also legally bound, bound by the last will and testament of a perceptive and loving father. She may complain that ‘‘the will of a living daughter’’ is ‘‘curb’d by the will of a dead father’’ [I. ii. 24–5], but Nerissa is quick to remind her that her ‘‘father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations’’ [I. ii. 27–8]. Later Portia’s words, that her father ‘‘hedg’d’’ her ‘‘by his wit’’ [II. i. 18], suggest that she acknowledges the protection implicit in

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her bondage. She is protected from her own fancy as well as from external coercion to marry. Portia’s suitors are also bound. She tells Morocco that he must swear before you choose, if you choose wrong Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage. [II. i. 40-2] And they go ‘‘forward to the temple’’ [II. i. 44] so that Morocco may take his oath, and later Arragon takes the same oath [II. ix. 2] before he too comes to make his choice of caskets. In the oaths of the suitors, the legal bond modulates into the religious bond. Again the bondage is formal and the terms are clearly set forth [II. ix. 9–16]. And moreover, the oaths of the suitors adumbrate the self-imposed religious oath of Shylock. He tells Antonio: ‘‘I have sworn an oath, that I will have my bond’’ [III. iii. 5]; and in the trial scene, when Portia asks him to accept ‘‘thrice thy money’’ [IV. i. 227], he replies: ‘‘An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven,— / Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?’’ [IV. i. 228–29]. The juxtaposition and inversion of values is ironic, and the point is that Shylock has bound himself religiously to a course of irreligious action. In contrast, the lovers are bound by their religion in the rites and oaths of marriage. Jessica and Lorenzo are presumably married sometime between their elopement [II. vi] and their arrival in Belmont with Salerio [III. ii]. After choosing the right casket, Bassanio marries Portia. Speaking of herself in the third person, she says to Bassanio: ‘‘her gentle spirit / Commits itself to yours to be directed, / As from her lord, her governor, her king’’ [III. ii. 163–65]. ‘‘Go with me to church, and call me wife’’ [III. i. 303], and Gratiano and Nerissa accompany them. The bonds of marriage are symbolized by the rings which the ladies present to their respective spouses and of which we shall hear more later. For the moment, however, we may marvel how many people in the play are bound by law or by religion. At the same time, it should be realized that the bondage extends in The Merchant beyond the formal limits of oath and legal contract. With Cicero, the Renaissance playgoer would have felt that there are ‘‘the bonds of human society’’, a ‘‘principle which knits together human society and cements our common interests’’ [De Officiis I. 5, 7; Cicero was a first-century B.C. Roman orator, statesman, and philosopher]. The principle

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may be called the bond of humanity, and within the play it assumes many forms. On one level, it is the close bond of friendship between Antonio and Bassanio. In our post-Freudian, sexually-oriented era, this friendship becomes latently homosexual—and possibly in many minds, worse. But rather than invoking Sigmund Freud, we may better look at Sir Thomas Elyot, who, in his Boke Named the Gouernour discusses ‘‘amitie or frendeshyp’’. Elyot feels that ‘‘Sens frendeshyp can not be but in good men, ne may not be without vertue, we may be assured, that therof none euyll may procede, or therwith any euyl thyng may participate’’. Purity or virtue rather than sexual attraction is the keynote of a Renaissance friendship . . . It is because of this spiritual bond of friends that Antonio is willing to bind himself legally to his enemy Shylock for the sake of his friend Bassanio. Bondage begets bondage. Metaphorically, from this bond between Antonio and Bassanio, the social bondage spreads and grows, and is emphasized in the pattern of allusions to eating. When Lorenzo and Gratiano leave Bassanio in the first scene, they promise three times to meet him again at ‘‘dinner-time’’ [I. i. 70, 109, 105]. Trying to gain the financial services of Shylock, Bassanio naturally asks him ‘‘to dine with us’’ [I. iii. 32]. Later, Gratiano promises Bassanio that his friends will be with him ‘‘at supper-time’’ [II. ii. 206]. As Jessica prepares to leave her home, Lorenzo urges her to hurry, for they ‘‘are stay’d for at Bassanio’s feast’’ [II. vi. 48]; and while they are the master and mistress of Belmont, they playfully ‘‘go to dinner’’ [III. v. 86]. Having saved Antonio’s life at the trial, Portia is entreated by Gratiano to give Bassanio and Antonio the pleasure of her ‘‘company at dinner’’ [IV. ii. 8]. To survive, all men must eat, but the pattern seems to suggest more than common necessity. It points to a stronger bond of love and good fellowship—‘‘for we have friends / That purpose merriment’’ [II. ii. 202–03]. On the social level, it is equivalent to the Communion Table. In contrast, Shylock denies the social bond implied in the convivial dinner . . . Answering Bassanio’s request that he eat with the Venetians, Shylock replies: Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into: I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following: but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. [I. iii. 33–8]

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The denial seems absolute, and the linking of eating with praying is perhaps to be taken as an indication of the spiritual separation which Shylock feels. However, his denial is only apparent, for he later tells Jessica: I am bid forth to supper Jessica, . . . I am not bid for love, they flatter me, But yet I’ll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. [II. v. 11, 13–15] Thus Shylock subverts the whole idea of social unity implicit in the supper and introduces the rather grotesque element of cannibalism, which again appears in his assurance to Salerio that Antonio’s flesh ‘‘will feed my revenge’’ [III. i. 54]. In his outrageous hints at eating human flesh, in his disgust at dining with his neighbors, Shylock demonstrates his lack of the essential feeling of unity which ties one man to another. In effect, he refuses to take part in the communal aspect of the social feast; he does not recognize the social bond. And one may well think back to the denial of humanity underlying the cannibalistic feast which ends Titus Andronicus. Nevertheless, in the same scene in which he promises to feed his revenge with a pound of human flesh, Shylock makes what has been interpreted as a meaningful plea to the Christians for the acknowledgement of his common humanity: I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with the same food . . . as a Christian is? . . . if you poison us do we not die? and if you wrong us shall we not revenge? [III. i. 58–67]

Shylock appeals to the bodily feelings and appendages which all normal humans have in common; but his final appeal, unfortunately, is not to a universal bond of mercy or justice, but to a universal inhumanity: revenge. His whole plea for inclusion is vitiated by the final, ironic twist. Through his own will and desire, he excludes himself from the general bond of brotherhood which holds society together. (pp. 89–94) Discussing the bonds of human society, Cicero notes [in Nicholas Grimald’s 1596 translation, Marcvs Tullius Ciceroes Three Bookes of Duties] that the principle which knits us together has ‘‘two parts: Justice is one, in the which is the greatest brightnesse of vertue, whereof good men beare theyr name, and to this is ioyned bountyfulnesse, which same we may tearme eyther gentlenesse, or liberalytye.’’ It may be suggested


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without straining the point unduly that the bonds in The Merchant follow the same dichotomy, though it is restated in basically Christian terms: Justice and Mercy, Law and Charity. The bondage of the play, broadly viewed, falls into these categories. Though the basic intentions are different, the bonds which tie Antonio and Portia to certain agreements are strictly legal. The bonds of marriage and of religious oath seem to form a middle ground in which legality and charity (or, at least, religious emotion) coexist. And finally, there are the extra-legal bonds which hold society together, and these are firmly based on charity. Thus the pattern of bondage embodies the play’s chief thematic dichotomy. Of course, the bonds may be categorized in various ways, and possibly from the most general point of view, they may be seen as the bonds of love and the bonds of hate. Although most of the characters are bound together in what may be called ‘love’, the initial relationship between Antonio and Shylock must be described in different terms. It becomes immediately apparent that hate, dislike, and repugnance are as binding in their way as charity, though the negative bond is ultimately destructive, and must either be dissolved or replaced. One may compare Portia’s initial reaction to her many suitors, or Jessica’s reaction to her father’s manners. Again, this broad categorization of the bonds fits neatly with what E. K. Chambers feels is central in the play. ‘‘The theme of The Merchant of Venice’’, he writes [in his Shakespeare: A Survey], ‘‘ . . . is readily to be formulated as a conflict. It is a conflict in the moral order, between the opposing principles of Love and Hate.’’ Opposition of principles in the moral world presupposes the element of moral choice; for the concept of moral action is closely related to the idea of free will. To be truly moral, one must have the opportunity of being otherwise. Thus, at this point in our discussion of The Merchant, it will be expedient to return to the basic element in the Casket Story: choice. If the characters of the play are bound and their actions are determined by certain legal contracts, religious vows, and social obligations, they are also free, as all moral beings must be, to determine the bonds into which they will enter. It may be objected, of course, that all drama, to have any dramatic force, must be based on the idea that its protagonists have freedom of action, that choice is essential to drama. Without arguing

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against this possible objection, I would like to suggest that in The Merchant the element of choice is emphasized far beyond the point needed to maintain the requisite tension. It is doubly underlined in the Story of the Caskets. Portia introduces the idea rather forcefully, ‘‘O me the word ‘choose’!’’ [I. ii. 22–3], and goes on to explain, in a passage we have examined before, that her choice has been curbed by her father’s will. In turn, Nerissa explains that the suitor ‘‘who chooses’’ her father’s meaning and thus the right casket ‘‘chooses’’ Portia also [I. ii. 30–1]. The word echoes throughout the scene. Later, as the several caskets are revealed to Morocco, Portia commands him: ‘‘Now make your choice’’ [II. vii. 3], and he and Portia discuss how he will know if his choice is correct. When Arragon stands facing the caskets, he notes that the word ‘‘many’’ may suggest ‘‘the fool multitude that choose by show’’ [II. ix. 26], and decides that he ‘‘will not choose what many men desire’’ [II. ix. 31]. After Bassanio arrives, Portia tells him that she could teach him ‘‘How to choose right’’ [III. ii. 11]. But to continue with illustrations at this point is a work of supererogation. By the mere repetition of the words ‘‘choose’’ and ‘‘choice’’, Shakespeare forces the idea on the playgoer’s consciousness. Out of this central myth of choosing, the idea of choice radiates through the play. Presented with Shylock’s alternatives, either signing the note with a pound of flesh as forfeiture or getting no money, Antonio chooses to ‘‘seal unto this bond’’ [I. iii. 171], even though Bassanio is suspicious. More agonizing is the choice of Jessica: Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father’s child! But though I am a daughter to his blood I am not to his manners. [II. iii. 16–19] To end her inner strife, she chooses to elope with Lorenzo, becoming a Christian. Her situation and choice form an effective contrast to Portia’s. Portia, bound by her father’s will, freely chooses to abide by its rules. When Nerissa asks her if she will marry the drunken young German should he choose the correct casket, her answer—‘‘I will do anything Nerissa ere I will be married to a sponge’’ [I. ii. 98–9]—seems to bar the natural solution of refusing to obey her father’s will. Later, drawn by her love of Bassanio to show him the proper choice, she decides that she cannot betray her father’s trust. Jessica,

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given a similar choice between father and lover, chooses Lorenzo. (pp. 94–6) Although we have seen that ‘the bond’ and ‘the choice’ are basic elements in The Merchant, we must now examine how they fit into the play’s larger patterns of action. There is a parallel, we have noted, between Antonio bound to the ‘‘will’’ of Shylock [IV. i. 83] and Portia bound to the will of her father; and from this starting point, we may distinguish two major movements in the play (movements which have some correspondence to the source stories). We may call them the suit of love—Bassanio’s winning of Portia—and the suit of revenge—Shylock’s pursuit of Antonio. Both suits culminate in a trial centering upon a choice which is, indeed, a test of the moral fiber of the chooser. The first movement, the suit of love, is the least complex of the two. The audience watches the wrong choice of Morocco, who, making an equation between human worth and physical wealth, takes the golden casket [II. vii. 59–60]. He is followed by Arragon whose choice is governed by his own price: ‘‘I will not jump with common spirits’’ [II. ix. 32], and he picks silver. Thus by the time Bassanio comes to choose, the playgoer is fully aware of the correct choice, and Bassanio, not ‘‘deceiv’d with ornament’’ [III. ii. 74], makes the proper choice of lead, and by hazarding all (as his friend Antonio has done for him), he gains his heart’s desire. In the realm of love and personal attachment, to gain everything one must hazard just as much. The second movement, which we have called the suit of revenge, and which actually runs concurrently with the first, grows out of the suit of love; for Antonio binds himself to Shylock so that Bassanio may have the necessary wealth to court Portia. And in the end, love dominates and destroys revenge, though the victory is not an easy one. Through a series of mishaps, Antonio’s several fleets do not arrive in Venice, and the bond is forfeit. Shylock thereupon demands that the pound of human flesh be paid, and a day of trial is set. Shylock, it appears, must have his will of Antonio, just as, in a wholly different context, Bassanio has won Portia. The trial scene, at first, seems not to offer a direct parallel, since ostensibly the trial is not of the suitor, Shylock, but of Antonio, and therefore cannot mirror Bassanio’s trial at the choice of caskets. However, if we can take advantage of our knowledge of the outcome, we see that the

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trial of Antonio has, in one way, a foregone conclusion; for Portia is already armed with the quibble that will cause Shylock to break off the suit, and she already knows the forgotten law which will put Shylock in Antonio’s place, in danger of his life. It is not then the trial of Antonio; he readily admits that the bond is forfeit; but it is the trial of Shylock, who is presented by Portia with a series of moral choices. First she comments: Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, Yet in such rule, that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed, [IV. i. 177–79] suggesting that Shylock has complete freedom of will to act as he wishes. After finding that Antonio confesses the bond, however, she insists: ‘‘Then must the Jew be merciful’’ [IV. i. 182]. Mistaking the moral imperative for the physical Shylock asks, ‘‘On what compulsion must I?’’ [IV. i. 183], and Portia launches into her eloquent speech on the quality of mercy. Shylock is given the free choice between Justice and Mercy—with a strong incentive in Portia’s speech to be merciful— and the choice seems quickly and confidently made: ‘‘My deeds upon my head! I crave the law’’ [IV. i. 206]. Nevertheless, Portia does not give up her testing and shifts her examination to different grounds. The next choice Shylock must make is between ‘‘thrice thy money’’ [IV. i. 227] and the pound of flesh. But even material wealth will not divert his suit of revenge, and his choice suggests the quality of the man. Since his choices are not in accord with the play’s scheme of values, he does not gain the object of his desires—which is, rather grotesquely, Antonio’s heart. The latter part of the trial scene gives both Antonio and the Duke of Venice a chance to make the proper choice, and they are merciful. Thus both the suit of love and the suit of revenge follow the pattern of ‘bond’ and ‘choice’. Ironically and comically, both elements are used again at the play’s end. The comedy of rings, which are begged from Bassanio and Gratiano by their disguised wives, runs through the end of Act IV and into Act V, recapitulating and mirroring Antonio’s bondage to Shylock; for the rings, which the husbands swear so faithfully to wear, are the symbols of the marital bond. The point of the comedy lies beneath Antonio’s words to Bassanio: My Lord Bassanio, let him [i.e., Portia as Balthazar] have the ring,


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Let his deservings and my love withal Be valued ’gainst your wife’s commandement. [IV. i. 449–51] In different terms, Bassanio is presented with the same choice as Shylock: shall he follow the spirit of charity or the letter of the law? His choice is doubly hard because the ring is the physical symbol of the bond between Portia and himself, but charity wins, and Gratiano is sent after the disguised Portia with Bassanio’s ring. The comedy of Bassanio’s aside: ‘‘Why I were best to cut my left hand off, / And swear I lost the ring defending it’’ [V. i. 177–78], at the discovery of his ring’s loss sets the tone of the final trial; and the bawdy lightness of the accusation levelled against the recreant husbands by their apparently indignant wives suggests that Portia and Nerissa have interpreted the loss in the proper spirit. The rings are merely physical signs of a bond which is, of necessity, spiritual. Perhaps the suggestion is that all bonds between man and man—or man and woman—are of this nature. But the final binding of the play is Antonio’s: I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which but for him that had your husband’s ring Had quite miscarried. I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. [V. i. 249–53] Portia accepts the new bond and seals her renewed faith by returning Bassanio’s ring. The episode ends in laughter—with Gratiano’s quip concerning Nerissa’s ring—though the words of Antonio fall more seriously on the ear. Once more he binds himself for his friend, with his soul this time, not a pound of flesh, in the balance. The flesh has given way to the spirit, and, though in a higher key, the play ends on the same note upon which it began: ‘I dare be bound again’ [V. i. 251]. (pp. 97–100) Source: William Leigh Godshalk, ‘‘The Merchant of Venice: Bond or Free?,’’ in Patterning in Shakesperean Drama: Essays in Criticism, Mouton, 1973, pp. 87–100.

Frank Kermode Kermode presents a concise overview of The Merchant of Venice, initially examining Shakespeare’s punning of the term ‘‘gentle’’ and discussing the word’s various meanings throughout the play. The critic identifies two readings of ‘‘gentle’’ which have a significant bearing on the drama: the sense of ‘‘gentleness’’ as in civility or an improved nature;

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and the notion of ‘‘Gentile,’’ or Christian, which stands in contrast to Shylock and Judaism. In addition, Kermode asserts that justice is a primary theme of the drama, noting that while the Christians stress mercy, love, and charity, Shylock advocates the letter (rather than the spirit) of the law, hate, and vengeance. The Merchant of Venice, the critic concludes, is about ‘‘judgement, redemption, and mercy; the supersession in human history of the grim four thousand years of unalleviated justice by the era of love and mercy.’’ We are not likely, whether or no we share his high opinion of Shakespeare as a comic writer, to fall into Johnson’s error when he dismissed the reiteration of the word ‘gentle’ in [The Merchant of Venice] as only another example of Shakespeare’s weakness for this ‘fatal Cleopatra’, the pun. ‘Gentleness’ in this play means civility in its old full sense, nature improved; but it also means ‘Gentile’, in the sense of Christian, which amounts, in a way, to the same thing. Here are some of the passages in which it occurs: Hie thee, gentle Jew. The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind. [I. iii. 177–78] If e’er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter’s sake. [II. iv. 33–4] (Jessica is also called ‘gentle’ in l. 19) Now, by my hood, a Gentile [gentle] and no Jew [II. iv. 51] . . . to leave a rich Jew’s service and become The follower of so poor a gentleman [II. ii. 147–48] The Duke urges Shylock to be merciful; asking him not only to loose the forfeiture, But, touch’d with human gentleness and love. Forgive a moiety of the principal . . . We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. [IV. i. 24–33] Other ‘gentle’ objects are Antonio’s ships, and Portia, many times over; and Portia speaks of mercy as a ‘gentle rain’. There is a straightforward contrast between gentleness, the ‘mind of love’, and its opposite, for which Shylock stands. He lends money at interest, which is not only unchristian, but an obvious misdirection of love; Antonio ventures with his

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THERE IS A STRAIGHTFORWARD CONTRAST BETWEEN GENTLENESS, THE ‘MIND OF LOVE’, AND ITS OPPOSITE, FOR WHICH SHYLOCK STANDS.’’

ships, trusts his wealth to the hand of God (and so they are ‘gentle’ ships). It is true that a Jew hath eyes etc.; this does not reduce the difference between man and man, when one is gentle and the other not. To make all this clear, Shakespeare twice inserts the kind of passage he later learned to do without; the kind which tells the audience how to interpret the action. It is normal to cut these scenes in acting texts, but only because these plays are so grossly misunderstood. The first such is the debate on Genesis, xxxi. 37 ff. (Jacob’s device to produce ringstraked, speckled and spotted lambs) which occurs when Antonio first asks for the loan [I. iii. 61 ff.]. The correct interpretation of this passage, as given by Christian commentators on Genesis (see A. Williams, The Common Expositor, 1950), is that Jacob was making a venture (‘A thing not in his power to bring to pass, / but sway’d and fashion’d by the hand of heaven’; compare Faerie Queene, V. iv). But Shylock sees no difference between the breeding of metal and the breeding of sheep—a constant charge against usurers . . . Later, in II. viii, we have a pair of almost Spenserian exampla [examples] to make this point clear. First Solanio describes Shylock’s grief at the loss of daughter and ducats; he cannot distinguish properly between them, or lament the one more than the other. Then Solario describes the parting of Antonio and Bassanio; Antonio urges Bassanio not even to consider money; the loss of Bassanio is serious, but he urges him to be merry and not to think of Shylock’s bond. When love is measured out, confused by the ‘spirit of calculation’ (R. B. Heilman’s phrase in his discussion of the errors of Lear [II. ix. 21]), the result is moral chaos. Bassanio’s visit to Belmont is frankly presented as a venture, like Jason’s for the Golden Fleece; and the theme of gentle venturing is deepened in the scenes of the choice of caskets. The breeding metals, gold and silver, are to be rejected; the good lead requires that the chooser should ‘give and hazard all he hath’ [II. ix. 21].

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Morocco (II. vii) supposes that Portia cannot be got by any casket save the golden one, tacitly confusing her living worth with that of gold, the value of gentleness with that of the best breeding metal. Arragon (II. ix—the intervening scene contains the lamentation of Shylock over his daughter-ducats) rejects gold out of pride only, ironically giving the right reasons for despising the choice of the ‘many’, that they are swayed not by Truth but by Opinion, a mere false appearance of Truth, not Truth itself. (In this sense the Jews are enslaved to Opinion.) He chooses silver because he ‘assumes desert’, another matter from trusting to the hand of God; and his reward is ‘a shadow’s bliss’ [II. ix. 67]. After another scene in which Shylock rejoices over Antonio’s losses and again laments Jessica’s treachery, there follows (III. ii) the central scene of choice, in which Bassanio comes to ‘hazard’ and ‘venture’ for Portia. The point of the little song is certainly that in matters of love the eye is a treacherous agent, and can mistake substance for shadow. Bassanio, rejecting the barren metals which appear to breed, avoids the curse of barrenness on himself (for that is the punishment of failure); and he finds in the leaden casket Portia’s true image. The scroll speaks of the ‘fortune’ which has fallen to him. Portia, in her happiness, speaks of Bassanio’s prize as not rich enough, deploring the poorness of her ‘full sum’; and Gratiano speaks of the forthcoming marriage as the solemnization of ‘the bargain of your faith’ [III. ii. 193]. Bassanio the merchant has ‘won the fleece’ [III. ii. 241]; but at the same moment Antonio has lost his. Bassanio is ‘dear bought’, as Portia says; but Antonio will not have him return for any reason save love: ‘if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter’ [III. ii. 321–22]. At this point the conflict between gentleness (Antonio’s laying down his life for his friend) and a harsh ungentle legalism becomes the main burden of the plot. Shylock demands his bond; this is just, like Angelo’s strict application of the law against fornication in the hard case of Claudio [in Measure for Measure]. It is, in a way, characteristic of Shakespeare’s inspired luck with his themes that Shylock in the old stories will take flesh for money. There is no substantial difference: he lacks the power to distinguish gold, goat’s flesh, man’s flesh, and thinks of Antonio’s body as carrion.


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The difference between this and a ‘gentle’ attitude reflects a greater difference: DUKE: How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none? SHYLOCK: What judgement shall I dread, doing no wrong?

[IV. i. 88–9] There is no need to sentimentalize this; as Shakespeare is careful to show in Measure for Measure the arguments for justice are strong, and in the course of Christian doctrine it is necessarily satisfied before mercy operates . . . Shylock has legally bought his pound of flesh; if he does not get it there is no force in the decrees of Venice’ [IV. i. 102]. But as heavenly mercy is never deserved, it is an adornment of human authority to exercise it with the same grace: . . . earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation. [IV. i. 196–200] But this plea does not work on the stony unregenerate heart; Shylock persists in the demand for justice, and gets it. Like any other human being, he must lose all by such a demand. In offering to meet the demands of strict justice (in accordance with the Old Law) Antonio will pay in blood the price of his friend’s happiness; and it cannot be extravagant to argue that he is here a type of the divine Redeemer, as Shylock is of the unredeemed. Shakespeare’s last act, another ‘thematic’ appendix to the dramatic action, is motivated by the device of the rings. It begins with a most remarkable passage, Lorenzo’s famous ‘praise of music’. In this are treated ‘topics’ which, as James Hutton shows in an extremely important study [‘Some English Poems in Praise of Music’, English Miscellany II (1951)], are all evidently the regular parts of a coherent and familiar theme—so familiar indeed, that Shakespeare permits himself to treat it ‘in a kind of shorthand’. The implications of this ‘theme’ are vast; but behind it lies the notion, very explicit in Milton’s ‘Ode at a Solemn Musick’, of the universal harmony impaired by sin and restored by the Redemption. The lovers, in the restored harmony of Belmont, have a debt to Antonio:

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Norbert Kentrup as Shylock, Mark Rylance as Bassanio, Jack Sheperd as Antonio and Kathryn Pogson as Portia in Act I, scene iii at Shakespeare’s Globe, London, 1998 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. [V. i. 136–37] In such an atmosphere the amorous sufferings of Troilus, Thisbe, Dido and Medea are only shadows of possible disaster [cf. V.i.1–14], like the mechanicals’ play in A Midsummer Night’s Dream; Antonio on his arrival is allowed, by the contretemps [inopportune and embarrassing occurence] of the ring-plot, to affirm once more the nature of his love, standing guarantor for Bassanio in perpetuity, ‘my soul upon the forfeit’ [V. i. 252]. The Merchant of Venice, then, is ‘about’ judgment, redemption and mercy; the supersession in human history of the grim four thousand years of unalleviated justice by the era of love and mercy. It begins with usury and corrupt love; it ends with harmony and perfect love. And all the time it tells its audience that this is its subject; only by a determined effort to avoid the obvious can one mistake the theme of The Merchant of Venice.

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Source: Frank Kermode, ‘‘The Mature Comedies,’’ in Early Shakespeare, edited by John Russell Brown and Bernard Harris, Edward Arnold (Publishers) Ltd., 1961, pp. 211–27.

John W. Draper Draper provides historical background on English Jews and the practice of usury (moneylending for interest) as they existed in Shakespeare’s time to prove that the chief concern of The Merchant of Venice is conflicting economic ideals rather than race or religion. The critic argues that Shylock hates Antonio not only because he lends money interest-free, but also because he denigrates Shylock’s profession and thwarts his business. According to Draper, Shakespeare is merely representative of his age when he idealistically compares Antonio’s Christian business ethic with Shylock’s more rigid and unforgiving value system. This fundamental distinction, the critic concludes, reflects ‘‘the difficult transition from the medieval economic system to modern capitalism’’ which was occurring in Elizabethan England.

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The character portrayal of Shakespeare shows the widest human sympathy, but Shylock is an exception. He is an object of loathing and contempt; he is depicted as unprincipled in business and unfeeling in his home. In the end he pays a terrible penalty, even more severe than does his prototype in Il Pecorone, the probable source of the play, or indeed in any of the other versions of the old folk tale; and no one, not even the kindly Antonio, says a single word in his favor: the dramatist apparently expected his audience to be even more unsympathetic toward Shylock than toward the notorious Richard III, whose overthrow had brought to the throne the glorious House of Tudor. This unwonted saeva indignatio [furious indignation] of Shakespeare is usually attributed to an anti-Semiticism inherited from the Middle Ages and kept alive by the illegal presence of Jews in London and especially aroused at the time by the alleged attempt in 1594 of Lopez, the court physician, to poison the Queen. As a matter of fact, however, the prejudice of the Middle Ages must have been dying out, even in clerical circles, for under Cromwell the Jews were permitted to return; moreover, such few Spaniards of Jewish descent as lived in London had long since been converted to at least outward Catholic conformity, and so were indistinguishable from other Spaniards; ` and the cause ce´lebre [celebrated case] of Lopez, though perhaps the occasion for one or two anti-Jewish plays, is too far removed both from Shakespeare’s character and from his plot to have furnished the chief motive for either. Shylock, the Machiavellian Jew, would seem, indeed, to have been a study not in Elizabethan realism but in Italian local color; for Italy, especially Venice where the Jews were go-betweens in the Turkish trade, had become, since their expulsion from Spain, their chief refuge in Western Europe. Merely as a Jew, therefore, Shylock could hardly call forth the contemptuous abhorrence manifest in the play, for that side of his character was the stuff of exotic romance; and, furthermore, Shakespeare’s one appeal to the sympathy of the audience for Shylock is the latter’s defense of his race and religion: ‘‘Hath not Iew eyes? hath not Iew hands, organs, dementions . . . ?’’ [cf. III. i. 58–60]. The conflict between Shylock and Antonio is not so much a matter of religion but rather of mercantile ideals, as Shylock declares in an aside at the entrance of Antonio:


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NOT ONLY DOES THE MERCHANT OF VENICE REFLECT THE ELIZABETHAN ATTITUDE TOWARD INTEREST, BUT THE DETAILS OF THE PLAY CONSTANTLY REFER TO CURRENT BUSINESS CUSTOMS.’’

I hate him for he is a Christian: But more, for that in low simplicitie He lends out money gratis, and brings downe The rate of usance here with us in Venice. [I. iii. 42–5] The audience is amply informed that Shylock hates Antonio because the latter has called him ‘‘Usurer,’’ and spat upon him, and ‘‘thwarted’’ his ‘‘bargaines’’; and Antonio openly glories in having cast such slurs. Upon the Rialto he has railed at Shylock, not for religion but for usury—as Shylock puts it, ‘‘all for use of that which is mine owne’’ [I. iii. 113]. In the crucial third act, Shylock twice reiterates this theme; and Antonio himself assures the audience: He seekes my life, his reason well I know; I oft deliuered from his forfeitures Many that haue at times made mone to me, Therefore he hates me. [III. i. 21–4] Race and religion, then, are not the main theme of the play; it is rather conflicting economic ideals. In Elizabethan parlance, ‘‘usurer’’ meant anyone who took even the lowest interest on money. Antonio follows the medieval ideal, and, like Chaucer’s Merchant [in The Canterbury Tales], is supposed ‘‘neither to lend nor borrow’’ [cf. I. iii. 61] at interest; and Shylock, like the modern capitalist, makes interest the very basis of his business. Again and again, in Shakespeare, this allusion to usury recurs, and commonly with a fling at its un-Christian ethics and its bitter consequences. It is ‘‘forbidden’’; and the usurer is a simile of shame; the citizens in Coriolanus are outraged that the senators pass ‘‘edicts for usury to support usurers’’ [Coriolonus, I. i. 82]; and Timon is full of attacks upon the system as undermining the Christian virtues and the state. In other Elizabethan dramatists also the usurer is a common object of hatred shading into

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contemptuous ridicule. Partly classical, partly medieval in origin, he is often, like Vice in the old Morality plays, both wicked and comic: Shylock is clearly in this tradition, and follows directly upon Marlowe’s Barabas [in The Jew of Malta] who also combines moneylender and Italianate Jew. The widespread currency of this theme and the intensity of emotion that it aroused suggest that it could not have been purely a dramatic convention, and that it struck closer home to the Elizabethans than a mere medieval tradition or a bit of Venetian local color. Like the miles gloriosus [boastful soldier], the Elizabethan usurer owes something to Latin comedy; but, like Falstaff, Shylock is more than a classical survival: if not a characteristic London type, he at least exemplified an immediate and crying problem, the iniquity of English usurers and the interest that they charged; and this theme in The Merchant of Venice can hardly be the accidental petrified remains of Shakespeare’s ‘‘clerical predecessor,’’ the author of the lost play The Jew; for it is too prominent both in this and in other plays by Shakespeare. Indeed, the question of the moral and the legal justification of interest came close home to every Elizabethan, and was crucial in the transition from feudal society to modern capitalism. The hardships of this transition appear in the ‘‘misery and squalor’’ of the age. Gold was pouring into Europe from America; prices were rising, and merchants grew rich, but classes with fixed incomes suffered intensely. The rural aristocracy, whom political life was drawing to London, could no longer live directly off the produce of their estates, but required ample supplies of ready money, which they had to borrow at an interest inflated by competition with the merchants who could afford to pay exorbitant rates. Even miners, weavers, and other classes of artisans worked on small loans often at ruinous interest. The increasing need for large capital, both in industry and in commerce, required similar large-scale organization of finance; and the devolution of the medieval guilds, begun by the exactions of Henry VII and continued during the sixteenth century, put much of this business into the hands of almost unregulated individuals or of new organizations. The players themselves sometimes had reason to be bitter at the demands of [Rose Theatre manager Philip] Henslowe and others who supplied them with buildings and

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furnishings; and thus both audience and actors had personal motives for hating the usurer . . . Shakespeare . . . took the regular attitude of the 1590’s. Indeed, most revelatory of the dramatist’s point of view are the excuses that Shylock gives for his trade . . . Like the devil, he quotes Scripture to his purpose, though the audience doubtless had by memory more than one text that forbade it. He parodies Aristotle’s attack on usury as if it were an argument in favor [cf. I. iii. 76–90]. He declares that he is unjustly hated ‘‘all for use of that which is mine owne’’ [I. iii. 113]; and anyone would have told him that since a usurer’s goods were got by a sort of theft, they were not his own. Of course, it was this feeling on the part of the audience that justified the treatment of Shylock at the deńouement. He calls Antonio a ‘‘prodigall,’’ though the term is clearly misapplied; for usurers preyed on the youthful heirs of noble families, and so, to the horror of the age, brought ruin on ancient houses. He hates Antonio for reducing the rate of interest ‘‘here with us in Venice’’ [I. iii. 45], and so upholds the extortionate charges of the day. With a callous presumption, he publicly demands ‘‘justice’’ for his compounded iniquities; he calls upon his oath in a ‘‘heaven’’ whose law he flouts; and he claims the support of the Venetian commonwealth, whose well-being his practices were supposed to undermine. To the Elizabethans all this was mordant casuistry; and, by making Shylock himself call up almost every argument against his own way of life, Shakespeare, with keen dramatic irony, implies that not one honest word can be said in his favor. For Shylock the Jew, there is no such rationale of bitterness; and so utter and thorough a philippie [tirade] must surely have been intentional. Not only does The Merchant of Venice reflect the Elizabethan attitude toward interest, but the details of the play constantly refer to current business customs. Such a ‘‘merry bond,’’ signed under pretense of friendliness, was not without precedent in actual fact. Bassanio, to seal the bargain, follows the usual etiquette of asking the lender to dine; and later Shylock actually goes to a feast, like a true usurer, to help use up the borrowed sum and so insure a forfeiture . . . Shylock, moreover, carefully avoids the term ‘‘usury,’’ is insulted at being called a ‘‘usurer,’’ and, with an exquisite delicacy, objects even to having his ‘‘well won thrift’’ [I. iii. 50] described as ‘‘interest’’—though this euphemism was commonly allowed by contemporary

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moneylenders. London usurers—perhaps because they had risen from poverty by extreme penuriousness—were supposed to run their households in a stingy, not to say starvling, expenditure; and Shylock and Gobbo mutually complain of each other in this regard. Usurers regularly wished the forfeiture rather than the repayment of the loan; and in [Thomas] Lodge’s [Lookin-glasse for London and England ], the young gentleman, like Bassanio, offers much more than the nominated sum; but the moneylender, like Shylock, refuses and demands the forfeiture. Contemporary London, therefore, would seem to have supplied both the commercial decorum and the business trickery of Shakespeare’s Venice; and this suggests that the dramatist intended to bring before his audience with immediate realism his economic theme. Even the idealized Antonio reflects Elizabethan London. He ‘‘was wont to lend out money for a Christian curtsie’’ [III. i. 49], according to the highest ethics of the age . . . The comparison of Antonio to a ‘‘royal Merchant’’ suggests England as well as Venice; for the London merchants had grown rich, and in their ‘‘comely entertainment’’ were not to be ‘‘matched by any foreign opposition.’’ Hunter, on Shylock’s word, declared that Antonio condemned interest ‘‘through simplicity,’’ and that, as Shylock says, he was a ‘‘prodigal’’ wasting an ample patrimony [in The Merchant of Venice, ed. H. H. Furness]; but the dramatist clearly expects us to admire his probity rather than condemn his ignorance and waste . . . As a matter of fact, Antonio knew well the exactions of usurers, and realized that if he would accommodate his friend, he must accept hard terms. Elsewhere he appears as a skilful merchant who does not risk his ‘‘whole estate Upon the fortune of this present yeere’’ [I. i. 43–4]; and, like a shrewd man of affairs, he does not seem overanxious early in the play to divulge his business secrets. He is, indeed, the ideal merchant, very much as Othello and Henry V are the ideal of army life; and, just as Shakespeare heightened his effect by contrasting Hotspur and Prince Hal with the poltroonery of Falstaff [in 1 Henry IV ], so, in The Merchant of Venice, he put Shylock and Antonio side by side as comparative studies in business ethics. Shylock the Jew was merely exotic local color; Shylock the usurer was a commentary on London life. The moneylender had been hated for centuries; and, in Shakespeare’s day,


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the difficult transition from the medieval economic system to modern capitalism especially subjected both rich and poor to his exactions. Efforts to find realism in Shylock have generally looked to Venice or the Orient—regions of which Shakespeare knew none too much and the groundlings even less: the crux of the play is nearer home; and it reflects the current uses of commercial life and the current attitude toward them. Nevertheless, The Merchant of Venice is not strictly a problem play like All’s Well, or even mainly one as is Othello, for it is written ex parte [from a one-sided point of view]; to Shakespeare there is but one answer, and so there is no problem; and, moreover, the old stories upon which it is founded dictated a happy ending that forbade the logical conclusion of the theme and kept the play a romantic comedy; but, to the Elizabethans, it had a verve and realism that is lost upon the present reader. Just as the stories of the romances were changed and reinterpreted century by century, so Shakespeare gave timely significance and telling vividness to his borrowed origins; and this intensified reality is perhaps his chief contribution to Elizabethan drama. Usually the matrix from which his play developed was a plot, as in King Lear; sometimes both plot and character, as in Henry V; and, on this matrix, he built a drama that, almost certainly in details of setting and style and often in motivation and theme, shows the immediate impress of his age. Julius Caesar is full of English setting; the background and motives of Desdemona [in Othello] are thoroughly Elizabethan; in Twelfth Night he transplanted an English household and staff of servants to the confines of Illyria; the character of Falstaff is a realistic foil to the romantic wars of chivalry; and, in Merry Wives, even the plot would seem to have been borrowed from common contemporary situations. The Merchant of Venice is a romantic comedy built of old folk material, to which has been added a realistic theme and motivation; and this theme, although Shakespeare has not yet learned to make it entirely implicit in his plot, obviously portrays the downfall of hated usury and the triumph of Christian charity in the person of a princely merchant. Source: John W. Draper, ‘‘Usury in The Merchant of Venice,’’ in Modern Philology, Vol. XXXIII, No. 1, August 1935, pp. 37–47.

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SOURCES Bloom, Allan, with Harry V. Jaffa, ‘‘On Christian and Jew: The Merchant of Venice,’’ in Shakespeare’s Politics, University of Chicago Press, 1964, pp. 13–34. Charney, Maurice, ‘‘The Merchant of Venice,’’ in All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993, pp. 41–9. Daniell, David, ‘‘Shakespeare and the Traditions of Comedy,’’ in The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare Studies, edited by Stanley Wells, Cambridge University Press, reprint, 1997, pp. 101–21. Dickson, Andrew, ‘‘The Merchant of Venice,’’ in The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, Rough Guides, 2005, pp. 217–27. Epstein, Norrie, ‘‘The Merchant of Venice,’’ in The Friendly Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1993, pp. 97–109. Shakespeare, William, The Merchant of Venice, edited by William Lyon Phelps, Yale University Press, 1957.

FURTHER READING Barnet, Sylvan, ed., Twentieth-Century Interpretations of ‘‘The Merchant of Venice’’: A Collection of Critical Essays, Prentice-Hall, 1970. This is a collection of essays by prominent critics writing on various topics concerning Shakespeare’s play. Grebanier, Bernard, The Truth about Shylock, Random House,1962. Grebanier reconstructs Elizabethan attitudes toward Jews and the practice of usury, determining how much this climate of opinion affected

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Shakespeare’s writing of The Merchant of Venice. Grebanier also offers a critical analysis of the play, which he interprets as an allegorical dramatization of the triumph of love and mercy over justice and hate. Gross, Kenneth, Shylock is Shakespeare, University of Chicago Press, 2006 Professor Gross contends that Shylock, one of Shakespeare’s most complex characters is actually Shakespeare himself, revealing himself through his character. Hadfield, Andrew, The English Renaissance, 1500–1620 (Blackwell Guides to Literature), Blackwell Publishing, 2000. Professor Hadfield helps students to understand the times, culture, and literature of the Renaissance, through short biographical sketches of some of England’s best authors of this time period and analyses of their works. Shapiro, James, A Year in the Life of Shakespeare, Harper Perennial, 2006. Shapiro recreates the year 1599, showing how the political and cultural life around him shaped Shakespeare’s work, moving him into a more mature stage as playwright, one that would eventually mark him as one of the greatest writers ever. Tovey, Barbara, ‘‘The Golden Casket: An Interpretation of The Merchant of Venice,’’ in Shakespeare as a Political Thinker, edited by John Alvis and Thomas G. West, Carolina Academic Press, 1981, pp. 215–38. Tovey interprets the play symbolically, arguing that Shakespeare criticizes Christianity through his dramatization of Bassanio’s relationship with Antonio.

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The Merry Wives of Windsor A story that has never been proven states that William Shakespeare wrote The Merry Wives of Windsor in 1597 because Queen Elizabeth I asked him to do so. According to the story, the queen had enjoyed the character Sir John Falstaff in another of Shakespeare’s plays (Henry IV) and wanted to see a play about Falstaff in love. The story goes on that Shakespeare had only fourteen days to write this comedy.

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Whether or not that story is true, The Merry Wives of Windsor is not really about Falstaff in love but rather about Falstaff in trouble. The good knight, who is so full of himself as to believe that any woman he looks at will swoon at his feet and do anything he suggests, fails miserably in this play to seduce two married women. He wants to seduce them not just for the physical pleasure of doing so, but mostly to win their confidence and he then hopes they will open their purses to him. Falstaff may have won a title of nobility, but he is seriously low on cash. The wives he woos are very close friends who readily reveal their secrets to one another. They soon discover Falstaff’s plans, and most of this play involves their schemes to bring Falstaff down. One of those wives, Mistress Ford, is doubly rewarded for her efforts, as she not only humiliates Falstaff, she also brings her own husband down on his knees. Ford is an extremely jealous husband, and his wife teaches him a serious lesson.

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For Shakespeare’s audiences, at the time of Queen Elizabeth I’s reign, the plot and characters would have made this a familiar play. The characters and themes, particularly that of the cuckold (or betrayed) husband, were common in plays of that time, referred to as a citizen comedy. However, Shakespeare does not go along with the established rules of this form of comedy. In his play, although there is a threat of betrayal—that is, if Falstaff gets his wish—Shakespeare turns the theme on its head. That is how he created much of the humor of this play. The local knight does not get his way; and the husbands (and wives) prevail. The play is unusual in reference to the other plays of Shakespeare’s. For example, the language, although filled with purposefully construed comical misinterpretations, is written mostly in prose rather than in a combination of blank verse and sonnet, as are many of his other plays. In addition, Falstaff is not the only character that has been borrowed from another play. Bardolph, Shallow, Pistol, Nym, and Mistress Quickly also come from Shakespeare’s Henry IV. Although The Merry Wives of Windsor has not received as much critical analysis as other Shakespearean plays, it was very popular in its time, maybe not just because it made its audiences laugh but also because it was one of the few plays that felt at home with the Elizabethan patrons. This play remains the only comedy that is completely set in the England of Shakespeare’s time and depicts the family lifestyle of ordinary citizens.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Shakespeare’s comedy The Merry Wives of Windsor begins outside Page’s house in Windsor. Justice Shallow, an old and whiney man, is talking with his cousin Slender and Hugh Evans, a local Welch pastor. Pastor Evans discloses that he has a plan to help Slender win the hand of Page’s daughter, Anne. When Page comes outside to welcome the men into his house for some food, Shallow asks if Falstaff is in the house. Page tells him that Falstaff is there. Shallow states that he will not go in because Falstaff has offended him. Falstaff comes out with his men and boldly confronts Shallow, confessing that he did indeed hunt on Shallow’s land and killed a deer. Falstaff does not apologize or see anything wrong with this. Shallow is beside himself with indignation, so Evans and

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Page attempt to help mitigate the grievance. In the meantime, Slender, a weak and silly man, also confronts Falstaff, accusing Falstaff or his men— Slender is not sure who—of picking his pockets after they got him drunk the night before. Nothing is resolved, but Page asks everyone to come into his house to eat and to forget about these petty grievances. Mistress Ford shows up, and Falstaff pays extra special attention to her, praising her, telling her he wants to get to know her better. When Mistress Page enters, she invites everyone into the house. Everyone but Slender goes into the house. Then Shallow and Evans come back out to get Slender. First they ask him if he could love Anne Page. Slender is very nervous about this idea and says all the wrong things, though the men know that his intentions are well meant. When Anne comes out to get Slender, he becomes even more agitated, making a fool of himself. Page finally comes out and makes everyone go to dinner.

Act 1, Scene 2 Evans gives a letter to Simple, Slender’s servant, and tells him to deliver the letter to Mistress Quickly, who is the town gossip and a friend of Anne’s. Mistress Quickly knows Anne well. The purpose of the letter is to convince Mistress Quickly to help Slender win Anne’s hand.

Act 1, Scene 3 Falstaff and his men are at the Garter Inn. Falstaff is low on money and first makes a deal with Host, the innkeeper, to take on one of Falstaff’s men, Bardolph, in exchange for a cut in the cost of his room. Then Falstaff reveals to Nym and Pistol his plan to have a sexual affair with both Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. He hopes to woo them, then take some of their money. Falstaff has written two letters, and he asks Pistol and Nym to deliver them. They will have nothing to do with Falstaff’s schemes. Falstaff leaves in a huff. Nym tells Pistol that he has a way to get revenge on Falstaff. Nym will go to Page and tell him what Falstaff is up to. Pistol will do the same with Ford.

Act 1, Scene 4 Simple arrives at Dr. Caius’s house. Mistress Quickly greets him. Simple has brought a letter from Parson Evans, asking Mistress Quickly to help him gain the hand of Anne Page for Slender. Dr. Caius, who also wishes to woo Anne, comes home and finds Simple there. When he discovers why Simple has come, he writes a letter, challenging

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Pistol enters with Ford. Pistol is trying to convince Ford that Falstaff has made a proposal to Ford’s wife. Ford is a very jealous man and becomes upset at the news. Meanwhile, Nym tells Page that Falstaff is after his wife, too. Page is very confident in his relationship with his wife and makes a joke of it. He does not believe Nym, thinking that these men were fired by Falstaff and now want to do Falstaff harm. Ford, on the other hand, is mean toward his wife, believing that she is up to something. Shallow and Host tell Ford and Page that there is to be a duel between Dr. Caius and Evans. Shallow asks that Page act as witness. Ford takes Host to the side and tells him that he is going to pay a little joke on Falstaff and asks Host to introduce him as Brook, when he comes to the inn. In another aside, Ford calls Page a fool for trusting his wife. He, on the other hand, will get to the bottom of it.

Illustration of Sir John Falstaff and Mistress Ford in Act III, scene iii, by Hugh Thompson, 1910 (Ó Blue Lantern Studio/Corbis)

Evans to a duel for trying to interfere with Dr. Caius’s attempts to win Anne. He wants Anne because he believes he deserves her. Dr. Caius is rather pompous. He rules his house through loud and demanding commands. His workers are afraid of him. Dr. Caius leaves and Fenton appears at a side window. Mistress Quickly goes to greet him. Fenton, of the three suitors of Anne, is the one who is genuinely in love with her. Mistress Quickly tells Fenton that she is working on making a success of Fenton gaining Anne’s hand. After Fenton leaves, Mistress Quickly, in an aside to the audience, states that Anne does not love Fenton. Mistress Quickly does not say whom Anne loves, but she does say that only she knows the mind of Anne.

Act 2, Scene 1 Mistress Page reads the letter from Falstaff, in which he proposes that they meet for an affair. Upon finishing, Mistress Ford appears. The women compare letters and find that Falstaff has written exactly the same letters, word for word, to both women. They make fun of his fat size and his opinion of them. Then they decide to seek their revenge. They leave to conceive of a plot.


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Act 2, Scene 2 Mistress Quickly comes to see Falstaff at the inn. She tells him that Mistress Ford sends a message that her husband will not be at home between ten and eleven, and she wishes him to visit her. Mistress Quickly also tells Falstaff that Mistress Page is also flattered by his letter; but her husband does not plan to be away, so she is sorry that they cannot meet. However, she hopes that a time will come in the future. Falstaff is impressed with his abilities to capture these women. He tells Mistress Quickly he will be at Mistress Ford’s place at the recommended time. Mistress Quickly leaves and Ford (disguised as Brook) enters. He makes a deal with Falstaff, offering him money to seduce Mistress Ford. The reason behind this, as Brook/Ford tells Falstaff, is that he wants to seduce Mistress Ford too. But so far, she will not give in to him. Brook/Ford flatters Falstaff, telling him how great his reputation with women is. If Falstaff uses his skills on Mistress Ford and wins, then Brook/Ford contends that his task will be that much easier. Before Brook/Ford leaves, Falstaff tells him that as coincidence will have it, he has been invited to the Ford home by Mistress Ford herself. Falstaff will be there, he tells Brook/Ford, between ten and eleven o’clock. Brook/Ford leaves partly excited because he has fooled Falstaff and partly disgusted that he is about to prove that his wife is unfaithful.

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Act 2, Scene 3 Dr. Caius waits in a field for Evans to show up for the duel. Host, Shallow, Slender, and Page appear. Shallow tries to argue that it is a shame for Caius and Evans to be fighting. Caius is a doctor, a mender of bodies, and Evans is a mender of souls. Host, in the meantime, makes fun of Caius, using English words that the French doctor does not understand. While Host is actually insulting Caius, Host tells the doctor that he is flattering him.

Act 3, Scene 1 Evans is in another field, waiting for Caius to appear. Simple has gotten the directions mixed up and has taken Evans to the wrong field. Caius eventually appears with Page, Host, Shallow, and Slender. Evans and Caius start to fight but the men break them up. They start to fight again but in the midst of it they talk to one another, suspecting that Host has set up this duel just so he can make the doctor and the pastor look like fools. Caius and Evans stop fighting. After everyone leaves, they decide to get revenge on Host.

Act 3, Scene 2 Ford bumps into Mistress Page on the street. When she tells him that she is on her way to his house to meet with his wife, Ford quietly scorns Page for being such a fool as to trust his wife, who is on her way to meet Falstaff at Ford’s house. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Evans, Caius, and Caius’s servant Rugby. Ford explains that he is supporting Slender’s attempt to win his daughter; but he says that his wife is promoting Dr. Caius. Host asks about Fenton. Host suggests that he thinks Fenton is the better match. Page is very much against it. Ford asks that some of the men come home with him to dinner. He tells them that besides eating, he will show them some excitement. He promises them ‘‘a monster.’’

Act 3, Scene 3 At Ford’s house, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford set up their plan to fool Falstaff. They have a large basket of dirty clothes sitting in the living room and have told two servants what to do with it when they call. Robin, the young boy page of Falstaff’s arrives to tell the women that Falstaff is almost at the door. Robin has been brought into the wives’ secret. The young boy is tricking his master and has not divulged that Mistress Page is there at the house.

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Falstaff appears and woos Mistress Ford, telling her that he loves her and her alone. He wishes her husband dead. He will make her a lady of the court. Suddenly Robin, the young boy, rushes in, telling them that Mistress Page is running toward the house. Falstaff hides behind a curtain, while Mistress Page tells Mistress Ford that her husband is coming this way, with several men with him. Ford has heard that Mistress Ford may be having an affair with a gentleman and is on his way home to check. The wives made up this story beforehand to fool Falstaff. They did not know that Ford really was on his way home to catch his cheating wife. Mistress Page comes up with the idea of stuffing Falstaff in the laundry basket. Two servants appear and carry Falstaff out of the house while inside the basket. Just then Ford, Page, and the other men appear. Ford asks what is in the basket. The wives say it is only laundry, and Ford allows the servants carrying the basket to pass by. Then he and the other men go through a mad search of the house. Ford is crazy to find Falstaff. The other men just go along with him, only half believing they will find anyone. They know how jealous Ford is and believe his jealousy has gotten the better of him. The wives scheme to set up Falstaff again. While their husbands are hunting in the morning, they will invite Falstaff to the house again.

Act 3, Scene 4 Anne is with Fenton. Fenton professes his love for her, although he is not sure how he will win favor with her father. Anne presses him to continue to try. Then Shallow and Slender appear with Mistress Quickly. Mistress Quickly pulls Fenton to the side while Anne meets with Shallow and Slender. Shallow has to do most of the talking for Slender, who is all tongue-tied. Anne tells Shallow to allow Slender to woo for himself. But when Slender is alone with Anne, he is even worse. Anne’s father appears and greets Slender wholeheartedly. When Page sees Fenton, he becomes angry and wants to know what Fenton is doing there. He tells Fenton to stay away from his daughter and he leaves, taking Shallow and Slender with him. Mistress Quickly tells Fenton to appeal to Mistress Page, who is sitting with Anne. Fenton asks Mistress Page to accept him. She tells him that she will neither accept him nor deny him. She needs to talk to Anne about whom she loves

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and then may consider him. Fenton leaves a ring with Mistress Quickly and tells her to give it to Anne. Mistress Quickly then leaves to meet with Falstaff.

Act 3, Scene 5 Ford, again disguised as Brook, is with Falstaff at the inn. Falstaff is telling Brook/Ford what happened with Mistress Ford. He says that in the middle of kissing her, Mistress Page arrives telling Mistress Ford that her husband is coming. Falstaff says he was there when the husband arrived, but the wives hid him in a laundry basket and he was carried out of the house. Brook/ Ford can hardly stand what he is hearing. He sees how he was fooled. Falstaff goes on and on about how much he has suffered, having been dumped out of the laundry basket by the servant men into the river. Brook/Ford then asks if Falstaff will have nothing more to do with Mistress Ford. Falstaff answers that he will visit her one more time, that morning, while her husband is hunting. Falstaff leaves. Ford cannot contain himself. He will not be fooled again, he claims. He will catch Falstaff in his house with his wife if it is the last thing he will do.

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Falstaff is so portly, he will look like a maid that Ford hates and swears is a witch. Falstaff goes upstairs while Mistress Page tells Mistress Ford that her husband really is on his way and really knows about Falstaff having been hidden in the basket. Mistress Ford decides to trick her husband by having her servants standing at the door with the basket again, so her husband will think Falstaff is in it. Ford enters his house and is crazed when he sees the men with the basket. He opens it up to find it empty. Then Mistress Ford asks the old woman (who is Falstaff in disguise) to come downstairs to leave. Ford cannot stand the sight of her and chases her around the house, beating her with a stick. Falstaff, in disguise, finally leaves. Ford leads the other men around the house, still searching for Falstaff. The wives decide to confess what has happened, in the hopes that men will work with them in a public disgrace of Falstaff.

Act 4, Scene 3 At the Garter Inn, Bardolph, Falstaff’s manservant, is with Host. Bardolph tells Host that there are Germans with the duke who are in need of three of Host’s horses. This is part of a scheme that Evans and Dr. Caius have created to get revenge on Host.

This scene opens in the street, with Mistress Quickly, Mistress Page, and her son William. Evans, who is also the schoolteacher, passes by. Mistress Page says that her husband believes William has not been studying hard enough. Mistress Page asks Evans to quiz her son. Evans asks the boys for declensions of several Latin verbs. Mistress Quickly, who is uneducated, thinks the words have sexual undertones and is shocked that a child is learning such words. Evans, in his Welsh accent, makes the words hard to understand. This scene does not fit into the plot of the story and is used as a comedy routine to entertain the audience.

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At Ford’s house, Falstaff is wooing Mistress Ford again. Mistress Page bursts in and Falstaff tries to hide. Mistress Page tells Mistress Ford that her husband is coming with a group of men again and that he knows how Falstaff escaped last time in a basket. Mistress Ford confesses that Falstaff is there and the women suggest that he hide in the basket again, but Falstaff refuses. Instead, they decide to disguise him as a woman. Because

Mistress Quickly arrives to tell Falstaff that both Mistress Page and Mistress Ford would like


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At Ford’s house, the wives have shown their husbands the letters that Falstaff sent them that began this caper. The men are drawn into the plot of publicly disgracing Falstaff. Ford apologizes to his wife and swears he will never be jealous again. Everyone works on the plot, using an old superstition about fairies. In the meanwhile, Page turns to Evans and says that he will, on the night they trick Falstaff, steal Anne away with Slender and have them married. On the other side of the room, Mistress Page schemes to have Anne steal away with Dr. Caius.

At the Garter Inn, Bardolph enters to tell Host the Germans have run off with his horses. Evans arrives and tells Host to be aware of some Germans who have stolen from other people in other towns. Then Dr. Caius arrives and tells Host that there is no such duke. This is the revenge they have been planning.

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to meet with him one more time. They depart to Falstaff’s room so that Mistress Quickly can divulge the wives’ plan.

Act 4, Scene 6 Fenton arrives and asks Host to help him to marry Anne. Ford has told Anne to wear a white dress and leave the fairy plot to marry Slender. Mistress Ford has told Anne to wear a green dress and leave to marry Dr. Caius. Fenton wants Host to provide a minister so he and Anne can be married. Fenton promises Host money if he can do this for him.

Act 5, Scene 1 Mistress Quickly convinces Falstaff to meet both women in the park that night. Falstaff believes there might be magic in the number three and agrees to meet the women one more time. Ford as Brook, again, appears and Falstaff says he will tell him about all the strange things that have happened. Falstaff says that he will have his revenge tonight.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS In 1982, The British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) produced a televised version of Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor. Stealing the most attention in this adaptation was the actor Ben Kingsley, who created a very comical, if not pathetic, portrayal of the jealous husband Ford. Kingsley’s performance alone is well worth the effort of seeing this film, which is now available on DVD. The Italian composer Giuseppe Verdi’s last opera, Falstaff (1893), was based on The Merry Wives of Windsor. A slightly later operatic adaptation was created by English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams, called Sir John in Love (1929).

Act 5, Scene 2 At the Windsor Park at night, Page, Shallow, and Slender enter in costumes, with children dressed as fairies. Slender confirms that Anne told him that he is to look for her dressed in a white dress. They will greet one another with a password, and then they will go off to be married.

Act 5, Scene 3 Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Dr. Caius enter next. Mistress Page tells the doctor to look for Anne in a green dress. Dr. Caius is happy and leaves. The wives prepare to meet Falstaff for their final stage of revenge on him.

Act 5, Scene 4 Evans, dressed in costume, enters with more children in fairy costumes.

Act 5, Scene 5 Falstaff enters, disguised as Herne (the focus of an old story, a great hunter and keeper of the Forest of Windsor), with large horns on his head. Mistresses Page and Ford arrive but soon hear a noise and are frightened away. Evans and Mistress Quickly, along with a group of children, appear. Falstaff falls onto the ground, covering his face. Mistress Quickly talks of magic and fairies. Evans says he smells a man, and Mistress Quickly tries to burn him while she

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sets the children to pinching him, testing to see if he is honest. Finally, everyone comes forward. Ford tells Falstaff that he was Brook. The wives let him know that they had played with him all along. Falstaff realizes that he has been made the fool. Slender comes running into the group; he has by the hand, a costumed youth, dressed in a white dress. He has been tricked. It is a young boy under the dress, where it should have been Anne. Then Dr. Caius comes running with another youth in hand, one dressed in a green costume. It is another young boy, not Anne. Finally Fenton and Anne come forth and confess that they have been married. Their parents are angry but Fenton says that they should be ashamed of themselves for trying to marry Anne to someone she does not love. Then everyone, including Falstaff, is invited to a feast at Page’s house. The play ends with a statement by Ford, who says that Brook shall finally have his wish, ‘‘For Brook this night, shall lie with Mistress Ford.’’

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CHARACTERS Bardolph Bardolph is one of Falstaff’s men. His is a minor role, often found waiting on Falstaff rather than taking part in the action of the play. In the beginning of the play, when Falstaff admits that he is short of cash, he asks Host to take the service of Bardolph in exchange for Falstaff’s room and board. Bardolph is one of the borrowed characters that Shakespeare took from his play Henry IV.

Brook Brook (sometimes spelled Brooke) is the disguise that Ford makes for himself when he meets with Falstaff at the Garter Inn. Ford takes on this alterpersona so that he can make a deal with Falstaff. He asks Falstaff to seduce Mistress Ford, so that she will then have broken her vows to be faithful to her husband, an excuse she has allegedly used to avoid having an affair with Brook. Once Mistress Ford has given herself to Falstaff, however, Brook tells Falstaff, it will be easier for him to also seduce her. Brook claims he loves Mistress Ford. It is through this gimmick that Ford hopes to prove that his wife is cheating on him.

Dr. Caius Dr. Caius is a local doctor. He is French and speaks with a thick accent. He also misuses some English words. Because of this, he is often made fun of. Dr. Caius wants to marry Anne Page, not necessarily out of love but rather as one might run a race to win a trophy. Caius believes he deserves Anne. Caius is Mistress Page’s choice for Anne to marry, presumably for the position that Caius holds in the community. As an outsider, Caius relates to Evans, the Welsh parson. They put their heads together and come to realize that the local people mock them; and so they work together to seek revenge, particularly on Host, who at one time sets Caius and Evans up in a duel against one another. Caius is used to show the sentiments, in Shakespeare’s time, against foreigners. He also represents an older form of suitor, one who can promise money but not necessarily love.

Sir Hugh Evans Evans is a Welsh parson. He helps to open the play with Shadow and Slender, who are scheming on how to win Anne’s hand for Slender. Evans eventually befriends Dr. Caius, the other outsider in this play. Together they scheme to


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get revenge on Host, who often mocks them. Evans is used as comic relief in the first scene of act 4, when he tests Mistress Page’s young son, William, in Latin. Evans mispronounces words and some of his logic is faulty—things that modern audiences might have missed but would have proven funny for Shakespeare’s audiences.

Sir John Falstaff Falstaff is a borrowed knight from Shakespeare’s earlier play Henry IV. He is fat, conceited, and very sure of himself. He believes women will fall for him if he pays attention to them, which he does not just to seduce them but also to steal some of their money. He is married, but no mention of his wife is made in the play. He pursues married women because they are the controllers of their husbands’ finances, or at least this is what Falstaff believes. Falstaff may have a haughty title but he is all but destitute. His men steal, and share their bounty with him. He hunts in other people’s woods and steals their sources of food. He is eloquent, especially in the art of wooing, but he is also rather naı¨ ve when it comes to women. Because he believes himself to be smarter than women, he does not suspect the wives in this play are capable of uncovering his plot. In Shakespeare’s time, country wives were often seduced by gentlemen of noble rank, so Falstaff’s ideas are not very creative. What is new in this play is the cleverness of the women to unmask Falstaff for what he is—a conniving womanizer and a thief. Page is the only person in this play who seems to enjoy Falstaff, or at least to forgive Falstaff for his weaknesses. Page invites Falstaff to dinner several times, even after Page discovers that Falstaff has been trying to take his wife to bed. In the end, Falstaff is forced to face his errors as the people in the community publicly humiliate him. Falstaff never apologizes, but he does say, ‘‘I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.’’ However, in one of his last lines in the play, he is still very pompous, as he ridicules Evans’s Welsh accent, referring to Evans’s speech as ‘‘one that makes fritters of English.’’ It is bad enough that Falstaff has been the center of a public ridicule, but according to Falstaff, having to take insults from Evans was the worst part of it.

Fenton Fenton is a noble gentleman, mistrusted by Page to be a proper suitor for his daughter. There were a

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Brewster Mason as Sir John Falstaff, Richard Moore as Master Ford, Ben Kingsley as Slender, Tim Wylton as Bardolph and Emrys James as Evans in Act I, scene I at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1975 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

lot of noblemen in Shakespeare’s time that owned titles and land but had little cash. Even Fenton admits to Anne that the idea of marrying her was at first determined because he knew her father had wealth. However, Fenton tells Anne that after he came to know her, he fell in love with her. Fenton represents a more modern look at love and marriage, at least for Shakespeare’s time, when marrying for love was not a common practice. Fenton and Anne, in disobeying her parents, tricking the other suitors, and finding a minister who would marry them in secret, display strength for theatre-goers in the Elizabethan era. Anne could have been disowned by her father, and then the couple would have no money to sustain them. Their love, however, was so strong they were willing to take the chance. Anne admits her love for Fenton, and at the end of they play, they do marry.

Ford Ford is a very well-off country man, one of the prime characters of this play, and the very

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jealous husband of Mistress Ford. He appears to be a fool, as jealousy jerks him around by the nose; he loves his wife one minute and curses her the next for his perceived notions that she is cheating on him. Although Mistress Ford sets up her scheme of trickery to catch Falstaff in her net, she soon realizes that she can also bring her own husband to his knees. The harder Ford tries to catch his wife under the seductive spell of Falstaff, the sillier he looks. He disguises himself as Brook and offers Falstaff money to woo Ford’s wife. In this way, Ford will know when Falstaff is with her and will be able to expose them, or at least this is what Ford believes. But his jealousy blinds him. When he has the chance to uncover Falstaff’s plan, he ignores blatant clues that are set before him. Toward the end of the play, Ford admits his foolishness and begs forgiveness. His wife, who truly loves him in spite of his crazy jealousy, takes him into her arms. When Ford confronts Falstaff at the end, he claims victory over him

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when he states that Brook (Ford’s disguise) has won Mistress Ford and will spend the night with her. This is a sign that Ford has healed. He admits his mistakes and then pokes fun at himself.

Mistress Ford Mistress Ford is one of the merry wives and a prime character of this play. She is married to Ford, the jealous husband. She is a close friend of Mistress Page’s, who confides in her that she has received an almost perfect duplication of the letter Mistress Ford was given from Falstaff. Mistress Ford has a delightful sense of humor when it comes to Falstaff. Instead of being disgusted by his advances, she makes fun of his gestures and then schemes with Mistress Page to ridicule the knight. Mistress Ford, although hurt by her husband’s jealousy, is willing to accept him after he learns his lesson and apologizes to her, demonstrating not only a clever wit but an open heart. She is confident in herself, able to lure Falstaff into her web and is undistracted by the chances she takes to make a fool of her husband and his jealous antics.

Host Host runs the Garter Inn, where Falstaff stays during the play. He is a secondary character, involved in the subplot of mocking Evans and Dr. Caius. He is the victim in Evans’s and Caius’s scheme of stealing Host’s horses. Host also takes on Bardolph, one of Falstaff’s men, in exchange for Falstaff’s room and board. In the end, Host is all but bankrupt. However, Fenton offers him money to help Fenton wed Anne.

Nym Nym is one of Falstaff’s men, a minor character in this play. He is involved in some of the thievery that exists around Falstaff, such as stealing pocket money from one character or another and sharing it with Falstaff. However, Nym will not become involved in Falstaff’s scheme to woo the wives of Page and Ford. Instead, Nym goes to the husbands and tells them of Falstaff’s plans.

Page Page is a country gentleman, living comfortably well. He is one of the main characters, the husband of Mistress Page, and the father of Anne and William. In comparison to Ford, Page is an ideal husband. He scoffs at Falstaff’s men when


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they tell him that Falstaff is scheming to seduce his wife. Page has complete faith in his wife’s love and completely trusts her. Page is a very forgiving man and a peacemaker. When other villagers complain of Falstaff’s manners and lack of virtue, Page invites everyone to forget their petty grievances and come to dinner. Even at the end of the play, when Falstaff’s plans of seduction are exposed, Page invites the old knight to join them in a feast. Page also forgives his daughter and Fenton, her new husband, although he was totally against their marriage. Page did not trust Fenton because he suspected the nobleman was marrying his daughter for Page’s money. His anger is quieted rather quickly, though, and the play ends with Page not only forgiving Fenton and his daughter but asking everyone else to pardon any offenses that were incurred throughout the course of this make-believe expanse of time

Anne Page Anne is the young girl of marriage age who has three suitors in this play. Although she does not appear often on stage, she is the center of the largest subplot. Three men, one of them a simple fool, the other an old arrogant man, and the third a gentle nobleman, all vie for her hand. Anne is bored with the fool and repulsed by the old arrogant man. Her heart is saved for the nobleman. She pleads with her father to accept her choice, but her father does not like him. Anne turns to her mother, who refuses to hear her pleas of love. Anne decides that the only way to true happiness is to trust her own instincts. So she tricks her parents and the two suitors and marries Fenton at the end of the play. Anne represents an emerging model of womanhood in Shakespeare’s time, a woman with a voice of her own and the courage to stand up to her parents and to tradition.

Mistress Page Mistress Page is the other merry wife in this play, married to Page and mother to Anne and William. She is very comfortable in her marriage and confident in her love of her husband. She is also a very close friend of Mistress Ford’s and feels sorry for her because of Mistress Ford’s jealous husband. She comforts Mistress Ford when Ford belittles his wife and mistrusts her. Mistress Page receives a letter from Falstaff, a duplicate of the one that Mistress Ford shows her. She laughs at Falstaff’s arrogance and then immediately works on a plot

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for revenge. Mistress Page pretends to not know of Falstaff’s wooing Mistress Ford and walks in on them, warning Mistress Ford that her husband is coming home. Falstaff falls for this scheme twice, which amuses both Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. Their merriment culminates when Ford beats Falstaff while Falstaff is disguised in woman’s clothing, a befitting conclusion to the trouble he tried to make for the wives. Although witty and charming, Mistress Page is very controlling in relationship to her daughter’s future. She wants her daughter to marry Dr. Caius and does not listen to her daughter’s confession of love for Fenton. Mistress Page schemes against her husband, trying to trick him when his back is turned, and tries to marry Anne to Dr. Caius in secret. However, her daughter, who must have inherited her mother’s wittiness and ability to scheme, runs off with her own heart’s choice, Fenton. Mistress Page is not one to hold anger in her heart though. In the end, she forgives Anne quite quickly and, after ridiculing Falstaff, she suggests that her husband invite the old knight to dinner.

of Page and his wife, so Fenton can marry Anne. Mistress Quickly also helps the Mistresses Ford and Page deceive Falstaff. She tells Falstaff that the wives are very interested in him and also relays their messages as to when to meet. Mistress Quickly’s observations are not always true. She often believes she is the only one who understands everything that is happening in the community. Due to her lack of education, though, her interpretations are often misguided by her own emphasis on sexuality.

Robin Robin is the young boy who works as Falstaff’s page. When the Mistresses Ford and Page are tricking Falstaff, Robin vows himself to help the wives and becomes involved in their scheme.

Rugby Rugby is Dr. Caius’s servant. His role is very minor, used mostly just to show how pompous Caius is as he orders Rugby to follow him around.

Shallow William Page William is the son of Page and Mistress Page. His only scene is a very short one. He appears with his mother, Mistress Quickly, and the pastor Evans. Evans quizzes William on different Latin words and word meanings. The young boy does well, proving that he has been studying, despite his father’s notions to the contrary. William is like the straight man in a comedy routine as Evans and Mistress Quickly make the audience laugh in this scene.

Pistol Pistol is another of Falstaff’s men. Like Nym, Pistol is involved in thievery but refuses to take part in the scheme that Falstaff devises to woo Mistresses Page and Ford. Pistol goes with Nym to tell the husbands of Falstaff’s plans.

Mistress Quickly Mistress Quickly is one of the borrowed characters from Shakespeare’s earlier plays Henry IV and Henry V. Mistress Quickly is not well educated and her misinterpretations of language cause many moments of laughter. She is the busybody of the community, involved in everyone’s affairs. People come to her to find out details of other people’s lives, such as Fenton, who asks Mistress Quickly to help him gain the approval

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Shallow is the local justice and cousin to Slender. He is an old, somewhat whiney man who promotes Slender as a suitor for Anne Page.

Simple Simple, as his name implies, is the very simpleminded servant to Slender. He delivers messages, sometimes quite incorrectly.

Slender Slender is cousin to Shallow and one of Anne Page’s suitors. He is very awkward around Anne, becoming tongue-tied in her presence. He talks of foolish things and is extremely nervous and unsure of himself. He wants Anne’s hand mostly because his cousin Shallow suggests it. For some unexplained reason, Slender is Page’s choice for his daughter’s husband. The only credit Slender demonstrates in front of Page is that he is easily ordered around, doing whatever he is told.

THEMES Jealousy In Shakespeare’s play The Merry Wives of Windsor, the character Ford is an extremely suspicious man, making him an easy target for

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jealousy. Although his wife gives him no cause to be so jealous, Ford is rude with his wife, accusing her at every turn, of betraying him. When Mistress Ford is approached by Falstaff, who states that he wants to have an affair with her, she realizes that this is a great opportunity to get back at her husband. So she hatches a plan not only to humiliate Falstaff but also to teach her husband a lessons. Jealousy, which Shakespeare also demonstrates in the tragedy of Othello in a more serious vein, can completely distort one’s perceptions. This green-eyed monster, as Shakespeare coined the phrase, can debilitate a person’s rational mind and drive that person crazy. Ford has the potential to be such a man. He loves his wife but does not trust her. So he hatches his own scheme to try to prove that his wife is cheating on him. It is interesting to note that in some ways, Ford almost derives pleasure in his search. One side of him wants to prove that his wife is betraying him but another side wants to show his friends that he was right all along, that he has had good reason for his runaway emotions. As if to demonstrate just how insane his jealousy has made him, Shakespeare has Ford continually berate Page for being so stupid in trusting his wife. Not only does Ford relish being right in proving his wife’s infidelity with Falstaff, he also is excited about exposing Page for the fool he is for not seeing how Page is also being made a cuckold. Ford says in the second scene of act 2: ‘‘Cuckold? the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass.’’ Then Ford says: ‘‘God be prais’d for my jealousy!’’ In other words, he believes himself a better man for his jealous emotions. Anyone who is not, such as Page, is less blessed. Ford finds a comfort in his outlandish emotions. He believes his jealousy is more true to him than Page’s faith in his wife. Then Ford reveals himself even further when he says that he will discover his wife with Falstaff and be avenged. And when he does this, he will be able to ‘‘laugh at Page,’’ which appears to be just as enticing as exposing his wife and Falstaff. Ford’s jealousy, at this point, has reached such a high pitch that it has completely consumed his life. It is the source of his energy. Nothing will stop him, except the truth. When Ford eventually discovers the truth and that his wife is indeed faithful—he is humbled by it.


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Through Ford, Shakespeare demonstrates how blind jealousy can make a person. Ford has a devoted wife, whom he might have lost through his jealousy. His wife is strong, although in the beginning of the play, the audience can see her frustration. Had she been less in love with her husband, the jealousy might have ruined them both.

A Cuckold In Shakespeare’s time, a cuckold was a term used to describe a man who did not know that his wife was having a sexual affair with another man. To be called a cuckold was demeaning in many ways. First, it was humiliating that the wife went to bed with another man. Second, it insinuated that the man could not control his wife. A cuckold was also ridiculed because he could not satisfy his wife due to her seemingly unnatural sexual appetite. Shakespeare often used the cuckolded husband, or at least the idea of such betrayal, in both his comedies and in his tragedies, such as Othello. In The Merry Wives of Windsor, Ford, in disguise as Brook, has trouble swallowing the term when Falstaff continues to refer to Mistress Ford’s husband as being a cuckold. The word cuckold seems more discomforting to Ford than the actual possibility of the affair between Ford’s wife and Falstaff. The references to a cuckold are often accompanied with the idea that the husband grows horns on his head because of his blindness, or ignorance, of his wife’s illicit affairs. Later, at the end of the play, when Falstaff is wearing horns in the last scene, Ford is able to throw the term back at Falstaff, asking ‘‘Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now?’’

Love and Marriage Shakespeare presents various forms of love in this play, setting them against one another for comparison and evaluation. First, there is the love of Mistress Page and her husband. This is a very healthy type of love and marriage. The two people trust one another and for the length of the play, treat one another as equals. Page laughs at Falstaff’s approach to his wife, knowing that his wife’s love for him is secure. Page also demonstrates a more general love, a love of mankind, as he does his best to bring together the different opponents in the many arguments that occur in the course of this play. Standing opposite this pair, is the marriage of Ford and Mistress Ford. They also have love of one

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another but it is very different from the Pages’s love. Mistress Ford is completely frustrated about her husband’s lack of trust in her. Ford is extremely jealous and insecure both in himself and in his wife. That mistrust could eventually destroy their marriage. However, Mistress Ford’s love is strong, so she patiently waits for her husband to rid himself of his negative emotions. When given the opportunity to help Ford see the light, Mistress Ford decides to take matters into her own hands and give her husband a lesson, demonstrating just how faithful she is. A foil for both of these married couples is Sir John Falstaff. He is married, but his wife never appears. Falstaff lives as a bachelor throughout the play, wooing other married women with no thought of his wife. He is the worst example of a husband that is involved in this play. He shows no emotions for anyone, except for himself. Whereas Ford is overly invested in his emotions, to the point that they begin to drive him crazy, Falstaff seems incapable of any feeling, not even remorse after he has been caught and exposed. Of the three main husbands, Page is the most rational in his love. It flows freely for his wife but he is not obsessed with it. Then there is the subplot, which revolves around Anne Page. Her three suitors exemplify three different concepts of marriage, with or without love. Slender does not appear to know what he wants in marriage, love, or even life. He is a bit of a buffoon, doing what he is told and rarely questioning his own emotions. His cousin Shallow tells Slender that he should woo Anne. Then Shallow tells him when to woo Anne. When Anne appears, it is Shallow who does the wooing for Slender. Anne sees that Slender is a fool and has no interest in him. Even this does not seem to bother Slender. Page wants Anne to marry Slender, though it is hard to determine why Slender is Page’s choice, except that maybe Slender is safe, has his own money, and will do as he is told. This, Shakespeare is saying, would not be a good choice for Anne. The second suitor is Dr. Caius, who appears to have a better idea of what he wants in life. He has, after all, gone through college, studying medicine, and obtaining his credentials to practice his skills. However, Caius shows very little emotion, except when he is bossing people around. His manner shows that he expects everyone around him to do what he decides is best for him. People are just pawns in Caius’s life. Those who are not

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make fun of him, most of which goes over Caius’s head. Caius is never shown wooing Anne. Rather, Caius goes through Mistress Quickly and Mistress Page when he talks of marriage. The idea of a wife for Caius appears to be like a commodity, something to be bought and brought home. Anne is aware of the lack of affection on Caius’s part, and she, likewise, has no feelings for the older man. Fenton, on the other hand, is so honest about his feelings that he even confesses that at first, before he got to know Anne, he considered marrying her for her father’s money. He tells Anne that this changed when he realized that her value was greater than any amount of gold. This is the love of Shakespeare’s choice, as well as Anne’s. Ironically, the marriage between Anne and Fenton, despite the fact that both Page and his wife are against it, is the one most likely to be as fresh, healthy, and invigorating as the marriage of Anne’s parents. This is because the marriage is based on love.

Money There is a lot of discussion of money in this play. First, there is the mention of the money that Page has, thus making the marriage of Anne such a reward. Shallow talks Slender into wooing Anne because of the money he would receive in exchange. There is likewise the issue of a lack of money, represented by Falstaff and his crew of men. They are all accused of some sort of theft, whether it is from picking Slender’s pockets or Falstaff killing deer on Shallow’s land, also called poaching; in Elizabethan England, poaching was a crime akin to stealing money or other goods. Later, Falstaff must give away the services of one of his men in order to pay Host for his room and board at the inn. And when Nym and Pistol ask to borrow money from Falstaff, they are turned away. They are all broke. Brook comes to Falstaff and offers him money to woo Mistress Ford. Fenton gives Mistress Quickly money so that she will help him marry Anne. And finally, there is Dr. Caius, whom Mistress Page chooses as a husband for her daughter because he has money. There is also Page, who dislikes Fenton as a choice of husband for Anne because Fenton does not have money. Money, in this play, does not determine class. Falstaff and Fenton are actually in a social class that outranks that of Page and Ford. And yet Page and Ford live more comfortably because

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they both have money. This portrayal shows the rise of the middle class, the merchants and businessmen, who may not own a lot of land or live in castles but who, nonetheless, control much of the action in the play based on many factors, the most dominant of which is money. Falstaff, the major representative of the impoverished nobility, on the other hand, is made to look like a fool. Fenton escapes Falstaff’s fate, but only because he marries into the moneyed merchant class and thus wins its favor.

The wives are playful in their revenge at first, dumping Falstaff in the river for his deceit. But as the play continues, the wives heap more punishment upon him because they find him such an easy target. The wives’ scheming becomes more complicated when Mistress Ford realizes that she can also seek revenge on her husband who has hurt her with his unending jealousy. The wives’ second plot against Falstaff is probably more dependent on Mistress Ford’s revenge on her husband than anything to do with Falstaff. Falstaff just happens to be the character through which Mistress Ford can teach her husband a lesson. At the successful completion of the second scheme, Falstaff is beaten, to the enjoyment of the wives, who laugh as Ford chases Falstaff through the house, hitting him with sticks and pokers.

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Research the role of women in Elizabethan times. List their duties and responsibilities, the jobs they held, the variations between women of different classes, their education, their dress, etc. Once this list is compiled, present it to your class to stimulate a discussion of women and their lives in the United States in various periods. Possibilities are Western pioneer women, women in the early colonies, women in the 1920s, 1950s, or women of today. How does each era differ? Are there any similarities?

Find definitions of jealousy as described by psychologists. What are the effects of jealousy? What remedies are suggested? What defects are found in a personality who succumbs to jealousy? What different levels are there of jealousy? Are any of these levels actually healthy in any way? Present your findings to your class.

Revenge The act of revenge is played out in many different ways in this comedy. The main plot is filled with it as the wives seek their revenge on Falstaff for his having been so arrogant as to send duplicate letters to each of them. It was not bad enough that he thought he could woo them away from their husbands, but Falstaff added the insult of not even caring enough to compose separate letters for each woman. They therefore decide that Falstaff must be punished for his conceit.

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The husbands want to become involved in the revenge once they learn of the mischievous actions of Falstaff. And so Falstaff is punished once again.

What were the highest qualities that knights in the Middle Ages were supposed to uphold? What were their primary duties? How were they viewed in their communities? How does Sir John Falstaff, as he is rendered in this play, compare to those standards? Present a chart to your class, not only listing the optimal traits of medieval knights, along with Falstaff’s strengths or weaknesses, but also drawing caricatures of both the best possible knight and what Falstaff might have represented. Mistress Page sets up Falstaff’s last public humiliation of this play by referring to the story of Herne the Hunter. Research this fable, focusing on modern adaptations of the story, and create a short play about Herne which shows what he stands for today in some cultures.

Shakespeare encourages revenge, it appears, or at least that was the convention of comedy in his time. With revenge comes laughter and enjoyment, at least for those who successfully seek revenge and win it. The play does soften the edges a little at the end, however. Page encourages everyone who has

either sought revenge, or been the victim of it, to come together, forget everything that has been done, and find some way to get along.


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in that word is stressed. Then, continue reading through the line with the same rhythm or beat.

STYLE Shakespearean Citizen Comedy The Merry Wives of Windsor is classified as a comedy and fits into the mold of what was referred to, in Shakespeare’s time, as a citizen comedy. The basic elements of this play, such as the jealous husbands, the merry wives, the practical jokes, and the leering knights, were common and therefore familiar to theater-goers of the late 1500s and continuing into the seventeenth century. Most of the humor is based on the differences in the various classes, either between the lower and middle classes or the middle and higher classes. This is the basic structure of Shakespeare’s play, however, he created his own unique changes to the form. In the end, the merry wives, who were often lured away from their husbands by the knights in other plays, were more faithful to their vows of marriage and more clever in their duping of the knight. The husbands, therefore, did not become cuckolds, as they would have in other plays. In Shakespeare’s hands, instead of the husband becoming the fool, the knight was made into one.

Shakespeare’s Blank Verse Shakespeare typically writes his plays in blank verse, a metered form of poetry without any rhyming scheme. In his play The Merry Wives of Windsor he continues to use blank verse but only infrequently. In many of his plays, Shakespeare used blank verse to set off the language of members of the upper classes from that of the common citizens. In some ways, he does the same in this play. Fenton, for example, most often speaks in blank verse. One can recognize this form just by looking at the way the words and phrases are set on the page. For example, in act 3, scene 4, Fenton is professing his love to Anne Page. The ends of the sentences do not reach the right-hand side of the page, and each new phrase, beginning on the left side of the page begins with a capital letter. The lines are metered, and one can count the syllables in each line. They will add up to ten. This is called iambic pentameter, which is five sets of two syllables, with the first syllable unstressed and the second one stressed. See the first line of iambic pentameter in Fenton’s speech: ‘‘He doth object, I am too great of birth.’’ The word he is unstressed. The word doth is stressed. The first syllable in the word object is unstressed. And the second syllable

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Fenton is not the only character that speaks in blank verse. Falstaff does it occasionally too. What is surprising is that Mistress Quickly also is provided with blank verse. She is one of the least likely characters to speak in this way, especially because it is obvious, according to her misunderstanding or misinterpretation of language in other parts of the play. However, the only time Mistress Quickly is given lines in blank verse is when she is pretending to be the Fairy Queen in act 5. So for this occasion, she has been promoted to the noble class, in a way, and therefore her language is also elevated. The majority of the lines in this play are written in prose, as if the characters were making general conversation as they would if the were not on a stage.

Puns In act 4, in particular, Shakespeare has fun playing with words. This is another way that he can make his audience laugh. A pun is created when one word that sounds just like or similar to another word is used to either make another person laugh or to confuse that person, or to make some other rhetorical point. In order to create a pun, a language must have homonyms, or words that sound the same but are spelled differently. English has a lot of these words. One example of a homonym would be the set of words see and sea. In act 4, scene 1, William Page, the young son of Mistress Page, is being tested by Evans in Latin. Evans asks William to give him the word fair in Latin. William answers ‘‘Pulcher.’’ Mistress Quickly, however, hears the word ‘‘Polecat’’ come out of William’s mouth and declares that there must be something else that is much more fair than a polecat. The educated members of the audience would have gotten this joke, as most of them would have studied Latin. The confusion continues through the scene, as Mistress Quickly confuses the Latin word ‘‘caret’’ for the vegetable carrot; and when William produces the genitive case plural of the pronoun he (horum, harum, horum), Mistress Quickly thinks that the young boy is calling someone a whore, and berates Parson Evans for teaching the boy such words.

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HISTORICAL CONTEXT Queen Elizabeth To understand the culture surrounding Shakespeare’s plays, it is important to understand the reigning monarch. Queen Elizabeth I, the only surviving child of the infamous King Henry VIII (1491–1547) and his second wife, Anne Boleyn, was the ruling power in England from 1558, when she was just twenty-four-years old, until 1603. She ruled for forty-five years, providing a strong influence on her people, the economy, and the political power that the country would enjoy. It was also during her reign that England enjoyed a cultural, scientific, and artistic renaissance. In 1554, four years before her coronation, Elizabeth spent two months as a prisoner in the Tower of London for her alleged involvement in trying to stop her half-sister, Queen Mary I, from marrying the king of Spain—an alliance that would have strengthened Mary’s bid to return England to Catholicism. There was even a consideration to put Elizabeth to death, though no one wanted to be responsible for killing a member of the then-powerful Tudor family, of which Elizabeth was a part. Upon Mary’s death in 1558, Elizabeth ascended the throne. Queen Elizabeth was a very popular queen. Part of this might have been due to the fact that her predecessor was relentless in her pursuit of controlling the lives of her people, persecuting them for their religious beliefs if they did not return to Catholicism. For the many deaths that were accredited to her reign, Queen Mary came to be called Bloody Mary. Queen Elizabeth, in contrast, was well liked for her varied interests in science, the arts, and even for her tastes in fashion. Elizabeth is often referred to as the Virgin Queen because she never married. She was in love though, with Robert Dudley, a man who was socially beneath her, which did not matter to her but did affect her council, who refused to sanction a marriage between them. Some historians contend that Elizabeth did not want to marry for fear of losing her independence and control of her wealth. Another theory associates her unwillingness to marry to the experience that her mother suffered under Henry VIII. Elizabeth’s mother was accused of treason, was imprisoned in the Tower of London and was eventually beheaded.


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Portrait of of Queen Elizabeth I in her coronation robes, circa 1590 (Ó Fine Art Photographic Library/Corbis)

In 2002, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) conducted a poll to find out who were the top one hundred greatest Britons ever. Queen Elizabeth I ranked seventh, the highest rating for a monarch in that poll. Queen Elizabeth died on March 24, 1602, at the age of sixtynine, the oldest age for a reigning monarch up until that time.

Elizabethan Marriage Typically, in Elizabethan times, upper-class women (and many young men also) had very little say about whom they would marry. Many weddings were arranged, most often for the benefit of the family, either in social prestige, land, or wealth. Many women of the Elizabethan Age were raised to believe that they were inferior in intellect and virtue and therefore subservient to men. (This caused some havoc for Queen Elizabeth I, of course.) For a young woman to obey her father was not only a sign of compliance with society but also with the church. The woman was also expected to bring a dowry consisting of money or valuable objects, with her for her husband. Husbands ruled the finances, but women who were entitled to an

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inheritance were able to manage their own affairs. The legal age for marriage was twelve for girls and fourteen for boys, though rarely did boys and girls of this young age get married. In the nobility, future husbands and wives may not have met their mates until the day of the wedding. Although arranged marriages were common in the upper classes, there also was an attitude, even in the church, that parents should also listen to the desires of their children in making marriage partner choices.

Windsor, Berkshire, England Windsor is the setting for Shakespeare’s play The Merry Wives of Windsor and is known for the royal castle that is built there, the largest, inhabited castle in the world. Windsor is located in southeast England on the River Thames. The British town was established around 1066 when William the Conqueror chose the site for a fort. The castle that now stands in Windsor has been used as a royal residence since the eleventh century. Prisoners have also, involuntarily, made the castle their home, when the castle was used to imprison foreign royalty, such as King John II of France from 1356–1360. It has been said that the first performance of Shakespeare’s play The Merry Wives of Windsor was held inside Windsor Castle. The Garter Inn, where Falstaff stays in the play, is based on a real establishment in Windsor, now called the Hart and Garter on High Street.

Knights of the Order of the Garter The Garter Inn was named after the Royal Order of the Garter, a somewhat elitist fraternity of knights. There were several different orders, but the Order of the Garter was considered the most pre-eminent. King Edward III (1327–1377) is said to have established the Order of the Garter some time around 1348, possibly as an attempt to create a virtual Knights of the Round Table from the myths surrounding the tales of King Arthur and Sir Galahad. The Order of the Garter always contained twenty-four knights, the current monarch and the Prince of Wales. The home base was Windsor Castle. The origin of the symbol of the garter is obscure. Some believe it might have been the garter of one of the king’s lovers. Others believe that the garter was a special emblem of chivalry, given to knights on special occasions and worn just below the knee.

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Legend of Herne the Hunter In The Merry Wives of Windsor Mistress Page tells of the myth of Herne, a local story passed down probably from Celtic mythology. Herne was a godlike creature who was said to lead a procession of spirits through the countryside, hunting, killing, and feasting on everything in their sight. In pre-Christian times, Herne was associated with the god of fertility and imagined to be a stag, or male deer. The figure of Herne was both erotic and frightening, the ultimate wild man of the forest. Whenever the alarm was sounded that Herne was in the woods, people would lock up their animals in the barn and then hide themselves in their houses so they would not be chased, molested, or eaten. There are many such stories in Europe about a wild man or wild woman of the forest. Each country has its own list of names associated with these godlike characters. Herne is specifically linked to Windsor and was said to haunt Windsor Great Park at night. In the play, Mistress Page suggests that Falstaff be costumed as Herne, including wearing the head and horns of a stag. In the Middle Ages, the wild man or woman of the forest was connected to witchcraft and sometimes referred to as Satan. In contemporary times, pagan religions are turning to the Great Hunter as a positive symbol of the masculine element of God.

Elizabethan Class Structure In Elizabethan England, life was changing away from an emphasis on community and toward the individual. There was a definite social structure with nobility and the knights at the top of the ladder, as it had been in the Middle Ages, but change was in the air. The merchant class was growing fast both in numbers and influence, but also in wealth. The nobility had privileges that the other classes did not enjoy. Nobles, for the most part, were divided into two sections, the old nobles, whose titles had been handed down from generation to generation, and the new nobles, with titles recently granted by a monarch. Most of the old nobles were Catholic, and, for the most part, new nobles were Protestant. Nobles did not have to vow an allegiance to the Church of England and therefore, the old nobles were not persecuted when Henry VIII or Elizabeth I was in power. At the head of a noble family was a duke, baron, or an earl. Queen Elizabeth was known, as

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1600s: Windsor is a small town on the Thames River. It is a community of merchants and their servants and surrounds the focal point, Windsor Castle, which is an active center of nobility and gathering place for the Knights of the Garter.

Kingdom, most of them elected by British citizens, rule the country.

Today: Over 100,000 people live in Windsor, which has become a popular tourist attraction, known for its history and a huge Legoland, which includes amusement park rides, interactive building projects, and a simulation of the city of London built out of Lego building blocks.

1600s: Queen Elizabeth I rules England, proclaiming which religion her citizens should follow as well as exemplifying contemporary fashion. Her interest in the arts helps to promote the burgeoning renaissance, especially in literature.

1600s: Besides new titles being given to individuals by the current monarch, titles such as baron, earl, and duke are inherited from one generation to the next, through the male line, thus guaranteeing that a noble family will remain in this social class until the family completely dies out. Today: There are no more inherited noble titles. Titles are given by the monarch, through the advice of parliament, and last only until that person dies.

Today: Queen Elizabeth II is the figurehead monarch in the United Kingdom. Her family is often mocked in the local tabloids. Members of the Parliament of the United

1600s: Knights are warriors and are considered part of the aristocracy of England. They were the ranking officers in the military. Today: The title of knight is only an honorary one, often given to people who accomplished great feats in areas such as sports, entertainment, the arts, and science. For instance, the singer Elton John was knighted, as was the creator of the World Wide Web, Tim Berners-Lee.

was her father, as a monarch not very willing to grant new titles, as they saw the nobility as a threat to their power. Elizabeth’s council, however, was made up of people from the noble class.

be taken care of as she went from one noble house to another. Fenton was a member of the noble class, while Sir John Falstaff was a member of the gentry, a slightly lower ranking class.

Being a member of the noble class did not guarantee wealth. Some nobles were rich in land but poor in cash. Money did not necessarily come with the title—quite the opposite, in some cases. Nobles were often responsible for housing, feeding, and entertaining foreign dignitaries and paying all the expenses they incurred. They also had their reputations as lavish entertainers to keep up, especially when it came to the monarchs. Queen Elizabeth was known for her travels around the country. She would stay with noble families rather than staying in inns, bringing part of her court with her, and expecting to

Below Fenton’s and Falstaff’s social class came that of Ford and Page. This was the merchant class. The rise of the merchant class was due to several changes in English society. The increase in trade with other countries as England’s explorers traveled around the world increased the wealth in the merchant class. Traders sold woolen products from England and brought back new commodities from other exotic locations from which to make a profit at home. Young boys were receiving formal educations, and literacy rates were rising, giving men wider opportunities in the job market. The Black


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Plague had killed thousands of people, which produced a labor shortage. This gave laborers an advantage, and wages were rising as a result. There were also professional guilds to which a boy could apprentice himself, learn a trade, and eventually go out and open his own shop. These are some of the circumstances that helped men accumulate wealth, and in some instances, provide a means of climbing up from a poor class to a merchant class. Most members of the merchant class owned their own homes and were beginning to vie with nobility in the ownership of land. Political power for the merchant class was also on the rise, providing its members a voice in government. Such was the case for Nicholas Mosley, a member of the merchant class who became mayor of London in 1599. Page and Ford fit the profile of the merchant class. The lower class members rarely received an education, owned property, or had any say in their government. They worked for the lowest wages, taking on jobs as servants and maids to members of the other classes. Mistress Quickly, as well as Simple and Rugby, are representative of the lower class.

Food Eaten in Elizabethan Windsor There is much mention of food in the this play. Page and Ford ask people to eat with them at the end of many of the scenes. Many people still raised their own domestic animals, which included cows, lambs, chickens, ducks, geese, and goats, which would be slaughtered for the noontime meal, the biggest meal of the day. Also swans, peacocks, pigeons, and doves might have been included. On the wild side, animals such as deer, wild boar, rabbits, hedgehogs, herons, cranes, and pheasants might have been added to the table. There were also many different types of fish caught and cooked for the meal, including shellfish such as oysters, mussels, and cockles. As for vegetables, tomatoes were considered suspicious, maybe even poisonous, and were seldom eaten. In place of potatoes, which had not yet become very popular or easy to find, people ate turnips. There were also greens like spinach, carrots, cabbage, and beets, vegetables that are still common today. However, eating raw vegetables, as might be found in a salad, was not considered healthy. Apples, figs, and grapes were often served. These and other fruits were cooked with the meats to make the main course sweeter. For dessert, fruits were baked into pies and cakes, but there was no sweet chocolate

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yet. The only taste of chocolate in Elizabethan times was a thin, bitter drink with no sugar added. Tea had not yet been introduced from India, so there was no tea time, as is popular in England today.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Merry Wives of Windsor is not one of Shakespeare’s most critically analyzed plays. Although audiences in Shakespeare’s times have been described as enjoying this comedy, critics over the years have tended to ignore it for the most part, calling it inferior to Shakespeare’s other comedies. However, this comedy is unique in that it is the only one of Shakespeare’s comedies set in England from the first scene to the last. Andrew Dickson, writing in his book The Rough Guide to Shakespeare calls The Merry Wives of Windsor a ‘‘subtly crafted and often genuinely funny play.’’ He goes on to describe the play as one that ‘‘portrays a bustling, vivid tapestry of small-town life’’ in Shakespeare’s time. Dickson states that Shakespeare avoided the ‘‘hard-bitten, satirical genre’’ of comedy that focused on a more cynical slice of life in the bigger city, such as London, and instead exposed a softer tone in this play, one that Dickson refers to ‘‘as suburban in tone.’’ Of the wives in this play, Dickson describes them in this way: ‘‘They are as well equipped to deal with Ford’s jealousy as they are to neutralize Sir John.’’ Dickson continues: ‘‘While allowing Ford’s ludicrous suspicions to build, they [the wives] engineer a scene in which both men are shown up to be the fools they really are.’’ In conclusion, Dickson analyzes the plot by stating that ‘‘if the comic community of The Merry Wives is to heal its wounds, Shakespeare suggests, Falstaff needs not just to be thrown out but to be utterly humiliated.’’ In other words, ‘‘if the wives are to prove themselves’’ as true merry wives, then ‘‘the duper needs to be duped.’’ Maurice Charney, writing in his All of Shakespeare states that this play is ‘‘more convincingly redolent of town life in Elizabethan England than anything else that Shakespeare wrote.’’ As evidence of this, Charney points out how Page invites everyone in for a meal at the beginning of the play, and Mistress Page invites everyone in to a feast at the end of the play, demonstrating the

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genuine sense of community at the time this play was written, especially in small town locations such as Windsor was then. However, Charney chides the wives in this play, stating that they ‘‘are not so merry as we expect them to be, in fact, they are distinctly smug, moralistic, and self-satisfied. Their animus against Falstaff is excessive and they are constantly asserting their virtue in a priggish fashion.’’ Norrie Epstein, writing in her book, The Friendly Shakespeare, likens The Merry Wives of Windsor to an episode of I Love Lucy for its comedic routine. Then Epstein writes: ‘‘There’s nothing heavy-handed about this play; it celebrates the solid domestic virtues of thrift, marital fidelity, and good humor. It’s one of those plays that work better in performance than on the page, since it’s filled with sight gags and spoken humor, including outrageous accents and bawdy malapropisms, that are hilarious on stage.’’ In an attempt to demonstrate how comical this play is, as Epstein writes, Terry Hands, a director of the Royal Shakespeare Company in England, in a 1985 production of the play, decided to set the play in more modern circumstances, bringing it up to a 1950s suburban location. ‘‘Hands wasn’t simply trying to jazz up an old play. His interpretation, as critics pointed out, is closer to Shakespeare’s intention.’’ In doing this, Hands gave his audience a chance to ‘‘immediately comprehend Shakespeare’s jibes at middle-class snobbery and the characters’ provincialism, and experience what an Elizabethan viewer might have felt when he saw the play. In this case Hands didn’t modernize the play in order to shock, humor, or patronize the audience, but to make it comprehensible—and funny.’’

CRITICISM Joyce Hart Hart, a freelance writer and published author, examines the emotional state of the character Ford as he frets about the play, lost in a contorted world of jealousy. Although the title characters of Shakespeare’s play The Merry Wives of Windsor are Mistress Page and Mistress Ford, most of the critical attention is often placed on the old, misogynist knight, Sir John Falstaff. Still, it is the character of Ford, the jealous husband, who is the most complex. The paramount emotion,


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IN ORDER TO DEFINE HIS CHARACTERS, SHAKESPEARE PITS ONE WITH ANOTHER, EXPOSING THEM BY SHOWING HOW THEY DIFFER.’’

the one that is most obvious in the character of Ford, is his jealousy. But behind this emotion, or maybe entwined in this character’s psychological torment, are many other, sometimes contradictory, feelings that direct his actions and his communications. Yes, the wives’ tricks are motivated by the obnoxious foolery of Falstaff, but the women’s rewards from their pranks against Falstaff are minor and short lived. The real and more gratifying gain from their mischief is the lifting of the veil of jealousy from Ford’s eyes, allowing him to see his wife as the faithful and loving woman that she is. So it is not Falstaff that turns this play around but rather the foolish husband Ford. In order to define his characters, Shakespeare pits one with another, exposing them by showing how they differ. So it is with Ford, who first appears in act 2, scene 1, with the other husband, Page. With them are Pistol and Nym, who have just told the husbands that Falstaff has sent letters to their wives in attempts to woo them. The first thing to notice is the difference in the reactions of the husbands. Right off the bat, Page does not believe the messenger and makes fun of Nym’s language, making light of the message Nym has brought. ‘‘I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue,’’ Page says of Nym. It is almost as if Page has not even heard the news that Nym has brought, that Falstaff is making a play for Page’s wife. Page is not distracted by what Nym has told him—not one bit. In stark contrast to Page is Ford, who is already on edge and about to fall into the deep abyss of his jealousy. Ford does not come right out, as Page did, and say that the news that Pistol has brought him is false. Rather, Ford, who already mistrusts his wife, says: ‘‘Well, I hope it be not so.’’ This is a weak statement, one that insinuates that Ford has doubts about his wife. Ford’s second statement is even worse. He demeans his wife. Ford cannot believe that anyone could be in love with, or make a play for,

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Peter De Jersey as Fenton, Catherine Mears as Anne Page, and Gemma Jones as Mistress Meg Page, in Act III, scene iv, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1992 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

her. ‘‘Why, sir, my wife is not young,’’ he says, as if he is surprised that someone else might find her attractive enough to want to have an affair with her. And then when Page calls Nym a ‘‘Cataian,’’ a reference to a person who is an untrustworthy boaster, Ford’s response is that he thought Nym ‘‘twas a good sensible fellow.’’ So Ford trusts Nym more than he trusts his wife; while Page does just the opposite. When Shakespeare puts Ford alongside of Page, one might wonder how more different two men could be. Next, Shakespeare pairs Ford with his wife in the same scene. She addresses him with ‘‘sweet Frank,’’ and questions why he appears to be in pain. Ford brushes her off, announcing abruptly that there is nothing wrong with him and then he tells her to get home. He is lying, on one hand, and rude and insensitive on the other. All Ford can think about is himself and his fast growing insecurities. Before this scene ends, Ford and Page address one another again, discussing the messages they have just received. Ford is obviously

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riled, even more so when he learns that Nym and Pistol are Falstaff’s men. Page, on the other hand, is humored by what he has just heard. Page tells Ford that he does not believe Falstaff would do such a thing as woo his wife, and if Falstaff did, then he would deserve what he would get—a good tongue lashing from Page’s wife. That is how confident Page is in himself, his wife, and his marriage. On the other side of the issue is Ford, who is already thinking he will become a cuckold, as Pistol has suggested by mentioning the ‘‘odious’’ name and the reference to ‘‘the horn.’’ Ford’s thoughts are running wildly through his head; he is afraid of being publicly humiliated. It is uncertain which thought weighs more heavily in Ford’s mind: losing his wife or being mocked by his neighbors. Then Ford once again warns Page, telling him to be careful about being so confident. Ford, unlike Page, cannot imagine turning his wife over to Falstaff, which is ironic, because shortly after this scene, that is exactly what Ford does. So far Ford has displayed jealousy at the thought that his wife might betray him and, at

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the same time, disbelief that any other man would want her. He has also demonstrated his insecurities, which he tries to cover up by demeaning his wife and practicing self-deception, while feeling superior to Page by insinuating that Page is a fool to trust his wife. The main difference between Ford and Page, at this point, is that Page has his feet firmly rooted to the ground while Ford has jettisoned himself into outer space, where he floats around in a field of emotional meteors that bombard him, knocking him first in one direction and then another. As soon as Ford learns that Falstaff is staying at the Garter Inn, he begins to hatch a scheme, just as devious as Falstaff’s. In the next scene, the audience finds Ford, disguised as Brook, at the Garter Inn, looking for Falstaff. Ford believes himself to be superior to Falstaff, although he spends the first half of his visit praising Falstaff for his intelligence, his prowess with women, his breeding, his authenticity, his bravery and his vast courtly experience. The only advantage that Ford admits is his money, which he throws at Falstaff to win him over to his own scheme. But of course, Ford is not being quite honest. If he believes he can trick Falstaff, then Ford has to believe that he is smarter than Falstaff; and he obviously does not believe that Falstaff is authentic, or else he would not even be there. As far as Falstaff’s breeding and his prowess, Ford is more than likely being honest. Falstaff comes from a class superior to Ford’s, and Ford’s greatest insecurity is his dealings with women. It is interesting to note that Ford is asking Falstaff to woo his wife, something that Ford seems unable to do. When Ford is with his wife, his insecurities turn him into a brute. As Brook, Ford says if Falstaff can woo Mistress Ford, than Brook will have a better chance of wooing her too. Here is irony again. It is through Brook’s scheme to woo Mistress Ford that Ford himself will come to know of his wife’s love. So, in essence, Brook’s plan works. It just does not work in the same way that Ford had thought it would. After he leaves Falstaff, Ford talks in an aside to the audience. He can barely contain his emotions. Falstaff, while talking to Brook, referred to Ford as a cuckold, a ‘‘mechanical salt-butter rogue,’’ and a ‘‘knave.’’ None of these are flattering, and it is difficult, in Falstaff’s presence, for Ford to pretend (as Brook) to be unaffected by what


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Falstaff is saying. But once he is out of Falstaff’s company, Ford is bursting with contradictory emotions. He has been insulted and humiliated, but because he is in disguise, he is split—laughing with Falstaff at the foolish husband Ford, while steaming under his mask. In his aside to the audience, Ford proves himself to be confused. ‘‘Who says this is improvident jealousy?’’ He asks. His jealousy is not careless, in other words, but rather it is right on target, Ford is saying. He completely discounts the fact that jealousy is in and of itself careless and then tries to convince himself that this negative emotion is beneficial. He is not only going to prove that he is right in mistrusting his wife, he assumes, he is going to also ensure that the circumstances are set in place so that his wife can barely refuse the onset of Falstaff’s amorous attack. Instead of protecting his wife from the knight, Ford feels more accomplished in proving the negative, proving that his wife is unfaithful and that jealousy is good. What does he hope to gain? Is being right more important than keeping his wife? Obviously so. This is one way that Ford proves to the audience that he is a fool. Ford admits other things in his aside to the audience. The first emotion he reflects on is not anger but rather impatience. He says he is bursting with it, anxious to see his scheme through to the end. He can barely stand waiting to disgrace his wife in front of the community. Better her than him. Ford rants on about how he will soon have another man in his bed with his wife, his house will be ransacked, and he will lose much of his money. He tells the audience: ‘‘See the hell of having a false woman!’’ Ford wants sympathy here. He wants the audience to feel sorry for him, just as he feels sorry for himself. He is playing out the old cliche´ of cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face, although he says he does not really want to do this. He wants to prove his wife’s guilt so that he can prove himself more sophisticated, more confident, than he really is. He does not really want to give his wife away to Falstaff, not so much because he wants to keep her (or at least he does not yet admit this) but because he fears, above all else, being called a cuckold. This would be worse than losing his wife. Worse than being called a jealous husband. He mentions negative names that people could call him, such as terms used for the devil. None of them are as bad. Not even ‘‘the devil himself hath’’ such a name as cuckold, he says. There is nothing worse than that.

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Though the audience knows by now that Ford is a fool, Ford does not see this. It is Page who is the fool in Ford’s eyes. Actually, Ford calls Page an ‘‘ass’’ because ‘‘he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous.’’ Such a twisted mind Ford has, as he calls out valiantly, as if he were holding a sword in hand and were about to charge at an enemy: ‘‘God be prais’d for my jealousy!’’ Ford will use his weapon of jealousy to expose his wife, seek revenge on Falstaff, and make Page look like a fool. Well, he will get two out of three, and that is not so bad. He will get his revenge on Falstaff, in spite of himself. Ford will do so, not by his merits but rather by the wits of his merry and faithful wife. Ford is so blinded by his jealousy that he misjudges almost everyone he encounters. He is so wrapped up in a world of his own misguided imagination that what he thinks he sees in everyone else is exactly what is most apparent about himself. For instance, in act 3, scene 2, Ford runs into Mistress Page, who is walking down the street with Falstaff’s servant boy. Ford questions if Page has any eyes, allowing his wife to be in the company of Falstaff’s boy. Page must be blind and his thoughts asleep, Ford concludes. As Ford watches Mistress Page walk to Ford’s house, he decides to add a new victim to his plot. When he is the victor in his scheme, he imagines, he will ‘‘pluck the borrow’d veil of modesty from the so-seeming Mistress Page.’’ His list of rewards is mounting. He will expose everyone’s sins. He can barely stand still with the thought of all the accolades he will receive. The audience can almost read Ford’s mind. Ford is going to pull the cover off everyone’s eyes as he exposes Page’s folly, Falstaff’s deceit and thievery, and the merry wives’ untrustworthiness. This is proof that Ford is enjoying his own misery. He is so absorbed in his thoughts of victory that he has completely lost sight of the pain of disclosure. If he is victorious, he is going to realize his two worst fears—the loss of his wife and the community’s right to call him cuckold. He is working against himself and, in a strange way, enjoying it. Before this second scene ends, Ford is seen with some of the men. He entices them to come to his house, where he promises they will see a monster. Shakespeare is being ironic again. In his play Othello, Shakespeare coined the phrase the Green-eyed Monster, to refer to the wild emotion of jealousy. When Ford promises a

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monster, he is thinking of Falstaff, of course. But when the men get to Ford’s house, the only monster they will see is the green-eyed one as portrayed by the jealous husband Ford. Once again, Ford projects his own image out into the world rather than seeing it inside himself. In act 3, scene 5, Shakespeare has Ford slapping himself in the face, saying, ‘‘is this a dream: do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master Ford!’’ Surely, Ford needs to wake up; and as Brook, he is trying to do just that. But Ford remains asleep, although he thinks he has awakened. ‘‘I will proclaim myself what I am,’’ he says. Ford makes this statement although he does not fully understand the depth of its meaning. This is a true statement. Ford will definitely proclaim who he is. This is because Ford will finally see himself as the fool. Finally the veils are pulled from Ford’s eyes. His wife shows him the letter she received from Falstaff, tells her of her plans of revenge on the knight. This brings Ford to his knees, asking his wife for forgiveness. With the veils lifted, Ford regains strength and becomes involved in yet another scheme to further humiliate Falstaff in front of the whole community. This last degree of humiliation is not so much for the wives, for they have had their fun with him. This is for the men, and Ford relishes it. He will disguise himself once more as Brook and entice Falstaff to make another appearance, this time in the park at midnight. The money that Ford extends this time is to buy costumes for the children. Falstaff’s shame for having put Ford through his torturous journey is well worth it, at least in Ford’s way of looking at it. In the end, literally the very last lines of the play, Ford enjoys a final jab at Falstaff’s expense. Ford says everyone should go to a feast, laugh at Slender and Caius, who have lost their chances to marry Ann. But most of all, they should all enjoy the joke that Ford most enjoys. ‘‘And, Sir John Falstaff, now shall you keep your word, / For Brook this night shall lie with Mistress Ford.’’ Ford does not mention, although it would have proven that he truly had learned his lesson, that everyone should join him in a good laugh at the foolish husband that Ford had once been. Source: Joyce Hart, Critical Essay on The Merry Wives of Windsor, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.

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undeserved. The critic explains the historical and cultural background of the play, which was likely commissioned to honor Queen Elizabeth I on St. George’s Day in 1597.


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Falstaff: A Novel, published in the United States in 2003 (in England in 1976) is Robert Nye’s fictionalized version of one of Shakespeare’s naughtiest characters. In Nye’s version, Falstaff is eighty-one-years old and is dictating his memoirs. He recalls incidents in both of Shakespeare’s plays in which he appeared: Henry IV and The Merry Wives of Windsor

Shakespeare’s other early comedies include Love’s Labor’s Lost (1598), which is about three noblemen who promise to devote the next three years to their studies without any distractions from women, when three beautiful, courtly women appear. The other famous comedy is Two Gentlemen from Verona (1594– 1595) which is a play about two men falling in love with the same woman and their challenges in trying to win her favor. Myron Stagman’s Shakespeare-In-Essence: The Adventures of Falstaff (2002) illuminates the humorous character of Falstaff through an analysis of this fictional man, providing the reader with a better understanding of how and why Shakespeare created him. For a more contemporary British playwright, read one of Tom Stoppard’s comedies, such as Jumpers (1972) or Arcadia (1993). Jumpers focuses on a philosophical professor who studies morality while immorality spreads throughout his household. In the latter play, Arcadia, Stoppard weaves elements of science into his characters’ actions, specifically the concept of chaos. If the world is, in effect, like a machine that will eventually break down, the play suggests that people should therefore learn to enjoy themselves.

Leslie S. Katz Katz provides a general overview and analysis of The Merry Wives of Windsor, arguing that its status as a ‘‘minor’’ play in Shakespeare’s canon is


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THE SEQUENCE OF FORD’S EMOTIONS SUGGESTS THAT THE WITCH-BEATING IS, INDEED, A SYMBOLIC WIFE-BEATING.’’

Source: Leslie S. Katz, ‘‘The Merry Wives of Windsor: Sharing the Queen’s Holiday,’’ in Representations, No. 51, Summer 1995, pp. 77–93.

Nancy Cotton In the following essay, Cotton analyzes the historical belief that witchcraft could cause impotence, a belief widely held in medieval Europe and one that persisted into Shakespeare’s time. The critic examines those characters in The Merry Wives of Windsor who are rendered impotent by ‘‘magical female power.’’ That sorcery could cause impotence was widely believed in medieval Europe. ‘‘By the middle of the twelfth century,’’ according to G. L. Kittredge’s history of English witchcraft, ‘‘such a condition, thus caused, was an accepted ground for divorce, and for the next three hundred years these cases were so numerous that this species of sorcery became an everyday matter.’’ The belief persisted into Shakespeare’s day. King James I in the preface to his Daemonologie in 1597 asserts the power of witches to weaken ‘‘the nature of some men, to make them unable for women.’’ Reginald Scot in

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The Discoverie of Witchcraft (1584) ridicules the Malleus Maleficarum for affirming ‘‘that the vertue of generation is impeached by witches, both inwardlie, and outwardlie: for intrinsecallie they represse the courage, and they stop the passage of the mans seed, so as it may not descend to the vessels of generation: also they hurt extrinsecallie, with images, hearbs, &c.’’ In spite of his skepticism, Scot retails several racy stories about young men whose ‘‘instruments of venerie’’ were stolen from their bodies by witches. One young man in particular ‘‘went to a witch for the restitution thereof, who brought him to a tree, where she shewed him a nest, and bad him clime up and take [his] toole.’’ Such a hiding place is common, Scot continues, for ‘‘some have found 20. and some 30. of them in one nest, being there preserved with provender, as it were at the racke and manger.’’ The image of the nest in the tree where the witch hides the stolen ‘‘toole’’ indicates that the witch’s power to castrate lies in her genitals; that is, her power as a witch is her power as a woman. Just this masculine association of impotence with female magic is dramatized by Shakespeare in The Merry Wives of Windsor. The main plot of Merry Wives turns on Ford’s fear of being cuckolded, which, according to psychoanalytically oriented criticism, is equivalent to ‘‘psychosocial castration.’’ Ford, the character obsessed with cuckoldry, is also the character obsessed with witchcraft. His phobia provides the wives an opportunity to play a rough practical joke on Falstaff by disguising him in the clothes of Mother Prat, Mrs. Ford’s maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brainford. Ford, according to his wife, ‘‘cannot abide the old woman of Brainford. He swears she’s a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threat’ned to beat her’’ (IV.ii.85–87). As she expects, Ford accuses the supposed old woman of witchcraft and gives her a cudgelling. His violence is striking because among the crowd of villagers present only Evans, the Welsh parson, agrees that ‘‘the

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oman is a witch indeed’’ (IV.ii.192–93) and also because the stage image shows a man beating a woman, the solitary example in Shakespeare. We laugh because we are interpreting the visual image: like Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page we know that the ‘‘old woman’’ is really the scoundrelly Falstaff, and we laugh because Merry Wives is a farce, a genre in which blows provide merriment rather than pain. If we shift our perspective to that of the Windsorites, however, we see that every character on stage accepts Ford’s right to beat the old woman of Brainford solely because ‘‘he cannot abide’’ her. The men he has brought with him do not interfere, and their lack of action rests on the unspoken premise that it is acceptable to beat, not just a witch, but a woman. In fact, Elizabethan moralists condoned and sometimes encouraged beating a woman when that woman was one’s wife. The acceptability of wife-beating is clear when, in the course of tricking Falstaff yet again, Mrs. Quickly mollifies his anger at having been beaten by telling him that the wives have also suffered, ‘‘speciously one of them. Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her’’ (IV.v.111–13). The sequence of Ford’s emotions suggests that the witch-beating is, indeed, a symbolic wife-beating. Just prior to this scene Ford, having discovered that his wife has tricked him about Falstaff, has worked himself into a rage that looks like lunacy to his neighbors. He addresses his wife with Othello-like sarcasm: ‘‘Come hither, Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealious fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, mistress, do I?’’ (IV.ii.129–32). When again Ford does not find Falstaff, his rage explodes in violence against the ‘‘witch.’’ Because the real target of his rage is not Falstaff but his wife, the ‘‘witch’’ becomes a surrogate for the woman he really wishes to beat. The surrogate wife-beating abruptly deflates his rage to penance, and at his next appearance his first words—‘‘Pardon me, wife’’ (IV.iv.6)—are precisely those he might say had he actually beaten Mrs. Ford. There is, then, psychological truth in Mrs. Quickly’s report in the next scene that Mrs. Ford is ‘‘beaten black and blue.’’ Shakespeare indicates the symbolic substitution of witch for wife by naming his witch for the place of her origin in Ford’s mind: ‘‘Brainford.’’ The names Ford calls the woman as he cudgels


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her—‘‘quean’’ and ‘‘polecat’’ (IV.ii.172,185)—are both slang terms for a whore, indicating that he projects on to her the infidelity he supposes in his wife. Moreover, he uses to her the same sarcasm he has just used to his wife and with the same motive, his anxiety to demonstrate that he is not deceived by the woman: She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men, we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by th’ figure, and such daub’ry as this is, beyond our element; we know nothing. (IV.ii.173–78)

As he pursues the witch out of his house, Ford urges his neighbors to follow, just as he insisted that they come to his house to witness his exposure of his wife. The reason he gives the men—‘‘I beseech you follow; see but the issue of my jealousy’’ (IV.ii.195–96)—is a peculiar reason for pursuing a witch. Ford’s unconscious identification of wife and witch suggests that he equates the witch’s spells with the wife’s power to cuckold or ‘‘unman’’ him. Magical spells might unman anatomically, or, as King James says, they might unman functionally, causing impotence or failure of offspring. Indications that Ford, before Falstaff appears in Windsor, feels unmanned in these ways would account for both his chronic jealousy and his witch phobia. For example, his feeling of impotence is suggested in the tale he tells Falstaff when he disguises as ‘‘Mr. Brook,’’ a failed suitor to Mrs. Ford: I have long lov’d her, and . . . bestow’d much on her; follow’d her with a doting observance . . . But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed I am sure I have receiv’d none . . . so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. (II.ii.194–217)

Perhaps Ford’s story tells more than he intends, an idea reinforced by the other jokes in the play about failed erections. Brook’s fiction of failure with Mrs. Ford may reveal some truth about Ford’s marriage, just as the alias he invents suggests his real name. Ford might feel impotent (¼ bewitched) because he has no children. In this regard, the Fords are noticeably contrasted with the Pages, their contemporaries and closest friends, who have both a daughter and a son. Ford has no heir and is not likely to have one because, as he says, ‘‘my wife is not young’’ (II.i.111). If Ford feels inadequate because he lacks a son, he would be reminded every day of the inadequacy by his close association with Page, and a sense of inferiority

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Benjamin Luxon as Sir John Falstaff disguised as Herne and being attacked by fairies and spirits, in Act V, scene V, English National Opera, London Coliseum, 1994 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

would account for a peculiar feature of his jealousy, that his desire to outsmart Page concerns him more than his feelings for his wife. He nurses plans for revenge against his enemy as a means of triumphing over his friend: ‘‘I will prevent this, detect my wife, be reveng’d on Falstaff, and laugh at Page’’ (II.ii.310–11). The climactic item in the series is not ‘‘detect my wife’’ but ‘‘laugh at Page.’’ Similarly, in the next Act, he gloats, ‘‘I will take him [i.e., Falstaff], then torture my wife, pluck the borrow’d veil of modesty from the so-seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and willful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbors shall cry aim’’ (III.ii.40–44). Again the syntactical sequence shows that Ford’s most pleasurable anticipation is in exposing Page. Ford’s unconscious sense of failure as husband and father turns into paranoia about female power, a fear that appears in his language about both his wife and the witch: I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an

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Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself. Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. (II.ii.302–8)

His transition from ‘‘she’’ to ‘‘they,’’ from ‘‘may effect’’ to ‘‘will effect,’’ shows an irrational fear of women as ‘‘they.’’ The same irrationality and the same linguistic pattern appear in his sarcastic outburst to the supposed Mother Prat: Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple [i.e., innocent] men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. (IV.ii.173–76)

The same shift from singular to plural, from ‘‘I’’ to ‘‘we,’’ shows Ford’s mind pitting deceitful ‘‘them’’ (women/witches) against innocent ‘‘us’’ (men). Ford is not the only male in Merry Wives to experience impotence in the face of magical female power. Falstaff is symbolically castrated by ‘‘witches’’ in the finale when Mrs. Ford and

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Mrs. Page ‘‘dis-horn’’ (IV.iv.64) him of his disguise as Herne the Hunter after summoning up the assistance of a band of supposed fairies. The identification of witches and fairies is an ancient, though not universal, folklore tradition that came into prominence at this time because of the witch persecutions. It should be added that Falstaff’s two previous humiliations at the hands of the wives have also been associated with impotence. First, after he is dumped out of the buck-basket into the Thames, Falstaff compares himself to Mrs. Ford’s servingmen who, in Mrs. Quickly’s inimitable malapropism, ‘‘mistook their erection’’ (III.v.39–40). Second, having been dressed in women’s clothing, an age-old sign of effeminacy, he says, ‘‘If it should come to the ear of the court, how I have been transform’d . . . they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crestfall’n as a dried pear’’ (IV.v.93–99). The fallen crest, like the mistaken erection, is another image of impotence such as that which Jeanne Addison Roberts sees embodied in his name: Fall staff. In short, the language designates all three tricks that Mrs. Ford plays on Falstaff as forms of emasculation. As he says to the disguised Ford, ‘‘I went to her, Master [Brook], as you see, like a poor old man, but I came from her, Master [Brook], like a poor old woman’’ (V.i.15–17). The wives have schooled him in what he should have realized from the beginning, that he is too old for courtship. His first advances astonish Mrs. Ford: ‘‘One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant!’’ (II.i.21–22); and at the end of the play Page taunts him as ‘‘old, cold, wither’d’’ (V.v.153–54). Even in his diminished avatar in Merry Wives, however, Falstaff is irrepressible: the old knight transfers the impotence of age to the young, scorning youthful lovers as ‘‘lisping hawthorn buds, that come like women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple time’’ (III.iii.71–73). In fact, the other failed suitors, although youthful, are also emasculated when the courtship plot repeats the pattern of the marital plot. Slender and Caius are symbolically castrated when Anne Page, disguised as a fairy, elopes with Fenton, tricking them into marrying disguised boys, thus metaphorically transforming them to women, like Falstaff’s ‘‘hawthorn buds.’’ The last scene of the play not only provides the most dramatic of these symbolic castrations


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of the failed suitors in both plots but also the most vivid of the stage images of the women as witches. The wives, by tricking Falstaff into entering Windsor Park at midnight ‘‘with a buck’s head upon him’’ (V.v.s.d.), transform him into a deer, which, as he realizes, makes him an ‘‘ass’’ (V.v.119). This suggests the power of witches to ‘‘transubstantiate . . . them whom they bewitch into asses,’’ the subject of numerous medieval tales. Much has been written about the image suggested here of Falstaff as Actaeon, man transformed into stag, as a Renaissance emblem of lust. It should be emphasized, however, that the agency of Actaeon’s supernatural transformation, as here, was female, the goddess Diana. By Shakespeare’s time Diana was often named as the queen of the fairies and sometimes of witches; Titania—the name chosen by Shakespeare for Oberon’s queen—is another name for Diana. Thus the Actaeon allusions in the play underline not only male lust but also female magic. Witch images appear in another way in that the stage picture shows a horned man in the woods at midnight. ‘‘No man means evil but the devil,’’ says Page on his way to Windsor Park, ‘‘and we shall know him by his horns’’ (V.ii.12– 14). Page and the other characters hiding, in their plan to humiliate Falstaff, intend justice. Falstaff is the only man in this scene who intends harm—in cuckolding Ford—and the comic parallel with the devil is underlined by Falstaff’s joking reference to his disguised self as ‘‘a true spirit’’ (V.v.29). With the entry of Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page, we see the wives of the town going into the woods at night to meet a horned man, a devil: the central stage action images a witches’ sabbath. According to tradition, the witches’ sabbath included devil worship and sexual orgies. The devil, appearing in the form of a monster, or horned man or beast, was adored, as King James puts it, by ‘‘the kissing of his hinder partes.’’ The language as well as the stage image of Falstaff’s meeting with the wives strongly suggest these ceremonies when Mrs. Ford enters in the dark asking, ‘‘art thou there, my deer? my male deer?’’ and he responds obscenely, ‘‘My doe with the black scut?’’ (V.v.16–18). When Mrs. Ford reveals that Mrs. Page is with her, Falstaff offers to make love to them both: ‘‘Divide me like a brib’d buck, each a haunch’’ (V.v.24). The ‘‘haunch’’ of the man in horns is rather like the ‘‘hinder part’’ of a devil. If, in fact, Evans is also disguised in horns, his arrival with Mrs. Quickly dressed as queen of the fairies doubles the image of the witches’ revels.

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Submerged in the final scene, then, is a sinister stage image of women consorting with the devil. The image embodies and recapitulates both Ford’s worst imaginings and Falstaff’s heady Act I fantasy of making love to two Windsor wives at once. If Mrs. Ford and Mrs. Page were, in fact, having a joint assignation in the woods with Falstaff, they would indeed be the ‘‘queans’’ and ‘‘witches’’ that Ford jealously supposes. Like the witch of Brainford, however, these evil and lustful wives exist only in masculine imagination. Symbolically castrating Falstaff, they do to the knight what Ford feared cuckoldry would do to him. Thus it is appropriate that Falstaff rather than Ford wear the horns in the final scene—a matter much debated—because he is the man rendered impotent by female betrayal and left without a woman.

like the power of the merry wives, tamed to the uses of marriage.

The finale also associates the other two female characters in the play with magical power: Mistress Quickly and Anne Page are disguised as fairies. Because the four women manipulate and control the action, the last scene makes the same connection between female power and magic that Ford made earlier when he beat the supposed witch, Mother Prat. The name of the witch can now be seen as generic. Earlier in the play, ‘‘prat’’ in its slang meaning of ‘‘buttocks’’ was laughably appropriate for the fat knight. The older meaning of ‘‘prat,’’ according to the OED [Oxford English Dictionary], is ‘‘a trick; a piece of trickery or fraud; a prank; a frolic.’’ The fifth-act tricks of the women, with their supernatural aura, make them all Mother Prats, that is, tricky women.

Barbara Freedman

The comic ending, when it destroys the men’s fantasies of adultery and betrayal, cancels the sinister associations of female magic. The wives’ trick on the would-be cuckolder restores potency to the husband, Ford, who, in the last lines of the play boasts to Falstaff, ‘‘To Master [Brook] you yet shall hold your word, / For he to-night shall lie with Mistress Ford’’ (V.v.244–45). Like the merry wives, Anne Page uses her magical power of feminine deceit to render the unworthy suitors impotent and to ratify the power of her husband, Fenton, who defends her because her trickery serves marriage: ‘‘Th’ offense is holy that she hath committed, / And this deceit loses the name of craft’’ (V.v.225–26). The word ‘‘craft’’ combines both the meaning of ‘‘trick’’ and its older meaning of ‘‘witchcraft’’ to emphasize the magical quality of Anne’s female power, now,

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Images of impotence and magic thus pervade Merry Wives to a greater extent than previously realized. They also display a causal connection. The play projects a masculine vision of any woman as a potential witch, or Mother Prat, because of her power to reject and/or deceive a man who desires her. This vision is dispelled when the wives use their female ‘‘craft’’ to support their husbands’ power, metamorphosing deceit into merriment. Source: Nancy Cotton, ‘‘Castrating (W)itches: Impotence and Magic in The Merry Wives of Windsor,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 38, No. 3, Autumn 1987, pp. 320–26.

In this essay, Freedman examines the character of Falstaff both within The Merry Wives of Windsor and among Shakespeare’s history plays. The critic discusses the buffoonery of Falstaff in The Merry Wives, commenting on the previous critical response to the character and offering her own opinion on the character’s importance and meaning. We can understand the nature and the history of the criticism on The Merry Wives as a series of attempts to come to terms with the disturbing response that the buffoon, and the punishment he requests, evokes. Critics are unanimous in their annoyance at Falstaff’s buffoonery, in their disgust at his cruel punishment at Windsor Forest, and in their desire to look outside the text to explain away both these responses. The apocryphal accounts of the play’s origin offer critics one solution. If, as John Dennis asserted in 1702, the play was written in fourteen days at the Queen’s command—or if, as Nicholas Rowe reported, these demands were further qualified by the Queen’s request that Shakespeare write a play which portrayed Falstaff in love—it becomes easy to blame critical dissatisfaction on external grounds: the play was hastily written, was probably highly derivative, and could not, given such constraints, adequately reflect Shakespeare’s creative genius. A second, more popular critical response has been literally to disown the play’s main character, Falstaff. Such critics direct our attention to the discrepancies between the more vital Falstaff of the history plays and the ‘‘old, cold, withered’’ buffoon before them, concluding that this is neither Shakepeare’s Falstaff nor our

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PUNISHING FALSTAFF COULD HAVE BEEN A GOOD DEAL MORE FUN IF THE MERRY WIVES WERE WRITTEN AS TRADITIONAL FARCE.’’

own. A. C. Bradley’s response is indicative of this critical trend: [Falstaff is] baffled, duped, treated like dirty linen, beaten, burnt, pricked, mocked, insulted, and, worst of all, repentant and didactic. It is horrible. It is almost enough to convince one that Shakespeare himself could sanction the parody of Ophelia in the Two Noble Kinsmen. But it no more touches the real Falstaff than Ophelia is degraded by that parody.

A third means of avoiding the problem of Falstaff’s buffoonery has been to moralize the issue. Either the community is to be blamed for unfair behavior, or Falstaff is to be blamed for his villainy in order for these critics to accept the play’s action. Jeanne Addison Roberts’ article, ‘‘Falstaff in Windsor Forest: Villain or Victim?’’ bluntly states the moralizers’ dilemma: ‘‘Is Falstaff . . . a social menace who brings on himself a well-deserved punishment? Or is he a nearlyinnocent victim, entrapped by the scheming wives and used by society for its own rather devious ends?’’ Roberts concludes that he is both and turns to historical parallels of scapegoating to explain the ambiguity of Falstaff’s criminal status. The view of Falstaff as scapegoat eludes the moralizers’ dilemma in enabling us to see him as guilty and innocent at once, but it demands an identification with the wives, with their community, and with certain professed social aims that is problematic, if not impossible, given the way in which the play is written. The result is a fourth means of evading our response to the play: focusing on historical situations which inform the play’s pattern of events but which fail to explain Shakespeare’s use of them. While vestiges of a primitive scapegoat ritual certainly loom large in The Merry Wives, the fact remains that the Falstaff of The Merry Wives is not a ritual scapegoat but a realistically drawn dramatic character with psychological validity. The wives who punish him are not ‘‘defenders of the social order’’ but offended women with


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minds and plans of their own—both of which they refuse to share with the other members of their community. Even when the entire community is involved in Falstaff’s punishment, and that is only one action in a much larger sequence of events, the punishment is not a ritual scapegoating but a self-conscious and playful parody of that ritual. Furthermore, Falstaff’s humiliation in Windsor Forest is neither necessary nor successful in ‘‘purging’’ the Windsor community. The crisis of a manipulative view of others and of reality which plagues Windsor society is only ‘‘mythically’’ solved by the symbol of Fenton and Anne Page’s freely willed marriage at the play’s end; a tragicomic awareness of our inability to control the outcome of events, and our inability to stop trying to control events, is tellingly underlined by the fact of that wedding as well. On the surface, the play reads as a citizen comedy: Falstaff is a threat to the community, and his punishment at the hands of the Windsor wives is merry, moral, and survival-oriented. Yet if we consider our emotional response to the play or attempt to understand what desires the author may be fulfilling through creating and sharing its core fantasy, there is a second possible view of the action. We don’t—or I don’t—always feel as if the wives simply represent the interests of a sane society. And Shakespeare apparently didn’t either, for he has these wives doubt their own intentions and then protest far too much: ‘‘What think you?’’ Mrs. Ford asks Mrs. Page, ‘‘May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him [Falstaff] with any further revenge?’’ (IV.ii.179–81). Mrs. Page’s reply is a confident one: ‘‘The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of him. If the devil have him not in fee simple . . . he will never, I think . . . attempt us again’’ (IV.ii.182–85) The wives then blithely forge ahead with a new plan to ‘‘still be the ministers’’ of Falstaff’s punishment, rationalizing their action with such pithy couplets as ‘‘Against such lewdsters and their lechery / Those that betray them do no treachery’’ (V.iii.20–21) Their vindictive reaction to Falstaff’s ‘‘love letter’’ is understandable the first time, but they feed his flattery and egg him on to future sexual transgressions most cruelly—and unnecessarily. Quite simply, the wives and their ‘‘sane community’’ do not provide ample motivation for this fantasy, and if we identify with them, we won’t fully understand why Shakespeare was writing this play. Facts are facts. Shakespeare was interested, for some strange

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reason, in writing about clownish male sexual humiliation and punishment, in making us laugh at something essentially disturbing: an aggressive and yet guilty sense of sexuality. The play expresses an obvious pleasure in being caught, in being humiliated, in being punished for sexual transgressions. Perhaps if we consider the play as Falstaff’s fantasy—a self-directed farce of repeated selfhumiliations—we will be closer to the true spirit of the play. Punishing Falstaff could have been a good deal more fun if The Merry Wives were written as traditional farce. Central to that genre is a pattern of sexual transgression and punishment for that transgression which is usually well disguised. Insofar as farce, by definition, derives humor from absurd plot aggression directed against flat characters, it characteristically enables us to enjoy aggression whose cause and effect is denied. In The Merry Wives, however, we have a self-conscious use of farce for didactic aims: a self-conscious punishment for sexuality which is disturbing as much as it is humorous. Surely Shakespeare knew he would be losing a few laughs by having us chant, along with the Windsor community, Fie on sinful fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, ... Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villainy; Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about, Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out. (V.v.91–100) Punishing Falstaff may be fun at first, but without the disguises of traditional farce, it becomes serious business. By the second and third times around, as critics have noted, it becomes downright humiliating. To understand the highly self-conscious, punitive view of sexuality in Merry Wives, it is useful to examine the play in the larger context of the plays Shakespeare wrote around the same time. It is enlightening, for example, to see how the play anticipates, and gives comic expression to, the same sexual conflicts that characterize such tragedies as Othello and King Lear. Common to Shakespeare’s plays of this period is a focus on an aging male protagonist facing, or

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attempting to evade, a decrease in mental and physical agility, and facing, or attempting to evade, accompanying fantasies of emasculation and humiliation by women. Since there are two Lears and two Othellos, that there are two Falstaffs should not, perhaps, be so confusing; a play about Falstaff in love is a play about male sexuality in middle age, which for Shakespeare seems to connote a definite falling off from what one was before, a sense of impending impotence of mind and body. Shakespeare emphasizes Falstaff’s decline by choosing to depict the comic defeat of a character with an established reputation for vitality, and by forcing him to acknowledge, early on in the play, a disturbing shift in the state of affairs and a need to adjust accordingly: ‘‘Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels,’’ he complains to his men, adding: ‘‘There is no remedy— I must cony-catch, I must shift’’ (I.iii.28–31). Shakespeare focuses on the onset of intellectual inadequacy when he has Falstaff repeatedly forget and need to be reminded of times and dates after demonstrating remarkable mental agility in the play’s opening scene. But the comedy’s major concern is with a sense of sexual inadequacy, a loss of manliness; hence, the majority of its plots concern impotent old men trying to prove their masculinity through foolishly conceived duels and even more foolishly conceived sexual liaisons, none of which comes to fruition. One defense against this crisis is narcissistic self-aggrandizement, achieved through a costly dependence on external proofs of one’s grandeur; this is most evident in the heroics of an Othello or a King Lear. The Merry Wives also begins with old men foolishly parading their official titles in a pathetic attempt to restore their shattered selfesteem. Falstaff’s overblown self-image and subsequent downfall merely anticipate, in comic fashion, the hubris and destruction of the tragic heroes who are to follow. Unlike Lear, Falstaff manages to retain his preposterously grandiose self-image despite numerous humiliations, yet he does so only to be set up for repeated comic pratfalls. A second defense characteristic of this crisis is a premature adjustment to declining powers in the form of a regression to an infantile posture of dependency upon woman. Lear would draw from Cordelia an absolute declaration of love so that he might comfortably fulfill his plans ‘‘to set my rest On her kind nursery’’ (I.i.123–24); without Desdemona, Othello’s occupation is gone. Falstaff

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The Fair on St George’s Day, c 1559-1560 (etching and engraving), by Pieter Brueghel, the Elder (The Fair on St George’s Day, c1559-60 (etching and engraving, 1st state), Brueghel, Pieter the Elder (c1515-69) (after), photograph. Museum purchase with funds from The Brown Foundation, Inc, Museum of Fine Arts, Houston, Texas, USA/ The Bridgeman Art Library International)

mirrors Lear in his wholly unrealistic plans to make a living off disinterested Windsor wives: ‘‘They shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both’’ (I.iii.64–66). Ford, like Othello and Lear, is plagued with unrealistic fantasies of possessiveness and fears of abandonment. In sum, The Merry Wives is a world of impotent old men wholly dependent upon asexual maternal figures for financial and emotional well-being—so much so that the primary action of the play is the devising of crafty plots whereby one can draw from these women one’s sustenance. As taking from woman in this play is imagined in terms of an infantile dependency on maternal figures, it is not surprising that sexuality is described in oral images. Eating seems to be the major preoccupation of Windsor society; everyone is always coming from or going to a dinner. And close analysis reveals that the Windsor characters’ attitudes towards dining parallel their attitudes towards coupling in the play. Basically, there are two dominant attitudes towards eating and sexuality in The Merry Wives. The creed of comedy, and its ideal of sexuality, is the


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benevolent oral merger, based on trust in the other, and represented by Master Page. For Page, eating is sharing, being a Host is not losing oneself but finding oneself, creating harmony. Page speaks of ‘‘drink[ing] down all unkindness’’ (I.i.175) and of making amends at the table; eating, for him, is a creative, restorative process. Correspondingly, Page is patient, trustful, and giving in his relationships with others, most obviously with his wife. The opposing creed of farce, and its view of sexuality, is the destructive oral merger, based on a distrustful compulsion greedily to devour or prey upon others, and a fear of like retribution for that sin. For Falstaff, eating is stealing, a sign of transgression which brings on punishment, a devouring which leads to being devoured. His monstrous size is our first clue to his greedy intent. In this play we first meet him eating stolen deer at Page’s house; he soon attempts to steal Page’s ‘‘dear,’’ his wife, as well. Yet her desire appears to Falstaff to be as destructive and devouring as his own. He tells us that ‘‘she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her

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eye did seem to scorch me up like a burningglass’’ (I.iii.59–61). Falstaff’s burning by the Windsor fairies at the play’s conclusion records the triumph of this maternal devouring. His hungry preying is similar to Ford’s jealous possessiveness. The stealing and possessiveness are simply two sides of one coin, resulting from a sense of not having enough inside, and so being unable to give to others, and from a feeling that one must take in order to counteract what others take from one, in turn. Ford fears that everyone will steal from him, and yet so does Falstaff; they simply defend against that threat differently. In sum, if Page is the perfect host, Falstaff is the perfect parasite; their attitudes towards eating and sexuality correspond to these roles. Hostile fantasies of hurting, preying upon, and devouring that which sustains one naturally call forth guilty fantasies of retribution. The parasitical Windsor males who would prey upon women are punished through sexual frustration, sexual humiliation, symbolic castration, and symbolic devouring. Quickly cruelly leads on Anne Page’s suitors in the subplot, as the merry wives entice and frustrate Falstaff in the main plot. Anne’s suitors are publicly humiliated by being led into abortive duels and, even worse, abortive marriages (being wed to ‘‘great lubberly boys’’); Falstaff is humiliated by having his sexual desires and desirability mocked by the community. Falstaff’s symbolic castration is discussed by Jeanne Roberts who notes that the community’s aim, as described by Mrs. Page, is to ‘‘dis-horne the spirit’’ (IV.iv.62); Roberts also points out that the dialogue concerning the horns strongly suggests that Falstaff’s horns are removed from his head by the community immediately. The symbolic devouring of Falstaff occurs in the greasy knight’s public burning. The traditional association of fire with a destructive devouring is already made by the community, who notes that ‘‘lust is but a bloody fire’’ (V.v.93) and then burns Falstaff accordingly for it. Yet farce provides a partial solution to this guilty attack on the self for destructive sexuality—a particular, defensive mode of dealing with guilty self-punishment. Unlike Lear, who is the passive victim of his daughter’s cruel attacks, Falstaff unmans and humiliates himself. He is not only foolish to begin with, thereby already collaborating in the Windsor women’s plot to punish him, but he plays the fool repeatedly, thereby helping it along. Whereas the tragic mode of heroic challenge and attack is followed by a martyred

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submission to persecutory fantasies, the farcical mode moves from mock transgression and selfemasculation through punishment to laughing forgiveness: the pattern of the buffoon. Falstaff dismisses his own train before the wives deceptively win away his page; Falstaff allows himself to be fooled without an Iago, although the women do egg him on in his self-flattery. Falstaff willingly dons Mother Prat’s clothes in an attempt to avoid punishment, whereas Lear agonizes over the woman’s tears that threaten his masculine self-image. As if to avoid punishment for womanish dependency, for an aggressive taking from woman, Falstaff becomes foolish woman, emasculates himself, and asks for ridicule and humiliation. In a sense, Falstaff takes the option that Lear couldn’t and willingly plays the fool. It is this active role in the pattern of transgression and punishment that keeps the play a comedy and enables us to understand it in terms of the tragic works that follow. In an article on the psychodynamics of clowning, Richard Simons presents a case study of a typical buffoon. The man’s obsessive clowning is analyzed as a complex mode of enacting the same transgressions and simultaneously defending against the same fears, as those typical of circus clowning, of farce in general, and of The Merry Wives of Windsor in particular. The patient, about fifty years of age, described as ‘‘old, balding, toothless, obese, hard of hearing, and impotent.’’ He enjoyed telling the other patients of the one time a doctor had considered placing him in a nursing home. He lived with his mother and sister and felt deeply ambivalent toward them, bound in dependency upon them and yet despising their control. From childhood on, he recounted, he had played the fool; he was the student clown who was always caught drawing ugly pictures of the teacher on the blackboard just as she walked in the room. The patient expressed displeasure about being mocked by the other patients but seemed to derive a great deal of secret pleasure from it. For he would continually place himself in situations where he would be caught attacking someone, ideally female authority figures, and would then give his peers due information and cause to join in his reprimand and yet simultaneously laugh at his foolishness. Simons explains this patient’s clowning as a means of enabling an acceptable release of aggression. First, joking provides a socially acceptable means of releasing hostility, a means of projecting

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one’s fears and one’s deficiencies onto others and then mocking them for it. Second, the clown is a fool, so his self-abasement takes the sting out of his attacks. Yet insofar as clowning depends upon ‘‘being caught,’’ it is particularly safe, for it provides the clown with a means of escaping the anxiety, guilt, and self-punishment arising from his hostile thoughts and acts. In being found out and punished, the clown can disown and project the role of superego onto an audience whom he can in turn bribe through humor and self-abasement. The typical student clown, then, manages to vent hostility against the teacher, and the pleasure in getting caught is a means of acting out and disowning superego aggression; he can then bribe the superego through his humorous self-abasement before teachers and peers. The defense mechanism of clowning may also be understood as an effective means of mastering oral anxieties. The oral tendency is to preserve an attachment to the introjected object at all costs, yet maintaining that relationship is problematic, given the conflicts which characterize the disturbed oral personality’s primary relationship. The first accessible defense mechanism for maintaining a frustrating object relationship is the splitting of the maternal image into idealized and malevolent components. Yet insofar as the oral personality has characteristically failed to master primary ambivalence towards the object, it is unable to neutralize destructive feelings towards the self and the other which derive from the split maternal image. Ridden with guilt over destructive feelings towards both the object and the self, the subject seeks a means of controlling the attacks of its irrationally harsh superego. Seeking punishment is a means of controlling inner hostility; through manipulative harassment, an external, regulatory process for doling out aggression is set up. Finally, insofar as seeking punishment is also a means of seeking attention, it provides a means of maintaining a relationship, however unsatisfactory the quality of that relationship may be. Clowning as a technique provides the professional and literary buffoons with the same defensive means of expressing aggression that it affords the amateur. While clownish hostility is invariably directed against authority figures, both male and female, it is interesting to note that the clown is traditionally a male figure and serves the function, in our society, of playing on fears of and hostility toward women. The clown’s traditional


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garb is itself an attack on women, a hideous caricature of her made-up face, stiff hairdo, and flimsy clothing. Like the typical buffon and comedian, Falstaff projects his own deficiencies onto others and then laughs at them for it; in this case, the Windsor elders are ridiculed for their impotence and parasitic behavior. But Falstaff seems especially concerned with attacking powertul maternal figures and then being discovered and humiliated by them. His dependence on and aggression toward women have been analyzed, but we may add that they are given expression through costume as well as through action. In a memorable scene between Falstaff and his alter ego, Master Ford, Falstaff dresses up as Mother Prat—by name a punitive maternal figure. Ford vents his anger at the old woman because of her fortune-telling, her alleged control over situations ‘‘beyond our element’’ about which ‘‘we know nothing’’ (IV.ii.154). Aggression against a punitive maternal figure is thus released by both men in this scene. But Falstaff’s aggression toward women upon whom he is dependent and his curious desire to be punished for it are most obvious in his ridiculous plan of writing degrading love letters to a number of maternal figures in the community who are sure to see through him and make him suffer for his advances. The traditional clown and Falstaff set themselves up to be caught; being chased and beaten is the essence of farce action, and Falstaff’s role is to be continually found out and humiliated for the same sin. In both cases, we can understand this degrading clowning as a means of safely transgressing against authority figures and then safely being punished for it, by innocently playing out and disowning punishment. Or, to return to the familiar classroom paradigm, Falstaff is the class clown, the merry wives are the teacher, and we are his peers who both punish and laugh at this foolish figure. To place the play in a larger context, I pose the following conundrum: Why is this image of man, with his aggressive and yet guilty sense of sexuality, his focus on humiliation and abuse at the hands of woman, preoccupying Shakespeare between the writing of a Twelfth Night and a Hamlet? Or ‘‘why,’’ as William Green asks us in his introduction to the Signet edition of the play, ‘‘when engrossed in writing romantic comedy . . . does [Shakespeare] suddenly backtrack to the farcical treatment of love that he successfully presented in The Taming of the Shrew?’’ The most prevalent philosophical concern in Shakespeare’s

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plays of the time period is not with the potential, ever renewing accommodations and adjustments to life which comedy celebrates but with a tragic awareness of man’s limitations. Throughout the plays is a disturbing sense of the impossibility of purposive language and action in a world of flux, created by man and sustained by his frail faith in himself and in others. This conflict is commonly expressed in the form of a triad. One term is an ideal world order, received from one’s fathers, and often represented by them: a world that in each subsequent incarnation, is increasingly revealed to be less viable and less self-aware. This is the ideal world of a Friar Laurence, a Richard II, an old Hamlet; it is Hector’s ideal of intrinsic value, Othello’s dream, and Lear’s fantasy. A recognition of its flaws is necessary but, ultimately, neither comforting nor useful; threatening to take its place is a world of chaos. As Ulysses reminds us, Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark what discord follows. Each thing meets In mere oppugnancy . . . ... Then everything include itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite. And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey And last eat up himself. (I.iii.109–24) This is our second term, the chaotic world which Bolingbroke opened up like a Pandora’s box: a world peopled by Ajax and Pompey Bum, Falstaff and his crew, Goneril and Regan, and Othello’s Anthropophagi who eat each other up. In between the ideal and the real, the private and the public, the past and the present, is a mediator attempting to join the two; after Hamlet, that mediator simply represents a makeshift, manmade order subject to constant attack from without and within, sustained only by human imagination, faith, and respect. The problem of maintaining a makeshift, imaginative, communal order in the face of external attack and a loss of faith in a previous order is given comic expression in The Merry Wives of Windsor. Representing the old order in the form of its restitutions of law and religion are the farcical Windsor elders. Threatening to replace them are the chaotic forces of power, will, and appetite, represented by the ridiculous buffoon Falstaff and his farcically swaggering

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crew. Shakespeare reenacts his tragic dilemma on the familiar testing ground of English soil, Windsor community—and on the familiar testing ground of English comedy as well. What sustains Windsor society is its commitment to the opposite of the manipulative, predatory, capitalistic behavior in which both parties engage—its commitment to a creed of communal trust, faith, and harmony, as represented by Master Page. The possibility of tragedy threatens, however, when Shakespeare rests an order, as he must, on imaginative grounds; trust implies mistrust, and every Page has its counterpart Ford in Shakespeare’s works. Yet Ford is here linked with Falstaff; the miser becomes the thief’s alterego, and through this identification, the threat that Ford presents can be safely overcome. After all, this is a comedy. What makes the play humorous is Shakespeare’s portrayal of the Windsor elders in such a way that their impotence is comic rather than tragic, and his portrayal of the forces of chaos in terms of comic weaknesses as well. What makes the play comedy, rather than farce, is the addition of an alternative which has all the trappings of success, a mediating term with which we can identify and which will save the community. This triad has its psychological coordinates as well, and these are well brought out in Shakespeare’s post-1600 plays. For the old world, the sanctioned order now revealed as hollow, we have an old, narrowly defined, heroic masculine persona which is no longer viable or appropriate. For the new, predatory ‘‘order,’’ we have an identity based on dependency on others (particularly women) in time: a tragic sense of being as subject to continual redefinition by untrustworthy mirrors. In the post-1600 plays, these two options are often presented in the characters of the omnipotent superhero and the emasculated cuckold. The ideal mean, a secure masculine sexual identity dependent upon the possibility of intimacy without self-destruction, a successful sense of being with and through others, is depicted in The Merry Wives in the confident relationship of the Pages. In the tragedies, Shakespeare becomes fascinated with attacking and exposing the world of the fathers, and exploring and resolving this sense of relationship with woman as dependent and devouring. There is a growing identification with heroic transgression, on the one hand, and with an ultimately passive submission to these

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destructive powers, be they the forces of evil without or within, glorified in the form of heavenly ministers, on the other. The comedies equally deal with transgressions against fathers and mothers, but they provide a defensive means of dealing with the accompanying guilt—in this case, through a manipulative, humorous baiting of others into an attack which enables regulation of hostile feelings, and through humorous selfabasement which mitigates that attack. Simons notes, ‘‘Clowning is thus an adaptive effort on the part of the ego to deal with . . . castrative fears, a defense against and a partial punishment for incestuous and aggressive impulses, an abandonment of the oedipal struggle with regression to more infantile levels, and a communication to the therapist: ‘Don’t be frightened of me. I’m no rival. I’m only a clown—a fool—old and weak— fat—bald—impotent.’’’ How does clowning alleviate the punishment accompanying the transgressions enacted in the tragedies of the time period? ‘‘If,’’ as Simons argues, ‘‘he [the clown] can actively play at these fears, perhaps they will not come true. If he can confess and expose them to ridicule, perhaps no further punishment will be exacted. If he can get his friends to laugh at them, perhaps they are not so terrifying as they seem.’’ In The Merry Wives of Windsor, Shakespeare’s friends agree to laugh with him once more, and to stall off the terrors that are to come. Source: Barbara Freedman, ‘‘Falstaff ’s Punishment: Bufoonery as Defensive Posture in The Merry Wives of Windsor,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 14, 1981, pp. 163–74.

SOURCES Charney, Maurice, All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993. Dickson, Andrew, The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, Rough Guides, 2005.


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Epstein, Norrie, The Friendly Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1993. Shakespeare, William, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Gramercy Books, 1995.

FURTHER READING Bernit, Bill, Writing the Romantic Comedy, Collins, 2001. Bernit is a story analyst who has read over 4000 movies scripts in the past decade. He has written this book to help writers who are interested in writing contemporary stories of love and humor. Bloom, Harold, ed., Sir John Falstaff (Bloom’s Major Literary Characters), Chelsea House Publications, 2003. This collection of critical essays focuses on one of Shakespeare’s most notorious characters, Sir John Falstaff. Gurr, Andrew, William Shakespeare: The Extraordinary Life of The Most Successful Writer of All Time, Book Sales, 1996. Through biography and photographs, Gurr provides a look at the life of Shakespeare and his times. Levi, Peter, Life and Times of William Shakespeare, Random House, 1995. Levi provides the facts but also speculates on details of the Bard’s life for which there is no factual evidence, making this an interesting read. McDonald, Russ, ed., Shakespeare: An Anthology of Criticism and Theory, Blackwell Publishing, 2004. This book is a collection of critical essays and interpretations of all of Shakespeare’s works. Mittelstaedt, Walt, A Student’s Guide to William Shakespeare, Enslow Publishers, 2005. Mittelstaedt offers interpretations and explanations of some of Shakespeare’s works. Weir, Alison, The Life of Elizabeth I, Ballantine Books, 1999. To understand the times, readers must also understand the queen. Weir gives her readers a well researched and interesting view of a woman whose affect upon England has been deep and long lasting.

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A Midsummer Night’s Dream 1595

A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one of William Shakespeare’s earliest romantic comedies, and it has been considered one of his most successful and best-loved works throughout the centuries. It has spawned some of his most memorable and imitated characters, such as Puck, the fairy sprite with a penchant for mischief; and Bottom, a weaver who becomes such a ham when rehearsing with the local theater group that a magical spell is cast to give him the head of a donkey. Ever since the play was written in approximately 1595, there have been versions for the stage that have adapted Shakespeare’s multiple plot lines, emphasizing one or another character or putting a minor theme out in front of the play. Shakespeare combined elements of stories that were well-known in his time, drawing from Roman poets and folk tales; it is a sign of his skill as a writer that echoes of this play can be heard in works throughout modern culture. In writing A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare diverted from his custom of retelling a familiar story, instead weaving together diverse elements into a coherent and satisfying whole. There are two sets of lovers, two royal couples, tradesmen (or ‘‘Mechanicals’’) who are actors, and fairies who cannot be seen by any humans but one. A father disapproves of his daughter’s romance, two men are put under magic spells to love the same woman, and a queen humbles herself by falling in love with a man who has the head of an ass. And the whole

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show ends with one of Shakespeare’s funniest scenes, as the inept but well-meaning actors struggle to put on a serious play, in the process showing everything that Shakespeare thought was wrong with the theater. A Midsummer Night’s Dream remains a thought-provoking meditation on love and perception, as well as a wonder for audiences worldwide.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 A Midsummer Night’s Dream begins in the palace of Theseus, Duke of Athens, who is making arrangements to marry Hippolyta, the queen of the Amazons. As they plan their wedding with Philostrate, who will be in charge of the ceremony, Egeus enters. He is an old man and has a petition to ask of the duke: Egeus has promised his daughter Hermia to a young man, Demetrius, but she wants to go against her father’s wishes and marry Lysander, another young gentleman. In the ensuing discussion, Hermia points out that Demetrius can marry Helena, who is in love with him. Theseus hears the case and determines that Hermia must follow her father’s order and marry Demetrius. Hermia is given a choice: in four days, which happens to be the date of Theseus and Hippolyta’s own wedding, she can either marry Demetrius, or she will have to go and live in a convent for the rest of her life, and remain a virgin forever. She chooses the convent but is given the following days to think about it. When all of the others leave, Hermia and Lysander concoct a plan: they will sneak away from Athens the next night, to the house of Lysander’s aunt out into the woods—beyond the duke’s legal jurisdiction—and be married. They see Helena passing and tell her of their plans, to help her quit worrying about losing Demetrius. When they leave, Helena decides that she can use this information to capture Demetrius’s loyalty, thinking that he will lose his interest in Hermia once he finds out how devious she is.

Act 1, Scene 2 In the cottage of Peter Quince, a group of local laborers is making plans to present a play called The Most Lamentable Comedy, and Most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisby, which they intend


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to perform for the duke’s marriage. As Quince assigns the roles to the workers and explains their basic functions in the play, he is frequently interrupted by Nick Bottom, the lead actor, who suggests ways to expand his part or ways that he can take over other parts in addition to his own: his enthusiasm is so great that at one point he suggests that he could play both Pyramus and Thisby, the two lovers of the play’s title. Once the parts are assigned, Quince tells the company to meet him the next night in the woods, about a mile out of town, so that they can rehearse without anyone watching them and stealing their secrets.

Act 2, Scene 1 The second act takes place in the woods outside of Athens. Puck and an unnamed fairy exchange gossip about Oberon, the king of the fairies, and his wife, Titania. Puck explains that Oberon is jealous because Titania is infatuated with her new attendant, a young man whom she stole from an Indian king. Oberon has tried to take the young orphan boy from her, but so far Titania has resisted. Oberon and Titania, along with a throng of fairies, enter the clearing. She accuses him of having been unfaithful and having traveled to seduce women in foreign lands. She points out that Hippolyta, the queen of the Amazons, was his lover, and he counters that Titania was in love with Theseus. Titania points out how their ongoing arguments and mutual jealousy have brought ill weather to the world for months, and Oberon counters that things might be settled if she would just give him the young attendant to be his servant. After she leaves, Oberon summons Puck and gives him an assignment. Oberon remembers once having seen Cupid, the god of love, shoot an arrow that fell on a flower, and he knows that that flower, the ‘‘love-in-idleness,’’ can be used to make people fall in love. He plans to use this love spell on Titania when she is asleep; it will cause her to fall in love with the first person she sees upon waking up, thus helping her to lose interest in her young servant. Demetrius and Helena enter the clearing, but Oberon, being a fairy, is invisible to them. Helena insists that Demetrius owes his love to her because she has revealed Hermia’s scheme to marry Lysander instead of him, but Demetrius

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Dominic West as Lysander and Calista Flockhart as Helena in a scene from the 1999 film A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Ó Fox Searchlight/Everett Collection)

strides ahead of her, insisting that Helena makes him sick. As he keeps telling her to leave him alone, she keeps insisting that she will never stop loving him. As they walk offstage, Oberon notes that Helena will have Demetrius asking for her love in the end.

Act 2, Scene 2 In another part of the woods, Titania sits on her couch, surrounded by doting fairies. They sing her to sleep with a lullaby, and Oberon applies the flower petal to her eyes. Lysander and Hermia pass by this spot, discussing their upcoming marriage. Hermia insists that they must not sleep together until after they are married, so Lysander moves away from her before lying down. Puck, having been instructed to apply the flower to a man in the woods dressed in typical Athenian clothes, thinks the sleeping Lysander is Demetrius. Oberon wanted Puck to apply the love spell to Demetrius while he slept, so that

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he would love Helena as much as she loves him; instead, Puck applies it to Lysander. Demetrius arrives, with Helena still chasing him. When he breaks away from her, Helena stands and bemoans her inability to attract him. She finds Lysander on the ground and wakes him up, and the spell makes him fall instantly in love with her. As Lysander emphatically declares his love for her, Helena becomes suspicious, fearing that he is making fun of her. Hermia awakens from a nightmare in which Lysander watched with a smile while a serpent ate her heart. She calls for him and finds him gone.

Act 3, Scene 1 Nearby, the artisans have found a clearing to rehearse their play. Bottom complains that the script has his character committing suicide with a sword, which, he says, the ladies in the audience will never accept: rather than omitting the suicide, his solution is to include a prologue to the play explaining that the character Pyramus, and

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not Bottom himself, will be killed. Quince agrees to write the prologue. They settle their concern over worrying the audience with the lion’s appearance in a similar way, with a short speech to the audience explaining that it is not a real lion, but only Snug, the joiner, playing a part. To settle the problem of having to have moonlight and a brick wall on the stage, they decide to have actors play moonlight and the wall. Puck shows up, unseen, feeling that the artisans are too close to the Fairy Queen’s sleeping place. When Bottom goes offstage, Puck follows him and casts a spell on him. Bottom returns when his cue is spoken, but his head has been transformed into an ass’s head. The other tradesmen run away in fear when they see him, but Bottom has no idea what is scaring them. Titania wakes up and, seeing Bottom, immediately falls in love with him. She praises his beauty and his wisdom and refuses to allow him to leave the forest. She assigns a coterie of her fairies—Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, and Mustardseed—to follow him and grant his every wish.

Act 3, Scene 2 Puck goes to Oberon and explains that he made Titania fall in love with the ass-headed monster, Bottom. Oberon is pleased, but then they see Demetrius and Hermia walk by. Puck recognizes Hermia as the woman from the couple he saw, but he warns that Demetrius is not the man he touched with the flower petal. Hermia, having found Lysander gone when she awoke, is afraid that Demetrius might have injured him, while he continues to proclaim his love for her until she runs away from him; then, he lays down on the ground to sleep.

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her, Helena thinks that they are working together to make fun of her. When Hermia returns, she goes to Lysander, having not seen him since the love spell affected him. He rejects her to focus his attention on Helena and tells Hermia that he hates her. Seeing how distressed Hermia looks, Helena concludes that she is a part of the conspiracy to mock her. The insults become so severe that Hermia moves toward Helena in a threatening gesture, and Helena, frightened, asks that they all just let her go. Demetrius and Lysander decide to fight for Helena. They go off into the woods to find a clearing where there is enough room for their swords. Helena, afraid to be left alone with Hermia, goes off after them, and Hermia follows. Oberon and Puck, who have been present but unseen all along, discuss how to rectify this situation. Oberon tells Puck to magically create a fog, so that he can lead the two men away from each other. When they fall asleep, he will have the opportunity to undo the spell that has been cast on Lysander, so that he will love Hermia again, though he plans to leave the spell on Demetrius. Puck notes that this has to be done quickly, before the sun comes up. Puck carries out Oberon’s plan: in the fog, he calls to Lysander in Demetrius’s voice, and he calls to Demetrius in Lysander’s voice, to keep them from finding each other and doing harm, until they fall asleep. Helena enters and falls asleep near Demetrius. Hermia enters and falls asleep near Lysander, and Puck puts the potion on Lysander’s eyes that will free him from the love spell when he awakes.

Act 4, Scene 1

Oberon, seeing that Demetrius has not fallen in love with Helena, concludes that the spell has made someone fall in love with the wrong person. He sends Puck off to bring Helena back to him. When Puck is gone, Oberon rubs the petal of the love-in-idleness on Demetrius, so that he will fall in love with Helena when she comes.

This scene opens with Titania still enthralled by donkey-headed Bottom. Because of the attention that the Fairy Queen is giving him, Bottom acts and speaks in ways that he believes are refined. He gives the fairies chores to do to please his whims. In general, Bottom is being an annoyance, but Titania continues to pronounce her love for him as they drop off to sleep.

Helena approaches, followed by Lysander. He continues to proclaim his love for her, and she still thinks that he is mocking her. Demetrius awakens, sees Helena, and he proclaims his love for her too. With both men saying that they love

Oberon and Puck enter, and Oberon, having been given the young attendant that he wanted from Titania, removes the love spell from her. She wakes, remembering her love for an ass as if it had been a dream. Oberon points out that the


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creature that she remembered was indeed real and then commands Puck to remove the ass head from Bottom. Oberon and Titania dance together and make plans to attend Theseus’s wedding. Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus, and others of the court arrive in the woods on a hunting trip. They come across Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia, and Helena, who are still sleeping. As they wake, Demetrius and Lysander realize that there is no rivalry between them anymore because each has the woman that he loves. They recount the events of the following night, as far as they understand them, to Theseus and Hippolyta. All four are uncertain of the details of what happened—and in fact are uncertain about whether they are even fully awake yet. When everybody leaves, Bottom wakes up, reciting his lines from the play. He too is uncertain about whether the events that he remembers are a dream. Because he has such an inflated ego, he plans to have Peter Quince write down the details of his dream as a ballad, which he can sing at the end of their play.

Act 4, Scene 2 Back at Quince’s cottage, the tradesmen are assembled, and Snug enters with the news that the duke’s wedding is over and that several other couples have been married at the same time. They are ready to begin but for their lead actor, Bottom, who has not been seen since the night before. When he does show up, it is to rush them along: the wedding feast has started, and the entertainment will be expected soon.

Act 5, Scene 1 Theseus and Hippolyta enter his palace as man and wife, followed by various lords and attendants. They talk to each other about the strange tales that the young lovers brought back from the forest before Lysander and Hermia and then Demetrius and Helena arrive, all newly married. Theseus asks Philostrate what entertainment there is for them to watch between dinner and bedtime. He gives Theseus a paper with singers and dancers and comic acts on it, but Theseus chooses the drama of Pyramus and Thisby first. Philostrate says that he saw the tradesmen rehearsing, and that, though it is a sad story, he never laughed so hard. Quince enters to give the Prologue to the play. His words are doubletalk, a jumble of

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rhymes and repetition, as Theseus, Lysander, and Hippolyta point out when he leaves the stage. The play begins, telling the story of Pyramus and Thisby, two young lovers who talk to each other through a hole in a garden wall until the time when they arrange to meet by moonlight at a tomb. When Thisby arrives at the tomb, a lion jumps out and frightens her: she runs away, dropping her cloak. When Pyramus arrives, he finds her bloody cloak, chewed by a lion, and assumes that she has been killed. In grief, he kills himself. She returns, finds him dead, and picks up his sword and kills herself. As Philostrate predicted, the performance is awful, and yet somewhat touching in the way that the tradesmen are willing to attempt to do something that is so far beyond their competence. They have followed Bottom’s suggestions, so that the wall that the young lovers speak through is played by a person, as is the moonlight, because they feel that the fact that the young lovers meet by moonlight is an important detail that must be rendered on the stage. When Snug comes on stage as the lion, he announces to the audience that he is not a real lion. Throughout the play, the members of the audience make wry comments to each other about the awkward dialog and the overacting. When the play is done, the court is given a choice between an epilogue and a dance, and Theseus chooses the dance. All of the members of the audience—Theseus and Hippolyta, Lysander and Hermia, and Demetrius and Helena—join them in dancing. As they dance, the scene lights dim, implying that they have all left and gone to bed. Puck shows up, and then Oberon, Titania, and a host of fairies, all dancing. Oberon leads the supernatural creatures in dance and instructs his fairies to fan out throughout the duke’s castle, spreading enchantment on the three couples, so that they will be fortunate and their eventual children will be born perfect and free of any physical imperfections. Puck gives the Epilogue to A Midsummer Night’s Dream, apologizing to anyone who might have been offended by the play and reminding those who did take offense that they might wake up and find that the play was just a dream.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Felix Mendelssohn’s 1826 score for A Midsummer Night’s Dream is considered one of the noted composer’s greatest triumphs, evoking the magical mood of Shakespeare’s play. There are many versions available, as this music has been used for numerous productions of the play over the past two hundred years. A contemporary favorite is the 1995 recording by the Boston Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Seiji Ozawa and narrated by Dame Judi Dench. It is available on compact disc from Deutsche Grammophon.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream was adapted as a film by Max Reinhardt and William Dieterle in 1935. It stars James Cagney as Bottom, Mickey Rooney as Puck, Olivia de Havilland as Hermia, and Dick Powell as Lysander. It won two Academy Awards and was nominated for two more. The film, by Warner Bros., is available on videocassette.

Archival footage of the Beatles acting out the tradesmen’s presentation of the ‘‘Pyramus and Thisby’’ play on a 1964 program for the British Broadcasting System program called ‘‘Around the Beatles’’ captures the amateurish fun that Shakespeare intended. The scene lasts about seven minutes and can be downloaded from a number of Web sites, including Google Video, where it is found under the keywords

CHARACTERS Nick Bottom Bottom is one of the most significant characters in the play and is widely considered to be one of Shakespeare’s greatest creations. He is a weaver by trade but struggles to be the star player in the small theater company that he works with. As the play they are to perform, Pyramus and Thisby, is rehearsed, for instance, he is hyperactive in his


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‘‘Midsummer Parody.’’ It is also available on a 2003 DVD from Goodtimes Video called Fun with the Fab Four.

A 1968 film of the play was done with the Royal Shakespeare Company. It included Diana Rigg as Helena, Helen Mirren as Hermia, Ian Holm as Puck, and Judi Dench as Titania. Water Bearer Films released a VHS version in 1998.

Another Royal Shakespeare Company version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was filmed by the Arts Council of England and released into theaters in 1996. It has subsequently been released on VHS and DVD by Miramax Films. Alex Jennings played Oberon and Theseus, Lindsey Duncan played Hippolyta and Titania, and Finbar (Barry) Lynch played Puck. This version alters the original, with a role written for the young Indian changeling and modern elements such as light bulbs, bicycles, and umbrellas used in the set design.

A star-studded cast led James Kerwin’s 1999 film of the play: Kevin Klein plays Bottom, Stanley Tucci is Puck, Michelle Pfeiffer is Titania, Sophie Marceau is Hippolyta, and Christian Bale is Demetrius. This version transfers the action to Italy in the late nineteenth century. It is available on DVD and VHS from 20th Century Fox.

involvement. He suggests that the solution to each of the problems that comes up would be for he himself to take on the various parts, in addition to the lead: this reaches its ridiculous extreme when he offers to play both lead parts. Bottom’s self-importance earns him Puck’s attention, which is why Puck decides that it would be appropriate to replace his head with the head of an ass. By the time Bottom realizes that he has been physically altered, the queen of

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the fairies, Titania, is madly in love with him, and she has ordered that her minions fulfill his every desire. Bottom takes advantage of the situation, so that even after he becomes aware of the change that has come to him, he does not mind how he looks. Bottom is the one mortal character in the play who can see and hear the fairies. Because of this, and because of his enthusiasm about being involved in the play, critics have speculated that he might be Shakespeare’s comment on the act of playwriting, with the writer visualizing imaginary creatures in the same way that Bottom does.

Francis Flute Flute is a bellows-mender. He is one of the laborers who is planning a play in honor of Theseus’s wedding. The role that he is assigned is Thisby, the female lead. He has delicate features and has just started to grow a beard, which he vainly thinks could inhibit his credibility in playing a woman’s part.

Robin Goodfellow

Cobweb Cobweb is one of the fairies that Titania assigns to attend to Bottom after she has fallen in love with him.

Demetrius At the beginning of the play, Demetrius, a young Athenian nobleman, is in love with Hermia, and he has her father’s consent to marry her. However, Hermia loves Lysander instead. Demetrius once courted Helena but no longer favors her, despite her love for him. When she tries to help him by leading him to where Hermia and Lysander have run off together, she expects Demetrius to be grateful: instead, he tries to run from her, lose her in the woods, and leave her for the wild beasts to attack her. As much as he threatens to run away, she promises to follow. Oberon, the king of the fairies, seeing how stubborn Demetrius is about Helena, arranges to have a love spell cast on him. From that point on, the love between Demetrius and Helena is presented as true love, right up to the point where they marry at the play’s end.

Egeus Egeus is an old man of Athens. At the beginning of the play, he shows up at the court of Theseus to ask the duke to force his daughter Hermia to obey him and marry Demetrius. His point is that, as her father, he is entitled to select her husband. He suggests that her punishment, if she should refuse, should be death. Near the end of the play, Egeus is with the hunting party, led by Theseus and Hippolyta, that finds the two young couples sleeping in the forest. He is outraged that Hermia attempted to run away with Lysander, despite the duke’s earlier edict, but the duke makes Egeus realize that,

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since Demetrius is no longer interested in marrying her, there would be no harm done with a marriage between Hermia and Lysander.


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See Puck

Helena Helena is a friend of Hermia, the daughter of ‘‘old Nedar,’’ who is mentioned in the play but does not appear. She is described by the character notes as ‘‘tall and fair.’’ She is often bitter throughout the play. At first, her bitterness is caused by the fact that Demetrius, who once courted her, is in love with Hermia and is engaged to marry her. He treats Helena with disregard and is cruel in his attempts to avoid her. To curry his favor, she tells Demetrius about Hermia’s plan to run away with Lysander; instead of making him turn to her, however, this revelation makes Demetrius run away from her in pursuit of the fleeing couple. When, under the power of a love spell, Lysander declares his love for her, Helena feels that she is the object of a practical joke. Her suspicion is intensified when the same love spell makes Demetrius fall in love with her too. When Hermia is angered about losing Lysander, Helena thinks that her anger is a part of the larger conspiracy to mock her. Her argument with Hermia becomes so bitter that she shies away, afraid that Hermia will hit her; in doing so, she makes remarks about Hermia’s diminutive height that further enrage the latter woman. After all four of the lovers have fallen asleep, Oberon undoes the love spell on Lysander but leaves the spell on Demetrius, so that he continues to love Helena, and they are married.

Hermia Hermia is a noblewoman of Athens. She is described as ‘‘short and dark.’’ It is later revealed by Helena, who has been her friend since

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childhood, that Hermia had a violent temper when they were in school. Her father has promised Hermia to Demetrius in marriage, but she is in love with Lysander. When her father, Egeus, asks the court to sentence her to death if she will not marry Demetrius, she is given the option of going into a convent and never marrying: resigned to her fate, she accepts, and is ready to enter the convent until Lysander offers to run away with her. In the forest, a magic spell makes first Lysander and then Demetrius fall in love with Helena. Finding that both men who once doted on her have now abandoned her, Hermia becomes furious and accuses Helena of trickery, while Helena, surprised by the change in them, assumes that Hermia and the others are making fun of her. Afraid that Hermia will hit her, Helena notes that, although she is little, Hermia has always had a terrible temper. Hermia is even more enraged by the remark about her height. At the end of the play, when the love spell has been lifted from Lysander, he restates his love for Hermia, and the two marry.

Hippolyta Hippolyta is the queen of the Amazons, and she is engaged to marry Theseus, the Duke of Athens. In her first scene, she does not speak. Later, when she is in the forest with Theseus and a hunting party, she recalls a time that she was hunting with Hercules, the hero of Greek legend, in the woods of Crete. She remembers the baying of hunting hounds mixed with the roaring of the bear they had captured as one of the sweetest sounds she ever heard.

Lysander Lysander is a young nobleman of Athens. He is in love with Hermia, who is also in love with him. The problem is that her father is insisting that she marry Demetrius. After the duke requires Hermia to either marry Demetrius or go away into a convent, Lysander proposes that she run away with him to the forest, where, at the home of a maiden aunt, they can be married outside of the jurisdiction of Athenian law. In the forest, Lysander tries to persuade Hermia to sleep with him, but she refuses to do so until they are married. While they are asleep some distance from one another, a spell is put on him, so that he wakes up in love with Hermia’s friend Helena. When the two women argue,


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Lysander takes Helena’s side in insulting his lover’s diminutive height, telling Hermia, ‘‘Get you gone, you dwarf; / You minumus, of hind’ring knot-grass made; / You bead, you acorn.’’ Later, after the spell is lifted from him, he and Hermia are married.

Moth Moth is one of the fairies that Titania assigns to attend to Bottom after she has fallen in love with him.

Mustardseed Mustardseed is one of the fairies that Titania assigns to attend to Bottom after she has fallen in love with him.

Oberon Oberon is the king of the fairies and a driving force for the plot of this play. He is angry with his wife, Titania, because she is unwilling to turn over her young Indian servant boy to him, so he devises a scheme to punish her: he has Puck fetch a flower, the love-in-idleness, that has the power to make her fall in love with the first person, animal, or thing that she sees upon awakening. While executing this plan, he sees Helena following Demetrius, who refuses to return her love. Taking pity on her, he arranges to have the same love potion applied to Demetrius. His plan against Titania goes even better than he had hoped, as she is humiliated by falling in love with a mortal, Bottom, who has magically been given the head of an ass: distracted, she gives Oberon the changeling boy with no quarrel. When he finds out that the plan to help Helena has gone awry because the wrong suitor was enchanted, he quickly thinks through further plots to set things aright. First, he has the correct suitor, Demetrius, fall in love with Helena, then he arranges to have the two men who are fighting for her love to be lured apart from each other, using a complex plot involving conjured fog and false voices, so that he can undo the spell on Lysander. His plan works perfectly, and everyone is happy in the end. After the three mortal couples marry, Oberon dispatches his fairies through their castle to put spells of good fortune on all of them.

Peaseblossom Peaseblossom is one of the fairies that Titania assigns to attend to Bottom after she has fallen in love with him.

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Philostrate Philostrate is the master of revels. It is his job to arrange the marriage festivities when Theseus and Hippolyta are married. In act 5, when Theseus is trying to decide on some after-dinner entertainment, Philostrate tells him how hilarious the Pyramus and Thisby play is, even though the actors are trying to be serious, and his explanation convinces Theseus to call for the players.

Puck Puck, also known as Robin Goodfellow, is a fairy who enjoys trickery. He travels by night, changing his appearance: sometimes he might appear as a crab showing up unexpectedly in someone’s drink, for instance, or a stool that jumps out of the way when someone is sitting down. Whatever he does, he does with mischief. When Oberon tells Puck to put the love spell on Titania, he does so. On his way toward accomplishing his mission, however, he runs into Bottom and, finding him to be foolish, magically turns his head into an ass’s head. He does seem to take his mission to enchant the man that Helena loves seriously, but he botches the job by applying the love potion to the wrong man, making Lysander, and not Demetrius, fall in love with her. Later, Oberon’s scheme to correct the situation between the lovers plays right to Puck’s strengths. He conjures up a fog that makes everyone wander around without knowing where they are going, and then he tricks both Lysander and Demetrius, imitating first one voice and then the other, so that they will be lured in opposite directions and not harm each other by fighting over Helena. Puck is a troublemaker with no conscience, but Oberon knows how to use his particular skills for the cause of good. Puck has the play’s last speech, addressing the audience, telling them that if they found offense at anything they have seen then they can look at the whole experience as being nothing more than a dream.

Dylan Brown as Puck and Lee Boardman as Bottom in Act III, scene I, at the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, England, 2003 (Ó Donald Cooper/ Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Tom Snout Snout is a tinker, a mender of household utensils such as pots and pans. He is one of the band of tradesmen planning the play for the duke’s wedding. He is assigned the part of Pyramus’s father.

Snug A joiner by trade, Snug is one of the tradesmen planning the Pyramus and Thisby play. When he is assigned the part of a lion, he asks for a copy of the script early, admitting that he is a slow learner. He learns that the lion’s part entails nothing but roaring.

Peter Quince Quince is the leader of the tradesmen who are planning to perform the play Pyramus and Thisby for Theseus’s wedding. He has written the play and will be directing it, as well as playing the part of Thisby’s father.

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Robin Starveling Starveling, a tailor, is one of the tradesmen who is planning to take part in the play being planned for the duke’s wedding. He is assigned to play Thisby’s mother.

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Theseus Theseus is the Duke of Athens, a powerful military and political figure. He is engaged to marry Hippolyta within four days. He won Hippolyta in battle but promises to make her love him. When Egeus, a nobleman of Athens, comes to Theseus to ask that his daughter be sentenced to death if she does not obey his command and marry Demetrius, Theseus listens to the case being made by both sides before passing judgment. He lightens Hermia’s sentence for disobedience by offering her the option of a lifetime in a convent. At the end of the play, when he finds that Demetrius is no longer interested in Hermia, he pronounces that everything is fine the way it is, and invites the two young couples to be married along with him. .After the wedding, Theseus decides to watch the tradesmen’s play, having been told by Philostrate that they are funny without meaning to be. During the play, he jokes with the young noblemen and their wives about the performance.

Titania Titania, the queen of the fairies, is married to Oberon. She is strong-headed, resisting his demand for a young servant whom she likes. She knows that he is unfaithful to her and brings that fact up against him in argument. To soften her up, Oberon uses a potion to make Titania fall in love with the first person or animal she sees after waking up. She falls for Bottom, an overbearing, conceited weaver who is part of the company of tradesmen rehearsing a play in the forest. Earlier, Puck had used a magic spell to give Bottom the head of an ass. The tough, steely queen is gentle with the man she loves, giving him servants to attend to his every wish and expressing her concern for his slightest comfort, until the spell is removed. After the events of the evening, harmony is restored to Titania and Oberon’s relationship. She has given him the servant he wanted, and her gentle and loving ways toward Bottom appear to be transferred to her husband.

THEMES True Love This play uses several different kinds of relationships to examine the nature of love and to raise


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questions of when love can be considered to be true. The most stable relationship in the play is between the couple whose wedding anchors the plot: Theseus and Hippolyta. They are identified as having at one time been foes who are, when the play begins, headed toward marriage. Nothing in the course of the play offers any reason for distraction from their plan, and at the end they are indeed married and happy with each other. The relationship between Theseus and Hippolyta is mirrored by that of another royal couple, Oberon and Titania, the king and queen of the fairies. At the beginning of the play, they have been married for some indeterminate amount of time, and their marriage seems to have run its course. They are locked in a bitter opposition, apparently over the possession of the young changeling boy, though that appears to be only the latest in a long string of battles throughout their marriage. Each is willing to do whatever is necessary to annoy and subvert the other: Titania refuses to sleep with Oberon, pointing out his past affairs, while he accuses her of being infatuated with Theseus (which she denies) and then puts a spell on her to make her fall in love with a monstrous fool. At the end of the play, her infatuation with Bottom has been lifted. Just as importantly, she is once more in love with Oberon, and he with her: the spell of the love-in-idleness flower has stirred in Titania the capacity for love in a way that keeps it going on its own even after the magic is removed. Seeing Titania able to love makes Oberon love her all over again. Shakespeare uses the two young couples to show love as a much more volatile thing. Audiences are asked to accept the idea that the flower’s magic could change Demetrius’s affections so severely that he would abandon his interest in Hermia and fall completely in love with Helena. This is a reasonable proposition, given that Demetrius’s infatuation with Hermia is unrequited and that he and Helena have a romantic history together. The play also proposes that Lysander would shift his affection from Hermia to Helena as well; this is a bit less likely, given the strong declarations of love that Lysander and Hermia make to each other, a commitment that sends them on the run from the law in order to stay together. The strangest result of the flower’s magic is that Demetrius and

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Helena, drawn together by enchantment, stay together after the spell is removed from Demetrius. As part of the triple wedding at the end of the play, they are apparently as happy as other couples that came together through more organic means and stayed together despite adversity. In this, the play makes a statement about the capricious nature of true love: couples that once had little in common with each other can be bound together for life once they are smitten by love, while couples that have nothing to do with each other, like Bottom and Titania, can also find themselves brought together by love.

Chance As with most of Shakespeare’s plays, particularly the comedies, A Midsummer Night’s Dream relies on a clever, credible interplay between the intentions of the characters and blind chance. When Hermia and Lysander’s plan to escape to the forest is complicated by the appearance of Demetrius, for example, it is the natural outcome of Helena’s own plan to show Demetrius how little Hermia cares for him; the plot is therefore moved forward by her intent. When Lysander subsequently falls in love with Helena, however, it is the result of sheer coincidence: Oberon did not know that there were two Athenian couples in the forest and therefore did not give Puck a detailed description of the man he wanted to receive the love spell, and Puck happened to spot Lysander first. Similarly, when Puck casts the love spell over Titania, he is enacting Oberon’s plot, but the fact that she would happen to fall in love with the vain, boorish Bottom, whose features Puck has recently altered, is simply a matter of chance. Since A Midsummer Night’s Dream is a comedy, the chance occurrences that complicate the plot lead to better results than anyone could have orchestrated. As Oberon notes after learning that his wife is in love with a man with the head of an ass, ‘‘This falls out better than I could devise.’’ In the end, the chance events serve to make their victims more appreciative of ordinary, stable reality. Demetrius is far less likely to take Helena for granted after having nearly fought for her affection, and Titania is clearly better off with a king than with an ass.

those under them in the social order, which is a common theme in comedy. The first instance of undermined authority occurs in the first scene, when Egeus comes to the court of Theseus to complain that his daughter refuses to obey him: this slight to his ego is so great that he would rather see Hermia put to death than allow her to claim her independence. ‘‘As she is mine, I may dispose of her,’’ he explains. Theseus, the highest authority figure in the mortal world in this play, is more familiar with the idea of distributing justice to those beneath him, and so his suggested punishment is less extreme. He offers Hermia a choice: if she does not want to marry Demetrius and does not want to be executed, she can go to the convent and remain a virgin for the rest of her life. Egeus’s offense at having his authority challenged is mirrored by Oberon. Whatever differences Oberon and Titania have had throughout their long marriage, the event that makes him move against her in this play is her refusal to obey him and give up her changeling boy. Shakespeare never even shows the boy onstage, indicating that he is not very important to the story. The true point of the grievance is that Oberon believes Titania should be obedient to him. In the end, the disputes between those in authority and those they should control are settled with good humor. Theseus is willing to forget about Hermia’s disobedience as soon as he sees that Demetrius is no longer interested in her anyway. Egeus, who from the start was more interested in obedience than in the reason for disobeying, is more hesitant about forgiving her, but he gives in. Oberon receives his changeling boy and is happy that Titania has come around to his thinking. The Duke of Athens has lower nobles married alongside of him, and commoners provide the wedding entertainment. Finally, Oberon dances both with his wife and with his subjects.

Hubris

Authority

Hubris is the sense that one is more important and powerful than one is. It is a key element in many dramas, whether they are tragedies or comedies: a character who oversteps his or her own abilities is likely to set uncontrollable events into motion.

This play is centered around authority figures and their struggles to impose their authority on

In this play, Bottom is more than just a braggart. He actually believes that he, a weaver,

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Oberon uses a flower that he calls the ‘‘lovein-idleness’’ to cast a love spell on Titania: the flower is currently known as the pansy. Research other folk methods used to create a love spell and write a cookbook for people who wish to bewitch others.

As a class, rewrite the story of Pyramus and Thisby so that you can present it to another class without looking as foolish as the players in this play are made to seem. Use details fromOvid’sMetamorphosis,which Shakespeare may have used as a source for his version of the story, if you need to.

Demetrius courted and abandoned Helena, and she pursued him. When he falls in love with her, she thinks he is joking and tries to escape him. Write a letter from either Demetrius or Helena to an advice column, explaining one of these romantic predicaments, and then write a response explaining whether it is an exercise in futility or a sign of true understanding to stick to a lover once one has been rejected. The 1999 movie Shakespeare in Love provides a fictionalized version of the playwright’s life around the time that he wrote this play. Watch it and make a list of elements from this movie that might have been inspired by reading A Midsummer Night’s Dream; explain the reasons for your choices. In their version of Pyramus and Thisby, the tradesmen assign actors to play the parts that are usually just represented by inanimate objects. Choose a play that has a prominent prop and give that prop dialogue. Perform a staged reading for the class. Listen to a recording of composer Felix Mendelssohn’s orchestra music for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Keep a running tally, judging each track in terms of whether or not the music made you think differently about the scene it depicts.


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can act each part of the play out—several at once if necessary—and that audiences will be delighted. He feels that the death of his character onstage would drive the women in the audience into despair, because they would think that he died, not just his character. Even the royal figures in the play do not think as much of their own importance as Bottom thinks of his. His reward for such insolence is supposed to be the humiliation of having his head turned into the head of an ass, but Shakespeare reverses that embarrassment. Instead of being penalized for his pride, as foolish, hubristic characters often are, Bottom is seduced by a beautiful woman and given a court of beings with supernatural powers to do his bidding.

STYLE Wedding Play In this play, Bottom and the other tradesmen prepare and perform a play for the wedding of Theseus and Hippolyta. This sort of short play, called an ‘‘interlude,’’ was traditionally performed between the acts of a longer play and was sometimes performed, along with other forms of entertainment, at a royal wedding, as Pyramus and Thisby is in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This has led critics over the centuries to speculate that Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream for private performance at the wedding of some noble. This conclusion is supported by the way that the play shows its bridegroom, Theseus, as a wise and beloved ruler; the placement of characters from antiquity, Theseus and Hippolyta, as the play’s center; and the way that it invokes the world of fairies, which were associated with weddings by the Elizabethans— the people, like Shakespeare, who lived during the time of Queen Elizabeth I. Other critics have countered this theory, though, by pointing out several details that one would never associate with the wedding ceremony. For one thing, Shakespeare’s play, at three hours long, is no interlude: it would require more concentration than revelers at a ceremony generally care to exert. For another, the bridal characters—Hippolyta, Hermia, and Helena—are not the sorts of flattering portraits that one would want to present to a bride on the day of her wedding. In general, critics have pointed out that the tone of the play

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relies on parody and ridicule, which are bound to offend someone at an occasion that can be both joyous and solemn. Most contemporary scholars do agree that the play was commissioned for some royal occasion, but their inability to specify the occasion has left open the possibility to explore alternate explanations for Shakespeare’s particular blend of romance, magic, and farce.

Levels of Reality One of the elements that has kept audiences captivated by A Midsummer Night’s Dream over the centuries is its deft way of mixing together different levels of reality. Not only is the real world combined with the supernatural, but the pending wedding ceremony provides the opportunity to mix different social strata together in a way that would never occur in real life. The fairies in this play live in the real world but are invisible to the eyes of mortals, with the exception of Nick Bottom. This is useful as a stage technique, allowing characters to stand onstage and talk to each other without the awareness of others, and it helps as a narrative technique, because believing it helps audiences believe in the wide-spanning reality of the play. Usually, the fairies are played by actors costumed with wings, an innovation that helped establish the common image of fairies that rules the popular imagination today. The real, social world of Athens is divided into three levels: the court, the nobles, and the tradesmen. Each level can be considered a different form of reality because the characters who inhabit it view the world in different ways. The worldview of Theseus and Hippolyta, for example, is marked by benevolence. Hippolyta does not want to take part in mocking the tradesmen; Theseus feels that honor could be done to their poor effort by paying them attention. The two couples of nobles in this play view the world as young lovers do: as changing from one day to the next. The tradesmen are boisterous and yet serious about trying to do something for which they are seriously underqualified. Any one of these social views would set a distinct tone for a play, but Shakespeare has them interact, bringing the nobles into Theseus’s court, then the tradesmen into the lovers’ unsupervised wood, then the tradesmen into the court. Tying the varieties of styles together is the romance of

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Titania and Bottom, the most elegant and the most base of characters: if Shakespeare can make their coupling believable, then the rest of the varied tones in the play can easily exist together.

Mixed Audience Historians often point out that audiences of Shakespeare’s time were socially mixed: while theaters had padded seats, where well-heeled patrons could relax comfortably during the performance, they also allowed in a standing-room crowd referred to as the ‘‘groundlings.’’ The groundlings would have paid a penny, which was a considerable amount in the sixteenth century, almost a day’s wages, for the opportunity to stand at the front of the room. There were other areas, galleries that were less crowded, where one could sit or stand, but they cost a penny more. The audiences in these areas of the crowd would have been laborers, much like those who make up the acting company in A Midsummer Night’s Dream: weavers, tailors, tinkers, carpenters, and so forth. In the comfortable seats situated on the main floor would have been the rich patrons who could afford to pay a half a crown. The diversity of the Elizabethan crowd thus was reflected on the stage during A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which presents workers and nobles living their separate lives but then brought together for a night of theater. This diversity is also reflected in the play’s varied tones, which range from the coarse joke of having a queen fall for a man with an ass’s head to the compassion of the wise ruler to the gentleness of young lovers trying to hold onto each other while circumstances pull them apart.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Theseus and Hippolyta Shakespeare based the royal couple at the center of this drama on a couple that had already existed for centuries by the time Shakespeare used it, in the legends handed down from the ancient Greeks. The Theseus of Greek legend was the son of one of the first kings of Athens, Aegeus. He was also supposed to have had the blood of Poseidon, the god of the seas, in his parentage, making him half god and half mortal. Aegeus fathered him with Aethra, his mother, at the

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Daniel Evans as Francis Flute/Thisby, Howard Crossley as Tom Snout/Wall, and Desmond Barrit as Bottom/Pyramus in Act V, scene i, at the Barbican Theatre, 1995 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

town of Troezen, south of Athens, and then returned to Athens before the child was born. When he reached adulthood, Theseus went to find his father, proving himself to be a brave hero in the process. Among his adventures were the slaying of the Minotaur in the maze where the youth of Athens had been trapped, and being trapped himself in the underworld by Hades until he was rescued by Hercules, who was there on the last of the twelve labors he had to do as penance for having killed his wife and children. Hippolyta was the queen of the Amazons, a mythical nation of female warriors located in what is now Turkey. In some versions of Greek mythology, Hercules was assigned, as one of his twelve labors, to steal the girdle from Hippolyta, but she fell in love with him and gave it to him instead. A battle between the Amazons and the Athenians ensued when rumor spread that Hercules was trying to kidnap Hippolyta. The Amazons were defeated. Hercules raped Hippolyta, but then he gave her to his friend Theseus to marry. Some versions have this


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marriage ending with Hippolyta dying during childbirth, while others simply say that Theseus left her; most of the stories go on from there to talk about Theseus and his life with his second wife, Phaedra. Most scholars conclude that the Theseus and Hippolyta of Shakespeare’s play have more to do with the characters of the same name in ‘‘The Knight’s Tale,’’ the first of the stories in Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, written around the 1384–85. Chaucer’s story has Theseus, Duke of ancient Athens, marrying Hippolyta, the queen of the Amazons, after defeating her in battle. He then attacks the neighboring kingdom of Thebes because the ruler there, Creon, has refused to allow those who died in the battle to be properly buried. Most of the story centers on two cousins who have been imprisoned by Theseus who fall in love with Hippolyta’s sister, Emily. When they are free, the two friends fight each other in the woods until Theseus comes upon them and decrees that they should fight formally in a

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1595: Shakespeare is the first playwright to present fairies onstage as small people with wings.

Today: In part influenced by illustrations of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that have appeared in different published versions throughout the years, there is a standard fantasy concept of what fairies look like; even as iconic an image as Disney’s Tinkerbell (from Peter Pan) owes its origin to this play. 1595: Shakespeare can count on his audience to be familiar with a story from the Roman poet Ovid, and so can utilize background references to the story of Pyramus and Thisby to shade his viewers’ interpretation of the play’s main story. Today: Few contemporary viewers are familiar with Ovid, but many do recognize allusions to Shakespearean characters, such as Puck or Bottom, when they occur in modern books and movies. 1595: A company of local tradesmen can band together to put on an amateur production to celebrate the wedding of the duke they serve. Today: A formal event would certainly hire professional entertainers; still, there are many amateur and community companies

tournament for the woman’s hand. Although the royal decree is similar in style to the way that Theseus pronounces judgment on Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the outcome in The Canterbury Tales is more bittersweet: the victor of the fight is crushed by his own horse and with his dying breath wishes his cousin to have the woman for whom they have both been fighting. In Chaucer’s version, one of the young knights, Arcita, is freed from prison first, but he returns to the palace as a courtesan, using the name

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around to give nonprofessional actors and directors a place to be involved in the theater.

1595: Bottom is a humorous character because he brags about his abilities, even though audiences can see that he is not a very talented actor. Today: The same standards of humor and humility hold today: a character in a comedy who is boastful is likely to prove to be incompetent.

1595: All roles on the Elizabethan stage are played by men, an obstacle that actors have to overcome with stylized performances when portraying starry-eyed lovers. Today: The uses of women for women’s roles allows a performance of this play to be acted out more naturally, with more nuances implied and understated.

1595: Theater is attended by people of all social strata, so plays are written to appeal to the widest possible demographic segment. Today: Theater is mostly attended by members of the upper class. Movies, which are a more accessible form of entertainment, are increasingly made for international audiences and therefore rely on sight gags and spectacle over dialog and characterization.

‘‘Philostrate,’’ which Shakespeare used for the master of the revels to Theseus.

Ovid Shakespeare’s fondness for using classical sources is even more apparent in his reworking of the material of the ancient story of Pyramus and Thisby, the young lovers who are the subject of the short play presented at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. The source that he is most likely to have used for this tale is Ovid’s

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Metamorphosis, which would have been a standard text of Elizabethan England and therefore well familiar to Shakespeare’s audiences. Ovid was a Roman poet who lived from 43 B . C . E . to approximately 17 C . E . His works generally centered on the subject of love. The Metamorphosis, however, was his masterwork: an attempt to cover all of history, from creation to the reign of Julius Caesar, in one long narrative spanning fifteen books. Also from Ovid came the name of the fairy queen, Titania. In traditional fairy tales, the queen of the fairies had no name. Shakespeare gave her the name that the Metamorphosis gave to Diana, the goddess of the hunt and childbirth. The connection between Shakespeare’s and Ovid’s uses of the name is that both characters are creatures of nature, residing in the forest.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW From the very start, A Midsummer Night’s Dream has been difficult for literary critics to evaluate. A great part of this difficulty stems from the fact that Shakespeare has brought together such distinct styles, which various productions over the centuries have freely edited or simplified. For example, the first known review of the play was actually of a production done on New Year’s day, 1604, featuring Puck and called A Play of Robin Goodfellow. Other variations focused on the land of the fairies, or else put Bottom, a crowd pleaser, at the front. With so many versions around, even in the early years when the play was newly written, it is difficult for literary critics to know exactly what a writer saw on stage. Variations were not only edited from Shakespeare’s original work but added songs and characters to round out the main story that each production chose as the feature. This play is mentioned by Samuel Pepys, a civil servant whose diary is so thorough and descriptive of its times that it is studied in schools to this day. Pepys attended a performance on September 29, 1662, noting in his diary that this was a play that he had never seen before: ‘‘nor shall ever again, for it is the most insipid ridiculous play that ever I saw in my life.’’ Pepys scholars note that he found the clowning, love, and fairy stories to be too simple for his sophisticated tastes.


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Other writers, of course, understood and appreciated what Shakespeare had accomplished with this play. In 1817, William Hazlitt noted his regret that Shakespeare was often considered by foreigners to be a dour, serious writer, when in fact his fanciful side was plainly evident. ‘‘In the Midsummer Night’s Dream alone, we should imagine, there is more sweetness and beauty of description than in the whole range of French poetry put together.’’ By using this particular play as an example, Hazlitt demonstrated an appreciation of Shakespeare’s comedies that had grown throughout the eighteenth century and reached fullest blossom in the late 1800s, in the Victorian Era. The music that Felix Mendelssohn wrote for the play in 1843 has frequently been used since as a soundtrack, giving a light, airy mood that befits the story of love and magical forest dwellers. Throughout its history, A Midsummer Night’s Dream has been as interesting to audiences for the elaborate production values as for Shakespeare’s dialogue and structure, with each production raising the bar on how to cut from royal pageantry to woods to invisible fairies. By the latter half of the twentieth century, critics, applying more psychological interpretations, found that the play hinted at darker things. One of the most influential readings of A Midsummer Night’s Dream was the one done in 1964 by Polish critic Jan Kott, who is often referred to as having given the play more depth than was previously thought. James L. Calderwood explained Kott’s emphasis on the romance between Bottom and Titania, in which Kott found ‘‘brutality and eroticism beneath the veneer of romantic love. Thus Titania’s drug-induced infatuation with Bottom becomes for Kott a rapacious but liberating desire for animal love, mirrored less obviously by the other lovers.’’ Since Kott’s criticism, productions of the play have focused more heavily on its sensuality and its theme of liberation from repression. Of these, one particular modern production—the one staged by Peter Brook in London in 1970—stands out as a presentation that changed the way that critics and audiences alike viewed the play. While previous productions were lavish, they also tended to be reverent and sterile, appealing to audiences’ intellects as much as to their emotions. Brook’s production for the Royal Shakespeare Company, by contrast,

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used no background but a white wall, but it added such unexpected and unconventional interpretations as acrobatics and trapeze artists to reinvigorate audiences’ expectations. Since that groundbreaking production, which is still discussed to this day for its audacity, theater companies have felt free to offer a wide variety of interpretations, using any number of modern devices that have become available to explore the play’s contemporary relevance.

AS WITH THE FLOWER’S SPELL, SHAKESPEARE SHOWS THAT MOODS ALTER AFTER SLEEP, BECAUSE EMOTIONS ARE ONLY AS REAL AS DREAMS AND HAVE JUST AS MUCH LASTING EFFECT. CHARACTERS THROUGHOUT THE PLAY CONSTANTLY AWAKEN TO FIND A WHOLE NEW WORLD.’’

CRITICISM David Kelly Kelly is an instructor of creative writing and literature at two colleges. In this essay, he explains how the defining moment of A Midsummer Night’s Dream is one that occurred before the first act, when Demetrius wooed Helena and then abandoned her. Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream begins with Theseus, Duke of Athens, making plans with his fianceé, Hippolyta, for their upcoming wedding. It ends when that wedding is over, having gone off without a hitch, when the happy couple and two other contented couples have gone off to bed and a legion of fairies dances across their deserted wedding hall. Critics often point to the Theseus-Hippolyta relationship as the play’s moral anchor, the thematic base that keeps audiences mindful of the bliss and stability that love can represent. It is seen as a reference point for comparing the other stories in the play too, even the stories that spin between anger, heartache, farce, and sex. The fact that Theseus and Hippolyta spend so little time onstage is taken to be proof that they serve a higher function than the rest of the characters. They are kept pure in a way that the others are not: audiences spend less time wondering about their motivations than they do wondering about all of the play’s other lovers. Being more abstract than the other major characters, they are better suited to serve a symbolic function. On his own, Theseus serves an integral function in the play’s plot, acting as the wise ruler who sentences Hermia for disobeying her father. Together, Theseus and Hippolyta are often taken to stand for the grandeur of the royal wedding that ends the play.

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Still, there are other elements that drive the plot and that give the play its overall identity. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is about love, in the end, but throughout its presentation, it concerns itself with the opposite idea, exploring ways in which the concept of true and lasting love is just an illusion. In this sense, it isn’t the steady relationship of Theseus and Hippolyta that signifies all that the play is about. Rather, its essence is captured in an event that occurred before the first act: Demetrius’s rejection of Helena. This is a shadowy event, merely alluded to in just five lines in the play’s opening scene, as Lysander gives his defense for courting Hermia: Demetrius, I’ll avouch it to his head, Made love to Nedar’s daughter, Helena, And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

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This important point is mentioned almost in passing, and as soon as it has been mentioned, Shakespeare moves to push it back into the past where it came from. He diminishes its significance by having Theseus point out that he had heard of this and had meant to speak with Demetrius about it, but it had slipped his mind. There is not much more a playwright could do to trivialize an event than to say that it was not compelling enough to hold a character’s attention until he could bring it up. Audiences are therefore left to infer what the relationship between Demetrius and Helena was once like, and how it ended. Presumably, it ended when Demetrius took a liking to Helena’s friend Hermia, but that much is never made explicit in the story. What is known, however, is quite enough to drive the play along, both structurally and thematically: without this past

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event that is only obliquely referred to, there would be no story. It certainly is crucial to the plot. If Demetrius had not wooed Helena, she would not be as powerfully attracted to him as she is. She would not tell him of Hermia and Lysander’s plan to steal off to the woods together, and she would not be dogging his heels when he goes off to find them. There are other elements in the play that exist independently of Helena and Demetrius and that could make up a play independent of those two young lovers, as playwrights over the centuries have proven when they have trimmed A Midsummer Night’s Dream down by focusing on one of the other plot lines. Without them, Oberon would still want to take revenge on his wife Titania by having a love spell cast on her; the Mechanicals could still decide to go into the forest to rehearse their play in privacy; and Theseus and Hippolyta could still stumble upon the others when they come to the woods to hunt. Shakespeare could even have written a different process for Demetrius to find out that his fianceé is running away with another man, driving him off to the forest to find them. But the story of the young lovers would then end up as a love triangle, not a love rectangle. Their emotions and the results would have been more desperate and certainly less funny; it would be more appropriate to tragedy than to comedy. Someone would end up alone in the end. The previous relationship between Demetrius and Helena is a mystery, but it is also all too obvious, the sort of thing that happens among young lovers a thousand times a day, in every corner of the globe. By withholding the details, Shakespeare turns what could have been, and probably was, a trivial event into something greater than itself. Because the details are unknown, audiences have to make assumptions about what happened to their former relationship. Whether the answer is that Demetrius was never serious about Helena to begin with, or that he loved her at first but decided that he loved Hermia even more, or that he just drifted away from her on his own, the root cause of their breakup is always the same: love is fickle, always in motion, and ready to form or dissolve without much notice. This, in fact, is what makes Demetrius and Helena the ideal symbol for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Peter G. Phialas characterizes as a play about ‘‘inconstancy in love.’’


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In the course of the story, Shakespeare parodies love’s inconsistencies with the plot device of the love-in-idleness flower, which is supposed to make those under its spell fall in love immediately and indiscriminately upon waking up. It is a silly, impractical conceit, something that would only have meaning or value for a person in a romantic comedy. How many uses can there be, after all, for a spell that would make someone fall in love with just anyone? Its effectiveness hinges upon being there while someone sleeps, and especially when that person wakes. Puck and Oberon actually do an outstanding job of directing the flower’s random power in the play. They intend Lysander to fall in love with Helena, and it happens; they then direct the flower at Demetrius, and he falls in love with Helena, as planned. Titania’s sudden affection for Bottom actually works out even better than planned: any of the common mortals would have served Oberon’s purpose of humiliating her, and the fact that she falls for the most annoying boor of the bunch adds to her humiliation. Audiences, while aware of how well the application of the love spell worked out, are also aware that there was slim chance that things would work out as they did. Love can strike anyone, anywhere, a point that is illustrated by Demetrius’s change of heart toward Helena, which is given as an original premise of this tale. Helena’s response to hearing Lysander, her rival’s lover, declare his love for her, is outrage: she thinks that he is making this claim to mock her. When Demetrius claims that he loves her too, one might expect that she would be happy at last, given that she has been pursuing him for just this reason since that moment before the play began when he abandoned her. Her experience with Lysander has prepared her for defensiveness more than love, however. Her desperate need for Demetrius’s affection is overshadowed by her fear of being made a fool, showing that even as strong a love as the one that propels her throughout the play can easily lose its momentum when greater concerns about self-image become involved. Her defensiveness comes from the same place in her as the anger that has Oberon and Titania at odds: nominally, they are fighting over the changeling boy, but the real problem is Oberon’s insecurity because his wife will not obey his command. And, just as Oberon and Titania’s anger with each other has dissipated by the end of the

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Soon before or after completing A Midsummer Night’s Dream—some sources say the same year—Shakespeare finished one of his greatest and most popular works, Romeo and Juliet. Rather than using Pyramus and Thisby within this work, as in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare used it this time as a source and inspiration for tragedy: the lovers are kept apart, meeting a fate similar to the one that befalls them in Ovid’s version. Romeo and Juliet is considered one of the greatest tragedies in the English language.

Ovid was considered one of Shakespeare’s favorite authors. His Metamorphosis was translated into English in 1567 by Arthur Golding. The story of Pyramus and Thisby can be read in part 4 of that book, currently available in a Penguin Classics edition.

Readers who have trouble understanding Shakespeare’s language might want to read A. L. Rowse’s 1984 version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, written for University Press of America’s ‘‘Contemporary Shakespeare’’ series. Rowse, a leading Shakespeare scholar, has rewritten the play: the scenes and characters are still the same, and the play is still in verse, but the archaic language has been updated and obscure references clarified, making it easier to read for the modern student.

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Sir Edmund Spenser’s epic poem The Faerie Queen was published in segments between 1590 and 1609: too late to be considered an influence on the writing of this play, it still reflects the Elizabethan preoccupation with the world of fairies and the chivalric ideals of knighthood. It is an extended political allegory about the bitter struggle between Catholics and Protestants. Currently, it is available from Penguin Classics.


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In his best-selling book The Shakespeare Wars, published by Random House in 2006, Ron Rosenbaum brings together all of the various controversies that are being argued about Shakespeare, his sources, and his times to this day. W. H. Auden was one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. He was also an acclaimed literary scholar. His analysis of A Midsummer Night’s Dream can be found in Lectures on Shakespeare, a collection of his lectures published in 2000. Shakespeare was undoubtedly influenced in writing the story of Bottom by reading The Golden Ass, a classic novel written in the second century C . E . by Roman writer Lucius Apuleius. The story concerns a young student of magic who has a spell cast upon him, transforming him into a donkey. A Penguin Classics edition, translated by E. J. J. Kennedy, is currently in print.

The great Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw reviewed an 1895 performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, finding fault with many of the staging decisions and explaining them with wit and clarity. His review can be found in Shaw On Shakespeare, a compilation published by E.P. Dutton & Co. in 1961. Peter Brook’s 1970 production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream for the Royal Shakespeare Company was considered innovative at the time by its supporters, while its detractors characterized it an example of all that is wrong with modern theater. Decades later, its influence is still felt. David Selbourne’s The Making of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, published in Methuen in 1982, is a detailed account of how Brook worked out his concept, from the first rehearsal to the opening curtain.

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play, so too has Helena’s anger. As with the flower’s spell, Shakespeare shows that moods alter after sleep, because emotions are only as real as dreams and have just as much lasting effect. Characters throughout the play constantly awaken to find a whole new world. In spite of this, though, the play ends up being a paean to consistency: Helena’s pursuit of Demetrius turns out to be rewarded. Her love was not a foolish infatuation after all; her determination is a sign of her wisdom. The play’s happy ending implies that Demetrius and Helena actually were meant to be together after all, despite the mistake he made before the first characters appeared onstage. Source: David Kelly, Critical Essay on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.

James L. Calderwood In this brief excerpt, Calderwood examines the meaning of the forest in the play, specifically as it serves as a site of animalism, bestiality, and death. Only by confronting these dark elements, argues the critic, ‘‘can the lovers come to recognize the rough impulses that underlie and influence mature love.’’ In some respects A Midsummer Night’s Dream seems a dramatization of Plato’s statement about the Beast Within quoted in the last chapter—that when Reason sleeps the Wild Beast rouses itself and ‘‘in phantasy it will not shrink from intercourse with a mother or anyone else, man, god, or brute.’’ The consummation of Bottom’s assish courtship of the faery queen Titania is a fair representation of the wild beast fantasy: intercourse involving man, god[dess], and brute simultaneously. In view of the horror aroused by the crime of bestiality discussed earlier, this monstrous union should have released in Shakespeare’s Elizabethan audience feelings of alarm and titillation. But it would take a sensitive soul indeed to run in fear from Bottom and Titania. Even so, the bestializing of sex in Bottom serves as a paradigm for the forest experience of the young lovers; he literalizes what is for them metaphoric. That is to say, once the lovers enter the forest they are repeatedly characterized by animal imagery that reflects and culminates in the Bottom-Titania episode. Helena pursues Demetrius like a ‘‘spaniel,’’ a ‘‘dove,’’ and a ‘‘hind,’’ while he flees like ‘‘griffin’’ and a ‘‘tiger’’ (2.1); and she later


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THE REPRESSED BEAST WITHIN, RAPACIOUS AND MURDEROUS, THE EMBODIMENT OF ALL THAT DEPRIVES MAN OF ANGELIC STATUS, EMERGES IN THIS DELIGHTFUL COMEDY AS A BOTTOM MARVELOUS HAIRY ABOUT THE FACE, AND A LION VERY GENTLE, OF GOOD CONSCIENCE, AND MOST ANXIOUS NOT TO FRIGHTEN THE LADIES.’’

becomes ‘‘ugly as a bear,’’ a ‘‘monster’’ he runs from (2.2). Lysander shifts his affections from the ‘‘raven’’ Hermia to the ‘‘dove’’ Helena (2.2), later calling Hermia a ‘‘cat’’ and a ‘‘serpent’’ he will shake himself free of (3.2). No wonder Hermia awakens from a dream in which a ‘‘crawling serpent’’ was eating her heart away (2.2)—at which point she cries ‘‘Either death or [Lysander] I’ll find immediately.’’ This animalizing of the lovers’ experience seems a direct result of Oberon’s humiliation of Titania: What thou seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take, Love and languish for his sake. Be it ounce or cat or bear, Pard or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak’st, it is thy dear. Wake when some vile thing is near. (2.2) Then Enter Lysander and Hermia talking in Petrarchan accents and lying, not with one another, but chastely apart. Nevertheless, their experience is shadowed by that of Titania and Bottom. The lovers’ comings and goings in various animalistic forms are the surface sublimations of the bestial intercourse between the faery queen and her liminal lover. While reason sleeps in Athens, Plato’s Wild Beast wakes in the forest, with monstrous appetites. In what sense is this a denial of death? In no sense: in fact it is just the reverse, a comic movement toward a loss of identity in the forests of death. The descent to animalism is merely one rung short of the descent to death. As such, the

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Alex Jennings as Oberon, Kevin Doyle as Demetrius, Toby Stephens as Lysander, Barry Lynch as Puck, Emma Fielding as Hermia, and Emily Raymond as Helena in Act IV, scene i at the Barbican Theatre, 1995 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

lovers’ arboreal experience bears out Lysander’s early remarks about the affinities of love and death. Love, he said, is always subject to ‘‘war, death, and sickness,’’ always one blithe step away from devouring ‘‘jaws of darkness’’ and the ‘‘confusion [into which] quick bright things come’’ (1.1). From this standpoint we might argue that the confusions of the forest are a comic version of Lear’s storm: both represent all that reason and the court world repress. So, for that matter, does the play of Pyramus and Thisbe. What it depicts is the course of true love, which leads the unhappy pair to a bestial and ferocious Lion and thence through confusion to death: ‘‘Tongue, lose thy light; / Moon, take try flight. / Now die, die, die, die, die’’ (5.1). There but for the grace of genre goes Lear’s ‘‘Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill’’ (4.6). But of course no one will confuse this play with King Lear or take Snug the joiner’s Lion for Richard III’s wild boar. That is precisely the

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point. The repressed Beast Within, rapacious and murderous, the embodiment of all that deprives man of angelic status, emerges in this delightful comedy as a Bottom marvelous hairy about the face, and a Lion very gentle, of good conscience, and most anxious not to frighten the ladies. The Beast Within is allowed only a small roar and a little rage, and in the end must be sacrificed altogether. Thus it is almost allegorically appropriate that Theseus should come upon the lovers while hunting with Spartan hounds like those that once ‘‘bayed the bear’’ in Crete (4.1). Theseus’s hounds bay the bear of ungoverned impulse in the lovers, their harmonious cries reflecting the harmony of love finally fashioned out of the cacophany of ‘‘derision’’: ‘‘When they next wake, all this derision / Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision’’ (3.2). Thus as if by a wave of Plato’s wand, the bearish beast fades into dream at the moment the lovers waken into the world of Theseus’s reason. Only by repressing the beast of the forest can the

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lovers aspire to marriage in the palace. But only by unshackling and confronting the beast in the first place—by escaping from the harsh rational law of Athens and from the milder decorum of courtship—can the lovers come to recognize the rough impulses that underlie and influence mature love. Or as we would say now, the Ego must confront the Freudian Id or the Jungian shadow for the psyche to be maturely married. The price of this marriage, however, is a sacrificial repression of animalism and death, the banishment of the forest experience into a mere ‘‘dream past the wit of [either lovers or Bottom] to say what dream it was.’’ But repression is not extinction; the realignments of love that took place in the forest are sustained and ratified in Athens. Moreover, as part of a sacrificial quid pro quo between reason and impulse, if the beast that represents impulse at its worst is suppressed, so is the harsh Athenian law that represents reason at its worst. Through such sacrificial negotiations humans may sometimes find their way to the rational life without entirely forfeiting the liberating virtues of the imaginative vision. Source: James L. Calderwood, ‘‘Sacrifice,’’ in Shakespare and the Denial of Death, University of Massachusetts Press, 1987, pp. 65–67.

Northrop Frye In his discussion of the fairy world, Frye identifies the poet’s sources in Classical, Celtic, Germanic, and Anglo-Saxon folklore and mythology. The dream world of the forest, Frye suggests, ‘‘has affinities with what we call the unconscious or subconscious part of the mind.’’ And only this part of our mind, Frye concludes, holds the key to this wonderful and mysterious play. Why is this play called A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Apparently the main action in the fairy wood takes place on the eve of May Day; at any rate, when Theseus and Hippolyta enter with the rising sun, they discover the four lovers, and Theseus says: No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May. [IV. i. 132–33] We call the time of the summer solstice, in the third week of June, ‘‘midsummer,’’ although in our calendars it’s the beginning of summer. That’s because originally there were only three seasons, summer, autumn and winter: summer then included spring and began in March. A thirteenth-century song begins ‘‘sumer is


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ACCORDING TO THE INDICATIONS IN THE TEXT, THE NIGHT IN THE WOOD SHOULD BE A MOONLESS NIGHT, BUT IN FACT THERE ARE SO MANY REFERENCES TO THE MOON THAT IT SEEMS TO BE STILL THERE, EVEN THOUGH OBSCURED BY CLOUDS.’’

i-cumen in,’’ generally modernized, to keep the metre, as ‘‘summer is a-coming in,’’ but it doesn’t mean that: it means ‘‘spring is here.’’ The Christian calendar finally established the celebration of the birth of Christ at the winter solstice, and made a summer solstice date (June 24) the feast day of John the Baptist. This arrangement, according to the Fathers, symbolized John’s remark in the Gospels on beholding Christ: ‘‘He must increase, but I must decrease.’’ Christmas Eve was a beneficent time, when evil spirits had no power; St. John’s Eve was perhaps more ambiguous, and there was a common phrase, ‘‘midsummer madness,’’ used by Olivia in Twelfth Night, a play named after the opposite end of the year. Still, it was a time when spirits of nature, whether benevolent or malignant, might be supposed to be abroad. There were also two other haunted ‘‘eves,’’ of the first of November and of the first of May. These take us back to a still earlier time, when animals were brought in from the pasture at the beginning of winter, with a slaughter of those that couldn’t be kept to feed, and when they were let out again at the beginning of spring. The first of these survives in our Hallowe’en, but May Day eve is no longer thought of much as a spooky time, although in Germany, where it was called ‘‘Walpurgis night,’’ the tradition that witches held an assembly on a mountain at that time lasted much longer, and comes into Goethe’s Faust. In Faust the scene with the witches is followed by something called ‘‘The Golden Wedding of Oberon and Titania,’’ which has nothing to do with Shakespeare’s play, but perhaps indicates a connection in Goethe’s mind between it and the first of May. In Shakespeare’s time, as Theseus’s remark indicates, the main emphasis on the first of May fell on a sunrise service greeting the day with

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songs. All the emphasis was on hope and cheerfulness. Shakespeare evidently doesn’t want to force a specific date on us: it may be May Day eve, but all we can be sure of is that it’s later than St. Valentine’s Day in mid-February, the day when traditionally the birds start copulating, and we could have guessed that anyway. The general idea is that we have gone through the kind of night when spirits are powerful but not necessarily malevolent. Evil spirits, as we learn from the opening scene of Hamlet, are forced to disappear at dawn, and the fact that this is also true of the Ghost of Hamlet’s father sows a terrible doubt in Hamlet’s mind. Here we have Puck, or more accurately Robin Goodfellow the puck. Pucks were a category of spirits who were often sinister, and the Puck of this play is clearly mischievous. But we are expressly told by Oberon that the fairies of whom he’s the king are ‘‘spirits of another sort’’ [III. ii. 388], not evil and not restricted to darkness. So the title of the play simply emphasizes the difference between the two worlds of the action, the waking world of Theseus’s court and the fairy world of Oberon. Let’s go back to the three parts of the comic action: the opening situation hostile to true love, the middle part of dissolving identities, and the final resolution. The first part contains a threat of possible death to Hermia. Similar threats are found in other Shakespeare comedies: in The Comedy of Errors a death sentence hangs over a central character until nearly the end of the play. This comic structure fits inside a pattern of death, disappearance and return that’s far wider in scope than theatrical comedy. We find it even in the central story of Christianity, with its Friday of death, Saturday of disappearance and Sunday of return. Scholars who have studied this pattern in religion, mythology and legend think it derives from observing the moon waning, then disappearing, then reappearing as a new moon. At the opening Theseus and Hippolyta have agreed to hold their wedding at the next new moon, now four days off. They speak of four days, although the rhetorical structure runs in threes: Hippolyta is wooed, won and wed ‘‘With pomp, with triumph and with revelling’’ [I. i. 19]. (This reading depends also on a reasonable, if not certain, emendation: ‘‘new’’ for ‘‘now’’ in the tenth line.) Theseus compares his impatience to the comedy situation of a young man waiting for

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someone older to die and leave him money. The Quince company discover from an almanac that there will be moonshine on the night that they will be performing, but apparently there is not enough, and so they introduce a character called Moonshine. His appearance touches off a very curious reprise of the opening dialogue. Hippolyta says ‘‘I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!’’ [V. i. 251], and Theseus answers that he seems to be on the wane, ‘‘but yet, in courtesy . . . we must stay the time’’ [V. i. 254–55]. It’s as though this ghastly play contains in miniature, and caricature, the themes of separation, postponement, and confusions of reality and fantasy that have organized the play surrounding it. According to the indications in the text, the night in the wood should be a moonless night, but in fact there are so many references to the moon that it seems to be still there, even though obscured by clouds. It seems that this wood is a fairyland with its own laws of time and space, a world where Oberon has just blown in from India and where Puck can put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes. So it’s not hard to accept such a world as an antipodal one, like the world of dreams itself, which, although we make it fit into our waking-time schedules, still keeps to its own quite different rhythms. A curious image of Hermia’s involving the moon has echoes of this; she’s protesting that she will never believe Lysander unfaithful: I’ll believe as soon This whole earth may be bored, and that the moon May through the centre creep, and so displease Her brother’s noontide with th’Antipodes. [III. ii. 52–5] A modern reader might think of the opening of ‘‘The Walrus and the Carpenter.’’ The moon, in any case, seems to have a good deal to do with both worlds. In the opening scene Lysander speaks of Demetrius as ‘‘this spotted and inconstant man’’ [I. i. 110], using two common epithets for the moon, and in the last act Theseus speaks of ‘‘the lunatic, the lover and the poet’’ [V. i. 7], where ‘‘lunatic’’ has its full Elizabethan force of ‘‘moonstruck.’’ The inhabitants of the wood-world are the creatures of legend and folk tale and mythology and abandoned belief. Theseus regards them as projections of the human imagination, and as

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Michelle Pfeiffer as Titania and Rupert Everett as Oberon in a scene from the 1999 film A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Ó Fox Searchlight/Everett Collection)

having a purely subjective existence. The trouble is that we don’t know the extent of our own minds, or what’s in that mental world that we half create and half perceive . . . The tiny fairies that wait on Bottom—Mustardseed and Peaseblossom and the rest—come from Celtic fairy lore, as does the Queen Mab of Mercutio’s speech [in Romeo and Juliet], who also had tiny fairies in her train. Robin Goodfellow is more Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic. His propitiatory name, ‘‘Goodfellow,’’ indicates that he could be dangerous, and his fairy friend says that one of his amusements is to ‘‘Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm’’ [II. i. 39]. A famous book a little later than Shakespeare, Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, mentions fire spirits who mislead travellers with illusions, and says ‘‘We commonly call them pucks.’’ The fairy world clearly would not do as a democracy: there has to be a king in charge like Oberon, who will see that Puck’s rather primitive sense of humour doesn’t get too far out of line.

famous Classical metamorphosis is the story of Apuleius about a man turned into an ass by enchantment, and of course this theme enters the present play when Bottom is, as Quince says, ‘‘translated.’’ In Classical mythology one central figure was the goddess that Robert Graves, . . . calls the ‘‘white goddess’’ or the ‘‘triple will.’’ This goddess had three forms: one in heaven, where she was the goddess of the moon and was called Phoebe or Cynthia or Luna; one on earth, where she was Diana, the virgin huntress of the forest, called Titania once in Ovid; and one below the earth, where she was the witch-goddess Hecate. Puck speaks of ‘‘Hecate’s triple team’’ at the end of the play. References to Diana and Cynthia by the poets of the time usually involved some allusion to the virgin queen Elizabeth (they always ignored Hecate in such contexts). As I said, the Queen seems to be alluded to here, but in a way that kicks her upstairs, so to speak: she’s on a level far above all the ‘‘lunatic’’ goings-on below.

The gods and other beings of Classical mythology belong in the same half-subjective, half-autonomous world. I’ve spoken of the popularity of Ovid’s Metamorphoses for poets: this, in Ovid’s opening words, is a collection of stories of ‘‘bodies changed to new forms.’’ Another

Titania in this play is not Diana: Diana and her moon are in Theseus’s world, and stand for the sterility that awaits Hermia if she disobeys her father, when she will have to become Diana’s nun, ‘‘Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon’’ [I. i. 73]. The wood of this play is erotic, not


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virginal: Puck is contemptuous of Lysander’s lying so far away from Hermia, not realizing that this was just Hermia being maidenly. According to Oberon, Cupid was an inhabitant of this wood, and had shot his erotic arrow at the ‘‘imperial votaress,’’ but it glanced off her and fell on a white flower, turning it red. The parabola taken by this arrow outlines the play’s world, so to speak: the action takes place under this red and white arch. One common type of Classical myth deals with a ‘‘dying god,’’ as he’s called now, a male figure who is killed when still a youth, and whose blood stains a white flower and turns it red or purple. Shakespeare had written the story of one of these gods in his narrative poem ‘‘Venus and Adonis,’’ where he makes a good deal of the stained flower: No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, But stole his blood and seem’d with him to bleed. [1055–56] The story of Pyramus and Thisbe is another such story: Pyramus’s blood stains the mulberry and turns it red. In Ovid’s account, when Pyramus stabs himself the blood spurts out in an arc on the flower. This may be where Shakespeare got the image that he puts to such very different use. Early in the play we come upon Oberon and Titania quarrelling over the custody of a human boy, and we are told that because of their quarrel the weather has been unusually foul. The implication is that the fairies are spirits of the elements, and that nature and human life are related in many ways that are hidden from ordinary consciousness. But it seems clear that Titania does not have the authority that she thinks she has: Oberon puts her under the spell of having to fall in love with Bottom with his ass’s head, and rescues the boy for his own male entourage. There are other signs that Titania is a possessive and entangling spirit—she says to Bottom: Out of this wood do not desire to go; Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no. [III. i. 152–53] The relationship of Oberon and Titania forms a counterpoint with that of Theseus and Hippolyta in the other world. It appears that Titania has been a kind of guardian spirit to Hippolyta and Oberon to Theseus. Theseus

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gives every sign of settling down into a solidly married man, now that he has subdued the most formidable woman in the world, the Queen of the Amazons. But his record before that was a very bad one, with rapes and desertions in it: even as late as T.S. Eliot we read about his ‘‘perjured sails.’’ Oberon blames his waywardness on Titania’s influence, and Titania’s denial does not sound very convincing. Oberon’s ascendancy over Titania, and Theseus’s over Hippolyta, seem to symbolize some aspect of the emerging comic resolution. Each world has a kind of music, or perhaps rather ‘‘harmony,’’ that is characteristic of it. That of the fairy wood is represented by the song of the mermaid described by Oberon to Puck. This is a music that commands the elements of the ‘‘sublunary’’ world below the moon; it quiets the sea, but there is a hint of a lurking danger in it, a siren’s magic call that draws some of the stars out of their proper spheres in heaven, as witches according to tradition can call down the moon. There is danger everywhere in that world for mortals who stay there too long and listen to too much of its music. When the sun rises and Theseus and Hippolyta enter the wood, they talk about the noise of hounds in this and other huntings. Hippolyta says: never did I hear Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves, The Skies, the fountains, every region near Seem’d all one mutual cry; I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. [IV. i. 114–18] It would not occur to us to describe a cry of hounds as a kind of symphony orchestra, but then we do not have the mystique of a Renaissance prince about hunting. Both forms of music fall far short of the supreme harmony of the spheres described in the fifth act of The Merchant of Venice : Oberon might know something about that, but not Puck, who can’t see the ‘‘imperial votaress.’’ Neither, probably, could Theseus. So the wood-world has affinities with what we call the unconscious or subconscious part of the mind: a part below the reason’s encounter with objective reality, and yet connected with the hidden creative powers of the mind. Left to Puck or even Titania, it’s a world of illusion, random desires and shifting identities. With Oberon in charge, it becomes the world in which those

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profound choices are made that decide the course of life, and also . . . the world from which inspiration comes to the poet. The lovers wake up still dazed with metamorphosis; as Demetrius says: These things seem small and undistinguishable, Like far-off mountains turned into clouds. [IV. i. 186–87] But the comic crystallization has taken place, and for the fifth act we go back to Theseus’s court to sort out the various things that have come out of the wood. Theseus takes a very rational and commonsense view of the lovers’ story, but he makes it clear that the world of the wood is the world of the poet as well as the lover and the lunatic. His very remarkable speech uses the words ‘‘apprehend’’ and ‘‘comprehend’’ each twice. In the ordinary world we apprehend with our senses and comprehend with our reason; what the poet apprehends are moods or emotions, like joy, and what he uses for comprehension is some story or character to account for the emotion: Such tricks hath strong imagination, That if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy [V. i. 18–20] Theseus is here using the word ‘‘imagination’’ in its common Elizabethan meaning, which we express by the word ‘‘imaginary,’’ something alleged to be that isn’t. In spite of himself, though, the word is taking on the more positive sense of our ‘‘imaginative,’’ the sense of the creative power developed centuries later by [William] Blake and [Samuel Taylor] Coleridge. So far as I can make out from the OED [Oxford English Dictionary], this more positive sense of the word in English practically begins here. Hippolyta is shrewder and less defensive than Theseus, and what she says takes us a great deal further: But all the story of the night, told over, And all their minds transfigur’d so together, More witnesseth than fancy’s images, And grows to something of great constancy; But howsoever, strange and admirable. [V. i. 23–7] Theseus doesn’t believe their story, but Hippolyta sees that something has happened to them, whatever their story. The word ‘‘transfigured’’


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means that there can be metamorphosis upward as well as downward, a creative transforming into a higher consciousness as well as the reduction from the conscious to the unconscious that we read about in Ovid. Besides, the story has a consistency to it that doesn’t sound like the disjointed snatches of incoherent minds. If you want disjointing and incoherence, just listen to the play that’s coming up. And yet the Quince play is a triumph of sanity in its way: it tells you that the roaring lion is only Snug the joiner, for example. It’s practically a parody of Theseus’s view of reality, with its ‘‘imagination’’ that takes a bush for a bear in the dark. There’s a later exchange when Hippolyta complains that the play is silly, and Theseus says: The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them [V. i. 211–12]

Hippolyta retorts: ‘‘It must be your imagination, then, and not theirs.’’ Here ‘‘imagination’’ has definitely swung over to meaning something positive and creative. What Hippolyta says implies that the audience has a creative role in every play; that’s one reason why Puck, coming out for the Epilogue when the audience is supposed to applaud, repeats two of Theseus’s words: If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended. [V. i. 423–24] Theseus’s imagination has ‘‘amended’’ the Quince play by accepting it, listening to it, and not making fun of the actors to their faces. Its merit as a play consists in dramatizing his own social position and improving what we’d now call his ‘‘image’’ as a gracious prince. In itself the play has no merit, except in being unintentionally funny. And if it has no merit, it has no authority. A play that did have authority, and depended on a poet’s imagination as well, would raise the question that Theseus’s remark seems to deny: the question of the difference between plays by Peter Quince and plays by William Shakespeare. Theseus would recognize the difference, of course, but in its social context, as an offering for his attention and applause, a Shakespeare play would be in the same position as the Quince play. That indicates how limited Theseus’s world is, in the long run, a fact symbolized by his not knowing how much of his behaviour is guided by Oberon.

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Which brings me to Bottom, the only mortal in the play who actually sees any of the fairies. One of the last things Bottom says in the play is rather puzzling: ‘‘the wall is down that parted their fathers’’ [V. i. 351]. Apparently he means the wall separating the hostile families of Pyramus and Thisbe. This wall seems to have attracted attention: after Snout the tinker, taking the part of Wall, leaves the stage, Theseus says, according to the Folio: ‘‘Now is the morall downe between the two neighbours’’ [cf. V. i. 207]. The New Arden editor reads ‘‘mural down,’’ and other editors simply change to ‘‘wall down.’’ The Quarto, just to be helpful, reads ‘‘moon used.’’ Wall and Moonshine between them certainly confuse an already confused play. One wonders if the wall between the two worlds of Theseus and Oberon, the wall that Theseus is so sure is firmly in place, doesn’t throw a shadow on these remarks. Anyway, Bottom wakes up along with the lovers and makes one of the most extraordinary speeches in Shakespeare, which includes a very scrambled but still recognizable echo from the New Testament, and finally says he will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of his dream, and ‘‘it shall be called Bottom’s Dream, because it hath no bottom’’ [IV. i. 215–16]. Like most of what Bottom says, this is absurd; like many absurdities in Shakespeare, it makes a lot of sense. Bottom does not know that he is anticipating by three centuries a remark of Freud: ‘‘every dream has a point at which it is unfathomable; a link, as it were, with the unknown.’’ When we come to King Lear, we shall suspect that it takes a madman to see into the heart of tragedy, and perhaps it takes a fool or clown, who habitually breathes the atmosphere of absurdity and paradox, to see into the heart of comedy. ‘‘Man,’’ says Bottom, ‘‘is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream’’ [IV. i. 206–07]. But it was Bottom the ass who had the dream, not Bottom the weaver, who is already forgetting it. He will never see his Titania again, nor even remember that she had once loved him, or doted on him, to use Friar Laurence’s distinction [in Romeo and Juliet]. But he has been closer to the centre of this wonderful and mysterious play than any other of its characters, and it no longer matters that Puck thinks him a fool or that Titania loathes his asinine face.

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Source: Northrop Frye, ‘‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’’ in Northrop Frye on Shakespeare, edited by Robert Sandler, Yale University Press, 1986, pp. 34–50.

Frances A. Yates Yates discusses the origins of Shakespeare’s fairy world, arguing that the ‘‘Elizabethan fairies are not . . . manifestations of folk or popular tradition.’’ According to this critic, the characters inhabiting the dream world of Shakespeare’s play stem from either Arthurian legend or the Christian variant of Cabala, a Jewish interpretation of the Scriptures based on the mystical value of words. Shakespearean fairies are related to the Fairy Queen [in Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queen] through their loyalty and through their fervent defence of chastity . . . They are defenders of chastity, of a chaste queen and her pure knighthood. They are enjoined to perform a white magic to safeguard her and her order of knighthood from evil influences. These Elizabethan fairies are not, I believe, manifestations of folk or popular tradition. Their origins are literary and religious, in Arthurian legend and in the white magic of Christian Cabala. The use of fairy imagery in the queen cult was begun in the Accession Day Tilts [jousts], and relates to the chivalric imagery of the Tilts. As taken up by Spenser in The Faerie Queene, the fairy imagery was Arthurian and chivalric, and also an expression of pure white magic, a Christian Cabalist magic. The Shakespearean fairies emanate from a similar atmosphere; they glorify a pure knighthood serving the queen and her imperial reform. To read Shakespeare’s fairy scenes without reference to the contemporary build-up of the Virgin Queen as the representative of pure religion is to miss their purpose as an affirmation of adherence to the Spenserian point of view, a very serious purpose disguised in fantasy. The supreme expression of the Shakespearean fairyland is A Midsummer Night’s Dream. This play was first printed in 1600; it was probably written for a private performance at a wedding, perhaps in 1595 or thereabouts. This magical play about enchanted lovers is set in a world of night and moonlight, where fairies serve a fairy king and queen. Into the magic texture is woven a significant portrait of Queen Elizabeth I. Oberon, the fairy king, describes how he once saw Cupid, all armed, flying between the cold moon and the earth:

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A certain aim he took At a fair vestal, throned by the West And loos’d his love shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the wat’ry moon, And the imperial votaress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy free. [II. i. 157–64] Shakespeare’s picture of Elizabeth as a Vestal Virgin, a chaste Moon who defeats the assaults of Cupid, an ‘imperial votaress’, is a brilliant summing up of the cult of Elizabeth as the representative of imperial reform. A wellknown portrait of Elizabeth presents the imagery in visual form. Elizabeth holds a sieve, emblem of the chastity of a Vestal Virgin; behind her rises the column of empire; the globe beside her shows the British Isles surrounded by shipping, alluding to her enthronement ‘in the West’. It is a portrait of the Virgin of imperial reform, of which Shakespeare gives a verbal picture in the lines just quoted, using the same imagery. [Both] the ‘Sieve’ portrait and Shakespeare’s word-picture in the Dream are Triumphs of Chastity . . . and the triumph refers both to purity in public life and in private life, to Elizabeth both in her public role as the representative of pure imperial reform, and in her private role as a chaste lady. It is exactly in such a role that Spenser presents Elizabeth, so he tells Raleigh in the letter to him published with The Faerie Queene. As Gloriana she is a most royal queen or empress, as Belphoebe she is a most chaste and beautiful lady. Shakespeare’s wordpicture presents Gloriana-Belphoebe, the Virgin of pure Empire, enthroned by the West, the chaste lady who triumphs over Cupid. The appearance in the sky of the Dream of this Spenserian vision strikes the key-note of the magical-musical moonlight of the play. The moon is Cynthia, the Virgin Queen, and the words ‘the chaste beams of the watery moon’ might also allude to Walter Raleigh’s cult of her as Cynthia. Puns on ‘Walter’, pronounced ‘Water’, were usual in referring to Raleigh. Spenser was following Raleigh, so he says, in the ‘Luna’ book of The Faerie Queene. Hence the allusions of the Shakespearean lines would be both to Elizabeth as Spenser’s


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Gloriana-Belphoebe, and also to Raleigh’s cult of her as Cynthia, adopted by Spenser. Thus the complex phenomenon which floats in the night sky of the Dream relates the play to the Spenserian dream-world, the Spenserian magical cult of the Imperial Virgin, with its undercurrent of Christian Cabala. Source: Frances A. Yates, ‘‘Shakespearean Fairies, Witches, Melancholy: King Lear and the Demons,’’ in The Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age, Ark Paperbacks, 1983, pp. 147–57.

J. B. Priestley Priestley identifies Bottom as ‘‘the most substantial figure’’ in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, describing him as earthy, quick-witted, and emphasizing his ability to laugh at the inhabitants of the fairy world. Bottom’s humor, Priestley asserts, is not fully consious; rather, he symbolizes a peculiarly English variety of a man of the people: ignorant, uncouth, but a brilliantly perceptive and profound humorist, ever ready to castigate the foibles of his fellow human beings, or, for that matter, supernatural creatures. Bottom is easily the most substantial figure in the piece. This is not saying a great deal, because A Midsummer Night’s Dream has all the character of a dream; its action is ruled by caprice and moonlit madness; its personages appear to be under the spell of visions or to walk and talk in their sleep; its background is shadowy and shifting, sometimes breaking into absolute loveliness, purple and dark green and heavy with the night scent of flowers, but always something broken, inconsequent, suddenly glimpsed as the moon’s radiance frees itself for a little space from cloud and foliage; and the whole play, with its frequent talk of visions, dreams, imagination, antique fables and fairy toys, glides past like some lovely hallucination, a masque of strange shadows and voices heard in the night. The characters are on three different levels. There are first the immortals, who have nothing earthy in their composition and are hardly to be distinguished from the quivering leaves and the mist of hyacinths, tiny creatures spun out of cobwebs and moonshine. Then there are the wandering lovers, all poetry and imagination, driven hither and thither by their passionate moods. Lastly there is Bottom (and with him, of course, his companions), who is neither a flickering elf nor a bewildered passionate lover, but a man of this world, comfortably housed in

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flesh, a personage of some note among the artisans of Athens and, we have no doubt, in spite of certain unmistakable signs of temperament in him, a worthy dependable householder. We suspect that he has, somewhere in the background, a shrewish wife who spends her time alternately seeing through her husband and being taken in by him, for he is essentially one of those large, heavy-faced, somewhat vain and patronising men, not without either humour or imagination, who always induce in women alternating moods of irritation and adoration. Among his fellow artisans, Bottom is clearly the ladies’ man, the gallant. He it is who shows himself sensitive to the delicacy of the sex in the matter of the killing and the lion, and we feel that his insistence upon a prologue, ‘‘a device to make all well’’ [III. i. 16], is only the result of his delicacy and chivalry. Snout and Starveling, who hasten to agree with him, are simply a pair of whimpering poltroons, who have really no stomach for swords and killing and raging melodrama and are afraid of the consequences if they should startle the audience. But Bottom, we feel, has true sensibility and in his own company is the champion of the sex; he knows that it is a most dreadful thing to bring in the lion, that most fearful wild-fowl, among ladies, and his sketch of the prologue has in it the true note of artful entreaty: ‘‘Ladies, or, Fair Ladies,—I would wish you,—or, I would request you,—or, I would entreat you,—not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours [III. i. 39–42]’’. Such a speech points to both knowledge of the sex and long practice, and given friendly circumstances, the speaker might be a very dangerous man. We should like to see Bottom making love among his own kind; the result would have startled some of his critics. As it is, we only see him, crowned with an ass’s head, suddenly transformed into the paramour of the queen of the fairies, and even in a situation so unexpected, so remote from his previous experience, he acquits himself, as we shall see, very creditably. What would happen if one of the gentlemen who call friend Bottom ‘‘gross, stupid, and ignorant,’’ let us say the average professor of English literature, suddenly found himself in the arms of a very beautiful and very amorous fairy, even if his head were not discoverable by immediate sight but only by long acquaintance to be that of an ass? He would probably acquit himself no better than would Snout or Starveling in similar circumstances, and Shakespeare took care to wave away his Snouts and Starvelings and called the one man

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AMONG HIS FELLOW ARTISANS, BOTTOM IS CLEARLY THE LADIES’ MAN, THE GALLANT.’’

to that strange destiny, that ‘‘most rare vision’’ [IV. i. 205], who was worthy of the occasion. Bottom, as [William] Hazlitt said, is a character that has not had justice done him: he is ‘‘the most romantic of mechanics.’’ Against the background of the whole play, which is only so much gossamer and moonlight, the honest weaver appears anything but romantic, a piece of humorous, bewildered flesh, gross, earthy. He is a trades-unionist among butterflies, a ratepayer in Elfland. Seen thus, he is droll precisely because he is a most prosaic soul called to a most romantic destiny. But if we view him first among his own associates, we shall see that he is the only one of them who was fit to be ‘‘translated.’’ Puck, who was responsible for the transformation, described him as ‘‘the shallowest thickskin of that barren sort’’ [III. ii. 13], the biggest fool in a company of fools; but Puck was no judge of character. Bottom, though he may be the biggest fool (and a big fool is no common person), is really the least shallow and thickskinned of his group, in which he shows up as the romantic, the poetical, the imaginative man, who naturally takes command. We admit that he is conceited, but he is, in some measure, an artist, and artists are notoriously conceited. The company of such tailoring and bellows-mending souls would make any man of spirit conceited. Old Quince, who obviously owes his promotion to seniority and to nothing else, is nominally in charge of the revels, but the players have scarcely met together and Quince has scarcely had time to speak a word before it is clear that Bottom, and Bottom alone, is the leader. Quince (‘‘Good Peter Quince’’ [I. ii. 8], as Bottom, with easy contempt and patronage, calls him) is nothing but a tool in the hands of the masterful weaver, who directs the whole proceedings, the calling of the roll of players, the description of the piece, the casting of the parts, and so forth, step by step. The other members of the company not having a glimmer of imagination, the artist among them, the man of temperament, takes charge. And he alone shows

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Oberon, Puck, Titania, Bottom, and fairies, Act IV, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

any enthusiasm for the drama itself, for the others are only concerned with pleasing the Duke; if they do badly, if they should, for example, frighten the ladies, they may be hanged, whereas if they do well, they may receive a little pension. Once Bottom is metamorphosed, we no longer see him against the background of his fellow artisans but see him firmly set in the lovely moonlit world of the elves and fairies, a world so delicate that honeybags stolen from the bees serve for sweetmeats and the wings of painted butterflies pass for fans, and here among such airy creatures, Bottom, of course, is first glimpsed as something monstrous, gross, earthy. It would be bad enough even if he were there in his own proper person, but he is wearing an ass’s head and presents to us the figure of a kind of comic monster. Moreover, he is loved at first sight by the beautiful Titania, who, with the frankness of an immortal, does not scruple to tell him so as soon as her eyes, peering through enchantments,


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are open. A man may have the best wit and the best person of any handicraftsman in Athens and yet shrink from the wizardries of such a night, being compelled to wear the head of an ass, deserted by his companions, conjured into fairyland, bewilderingly promoted into the paramour of the fairy queen and made the master of such elvish and microscopic attendants as Peasblossom and Cobweb and Moth. But Bottom, as we have said, rises to the occasion, ass’s head and all; not only does he not shrink and turn tail, not only does he accept the situation, he contrives to carry it off with an air; he not only rises to the occasion, he improves it. Now that all the whimsies under the midsummer moon are let loose and wild imagination has life dancing to its tune, this is not the time for the Bottom we have already seen, the imaginative, temperamental man, to come forward and dominate the scene, or else all hold upon reality is lost; that former Bottom must be kept in check, left to

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wonder and perhaps to play over to himself the lover and the lion; this is the moment for that other, honest Nick Bottom the weaver, the plain man who is something of a humorist, good solid flesh among all such flimsies and whimsies, madness and moonshine. Does the newly awakened lovely creature immediately confess that she is enamoured of him, then he carries it off bravely, with a mingled touch of wit, philosophy, and masculine complacency: ‘‘Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days; the more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion’’ [III. i. 142–46]. And we can see the ass’s head tilted towards the overhanging branches, as he gives a guffaw at his ‘‘gleeking’’ and takes a strutting turn or two before this astonishing new mistress. But nothing takes him by surprise in this sudden advancement. His tone is humorous and condescending, that of a solid complacent male among feminine fripperies. When his strange little servitors are introduced to him, the Duke himself could not carry it off better: ‘‘I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you’’—then turning regally to the next: ‘‘Your name, honest gentleman?’’ Good Master Mustard-seed is commiserated with because ‘‘that same cowardly, giantlike ox-beef hath devoured many a gentleman of your House’’ [III. i. 182–93]: all are noticed and dispatched with the appropriate word; it is like a parody of an official reception. In the next scene, we discover him even more at his ease than before, lolling magnificently, embraced by his lady and surrounded by his devoted attendants, who are being given their various duties. ‘‘Monsieur Cobweb, good monsieur’’—and indeed there was probably something very Gallic about this Cobweb— ‘‘get your weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipp’d humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur; and, good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not. I would be loth to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior’’ [IV. i. 10–16]. Bottom is clearly making himself at home in Elfland; he is beginning to display a certain fastidiousness, making delicate choice of a ‘‘red-hipp’d humble-bee on the top of a thistle.’’ And if Puck won the first trick with the love philtre and the ass’s head, we are not sure

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that Bottom is not now winning the second, for every time he addresses one of his attendants he is scoring off Elfland and is proving himself a very waggish ass indeed. Even his remarks on the subject of music (‘‘I have a reasonable good ear in music: let us have the tongs and the bones’’ [IV. i. 28–9]) and provender (‘‘I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow’’ [IV. i. 31–4]) have to our ears a certain consciously humorous smack, as if the speaker were not quite such an ass as he seems but were enjoying the situation in his own way, carrying the inimitable, if somewhat vulgar, manner of the great Bottom, pride of handicraftsmen, even into the heart of Faerie. If he shows no surprise, however, and almost contrives to carry off the situation in the grand manner, we must remember that he, like Titania, is only dreaming beneath the mooncoloured honeysuckle and musk roses; the enamoured fairy and all her attendant sprites are to him only phantoms, bright from the playbox of the mind, there to be huddled away when a sudden puff of wind or a falling leaf brings the little drama to an end; and so he acts as we all act in dreams, who may ourselves be ‘‘translated’’ nightly by Puck and sent on the wildest adventures in elfin woods for all we know to the contrary. When Bottom awakes, yawning and stiff in the long grass, his sense of wonder blossoms gigantically, and the artist in him, he who would play the tyrant, the lover, the damsel, and the lion, leaps to life: ‘‘I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream,—past the wit of man to say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go about to expound this dream’’ [IV. i. 204–07]. So fiery and eager is that wonder and poetry in him which all the long hours at Athenian looms have not been able to wither away, as he stands crying in ecstasy in the greenwood, that we cannot be surprised that his style, which he very rightly endeavours to heighten for the occasion, should break down under the stress of it: ‘‘The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was’’ [IV. i. 211–14]. But no matter; the dramatic enthuasiast in him now takes command: Peter Quince (whom we did not suspect of authorship) shall write a ballad of this dream, to be called Bottom’s Dream, and it shall be sung, by a newly resurrected Pyramus, at the end of the coming play; and off he goes, his

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head humming with plans, back to the town to put heart into his lads. There he plays Pyramus as Pyramus was never played before; takes charge of the whole company, does not scruple to answer a frivolous remark of the Duke’s, and finally speaks the last word we hear from the handicraftsmen. We learn nothing more of him, but perhaps when the lovers were turning to their beds and the fairies were dancing in the glimmering light, Bottom, masterful, triumphant, was at Peter Quince’s with the rest, sitting over a jug or two and setting his fellow players agape with his tale of the rare vision. There was a poet somewhere in this droll weaver and so he came to a poet’s destiny, finding himself wearing the head of an ass (as we all must do at such moments), the beloved of an exquisite immortal, the master of Cobwebs and Peas-blossoms, coming to an hour’s enchantment while the moon climbs a hand’s-breadth up the sky—and then, all ‘‘stolen hence,’’ the dream done and the dreamer left to wonder. Such is the destiny of poets, who are themselves also weavers. It is a critical commonplace that these Athenian clowns are very English, just as the setting that frames them is exquisitely English; and it follows very naturally that the greatest of them is the most English. There is indeed no more insular figure in all Shakespeare’s wide gallery than Bottom. A superficial examination of him will reveal all those traits that unfriendly critics of England and Englishmen have remarked for centuries. Thus, he is ignorant, conceited, domineering; he takes himself and his ridiculous concerns seriously and shows no lightness of touch; knowing perhaps the least, he yet talks the most, of all his company; he cannot understand that his strutting figure is the drollest sight under the sky, never for one instant realises that he is nothing but an ignorant buffoon; the soulless vulgarity of his conduct among the fairies smells rank in the nostrils of men of taste and delicacy of mind; in short, he is indeed the ‘‘shallowest thickskin of that barren sort’’ [III. ii. 13], lout-in-chief of a company of louts. But something more than a superficial examination will, as we have partly seen, dispose of much of this criticism, and will lead to the discovery in Bottom of traits that our friendly critics have remarked in us and that we ourselves know to be there. Bottom is very English in this, that he is something of a puzzle and an apparent contradiction. We have already marked the poetry and the artist in him, and we have only to stare at him a little longer to be in


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doubt about certain characteristics we took for granted. Is he entirely our butt or is he for at least part of the time solemnly taking us in and secretly laughing at us? Which of us has not visited some rural tap-room and found there, wedged in a corner, a large, round-faced, wide-mouthed fellow, the local oracle; and, having listened to some of his pronouncements, have laughed in our sleeves at his ignorance, dogmatism, and conceit; and yet, after staying a little longer and staring at the creature’s large, solemn face, a face perilously close to vacuity, have noticed in it certain momentary twinkles and creases that have suddenly left us a little dubious about our hasty conclusions? And then it has dawned upon us that the fellow is, in his own way, which is not ours nor one to which we are accustomed, a humorist, and that somewhere behind that immobile and almost vacuous front, he has been enjoying us, laughing at us, just as we have been enjoying him and laughing at him. It is an experience that should make us pause before we pass judgment upon Bottom, who is the first cousin of all such queer characters, rich and ripe personages who are to be found, chiefly in hostelries but now and then carrying a bag of tools or flourishing a paint-brush, in almost every corner of this England, which is itself brimmed with puzzling contradictions, a strange mixture of the heavy butt and the conscious humorist. Bottom is worlds away from the fully conscious humour of a Falstaff, but we cannot have followed him from Peter Quince’s house to the arms of Titania and seen him in Bank Holiday humour with his Cobwebs and Mustardseeds, without noticing that he is something more than a rustic target. He is English, and he is conceited, ignorant, dogmatic, and asinine, but there stirs within him, as there does within his fellow workmen even now, a poet and humorist, waiting for the midsummer moon. And lastly, he is not dead, he has not left us, for I saw him myself, some years ago, and he had the rank of corporal and was gloriously at ease in a tumbledown estaminet near Amiens [in As You Like It], and there he was playing the tyrant, the lover, and the lion all at once, and Sergeant Quince and Privates Snug and Starveling were there with him. They were paying for his beer and I suspect that they were waiting, though obviously waiting in vain, to hear him cry once more: ‘‘Enough; hold or cut bow-strings’’ [I. ii. 111]. Source: J. B. Priestley, ‘‘Bully Bottom,’’ in The English Comic Characters, Dodd, Mead and Company, 1931, pp. 1–19.

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Frederick S. Boas Boas considers the various groups of lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, arguing that Shakespeare’s characterization of the couples is more whimsical than serious. The critic first examines Theseus and Hippolyta’s relationship, maintaining that although the playwright illustrates Theseus as a brave soldier who wins Hippolyta with his sword, the Greek ruler ultimately displays a practicality that exhibits no grasp of aesthetic beauty. In addition, Boas notes that in contrast to the generally serene fortunes of Theseus and Hippolyta, the young lovers— Lysander, Hermia, Helena, and Demetrius—are ‘‘a troubled lot’’ due to their ‘‘purely human failings.’’

THE JINGLING METRES, THE MANIA FOR ALLITERATION, THE FARFETCHED AND FANTASTIC EPITHETS, . . . ARE ALL RIDICULED WITH A BOISTEROUS GLEE, WHICH WAS AN IMPLICIT WARRANT THAT . . . [SHAKESPEARE’S] OWN WORK WOULD BE FREE FROM SUCH DISFIGURING AFFECTATIONS, OR, AT WORST, WOULD TAKE FROM THEM ONLY A SUPERFICIAL TAINT.’’

In its main plot [A Midsummer Night’s Dream] is akin to The Comedy of Errors, for in both cases a humorous entanglement is created out of mistakes. Already, however, Shakespere shows his extraordinary skill in devising variations upon a given theme, for here the mistakes are those of a night and not of a day, and instead of being external to the mind are internal . . . As in The Comedy of Errors, also, the scene is nominally laid amid classical surroundings, but the whole atmosphere of the play is essentially English and Elizabethan.

discharged’ [V. I. 360–61]. But it has been urged that Theseus shows the limitations of nature which are found in Shakespere’s men of action. Though dramatic performances serve to while away the time, even at their best they are to him ‘but shadows,’ and it is he who dismisses the tale of what the lovers have experienced in the wood as ‘fairy toys,’ and is thus led on to the famous declaration that

Thus Theseus, whose marriage with Hippolyta forms the setting of the story, is no Athenian ‘duke,’ but a great Tudor noble. He is a brave soldier, who has wooed his bride with his sword, and, strenuous even in his pleasures, he is up with the dawn on May-morning, and out in the woods, that his love may hear the music of his hounds, ‘matched in mouth like bells’ [IV. i. 123], as they are uncoupled for the hunt. He is a true Tudor lord also in his taste for the drama, as shown in his request for masques and dances wherewith to celebrate his marriage. He exhibits the gracious spirit common to all Shakespeare’s leaders of men in choosing, against the advice of his Master of the Revels, the entertainment prepared by Bottom and his fellows:

Only the practical common-sense Theseus, it has been said, would think of comparing the poet or lover to the lunatic, and Shakespere, by putting such words into his mouth, shows by a side-stroke that the man of action fails to appreciate the idealist nature. But such an inference from the passage is hazardous: there is a sense in which Theseus’ statement is true, for the artist and the lover do collide, like the madman, with what ‘cool reason’ chooses to term the realities of life. The eloquent ring of the words is scarcely suggestive of dramatic irony, while the description of the poet’s pen as giving to ‘airy nothing a local habitation and a name’ [V. i. 16–17], applies with curious exactness to Shakespere’s own method in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I will hear that play For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it; [V. i. 81–3] and though tickled by the absurdities of the performance, he checks more than once the petulant criticisms of Hippolyta, and assures the actors at the close, with a courteous doubleentendre, that their play has been ‘very notably

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The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact. [V. i. 7–8]

Contrasted with the serene fortunes of Theseus and Hippolyta is the troubled lot of humbler lovers, due, in its origin, to purely human failings. The fickle Demetrius has shifted his affections from Helena to Hermia, whose father Egeus favours the match, but Hermia is constant to Lysander, while Helena still ‘dotes in idolatry’ [I. i. 109] upon her inconstant wooer. The Athenian law as expounded by Theseus . . .

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enforces upon Hermia obedience to her father’s wishes on pain of death or perpetual maidenhood. But Lysander suggests escape to a classical ‘Gretna Green,’ seven leagues from the town, where the sharp Athenian law does not run, and fixes a trysting-place for the following night within the neighbouring wood. That Hermia should reveal the secret to Helena, and that she in her turn should put Demetrius on the fugitive’s track, merely to ‘have his sight thither and back again’ [I. i. 251], is a transparently clumsy device for concentrating the four lovers on a single spot, which betrays the hand of the immature playwright. Within the wood the power of human motive is suspended for that of enchantment, and at a touch of Puck’s magic herb, Lysander and Demetrius are ‘translated,’ and ready to cross swords for the love of the erewhile flouted Helena. Thus all things befall preposterously, and reason holds as little sway over action as in a dream, though it is surely overstrained to find . . . a definitely allegorical significance in the comic entanglement, the more so that the dramatic execution is at this point somewhat crude. Lysander and Demetrius are little more than lay figures, and the only difference between Helena and Hermia is that the latter is shorter of stature, and has a vixenish temper, of which she gives a violent display in the unseemly quarrel scene. But at last, by Oberon’s command Dian’s bud undoes on the eyes of Lysander the work of Cupid’s flower, and the close of the period of enchantment is broadly and effectively marked by the inrush at dawn of exuberant, palpable life in the shape of Theseus’ hunting party, whose horns and ‘halloes’ reawaken the sleepers to everyday realities. But, as in The Errors, out of the confusions of the moment is born an abiding result. Demetrius is henceforward true to Helena: the caprice of magic has redressed the caprice of passion, and the lovers return to Athens ‘with league whose date till death shall never end’ [III. ii. 373]. Deep reflective power and subtle insight into character came slowly to Shakespere, as to lesser men, but fancy has its flowering season in youth, and never has it shimmered with a more delicate and iridescent bloom than the fairy-world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Through woodland vistas, where the Maymoon struggles with the dusk, elf-land opens into sight, ethereal, impalpable, spun out of gossamer and dew, and yet strangely consistent and credible. For this kingdom of shadows reproduces in miniature the


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structure of human society. Here, as on earth, there are royal rulers, with courts, ministers, warriors, jesters, and, in fine, all the pomp and circumstance of mortal sovereignty. And what plausibility there is in every detail, worked out with an unfaltering instinct for just and delicate gradation! In this realm of the microscopic an acorn-cup is a place of shelter, and a cast snakeskin, or the leathern wing of a rear-mouse, an ample coat: the night tapers are honey-bags of humble-bees lit at the glow-worm’s eyes, and the fairy chorus, to whom the third part of a moment is a measurable portion of time, charm from the side of their sleeping mistress such terrible monsters as blindworms, spiders, and beetles black. Over these tiny creatures morality has no sway: theirs is a delicious sense life, a revel of epicurean joy in nature’s sweets and beauties. To dance ‘by paved fountain or by rushy brook’ [II. i. 84], to rest on banks canopied with flowers, to feed on apricoks and grapes, and mulberries, to tread the groves till the ‘eastern gate all firey red’ [III. ii. 391] turns the green sea into gold—such are the delights which make up their round of existence. In Puck, ‘the lob of spirits,’ this merry temper takes a more roguish form, a gusto in the topsy-turvy, in the things that befall preposterously, and an elfin glee in gulling mortals according to their folly. With his zest for knavish pranks, for mocking practical jokes upon ‘gossips’ and ‘wisest aunts,’ this merry wanderer of the night is indeed a spirit different in sort from the ethereal dream fairies, and it is natural that Oberon’s vision of Cupid all armed should be hid from his gross sight. Moonlight and woodland have for him no spell of beauty, but they form a congenial sphere in which to play the game of mystification and cross-purposes. Thus his very unlikeness to the other shadows marks him out as the ally and henchman of Oberon in his quarrel with the fairy queen and her court. For the love troubles of mortals have their miniature counterpart in the jealousy of the elfin royal pair, springing in the main, as befits their nature, from an aesthetic rivalry for the possession of a lovely Indian boy, though by an ingenious touch, which unites the natural and supernatural realms, a further incitement is the undue favour with which Oberon regards the ‘bouncing Amazon’ Hippolyta, balanced by Titania’s attachment to Theseus. And as the human wooers are beguiled by the power of Cupid’s magic herb, the fairy queen is in like manner victimized. But with correct instinct

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Shakespere makes her deception far the more extravagant. Fairyland is the world of perennial surprise, and it must be a glaringly fantastic incongruity that arrests attention there. But the most exciting canons of improbability are satisfied when Titania, whose very being is spun out of light and air and dew, fastens her affections upon the unpurged ‘mortal grossness’ of Bottom, upon humanity with its asinine attributes focused and gathered to a head. To attack his queen in her essential nature, to make her whose only food is beauty lavish her endearments upon a misshapen monster, is a masterpiece of revenge on Oberon’s part. And so persuasive is the art of the dramatist that our pity is challenged for Titania’s infatuation, with its pathetically reckless squandering of pearls before swine, and thus we hail with joy her release from her dotage, her reconciliation with Oberon, and the end of jars in fairyland, celebrated with elfin ritual of dance and song. In designedly aggressive contrast to the dwellers in the shadow world is the crew of hempen homespuns headed by sweet bully Bottom. Among the many forms of genius there is to be reckoned the asinine variety, which wins for a man the cordial recognition of his supremacy among fools, and of this Bottom is a choice type. In the preparation of the Interlude in honour of the Duke’s marriage, though Quince is nominally the manager, Bottom, through the force of his commanding personality, is throughout the directing spirit. His brother craftsmen have some doubts about their qualifications for heroic roles, but this protean actor and critic is ready for any and every part, from lion to lady, and is by universal consent selected as jeune premier [lead player] of the company in the character of Pyramus, ‘a most lovely gentleman-like man.’ Bereft of his services, the comedy, it is admitted on all hands, cannot go forward: ‘it is not possible: you have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he’ [IV. ii. 7–8]. Fostered by such heroworship, Bottom’s egregious self-complacency develops to the point where his metamorphosis at the hands of Puck seems merely an exquisitely fitting climax to a natural process of evolution. And even when thus ‘translated,’ he retains his versatile faculty of adapting himself to any part; the amorous advances of Titania in no wise disturb his equanimity, and he is quite at ease with Peaseblossom and Cobweb. A sublime self-satisfaction may triumph in situations where

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the most delicate tact or the most sympathetic intelligence would be nonplussed. But Shakespere, in introducing his crew of patches into his fairy drama, had an aim beyond satirizing fussy egotism or securing an effect of broad comic relief. It is a peculiarity of his dramatic method to produce variations upon a single theme in the different portions of a play. Love’s Labour’s Lost is an instance of this, and A Midsummer Night’s Dream is further illustration, though of a less obvious kind. For in the rehearsal and setting forth of their comedy, Bottom and his friends enter a debateable domain, which, like that of the fairies, hovers round the solid work-a-day world, and yet is not of it. There is a point of view from which life may be regarded as the reality of which art, and in especial dramatic art, is the ‘shadow,’ the very word used by Theseus in relation to the workmen’s play. Thus in their grotesque devices and makeshifts these rude mechanicals are really facing the question of the relation of shadow to substance, the immemorial question of realism in art and on the stage. The classical maxim that ‘Medea shall not kill her children in sight of the audience’ [Horace, in his Ars Poetica] lest the feelings of the spectators should be harrowed beyond endurance, finds a burlesque echo in Bottom’s solicitude lest the ladies should be terrified by the drawing of Pyramus’ sword, or the entrance of so fearful a wildfowl as your lion. Hence the necessity for a prologue to say that Pyramus is not killed indeed, and for the apparition of half Snug the joiner’s face through the lion’s neck, and his announcement that he is not come hither as a lion, but is ‘a man as other men are’ [III. i. 44]. Scenery presents further difficulties, but here, as there is no risk of wounding delicate susceptibilities, realism is given full rein. The moon herself is pressed into the service, but owing to her capricious nature, she is given an understudy in the person of Starveling carrying a bush of thorns and a lanthorn. It is only the hypercriticism of the Philistine Theseus that finds fault with this arrangement on the score that the man should be put into the lanthorn. ‘How is it else the man in the moon?’ [V. i. 247–48]. The ‘tedious belief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe,’ [V. i. 56–7], is more elaborated specimen of those plays within plays, of which Shakespere had already given a sketch in Love’s Labour’s Lost, and for which he retained a fondness in all stages of his career. It is a

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burlesque upon the dramas of the day, in which classical subjects were handled with utter want of dignity, and with incongruous extravagance of style. The jingling metres, the mania for alliteration, the farfetched and fantastic epithets, the meaningless invocations, the wearisome repetition of emphatic words, are all ridiculed with a boisterous glee, which was an implicit warrant that, when the young dramatist should hereafter turn to tragic or classical themes, his own work would be free from such disfiguring affectations, or, at worst, would take from them only a superficial taint. And, indeed, what potency of future triumphs on the very summits of dramatic art lay already revealed in the genius which out of an incidental entertainment could frame the complex and gorgeous pagentry of A Midsummer Night’s Dream; and which, when denied, by the necessities of the occasion, an ethical motive, could fail back for inspiration on an enchanting metaphysic, not of the schools but of the stage, whose contrasts of shadow and reality are shot, now in threads of gossamer lightness, now in homelier and coarser fibre, into the web and woof of this unique hymeneal masque. Source: Frederick S. Boas, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Poems: The Early Period of Comedy,’’ in Shakespeare and His Predecessors, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1902, pp. 158–96.

SOURCES Calderwood, James L., A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Twayne, 1992, p. xxii. Hazlitt, William, in Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream; A Casebook, edited by Antony Price, Macmillan, 1983, p. 32, originally published in Characters of Shakespeare’s Plays, 1817. Pepys, Samuel, in Shakespeare: A Midsummer Night’s Dream; A Casebook, edited by Antony Price, Macmillan, 1983, p. 25, originally published in The Diary of Samuel Pepys, edited by Robert Latham and William Matthews, Penguin, 1970. Phialas, Peter G., Shakespeare’s Romantic Comedies: The Development of Their Form and Meaning, University of North Carolina Press, 1966, p. 105. Shakespeare, William, A Midsummer-Night’s Dream, Cambridge University Press, 1964.


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FURTHER READING Barber, C. L., ‘‘May Games and Metamorphoses on a Midsummer Night,’’ in Shakespeare’s Festive Comedies, Princeton University Press, 1959, pp. 119–62. The pageantry that an Elizabethan audience would have been familiar with is explained in Barber’s essay, with concentration on the magic that a festival situation evoked in such audiences and the ways in which various characters symbolize the epochs in normal life. Bryant, J. A., Jr., ‘‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’’ in Shakespeare & the Uses of Comedy, University of Kentucky Press, 1986, pp. 57–80. Bryant’s explanation of the play centers around the historical context of Roman comedies and social oppositions. Girard, Rene´ ‘‘Myth and Ritual in A Midsummer Night’s Dream,’’ in William Shakespeare: Comedies and Romances, edited by Harold Bloom, Chelsea House Publishers, 1986, pp. 227–46. This essay looks at the play from social and psychological perspectives, with a strong focus on the two pairs of young lovers at the center of the action. Halio, Jay L., A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Manchester University Press, 1994. Halio’s book is part of Manchester University’s ‘‘Shakespeare in Performance’’ series. It follows the history of performances of this play, from their very earliest in Shakespeare’s time to the controversial reimaginings that took place at the end of the twentieth century. Rudd, Niall, ‘‘Pyramus and Thisby in Shakespeare and Ovid,’’ in Shakespeare’s Ovid: The Metamorphosis in the Plays and Poems, Cambridge University Press, 2000, pp. 113–25. Rudd gives a detailed dissection of the similarities and differences between Shakespeare’s telling of the classic story in A Midsummer Night’s Dream and the version by Ovid that it was based upon. Scragg, Leah, ‘‘Plays within Plays,’’ in Discovering Shakespeare’s Meaning: An Introduction to the Study of Shakespeare’s Dramatic Structures, Longman Press, 1994, pp. 86–113. This chapter from Scragg’s book looks at the ‘‘Pyramus and Thisby’’ play, comparing it to examples from other Shakespeare works and showing how the playwright controlled the audience’s sense of reality throughout the performance.

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Much Ado about Nothing 1598

Shakespeare’s play Much Ado about Nothing has been described as a comedy which, despite its surface gaiety and occasional slapstick comedy, is also serious and even profound in its implications. It has also been considered an enjoyable but problematic play. Assessments of it have varied, but most commentators agree that Much Ado about Nothing is a comedy of manners—a play that gently pokes fun at the manners and conventions of an aristocratic, highly sophisticated society. True to this form, Much Ado about Nothing features the war of the sexes, instances of eavesdropping, mistaken identities, misunderstood communications, and a tangle of subplots all ending in the pairing off of marriageable couples, the downfall of a scheming villain, and the happiness of a wedding dance. Many readers of Shakespeare’s works today would probably agree that Much Ado about Nothing is one of the foremost comedies of manners in Western literature, one that speaks with wisdom about humanity. Scholars agree that Much Ado about Nothing was written and first performed sometime between late 1598 and 1599. An entry in the Stationer’s Register, dated August 4, 1600, includes a reference to the play, ordering that it not be published. Critics have offered several explanations for this entry in the Register, with some maintaining that it reflects official censorship or Puritan pressure, and others stating that it was merely an attempt on the part of the Lord

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Chamberlain’s Men (an acting company with which Shakespeare was associated) to prevent a pirated edition of Much Ado about Nothing from being published. In any case, evidence indicates that Much Ado about Nothing enjoyed considerable popularity during Shakespeare’s day and throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But it was not until late in the seventeenth century and early into the next century that true critical assessments first appeared. In the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, critics identified Ludovico Ariosto’s Italian Renaissance epic poem Orlando Furioso (1516) as one of Much Ado about Nothing’s principal sources. These early critics also introduced several thematic and technical issues—questions regarding how true to life the characters’ words and actions are, as well as examinations of Shakespeare’s use of language—that were to become very important in later studies of the comedy. As for other sources for Much Ado about Nothing, the dramatist borrowed from a story in Matteo Bandello’s collection of tales, La prima parte de le novella (1554), which Shakespeare knew both in Italian and in French. In Much Ado about Nothing, Shakespeare tightened the action for dramatic effect, drawing in elements from Ariosto’s version of the tale, along with some hints from Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene (1590), a major influence on Elizabethan writers. The language of Much Ado about Nothing is accessible even for modern audiences, except for that of Dogberry, the comical Constable. But then, Dogberry probably was hard to understand even in his times. Dogberry lives in a world of his own, while the topic of conversation among the other characters focuses on various aspects of love and relationships, which translates well into any culture of any century. Shakespeare’s genius is the understanding of human psychology which, despite all the advances in other fields, remains fairly constant throughout the years, making Much Ado about Nothing as relevant today as it will be tomorrow.

PLOT SUMMARY

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with his daughter Hero, and Beatrice, his niece. A messenger arrives, telling Leonato that Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon, an old friend of the governor’s, is coming back from an unnamed war. With Don Pedro is Count Claudio, a young lord from Florence. Signior Benedick of Padua is also in the group of returning soldiers. When Beatrice hears the name of Benedick, she mocks him and everything the messenger says about Benedick. Leonato explains that there is a war of wits between his niece and Benedick. The prince enters with his men and greets Leonato. Benedick and Beatrice exchange witty barbs, not wasting any time with niceties. Leonato invites the men to spend the month at his estate. As the men enter the grounds, Don John the Bastard, an illegitimate brother of the prince, appears. There is tension between Don John and Don Pedro, the prince, but Leonato invites Don John to stay with him, hoping to resolve the strained feelings between the brothers. Claudio mentions to Benedick that he is attracted to Hero, Leonato’s daughter. Benedick makes fun of Claudio for falling in love and considering marriage. Benedick claims that marriage is to be disdained. Women are for entertainment, not love. When Don Pedro, the prince, learns that Claudio is in love, he offers to woo Hero for Claudio and then gain permission from Leonato for Hero’s hand.

Act 1, Scene 2 Leonato’s brother has overheard the conversation between Don Pedro and Claudio and tells Leonato to prepare to answer the prince and agree to give Claudio Hero’s hand. Leonato goes to Hero and prepares her for the proposal, telling her to accept it.

Act 1, Scene 3 Don John, the prince’s illegitimate brother, also hears of this plan. He decides to set up a deception that will wreak havoc with Claudio’s intentions. Don John is jealous of Don Pedro’s attention to Claudio. Don John schemes with Borachio and Conrade, two men who arrived at Leonato’s place with Don John.

Act 1, Scene 1

Act 2, Scene 1

Much Ado about Nothing opens in Messina, Italy. Leonato, the governor of the town, is

Beatrice tries to imagine the best man who could possibly exist on earth. She takes part of one


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Dan Stevens as Claudio, Olivia Darnley as Hero, Janie Dee as Beatrice and Philip Voss as Leonato in Act V, scene iv, at the Theatre Royal, Bath, England, 2005 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

man and places it on another, trying to conjure someone she might be interested in marrying. Then she drops the subject, stating that she will never marry. Meanwhile, Leonato counsels his daughter, telling her to listen carefully to what the prince is about to say to her. Don Pedro approaches Hero, and they leave the scene, taking a walk so they can talk to one another. While they walk, the other characters in the play dance, their faces masked. Beatrice ends up dancing with Benedick. It is not clear if she knows it is he, but she tells him that Benedick is a fool. Benedick is offended, but he does not unmask himself or reveal his identity. Don John approaches Claudio and pretends he does not recognize him. Instead, he asks if Claudio is Benedick. Claudio tells him that he is. Don John then tells Claudio/Benedick that he is concerned that Don Pedro has fallen in love with Hero and is, at that moment, asking for her hand in marriage. Don John says that if the prince goes through with it, he will be marrying beneath his social status. Of course, Claudio is furiously

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jealous, believing that Don Pedro has tricked him. Instead of wooing Hero for Claudio, he believes the prince is wooing her for himself. Claudio asks Don John how he knows Don Pedro is doing this. Don John says that the prince confessed his love of Hero to him. After Don John leaves, Claudio runs away. Beatrice finds Claudio and brings him to Don Pedro, who tells Claudio that Hero has been won and Leonato has agreed to marriage. Hero will marry Claudio. Then the prince and Beatrice talk. Don Pedro tells Beatrice that she has a merry heart. He then asks if she would marry him. But Beatrice turns the prince down, stating that he is too fancy for her. Beatrice and Benedick once again turn on each other, Benedick declaring that he wishes the prince would send him far away so that he will not have to deal with Beatrice any longer. Then Benedick and Beatrice leave, and the prince suggests that Leonato, Hero, and Claudio help him put together a plan to bring Benedick and Beatrice together.

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Act 2, Scene 2

Act 3, Scene 2

Don John and Borachio hatch another scheme to thwart the marriage of Hero and Claudio. Borachio, who has been having an affair with Margaret, one of Hero’s ladies-in-waiting, says that he can be in Hero’s bedroom at any time at night. He tells Don John to be at the window of Hero’s bedroom that night and all Don John has to do is to make sure that Don Pedro and Claudio see what is happening at that window.

Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato observe changes in Benedick. Benedick says it is because he has a toothache, but the other men say it is because he has fallen in love. They tease him about how he now brushes his hair and is concerned about his looks. Benedick, they say, is now even taking baths and wearing perfume. Benedick tires of the teasing and asks Leonato to walk with him, because Benedick has something to tell him.

Act 2, Scene 3 Still in the afternoon, Benedick is sitting in the garden when he sees Don Pedro, Leonato, and Claudio approach. Benedick decides to hide. He wants nothing to do with any talk of love from Claudio. In an aside, Benedick states that he will never have anything to do with marriage. The prince and the other men have seen Benedick and know that he is hiding from them. They call for a troubadour to sing a song about love. Then they talk about how they have heard Beatrice declare her love of Benedick. Benedick, of course, is caught completely off guard. But the more he hears, the better he likes it, however, he is not sure they are telling the truth. He listens to more and decides that if Leonato is saying that Beatrice loves him, then it must be true. Of course, Beatrice is in love with him, Benedick finally realizes. How could she not be? The men leave and send Beatrice to fetch Benedick for dinner.

Act 3, Scene 1 While Benedick waits, he tries to rationalize having changed his mind about marriage. When Beatrice appears, she is her usual self, but Benedick has changed. He does not argue with her. Instead, he keeps turning some of her barbs to his advantage, reading into them something pleasant, finding signs of love hidden inside them. On her way back to the house, Beatrice overhears Hero and her other lady-in-waiting, Ursula, talking about how they have heard Benedick saying that he loves Beatrice. It does not take long for Beatrice to admit to herself that, in fact, she does love Benedick.


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Don John appears and asks to speak to the prince. Claudio is standing there, but Don John says he can stay as what he is about to say involves Claudio’s future. Don John then tells them both that he has proof that Hero has been unfaithful to Claudio. She has been having an affair with another man. Don Pedro and Claudio cannot believe this. So Don John tells them that he can prove it to them. They are to meet him that night, under the window to Hero’s bedroom. They will see for themselves that Hero is not worthy of marriage.

Act 3, Scene 3 The town’s constable, Dogberry, a man of words that never quite make sense, appears. Dogberry is coming to Leonato’s house to check on the watchmen, who are standing guard outside. Dogberry gives them orders, asks them questions, and corrects their answers, but none of his orders, questions, or corrections are rational. He tells them, for example, that they are to remain silent, which the watchmen interpret to mean that they can go to sleep, and which Dogberry appears to confirm. He also tells them to make sure that any drunkards are told to go home—unless they do not respond to the orders. In that case the guards are to leave them lie where they find them. Before leaving, Dogberry warns the men to keep a close watch on Leonato’s house because there is to be a big wedding in the morning. While the watchmen stand guard and are about to fall asleep, Borachio and Conrade appear. The guards hide and listen, sensing that they are about to hear the details of a scheme. Borachio, unaware that anyone is listening, brags about how he has deceived Don Pedro and Claudio. Borachio has wooed Margaret, Hero’s lady-in-waiting, in front of Hero’s bedroom window, pretending he was wooing Hero.

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Don Pedro and Claudio fell for the trick, believing that Hero was unfaithful. When the guards hear this, they arrest Borachio and Conrade

Act 3, Scene 4 Hero, Margaret, and Beatrice get ready for Hero’s wedding. When Beatrice says that she feels ill, Margaret teases Beatrice about being in love. Ursula, Hero’s other lady-in-waiting, comes in and calls them out to the wedding. Everyone is waiting for them.

Act 3, Scene 5 Dogberry comes to Leonato to tell him about Borachio and Conrade’s scheme. But Dogberry is not very clear about what has happened, and Leonato loses all patience with him. Dogberry says that he has captured two scoundrels, but he fails to tell him what the scoundrels are accused of. Leonato tells Dogberry that he is very busy right then because of the wedding and that Dogberry should examine the men’s story himself. A messenger then appears and tells Leonato that it is time to get to the church for his daughter’s wedding.

Act 4, Scene 1 Everyone is standing before the friar, who is prepared to marry Claudio and Hero. When he asks Claudio: ‘‘You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady?,’’ Claudio surprises everyone by responding, ‘‘no.’’ Leonato tries to clarify the situation, insinuating that the friar has asked the question incorrectly. Leonato says: ‘‘To be married to her.’’ In other words, the friar is marrying them. But Claudio is being married to Hero. The friar then turns his question to Hero, who responds with the appropriate answer, ‘‘I do.’’ The tension is released for a few seconds, until the friar asks if either of them knows any reason why they should not be wed. Instead of answering, Claudio turns to Hero and asks her directly if she knows any reason they should not be wed. No one understands why Claudio is acting so strangely, except, of course, Don Pedro. When Leonato asks why Claudio is acting the way he is, Claudio says that he will not ` wanton.’’ be wed to an ‘‘approved At first, Leonato thinks that it was Claudio himself who was responsible for Hero’s losing her virginity, if that is, in fact, what has happened. Claudio denies this. Then he turns on

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Hero, saying that she is like ‘‘pampered animals / That rage in savage sensuality.’’ Leonato turns to Don Pedro for help, but the prince stands by Claudio, declining to allow Claudio to be linked to ‘‘a common stale,’’ a reference to a low-class prostitute. Claudio then bids farewell to Hero, calling her ‘‘most foul, most fair,’’ exposing what he thinks of her now compared to what he used to think of her. Upon hearing this, Hero collapses. Beatrice calls for help, but Leonato says that, for her shame, Hero is best left dead. If she does wake up from the faint, Leonato swears he will kill her. The friar asks for their patience, stating that he thinks there is a scheme in all this. He suggests that they all pretend that Hero has, indeed, died. In this way, her shame will die with her, the truth will be found out, and then Hero can be reborn. Everyone leaves but Benedick and Beatrice. Benedick professes his love of Beatrice. However, Beatrice is so overwrought about Hero that she has trouble returning Benedick’s love. Eventually she reveals that she too loves Benedick, but she wants him to swear his love to her not in words but in actions. When Benedick asks how he might do this, Beatrice tells him to kill Claudio. Benedick refuses. Beatrice says that Benedick’s refusal to do this kills her. She proclaims: ‘‘O, that I were a man!’’ (a line that is often quoted from this play). She goes on to say that if she were a man, she ‘‘would eat his [Claudio’s] heart in the marketplace.’’ Benedick pleads with Beatrice to be reasonable. Beatrice says that Hero is ‘‘wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.’’ Benedick asks Beatrice to think deeply about this. Does she really believe that Count Claudio has done this to Hero? Beatrice replies, yes. If that is so, Benedick says, then he will challenge Claudio to a duel.

Act 4, Scene 2 In a courtroom-like scene, Dogberry and his assistant Verges appear before the town sexton. The watchmen, as well as Conrade and Borachio, are there. Dogberry stumbles through his accusation of crime against Conrade and Borachio, as the sexton tries to assist Dogberry in the examination procedures. Eventually the truth comes out. Then the sexton tells Dogberry and everyone else in the room that he has just heard

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that Don John has run away and that the marriage between Hero and Claudio has been called off, and Hero, lost in her grief, has died.

Act 5, Scene 1 Leonato is overwhelmed by grief and confusion. His brother tries to comfort him, but Leonato states that it is easy, when you are not the one that is stricken, to tell another to ease up on his pain. Then the two brothers see Don Pedro and Claudio and pursue them. Leonato accuses them of ruining Hero’s good name. He tells them that he is not too old or lacking in energy to challenge them. Before leaving, the brothers say they will have their revenge. Benedick appears. Don Pedro and Claudio are happy to see him. The prince is planning to leave with Claudio and assumes Benedick will be coming with them. Benedick says that because of what they have done to Hero, Benedick will no longer be traveling with them. He tells them that Hero has died and Don John has run away. Then Benedick accuses Claudio of slandering Hero and thus killing her. For this, Benedick says, he challenges Claudio to a duel. Benedick leaves, saying he will wait for Claudio’s answer. Dogberry then appears with Verges, the watchmen, and Borachio and Conrade. Borachio admits what he has done. Don Pedro and Claudio realize their mistake and the consequences it has caused. When Leonato and his brother reappear, the prince and Claudio beg for forgiveness. Claudio says he is willing to accept any punishment from Leonato for having been the cause of Hero’s death. Leonato tells Claudio to go throughout the city and claim Hero’s innocence. Then Claudio needs to write a poem about Hero and sing it in front of her grave. Finally, Leonato tells Claudio that his brother has a daughter, almost the image of Hero. Leonato asks that Claudio marry his niece in place of Hero. Claudio consents to all that Leonato has demanded. Leonato then has Borachio and Conrade taken away.

Act 5, Scene 2 Benedick is seen, attempting to write love poetry to his Beatrice. He fails miserably, deciding that he is not a writer. Beatrice appears and the two admit their love, once again, and flirt with one another. Ursula enters, announcing that Borachio has admitted his scheme. After once again admitting their love to one another, Beatrice and


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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

There is a DVD of Joseph Papp’s 1973 New York Shakespeare Festival Broadway stage production of Much Ado about Nothing set in a summery ‘‘America’’ just after the Spanish-American War, with Dogberry (Barnard Hughes) as a Keystone cop. Sam Waterston plays Benedick with Kathleen Widdoes as Beatrice. The DVD was produced by Kultur Studio.

The BBC (British Broadcasting Company) produced a television adaptation of Much Ado about Nothing as part of the series The Shakespeare Plays. BBC, 1984. In 1993, Columbia Tristar produced the movie Much Ado about Nothing (1993) under the direction of Kenneth Branagh, who also played the part of Benedick. Other actors include Emma Thompson, Denzel Washington, Michael Keaton, and Keanu Reeves. The film was shot on location in Tuscany, Italy. It is available on DVD.

The BBC also produced a modernized version of Much Ado about Nothing for television in 2005, setting much of the action in a television studio of the twenty-first century.

Benedick leave to find all the other members of the household.

Act 5, Scene 3 Claudio is at Hero’s tomb. He reads the poem that he has written about Hero’s innocence and the ‘‘slanderous tongues’’ that have caused her death. A song is sung that reflects these same sentiments. Then Claudio promises to visit her tomb each year.

Act 5, Scene 4 Everyone has gathered for the second wedding of Claudio and Hero—everyone but Don Pedro and Claudio. Margaret has been questioned about

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her part in the scheme and is believed when she says that she did not realize that Claudio and the prince were being tricked by her actions with Borachio. Benedick is happy with the turn of events, because now he does not have to kill his friend Claudio. Benedick then takes Leonato to the side and asks for Leonato’s permission to marry his niece, Beatrice. Leonato approves. Leonato tells Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, and Ursula to leave and when he calls for them, they are to return with their faces masked. After the prince and Claudio appear, Leonato calls for the women. Hero steps forward when asked to. Claudio wants to see her face but Leonato says not until Claudio vows to marry her. Then Hero lifts the mask and Claudio realizes it is Hero. As they all prepare to leave for the party to celebrate the marriage, Benedick asks them all to stop. He then calls out for Beatrice and asks her to profess her love for him. Beatrice denies loving him more than as just a friend. So Benedick denies loving Beatrice. But Claudio and Hero display copies of the love poems that both Benedick and Beatrice had tried to write to one another. Benedick and Beatrice realize that they can no longer deny their love and promise to marry. When Benedick is teased about all those things he had previously said against love and marriage, he says he does not care about how he felt in the past. A messenger appears with the news that Don John has been found and captured. Benedick tells the prince to put off thinking about his brother’s punishment. Benedick will help him think up something appropriate tomorrow. Then they all leave to enjoy the music and dance.

CHARACTERS Antonio Antonio is Leonato’s brother. He is present throughout the play but becomes most prominent after Claudio accuses Hero of being unfaithful to him at the wedding. Antonio tries to calm his brother but nonetheless joins his brother in confronting the prince and Claudio, willing to fight them for Hero’s honor. Leonato later tells Claudio that his brother Antonio has a daughter who looks just like Hero and asks Claudio to marry her. Antonio gives Hero (who is masked) to Claudio at the final wedding

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scene, with Claudio believing she is Antonio’s daughter.

Balthasar Balthasar is an attendant to Don Pedro, the prince. It is Balthasar who sings the melancholy love song, ‘‘Sigh No More, Ladies, Sigh No More,’’ in act 2, scene 3, as the prince, Leonato, and Claudio trick Benedick into believing that Beatrice is in love with him.

Beatrice Beatrice is Leonato’s niece and Hero’s cousin. She is a strong-willed woman who knows her mind and is not afraid to speak it. She is content, or so she says, to remain unmarried, suggesting a Shakespearean link, as some scholars have theorized, to Queen Elizabeth I, who never married. Beatrice demonstrates her intelligence through witty barbs that she uses against Benedick from the beginning to the end of the play. Although she uses these barbs to prove that she has no feelings for Benedick, it becomes clear that her feelings for him are strong. She is merely afraid of showing them for what they are, so she masks them with her wit. Even after Benedick confesses his love for her, Beatrice, unlike Hero, does not immediately give in. She wants proof of Benedick’s love and issues Benedick a big challenge. She asks him to kill his friend Claudio, for having shamed Hero. Beatrice tests the love that Benedick claims, rather than just accepting his words. Benedick passes the text by accepting the challenge, because he does truly love Beatrice. Even at the end of the play, when Benedick asks Beatrice to tell everyone that she loves him, she refuses to go first. She does not want to be humiliated, in the event that Benedick is setting her up. Once Benedick has been exposed publicly, however, Beatrice gives in.

Benedick Benedick is a young lord of Padua. One of Don Pedro’s soldiers, he is a confirmed bachelor who initially sees in Beatrice only a verbal sparring partner; each tries to outdo the other in expressing mutual disdain, though they eventually agree to marry. One of Don Pedro’s trusted comrades-inarms, Benedick possesses a brisk, bouncing nature and ready wit. He is a self-confessed bachelor who would prefer to enjoy life while keeping women at

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arm’s length—especially Beatrice, for whom he has a particular, antagonistic regard. His disdain for women, it has been suggested, masks his wary respect for Beatrice, with whom he might have been once involved romantically. As evidence of this, critics note the giddy, schoolboyish behavior Benedick exhibits upon being tricked into believing that Beatrice loves him, rationalizing that Beatrice’s scorn is really a façade that covers her deep affection for Benedick. Benedick’s newfound passion is put to the test severely after Hero’s humiliation by Claudio. Beatrice commands Benedick to kill Claudio. Benedick is torn between his love for Beatrice and his loyalty to his army comrade. Ultimately, love for Beatrice wins out, and Benedick coldly and insistently challenges Claudio to single combat. All seems headed for a sad and violent parting between the two friends, until Borachio and Conrade confess their guilt in shaming Hero. In the end, Benedick is reconciled with Claudio and engaged to Beatrice, with whom he has a final, friendly skirmish of wit. Critics note that when all of the principal characters are on stage together, the major interest of the audience is not the love-at-first-sight relationship that develops between Hero and Claudio, but rather the merry war between Beatrice and Benedick.

Borachio Borachio is a follower of Don John, the prince’s illegitimate brother. Borachio is having an affair with Margaret, one of the ladies-in-waiting to Hero. It is Borachio who comes up with the plan to trick the prince and Claudio into believing that Hero is unfaithful. Borachio purposely places Margaret at Hero’s window and then calls out Hero’s name, making it look like Borachio is having an affair with Hero. Later Borachio is arrested and tried for his crime. It is his admission that makes Claudio and the prince realize that they have misjudged Hero.

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Pedro, the prince, is after Hero for himself. Although this deeply hurts Claudio, he says nothing of it to Don Pedro, willing, like Hero, to accept whatever is dealt him. Claudio, who claims to be head-over-heels in love with Hero, nonetheless falls for another trick by Don John. The only time Claudio shows any gumption is when he accuses Hero (mistakenly) of cheating on him. He shames her in front of everyone, calling her horrible names and wanting to have nothing to do with her. Even when he hears that she has died, he shows no feelings. Upon learning that he has been set up by Don John and that Hero was innocent, Claudio displays not so much emotion or regret but rather conforms to the role that a count should play. He asks for forgiveness and accepts his punishment, which includes marrying another woman, or so he thinks. When Claudio discovers that the other woman is Hero, he immediately falls back in love with her, forgetting all the negative feelings he so easily succumbed to before. Claudio is one of the military heroes of Don Pedro’s victory over Don John’s forces. He is an impressionable, unimaginative young man who is somewhat out of place in the lively, witty society of Messina. He falls in love with Hero upon first laying eyes on her, believes immediately in her unfaithfulness upon witnessing Borachio’s deception, immediately agrees to marry another woman sight unseen, and then unapologetically enters into marriage with the so-called resurrected Hero. Not surprisingly, critics have described Claudio as one of the least likable lovers in Shakespeare.

Conrade Conrade is a follower of Don John, the prince’s brother. Conrade is with Borachio when the watchmen hear Borachio boasting of how he has fooled the prince and Claudio. Conrade is arrested with Borachio.

Count Claudio

Dogberry

Claudio is a count from Florence who has been fighting at the side of Don Pedro, the prince. He has fallen in love with Hero upon seeing her at Leonato’s. Claudio is shy and unsure of himself and allows Don Pedro to woo Hero for him. Hero also gains permission to marry Claudio from Leonato. However, Claudio is easily tricked by Don John, who informs Claudio that Don

Dogberry is the local constable who has trouble speaking clearly. Dogberry is in charge of the watchmen who overhear Borachio confess that he has tricked the prince and Claudio into believing that Hero is having an affair. Dogberry becomes flustered when he approaches Leonato with the news that he has caught Borachio. Leonato, who becomes impatient with Dogberry,


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shoos the constable away, thus setting into motion the catastrophe at Hero’s wedding. Later, Dogberry returns to Leonato’s and tells everyone what Borachio has done.

Friar Francis Friar Francis represents the church and officiates at the wedding of Claudio and Hero, both times. It is also Friar Francis who tries to calm Leonato, when Hero is accused of being unfaithful, telling Leonato that he suspects that someone is scheming. Friar Francis also suggests that Hero pretend that she is dead.

Hero Hero is Leonato’s daughter. She is young and innocent and falls in love with Claudio. After her marriage is arranged, Hero focuses on her cousin, Beatrice, tricking Beatrice into admitting that she is in love with Benedick. On the day of her wedding to Claudio, Hero enters the church as innocent and pure as ever. However, Claudio has changed and Hero is at a loss as to why this has happened. When Claudio accuses Hero of being unfaithful to him, Hero faints. She is shamed in front of her community and can not handle it. She complies with the friar, then, and fakes her death. After the scheme to slander her has been revealed and Claudio makes amends, Hero is willing to take Claudio back and marries him without much being said between them, as if nothing had happened. In comparison to Beatrice, Hero is weak and too willing to get married. This makes her love appear thin and shallow, and makes it appear that she is marrying in order to be married instead of because she loves Claudio. It has been said often that Hero is, for the most part, a sweet but colorless young woman who is not so much a three-dimensional character as an entity existing to fill a place in the drama. She and Claudio mechanically go through the motions of betrothal, with no development of interest, no initial conflict, nor even any wooing of Hero on Claudio’s part.

Don John Don John is listed as Don Pedro’s bastard brother. Don John is the villain of the play, an undeveloped character who causes trouble, sometimes with little result, and by the end of the play is caught. His presence in the play is felt in his absence almost as much as when he is on stage, which is not often. He has no redeeming values and does not change throughout the play.

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Considered one of the more problematic figures in the play, Don John is a snake-in-the-grass. The bastard half-brother of Don Pedro, he is a rebel and presumably a traitor whose armed uprising results not in his deserved death but in an attempted reconciliation between himself and the perhaps overly kind Don Pedro. The latter fails to see that Don John has a deep-seated grudge that leads him to try to destroy the happiness of the principal figures who defeated him: Don Pedro and Claudio. Don John is thus allowed enough freedom by his captors that he nearly wrecks several lives. Don John is considered, by many critics, to be a cardboard villain, not a well-drawn character.

Leonato Leonato is the governor of Messina, the father of Hero, the uncle of Beatrice, and the brother of Antonio. It is at Leonato’s house that most of this play takes place. He is a loving father and uncle, who wants to see both women married. He is also a gracious and generous host, inviting the group of soldiers with the prince to stay with him for the month. Leonato changes, however, when his daughter is publicly shamed at her wedding to Claudio. He takes the side of the accusers, at first claiming, when Hero faints, that he hopes she dies. If she does not die, Leonato says he is willing to kill her. Once his rage subsides, however, he goes after her accusers, telling them that he will get to the bottom of their accusations. If they had any hand in setting this scheme against her, he is willing to challenge them to a duel. When the mystery is solved, Leonato then returns to his loving self and instantly forgives the prince and Claudio.

Margaret Margaret is a lady-in-waiting to Hero. Margaret is having an affair with Borachio but she is innocent of the scheme that Borachio hatches to make the prince and Claudio believe that Margaret is Hero. Later, Leonato questions Margaret to make sure that she did not know what Borachio was up to. Margaret is quickly cleared and is brought back into the fold of the family.

Don Pedro Don Pedro is the prince of Aragon, the brother of Don John. The prince has led his soldiers in a battle and comes to Leonato’s house at the

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beginning of the play. The prince is a friend of Leonato’s. It is because of this relationship that Leonato invites all the soldiers to stay at his house for the month. Don Pedro is very much involved in the lives of his soldiers, especially Claudio’s and Benedick’s. First the prince woos Hero in Claudio’s name and gains permission from Leonato for Claudio to marry Hero. After the prince asks Beatrice if she will marry him and Beatrice refuses, the prince schemes to bring Benedick and Beatrice together. The prince gathers several of the people at Leonato’s house and has them plant little tidbits of information in the minds of Benedick and Beatrice, pretending that they have heard both of them expressing their love for one another. The trick works, and Benedick and Beatrice finally admit their love Despite the fact that there are bad feelings between Don Pedro and his brother Don John, the prince is easily fooled by his brother. He does not question the actions of Don John when he is brought to the window of Hero the night before Claudio’s marriage to her. Instead, he joins in accusing Hero of being equal to a prostitute. The prince is forgiven by the finale of the play, which Benedick ends on a cute note by telling the prince to get himself a wife.

Ursula Ursula is another of Hero’s ladies-in-waiting. Ursula helps Hero trick Beatrice into believing that Benedick is in love with her.

Verges Verges is the inept assistant to the constable, Dogberry. He and Dogberry represent comic relief in the midst of the more tense parts of the play.

THEMES War of the Sexes The differences between men and women—how they relate to each other, how they misunderstand each other, how they love and repel each other—is a common theme in motion pictures, comics, television shows, and world literature. It also appears throughout Shakespeare’s comedies as well, and Much Ado about Nothing is no exception to the pattern. In this play, much of the conflict between the sexes concerns


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Beatrice and Benedick, with their relentless disdain for each other. Each tries to outdo and outduel the other in crafting the cleverest and most deflating remarks, and the impression is given that their sparring has a long history, one that precedes the action of the play. The goal of each is not to deliver the most crushing, hot-blooded blast but to offer the most coolly disdainful and witty remarks possible. After Benedick and Beatrice actually admit the love they have been hiding under their masks of disdain for one another, the tragedy of Claudio and Hero’s separation causes a different type of war between Benedick and Beatrice. The sudden and newfound tenderness that Benedick and Beatrice have shared reverts to a heated, near-frantic rage on the part of Beatrice, after Benedick hesitates at her command to kill Claudio. Here she turns from employing wit to questioning Benedick’s manhood. In one of the most-often quoted sections of Much Ado about Nothing, she declares, ‘‘O that I were a man for his sake! Or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too. He is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing: therefore I will die a woman with grieving.’’ This sentiment is one with the words of Balthasar’s song, from act 2, scene 3: ‘‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, / Men were deceivers ever / One foot in sea, and one on shore, / To one thing constant never.’’ This song, one of the loveliest in all of Shakespeare’s plays, describes the war between the sexes, set to poetic phrases.

Appearance versus Reality The theme of appearance versus reality has long been considered central to this play’s structure and tone. All of the main characters deceive or are deceived by others at some point during the play. There is the masked ball, during which Beatrice reveals her feelings to Benedick, not knowing that she is speaking directly to him because he wears a mask. There is also the masked bride at the second wedding at the end of the play, so that Claudio does not know what woman he is marrying until Hero reveals herself. There are many other forms of deception, such as the schemes of Don John as he tries to

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Richard Clifford, Keanu Reeves, and Gerard Horan in a scene from the 1993 film Much Ado About Nothing (Ó Samuel Goldwyn/Everett Collection)

trick Claudio, first, into believing that the prince is wooing Hero for himself, and then that Borachio is making love to Hero. When Friar Francis has Hero pretend to be dead, he enters into deception as well. On this theme of deception, many critics have observed that the title of the play contains an Elizabethan pun on the word nothing, with Shakespeare playing off the word noting, which means ‘‘eavesdropping.’’ However, other critics believe that the key to the play’s unity lies in equating the word noting with the meaning ‘‘to observe.’’ In this view, the title suggests that one take note of a situation and make judgments based on observation. In Much Ado about Nothing, there is a failure, some critics argue, to observe and to act sensibly. This is very true in the case of the prince and Claudio failing to grasp the lack of integrity in Don John, who had tried to deceive them before his ultimate trick of making both men believe that Hero was unfaithful. Why do the prince and Claudio not see Don John’s true nature? Why are they so easily duped by Don John?

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Love and Marriage There are grand discussions of love and marriage throughout much of this play, especially by Beatrice and Benedick who swear against both love and marriage, at least at first. They claim they do not believe in such foolishness. For example, when Claudio admits that he has fallen for Hero, Benedick cannot believe him. Benedick tells Claudio if it is love and marriage that Claudio wants, he should go do it. However, Benedick warns Claudio that love and marriage are like putting one’s ‘‘neck into a yoke,’’ and then wearing that yoke for the rest of one’s life. If Benedick ever makes the mistake of falling in love, Benedick tells the prince to ‘‘hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me.’’ Later, in act 2, Beatrice has her own way of explaining that she will never marry, until ‘‘God make men of some other metal than earth.’’ In other words, there is no man on earth that attracts Beatrice enough to cause her ever to think about marriage. Although these two characters make their gestures against love and marriage, Shakespeare’s play does not turn in that

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direction. Shakespeare does, however, create the opposite type of couple, one that falls madly in love without knowing much about one another and not really caring about that detail. Claudio and Hero are infatuated and that is enough to lead them to the altar. Of course, Shakespeare makes it quite clear that Beatrice and Benedick are not as hardened in their commitments to stave off love as they sound, but quite the contrary. They just do not believe they can ever find someone who will meet their standards, which are very high. On a subconscious level, both Beatrice and Benedick know that they have met someone whom they could fall in love with—namely one another— but they can not admit this to their rational minds. They have to be tricked into it. They both want the other person to admit it first. Once Benedick believes that Beatrice has admitted loving him, Benedick gets just as mushy inside with infatuation as Claudio did earlier. Likewise, Beatrice has a similar reaction. Before the end of the play, a double wedding is in order, thus bringing the play’s theme of love and marriage to its fulfillment. However, Shakespeare is a master of representing opposites. And this play is no exception. Don John represents the other side of the loveand-marriage issue. Don John is completely void of love. Having him called the bastard brother immediately puts Don John at a disadvantage, insinuating that lust replaced love and marriage at his conception. It is because of this lack of love that he attacks the prince and tries to destroy the love Claudio has for Hero. However, Shakespeare does not allow his play to turn on Don John’s misery. Love and marriage, rather, are what hold this play together.

Loss of Honor A woman’s loss of honor has significant consequences in this play; even the thought or suspicion of it is devastating for Hero. A woman must be married a virgin, or if that cannot be attained, it is her soon-to-be husband who must have taken her to bed, an act, which Leonato suggests, can be pardoned. As Leonato tries to understand why Claudio is hesitating in the first marriage scene in act 4, he implies that maybe Claudio has been with Hero, and Shakespeare insinuates that Leonato is about to forgive Claudio for this. ‘‘Dear my lord,’’ Leonato says, ‘‘if you in your own proof / Have vanquished the resistance of


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her youth, / And made defeat of her virginity—.’’ But Claudio denies this, saying quickly that he knows what Leonato is about to say, but this is nowhere near the truth of the matter. ‘‘I know what you would say: if I have known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband,’’ Claudio says. This would be approved, in other words. But the fact that Hero might have had sexual relations with a man other than Claudio is unthinkable. One of the reasons for this is that inheritance was passed down from the father to the firstborn son. In order to prove that the firstborn son was indeed a creation of the husband’s, the newlywed wife had to be a virgin. No matter how much Claudio might have been in love with Hero prior to this knowledge, he can no longer love her, cannot marry her. And not only this, Hero is so publicly shamed by this accusation that her own father is willing to kill her. One could almost forgive Claudio for no longer wanting Hero, at least back in the sixteenth century; but for her own father to want to murder his daughter after obviously loving her from the time of her birth is unforgivable by twenty-first century audiences. It is from these attitudes of Leonato’s that modern audiences can sense how important a woman’s virginity was in Shakespeare’s time. The loss of virginity appears to be a worse crime than murder. There is no mention of a similar pressure on men. Benedick mentions brothels, which implies that he has visited them; and Borachio mentions having an affair with Margaret, Hero’s lady-in-waiting. So the standard of chastity seems to apply only to women of the upper classes. Although the character of Beatrice could easily be likened to a modern women in that she speaks her mind, she is not concerned about having a husband to make her whole and challenges Benedick to prove his love instead of just taking him at his word, there still remains in this play the double standard for men and women, as seen in the emphasis put on a woman’s loss of honor.

Villainy Shakespeare has created much better villains in plays other than Much Ado about Nothing. For example, the character Iago in Othello is probably the best villain Shakespeare ever created. It is not only the level of villainy that makes a character like Iago different from Don John, the villain in this play, it is the development of

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Neither Beatrice nor Benedick were able to write the courtly poetry popular in Elizabethan England. Look for examples of courtly love poetry, either in Shakespeare’s plays or from some other writer and write two poems: one declaring your love for Beatrice; the other your love for Benedick, as if they had written them to one another. Keep in mind the kind of relationship that Benedick and Beatrice shared in this play. Then read your poems to your class. Research a typical courtship between two twenty-year-olds who lived in the upper class of Elizabethan England. Gather statistics about such details as how long the courtship might have lasted and how the man and woman might have met. What were the typical traditions in terms of dowries? What would a typical wedding ceremony have been like? Who would have paid for the wedding? Did the father give the bride away? Then present your findings to your class, using your historical details to compare them to contemporary relationships in the United States.

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If you had an opportunity to talk to Hero, what would you tell her in terms of her marriage to Claudio, knowing what you have learned in the twenty-first century about women and their relationships with men. Ask a friend or classmate to help you present a dialogue in front of your class between Hero (representing a sixteenth-century woman) and you.

Watch a video version of Much Ado about Nothing. Present a report to your class on how seeing the play performed helped you to better understand it. Pay attention to the body language, the action, and the intonation of the actors’ voices so that you can report how these visual and audio aids helped make Shakespeare’s language more cleare.


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the role. Don John is villainous, but his character is very thin. The audience knows very little about him. Things like hints about what drives him, where his anger is coming from, and what pleasure he derives from his misdeeds are all missing from this play. Audiences can assume some things, such as jealousy because he is illegitimate and therefore unable to ever rise to the level of the prince. He may not be as good as Claudio in warfare and maybe that is why he lost his battle against the prince. He may even wish that he could woo Hero for himself; but none of these motives are provided by Shakespeare. The audience, at best, has to speculate. The only thing interesting about Don John is that he is able to pull the wool over the prince’s and Claudio’s eyes two times in a row. However, that makes Don John less believable, not more so. Don John’s character therefore stays on the surface. Don John represents villainy but only through two meager tricks, which are quickly uncovered and, in the end, cause no long-lasting harm.

STYLE Song Some critics claim that the song sung in act 2, scene 3 in Much Ado about Nothing is one of Shakespeare’s most beautiful. The title of the song is ‘‘Sigh No More, Ladies, Sigh No More,’’ and its words tell of the inconstancy of men. The song is written in rhyming verse, of an ac / bd / eg / fh pattern, meaning that alternating lines rhyme. There are two verses, and the last two lines of the first stanza are repeated in the last two lines of the second stanza. Each line is written in what is termed heptameter, or seven beats to a line, with each line containing an end rhyme. Each stanza contains eight lines, which means that each stanza is called an octave. The song is rather lighthearted, especially in its refrain of ‘‘Into Hey, nonny nonny,’’ which suggests that women should make light of their sighs and not get lost in the gloom of their emotions, which are aroused by men being difficult, and which cause women pain.

Witty Linguistic Competition People in the upper classes of Elizabethan England displayed their education and intelligence through witty conversations. In this play,

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Beatrice and Benedick are champions at this type of wit as they banter back and forth, each one trying to outwit the other. The wittiness of their dialogue does two things, besides showing off their intelligence: it helps them to keep their true feelings hidden and acts almost like a competition between them, as if one of them can win it and then walk away from the other, claiming victory. Beatrice even comments on this in act 1, scene 1, when she says: ‘‘You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.’’ She says this to Benedick, when he ends the witty dialogue too abruptly. A jade is an untrustworthy horse that tricks its rider, possibly by pulling up short when the rider least suspects it, thus throwing the rider from its back. Beatrice is in the throes of her conversation with Benedick and wants it to continue because she wants to outsmart Benedick. However, he silences her with a remark that leaves her nowhere to go. Thus, Benedick claims victory for having delivered the last witty line.

Tragicomedy Technically, Much Ado about Nothing has all the elements of a Shakespearean comedy: It contains at least one journey of a young woman from the virginal state to that of matrimony, or the journey of a young woman out of her family’s control into marriage. The trip is seldom smooth: obstacles are presented as the young lovers attempt to reach the day of their wedding. A comedy also requires some form of deception or the wearing of masks. And a comedy ends with a wedding. This play meets those criteria, but there is more. There is, for instance, the villainy of Don John to consider, as well as the shame of Hero and her supposed death. Because of these elements some scholars have labeled this play a tragicomedy, a cross between a tragedy and a comedy. By adding the tragic elements, in some ways hinting at Shakespeare’s play Romeo and Juliet, especially in the parallels between the friars and the mock deaths of Juliet and Hero, Shakespeare adds depth and tension to his comedy. Likewise, the addition of Don John and his tricks makes the audience question whether Hero and Claudio will ever really wed. Another tragic element is Beatrice’s request that Benedick prove his love to her by killing Claudio and thus avenging the awful shame and ruin of Hero’s reputation.


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Animal Imagery Shakespeare uses a lot of animal imagery in this play, making references to animals to more fully define a person or a person’s actions. For example, in the opening lines of the play, the messenger, who announces to Leonato that the prince and some of his men are coming, describes Claudio as ‘‘doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion.’’ In just a few words, the messenger describes Claudio’s character, his psychology, and his actions. Shakespeare uses animal imagery here to give his audiences a mental picture to help them immediately grasp the significance of Claudio and what he has done. Claudio seems like a very mild-mannered young man, meek, and a good follower. However, when Claudio had to face battle, he must have surprised his fellow soldiers with his fierce attitude, slaughtering his enemies as fiercely as a lion. Animal imagery works because everyone knows the general traits of certain animals, such as the sheep and the lion. The contrast between these two animals is dramatic. In addition, Shakespeare’s audience would have been familiar with Biblical references to the lamb and the lion. By using the lamb and the lion to describe Claudio, Shakespeare has told a significant background story about Claudio in just a few words.

Plot and Subplot—Which Is Which? It is not clear, and this is unusual for Shakespeare’ plays, which is the plot and which is the subplot. There are two sets of lovers, not unusual in Shakespeare’s comedies, but what appears to be the main focus of the play, the relationship between Hero and Claudio, is easily overshadowed by the relationship between Beatrice and Benedick. Since Hero is the daughter of Leonato, whereas Beatrice is only his niece, it would seem that Hero’s love affair would take center stage. However, Hero’s and Claudio’s lines are less entertaining, and some critics have even come right out and said they were dull. This is far from the praise that the dialogue between Beatrice and Benedick has received, going back as far as when the play was first introduced. At one point, the play was even retitled Beatrice and Benedick. However, it is Hero’s and Claudio’s relationship, dull though it may be, that drives the plot forward. Most of the action is dependent on

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what develops between them. Don John, for example, does not plot against Benedick but rather against Claudio. Benedick does not defile Beatrice’s reputation as Claudio does Hero’s, thus leading to the challenge against Claudio, the faked death of Hero, and finally, the wedding that closes the play. But if Beatrice and Benedick were removed from the play, chances are the play would completely disintegrate. Claudio and Hero’s affair is not enough to carry the play on its own. First of all, they are not very funny; and since this is a comedy, they should at least be entertaining. There is little passion behind their words; and they take what is given to them and barely question it. On the other hand, the meat of the story, the part that draws audiences in and keeps them awake, is the sparring, and finally the coming together, of Beatrice and Benedick, the true heroes of the play.

Wordplay to Create Laughter Shakespeare uses wordplay to make his audience laugh. His characters take turns playing on one another’s words, such as Beatrice does in the opening scene of the play when the messenger arrives, announcing the approach of the prince and his soldiers. For example, when the messenger says of Benedick: ‘‘And a good soldier too, lady.’’ Beatrice turns the messenger’s words around so that rather than meaning that Benedick was good in war, it sounds like Benedick was good in bed. Beatrice takes the word too that the messenger has spoken and replaces it with the word to. Beatrice says: ‘‘And a good soldier to a lady, but what is he to a lord?’’ By making this play on words, Beatrice has wiped out all of Benedick’s military conquests and brings the conversation down a few notches, wrapping the message in sexuality. When the conversation continues, Beatrice turns the messenger’s words again. ‘‘A lord to a lord, a man to a man, stuffed with all honorable virtues,’’ the messenger says. In other words, he is saying that Benedick can stand as an equal to any lord or any man. However, Beatrice focuses on the word stuffed and changes the whole perception. ‘‘He is no less than a stuffed man,’’ she says, implying that either Benedick is full of himself or is a replica of a human being but not completely real.

Italy as Setting There is no real significance to having this play set in Italy. There are wars in England as well as Italy. Likewise, the villainy of Don John could

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easily be found in Shakespeare’s country. So why is this play set in Italy? One reason might be to give the audience a distance from their English reality. It is so much easier to laugh at people of another culture. So in placing this play and all the deception, misunderstanding, and social behaviors in a foreign country, the English audience members of Shakespeare’s time could enjoy a good laugh without feeling self-conscious or defensive. These are someone else’s problems, they could say. These are someone else’s foibles. No self-examination is necessary because the playwright is depicting someone else.

Prose instead of Poetry Many of Shakespeare’s plays are written in blank verse, a type of poetry that is characterized by measured lines of five pairs of unstressed and stressed syllables with no end rhymes. However, Much Ado about Nothing is written mostly in prose, which means there is no ordered form but rather normal conversational patterns. Often, Shakespeare uses blank verse to elevate a character’s lines, such as a military leader, like King Henry V, talking to his troops before a war; or Marc Antony delivering a speech upon the death of Julius Caesar. Much Ado about Nothing has no grand speeches such as those. Most of the dialogue is among peers, in the form of couples or very small groups. The atmosphere is relaxed and, for the most part, very lighthearted. There are exceptions though. When Shakespeare writes in prose for the majority of the lines then switches to verse, it is done to call attention to whatever is being said. An example occurs in act 1, scene 1, when Claudio talks about his feelings for Hero. This is an important part of the play. Claudio’s speech touches on the main theme of the play, which is love and the relationship between a man and a woman. Claudio’s lines, as well as those of Don Pedro’s, are written in verse. The verse is set off from the regular prose dialogue in several ways. First, the right hand of the text does not reach the full right-hand margin. This is because each line contains only ten syllables. Second, each line starts with a capital letter even when that word does not begin a new sentence. If the verse is read out loud, the meter or beat of the line becomes noticeable, with each line’s beat matching the others. From line 284 in act 1, scene 1, to line 323, Don Pedro and Claudio speak in verse, as if their combined conversation were one poem.

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HISTORICAL CONTEXT Messina, Italy Located at the northeast corner of Sicily, Messina, Italy, with its population of almost one-half million is the third-largest city in Sicily. Sicily sits at the so-called toe of the boot that is the mainland of Italy. Greeks, Romans, Goths, Arabs, Normans, Spaniards, and the English have all, at one time or another, claimed Messina as their own. In the seventeenth century, Messina was considered one of the greatest of European cities. The city has a great port, used for merchant ships as well as for the military. In 1908, the city was hit with a double catastrophe, a large earthquake and a devastating tsunami, which destroyed most of the city’s structures and took 60,000 lives.

The Italian Wars A series of wars were fought on Italian soil between 1494 and 1559 and were referred to as the Italian Wars. It is unclear what year Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing is set in, but it is possible that the prince and his soldiers were coming home from fighting in one of the latter battles of these wars. The wars were over the control of land and an extended power among the monarchs of several countries including Spain, France, England, and Austria. Where city-states such as Florence and Rome were once home to mighty navies as well as to the leaders in the renewed interest in history and art known as the Renaissance, at the end of the wars, all the power in what is now Italy was at best second-rate in comparison to countries such as Spain.

Role of Women in England in Shakespeare’s Time Not only were women not allowed to act in Shakespeare’s plays (all parts were played by men or boys in Elizabethan England), women also had very little to do in any role outside of the home. Typically, women were the creators and nursemaids of the future generations, staying at home either pregnant or taking care of small children. A typical woman, if her physical condition allowed, gave birth every two years. Bearing and raising children was considered an honorable occupation at that time, so in some ways, men and women held equal status within different roles. This equality did not run through every aspect of their lives, though. Women could not attend school (although they could be


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educated at home), could not vote, could not serve in the military, nor hold a political office. Except for the monarchy, women did not inherit their father’s titles (duke, earl, baron, etc.). It is rather ironic that some of the female characters in Shakespeare’s plays are very strong-willed, sharp-tongued, and independent, while, at the same time, women were not allowed to play these roles on the stage during Shakespeare’s time. Acting was not considered an honorable occupation for women.

Female Roles in Shakespeare’s Plays Until 1660, only men could act on stage. The profession of acting was not very credible, with many of the early plays presented in inns by acting troupes that traveled around the countryside in large wagons. It was considered immoral for there to be women in the group of actors. In addition, there were laws against woman playing any of the female roles. Instead the female roles were acted by young teenage boys, who trained with older actors, learning feminine mannerisms, makeup, and such, as best as they could. The young boys received the lowest wages of the acting troupe. The law against women acting on stage was relevant only in England. Other European countries allowed women actors.

Contemporary Playwrights of Shakespeare’s Time Literature during the reign of Queen Elizabeth was blossoming. This was the time of the Renaissance in England, and the queen was a great supporter of the arts. The Renaissance, literally a rebirth, brought with it new ways of thinking and creating. The late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries are considered the Golden Age of English literature. A contemporary of Shakespeare during this Golden Age was the playwright Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593), named by some as the father of English tragedy. Marlowe was also considered a master of blank verse, with his play Tamburlaine the Great (1587) being the first popular drama to use blank verse in English. Marlowe’s Jew Of Malta (first performed c. 1589) was probably one of Shakespeare’s sources for The Merchant of Venice (c. 1596). There is a speculative notion, since Marlowe died so young, that he faked his own death, then took on the identity of William Shakespeare because he was in trouble under his

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1600s: In the early 1600s in England it is considered immoral, and, more to the point, it is against the law for women to appear on stage. Today: Today there are many women involved in acting careers on stage, in television, and on film. However, most leading female roles, especially in film, are written for younger women, leaving most actresses over forty with only minor roles to play.

1600s: Messina, with its large port in the Mediterranean Sea, is a thriving city of merchants and noble families. Trade from all over the world passes through its ports as do vast fleets of military ships. Today: Messina is the doorway to Sicily, which has become a great tourist destination because of Sicily’s mild weather, great historic sites, and good Italian food. The area is also known as the birthplace of the Mafia.

1600s: Shakespeare’s plays are performed in front of enthusiastic audiences at the Globe Theatre in London.

own identity. There is no proof of this; but it is an interesting concept. Thomas Kyd was another English playwright who was very instrumental in legitimizing Elizabethan drama. Like Marlowe, Kyd also has controversy surrounding his name. Some eighteenth-century scholars believed they found a play called Hamlet, written by Kyd, that predates Shakespeare’s play of the same name, possibly making it the source of Shakespeare’s work. Kyd’s best known work was The Spanish Tragedie (c. 1589), possibly the most popular and influential tragedy of his time. Kyd was in a company of actors sponsored by Lord Strange, the same company that Christopher Marlowe belonged to. Kyd and Marlowe were roommates and were arrested for what was called heretical material, possibly dealing with atheism. Kyd was

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Today: Shakespeare’s plays are performed all over the world. Many scholars focus all their attention on the works of Shakespeare. The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, D.C., has the world’s largest collection of Shakespearean material and is entirely dedicated to providing studies of Shakespeare’s works and presenting his plays.

1600s: Queen Elizabeth holds a tight rein on the material presented in plays. The dramatists who criticize the government or go against the religious views of the crown are questioned and sometimes punished. Today: British drama is experiencing a burst of creativity by young playwrights such as Mark Ravenhill and Moira Buffini, who are pushing the boundaries of what British audiences have grown used to seeing on stage. New works are filled with sex, violence, and what is called street poetry. These plays focus on topics such as consumerism and problems of violence.

tortured and released. Marlowe was questioned and the next day killed. After this, Kyd was not allowed back into the theater company. He died the next year. Ben Jonson (c. 1572–1637) wrote his first popular hit, Every Man in His Humour in 1598 and William Shakespeare played one of the characters when it was performed. Comedies were in vogue at that time, and attempting to take advantage of his success, the next year, Jonson wrote Every Man out of His Humour, which is said to have been almost as successful. In 1601, Jonson was asked to revise Kyd’s successful play, The Spanish Tragedie, which he did. Jonson wrote plays that had political themes, which often got him into trouble. However, when King James I came to the throne in 1603, Jonson fared better. It was during the beginning of King James’s rule that

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Jonson wrote his best plays. These included the dramas that he is most well known for: Volpone (1606), a comedy about greed and lust, and The Alchemist (1610), a comedy that revolves around a swindle. Jonson was considered the intellectual writer of the times. In contrast, Jonson saw Shakespeare as a crowd pleaser. They knew each other and often included remarks (actually jibes or digs) in their work that reflected any disagreements they were having between them.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Many scholars classify Much Ado about Nothing as one of Shakespeare’s more popular comedies, one, at least since the eighteenth century, that is most often staged. As the critic Andrew Dickson, in his book The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, describes the play, Much Ado about Nothing ‘‘fizzes with holiday spirit.’’ It is lighthearted, at least on the surface. Harold C. Goddard, in his The Meaning of Shakespeare, refers to this play as ‘‘a study in the egotism of youth, its sentimental and romantic egotism in Claudio, its antiromantic and intellectual egotism in Beatrice and Benedick.’’ The play depicts this egotism but then allows the characters involved to escape from it and to learn through a series of lessons that help the characters to mature and realize that love can be an enriching experience. In Maurice Charney’s book All of Shakespeare, the author comments on various characters. On Benedick, Charney writes, ‘‘Like other reluctant males in Shakespearean comedy, Benedick is carried away against his conscious will to love Beatrice, and Beatrice too loves him in spite of herself. The witty war in the play turns on the conflict between powerful impulse and equally powerful commitment to gender pursuits.’’ Charney continues, ‘‘The comedy is designed to show that neither Benedick nor Beatrice can get away with such sacrilegious protests against love.’’ Although Charney praises the part of the play that features the verbal sparring between Beatrice and Benedick, he is not so pleased with the subplot that involves Don John, which Charney states, ‘‘leaves something to be desired in the way of psychological credibility, especially in a play where Beatrice and Benedick are such believable characters.’’ There are too many holes in the character of Don John. Shakespeare does not explain why Don John is so vengeful, for one.


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Then Charney points out that much of the villainy in this play is ‘‘set in a comic context of the bumbling watch, incomparably played by Dogberry, Verges, and their officers.’’ Charney describes Dogberry as one who ‘‘is always earnest and sincere and never overtly comic, which is the secret of his success.’’ It is through Dogberry, Charney claims, that the villainy in this play is undercut and therefore ‘‘renders it harmless. It is as if Don John and his malicious companions are not allowed to appear in their true colors in a comedy. They are rendered impotent by the context.’’ This might be what makes Don John a thin character, placing him in a position that ‘‘is only peripherally related to the villains of tragedy. He is isolated in Much Ado about Nothing and deliberately separated from the main action, except as a plot catalyst.’’ In the Essential Shakespeare Handbook, coauthored by Leslie Dunton-Downer and Alan Riding, the authors write that ‘‘No Shakespearean lovers enjoy quarrelling more than Beatrice and Benedick.’’ They continue: ‘‘Shakespeare is especially careful to balance serious and light layers of action [in this play], preventing the false death of Hero and the rage of her father Leonato from turning the comedy into a more disturbing kind of play.’’ Instead, the play is ‘‘skillfully built as characters overhear conversations, often laden with misinformation to trick the eavesdropper.’’ Then the authors state: ‘‘Throughout, comical prose exchanges advance the action while keeping it light.’’ As they list the attributes of the various characters, Dunton-Downer and Riding write: ‘‘Don John and Borachio are deliciously transparent villains who enjoy spinning their dastardly plot; and Dogberry and Verges are among Shakespeare’s most charmingly comical law enforcement officers.’’ Despite the fact that some of the wordplay has ‘‘worn so thin as to be incomprehensible in current English,’’ the authors believe that most audience members will ‘‘readily understand that Beatrice and Benedick mock one another because they are too tough-minded to speak comfortably about love.’’ Frank Kermode, in his The Age of Shakespeare, describes the plot of Much Ado about Nothing as an old one. ‘‘It will appear to modern audiences that the wicked plotter succeeds in disgracing not the innocent Hero but Claudio, for his condemnation of his bride is coarse and public, and even when he knows her to have been innocent he is apparently unmoved by the report of her death.’’ This might be one of the many reasons why the

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subplot, the relationship between Beatrice and Benedick is so appealing. ‘‘The wit combats of these characters were apparently what always pleased most [audiences].’’ Kermode then explains that ‘‘verbal wit, considered an index of intelligence, was highly valued in all the aristocracies of Europe.’’ Kermode then adds: ‘‘We need not suppose that Elizabeth’s courtiers’’ were all as witty ‘‘as Beatrice and Benedick; but they doubtless spoke in lithe and resourceful prose, not altogether remote from what Shakespeare made of it in writing Much Ado About Nothing. In The Friendly Shakespeare, Norrie Epstein describes this play as one that is ‘‘best known for its brilliant lovers, the dazzling Beatrice and Benedick.’’ Epstein then states that ‘‘Beatrice is one of Shakespeare’s most loquacious—and engaging—heroines.’’ Epstein continues: Throughout the play she and Benedick exchange insults when it’s obvious to everyone but themselves that they are drawn to each other. As in The Taming of the Shrew [another of Shakespeare’s comedies], Shakespeare reveals that those who love deepest are usually those who are most guarded against it. Coolness and witty detachment are the best defense against the confusions of the heart.

CRITICISM Steve Cassal Cassal focuses on the minor character of Dogberry, and specifically the slander directed his way by Conrade. However, the slander—in which Conrade calls Dogberry an ‘‘ass’’—‘‘happens to be true and . . . represents its subject accurately,’’ notes Cassal. In Much Ado About Nothing, the slander of Hero has attracted a great deal of critical attention. Harry Berger, S. P. Cerasano, Barbara Everett, and A. R. Humphreys, among others, have commented on the slander and its effects on the young heroine. When Claudio describes Hero as a ‘‘stale,’’ ‘‘an approved wanton,’’ and a ‘‘rotten orange’’ during the church scene (4.1), his remarks constitute slander as defined by the English secular courts during Shakespeare’s lifetime—they are false, malicious misrepresentations that attempt to defame or injure (Helmholz xvii, xl, lxxii–lxxxvi, and the OED). However, there is another type of slander in Much Ado, one that tends to be overlooked by critics: that of Dogberry, whom Conrade calls an ‘‘ass.’’ Conrade’s description of

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DOGBERRY’S DEFAMATION MAY BE CONTRASTED WITH HERO’S IN THAT THE COMIC CHARACTER, UNLIKE THE HEROINE, NEVER SEEMS TO GRASP FULLY THE NATURE OF THE SLANDER THAT IS LEVELED AGAINST HIM.’’

Dogberry is malicious (as well as exasperated), but it is neither false nor a misrepresentation. It is slander that happens to be true and that represents its subject accurately. The labeling of Dogberry as an ass is presented comically. Part of the joke is that Dogberry publicizes his own slander, bringing it to much wider report than it would otherwise attain, as he proclaims, ‘‘remember that I am an ass’’ and ‘‘forget not that I am an ass’’ (4.2.73–74, 75). Whereas Hero wanted her slander to be erased as soon as possible, Dogberry shouts it to the heavens, or rather to the authorities, urging that the slur against him be written down to inscribe it permanently in Messina’s official record: ‘‘O, that I had been writ down an ass!’’ (4.2.84–85). While Hero was painfully aware of the effects of slander on her reputation, her place in society, and her marriage prospects, Dogberry seems clueless not only of the impact of being publicly labeled an ass, but of the meaning of the word. This may be one of many instances where the relation between language and meaning escape him, and it may be the one that displays his comprehension problems at their most basic level. Whereas in other cases he confuses relatively sophisticated terms—‘‘damnation’’ and ‘‘redemption,’’ for instance—here he does not seem to understand the meaning of ‘‘ass.’’ However, there is also a sense that, despite his cluelessness, he does somehow grasp the meaning of the slander and wants society to note the damage that has been done to him. In this respect, ‘‘Oh, that I had been writ down an ass!’’ becomes a lament over lost evidence, an expression of regret that there is no official documentation of his slander, and thus no way to recover his reputation. Dogberry implicitly believes that the written word has more power, more authority, than the spoken one, and he

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Janie Dee as Beatrice and Aden Gillett as Benedick in Act II, scene i, at the Theatre Royal, Bath, England, 2005 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

mourns the loss of written evidence to support his contention that he has been defamed. Dogberry’s defamation may be contrasted with Hero’s in that the comic character, unlike the heroine, never seems to grasp fully the nature of the slander that is leveled against him. But the constable’s defamation also resembles Hero’s. Dogberry, like Hero, is a vulnerable figure within Messina society, and both characters rely on the good offices of powerful males. Indeed, Dogberry is feminized and has the marginalized status of a woman throughout the play. He even describes himself as ‘‘as pretty a piece of flesh in all of Messina’’ (4.2.79), a line that probably evoked a great deal of laughter in Shakespeare’s time when uttered by the comic actor Will Kemp, for whom Shakespeare created the character of Dogberry (in the 1600 quarto the name ‘‘Will Kemp’’ is one of the speech tags for Dogberry). But beneath the comedy one notices that Dogberry sees himself much as the men of Messina see Hero: as a pretty piece of flesh, an object, a piece of property. Dogberry parodies this kind of male gaze directed at women. Like Hero, Dogberry lacks the verbal


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facility to defend himself, though his problem is not a lack of words, as we see in the heroine, but rather a mangling of language. He, like Hero, cannot use words effectively enough to mount a defense against slander. His cries for justice, like Hero’s, fall on deaf ears, but like Hero he is vindicated at the end. He may be an ass, but he is instrumental in catching the villains of the piece. Like Hero, Dogberry ‘‘hath had losses’’ (4.2.82). Usually these are interpreted as being losses of money, property or possessions, but one wonders if Dogberry has not also suffered the loss of his reputation, if his ‘‘years’’ and his ‘‘place’’ were disrespected even before his encounter with Conrade and Boracchio. The men of the watch serve many functions in the play. One, of course, is comic relief. They provide a counterpoint to—and perhaps a parody of—the macho posturing of Don Pedro and the other manly men of the Messina Men’s Club. With their malaprops and non sequiturs the watch also offer a comic use of language that counterbalances the witty, intelligent and sophisticated banter of Beatrice and Benedick. Not all

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Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, written sometime between 1594 and 1596, is one of the most often produced Shakespearean comedies in contemporary times. It is a story of four young people, a troupe of amateur actors, and their adventures when they encounter fairies in the woods.

Another interesting comedy is Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor (1597). In this play a foolish, jealous husband tries to prove that his wife is having an affair with a royal knight. The tables are turned when the wife becomes wise to her husband’s attempts to catch her in the arms of the knight.

Joan Silsby’s The Devil’s Bride: A Sequel to William Shakespeare’s Much Ado about Nothing takes the reader deeper into the play, filling out details that go unanswered in Shakespeare’s version. This fictional work begins where Shakespeare left off, one week after the young Hero and Claudio have married. Much attention is given to Don John, creating another side to this somewhat flat character in Shakespeare’s version.

of the watch’s functions are comic, however. In Much Ado, as Jean Howard has suggested, Dogberry and Verges demonstrate that ‘‘beneath the world of unstable appearance there is a world of essences to which man has access if he has, parodoxically, either careful noting skill or strong powers of intuition’’ (108). Dogberry and Verges ‘‘intuitively know a thief despite misunderstanding his language’’ (108). And Dogberry uses his intuition to sense when he is slandered even when he cannot fully grasp the meaning of what is said against him. One should also note that the church scene—the nastiest scene in the play, and the one that Much Ado must struggle to accommodate within its comic framework—is sandwiched

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In the mood for a modern romance? Try Susan Andersen’s All Shook Up (2001). This book is filled with some of the same elements as Shakespeare’s play, such as two characters who think they hate each other to begin with, then fall in love; and a villain who is out to get them both. Set in eastern Washington, this is a fun read.

For a more elegant love story, but still a funny one, read E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View (1908). Lucy Honeychurch, a young British woman, leaves one suitor at home and finds another in Italy. She must make a choice. Will it be the practical one or the one with heart? This book is a classic.

The Shakespearean scholar Alexander Leggatt looks at the comedies of sixteenth-century England in his work, Introduction to English Renaissance Comedy (1999). Comedy was flourishing in this period. It was also changing form. Leggatt provides a comprehensive examination of how comedy was used to analyze Renaissance relationships in the English court as well as in the countryside.

in between two scenes that feature Dogberry and the watch. These comic scenes are meant to cushion the negative impact of the church scene, and it is primarily through this cushioning that the ugliness of that scene is absorbed within the comic spirit of Much Ado. Structurally, the scenes of the watch distract the audience from the vile activities of the nuptial that goes wrong. Conrade’s slander of Dogberry, following on the heels of Claudio’s slander of Hero, fuses the tragic with the comic, lessening the impact of Hero’s plight. Indeed, through comedy, Hero’s debacle is linked to that of Dogberry, and so the play accommodates the sordid business of the church scene and maintains its comic trajectory.

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IN MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, CLAUDIO IS THE PRIME EXAMPLE OF A CHARACTER WHO TASTES ONLY TEA ONCE TOLD THAT IS WHAT HE IS DRINKING.’’

Source: Steve Cassal, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing,’’ in The Explicator, Vol. 64, No. 3, Spring 2006, pp. 138–141.

Jackie Shead In this essay, Shead explores the ‘‘power of report’’—how ‘‘what we are told profoundly influences our perceptions and judgements.’’ The critic focuses on the character of Claudio, who is particularly susceptible to misreporting, while contrasting him with other characters such as Beatrice who are more immune to bad reports. It’s a strange thing—the power of report. I was once handed a hot drink with the decisive information: ‘Here’s your coffee.’ It took me nearly half the cup to trust my taste buds and tell my host he had given me tea (while he was coming to the conclusion that his tea ‘tasted funny’). This, of course, is a major idea of Much Ado About Nothing—that what we are told profoundly influences our perceptions and judgements. In Much Ado About Nothing, Claudio is the prime example of a character who tastes only tea once told that is what he is drinking. In preparation for Don John’s major deception, the audience is shown Claudio’s susceptibility in the masked ball scene. Although he should expect to see Don Pedro’s proxy wooing, Claudio is quickly ready to see what Don John tells him: that he has been double-crossed and the Prince ‘woos for himself’. Later, faced with Don John’s more damaging misreporting, Claudio does not believe in Hero’s infidelity on hearsay alone. But it is clear that, even before he sees the scene staged on her balcony, he is inclined to do so. He promises: If I see anything tonight why I should not marry her tomorrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her. (III.ii.112–14)

A decent lover might threaten Don John with a duel if he failed to support his accusations;


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but Claudio is already planning revenge on Hero for her possible misdeeds, not on her accuser for possible slander. None of this is surprising. To Claudio ‘beauty is a witch’ and as early as Act 1 Scene i he needs reassurance that Hero is worthy and that Don Pedro is not praising her simply to ‘fetch him in’. In Claudio, Don John can draw from a well of latent mistrust and he seems to know this. Instead of labelling Hero explicitly, he tells Claudio to ‘think you of a worse title’, and lets suspicion and insecurity do the rest. Shakespeare intends irony, then, when he has Claudio ask the wedding party ‘Are our eyes our own?’ as if the reply, like Hero’s guilt, is self-evident. Clearly the answer is ‘Not in your case’. Claudio is constantly ‘borrowing’ the vision of others. A more comic treatment of the same idea occurs in the Beatrice-Benedick relationship. Once convinced she loves him, Benedick is sure he spies signs of love in Beatrice, though her behaviour at that moment (end of Act II Scene iii) is as spiky and combative as ever. In fact, most characters in the play are subject to such misnoting under the influence of misreport. One possible exception is Beatrice. The play avoids any serious challenge to her claim to ‘have a good eye’. For example, Shakespeare arranges his scenes so that Beatrice never encounters Benedick supposing him in love with her while he shows no sign of it. Though tricked into love with Benedick, she believes what she hears about him in the orchard ‘better than reportingly’. Therefore, Beatrice, like Claudio, can be made to swallow the bait, but not if it runs counter to her judgement of character. Claudio lacks such judgement, leaving him prone to scandalmongers. With the possible exception of Beatrice, the audience of Much Ado About Nothing has the luxury of being better informed than any of the characters (even Don John, who will learn that his accomplice has been arrested later than we do), and therefore feeling much cleverer than those on stage. This is necessary for Shakespeare’s purpose: he needs an alerted audience, fully apprised of the facts, to appreciate the haste, folly and alarming consequences of on-stage errors. In fact, we are kept so well informed that there is a danger we might get complacent. Is the audience intended to feel exempt from the influence of misreport? Or does the play set any bait for its watchers? My belief is it does, and one such instance comes from an unlikely source: the benign and perceptive Friar.

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Like Beatrice, Friar Francis seems to have a good eye and manages to detect the truth about Hero simply by noting her carefully. Impressed by this, some critics . . . have been inclined to accept other things the Friar says which are well intentioned but actually unreliable. The Friar’s plan connects to the power of report in two ways. First, he makes claims for the effects of report on another character, saying when Claudio hears of Hero’s death: then shall he mourn— If ever love had interest in his liver— And wish he had not so accused her: (IV.i.230–32) Second, the Friar’s plan is itself a report of what we can expect to see, just as Don John indicated to Claudio what he would see on Hero’s balcony. Both these claims prove false. The report of Hero’s death does not have the expected impact, and so we do not see the behaviour from Claudio that the Friar predicts—or certainly not when the Friar predicts we will see it. The morning after the wedding (Act V Scene i) a grieving Leonato and his brother encounter Don Pedro and Claudio in the streets and there is an ugly fracas. If Hero’s ‘death’ has not reached their ears before, it certainly does when Leonato tells Claudio that his daughter lies buried with her ancestors. The only textual sign of Claudio’s reaction is an indignant response to the charge that his villainy has killed Hero. This encounter over, Benedick immediately enters (to deliver his challenge) and is informed by Claudio ‘We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth’ (V.i.115–16). There is not only little sign of mourning Hero here, but mockery of her relatives’ enraged grief. It is possible to perform this line with bluff humour, suggesting it hides discomfort and misery (Claudio does welcome Benedick’s entrance saying he and Don Pedro are ‘high-proof melancholy’). But if Claudio and Don Pedro proceed to tease Benedick chiefly to cheer themselves up, then it is unpleasant to watch how successful they are. Don Pedro reports in humorous vein Beatrice’s feelings for Benedick and concludes ‘the old man’s daughter told us all’, which Claudio confirms with ‘All, all’ (V.i.175–76). The ‘old man’s daughter’ is, of course, Hero. Not only is there no sign of remorse at Hero’s death; there is no tact or discretion in referring to her. When Benedick, his challenge delivered,

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departs with ‘you have killed a sweet and innocent lady’ (v.i.188–89), the remark does not strike home either. Any gravity in his charge is brushed aside, and Claudio and Don Pedro discuss the challenge as the kind of utter foolishness a man commits once he is in love. In short, Claudio makes too good a job of hiding grief to be feeling much of it. But the playwright does not leave the matter there. Later in the scene Borachio confesses, and Claudio says: Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I loved it first. (V.i.245–46) The ‘now’ is telling—not before, but only now. The Friar suggested Claudio would mourn for Hero even ‘though he thought his accusation true’ (IV.i.233). The opposite is shown to be the case. There is no sign of remorse until Claudio is sure his accusation is false. The Friar’s benign supposition that loved ones lost will be grieved, despite their faults, is contradicted by much bleaker facts: Claudio recognises the value of Hero’s life only when she is a dead maid, not a lost bride, nor a bereft father’s child. Uncomfortable though this is in a comedy swiftly heading for a happy ending, it is clearly so. Most misreport in the play is fairly easy for the audience to identify. This miscalculation by the Friar of how a man will behave ‘if ever love had interest in his liver’ is left for us to detect. How much attention we give it probably affects how easily we are steered towards an ending that restores Hero to Claudio and ejects Don John, as if society has thus been purged. And if we track the apportioning of blame through the final stages of the play, it is something of a slalom course— which perhaps shows Shakespeare’s own consciousness that Much Ado About Nothing’s patriarchal society has played the part of Macbeth while Don John simply stirred the cauldron. In his confession Borachio describes Don John as having incensed him to slander, though this very much underplays Borachio’s active role in the balcony plot, and his virtual coaching of Don John in Act II Scene ii. At character level, this can be interpreted as ‘passing the buck’. At the level of dramatic handling, it prepares us for Don John’s role as scapegoat. It is interesting that only a few lines later, when questioned by Leonato, Borachio asserts he is the villain ‘even I alone’ (V.i.258). Surely this is to provide an opportunity for Leonato to comment acidly on

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Claudio and Don Pedro’s roles in Hero’s mistreatment: Here stand a pair of honourable men— A third is fled—that had a hand in it. (V.i.260–61) Claudio’s own repentance is deftly handled. He first accepts punishment and offers to fulfil any penance Leonato devises, but adds ‘yet sinn’d I not, / But in mistaking’ (V.i.268–69). This is careful wording. At first glance it sounds like I sinned, but only by mistake, which is fair enough; no one would accuse Claudio of setting out to ruin his own marriage and harm a much-desired bride. But on closer scrutiny, it looks remarkably like: The only sin I committed was in making a mistake. This is dubious, given the calculated spite in his public humiliation of Hero and his callous response to her ‘death’. Shakespeare provides time and opportunity for audiences to reconcile themselves to a Claudio forgiven and rewarded at the end of the play. First, there is the bantering courtship between Beatrice and Benedick in Act V Scene ii to lift our spirits. Next, we see Claudio mourn for Hero and declare himself one of those responsible for her death. In the last scene he obediently accepts his new bride ‘on trust’. Finally, the malcontent is captured and imprisoned, giving a sense that evil has been located and its growth stemmed. Despite all this, many spectators down the ages have found it difficult to forgive Hero’s treatment and accept Claudio. Perhaps this is not so surprising. In Much Ado About Nothing one character is finally labelled as the villain, but there is plenty of evidence during the course of the play to suggest this is a gross simplification. If members of the audience note a discrepancy between what is reported by those on stage and what they actually witness, they must make their own judgements. Our eyes, after all, are our own. Source: Jackie Shead,‘‘Are Our Eyes Our Own?’ Jackie Shead Explores the Power of Report in Much Ado About Nothing,’’ in The English Review, Vol. 15, No. 1, September 2004, pp. 28–31.

Kenneth Muir In the following excerpt, Muir offers a general historical and literary assessment of Much Ado about Nothing. The date of Much Ado about Nothing can be fixed with unusual accuracy. It was performed while Kemp (who played Dogberry) was still a


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THE CHARACTERS IN THIS PLAY RANGE FROM THE PURELY CONVENTIONAL TO THE PURELY HUMAN.’’

member of Shakespeare’s company, but too late for Francis Meres to know of its existence when he listed Shakespeare’s plays in Palladis Tamia. So 1598 was the date of its first performance; and it was printed, probably from Shakespeare’s manuscript, two years later. It is hardly anyone’s favourite comedy and it is not so frequently performed as As You Like It or Twelfth Night, doubtless because the main plot is so much less interesting than the underplot. The Hero-Claudio plot, written mainly in verse, is combined with the Beatrice-Benedick plot, written mainly in prose. In our degenerate days it is natural for audiences to prefer prose to verse, but it is possible that Shakespeare, towards the end of the sixteenth century, went through a phase when he thought that the increasing subtlety of his actors demanded a style nearer to colloquial speech— some of Shylock’s best speeches, all of Falstaff’s, most of Beatrice, Benedick and Rosalind are in prose. The plots are linked together in various ways. The bringing together of Beatrice and Benedick is a means of passing the time between the day of Hero’s betrothal and her marriage; Benedick is chosen by Beatrice to avenge her cousin’s honour; and Benedick is a close friend of Claudio’s, so that Beatrice’s demand poses a favourite problem— posed earlier in The Two Gentlemen of Verona— of Love versus Friendship. The play is also unified by imagery. As in Macbeth, the dominating image is one of clothes, and the most frequent figure of speech is antithesis. Clothes are used as a symbol of the difference between appearance and reality, and hence of hypocrisy. In the first scene, for example, Beatrice says that Benedick ‘wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat’; Benedick calls courtesy a turncoat; in the second act Benedick says that Beatrice is the infernal Ate in good apparel; and Beatrice asks if Pedro has a brother since ‘Your Grace is too costly to wear every day’. Benedick contrasts the amorous Claudio with the man as he used to be:

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I have known when he would have walk’d ten mile afoot to see a good armour, and now will he lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. (II.iii.I8ff.)

Pedro has a speech in Act III on Benedick’s fancy for strange disguises. Borachio has a long dialogue with Conrade, apparently irrelevant to the matter in hand, on the subject of fashion: Bor. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak is nothing to a man. Con. Yes, it is apparel. Bor. I mean the fashion. Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. Bor. Tush, I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is . . . Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is, how giddily ‘a turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five and thirty, sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting, sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club? Con. All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? Bor. Not so neither. (III.iii. 108ff.)

The climax of the many references to appearance and reality is the scene in church, when Claudio repudiates his bride. Hero is compared to a rotten orange, ‘but the sign and semblance of her honour’, blushing like a maid, although she is immodest: O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal! Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid By these exterior shows? But she is none. Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it: You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamp’red animals That rage in savage sensuality. (IV.i.34–9, 55–60) In a later speech Claudio drops into the favourite figure of antithesis, a figure most apt for the contrast between appearance and reality:

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O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been placed About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell, Thou pure impiety and impious purity! (IV.i.99–103) The two plots are linked together in another way. It has often been observed that the over-all theme of the play (as Masefield put it) is ‘the power of report, of the thing overhead, to alter human destiny’. It is true that the complications of the play are all due to overhearing, although it could be argued that Claudio might, even without the detective work by the watch, have learnt his mistake, and Beatrice and Benedick might have allowed their unconscious love for each other to rise into consciousness. But there are at least seven examples of rumour in the course of the play: 1. In the second scene Antonio tells Leonato: The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter, and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance.

In this case, the servant had misheard, for Pedro had offered to pretend to be Claudio, to woo Hero for him. 2. In the next scene Borachio has overheard, correctly, that Claudio hoped to marry Hero, and that Pedro was going to woo for him. 3. In the scene of the dance there are a whole series of misunderstandings, partly owing to the fact that the characters are masked: (a) Hero, instructed by her father, apparently thinks that Pedro is wooing for himself, but it is not explained what her reactions are when he pretends to be Claudio, as this takes place off stage. (b) Don John, for reasons which are never explained, thinks that Pedro woos for himself. (c) Benedick thinks that Beatrice does not recognise him, and she calls him the Prince’s Fool. (d) Borachio pretends that Claudio is Benedick, and tells him that Pedro is wooing Hero for himself; and this, in spite of their previous arrangement, is forthwith believed by Claudio.

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(e) Benedick, who is not aware of the arrangement between Pedro and Claudio, naturally believes that Pedro has wooed for himself. The purpose of all these confusions—and their improbability is not so apparent in performance, is to soften up the audience, so that they are willing to accept as plausible Don John’s deception of Pedro and Claudio. 4. In the third scene of Act II, Benedick overhears that Beatrice is dying of love for him, and he promptly decides that her love must be requited. 5. In the first scene of Act III, Beatrice hidden by the woodbine coverture, overhears that Benedick is in love with her. She forthwith decides to return his love: What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And Benedick, love on; I will require thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand; If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly. (III.i.107–16) She uses, as Petruchio does, the image of the tamed hawk. 6. Borachio is overheard making love to Margaret, whom the watchers think is Hero; and Borachio, telling the tale of his deception of Pedro and Claudio to Conrade, is overheard by the Watch. This leads to his arrest, and the acquittal of Hero. 7. On the Friar’s advice, a report is circulated that Hero is dead, so as to cause Claudio to feel remorse. This remorse becomes overwhelming when it is proved that she was falsely accused. But it is typical of Claudio’s self-centredness that when he hears that Hero was innocent he is more concerned about his own feelings than about her supposed death. And when he agrees to marry her cousin he has the significant lines: I do embrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. The plots, then, are linked together structurally, imagistically and thematically, so that complaints


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about lack of unity have little justification. There remains the feeling of many readers that the two plots don’t really harmonise since the main plot is largely conventional—depending on the convention employed by Shakespeare in Othello and Cymbeline that the calumniator of female chastity is always believed, though in real life he would not be—and the sub-plot is much more realistic. Moreover, Hero is a nonentity and Claudio is a cad; whereas Beatrice and Benedick (though absurd) are attractive figures to whom an audience warms. There are several possible answers to these complaints. The first answer is one that has to be made over and over again to Shakespeare’s armchair critics: that his plays were meant to be acted, not read, and that the test we should apply should be a theatrical one—Does it work in the theatre? The convention of the calumniator believed always does seem to work. We may think Claudio is a credulous fool, but Pedro’s equal credulity prevents us from having too harsh an opinion of him. Nor is it unusual in Shakespeare’s plays for him to present his characters on different levels of reality. It has often been noticed that Katherine and the scenes in which she appears are much more vital than those relating to the wooing of Binaca. Just as in painting, an artist will relegate some figures to the background, and just as a photographer will keep his central theme in sharp focus, while the rest of his composition may be comparatively blurred, so the dramatist can vary his treatment of characters in the same play. The characters in this play range from the purely conventional to the purely human. Don John (for example) announces himself as a villain, a true example of motiveless malignity, who does evil for the sake of evil. Although we could (I suppose) ascribe his villainy to the results of his bastardy, it is not really possible to regard him as anything but a conventional stage villain. Or consider Margaret. At one point in the play she is apparently the mistress of the debauched Borachio, who for some unexplained reason is willing to pretend she is Hero, and call Borachio Claudio (unless this is a textual error). At another point in the play, she is a witty lady-in-waiting, on almost equal terms with Beatrice and Hero. She cannot be present in the church scene—if she had been she would have exposed Borachio’s plot— though it is quite unnatural that she should not be

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present. When Leonato says that Margaret was hired to the deed by Don John, Borachio protests that she is completely innocent: No, by my soul, she was not; Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me, But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that I do know by her. (V.i.286–9) In the next scene, she engages in a witty exchange with Benedick; and at the end Leonato says (in relation to the slander of Hero) But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears. Leo Kirschbaum, in Character and Characterisation in Shakespeare, argues that psychologically the two Margarets are completely incompatible. She is a flat character; but in the course of performance we do not notice the discrepancies, and Shakespeare was not troubled by the difficulties his readers might encounter. Hero and Claudio are more realistically presented, but they are still conventional figures, and this prevents us from being too involved emotionally at Hero’s distresses. Indeed, the audience is never in doubt that things will come right in the end. The very title of the play Much Ado about Nothing tells them as much. The chief song has as its refrain, Converting all your sounds of woe Into hey nonny-nonny. Borachio, moreover, has been arrested by the watch before the church scene; and it is only the loquaciousness of Dogberry which prevents the slander from being exposed before the marriage scene. So the audience knows that Hero’s name will eventually be cleared. Dogberry is, indeed, a masterly character, one which is beautifully functional, but which is much more than functional. He has to be pompous, loquacious, fond of long words, very much on his dignity, semi-literate, and a bungler; otherwise he would get at the truth much sooner, and Leonato would not hasten to get rid of him on the morning of the marriage. On the other hand, he has to have some glimmerings of intelligence, or he would not have eventually arrived at the truth. On this functional basis, Shakespeare creates a wonderful portrait of a Jack-in-office, much less competent than Verges, whom he bullies and despises. He is the true ancestor of Mrs Malaprop, but much more plausible than her, who

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having been brought up as a lady would not be likely to make such absurd mistakes. All Dogberry’s mistakes, taken individually, are the sort of mistakes one still hears from local politicians in England. Dogberry uses desartless for deserving, senseless for sensible, decerns for concerns, odorous for odious, aspicious for suspicious, comprehended for apprehended. Shakespeare may have known such a man; but he had probably read a book by his acquaintance William Lambard, on the duties of constables, so that one gets a curious mixture of Elizabethan practice with the wildest fantasy. Funny as the Dogberry scenes are, they are best played without too much farcical business; for as with all the best comic characters, there is an element of pathos about Dogberry, as when he is called an ass by one of his prisoners: Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it not be written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass! (IV.ii.69ff.)

For a modern audience, the rejection of Hero in church makes it difficult to retain any sympathy for Claudio. Prouty seeks to defend him by suggesting that it was merely a marriage of convenience. Since Hero was not a virgin, her father had broken a contract, and a public exposure was therefore permissible. This is all very well. But there is one line only in Claudio’s part to suggest that he was thinking of Hero’s dowry. His first question to Pedro, when he reveals that he is thinking of the marriage is ‘Hath Leonato any son, my lord?’ Otherwise Claudio is presented as an abnormally shy, sentimental lover. Shakespeare had to have a public repudiation. There were theatrical necessities for it—one has only to think what the play would be like without this climactic scene. There were also perfectly good dramatic reasons for a public repudiation. Claudio’s action has to seem so atrocious that Benedick—his bosom friend—is willing to challenge him to a duel. The repudiation, and the following scene between Beatrice

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and Benedick, are a means of showing the innate good sense of Beatrice, her warm-heartedness and intuitive understanding; and they are a means of precipitating the confession of love. The Mueschkes make the good point that the theme of the play is Honour: ‘Honour is the warp of the three hoaxes [perpetrated in the course of the play], hearsay is the weft, and illusion spins the web.’ They go on to suggest that The repudiation scene, examined with the courtly code of honour in mind, is much more ˆ than a coup de theatre. In terms of Renaissance mores, it is a scene of poignant disillusionment and despair. In the conflict between appearance and reality, between emotion and reason, tension increases when lover turns inquisitor and father turns executioner. Here, in a conflict between good and evil, truth clashes with error in a charged atmosphere of contradictory moods and shifting relationships while the outraged moral sense oscillates between absolute praise and absolute blame. Here, when malice triumphs, shame so submerges compassion and slander, mirage, and perjury are accepted as ocular and auditory proof. Incensed by defiled honour, men argue in absolutes shorn from any rational mean, and under the aegis of the courtly code act and react with prescribed cruelty.

In other words, Shakespeare’s aim is to criticise the accepted code of honour; and (it may be argued) when Beatrice demands that Benedick should challenge Claudio she also is enslaved by the conventional code. For if Benedick kills Claudio, it will prove only that he is a more accomplished swordsman; and if Claudio kills Benedick it will do nothing to prove the guilt of Hero. It is the dim-witted watch, and the pompous self-important Dogberry who restore Hero’s reputation. As St Paul says: ‘God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things which are mighty; and base things of the world and things which are despised, hath God chosen, yea, and things which are not, to bring to nought things that are.’ The behaviour of Claudio—and, indeed, of Pedro—in the scene of the challenge exhibits once again the limitations of the code. Their treatment of Leonato is bad enough, but their lighthearted ragging of Benedick shows a callousness to the memory of Hero, and cannot quite be expiated by the ritual mourning which follows the revelation of her innocence.


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Beatrice and Benedick are obviously the two characters who are most vital and real—the ones who are the least conventional. Least conventional in a double sense: in the way they are drawn, and in their reacting against the romantic conventions of the society in which they live. They alone, of the characters in the play, are three-dimensional. Superficially, it might seem that Beatrice and Benedick who detest each other are tricked into loving each other by overhearing that each is dying for love of the other. But it is fairly obvious that they are in love with each other from the start: that is the reason why they are continually attacking each other. Beatrice and Benedick have several reasons for not admitting to their love. Both (it is clear) are unwilling to make themselves ridiculous, and they are too intelligent and unsentimental to indulge in the gestures of conventional romantic love. It is possible (as Prouty suggests) that they are equally in revolt against marriages of convenience. Beatrice, moreover, thinks of Benedick as a philanderer. When Pedro says ‘you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick’, Beatrice replies: Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one; marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it.

The speech is rather obscure; but it seems to imply that Benedick at one time had made love to Beatrice, and she felt his intentions were not serious. Both are proud and apparently self-sufficient. Benedick boasts, not very seriously, of the way women fall in love with him; but he declares to others that he will die a bachelor, and to himself: One woman is fair, yet I am well, another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. (II.iii.31 ff.)

Beatrice similarly says: He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a man I am not for him. Therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the berrord, and lead his apes into hell. Leon. Well, then go you into hell? Beat. No; but to the gate, and there will the devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say ‘Get you to heaven

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Denzel Washington, Kenneth Branagh, and Emma Thompson from the wedding scene of the 1993 film Much Ado About Nothing (Ó Samuel Goldwyn/Everett Collection) Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids’. So deliver I up my apes and away to Saint Peter for the heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. (II.i.31–41)

It was speeches like this that so shocked Gerard Manley Hopkins that he called Beatrice vain and unchaste. Beatrice does not talk like a mid-Victorian lady, but there is not the faintest suggestion in the play that she is unchaste, and few will agree with Hopkins’s epithet ‘vile’. Nor, I think, is Beatrice vain; but she is proud. It has been suggested that Hero’s lines describing her cousin— Nature never framed a woman’s heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on; and her wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared— (III.i.49–56) are based on a character representing pride in The Faerie Queene. But we must remember that

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Hero is deliberately exaggerating, as she knows that Beatrice is overhearing her. The lines cannot be taken as an accurate portrait. Yet both Beatrice and Benedick are absurd in their selfsufficiency. Much Ado about Nothing may be regarded as a subtler version of The Taming of the Shrew, transposed from farce to high comedy—and, of course, Benedick needs to be tamed as well as Beatrice. As we have seen, Katherina’s violence is at least partly due to the fact that she hates equally the artificialities of romantic love and the humiliations of marriages of convenience, in which she is bound to suspect that the suitor is after her fortune—as indeed Petruchio admits from the start. But the struggle between the Shrew and her tamer is carried out in terms of farce. In Much Ado, Beatrice, instead of being physically violent, is aggressive with her tongue, and she chooses as her victim the man she really loves. She is cured and tamed, not by physical violence and semistarvation, but by hearing the truth about herself, and about Benedick. The irony is that Hero and the others who talk about Benedick’s love for her think they are lying, although they are

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telling the truth; and Pedro and Claudio think they are lying when they speak of Beatrice’s love for Benedick.

Mozart and Shakespeare; and by a curious irony his own plays are being performed now, not for their ideas, but for their style.

By the end of the play we realise that all the characters in the play, except the Friar, have been laughed at: the watch for their stupidity, Dogberry for his self-important illiteracy, Leonato for being more concerned with his own honour than with his daughter’s life, Claudio and Pedro for their credulity in being deceived by an obvious villain, for the cruelty of their code of honour, and for their failure to recognise that Beatrice and Benedick are in love; Beatrice and Benedick for their pride and self-sufficiency. It is not only Dogberry who should ask to be writ down as an ass.

In all love comedies the union of the hero and heroine must be delayed by obstacles of one kind or another.—‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’ The obstacles can be external, as for example the opposition of parents who have other plans for their children. Or they may be psychological, the unwillingness of one or other to marry. In Congreve’s masterpiece, The Way of the World, Millamant is afraid that (as so often in her society) marriage will destroy his love for her. And when she is finally cornered, she tells her lover:

Bernard Shaw has pointed out how much the witty repartee depends on style. The passage occurs in a review of a performance of the play in 1898:

I shall expect you shall solicit me, as though I were wavering at the gate of a monastery, with one foot over the threshold . . . I should think I was poor if I were deprived of the agreeable fatigues of solicitation.

Shakespear shews himself in it (sc. Much Ado) a commonplace librettist working on a stolen plot, but a great musician. No matter how poor, coarse, cheap, and obvious the thought may be, the mood is charming, and the music of the words expresses the mood. Paraphrase the encounters of Benedick and Beatrice in the style of a bluebook, carefully preserving every idea they present, and it will become apparent to the most infatuated Shakespearean that they contain at best nothing out of the common in thought or wit, and at worst a good deal of vulgar naughtiness . . . Not until the Shakespearean music is added by replacing the paraphrase with the original lines does the enchantment begin. Then you are in another world at once. When a flower-girl tells a coster to hold his jaw, for nobody is listening to him, and he retorts, ‘Oh, youre there, are you, you beauty?’ they reproduce the wit of Beatrice and Benedick exactly. But put it this way. ‘I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you.’ ‘What! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living?’ You are miles away from costerland at once. When I tell you that Benedick and the coster are equally poor in thought, Beatrice and the flower-girl equally vulgar in repartee, you reply that I might as well tell you that a nightingale’s love is no higher than a cat’s. Which is exactly what I do tell you, though the nightingale is the better musician.

Shaw, of course, exaggerates, because he was campaigning for Ibsen. It was only in his later years, after all his plays had been written, that he confessed that his own masters were Verdi,


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Then she lays down an elaborate list of conditions for her surrender, including the provisos that she shall not be called such names as ‘wife, joy, jewel, spouse, sweetheart, and the rest of that nauseous cant in which men and their wives are so fulsomely familiar . . . Let us be very strange and well bred, as strange as if we had been married a great while, and as well-bred as if we were not married at all.’ Millamant, like Beatrice, uses her wit as a shield, because she is in fact very vulnerable and sensitive. In a great modern comedy, Shaw’s Man and Superman, it is the woman who chases the man, chases him halfway across Europe in a motorcar; in Much Ado both the hero and the heroine apparently wish to remain single, and the marriage at the end is a satisfactory one because it fulfils their unconscious wishes. A modern dramatist has written a sequel to Much Ado in which Beatrice and Benedick, after their marriage, continue to fight each other as they had done before. But the continuation of the merry war (as Shakespeare calls it) does not mean that their marriage would not be a success. They will enjoy the wise-cracks, and use them as a private method of courtship, long after Claudio and Hero have exhausted the pleasures of romantic hyperbole. (Indeed, if one were to treat the matter realistically—and it would be perverse to do so—one could imagine Hero reminding Claudio too often of the way he repudiated her in church.) . . .

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The climactic scene in the play is the one in which Benedick and Beatrice first confess their love for each other. Hero has been repudiated in church by the man she was to marry. Hero faints. In this situation the behaviour of Beatrice and Benedick is contrasted with that of the other characters. Whereas Leonato behaves like an hysterical old fool, first believing that Hero is guilty and wishing that she would die, and later uttering threats against the Prince and Claudio, Beatrice and Benedick are concerned for Hero. Beatrice knows instinctively that she is innocent, and Benedick asks some of the questions which the audience are waiting to be asked. (No one, however, seems to realise that Don John’s story of a thousand secret encounters can scarcely be true, since Beatrice and Hero, until this last night, have shared a bed.) The Friar puts forward his plan of pretending that Hero has died, and suggests that the wedding-day is but postponed. Benedick naturally suspects that Don John is at the bottom of the plot to defame Hero, since Claudio and Pedro are honourable men. Everyone leaves the church, except Benedick and Beatrice, who is still weeping for her cousin. Since they learned that they were loved by the other, Beatrice and Benedick have not met in private, and the audience have been waiting for their meeting for about half an hour of playingtime. In the scene which follows, Benedick is forced to choose between love and friendship. After he has promised to do anything in the world for Beatrice, and she asks him to kill Claudio, he first exclaims ‘Not for the wide world’. When John Gielgud and Peggy Ashcroft appeared on Broadway, one of the critics regarded the production as a failure—though it was the best I have ever seen—because the audience laughed at this point. The critic thought the audience laughed because it was obvious that Gielgud’s Benedick would not hurt a fly, let alone his friend. But although the scene as a whole is a poignant and dramatic one, there are several lines which are intended to be funny, and this is surely one of them. It is right that the audience should laugh when Benedick offers to do anything that Beatrice wants and refuses the very first thing she asks. Source: Kenneth Muir, ‘‘Maturity: Much Ado About Nothing,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comic Sequence, Barnes & Noble Books, 1979, pp. 68–81.

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ESSENTIALLY, THE PLAY IS, I BELIEVE, ABOUT THE POWER FOR EVIL THAT EXISTS IN PEOPLE WHO HAVE BECOME SELF-REGARDING BY LIVING IN A SOCIETY THAT IS CLOSELY-KNIT AND TURNED IN ON ITSELF.’’

John Crick In the following excerpt, Crick offers a general discussion of Much Ado about Nothing, focusing upon the characters, theme, and language of the play. He depicts the play as one concerned primarily about the potential for evil existing in people who have become self-absorbed in a society that reflects and supports that self-absorption. ‘The fable is absurd’, wrote Charles Gildon in 1710, and most of us would agree. Yet there is the effervescent presence of Beatrice and Benedick and the engaging stupidity of Dogberry and Verges to assure us that all is not dross. Coleridge was convinced that this central interest was Shakespeare’s own, his motive in writing the play, and the ‘fable’ was merely a means of exhibiting the characters he was interested in. This may have been the attitude of audiences in Shakespeare’s time: as early as 1613, the play was referred to as ‘Benedicte and Betteris’. Can we summarise the play in this way: a few good acting parts standing out against the unsatisfactory background of a preposterous Italian romance? I think not. Most of the play’s critics have seized on the apparent absence of any unifying dramatic conception: the play fluctuates uneasily, it is said, between tragedy, romance, and comedy and never establishes a convincing dramatic form for itself. In these circumstances there are too many inconsistencies of plot and character and, in particular, in the presentation of Claudio and Hero: they begin as the hero and heroine of a typical italianate romance and, under the growing dominance of Beatrice and Benedick in the play, become—rather unconvincingly—the perpetrator and victim respectively of a nearcriminal act. Beatrice and Benedick throw the play off its balance.

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It is a truism criticism should be concerned with what a work of art is, and not with what it ought to be. In the case of Much Ado, however, it is one worth remembering, for preconceptions about form, plot, and character, and the other components of a play, have so often obscured what is unmistakably there, and shows itself in the very first scene of the play: the precise delineation of an aristocratic and metropolitan society. This is done with a thoroughness and depth which is beyond any requirement of a romantic fable in the tradition of Ariosto and Bandello, and beyond the demands of a plot merely intended to exhibit the characters of Beatrice, Benedick, Dogberry and Verges, in the way that Coleridge suggested. The opening scene of the play establishes for us the characteristic tone of Messina society. Don John’s rebellion has been successfully put down and the victors are returning to Messina with their newly-won honours. It is significant that, in spite of the fact that Don John still exists to cause trouble, there is no serious discussion of the reasons for or consequencies of the rebellion. War is regarded as something that might deprive society of some of its leading lights—Leonato asks the messenger ‘How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?’—and enhance the status of others. The messenger informs us that no gentlemen ‘of name’ have been lost, and Claudio and Benedick have fought valiantly and achieved honour. War is a gentlemanly pursuit, a game of fortune—nothing more. This first conversation of the play has a studied artificiality which seems to bear out this reading of the situation. The language is sophisticated and over-elaborate, as if it has been cultivated as an end in itself, and not as a vehicle for the discussion of serious matters. Leonato’s sententiousness may be that of an old man; yet it fits naturally into the play’s elaboration of words: ‘A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.’ ‘A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces truer than those that are so washed. How much better is it to weep at joy at weeping!’

Even the messenger—a person of humble origin, we presume—has caught the infection and uses euphuistic phraseology: ‘He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how.’


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‘I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness.’

This initial impression—of ornate language as the normal conversational mode in upperclass Messina society—is confirmed by the rest of the play: there is an abundance of antitheses, alliterations, puns, euphuisms, repetitions and word-patterns. The imagery has a similar artificiality and tends to consist of the prosaic and the conventional, rather than the striking. Prose, rather than verse, is the natural medium for conventional talk and ideas, and it is therefore not surprising that there is far more prose in Much Ado than is normal in a Shakespearean comedy. In such a society, Beatrice and Benedick are naturally regarded as prize assets. They, too, relish talking for effect—although they do it with far more wit and vigour than the others, whose speeches are usually lifeless and insipid. If Don John’s rebellion has not been taken seriously, as we suspect, it is probably because the ‘merry war’ between Beatrice and Benedick is of far more interest to a fashionable society which, as such societies do, regards a war between the sexes as a subject of perennial fascination. Beatrice, as Benedick says, ‘speaks poniards’ and ‘every word stabs; and yet no harm is done. No Messina gentleman is likely to be deprived of his life by ‘paper bullets of the brain’. Yet, one of the play’s ironies is that it leads us to doubt this: considerable damage is done by the mere power of words. (It is another of the play’s ironies that Beatrice’s ‘Kill Claudio’—an unusually straightforward command—is motivated by charitable feelings.) Hero—the main victim—comments on this power: ‘one doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking’ . . . Where Messina conventions are fallible— and Beatrice as a woman, in a predominantly masculine ethos of courtship, games and war, is particularly qualified to speak here—is in questions of love, marriage, and the relationship between the sexes. Beneath her raillery, Beatrice shows a realistic and discriminating attitude to the subjects. She won’t accept the choice of others for a husband, ironically remarking, ‘Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy and say, ‘‘Father, as it please you.’’ But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say ‘‘Father, as it pleases me’’’; she rejects romantic notions of the opposite sex—‘Lord, I could not endure a

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husband with a beard on his face’; and, by implication, she won’t accept a business marriage. (Benedick’s attitude to marriage is similarly realistic—‘the world must be peopled’). Hers is a sane perspective on events, an application of generosity and sympathy in a society dominated by ultimately inhumane standards. Her feminine charity triumphs, as Portia’s mercy does in The Merchant of Venice. Benedick becomes acceptable to her when he symbolically joins his masculine qualities to her feminine principles by taking up, however reluctantly, her attitude to Claudio, and thus shows himself to be, in her eyes, of a finer ‘metal’ than the average Messina male. Ironically, the plotting which separated Claudio and Hero brings them together, their true feelings breaking through their conventional jesters’ roles, and it is Beatrice’s clear-sightedness which triumphs over all the pattern of misunderstandings, deceptions, and self-deceptions which make up the play. (This patterned and stylised aspect of the play is very marked in the plot, characterisation, and language: consider, for example, the balancing of the two scenes in the church; the characterisation in pairs: the artificiality of the masque and the mourning scene; and the rhetorical devices of most of the language.)

does.) A moral blindness is generated that, if not evil itself, is capable of evil consequences. The agency of evil in this play is not outside, but within. The ostensible villain of the piece— Don John—is a mere cardboard figure who, excluded from a world of flatteries and courtesies, has resorted to ‘plain-dealing’ villainy. He may be an early sketch for Iago and Edmund but he lacks their intelligence and flair, and Shakespeare has wisely kept him within the narrow bounds appropriate for comedy. The real orgin of the crime is not jealousy, sexual or otherwise, but blind, consuming egotism which expresses itself in a studied artificiality, and at times flippancy, of both language and attitude. Later, Shakespeare was to take the same theme and mould it into tragedy. In the world of Othello, Lear, and Gloucester, the consequences of pride and self-centredness are catastrophic. The ultimate is perhaps King Lear—another ‘much ado about nothing’—where Lear, like Claudio, could say ‘Yet sinned I not but in mistaking’.

The incapacity of Messina society is also exposed, at another level, by Dogberry and Verges. Dogberry, like his superiors, adopts the mode of language and behaviour he conceives to be fitting to his position. When it comes to a reallife drama, he is as patently useless as Claudio. He displays condescension towards Verges and all the pompousness of authority: ‘I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer, and, which is more, a householder . . . ’ Claudio, too, has ‘every thing handsome about him’. Dogberry has caught the Messina infection of pride and self-centredness, that self-centredness which makes Leonato—the perfect host at the beginning of the play—wish Hero dead because of the way in which she has shamed him. (Isn’t there something more than just a resemblance of name between him and Leontes and Lear?)

In the following excerpt from an essay originally published in Encounter in 1957, Auden (a major twentieth-century poet) demonstrates how Balthasar’s song in Act II, Scene iii of Much Ado about Nothing contributes to the dramatic structure of this work in two ways; by marking the moment when Claudio’s ‘‘pleasant illusions about himself as a lover are at their highest’’; and by suggesting to Benedick, through the song’s message, an image of Beatrice as well as a dark sense of ‘‘mischief’’ ahead.

Source: John Crick, ‘‘Much Ado About Nothing,’’ in The Use of English, Vol. XVII, No. 3, Spring 1966, pp. 223– 27.

W. H. Auden

Essentially, the play is, I believe, about the power for evil that exists in people who have become self-regarding by living in a society that is closely-knit and turned in on itself. The corruption is usually that of town and city life. (Significantly, Shakespeare’s story does not fluctuate between town and country as Bandello’s

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Source: W. H. Auden, ‘‘Music in Shakespeare,’’ in The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays, Random House, Inc., 1962, pp. 500–27.

SOURCES Charney, Maurice, All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993. Dickson, Andrew, The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, Rough Guides, 2005. Dunton-Downer, Leslie, and Alan Riding, Essential Shakespeare Handbook, DK Publishing, 2004. Epstein, Norrie, The Friendly Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1993. Goddard, Harold C., The Meaning of Shakespeare, University of Chicago Press, 1951. Kermode, Frank, The Age of Shakespeare, The Modern Library, 2004.


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Shakespeare, William, Much Ado about Nothing, Folger Shakespeare Library edition, Washington Square Press, 1995.

FURTHER READING Branagh, Kenneth, Introduction to Much Ado about Nothing, W. W. Norton & Co., 1993. This book by the British Shakespearean actor Kenneth Branagh concerns the question, why film Much Ado about Nothing? Branagh replies that the play is about love, one of humankind’s obsessions. Hays, Janice, ‘‘Those ‘Soft and Delicate Desires’: Much Ado and the Distrust of Women,’’ in The Woman’s Part: Feminist Criticism of Shakespeare, edited by Carolyn Ruth Swift Lenz, Gayle Greene, and Carol Thomas Neely, University of Illinois Press, 1980. Hays examines Much Ado for its treatment of what Hays calls a theme addressed several times in Shakespeare’s plays: the sexual distrust of women and their subsequent testing and vindication. Honigmann, E. A. J., Myriad-Minded Shakespeare, Palgrave Macmillan, 1997. A Shakespearean scholar, Honigmann studies all of Shakespeare and helps readers understand the man as well as his tragedies and comedies. He explores everything from the sexist insinuations in the plays to the political comments and environments. Leggatt, Alexander, ‘‘Much Ado about Nothing,’’ in his Shakespeare’s Comedy of Love, Methuen and Co., 1974. Leggatt notes that many of the characters in this comedy are highly stylized, and he emphasizes the ceremonial aspects of the church

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scenes, the patterning of the tricks played on Beatrice and Benedick, and the image of order signified in the final dance sequence. Against these he balances the realism and spontaneity of Beatrice and Benedick. Maslen, Robert, Shakespeare and Comedy, Arden, 2005. Maslen looks at Shakespeare’s works, tragedies as well as comedies, and concludes that Shakespeare’s comedies are not always funny. But, Maslen concludes, that is what makes them so compelling. McDonald, Russ, ed., Shakespeare: An Anthology of Criticism and Theory, 1945–2000, Blackwell Publishing, 2004. A rewarding collection of essays that help the reader to better understand Shakespeare’s plays. Themes, construction, and modes are fully explored by some of the best Shakespearean critics and scholars. Pettet, E. C., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Detachment from Romance,’’ in his Shakespeare and the Romance Tradition, Haskell House Publishers, 1976. Pettet argues that Much Ado reflects Shakespeare’s growing dissatisfaction with the traditional formulas for romantic comedy. Pettet regards the dominance of the Beatrice-Benedick entanglement over the Hero-Claudio story as the most telling sign of Shakespeare’s shift in interest away from the love romance. Rowse, A. L., ‘‘Much Ado about Nothing, 1599,’’ in his Prefaces to Shakespeare’s Plays, Orbis, 1984. Rowse focuses primarily upon the main characters, Beatrice and Benedick, Hero and Claudio, Dogberry and Verges, and Don John, as well as on Shakespeare’s use of source material. Rowse deems Much Ado to be a prime example of Shakespeare’s comedy. The play has romance as well as comedy that cuts across classes.

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Othello Othello (1604) has often been considered the most painful of Shakespeare’s tragedies. The fall of a proud, dignified man, the murder of a graceful, loving woman, and the unreasoning hatred of a villain, have all evoked fear and pity in audiences throughout the centuries. If it lacks the cosmic grandeur of some of Shakespeare’s other well-respected dramas, Othello nevertheless possesses a power that is perhaps more immediate and more strongly felt than that of his other plays.

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Othello is also unique among Shakespeare’s great tragedies in that it is set in a private world. The drama focuses on the passions and personal lives of its major figures. Othello has often been described as a tragedy of character, as the play’s protagonist swiftly descends into a rage of jealousy that completely destroys his life. With his dazzling display of villainy, the character Iago, the play’s antagonist, has long fascinated students and critics of the drama. The relationship between Othello and Iago is another unusual feature of this work. With two such prominent characters so closely associated, audiences have trouble determining which of the two characters is the central figure in the play and, therefore, which one bears the greater responsibility for the tragedy. Othello is believed to have first been performed in 1604 or perhaps in 1605. It is one of Shakespeare’s most highly concentrated and

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tightly constructed tragedies. The play was written with no subplots and little humor to relieve the tension. Although Shakespeare adapted the plot of his play from the sixteenth-century Italian dramatist and novelist Giraldi Cinthio’s Gli Hecatommithi, the English playwright focused his attention only on certain parts of Cinthio’s story. The Italian’s creation includes a series of ten interconnected short stories. Shakespeare’s Othello is taken from just one of them, the one concerned with marital infidelity and a husband’s revenge on his wife. Because of this tightly constructed structure, the play’s ominous mood is heightened, and the threat to both Desdemona’s innocence and to the love she and Othello share is made more terrifying Although narrow in scope, Othello is widely regarded as the most moving of all of Shakespeare’s great tragedies. As a matter of fact, rumors abound that during some of the earliest productions of this play, audiences shouted out warnings to the actor playing Othello and threatened to bring harm to Iago. Although Othello is described as a Moor, a citizen of northern Africa, the play is not overtly about race. In Shakespeare’s time, black actors were not used in the role. However, critics continue to debate if race is crucial to the play or if it is merely incidental. Some have stated that the color of the skin makes no difference when it comes to human psychology. What is important in this play is that Othello is a man of high esteem, a victorious hero, who succumbs to the manipulations of a shrewd and devious man. The results are devastating, horrifying, and, of course, very dramatic.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Othello opens in Venice, with Iago (a low ranking officer in the Venetian army) and Roderigo (a weak man who is in love with Desdemona) discussing their bitterness toward Othello. Roderigo is angry because of Othello’s marriage to Desdemona. Iago is distraught because Othello has promoted Cassio to the rank of lieutenant instead of promoting Iago. In the first few lines of this scene, Iago is already scheming a plan of revenge. Iago encourages Roderigo to rouse Brabantio, a senator and the father of Desdemona, to tell

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him that Desdemona has eloped with Othello. Upon hearing this, the outraged Brabantio has his house searched, and when it is confirmed that Desdemona is gone, Brabantio is at his wits’ end. Several of the play’s themes are introduced in this first scene. First, there is the theme of jealously. Iago has been passed over for a promotion and is jealous of Cassio, the man who has won Othello’s favor. Roderigo is jealous because another man has won the hand of Desdemona. A second theme that is introduced is that of the socalled Other—the foreigner, the outsider, or the one who lives on the edges of society. Othello’s character is most involved in this theme. To emphasize Othello’s ‘‘otherness,’’ just in the first scene alone, he is called the ‘‘lascivious Moor,’’ ‘‘thicklips,’’ ‘‘an old black ram,’’ and ‘‘an extravagant and wheeling stranger.’’ The theme of deception is also brought out in this opening scene. First, Roderigo feels deceived by Iago because Roderigo has been paying Iago to put him in good favor with Desdemona. It is obvious that Iago has failed to do this. Desdemona’s father feels his daughter, who has run away with Othello without asking his consent, has deceived him. Another act of deceit occurs when Iago confesses that he only pretends to love Othello.

Act 1, Scene 2 Othello makes his first appearance in act 1, scene 2. Iago is telling Othello that he has heard people talking badly about him. He warns Othello of possible trouble; all the while he is conning Othello, trying to convince Othello of his devotion and thus winning his way into Othello’s trust. Cassio appears and tells Othello that the duke is looking for him. There is a military threat against Cyprus. When Brabantio appears, Iago warns Othello to beware. Othello faces everyone without fear, demonstrating his confidence, his willingness to stand up to the enemy or the accuser, whichever must be met. Brabantio curses Othello, claiming that Othello has cast a spell on his daughter. Othello asks Brabantio what he wants him to do. Brabantio says he wants Othello put in prison. Othello suggests that if he did so, the duke would be upset. Brabantio realizes that the affairs of state are quite serious and must be attended to. So he concludes that the duke can decide what to do with Othello.

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Othello preparing to kill Desdemona, Act V, scene ii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

By now, the audience is quite aware of Iago’s character. He is a manipulator and out for no one’s benefit but his own. Othello has demonstrated, on the other hand, that he fits none of the negative descriptions that have been used to portray him.

Act 1, Scene 3 The next scene is at the duke’s council chamber. The council members are discussing reports of a Turkish fleet heading for Cyprus, which is a Venetian colony. Messengers are bringing word of how many Turkish ships approach. When the duke acknowledges Othello as ‘‘Valiant Othello,’’ it is obvious that Othello is seen quite differently by these people than he was seen previously through the eyes of Iago, Roderigo, or Brabantio. Brabantio wastes no time in explaining that his daughter has been stolen from him. The duke is shocked and promises to punish the thief. The duke says Brabantio can ‘‘read in the bitter letter /


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After your own sense,’’ meaning that Brabantio can set the punishment. The duke is, of course, surprised to discover that the so-called thief is Othello. Very graciously and humbly, Othello pleads his case. He provides a brief background of his life and how he fell in love with Desdemona and she with him. The duke, wanting Othello vindicated because the country needs him to fight the Turks, determines that the council needs more proof that Desdemona has indeed been stolen. Desdemona is called to stand before the council. Desdemona arrives and acknowledges that she is divided between her devotion to her father and her love of her husband, Othello. She tells her father, ‘‘And so much duty as my mother showed / To you, preferring you before her father, / So much I challenge that I may profess / Due to the Moor, my lord.’’ The duke needs to hear no more. Desdemona has settled the case. The duke appoints Othello as governor of Cyprus and tells him to prepare to leave.

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Desdemona asks to go to Cyprus with Othello, which the duke allows. Before the scene ends, Brabantio scoffs at Othello one more time, telling him, ‘‘Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see. / She has deceived her father, and may thee.’’ This is a warning that will later haunt Othello. The scene ends with Iago manipulating Roderigo. Roderigo is ready to drown himself for he sees no hope in winning the hand of Desdemona. Iago, however, needs Roderigo for his scheme, so he challenges Roderigo to be a man and hang in there. Desdemona and Othello will tire of one another, Iago predicts and asks Roderigo to stay with him so they can both enjoy their revenge on Othello. After Roderigo leaves, Iago talks to himself (in aside to the audience), relating how he thinks Roderigo a fool. He also reiterates how he hates Othello. Iago has heard rumors that Othello has slept with his wife, Emilia. This gives Iago all the more reason to hurt Othello. He will make Othello believe that Desdemona is having an affair with Cassio. Iago believes this will be easy to do because ‘‘The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, / And will as tenderly be led by th’ nose / As asses are.’’

Act 2, Scene 1 Act 2 begins in Cyprus where a violent storm is raging out at sea. Montano, the former governor of Cyprus, is concerned that all of Othello’s ships might have capsized. Shortly afterward, Montano is informed that the storm has scattered the Turkish forces, thus ending the war. Cassio enters and demonstrates, through his conversation with Montano, that he is truly devoted to Othello. The audience learns that Cassio is very approving of Othello’s marriage to Desdemona. This makes it clear that Cassio is not in any way involved in Iago’s plan. Desdemona, Emilia, Iago, and Roderigo arrive in Cyprus. Desdemona is worried about Othello, who has not yet made an appearance on the island. Whereas Cassio has been displayed as a gentlemen, with his concern for Othello’s safety and his compliments toward Desdemona, Iago appears crude. Iago belittles his wife and then criticizes all of womanhood, stating that women ‘‘are pictures out of doors, / Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens, / Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, / Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.’’

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In other words, women are deceitful, noisy, and undomesticated and are good only for sex. Othello finally arrives and makes a public display of his love for Desdemona. ‘‘I cannot speak enough of this content. / It stops me here; it is too much of joy,’’ Othello says. This spurs Iago to mention in an aside to the audience, ‘‘O, you are well tuned now! / But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music.’’ Iago is determined to ruin this love. He reaffirms his desire to arouse Othello’s jealousy and enlists Roderigo in the plot to discredit Cassio. He furthers his plan, telling Roderigo that he believes Desdemona has fallen for Cassio. Roderigo cannot believe this, but Iago changes Roderigo’s mind. He churns Roderigo’s anger so that Roderigo wants to challenge Cassio in a fight. If Roderigo can do this, Iago tells him, ‘‘So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them.’’

Act 2, Scene 2 Othello decrees a night of revelry to celebrate his marriage and Cyprus’s escape from the Turkish attack. This is a very brief scene.

Act 2, Scene 3 Othello sends Cassio out to guard his house, and Othello and Desdemona go to bed. Cassio says that Iago will keep watch with him. Othello replies: ‘‘Iago is most honest.’’ Of course, the audience is fully aware that this is far from the truth and this statement makes Othello look very vulnerable. When Cassio goes out and meets with Iago, Iago describes how enticing Desdemona is. Whereas Iago describes Desdemona in terms of sexuality, Cassio talks of her as being modest, exquisite, and delicate. When Iago invites Cassio to drink with him, Cassio says he becomes easily intoxicated. Iago uses this to get Cassio drunk and to involve him in a public brawl. When Othello arrives, he turns to Iago to find who is responsible for the brawl. Iago, feigning reluctance, nonetheless insinuates Cassio. Othello punishes the lieutenant by taking away his recently won promotion. The audience knows, once again, that Othello has made a serious mistake.

Act 3, Scene 1 Standing in front of Othello’s castle is sad Cassio, who is trying to beg Emilia to plead his

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case to Desdemona. Iago tells Cassio that he will make sure Othello is not in the castle so Cassio can meet with Desdemona alone.

Act 3, Scene 2 Another brief scene in which Othello gives papers to Iago to post, then the audience sees Othello leave the castle, setting up the scene to follow, in which Desdemona is left in the castle without Othello.

Act 3, Scene 3 In the garden of the castle, Desdemona greets Cassio. Cassio wins Desdemona’s attention. Desdemona agrees to plead his case with Othello. As Cassio leaves, Iago and Othello approach. Iago takes advantage of Cassio’s being seen slipping out of the garden where Desdemona stands. Iago says, pretending to be talking mostly to himself: ‘‘Ha! I like not that.’’ When Othello asks what Iago is referring to, Iago pretends to dismiss his own words. But when Othello asks if that was Cassio, Iago launches full-heartedly into his scheme. Othello greets his wife, and she asks Othello to forgive Cassio. Othello does not commit to it but also does not deny he will. Desdemona leaves, and Iago digs deeper, planting more suspicions in Othello’s mind, asking him questions about Cassio, such as: ‘‘Did Michael Cassio, when you wooed my lady, / Know of your love?’’ When Othello asks why Iago wants to know, Iago downplays the question, ‘‘But for a satisfaction of my thought; / No further harm.’’ Of course, harm is exactly what Iago is after. And so the conversation continues. Iago’s villainy begins to work on Othello in two ways. First, Iago feeds Othello insinuations that Desdemona has been unfaithful, creating emotional havoc for Othello. And second, Iago feeds Othello lies concerning his own faithful service as a friend to Othello, when in fact Iago hates Othello. On both accounts, Othello believes Iago. Iago is very good in what he does. He even warns Othello not to be jealous. ‘‘It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock / The meat it feeds on.’’ Iago then tells Othello to not succumb to his thoughts but rather to seek proof of Desdemona’s unfaithfulness before Othello believes it. Iago also reminds Othello that Desdemona did once deceive her father. By the time Iago and Othello part, Othello


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believes he is indebted to Iago for being so honest with him. Briefly, Desdemona appears with Othello. She wipes his brow with her handkerchief when he complains of a headache. The handkerchief drops when the couple leaves for dinner. Emilia picks the handkerchief up and mentions that her husband has asked her to steal it. After Emilia leaves, Iago tells the audience that he will plant the handkerchief in Cassio’s house. Othello talks with Iago, telling him that he has lost all tranquility. He says: ‘‘Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore!’’ Othello tells Iago that if he has done this just to slander Desdemona, Iago had better beware. Iago pretends to be offended. ‘‘O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, / To be direct and honest is not safe.’’ In other words, he is attempting to make Othello feel that he has hurt Iago by insinuating Iago might be lying. Othello is tortured by the uncertainty of his own thoughts, not knowing if he should trust his wife or trust Iago’s insinuations. Iago tells Othello that he overheard Cassio talking in his sleep. Iago says Cassio called out, ‘‘Let us be wary, let us hide our love.’’ Iago continues to embellish his story, stating that Cassio then began kissing Iago, thinking he was a woman. Iago reports that Cassio said: ‘‘Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!’’ This is the undoing of Othello. He cannot stand the thought of Desdemona and Cassio kissing. He wants Cassio to be dead. When Iago says that he will see to this, Othello makes Iago his new lieutenant.

Act 3, Scene 4 Although Desdemona does not know what is going on, she and Emilia discuss the jealousy that can sometimes be aroused. Desdemona tells Emilia that she cannot imagine Othello ever being jealous. This is Shakespeare’s use of irony, as the audience knows full well that Othello is in a jealous rage. Othello enters and says he is not feeling well. He asks for the handkerchief that he once gave to Desdemona. Desdemona says she has misplaced it. Othello tells her the handkerchief is imbued with magical powers. The loss of it could mean bad luck. Tempers flair, as Desdemona and Othello clash. Othello storms out of the room.

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Shortly after, Cassio is with Bianca, a woman he has slept with but does not love. She asks where Cassio has been. Cassio shows Bianca Desdemona’s handkerchief. Bianca becomes jealous at the sight of it, thinking Cassio has slept with another woman. Cassio says he merely found it and asks Bianca to replicate it.

Act 4, Scene 1 Iago continues to provoke Othello, who falls into an epileptic fit. Iago revels in his handiwork. When Othello revives, Iago suggests that Othello hide and watch while Iago engages Cassio in a discussion about Desdemona. What Othello does not know is that Iago is actually discussing Bianca with Cassio. Othello cannot hear what the two men are saying and believes the object of Cassio’s laughter is Desdemona. When Bianca appears and returns the handkerchief to Cassio, Othello is shocked by the sight of it. When Cassio leaves, Othello asks: ‘‘How shall I murder him, Iago?’’ Iago places emphasis on the handkerchief, continuing his torture of Othello. Now Othello wants to kill Desdemona. He talks about chopping her into pieces. Iago tells Othello to strangle her. Lodovico, Desdemona’s uncle, arrives from Venice with letters for Othello, commanding him to return to Venice and to leave Cassio as his deputy in Cyprus. When Othello is with Desdemona, she expresses her hopes that Othello and Cassio can be reconciled. This infuriates Othello, and he strikes her and calls her ‘‘devil.’’ Lodovico witnesses this and wonders what is wrong with Othello. When Lodovico confronts Othello, Othello calls Desdemona a whore. Later Iago talks to Lodovico and implies there is something wrong with Othello. Iago adds: ‘‘It is not honesty in me to speak / What I have seen and known.’’ In other words, Iago makes Othello look weak and possibly mad. But of course, Iago claims no part in Othello’s misery and psychological collapse.

Act 4, Scene 2 Othello questions Emilia about Desdemona’s faithfulness. Emilia stands up for Desdemona. If Desdemona is not chaste, Emilia says: ‘‘There’s no man happy; the purest of their wives / Is foul as slander.’’ Roderigo enters and accuses Iago of doing nothing to help him. Iago placates Roderigo by saying Othello will soon be leaving Cyprus

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without his wife and that, if Roderigo kills Cassio, no one will stand between him and Desdemona.

Act 4, Scene 3 This is another short scene, with Emilia helping Desdemona prepare for bed. Desdemona asks Emilia if there are women who ‘‘abuse’’ their husbands. Emilia says there are. Desdemona asks Emilia if she could do so to her husband. Emilia responds by asking if Desdemona could. Desdemona answers: ‘‘No, by this heavenly light!’’ Shakespeare shows, through this dialogue between Desdemona and Emilia, that no matter what Othello has done to Desdemona, she remains faithful to him.

Act 5, Scene 1 Roderigo tries to murder Cassio, but is himself wounded. Iago then wounds Cassio from behind and flees. Returning a short while later, Iago kills Roderigo to prevent his plan from being exposed.

Act 5, Scene 2 Othello finds Desdemona asleep. He awakens her with a kiss and tells her to prepare to die. Desdemona pleads for mercy. Othello mentions the handkerchief. Desdemona denies everything. She tells Othello to ask Cassio about it. Othello believes that Cassio is dead, so he tells her it is too late. Othello smothers her. Hearing Emilia’s calls at the door, Othello lets her in. Emilia tells Othello that it is Roderigo who is dead, not Cassio. Emilia hears Desdemona cry out: ‘‘O, falsely, falsely murdered!’’ Emilia asks Desdemona who has done this to her. Desdemona says it was only herself. Then she dies. Othello denies murdering her when Emilia asks. But then Othello confesses and tells Emilia that he learned of Desdemona’s unfaithfulness through Iago. Emilia cries out for help. When Iago, Cassio, Montano, and others appear in response, she confronts her husband and exposes his treachery. Othello lunges at Iago, who has fatally wounded Emilia, and Iago flees. He is soon captured, however, and Othello stabs him. Cassio explains how he found the handkerchief. Papers discovered on Roderigo further reveal the extent of Iago’s villainy. Lodovico tells Othello that his power as governor of Cyprus is over. Cassio has been assigned in his place.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS Othello was adapted as a silent film in 1922. It starred Emil Jannings, Lya de Putti, and Werner Krauss. It is distributed by Video Yesteryear and Discount Video Tapes. In 1952, Othello was produced by United Artists and directed by Orson Welles. The cast featured Welles as Othello, Michael Mac Liammoir as Iago, and Suzanne Cloutier as Desdemona. It is available on DVD from MCVI.

Branagh playing Iago, and Irene Jacob acting in Desdemona’s role. It is available on DVD from Turner Home Entertainment.

BHE Films of the United Kingdom produced a film version of Othello in 1965. This version starred Laurence Olivier as Othello, Maggie Smith as Desdemona, and Frank Finlay as Iago. This version is available on DVD (at http://www.amazon.com) from the studio Ruscico.

In 1982, the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) in London produced a television adaptation of Othello. In this version, Anthony Hopkins starred as Othello, Bob Hoskins played Iago, and Penelope Wilton was Desdemona.

A more recent version, filmed in 1995, starred Laurence Fishburne as Othello, with the great Shakespearian actor Kenneth

Othello stabs himself and dies kissing Desdemona. Iago is remanded into Cassio’s custody.

CHARACTERS Bianca Bianca is a courtesan, or prostitute, in Cyprus. She flirts with Cassio, who falls for her affections, at least physically. Bianca finds the handkerchief that Othello gave to Desdemona in Cassio’s bed and believes that Cassio has been cheating on her. Iago has planted the handkerchief, as his false


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In 1997, the Shakespeare Theatre in Washington, D.C., decided to put a different twist on this play, choosing Patrick Stewart (a white actor) to play Othello and Patrice Johnson (a black actress) to play Desdemona, with Ron Canada (a black actor) playing Iago. Most of the actors in this play were black except for a few servants, guards, and the prostitute Bianca.

Besides stage and movie productions, Othello has also been adapted into an opera by Giuseppe Verdi (first produced in 1887) and called Otello. A 1982 production featured Kiri Te Kanawa, Vladimir Atlantov, and Piero Cappuccilli. This production is available through HBO Home Video. Another version of the same opera features Placido Domingo, Katia Ricciarelli, and Justino Diaz. It was originally performed in 1976 and can be purchased from Music and Arts Programs online (at http:// musicandarts.com).

proof that Desdemona and Cassio are having an affair. Bianca exhibits jealousy though Cassio dismisses her as not a serious part of his life. Bianca represents the Other, living outside the accepted society. She satisfies Cassio’s physicals needs, but he appears to have no further attachment to her. It is Bianca, however, whom Cassio is talking about with Iago, when Othello believes Cassio is talking about Desdemona.

Brabantio Brabantio is a Venetian senator and Desdemona’s father. He charges Othello with bewitching his daughter. He wants Othello to go to jail, as if Othello has committed a crime. He reluctantly

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backs down in front of the duke, when the duke makes it clear that he thinks highly of Othello and needs Othello to defend Cyprus. Brabantio dies after Desdemona leaves for Cyprus with Othello. Brabantio is a somewhat blustering and self-important Venetian senator. At first he believes Othello is a friend, but when Othello marries Desdemona, Brabantio feels betrayed. He warns Othello that Desdemona has betrayed her father and could just as well betray her husband, foreshadowing further development in the play.

Michael Cassio Cassio is Othello’s lieutenant, who is promoted to that rank over Iago. Cassio is a young and inexperienced soldier, whose high position is much resented by Iago. This resentment sets off Iago’s plan of deception and revenge. Truly devoted to Othello, Cassio is extremely ashamed after being implicated in a drunken brawl during Othello’s wedding celebration on Cyprus. This causes Othello to dismiss him, stripping him of his newly won promotion. Iago tells Cassio to go to Desdemona to plead his case to Othello. Iago uses Cassio to set up a fictitious love affair between Cassio and Desdemona, which only really occurs in Iago’s mind. However, Iago is able to trick Othello, making him believe that Cassio is going to bed with Desdemona. In comparison to Iago, who is very sinister and rather crude, Cassio is a gentleman who truly loves Othello and is devoted to Othello’s wife. Cassio is also very honest. Cassio is caught in Iago’s deceptive web and is almost killed by Roderigo and Iago. In the end, Cassio is the victor, winning the governor’s position in Cyprus when Othello’s murder of Desdemona is discovered.

is unfaithful and is having an illicit affair with Cassio. Desdemona has traditionally been seen as the fair and gentle maiden full of innocence, commitment, and love. She stands in contrast with Iago’s villainy. Desdemona’s role is rather straightforward and uncomplicated. She does stand up to her father, but she is more passive with her husband. She cannot imagine ever having an illicit affair, though her maid Emilia tells Desdemona that many women do. Desdemona is fascinated with Othello, maybe to the point of blindness, as she does not understand his jealousy nor does she fight very hard for her own life. Rather, she almost completely gives in to Othello’s decree that she must die. She merely begs for one more day.

Duke of Venice The duke represents the head of the Venetian Council, the official authority in Venice. He has great respect for Othello as a public and military servant. His primary role within the play is to reconcile Othello and Brabantio. In doing this, the audience gains a glimpse of Othello, the noble and valiant general. The duke’s opinion of Othello counters Brabantio’s description of Othello as well as Iago’s. It is through the confrontation with the duke in front of his court that Othello delivers his finest speech in the play.

Emilia

The clown is one of Othello’s servants. Although the clown appears only in two short scenes, his appearances reflect and distort the action and words of the main plots: his puns on the word ‘‘lie’’ in act 3, scene 4, for example, anticipate Othello’s confusion of two meanings of that word in the next act

Emilia is Iago’s wife and Desdemona’s attendant. She gives Iago Desdemona’s handkerchief, which he had asked her to steal. After Othello murders his wife, Emilia reveals Desdemona’s fidelity and is mortally wounded by Iago for exposing the truth. A cynical, worldly woman, she is deeply attached to her mistress and distrustful of her husband. It is through Emilia that Desdemona receives another view of the world. Emilia’s and Iago’s marriage is used as a contrast to Desdemona’s and Othello’s. Iago berates Emilia in the play, never showing any positive emotions; whereas Desdemona and Othello reflect a sincere and deeply felt love, at least until Iago destroys that.

Desdemona

Graziano

Desdemona is the daughter of Brabantio. She elopes with Othello and accompanies him to Cyprus. After Cassio is discredited, she pleads for his reinstatement, an act that her husband interprets as proof of Iago’s insinuations that she

Graziano is Brabantio’s kinsman who accompanies Lodovico (Desdemona’s uncle) to Cyprus to deliver a letter to Othello. Amidst the chaos of the final scene, Graziano mentions that Desdemona’s father has died.

Clown

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Iago Iago is a soldier under Othello’s rule. When Othello promotes Cassio to lieutenant, overlooking Iago, Iago feels slighted and plots revenge against both men. Iago is a master manipulator, feeding ideas to people who eagerly follow them as if they were their own. He enlists Cassio in a drunken melee, even though Cassio knows that he should not be drinking on duty. Iago strings Roderigo along, having the man pay him for services never rendered. These minor characters are the playthings of Iago. Iago’s biggest feat, however, is when he brings the great warrior, Othello, down. Iago is one of Shakespeare’s most villainous creations. He is the closest character to a devil in Shakespeare’s repertoire. Much of this is due to Iago’s intelligence, his craftiness, and his confidence. He is quick-witted, unafraid of putting his ideas into motion, and unconcerned with the consequences. He has no morals. Iago lets it be known that he is doing everything he does for no one’s benefit but his own. He belittles his wife and still manages to get her to steal for him. He lies so much throughout the play, it is a wonder he remembers what story he has told to which character. Critics often debate Iago’s motives. What drives him to act as he does? Is it merely to attain the rank of lieutenant? Is he jealous of Othello? Does he lust for Desdemona? Or is he just hungry for power. Does he admire his own ability to manipulate, and then enjoy watching the consequences? Some people believe Iago is simply, but purely, evil, doing immoral things merely to be bad. There was a time when actors wanted to play Othello more than they did Iago. But over time, the character of Iago has been looked at in more depth, and actors crave both roles, some taking turns, switching from Othello to Iago. Some critics have even said that Iago is more complex than Othello.

Lodovico Lodovico is Desdemona’s uncle. He acts as a messenger from Venice to Cyprus. He arrives in Cyprus in act 4 with letters announcing that Othello has been replaced by Cassio as governor. He is shocked when he sees Othello slap Desdemona and questions Iago about Othello’s mental state.


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Laurence Fishburne as Othello in a scene from the 1995 film Othello (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

Montano Montano is the governor of Cyprus before Othello arrives. He appears in the beginning of act 3 and is fearful for Othello’s life as a storm rages off the shores of Cyprus. He is also fearful that Othello’s boats might have sunk, thus leaving the island vulnerable to the Turks’ attack.

Othello Othello is the protagonist of the play. He is referred to as the Moor, the commander of Venice’s armed forces. His victories at war give him hero status, making him a favorite of many of the Venetians, including Brabantio and Desdemona. He secretly weds Desdemona, provoking Brabantio’s anger. He also inflames Iago’s anger by promoting Cassio to the rank of lieutenant, a position that Iago covets. Both Iago and Roderigo despise Othello, though Othello is not aware of this. Othello believes that Iago is an honest man and easily becomes entrapped in Iago’s treacherous schemes.

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Othello is awarded the governorship of Cyprus when he (and a big storm) squelch the Turkish navy’s attempts to land in Cyprus and take over. It is while in Cyprus that Iago infects Othello with suspicions that Desdemona is unfaithful. Jealousy overtakes Othello’s logic. He almost goes mad with the thought of Desdemona going to bed with Cassio. The only way out of his jealous fits, Othello believes, is murder. He orders Cassio’s murder and then takes Desdemona’s life. Upon hearing that Desdemona was actually innocent, Othello kills himself. Critics have argued for many years about whether Othello is truly a heroic figure with a tragic flaw or simply an egotistical, self-serving man. Is Othello blinded by his emotional fury or by his myopic vision of the people around him because he is so engrossed in images of himself. How did he fall so far, so quickly? This play is filled with contrasts, especially between the various characters. Othello, however, presents a drastic contrast in and of himself. He is a hero on the battlefield—that is apparent. He has also proven himself a great leader. His love for Desdemona has been defined as one of the best ever dramatized. And yet he is so easily manipulated by Iago. His love gave him strength but it also made him vulnerable.

Roderigo Roderigo is the rejected suitor of Desdemona. He becomes Iago’s pawn, wounds and is wounded by Cassio in an unsuccessful attempt to murder the lieutenant, and then is finally killed by Iago to stop Roderigo from revealing Iago’s deceptions. Roderigo is paying Iago to help him win Desdemona. He appears unable to think for himself and is easily controlled by Iago. Roderigo is either frustrated or inspired by Iago, and a few times he is so desperate he wants to kill himself. In the end he agrees to help Iago kill Cassio after Iago points out that Cassio is another potential rival for Desdemona.

THEMES Jealousy and Mistrust Perhaps the predominant impression created by Shakespeare’s play Othello is that of the terrible destructiveness of jealousy. Although the main focus of the play is on the protagonist, Othello, many characters are infected with this

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destructive emotion, making jealousy the major theme that runs through this drama. Through watching this play, audiences also come to realize the relationship between jealousy and a lack of trust. Jealousy destroys Othello, a once proud and honored military and political leader. Suspicions that his wife, Desdemona, is having an affair racks Othello’s brain to the point of epileptic fits, to a complete distortion of reality, and, ultimately, to murder and suicide. Shakespeare demonstrates how powerless a person can become when a series of distorted thoughts is allowed to infect the mind. Although tremendously misguided into his jealous fit through the efforts of the villainous Iago, Othello is unable to trust in his love for Desdemona and to defy the insinuations of Iago. There is a weakness in Othello, Shakespeare contends, that allows the jealousy to first show its ugly head and then to take over Othello’s mind. It is that weakness that makes Othello so easy for Iago to manipulate. Othello does not trust Desdemona, maybe does not trust any woman who makes him feel so vulnerable because of his love. Or maybe Othello does not trust himself. Foolishly, Othello trusts Iago more than any one, despite the fact that Iago is the least trustworthy character in this play. Jealousy makes a person blind to the truth, this play announces. Othello questions Emilia and Desdemona but refuses to listen to their words—he refuses to trust them. He does not think to confront Cassio, who could tell Othello how he came upon Desdemona’s handkerchief, the only so-called proof that Iago presents to confirm Desdemona and Cassio are having an illicit affair. It is not until Desdemona tells Othello to ask Cassio for his side of the story that the thought enters Othello’s mind. By then it is too late because Othello believes that Cassio has been killed. All of this demonstrates that Othello has forgotten how to think rationally. His emotions have created a mental storm that tosses him about from one wild thought to another, none of which are logical. The greeneyed monster, as Shakespeare has portrayed jealousy, has invaded Othello’s mind just as assuredly as an alien might invade a human body in some modern science fiction tale. Similarly, jealousy has turned Othello into a murderous beast. Othello berates Desdemona, slaps her in front of dignitaries visiting from

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Venice, and then after a last kiss, Othello watches Desdemona take her final breath. It is jealousy and nothing else that topples Othello from the high pedestal upon which he once stood and strips him of his ultimate pleasure in life, his dignity, his reputation, and, finally, his life. The antagonist, Iago, is also infected with jealousy. However, Iago seems to use the greeneyed monster to his benefit. Jealousy spurs Iago to think more clearly, and to scheme more clever—though devilish—plots. Jealousy inspires Iago’s ambition. Iago is jealous of Cassio, not so much for Cassio himself but for Cassio’s position. Iago wants to be the right-hand man to Othello, though he has little respect or fondness for the general. Shakespeare demonstrates, however, that jealousy is not to be trusted. By the end of the play, Iago begins to realize this. He has forgotten that jealousy can make a person blind. In Iago’s case, he forgets that people who are aware of his scheme can talk and can expose him. Iago’s jealousy also leads him to murder. He tries to kill Cassio, first, but fails. Then he kills Roderigo to silence him. Finally, Iago kills Emilia, his wife, for confessing that she was the one who gave Desdemona’s handkerchief to him, implicating Iago in the plot to smear both Desdemona’s and Cassio’s reputations. Iago is also blinded by jealousy in that he forgets to calculate the consequences of his actions, including his own imprisonment. In many ways Iago trusts no one. He is smart enough to manipulate everyone, turning their minds to thoughts he wants them to have. The only person he comes close to trusting is Roderigo, one of the biggest fools in this play. Iago tells Roderigo parts of his scheme. This makes Iago vulnerable to Roderigo. The only person that Iago appears to fully trust is himself, which turns out to be his downfall. Roderigo is also driven by jealousy. He follows along with Iago’s plan because he wants to satisfy his jealousy through revenge. He wants Desdemona and will have her one way or the other as if she were a fruit he could pick from a tree. He will put her within his grasp by any means. But Roderigo’s only means available is money, which he gives to Iago, trusting Iago is smart enough to buy the tasty Desdemona. Roderigo has no trust in himself and would rather kill himself than not have Desdemona. Roderigo both trusts and mistrusts Iago. But


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he has no choice but to do whatever Iago tells him; at least until the end of the play.

Manipulation Iago’s manipulation of Othello, if it were not so evil, could be seen as a magnificent accomplishment. Iago is so clever, quick, and thorough in his scheme one cannot help but admit his intelligence. He is the only one who recognizes Othello’s weakness and single-handedly brings the great Othello down. Othello is not the only one who comes under Iago’s manipulative spell. Emilia, Iago’s wife, obeys him because he taunts her with promised favors. Until the end, Emilia never suspects the harm her husband is brewing. Iago also manipulates Brabantio, twisting Desdemona’s father’s emotions until Brabantio is ready to kill Othello, or at least send Othello to jail. In addition, Iago manipulates Roderigo, who plays a very needy simpleton that almost anyone could persuade. Through Iago’s manipulation, Shakespeare points out how vulnerable people can be. By stirring their emotions, a wickedly smart person can manipulate other people to do almost anything he or she wants them to do. The play might be said to serve as a warning to guard one’s heart and head against the manipulations of a person like Iago, a man with a brilliant mind gone bad.

The Other and Racism The term referred to as the Other is often used in sociological studies to indicate people in a particular society who do not belong to the predominant majority. An example of the Other in the United States would be women, as well as all people of color, since Caucasian men with European roots make up the dominant ruling group. In Shakespeare’s drama Othello, the protagonist, is considered the Other. Othello is neither a Venetian nor a member of the dominant group living in Cyprus. In both cultures, Othello is an outsider. Othello is a Moor, originally from North Africa. He is possibly (though Shakespeare does not make this completely clear) a black man, a Muslim, or maybe an Arab. What is known is that Othello comes from somewhere other than where he is currently living and is, therefore, a foreigner, a member of a very small minority. Attitudes of local citizens toward people who might be classified as the Other often fall

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into a range of emotions. Some people, such as Iago in Shakespeare’s play, do not like outsiders. This could be due to fear of the unknown traits that a stranger might possess. The dominant class of a society might also be jealous of an outsider because that person might exhibit strengths that come across as unusual and unattainable by the local majority group. The dominant class might also feel threatened by people who belong in a minority group because they do not understand them. On the other end of emotions, people in the dominant class might be in awe of someone whom they consider the Other. They may venerate someone who is not like them, believing this so-called Other to be exotic and maybe even godlike. This has happened in Native American and Polynesian cultures when they first encountered white people arriving in ships, brandishing guns, bringing modes of transportation and weapons that the local culture had never before imagined. In Othello, the duke looks upon Othello as the great warrior, the valiant man who will protect Venice and Cyprus. The duke is impressed with Othello’s battle victories. It is possible that because the duke is so taken by Othello (and his qualities of Otherness), that he appoints Othello to govern Cyprus. The duke might have seen Othello as a symbol of strength and been blind to Othello’s weaknesses because the duke was not looking at Othello as a man or a contemporary but rather as an exotic entity who lived in a realm somewhat elevated above the common Venetian. Because Othello was later so overcome by jealousy, he must have had a serious character flaw—one that the duke might have noticed in someone of his own kind but either overlooked or failed to see in Othello because the duke only noticed Othello’s differences. Desdemona also seems to be taken by Othello; she might not have been so influenced by another man of her own culture. She is impressed with Othello’s stories about his victories, which help her to create an image of the man, rather than seeing the man himself. Had she probed deeper into Othello’s personality, she might have gotten to know him better and been forewarned of his insecurities. Because she was so enthralled by Othello’s Otherness, Desdemona could not imagine, for example, that Othello could ever be so weak as to become jealous. She might have saved her marriage, or at least her life, if she had seen Othello more realistically.

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Iago and Roderigo, however, are not so blinded. Their impressions take another route. They curse Othello and call him names. Their opinions of the Other lead them to embrace racism, a negative reaction to people who do not belong to the dominant culture. Iago, in particular, demeans Othello, referring to him as an animal, a ‘‘black ram.’’ He also calls Othello a devil. Brabantio also stoops to racist reactions. There was a time when Brabantio was in awe of Othello, like the duke was. But this was before Brabantio discovers that his daughter, Desdemona, is involved with Othello. Brabantio goes from being impressed with Othello to believing that Othello has drugged and bewitched Desdemona. Brabantio cannot think of another reason why Desdemona would fall for someone who belongs outside the class of people to which they belong. Once Othello touches Desdemona, Brabantio looks upon Othello as a wild, bewitching Other and no longer as a great warrior. Othello is not the only one who is cast as the Other. Women are also placed in this realm. Iago makes insulting comments to Desdemona and Emilia, describing, first his wife and then women in general, as being noisy and worthless except in bed. There is no way that Iago can look upon women as equals. Even Othello, in the throes of his jealous rage, curses women as if they did not belong to the same human race as he does. And often gentle Cassio relegates Bianca to a position not only beneath him but below other women, using her to satisfy his needs then casting her aside when he tires of her, treating her as a servant more than as a lover. One could read into Bianca’s role the summation of Shakespeare’s theme of the Other. Bianca will never be accepted into the society because she does not play by the accepted society’s rules. She will remain forever on the fringes, the outsider. She is used to benefit that society and is quickly forgotten or ignored at the first sign of weakness or exposure, and then told that she is no longer needed because she does not fit in.

Deception Honesty is mentioned several times in this play. One character states that another character is honest, thus establishing a high standard for that character and creating trust in the relationships that are developed. Othello believes that Iago is an honest man, for instance, and

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Despite the many allusions to honesty, deception runs rampant in Othello. It is the contrast between the higher principle of honesty and the lower practice of deception that furthers the drama in this play. The clash between the two concepts drives the plot and adds tension.


Research the history of the relationship between the Turkish Empire and the Republic of Venice. Create a timeline of their clashes and prepare a presentation for your class of the wars, the territory fought over, and the results. Also provide a background, from both points of view (Turkish and Venetian), of the two cultures and the motivations behind those conflicts.

Venice was once the richest city in Europe. How did Venice gather its wealth? How did the city spend it? Who were the wealthiest families? And where did this wealth come from? Look into the economy of Venice in the fourteenth and fifteen centuries. Write out a report, supported by statistics, about Venice at the height of its prosperity.

Write a poem to Desdemona from Othello. The setting is after Desdemona’s death and after Othello has discovered Iago’s scheme. Pretend that Othello is in jail, awaiting his own death sentence. What would Othello want to tell Desdemona before he dies?

Critics have argued that, although Iago had some reasons for his dastardly deeds, there is nothing to explain why he was so evil. Pretend you are Iago’s defense lawyer. Come up with reasons why he should not be hanged, even if you can find no proof from the lines in the play and have to manufacture your reasons. Pretend your class is the jury and present your case.

therefore listens to everything that Iago tells him without making much effort to evaluate what he hears. Iago states that Cassio is honest, but he does so for an entirely different reason. By mentioning honesty, Iago is really trying to plant a doubt in Othello’s mind, hinting that maybe this evaluation of Cassio might not be quite true. Desdemona’s uncle, Lodovico, claims that Desdemona is an honest woman, thus throwing suspicion on Othello’s state of mind.


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It is interesting to note that if the audience was not aware of the deception going on in the play, if the audience were kept in the dark as are Desdemona and Othello (and most of the other characters), the play would not be quite as interesting or exciting. Shakespeare allows the audience to hear Iago’s thoughts, so they can see how deceptive Iago is. When Iago tells Othello that he loves him, for example, the audience knows, without a doubt, that Iago is lying. This makes Iago appear more treacherous and makes the audience become involved in the play to the point of wanting to warn Othello to beware. In contrast, by the time most of the characters become aware of all the deception in this play, it is too late. They have all become pawns and have fallen victim to the most deceptive man, Iago. Although Iago is a master of deception, he does not get away with it in the end. Shakespeare’s play demonstrates that, although deception might further a person’s plan to a certain point, lying to gain what a person wants is evil and carries with it serious punishment.

STYLE Imagery Shakespeare often uses imagery in Othello to explain a character’s emotion without describing that emotion in detail. In this play, the author uses animal imagery, in particular, as well as other elements occurring in the natural world. For example, in act 1, Iago describes Othello as a black ram, providing the audience not only with a color but the notion of Othello being the odd man out, such as the black sheep in the midst of a white woolly flock. The word ram also carries sexual overtones; and this is very apparent in the complete statement of Iago’s when he says: ‘‘an old black ram / Is tupping your white ewe.’’ Here Iago is insinuating that Othello is having sex with Desdemona. In other words, if Othello is the black ram, then Desdemona must be the white ewe (a female sheep). The use of animal imagery in this instance also brings out the banality of the sex act, as if the two (Othello

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and Desdemona) were merely having sex without any feelings of love attached to it. They, and especially Othello, are like animals, given over to the base instincts of the body. Also in act 1, Iago refers to a ‘‘knee-crooking knave,’’ who ‘‘Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass.’’ Everyone knows (at least in Shakespeare’s time they did) that an ass (a donkey) is a work animal without much esteem or intelligence. Iago uses this image to explain that he does not want to be at the beck and call of Othello, merely because Othello is his superior. If Iago were to give in to all of Othello’s orders, then Iago would be no better than an ‘‘ass,’’ a dumb animal that does what it is told with little or no reward. Without having to put this all into words, Shakespeare allows the imagery to speak for him. Later in the same act, Iago compares Othello to a horse. Iago is trying to impress on Brabantio that someone unworthy of his daughter is trying to impregnate her. Iago demeans Othello through several lines of imagery, referring not only to Othello as a ‘‘Barbary horse,’’ but taking the imagery even further: ‘‘you’ll have your nephews neigh to you, you’ll / have coursers for cousins and gennets for germans.’’ Shakespeare’s audiences would have recognized all these images. A Barbary horse is a horse that comes from the Barbary Coast, which is the north coast of Africa, thus the audience would have known this was an allusion to Othello. A courser is a race horse; and gennets are Spanish horses, with the word ‘‘germans’’ standing for ‘‘family.’’ In other words, if Brabantio allows Othello to get Desdemona pregnant, Brabantio will end up with a family of offspring that are less than human. This image would certainly make a deep impression on Brabantio. The image of Brabantio’s daughter giving birth to horses would turn any father’s stomach. It is through images such as these that Shakespeare excites his audiences. To have Iago merely state that Othello is a bad man or an unfit husband is too vague a statement. These words are too abstract. Shakespeare does not want his audience to be free to create their own impressions. Instead he gives them very specific pictures, imbued with emotions, with which to fill their minds.

of actions that occur in a play (or novel) that are interlinked with the main plot but are not as important. For example, in the movie Superman, the relationship that develops between Superman and Lois Lane would be considered a subplot. Many of Shakespeare’s plays have subplots. But Shakespeare did not include one in Othello. This makes the scheming of Iago and the emotional turmoil of Othello incredibly focused. The audience has little more to think about except how evil is Iago and how vulnerable is Othello. Subplots are often used to add complexity to a drama. Shakespeare must have realized that the emotional turmoil in Othello added as much complexity as this drama could stand.

Asides Shakespeare uses asides in his plays to allow the audience a glimpse into the mind or thoughts of his characters. By using an aside, it is as if a character is talking to him- or herself out loud. Sometimes actors reciting asides look at the audience, as if the actor is aware that the audience is watching and wants to share some information with them. Asides are usually said when only one character is on the stage, or when a character has moved to the side of the stage away from the other characters, thus keeping whatever is said a secret. Less often, asides are shared between two characters, with the audience, of course, listening in. In Othello, Iago uses asides a lot, almost as if he cannot keep his own mischief secretly locked up inside of him. He must tell someone and let someone know how clever he is. For example, in act 1, scene 3, right after Roderigo leaves, Iago calls Roderigo a fool in an aside. Iago says: ‘‘Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.’’ It is during this aside that Iago confesses his hatred for Othello. In some ways, asides can be used as a narrator is used in a novel. Asides can fill in information that the author wants the audience to know, details that are not included in dialog. Asides are also very important in drawing the audience into the drama. If the audience shares a secret, they feel a part of the scheme that is being hatched on stage.

Lack of Subplot

Symbol

Othello is unique among Shakespeare’s plays because it lacks a subplot. A subplot is a series

The handkerchief used in Othello is a symbol, standing for different things at various times in

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this play. For Othello, the handkerchief is a symbol of his love. When he was given it, he was told it was charged with magic. In some ways, the handkerchief is something like a wedding ring, given to Othello’s bride as a sign of his commitment. When Desdemona misplaces the handkerchief, it becomes a prop that Iago will use to cement his insinuations that Desdemona and Cassio are having an affair. When Cassio discovers it, the handkerchief becomes a special trinket that he wants duplicated. He uses the handkerchief to belittle Bianca. However, when Othello sees Cassio with the handkerchief, the small piece of cloth becomes the proof that Desdemona has been unfaithful. The handkerchief then becomes the symbol of the mortal seal of Desdemona’s fate. The handkerchief also seals Iago’s fate when Emilia sees it and exposes her husband’s scheme. The power of this symbol is that it raises the audience’s attention as well as the tension in the play. The audience does not want Emilia to give the handkerchief to Iago. They do not want Cassio to find it. They do not want Othello to see it in Cassio’s hands. When the audience watches Othello react to the presence of the handkerchief after it has been lost, they know that Othello will not stop until he has done harm to Desdemona. The symbol, in this case, almost takes on a role of another character. It grabs the audience’s imagination and keeps their eyes glued to the stage. When will the handkerchief next appear, the audience wonders. Symbols, such as the blue feather in the cartoon story of Dumbo, which gives the baby circus elephant the extra confidence it needs to fly, is a tool that authors use to emphasize the emotional content of the play (movie, novel, etc.). A symbol stands for something else. In the case of the handkerchief, it stands for several things, things that cannot be seen. Love, fidelity, and commitment are abstractions. They are concepts that can only be expressed in words. Shakespeare uses the handkerchief because it is visible, something tangible. The audience can watch as the handkerchief changes hands, changes meaning, and finally changes the directions of the characters’ lives.

Conflict Every good writer knows that conflict is what makes the story interesting. Readers become bored with a story if there is no conflict. It is


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through conflict that characters either are bolstered in their confidence, or they completely fall apart. Shakespeare is a master at creating conflict in his plays. Conflict requires a character to struggle with something. If it is an external conflict, than the protagonist might struggle with another character or some other external element such as nature. If the conflict is internal, than the protagonist is challenged by something inside of him- or herself. In this play, although there are brief bouts of external conflict—the unseen battle between Turkish and Venetian ships; the sword fights or brawls in the streets among Othello’s men—most of the conflict is internal, or psychological. The major conflict is the battle that goes on inside Othello’s head. Othello must come to terms with his jealousy, which pulls him away from another strong emotion, his love for Desdemona. The plot and the action of the play revolve around how Iago is going to create that conflict and then how Othello is going to deal with it. When Othello confronts Desdemona, the conflict is said to be interpersonal. Othello must struggle with Desdemona as he tries to understand what has happened and then decide whom he is going to believe, Desdemona or Iago. Othello’s brief conflict with Brabantio in the beginning of the play is also interpersonal. That conflict is used to define Othello’s character for the good, demonstrating how eloquent Othello is and how well he is accepted and honored in the Venetian council. Othello faces this conflict quite eloquently. His conflict with Desdemona, however, points out Othello’s weaknesses. At the end of the play, Othello has a different kind of conflict, this time a conflict with his own actions. He has murdered the woman he loves and learns that he did so through a haze of misinformation and hate. It is too late to change his actions. Just as he succumbs in the conflict with his jealousy, Othello also loses this final conflict.

Prose versus Poetry Shakespeare’s plays are written both in prose and in poetry. He uses both forms to express different feelings in his plays. For example, when Othello stands before the Venetian council to explain his love for Desdemona and rebut Brabantio’s claims that he has stolen Desdemona, Shakespeare writes Othello’s monologue

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in a poetic form. That form is blank verse— unrhymed lines of ten syllables set in the pattern of iambic pentameter, a series of unstressed and stressed syllables. However, as Othello’s jealousy takes over his mind, he does not always speak through poetic language and patterns. He begins talking in prose. It is as if Shakespeare is signaling through the use of prose, in these instances, that Othello is losing his composure, his elegance, as well as his rational state of mind. For example, in act 4, scene 1, Othello is desperately trying to grasp the facts. He is talking with Iago, who is implying that Desdemona has been unfaithful. The news hits Othello hard, and just before he falls into an epileptic fit, Othello speaks lines that have no poetry. He almost babbles.

Venice

Shakespeare also uses prose when Cassio speaks to Bianca, probably pointing out the ignoble nature of their relationship. Roderigo often talks in prose. This might be used to suggest his lack of intelligence. Whereas Desdemona almost always speaks lines written like poems.

By the fourteenth century, Venice dominated the trade of the Adriatic Sea and had many colonies in the Middle East. During the fifteenth century, the Venetians went to battle with the Ottoman Turks several times, as well as with several republics that today make up modern-day Italy, such as Milan and Florence. Toward the end of the fifteenth century, Venice lost a great battle to the Turks and had to concede much of its previously conquered territories. In 1489, Venice received the island of Cyprus from Caterina Cornaro, who was born in Venice and was the queen of Cyprus due to the untimely death of her husband and son. She was forced by the Republic of Venice to abdicate her throne; that was how Venice came to rule Cyprus.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Moors Historians have trouble pinpointing exactly who the Moors were. What is suspected is that the Moors were a people, possibly of Berber and Arab descent, living in northern Africa. What is known is that in the eight century, people called Moors conquered the Iberian Peninsula, which today contains both Spain and Portugal. The Moors brought the Islamic religion to the Iberian Peninsula, which until then had been a Christianized area. The Moors ruled most, and later only parts, of the peninsula for seven centuries. They were eventually driven out of their last stronghold in southern Spain in the year 1492, a date that corresponds to Columbus’s sailing to the New World. The origin of the word Moor has been traced to Greek as well as Latin words that translate as ‘‘black’’ or ‘‘very dark.’’ Some sources refer to Moors as being Berbers, who, for the most part, were light skinned and blue-eyed. Other sources state that the term Moor was used to designate people of the Muslim faith. The names Morocco and Mauritania are said to be derivatives of the word Moor.

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Venice sits in the middle of the Venetian Lagoon, surrounded by water and marshes in northeast Italy at the head of the Adriatic Sea. This was an ancient, strategic naval position; by the twelfth century, Venice had a strong navy and enjoyed its status as a major trade center between Europe, the Byzantine Empire and Muslim countries to the east. By the thirteenth century, Venice was the richest city in Europe. The most prosperous Venetian families ruled the Great Council, which was the political body that governed the city, with a duke as its head. Although the republics that flanked Venice were vehemently Christian, often persecuting those who did not practice this religion, Venice was known for its religious tolerance.

Cyprus Cyprus is the third largest island in the Mediterranean Sea and lies off the southern coast of Turkey. The history of the island is very bloody, with battles fought for centuries to determine who would rule this island country. The island had long been occupied by Greeks, but through the centuries was conquered by other countries, including the Venetian Republic and, in the sixteenth century, Turkey. Today Cyprus is divided into a Turkish portion and a Greek portion. In between these two parts is a sort of no-man’s-land, administered by the United Nations to keep the peace. Egyptians, Greeks, Persians, and Romans took their turns governing this island in the first thousands years B . C . E . In the first centuries C . E ., Cyprus was controlled by the Byzantine

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Aidan McArdle as Roderigo and Richard McCabe as Iago in Act I, scene i at the Barbican Theatre, London, 2000 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Empire, the Islamic Empire, British, and German conquerors, until Venetian officials took over for almost one hundred years beginning in 1489. The Venetian rule ended when the Ottoman Empire, after several attempts, defeated Venice’s armies in 1571. The Turks maintained control for several hundred years until they were forced to sign over the island to the British. Cyprus won its independence in 1960. However, since that time until the present day, the Greek communities on the island have not gotten along with their neighbors, the Cyprus citizens of Turkish descent. That is why, today, the island is still divided.

Aspects of the Elizabethan Theatre The development of theatres in England captured the imagination of the country’s citizens and grew rapidly during Shakespeare’s life. Companies of actors were often sponsored by noblemen and sometimes played out of their estates. Smaller troupes traveled throughout the countryside,


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sometimes performing on a wheeled platform that was pulled from one small township to another. Other groups of actors performed in inns, as the innkeepers were well aware of the money they could make from the audience’s needs for drink and food. Other troupes acted out their dramas at local festivals. There was often great dispute concerning the presence of actors and their audiences. Officials complained that the gathering of these people to perform or to watch plays was a good way to spread disease, as many actors were called vagabonds (or tramps) who went from town to town begging for money and were considered likely to carry communicable diseases. Many of the plays that were performed contained what the upper classes of people defined as lewd material, such as dramas that alluded to sexual intercourse. Plays written by Shakespeare also included this material; critics believe these scenes were written for the common folk, to keep them entertained. Drunken brawls were also a

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1400s: The Republic of Venice takes control of Cyprus, the third largest of the islands in the Mediterranean Sea.

Today: Some scientists classify people as Moors based on language. They claim that people who speak the Hassaniya dialect of Arabic and live mainly in the western Sahara Desert and the Islamic Republic of Mauritania are Moors. In the Spanish language, the term Moors corresponds to any one of the Muslim faith. Derivatives of the word Moor in Latin mean ‘‘black.’’

1600s: The Ottoman Empire (also called the Empire of Turkey) governs the island of Cyprus. Today: After years under British control, Cyprus demands independence. However, Cyprus is made up of Greek and Turkish residents, who continue to fight for control. Today, the island is divided into four main sections: in the south, the Republic of Cyprus; the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus; the United Nations controlled Green Line Section dividing the north from the south; and the British Base Areas.

1400s: Venice maintains a naval prominence in the Mediterranean waters, capturing Corfu, the Dalmatian Coast, Zante, and finally Cyprus. Then Venice begins to acquire more land on the mainland of the Adriatic Sea.

1400s: After 700 years of ruling the Iberian Peninsula, the Moors are forced to leave.

1600s: Its political and maritime powers decline, but Venice retains its reputation as a haven for and promoter of the arts.

1600s: As Spanish ships claim lands farther to the east, they come upon Muslim people in the Philippines and refer to them as Moors.

Today: Despite the corrosion of the ancient buildings by the polluted waters that stream through the city, Venice has become one of Italy’s most popular tourist destinations.

frequent occurrence among the audience members, and merchants often complained that their workers too often played hooky so they could watch the plays, thus costing the merchants money. Such complaints were the basis for having playhouses banned from being built inside the city limits of London. So acting troupes displayed their art along the boundaries of the town, across the River Thames, away from the reach of the Corporation of London (the municipal government of the city) but within easy reach of the audiences.

London was built in Shoreditch in 1576, called simply, The Theatre. Other theaters followed. The best known of these early theaters were: The Curtain, built in 1577; The Rose, built in 1587; the theater that Shakespeare made so popular, The Globe, built in 1599; and The Hope, built in 1613. Many of these theaters were built in the rougher parts of town. For example, The Rose Theatre was built next to a prison, with brothels and bear-baiting arenas all around. Some of these theaters were big enough to hold as many as three thousand people.

In 1572, strolling acting groups were banned completely. Queen Elizabeth I, however, eventually permitted four noblemen to establish and support their own theater companies. For the most part, the noblemen financed plays that were held on permanent stages that were built in inns. The first proper theater in the area of

Most of these early theaters did not have roofs, except for over small portions of the stage and a tiered group of expensive seats. People who could not afford a seat stood in an open-air amphitheater called a pit, which was found at the front of the stage. The Globe, which housed Shakespeare’s company of actors,

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called The Lord Chamberlain’s Men, or later, The King’s Men, was built to these typical specifications. An example of a completely roofed theater, popular with the gentry and more expensive to attend, was the Blackfriars Theatre. The land on which the Blackfriars Theatre was built was once owned by a group of Catholic, Dominican monks (hence the name), thus the land was considered exempt from city governance. Shakespeare’s plays were often played on this stage; Othello was one of the plays that was performed here. Although no effort or money was typically put into scenery during Shakespeare’s time, a lot of attention and investment did go into the costumes and became an acting group’s most important possessions. Through costume and makeup, young boys were able to conceal their masculinity and play the roles of women, such as Desdemona.

Elizabethan Women Why is the character of Desdemona so passive about losing her life? Why is Emilia so compliant with her husband? Part of the reason for this might have had something to do with the role of women in Elizabethan England. Elizabethan women were not allowed to go to school, for one thing, although they were allowed to study under a private tutor. Neither did Elizabethan women have the right to vote. For the most part, these sixteenth-century women stayed home, had children, and helped to raise them. The only professions open to women were domestic ones, such as cooks, housekeepers, and maids. A few women worked in the arts, but they were not allowed on stage. The husband was seen as the head of the family, but this did not give him the right to abuse his wife. A husband could rebuke his wife, but hitting her was considered socially improper, with extensive abuse being illegal. But the general overall consensus of the time was that women were to obey their husbands at all times because men knew more than women. This, of course, caused a bit of a controversy with the strong Queen Elizabeth I at the helm. Still, members of the royal families were allowed more leeway in their behavior than ordinary women.


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CRITICAL OVERVIEW Othello was first produced in 1604. Throughout the next twenty years or so, the play was staged on an almost continual basis. By some historic accounts, it was in the 1630s, that one of the first roles played by a female on England’s professional stage was that of Othello’s Desdemona. The first real African-American person to play the title role of Othello was Ira Aldridge. Prior to this, white actors used ‘‘blackface,’’ a type of makeup, when playing African-American roles. For almost forty years, from 1826 until 1865, Aldridge continued to act out this role all over Europe but not in the United States, the country of his birth. In 1865, while playing Othello and in the midst of the fourth act of the play, Aldridge died on stage. It would not be until 1943 that an African-American man, Paul Robeson, played Othello in the United States. Although the play was a Broadway success, it displeased segregationists. However, according to Michael Neill, in his essay ‘‘Othello and Race,’’ one critic was so moved by the power of Robeson’s performance that after seeing Robeson play the role of Othello, he stated ‘‘that ‘no white man should ever dare play the part again.’’’ Although Othello has been a major hit with audiences, mostly due to the dramatic plot, some critics have not responded well to the play. For example, George Bernard Shaw (1856–1950), himself a dramatist, wrote in 1907 that he thought Othello was ‘‘pure melodrama.’’ As recorded in A Casebook on Othello, Shaw’s essay, ‘‘Othello: Pure Melodrama,’’ goes on to state that ‘‘There is not a touch of character in it that goes below the skin; and the fitful attempts to make Iago something better than a melodramatic villain only make a hopeless mess of him and his motives.’’ However, even Shaw could not help but praise Shakespeare’s gift of words. Shaw continued by stating that despite these flaws, the play ‘‘remains magnificent by the volume of its passion and the splendor of its word-music, which sweep the scenes up to a plane on which sense is drowned in sound. The words do not convey ideas: they are streaming ensigns and tossing branches to make the tempest of passion visible.’’ Over the production history of this play, critics have argued which role, Othello’s or Iago’s, was the most dramatic. Actors have switched from one role to the other, trying the

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character’s voice on, trying to decide the same thing. Probably in no other play of Shakespeare’s is it so difficult to decide which role dominates the other. In his essay, ‘‘The Noble Othello,’’ A. C. Bradley chose to focus on Othello, whom he calls the ‘‘greatest poet of them all,’’ referring to the strong lines that Shakespeare wrote for this character. Despite Othello’s linguistic abilities and his confidence in his speech, Othello has many dangers to face. He is noble but vulnerable. Bradley wrote. ‘‘Othello’s mind, for all its poetry, is very simple. He is not observant. His nature tends outward. He is quite free from introspection, and is not given to reflection. Emotion excites his imagination, but it confuses and dulls his intellect.’’ Other reasons for Othello’s vulnerability, according to Bradley, are that ‘‘his trust, where he trusts, is absolute. Hesitation is almost impossible in him. He is extremely self-reliant, and decides and acts instantaneously.’’

Othello is an underling not because he fails to be a ‘master of his fate’ but because he is human. Faced by the intensity of total commitment, absolute love, men must be underlings because they are not gods, because they are vulnerable, they mistake, rage, fall down, become comic grotesques, as Othello does when he tries to listen in on Cassio and Iago talking about Bianca. Under such circumstances love for the best of men can be no more than a commitment to the fallible. However heroic the commitment, however true the perception of an ineffaceable goodness, the rot cannot be stopped nor the wrong step redirected. For the quality of faith in another, which is the highest expression of love, is necessarily tragic when the faith is fastened to a frail and changeable object, alias a human being. Othello is simultaneously the most glamorous of Shakespeare’s heroes and the most vulnerable; and the simultaneous presence of these two opposed qualities is not used to mark a division in Othello’s nature . . . but rather a necessary condition of the heroic presence.

Elmer Edgar Stoll, writing in his essay ‘‘Othello: Tragedy of Effect,’’ praises Shakespeare for his creation of the protagonist Othello. Stoll states that Othello is made the grandest and noblest of Shakespeare’s lovers; and it is only through Iago’s overwhelming reputation for honesty and sagacity, the impenetrableness of his mask together with the potency of his seductive acts, that he [Othello] is led astray and succumbs. ‘‘For the highest tragic effect it is the great and good man that succumbs.’’ T. S. Eliot in his essay, ‘‘The Hero Cheering Himself Up,’’ also praises Shakespeare by examining Othello’s last speech of the play. The speech, Eliot states, exposes Othello’s lack of humility, through Shakespeare’s great ability to understand human nature. ‘‘What Othello seems to me to be doing in making this speech is cheering himself up. He is endeavouring to escape reality, he has ceased to think about Desdemona, and is thinking about himself. Humility is the most difficult of all virtues to achieve; nothing dies harder than the desire to think well of oneself.’’ Eliot then concludes: ‘‘I do not believe that any writer has ever exposed this bovarysme, the human will to see things as they are not, more clearly than Shakespeare.’’

Anthony Davies, writing a historic background of the play for the book The Oxford Companion to Shakespeare, wrote that ‘‘Samuel Johnson and William Hazlitt alike praised the rich contrasts between its [the play’s] characters and the skill of its design.’’ Davies continued: ‘‘Although some 19th-century Americans . . . found the play’s depiction of interracial marriage objectionable . . . most 19th-century critics found Othello convincingly noble.’’

G. K. Hunter found the character of Othello very interesting and Shakespeare’s creation very dramatic and true to life. In his essay ‘‘Shakespeare and the Traditions of Tragedy,’’ Hunter described Othello in this way:

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David Bevington, writing in his essay ‘‘Shakespeare the Man,’’ used the play to reflect on Shakespeare himself. Bevington wrote, We are safe in saying only that a play like Othello must reveal his [Shakespeare’s] own intense feelings about jealousy and his humane view of it: the emotional devastation, the self-blindness, the sorrow experienced for failing in this way, the self-accusation, the willingness finally to acknowledge with generosity of spirit that the fault was the man’s alone, the need for remorse, and the unwillingness to forgive oneself.

And finally, Bernard Spivack, as quoted in Arthur M. Eastman’s A Short History of Shakespearean Criticism, wrote: ‘‘The feeling between [Othello and Desdemona] scales love’s loftiest romance and expresses more acutely than anywhere else in the English drama, the refinement of sexual love in the sentiment and literature of Renaissance Europe, the evolution of l’amour curtois to its richest spiritual possibilities.’’ Shakespeare was able to do this, Spivack

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wrote, because of the contrasts that the poet set up in his play. In a sense their [Desdemona’s and Othello’s] union is a proposition and the play their battlefield, testing whether love so conceived and dedicated can long endure. But poetry is at work upon the proposition to transform it into sensation, and commentary at its best can only hint at the immediate experience the play gives us of gentle Desdemona and the noble Moor.

ONLY AS WE RECOGNISE THE FAMILIARITY OF THE FIGURE OF THE BLACK MAN AS VILLAIN IN ELIZABETHAN DRAMA CAN WE APPRECIATE WHAT MUST HAVE BEEN THE STARTLING IMPACT ON SHAKESPEARE’S AUDIENCE OF A BLACK HERO OF OUTSTANDING QUALITIES IN HIS PLAY OTHELLO.’’

CRITICISM Ruth Cowhig Cowhig provides background on blacks in England during Shakespeare’s time, stressing the use of racial stereotypes in the dramas of the period. Observing that black people were typically depicted as stock villains, she suggests that Shakespeare’s presentation of the noble, dignified Othello as the hero of a tragedy must have been startling to Elizabethan audiences. Cowhig also examines how several characters in the play, especially Iago, are racially prejudiced. Iago’s racism is the source of his hatred of Othello, she claims, and he plays on the prejudices of other characters to turn them against the Moor. Importantly, Cowhig emphasizes that, although Shakespeare consistently challenges stereotypes with his depiction of Othello, he also demonstrates that, in a white society, the Moor’s color isolates him and makes him vulnerable. It is difficult to assess the reactions and attitudes of people in sixteenth-century Britain to the relatively few blacks living amongst them. Their feelings would certainly be very mixed: strangeness and mystery producing a certain fascination and fostering a taste for the exotic: on the other hand prejudice and fear, always easily aroused by people different from ourselves, causing distrust and hostility. This hostility would be encouraged by the widespread belief in the legend that blacks were descendants of Ham in the Genesis story, punished for sexual excess by their blackness. Sexual potency was therefore one of the attributes of the prototype black. Other qualities associated with black people were courage, pride, guilelessness, credulity and easily aroused passions—the list found in John Leo’s The Geographical History of Africa, a book written in Arabic early in the sixteenth century and translated into English in 1600.


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Contemporary attitudes may have been more influenced by literary works such as this than by direct experience; but recently the part played by such direct contacts has been rediscovered. The scholarly and original study [Othello’s Countrymen] by Eldred Jones of these contacts and their effects on Renaissance drama has transformed contemporary attitudes. Black people were introduced into plays and folk dancing in mediaeval England and later, during the sixteenth century, they often appeared in the more sophisticated court masques. In these, the blackness was at first suggested by a very fine lawn [linen fabric] covering the faces, necks, arms and hands of the actors. Then black stockings, masks and wigs were used; such items are mentioned in surviving lists of properties [theater ‘‘props’’]. These characters were mainly valued for the exotic aesthetic effects which their contrasting colour provided. The culmination of this tradition can be seen in Ben Jonson’s Masque of Blackness in 1605, which he produced in answer to Queen Anne’s request that the masquers should be ‘black-mores at first’. The theme is based upon the longing of the black daughters of Niger to gain whiteness and beauty. This surely contradicts the idea that Elizabethans and Jacobeans were not conscious of colour and had no prejudice: the desirability of whiteness is taken for granted! Elizabethan drama also used Moorish characters for visual effects and for their association with strange and remote countries. In [Christopher] Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great, for instance, the three Moorish kings play little part in the plot, and have no individual character. Their main contribution to the play is in adding to the impression of power and conquest

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Julia Stiles and Mekhi Phifer in a scene from the movie O (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

by emphasising the extent of Tamburlaine’s victories. Their blackness also provides a variety of visual effects in the masques. Marlowe’s plays reflect the curiosity of his contemporaries about distant countries, and must have whetted the appetites of his audiences for war and conquest; but the black characters are seen from the outside and have no human complexity . . . Only as we recognise the familiarity of the figure of the black man as villain in Elizabethan drama can we appreciate what must have been the startling impact on Shakespeare’s audience of a black hero of outstanding qualities in his play Othello. Inevitably we are forced to ask questions which we cannot satisfactorily answer. Why did Shakespeare choose a black man as the hero of one of his great tragedies? What experience led the dramatist who had portrayed the conventional stereotype in Aaron [in Titus Andronicus] in 1590 to break completely with tradition ten years later? Had Shakespeare any direct contact with black people? Why did he select the tale of Othello from the large number of Italian stories available to him?

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We cannot answer such questions with certainty, but we may speculate. Until the publication of Eldred Jones’ study, Othello’s Countrymen, in 1965, it was generally assumed that Shakespeare depended only on literary sources for his black characters. Although the presence of black people in England is well documented, it went unrecognised. There are two main sources of information. One is [Richard] Hakluyt’s Principal Navigations, the huge collection of narratives of Elizabethan sailors and traders which Hakluyt collected and published in twelve volumes. Volumes VI and XI describe voyages during which black men from West Africa were taken aboard, brought back to England, and afterwards used as interpreters on subsequent voyages. Later, between 1562 and 1568, [John] Hawkins had the unhappy distinction of being the first of the English gentleman slavetraders; as well as bringing ‘blackamoores’ to England, he sold hundreds of black slaves to Spain. The other evidence is in the series of royal proclamations and state papers which call attention to the ‘great number of Negroes and blackamoors’ in the realm, ‘of which kinde of people there are all-ready here too manye’. They were

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regarded by Queen Elizabeth as a threat to her own subjects ‘in these hard times of dearth’. Negotiations were carried on between the Queen and Casper van Senden, merchant of Lubeck, to cancel her debt to him for transporting between two and three hundred English prisoners from Spain and Portugal back to England by allowing him to take up a similar number of unwanted black aliens—presumably to sell them as slaves. Although the correspondence shows that the deal never materialised, since the ‘owners’ of these ‘blackamoors’ refused to give them up, it is clear that there were several hundreds of black people living in the households of the aristocracy and landed gentry, or working in London taverns . . . Thus the sight of black people must have been familiar to Londoners. London was a very busy port, but still a relatively small and overcrowded city, so Shakespeare could hardly have avoided seeing them. What thoughts did he have as he watched their faces, men uprooted from their country, their homes and families? I cannot help thinking of Rembrandt’s moving study of The Two Negroes painted some sixty years later, which expresses their situation poignantly. The encounter with real blacks on the streets of London would have yielded a sense of their common humanity, which would have conflicted with the myths about their cultural, sexual and religious ‘otherness’ found in the travel books. The play between reality and myth informs Titus Andronicus: Shakespeare presents Aaron as a demon, but at the end of the play suddenly shatters the illusion of myth by showing Aaron to be a black person with common feelings of compassion and fatherly care for his child. In Othello too there is conscious manipulation of reality and myth: Othello is presented initially (through the eyes of Iago and Roderigo) as a dangerous beast, before he reveals himself to be of noble, human status, only to degenerate later to the condition of bloodthirsty and irrational animalism. It is surely not surprising that Shakespeare, the dramatist whose sympathy for the despised alien upsets the balance of the otherwise ‘unrealistic’ The Merchant of Venice should want to create a play about a kind of black man not yet seen on the English stage; a black man whose humanity is eroded by the cunning and racism of whites.


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Shakespeare’s choice of a black hero for his tragedy must have been deliberate. His direct source was an Italian tale from [Geraldi] Cinthio’s Hecatommithi (1565); he followed this tale in using the love between a Moor and a young Venetian girl of high birth as the basis of his plot, but in little else. The original story is crude and lacking in subtlety. Cinthio, in accordance with the demands of the time, expresses concern that his tale should have a moral purpose. He gives it as recommending that young people should not marry against the family’s wishes, and especially not with someone separated from them by nature, heaven and mode of life. Such a moral has nothing to do with Shakespeare’s play, except in so far as he uses it ironically, so his choice of the tale remains obscure. Perhaps he regretted his creation of the cruel and malevolent Aaron, and found himself imagining the feelings of proud men, possibly of royal descent in their own countries, humiliated and degraded as slaves. Whatever his intentions may have been, we have to take seriously the significance of Othello’s race in our interpretation of the play. This is all the more important because teachers will find it largely ignored by critical commentaries. The first effect of Othello’s blackness is immediately grasped by the audience, but not always by the reader. It is that he is placed in isolation from the other characters from the very beginning of the play. This isolation is an integral part of Othello’s experience constantly operative even if not necessarily at a conscious level; anyone black will readily appreciate that Othello’s colour is important for our understanding of his character. Even before his first entry we are forced to focus our attention on his race: the speeches of Iago and Roderigo in the first scene are full of racial antipathy. Othello is ‘the thick lips’ [I. i. 66], ‘an old black ram’ [I. i. 88], ‘a lascivious Moor’ [I. i. 126] and ‘a Barbary horse’ [I. i. 111–12], and ‘he is making the beast with two backs’ [cf. I. i. 116–17] with Desdemona. The language is purposely offensive and sexually coarse, and the animal images convey, as they always do, the idea of someone less than human. Iago calculates on arousing in Brabantio all the latent prejudice of Venetian society, and he succeeds. To Brabantio the union is ‘a treason of the blood’ [I. i. 169], and he feels that its acceptance will reduce Venetian statesmen to ‘bondslaves and pagans’ [I. ii. 99].

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Brabantio occupies a strong position in society. He is much beloved And hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the Duke’s [I. ii. 12–14] according to Iago. Although he represents a more liberal attitude than Iago’s, at least on the surface, his attitude is equally prejudiced. He makes Othello’s meetings with Desdemona possible by entertaining him in his own home, but his reaction to the news of the elopement is predictable. He is outraged that this black man should presume so far, and concludes that he must have used charms and witchcraft since otherwise his daughter could never ‘fall in love with what she feared to look on’ [I. iii. 98]. To him the match is ‘against all rules of nature’ [I. iii. 101], and when he confronts Othello his abuse is as bitter as Iago’s. But before this confrontation, the audience has seen Othello and we have been impressed by two characteristics. First his pride:

and secondly, his confidence in his own achievements and position: My services which I have done the Signiory Shall out-tongue his complaints. [I. ii. 18–19] It is hard to overestimate the reactions of a Renaissance audience to this unfamiliar black man, so noble in bearing and so obviously master of the situation. But however great Othello’s confidence, his colour makes his vulnerability plain. If the state had not been in danger, and Othello essential to its defence, Brabantio’s expectation of support from the Duke and senate would surely have been realised. He is disappointed; the Duke treats Othello as befits his position as commander-in-chief, addressing him as ‘valiant Othello’. The only support Brabantio receives is from the first senator, whose parting words, ‘Adieu, brave Moor, Use Desdemona well’ [I. iii. 291], while not unfriendly, reveal a superior attitude. Would a senator have so advised a newly married general if he had been white and equal? Desdemona’s stature in the play springs directly from Othello’s colour. Beneath a quiet


It is made clear that the marriage between Othello and Desdemona is fully consummated. Desdemona is as explicit as decorum allows: If I be left behind A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for why I love him are bereft me. [I. iii. 255–57] Othello, on the other hand, disclaims the heat of physical desire when asking that she should go with him to Cyprus:

I fetch my life and being From men of royal siege. [I. ii. 21–2]

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exterior lay the spirited independence which comes out in her defence of her marriage before the Senate. She has resisted the pressures of society to make an approved marriage, shunning ‘The wealthy, curled darlings of our nation’ [I. ii. 68]. Clearly, Brabantio had exerted no force: he was no Capulet [in Romeo and Juliet]. But Desdemona was well aware of the seriousness of her decision to marry Othello: ‘my downright violence and storm of fortune’ [I. iii. 249] she calls it. Finally she says that she ‘saw Othello’s visage in his mind’ [I. iii. 252]: obviously the audience, conditioned by prejudice, had to make the effort to overcome, with her, the tendency to associate Othello’s black face with evil, or at least with inferiority.

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I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat—the young affects In me defunct. [I. iii. 261–64] These speeches relate directly to Othello’s colour. Desdemona has to make it clear that his ‘sooty bosom’ (her father’s phrase) is no obstacle to desire; while Othello must defend himself against the unspoken accusations, of the audience as well as of the senators, because of the association of sexual lust with blackness. In Act III Scene iii, often referred to as the temptation scene, Othello’s faith in Desdemona is gradually undermined by Iago’s insinuations, and he is eventually reduced by jealousy to an irrational madness. Iago’s cynical cunning plays upon Othello’s trustfulness: The Moor is of a free and open nature That thinks men honest that but seem to be so. [I. iii. 399–400] The spectacle of Othello’s disintegration is perhaps the most painful in the whole Shakespeare canon: and Iago’s destructive cruelty has seemed to many critics to be inadequately

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motivated. They have spoken of ‘motiveless malignity’ and ‘diabolic intellect’, sometimes considering Iago’s to be the most interesting character in the play. I think this is an unbalanced view, resulting from the failure to recognise racial issues. Iago’s contempt for Othello, despite his grudging recognition of his qualities, his jealousy over Cassio’s ‘preferment’, and the gnawing hatred which drives him on are based upon an arrogant racism. He harps mercilessly upon the unnaturalness of the marriage between Othello and Desdemona: Not to affect many proposed matches, Of her own clime, complexion and degree, Whereto we see in all things nature tends— Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul disproportions, thoughts unnatural. [III. iii. 229–33] The exclamation of disgust and the words ‘smell’ and ‘foul’ reveal a phobia so obvious that it is strange that it is often passed over. The attack demolishes Othello’s defences because this kind of racial contempt exposes his basic insecurity as an alien in a white society. His confidence in Desdemona expressed in ‘For she had eyes, and chose me’ [I. iii. 189], changes to the misery of Haply for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have . . . [III. iii. 263–65] This is one of the most moving moments in the play. Given Iago’s hatred and astuteness in exploiting other people’s weaknesses, which we see in the plot he sets for Cassio, the black Othello is easy game. We are watching the baiting of an alien who cannot fight back on equal terms. Othello’s jealous madness is the more terrifying because of the noble figure he presented in the early scenes, when he is addressed as ‘brave Othello’ and ‘our noble and valiant general’ [II. ii. 1], and when proud self-control is his essential quality; he refuses to be roused to anger by Brabantio and Roderigo: ‘Keep up your bright swords for the dew will rust them’ [I. ii. 58]. After his breakdown we are reminded by Ludovico of his previous moral strengths and self-control: ‘Is this the nature / Whom passion could not shake?’ [IV. ii. 265–66]. Thus the portrait is of a man who totally contradicts the contemporary conception of the black man as one easily swayed by passion. He is the most attractive of


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all Shakespeare’s soldier heroes: one who has achieved high rank entirely on merit. His early history given in Desdemona’s account of his wooing is typical of the bitter experience of an African of his times ‘Taken by the insolent foe / And sold to slavery’ [I. iii. 137–38]. Othello’s military career is everything to him, and the famous ‘farewell’ speech of Act IV, with its aura of romatic nostalgia, expresses the despair of a man whose achievements have been reduced to nothing: ‘Othello’s occupation gone’ [III. iii. 357]. Spoken by a black Othello, the words ‘The big wars / That make ambition virtue’ [III. iii. 349–350], have a meaning beyond more rhetoric. Ambition was still reckoned as a sin in Shakespeare’s time; but in Othello’s case it has been purified by his courage and endurance and by the fact that only ambition could enable him to escape the humiliations of his early life. When he realises that his career is irrevocably over, he looks back at the trappings of war—the ‘pride, pomp and circumstance’ [III. iii. 354], the ‘spiritstirring drum’ [III. iii. 352] and the rest—as a dying man looks back on life. The sympathies of the audience for Othello are never completely destroyed. The Russian actor, Ostuzhev who set himself to study the character of Othello throughout his career, saw the problem of the final scene as ‘acting the part so as to make people love Othello and forget he is a murderer’. When Othello answers Ludovico’s rhetorical question ‘What shall be said of thee?’ [V. ii. 293] with the words, ‘An honourable murderer, if you will’ [V. ii. 294], we are not outraged by such a statement: instead we see in it a terrible pathos. What we are waiting for is the unmasking of Iago. When this comes, Othello looks down at Iago’s feet for the mythical cloven hoofs and demands an explanation from that ‘demi-devil’, reminding us that blackness of soul in this play belongs to the white villain rather than to his black victim. The fact that Othello was a baptised Christian had considerable importance for Shakespeare’s audience. This is made explicit from the beginning when he quells the drunken broil with the words: ‘For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl’ [II. iii. 172]. In the war he was seen to be leading the forces of Christendom against the Turks. But once Othello becomes subservient to Iago and vows his terrible revenge he seems to revert to superstitious beliefs. How else can we interpret his behaviour

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scene it becomes merely, ‘An antique token / My father gave my mother’ [V. ii. 216–17]. This irrational inconsistency is dramatically credible and suggests that when reason is overthrown, Othello’s Christian beliefs give way to the superstitions he has rejected. The Christian veneer is thin . . .

WHAT DO I READ NEXT? Romeo and Juliet, written by Shakespeare in 1595, is another form of a tragic love story. Two young people fall in love but are prohibited by their families from marrying. Their distraught emotions lead them to suicide. Othello: A Novel, published in 1995, is Julius Lester’s fictional form of the story told by Shakespeare. In Lester’s work, the plot is similar, as are most of the characters. The story takes place in England and revolves around the theme of jealousy. Dr. Kenneth C. Ruge and Barry Lenson have written a book to help explain the syndrome they call the Othello Response, a jealous rage such as the one that Othello succumbs to. The Othello Response: Dealing with Jealousy, Suspicion, and Rage in Your Relationship was published in 2003 and through this book, the authors help readers recognize the signs of jealousy. Through case studies, they show how jealousy can ruin relationships and how readers can get a grip on this pervasive and destructive emotional reaction. In the same year that Shakespeare wrote Othello, he looked at love in another way, writing Measure for Measure (1604). This play has been classified as one of his problem plays, meaning it is hard to tell if this is a romance or a tragedy. In a storyline that twists and turns with disguises and deceptions used to spice the drama, Shakespeare examines sexuality outside of marriage and its repercussions.

over the handkerchief? He seems under the spell of its long history—woven by an old sibyl out of silkworms strangely ‘hallowed’, given to his mother by an Egyptian with thought-reading powers, and linked with the dire prophecy of loss of love should it be lost. Yet in the final

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Shakespeare raises these and other questions about blackness and whiteness without fully resolving them. It rested upon the Elizabethan audience to consider them, this very act of deliberation involving a disturbance of racial complacency. If his purpose was to unsettle or perplex his audience, then he succeeded beyond expectation, for the question of Othello’s blackness, and his relation with the white Desdemona, is one that provoked contradictory and heated responses in subsequent centuries. Source: Ruth Cowhig, ‘‘Blacks in English Renaissance Drama and the Role of Shakespeare’s Othello,’’ in The Black Presence in English Literature, Manchester University Press, 1985, pp. 1–25.

Wolfgang Clemen In the essay below, Clemen analyzes the relationship between character and imagery in Othello. He focuses on the characters of Othello and Iago, contrasting the way in which Shakespeare uses language to illustrate their actions and motivations. Othello’s language is characterized by selfobsession and an extensive use of imagery; Iago’s by a focus on others and a deficit of imagery. Furthermore, argues Clemen, Othello’s imagery is dynamic, containing a ‘‘swelling opulence and poetic force, while Iago’s is static and dry. In this chapter we shall try to show Shakespeare’s art of adapting imagery to the character using it, so that imagery becomes a means of characterizing the dramatis personae. Othello furnishes a particularly good example for a study of this kind, in that it turns upon the relation between two opposite and contrasted characters, Iago and Othello. The growing connection between imagery and character is a particularly important aspect of the process by which the images become more closely related to the drama. It is part of the more comprehensive development, traceable throughout Shakespeare, whereby each character is eventually given his own language. In the early comedies, as we have seen, the language used by the characters is suited to the atmosphere of the play, but does not grow directly out of their own

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OTHELLO AND IAGO HAVE ENTIRELY DIFFERENT ATTITUDES TOWARDS THEIR IMAGES. IAGO IS CONSCIOUSLY LOOKING FOR THOSE WHICH BEST SUIT HIS PURPOSE. WITH OTHELLO, HOWEVER, THE IMAGES RISE NATURALLY OUT OF HIS EMOTIONS.’’

individual nature. We only find, here and there, an adaptation of the language to the various groups of characters: servants speak a language different from that of courtiers, etc. In Shakespeare’s ‘‘middle period’’ we discover the beginning of a more subtle differentiation. But this differentiation is as yet restricted to certain outstanding types such as Falstaff and Parolles, the Nurse and Shylock, Mrs. Quickly and Doll Tearsheet. Furthermore it is modified, as in Romeo and Juliet or in the Merchant of Venice, by Shakespeare’s tendency to give to whole scenes a certain stylistic pattern which often overrides the consistent individualization of single characters through language. The individualization of characters through language in the above-mentioned cases, moreover, mostly consists in the regular and recurrent use of certain obvious features of style and syntax, easy to comprehend and usually few in number. Compared to later plays, Shakespeare uses in general rather simple devices and does not avail himself of all the resources offered by language and style for differentiation. A more subtle and complex characterization through language and imagery could be seen in Richard II. Here, however, it was only the dominant figure of the king who was thus individualized. In the great tragedies we find Shakespeare’s technique of characterizing his persons through imagery fully developed. In Hamlet, each character was given his own mode of speech, and from Hamlet to Antony and Cleopatra this discrimination of language applies to all tragedies until, in the romances, we find a notable modification of this technique—indeed, to a certain extent, a decline. There are several ways of studying imagery as a revelation of character. One is to consider the subject matter of the images, and to ask whether the objects and themes occurring in the


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imagery stand in a significant relation to the character of the person using the image. Another method of approach is to inquire into the form in which the images appear, and to ask whether the syntax, the context and similar factors might give us a hint of the nature of that relationship. It may also be illuminating to examine the frequency or recurrence of images in the speech of the several persons and the occasions on which they use imagery. The investigation of whether a character adjusts his imagery to his partner in the dialogue may also yield revealing results. Finally, the question whether the imagery of a character runs on the same lines up to the end of the play or undergoes a noticeable change in the course of the drama, may throw some light upon the function of the imagery in indicating a spiritual change in the character. Othello and Iago have entirely different attitudes towards their images. Iago is consciously looking for those which best suit his purpose. With Othello, however, the images rise naturally out of his emotions. They come to him easily and unconsciously whenever he is talking. He is a character endowed with a rich imagination; it is part of his very nature to use imagery. Iago, on the contrary, is not a person with an imaginative mind; his attitude towards the world is rational and speculative. We find fewer images in his language than in Othello’s. When he is alone, he uses scarcely any imagery, a fact which proves that the use of imagery is not natural to him, but rather a conscious and studied device by which he wishes to influence those to whom he is speaking. Iago selects his images with deliberate intent, he ‘‘constructs’’ them in the very same manner as he constructs his whole language. It is not without significance that Iago introduces many of his images with as and like, which we rarely find in Othello’s language. The particles as and like show that the speaker is fully conscious of the act of comparing; the comparison is added to the object to be compared as something special. In metaphorical language, however, both elements melt into one; the object itself appears as an image, as a metaphor. This differentiation should not be carried too far, but in this case the preference for comparisons is suited to Iago’s conscious and studied manner of speech. Furthermore, Iago’s images scarcely ever refer to himself, whereas Othello in his images continually has himself in mind. Iago likes the form of general statement; he places a distance between

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Laurence Fishburne as Othello and Kenneth Branagh as Iago from the 1995 film Othello (Everett Collection)

himself and his images. He does not care to identify himself with what he says; he would rather have his utterances understood as being as objective, neutral and general as possible. In Othello’s language, however, the personal pronoun I is predominant; he is almost always talking of himself, his life and his feelings. And thus his imagery serves also to express his own emotions and his own nature. This becomes increasingly clear from the very beginning: for instance, in the third scene of the first act, when Othello relates his life to the Duke; in II. i., deeply moved at seeing Desdemona again when he cries out, ‘‘O my soul’s joy!’’ and finds that magnificent image; (quoted on p. 123); when he compares his own thoughts to the ‘‘Pontic sea’’ (III. iii. 453); when, finally, he speaks of his love for Desdemona and of his disillusionment in terms of immeasurable passion (v. ii.). In these cases, as in others, with the innocence and frankness characteristic of strong natures who live within themselves, he always takes himself as the point of departure. In contrast to this, Iago seeks to achieve an effect upon the other characters with his similes and images. He measures his words with calculating guile, attuning them to the person he has to

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deal with. Consider, for instance, the images which he employs with Roderigo and Cassio in I. iii. or II. i. from this point of view; we find that they are devised to kindle in the brain of the other man a notion that will further his own plans; they are a means of influencing, or they may also be a means of dissimulation. The whole diction then appears attuned to the mood and sphere of the other character. Iago seeks to poison the others with his images; he aims to implant in the minds of his victims a conceit which will gradually assume gigantic proportions. The fact that Iago speaks so much in prose is likewise characteristic of him. Let us look at his imagery in the following passages: If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions: but we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion. (I. iii. 330) the food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida. (I. iii. 354)

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you are bud now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his offenceless dog to affright an imperious lion: (II. iii. 274)

Shakespeare lets Iago clothe his comparisons here in euphuistic style. This shows how conventional stylistic patterns are employed in the tragedies as a means of individual characterization. For precisely this euphuistic style, with its combination of antithesis, consonance and parallelism, corresponds to the cool, and at the same time hypocritical nature of Iago. It would be wholly foreign to the spontaneous and unconscious Othello to force imagery into such an artificial mould of parallelisms and symmetrically constructed periods. The euphuistic pattern of style presupposes that the sentences are carefully prepared, and that they are balanced one against the other, before their utterance. The euphuistic style is an intellectual, hyperconscious child of the brain, combining skilful ingenuity with calculation. All these elements are typical of Iago himself. The difference between Othello’s and Iago’s imagery—like everything else in Shakespeare— cannot be reduced to a simple formula. But of all the contradistinctions which might at least give us a hint of this difference, that existing between the concept of the static and of the dynamic comes closest to the real heart of the matter. Iago’s images are static, because they are incapable of further inner growth, because the objects appear in a dry and lifeless manner, because—as in those euphuistic passages we have spoken of—a narrow pattern of stylistic construction hinders the further development of the image. The prosaic brevity of Iago’s images stands in contrast with the swelling opulence and poetic force of Othello’s imagery. This is Iago’s way of speaking: IAGO. but indeed my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frize; (II. i. 126)

He’ll be as full of quarrel and offence As my young mistress’ dog. (II. iii. 52) Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; (I. iii. 323) And this is Othello’s language:


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OTHELLO. O my soul’s joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken’d death! And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high and duck again as low As hell’s from heaven! (II. i. 187)

Like to the Pontic sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. (III. iii. 453) Iago would be wholly incapable of the moving poetic language uttered by Othello; and, likewise, Othello could never be the author of Iago’s cold and cynical utterances. In Othello’s imagery everything is in movement, because everything springs from his own emotion. His images always appear at crucial points of his inner experience; the forcefulness and agitation of his images are an expression of his own passionate nature. Iago, on the other hand, stands not in an emotional, but in a rational relationship to his images. Through the imagery Othello’s emotional nature is revealed to us as highly sensuous, easily kindled and interpreting everything through the senses. Othello’s metaphors show us this peculiar activity of all his senses, his tendency to sense all abstract matters as palpable, tastable, audible and visible things. He can only think, even of his retaliation, in terms of extraordinary physical pain: Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! (V. ii. 279) This last passage may also once again reveal the heightened poetical nature of Othello’s imagery, his preference for bright, colourful, intense pictures. This feature can, of course, also be related to Othello’s race, and these images thus link up with another group of metaphors, to be discussed later, which reproduce the peculiar colour and atmosphere of Othello’s sphere of life.

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A closer examination of the content of Othello’s and Iago’s imagery reveals further characteristic differences. The objects named by Iago belong to a lower and purely material world, whereas the things alive in Othello’s imagination generally belong to a higher sphere. Iago’s imagery teems with repulsive animals of a low order; with references to eating and drinking and bodily functions and with technical and commercial terms. In Othello’s language, however, the elements prevail—the heavens, the celestial bodies, the wind and the sea—the forces of nature, everything light and moving that corresponds best to his nature. At moments of intense emotion his imagery links heaven and hell together, bearing out his inner relation to the cosmic powers, and revealing the enormous dimensions and power of his imaginative conceptions. Hyperbole is therefore more often found in Othello’s imagery than in that used by other Shakespearian heroes. Othello’s already quoted welcoming words to Desdemona in Act II may again serve as an example for the breadth of his imaginative world: And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high, and duck again as low As hell’s from heaven! (II. i. 189) But the contrast between Othello’s and Iago’s imagery will perhaps become most clear by comparing how differently the same theme is expressed in the language of each. Miss Spurgeon has already pointed out how differently the sea appears in Othello’s and Iago’s speech. Iago employs technical maritime terms, and colours some of his images with sailor’s jargon. But the sea as a whole does not appear in his imagery. He looks at the sea only from a professional point of view. He is at home on the sea, but only in a practical way. In Othello’s imagination, on the other hand, the sea lives in its whole breadth and adventurous power. In his language it appears as a force of nature and as scenery. Again and again it occurs to Othello for the expression of his inner emotions through vivid, connected images. We may compare, too, the different ways in which Othello and Iago speak of war and martial life. Iago speaks of the ‘‘trade of war’’ (I. ii. 1) whereas Othello thinks of the ‘‘Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war’’ (III. iii. 354). The life of a soldier is for Iago not an ideal, but a sort

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of business, in which everything is weighed according to material advantage and recompense. This mercenary attitude betrays itself when he introduces expressions taken from the language of commerce, as in the following passage: And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus and on other grounds Christian and heathen, must be be-lee’d and calm’d By debitor and creditor. (I. i. 28) Othello’s conception of war is worlds apart. He won Desdemona with the simple telling of his adventures and brave deeds as a soldier: Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach, (I. iii. 135) and when, at the climax of the action, he loses his inner balance, it is the life of the soldier, it is war, which appears in his mind. In moving words he takes leave of his beloved element: Farewell the plumed troop; and the big wars, That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp and circumstance of glorious war! (III. iii. 349) Thus in Othello the imagery has the function of making visible to us the contrasting lifesphere and background of the chief characters. In the tragedies Shakespeare treads new paths in order to bring home to us the nature of a character. The sources from which our conception of a character in the drama was formed and fed, were, apart from the action of the play, the character’s behaviour in different situations and the words, through which he informs us of his plans, thoughts and feelings, and finally how the other characters react to him and what they say of him. These means of characterization naturally remain effective up to the last plays. But in the great tragedies Shakespeare creates with a greater fullness and differentiation the atmosphere typical of each central character. Othello brings with him the magic spell of distant lands and exotic things;

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his language is tinged with the lustre and strangeness of this other world out of which he comes. Shakespeare will have him understood from the very beginning as the ‘‘wheeling and extravagant stranger’’ (as Roderigo terms Othello in the first scene, I. i. 137). Already Othello’s first long speech before the Venetian Senate is suffused with such touches. In the dramatic structure, this speech not only gives us the immediate proof of Othello’s innocence, but it also presents us with a colourful picture of the world of Othello’s origin. Othello tells of ‘‘Cannibals’’ and ‘‘Anthropophagi’’ and of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven, (I. iii. 140) In his images we hear further of the ‘‘Pontic sea’’, of the ‘‘Propontic’’, ‘‘Hellespont’’, Ottomites, of Sibyls and strange myths, of a ‘‘sword of Spain’’, the ‘‘icebrooks’ temper’’ (V. ii. 253), and of ‘‘Arabian trees’’ (V. ii. 351). Iago, too, betrays his nature in his language, and this not only when he sets forth his base plans and intentions, or when he tries to entangle and to deceive the other characters. Even those words which at first glance seem to have no bearing upon the immediate issue, can reveal his personality to us. We need only examine what Iago thinks about other people, about love and general human values, in order to know what kind of man he is. If he is thinking of love, the image of rutting animals always makes its appearance in his imagination (I. i. 89; I. i. 112; III. iii. 403). He drags all higher values down to his low level. Whereas Othello characteristically never discusses general human values, Iago delights in defining them in a derogatory way. Love—according to his definition— is only ‘‘a sect, or scion’’ of ‘‘our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts’’ (I. iii. 336). ‘‘Virtue! a fig!’’ he cries, shortly before (I. iii. 322), ‘‘honesty’s a fool and loses what it works for’’ (III. iii. 382), and ‘‘Reputation is an idle and most false imposition’’, we read in another passage (II. iii. 268). Iago betrays to us his own cunning method towards his victims in two characteristic images. He views his action against Othello, Desdemona and Cassio as an ensnaring with the net and as a poisoning: . . . with as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio . . . (II. i. 169)


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And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. (II. iii. 368) This image is echoed in Othello’s desperate question at the end of his life: ‘‘Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body?’’ (V. ii. 302). The idea of poisoning is quite conscious in Iago, when he seeks to awaken that false suspicion in Othello: I’ll pour this pestilence into his ear, That she repeals him for her body’s lust; (II. iii. 362) The Moor already changes with my poison: Dangerous conceits are, in their natures, poisons, Which at the first are scarce found to distaste, But with a little act upon the blood Burn like the mines of sulphur. (III. iii. 325) Almost everything Iago says—not only his imagery—is marked by this conscious and purposeful quality. Iago always adapts himself to his partner in conversation, he uses his language as a chief means of influence and ensnarement. He is no stranger in this life, like Othello, but is indeed well informed about the abilities and the behaviour of men of the most various states and classes. This already becomes clear in the first sixty-five lines. Here he contrasts types of men and characterizes them with biting comparisons: You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, That, doting on his own obsequious bondage, Wears out his time, much like his master’s ass, For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d: (I. i. 44) Such passages show how much he is accustomed to observe others and how he goes through life with critical and open eyes. In fact, the best and most appropriate judgement of Othello is uttered by him: The Moor is of a free and open nature, (I. iii. 405)

The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, (II. i. 297)

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It is precisely this very ‘‘open nature’’ which is revealed in Othello’s imagery and causes it to differ so decidedly from Iago’s imagery. Othello does not measure his imagery by the effect which it is to have upon others; he speaks what is in his heart. Iago, on the other hand, speaks as it seems expedient to him. Othello’s images can therefore be looked upon as a genuine self-revelation, and we quote again the famous passage from the third act: Like to the Pontic sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne’er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne’er look back, ne’er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. (III. iii. 453) This image appears at the critical turning-point of the play: Iago has supplied him with the evidence of the handkerchief, Othello’s suspicion is now hardened. The image is a marvel of language in this scene; at the same time, it is premonitory, casting light upon the following, often hardly comprehensible events. Here, in a simile, the tempestuousness and boundlessness of Othello’s character find clear expression, a nature, which, when once seized by a real suspicion, rushes violently along this new path, incapable of every halfheartedness, of a return, or of any compromise. To this absoluteness of his character Othello gives metaphorical expression once again in a later passage, when he faces Desdemona in the hour of final decision. The images by which he here reveals to us the fundamental law of his nature no longer have anything in common with ‘‘poetic diction’’; no language other than the language of imagery could express what is moving Othello at this moment in terms more poignant, more forceful or more convincing. But there, where I have garner’d up my heart, Where either I must live, or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up; to be discarded thence! Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there,

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Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubim,— Ay, there, look grim as hell! (IV. ii. 58) The repulsive image of the ‘‘cistern for foul toads’’ is followed by the magnificent vision of ‘‘Patience, thou young and rose-lipp’d cherubim’’—this bold sequence symbolizes the tremendous tension in Othello’s soul and points to the abrupt change which is taking place within him. It is indeed imagery which announces and accompanies the change that is taking place in Othello. In the third act Othello suffers the first great shock to his feeling of security and—like all of Shakespeare’s tragic heroes in such moments— he, too, now calls upon the heavenly powers. He swears ‘‘by yond marble heaven’’ (III. iii. 460) and exclaims: Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell! (III. iii. 446)

From this point on the heavens, the stars and the elements appear again and again in his language. He calls upon all the elements as witnesses and accusers of Desdemona’s supposed unfaithfulness: Heaven stops the nose at it and the moon winks, The bawdy wind that kisses all it meets Is hush’d within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. (IV. ii. 77) It is not merely chance that in the final scene (v. ii.) the words heaven and heavenly occur seventeen times and that this scene is particularly rich in mighty adjurations of heaven. Himself nearing the end, Othello’s imagination seems to be spellbound with the idea of heaven: Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe, Should yawn at alteration. (V. ii. 99) If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I’ld not have sold her for it. (V. iii. 144) . . . Are there no stones in heaven But what serve for the thunder? (V. ii. 234) when we shall meet at compt,

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This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. (V. ii. 273) It is furthermore characteristic of the way in which the imagery portrays Othello’s inner alteration, that from that third scene of the third act on, Othello’s fantasy is filled with images of repulsive animals such as were up to that point peculiar to Iago. Iago’s endeavour to undermine and poison Othello’s imagination by his own gloomy and low conceptions has been successful. Thus an examination of the imagery in Othello has been able to reveal the connection existing between the content of the image and the time of its appearance. Source: Wolfgang Clemen, ‘‘Othello,’’ in The Development of Shakespeare’s Imagery, Methuan and Co. Ltd., 1977, pp. 119–32.

Harley Granville-Barker Granville-Barker examines the dramatic structure of Othello and explicates the relation between Shakespeare’s manipulation of time and the theme of sexual jealousy. He maintains that time in Act I passes naturally so that the audience can become familiar with the characters. Act II, however, introduces contractions and ambiguities of time that are sustained until Act V, scene ii, when ‘‘natural’’ time resumes, presenting a comprehensive view of the ruined Moor. The critic contends that the precipitous action is both dramatically convincing, since it hurries the audience along, and consistent with the recklessness of Iago and the pathological sexual jealousy that flaws the character of Othello.


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Ray Fearon as Othello and Zoe Waites as Desdemona in Act V, scene ii, at the Barbican Theatre, London, 2000 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

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FURTHER READING Auden, W. H., ‘‘The Joker in the Pack,’’ in The Dyer’s Hand and Other Essays, Random House, 1948, pp. 246–72. Auden compares Iago to a practical joker who has no personal feelings or values but contemptuously uses the very real desires of other people to gull and manipulate them. Auden also claims that Othello prizes his marriage to Desdemona not for any great love he holds for her, but rather because it signals to him, mistakenly, that he has fully integrated into Venetian society. Source: Harley Granville-Barker, ‘‘Excerpt,’’ in Prefaces to Shakespeare: Othello, Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., 1945, pp. 1–35.

SOURCES Bevington, David, ‘‘Shakespeare the Man,’’ in A Companion to Shakespeare, edited by David Scott Kastan, Blackwell Publishers, 1999, pp. 9–21. Bradley, A. C., ‘‘The Noble Othello,’’ in A Casebook on Othello, edited by Leonard F. Dean, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1961, pp. 139–46. Davies, Anthony, ‘‘Othello,’’ in The Oxford Companion to Shakespeare, edited by Michael Dobson and Stanley Wells, Oxford University Press, 2001, pp. 330–33. Eastman, Arthur M., A Short History of Shakespearean Criticism, Random House, 1968, pp. 350–51. Eliot, T. S., ‘‘The Hero Cheering Himself Up,’’ in A Casebook on Othello, edited by Leonard F. Dean, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1961, pp. 153–55. Hunter, G. K., ‘‘Shakespeare and the Traditions of Tragedy,’’ in The Cambridge Companion to Shakespeare Studies, edited by Stanley Wells, Cambridge University Press, 1997 pp. 123–41. Neill, Michael, ‘‘Othello and Race,’’ in Approaches to Teaching Shakespeare’s Othello, edited by Peter Erickson and Maurice Hunt, The Modern Language Association of America, 2005, pp. 37–52. Shakespeare, William, Othello, edited by Marie Macaisa and Dominique Raccah, Sourcebooks, Inc, 2005. Shaw, G. B., ‘‘Othello: Pure Melodrama,’’ in A Casebook on Othello, edited by Leonard F. Dean, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1961, pp. 135–38. Stoll, Elmer Edgar, ‘‘Othello: Tragedy of Effect,’’ in A Casebook on Othello, edited by Leonard F. Dean, Thomas Y. Crowell Company, 1961, pp. 147–52.

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Dash, Irene G., ‘‘A Woman Tamed: Othello,’’ in Wooing, Wedding, and Power: Women in Shakespeare’s Plays, Columbia University Press, 1981. pp. 103–30. Dash writes that Othello demonstrates ‘‘the cost to husband and wife . . . of attempting to conform to stereotyped ideals of marriage.’’ Gregson, J. M., ‘‘Othello,’’ in Public and Private Man in Shakespeare, Croom Helm, 1983, pp. 156–76. Gregson maintains that the characters Othello and Hamlet are opposites, and argues that the true tragedy of Othello is the Moor’s inability to separate his public conduct as military leader from his private judgments as husband. Greenblatt, Stephen, Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, W. W. Norton and Company, 2004. Shakespeare’s life is recounted not just through the bard’s writing but also through the social, religious, and economic culture that he lived in. Grudin, Robert, ‘‘Contrariety as Structure: The Later Tragedies,’’ Mighty Opposites: Shakespeare and Renaissance Contrariety, University of California Press, 1979, pp. 119–79. Grudin finds that Desdemona’s ‘‘type of lamblike femininity’’ is compelling to Othello but not to Shakespeare and thus, the dramatist demonstrates that her passive helplessness is implicitly ironic, for it ‘‘sharpens the impulse to aggression in others.’’ The ambiguities of her virtue are comparable, Grudin maintains, to the complexities of Iago’s wickedness. Hyman, Stanley Edgar, Iago: Some Approaches to the Illusion of His Motivation, Atheneum, 1970. Hyman assesses Iago’s motives from five different critical perspectives, alternately questioning whether the ensign should be viewed as ‘‘a stage villain, or Satan, or an artist, or a latent homosexual, or a Machiavel.’’ A pluralistic approach to this issue, Hyman argues, demonstrates the ‘‘tension, paradox, and irony’’ in Shakespeare’s portrayal of Iago, while a single line of inquiry can only produce one perspective that is ‘‘inevitably reductive and partial.’’

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Neely, Carol Thomas, ‘‘Women and Men in Othello: ‘What should such a fool / Do with so good a woman?’’’ in The Woman’s Part: Feminist Criticism of Shakespeare , edited by Carolyn Ruth Swift Lenz, Gayle Greene, and Carol Thomas Neely, University of Illinois Press, 1980, pp. 21–39. Analysis of the kinship of the women in Othello and the heroines in Shakespeare’s comedies which emphasizes their similar capacities to initiate courtship, tolerate men’s fancies, and balance romantic idealism with a realistic view of sexuality. Nicolle, David, The Moors: The Islamic West 7th–15th Centuries A.D., Osprey Publishing, 2001.


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A history of battles and religious differences, as well as a richly diverse culture is presented in this history of the Moors in Europe. Shapiro, James, A Year in the Life of Shakespeare: 1599, Harper Perennial, 2006. Shapiro focuses on one year of the playwright’s life, a year filled with special events in drama as well as in politics and the influences of these events on Shakespeare. Vaughn, Virginia Mason, Othello: A Contextual History, Cambridge University, 1997. Vaughn follows the production of Othello through the centuries, analyzing its effect on various cultures.

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SHAKESPEARE

for Students

Richard II Richard II, which was written and performed in 1595 and details Richard’s overthrow by Henry Bolingbroke, immediately earned a reputation among Elizabethan audiences as a politically subversive play. On February 6, 1601, supporters of the Earl of Essex, who would the next day mount an unsuccessful rebellion against Queen Elizabeth, paid Shakespeare’s company to put on a special performance of the play. The queen was in fact sometimes compared to Richard, owing to her lack of an heir and to what some subjects viewed as her inclination toward heavy taxation and indulgence of her favorites. Contemporary critics often viewed the play as a politically dangerous commentary on the monarchy, and not until the eighteenth century did the play began to generate literary, rather than political, interest.

1595

The year in which Shakespeare wrote the play was deduced based on the publication in early 1595 of an epic poem written by Samuel Daniel entitled The First Four Books of the Civil Wars, which Shakespeare used as a primary source. Richard II is known to have been performed as early as December 1595 for Sir Edward Hoby. Other significant sources include Edward Hall’s The Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Famelies of Lancastre and Yorke (1548) and Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (1587). Shakespeare freely appropriated and strayed from his source material in various ways, including in the area of characterization;

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Gaunt, for example, is depicted by Holinshed as greedy and ruthless, whereas Shakespeare portrays him as a wise and patriotic nobleman. Additionally, scholars suggest that Shakespeare’s sympathetic attitude toward Richard may have derived from several French sources. Historically, the events of Richard II take place during the years 1398 to 1400. The most frequently discussed aspects of the play include its depiction of the nature of kingship; whether Richard is deposed by Bolingbroke or deposes himself; and the characterizations of Richard and Bolingbroke. Regarding the nature of kingship, the play contrasts the topics of the legal and divine rights to rule and of the effectiveness of the ruler. Richard is believed to be the legal, rightful ruler of England, as ordained by God; yet he is also shown to be a weak and ineffective king. Bolingbroke, on the contrary, tends to act decisively and with moral justification and he is supported by the people. The issue of Richard’s deposition provokes various questions: Does Bolingbroke truly force Richard to give up the crown, and has he been plotting to do so all along? Or does Richard timidly but willingly surrender the kingship to Bolingbroke? Regarding the characterizations of Richard and Bolingbroke, some find Richard’s obvious weakness to be deserving of pity, while others find it despicable. Critical estimation of Bolingbroke is likewise divided, as he is viewed as a traitor and usurper by some, while others maintain that his actions are justified and save England from ruin. While scholars cannot precisely determine to what extent Shakespeare had future productions in mind when writing Richard II, that play constitutes the first of four plays that are referred to as Shakespeare’s Major Tetralogy, or the Henriad. The succeeding three plays—Henry IV, Part One, Henry IV, Part Two, and Henry V—deal with the reigns of Bolingbroke, who became Henry IV, and of his son. Certain themes that are emphasized in Richard II definitely point to the succeeding plays, especially the notion that all of England will suffer bloodshed as a result of the sinful deposition of King Richard.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Richard II opens at Windsor Castle, where King Richard is holding audience with John of Gaunt,

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who is Richard’s uncle; Henry Bolingbroke, who is Gaunt’s son and who is referred to by the king (Bolingbroke’s cousin) as the Duke of Hereford; and Thomas Mowbray, the Duke of Norfolk. Bolingbroke and Mowbray have come to settle a dispute, as Bolingbroke is accusing Mowbray of being a traitor. Mowbray, meanwhile, claims that Bolingbroke is simply dishonoring him. Bolingbroke is specifically accusing Mowbray of having embezzled royal funds rather than applying them to soldiers under his command and also of having plotted the murder of the Duke of Gloucester, who was Gaunt’s brother. In making his accusation, Bolingbroke throws down his gage, meaning that he is challenging Mowbray to a knightly competition. The speeches made by Bolingbroke, who is referred to as the appellant, or the accuser, and by Mowbray, who is the defendant, are very elaborate, as the royal audience functioned much like a settlement court among nobles such as these dukes; throughout the discussion, Richard makes inquiries of each gentleman, responds to his statement, and then turns his attention to the other. Mowbray insists that he had used the funds appropriately and that he had not murdered Gloucester. (Members of Shakespeare’s Elizabethan audience would have been aware of the common historical knowledge that Richard had in fact ordered Mowbray to dispose of Gloucester; Richard, of course, would have had no intention of revealing the truth behind the murder at that time.) At length, Mowbray throws down his gage, challenging Bolingbroke in turn. Richard and Gaunt try to persuade the men to revoke their respective challenges, but both men feel too disgraced to do so. Thus, they schedule a contest to be held in Coventry.

Act 1, Scene 2 Gaunt is meeting in his house with the Duchess of Gloucester, the widow of the deceased duke. He tells her that he can do nothing about the murder of her husband (who was also his brother) because the one responsible is the king, and questioning an act of the king’s is like questioning an act of God. While constantly mourning the loss of her husband, the duchess also laments what she perceives as Gaunt’s weakness for failing to act, especially in that Gaunt and Gloucester had both borne the veritably sacred blood of King Edward.

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Act 1, Scene 3 At Coventry, Bolingbroke and Mowbray are undergoing all the formalities that surround such a contest between two dukes. King Richard presides over the ceremonies, urging marshals to ask questions of the two gentlemen at the appropriate times; Bolingbroke and Mowbray are each given the chance to explain why they are there, with Bolingbroke asserting that he is fighting to prove through his valor that Mowbray is a traitor, while Mowbray is defending his honor. Bolingbroke kisses the hand of Richard, his cousin, and presents a solemn speech before embarking on what he terms a ‘‘weary pilgrimage;’’ Mowbray likewise offers a few words, asserting that in fighting he will be casting off ‘‘chains of bondage.’’ The men take their lances, and the trumpets mark the beginning of the contest—but Richard calls it to a halt; he cannot bear to see the blood of these noblemen, one of whom is a kinsman, be spilt. To settle the dispute, he banishes Bolingbroke for a span of ten years, Mowbray for life. Mowbray is especially heartbroken, as he feels too old to learn another language and imagines that he will live out his years in sorrowful silence. Before he leaves, Richard entreats both him and Bolingbroke to swear to neither seek out each other personally nor to plot against the nation of England or any of its citizens in any way. Bolingbroke urges Mowbray to confess his treasons before leaving, but Mowbray maintains his innocence. In noticing the grief of Gaunt, Richard commutes Bolingbroke’s sentence to six years—but Gaunt nevertheless believes that he will die while his son is away. Richard protests that Gaunt is not so old and that he has been fair in his judgment. Gaunt advises his son to look at his exile optimistically—to see it as a chance to travel and ‘‘purchase honor’’—but Bolingbroke professes to be unable to look past the fact that he would rather be at home, where his life is. Nevertheless, he departs.

Act 1, Scene 4 At the royal court, Richard is asking the Duke of Aumerle, a cousin of both Richard and Bolingbroke, what transpired in the course of Bolingbroke’s departure; Aumerle remarks that the two merely exchanged farewells and that he wishes Bolingbroke had been exiled permanently. Richard then notes that he and Sirs


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Bronze gilt tomb effigy of King Richard II of England (Hans Wild/Time and Life Pictures/Getty Images)

Bushy, Bagot, and Green observed the sympathy Bolingbroke managed to extract from the common people in the course of his departure with his ‘‘courtesy’’ and ‘‘craft of smiles.’’ Green then mentions the rebels causing trouble in Ireland, and Richard commits them to a military expedition there. Bushy then arrives to announce Gaunt’s grave illness. Richard decides to visit his uncle.

Act 2, Scene 1 At Ely House, in London, Edmund, the Duke of York (Richard and Bolingbroke’s uncle), urges the dying Gaunt not to seek an audience with the king as he dies, as he expects that Gaunt will only be frustrated by the fact that Richard will not truly listen to him. Gaunt, however, feels as though in death he will be listened to more seriously than ever he had been in life. Both men have much to say about the deterioration of England under Richard’s reign. When Richard arrives, Gaunt speaks mournfully about his impending death— he especially regrets the absence of Bolingbroke— before chastising Richard for his having laid waste not only to the nation’s land but also to their family; that is, Gaunt holds Richard accountable

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for Gloucester’s death as well as for his own. Richard grows angry and refrains from lashing out at Gaunt only because the dying man is his uncle, but Gaunt continues his tirade, telling Richard that he should be utterly ashamed of himself.

were among the king’s most prominent supporters. Green and Bushy will go to Bristow Castle to meet the Earl of Wiltshire, the nation’s treasurer, while Bagot will travel to Ireland in search of the king.

Gaunt leaves, and the Earl of Northumberland almost immediately enters to inform the king that Gaunt has died. Richard then utters a pithy eulogy before laying claim to all of Gaunt’s assets. York then loses his patience, expressing his frustration over Gloucester’s death, Bolingbroke’s banishment, Richard’s prevention of Bolingbroke’s marriage in exile to a cousin of the French king, and the wrongs done to Gaunt and to all of England. York tries to persuade Richard to leave the deceased Gaunt’s estate alone—but Richard seizes the estate regardless, and York departs indignant. Still, Richard notes that while he is off fighting the rebels in Ireland, York will be named Lord Governor of England.

Act 2, Scene 3

When the king departs, Northumberland and the Lords Willoughby and Ross voice their displeasure over all the king has done of late, especially his spending the nation’s funds and overtaxing the people so unwisely. When Northumberland relates that Bolingbroke is in fact illegally returning to England with a number of other lords, well armed, the three men agree to support him by traveling to Ravenspurgh, where Bolingbroke will be arriving.

Act 2, Scene 2 At Windsor castle, Bushy is trying to buoy the spirits of the queen, who is saddened not only by the departure of her husband but also by some deep sense of unexplained foreboding that grows in her heart. Green then arrives to inform them that Bolingbroke has indeed arrived in Ravenspurgh— confirming the queen’s suspicions that something was awry—and that among the lords supporting Bolingbroke are Northumberland and the Earl of Worcester, his brother, who resigned his post as the Lord Steward of the king’s household. York arrives and despairs over his position, as the situation seems quite unfavorable for supporters of the king; also, his brother’s widow, the Duchess of Gloucester, has died. York notes that while his sense of duty compels him to defend the kingdom, his heart lies more with Bolingbroke and his other wronged kinsmen. When York and the queen depart, Bagot, Bushy, and Green discuss their own peril, as they

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Bolingbroke and Northumberland are traveling through Gloucestershire when they happen upon Harry Percy, Northumberland’s son, who relates Worcester’s departure from the royal household and pledges his service to Bolingbroke. Percy also informs them that York, Berkeley, and Seymour and three hundred men are positioned at Berkeley. Ross and Willoughby then arrive, also pledging their service even in the absence of monetary recompense. Berkeley then arrives, demanding to know why Bolingbroke is laying the framework for civil war—and York consequently likewise arrives to question Bolingbroke, who kneels in his uncle’s presence. York castigates Bolingbroke for his traitorous deeds, including his mere return to English soil after he had sworn to remain in exile; Bolingbroke responds that he had been banished as the Duke of Hereford but was returning as the Duke of Lancaster, which title he gained upon the death of his father. Bolingbroke then asserts that he has only returned to claim the estate that is rightfully his. York extends his sympathy but notes that the nation cannot bear Bolingbroke’s rebellious acts. Northumberland then notes that Bolingbroke has sworn to seek only his due as the Duke of Lancaster, in which cause he is fully supported by Northumberland and the others. York then allows Bolingbroke and the others to proceed to Bristow Castle to ‘‘weed and pluck away’’ Bushy, Bagot, and the king’s other supporters.

Act 2, Scene 4 In Wales, a Welsh captain (who is possibly meant to be Owen Glendower) informs the Earl of Salisbury that his men, who would have supported Richard, can await his return no longer, as they believe that the king is in fact dead.

Act 3, Scene 1 At the castle at Bristol, Bolingbroke announces what Bushy and Green are being accused of— namely, responsibility for all of the wrongs Bolingbroke suffered, including his banishment and the seizure of his family’s estate—before Northumberland leads them away to their execution. Bolingbroke than asks York, who evidently

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is not only failing to resist Bolingbroke but also is assisting him, to have his greetings sent to the queen.

Act 3, Scene 2 Richard arrives on the coast of Wales with Aumerle and the Bishop of Carlisle by his side. He speaks lovingly of the English soil upon first touching ground, asking it to assist ‘‘her native king’’ by ‘‘doing annoyance’’ to the feet of the rebels. When Carlisle speaks of doing heaven’s will and Aumerle of striking out, Richard describes how the rebels have been robbing by night, but the sun—himself—has now arrived and will restore day. Salisbury then arrives and informs Richard that the day before, the twelve thousand Welshmen who would have supported him had defected to the side of Bolingbroke, as they had believed the king to be dead. Richard despairs, and Aumerle tries to persuade him to retain a kingly demeanor. Sir Stephen Scroop then arrives and mentions that he has bad news, and the king despairs further, when Scroop reveals that virtually the entire nation, including men young and old, had joined the rebellion. He further reveals that Bushy and Green have deserted him, prodding Richard to anger—until Scroop informs him that they have deserted him in having been executed. Richard then delivers a long lamentation on the greatness that he has lost. Carlisle then urges the king to suppress his fear, as it will only make fighting more difficult, and Aumerle in turn encourages Richard to seek out York and his army. Richard indeed takes heart at this thought—but Scroop destroys his hopes in relating that even York had sided with Bolingbroke, such that all of Richard’s ‘‘northern castles’’ and ‘‘southern gentlemen’’ were allied against him. Richard then determines to discharge all of his followers and seek refuge at Flint Castle.

Act 3, Scene 3 Near Flint Castle, Bolingbroke and Northumberland are discussing their thorough advantage over Richard—with York now chastising Northumberland for failing to refer to Richard as ‘‘King.’’ Percy informs them that the castle is manned against their entrance, with King Richard and his remaining supporters inside. Bolingbroke bids Percy go to Richard and tell Richard that he will retain his ‘‘allegiance’’ to the rightful king


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and prevent any bloodshed from occurring as long as his banishment is revoked and his estate is returned to him. Richard himself then appears atop the wall of the castle—provoking Bolingbroke to likewise refer to the king as the sun—and York commends Richard’s majestic appearance. Speaking to Northumberland, Richard curses them all for having committed sinful treason against the nation and declares that thousands will die in the war that they have begun; after rejoining that they do not in fact wish for war to take place, Northumberland delivers Bolingbroke’s message, assuring Richard that Bolingbroke has sworn his loyalty. Richard responds that the agreement is reasonable—then turns to ask Aumerle if he is not being too weak in accepting their demands. Aumerle responds that they would be wiser to wait until they have gained more support before taking a firmer stance. Richard then expresses how much he regrets having ever decided to banish Bolingbroke and bemoans that he may as well be deposed—that he is as good as dead and that Bolingbroke may as well be king. Northumberland returns to bid the king meet Bolingbroke in the courtyard below—and in feeling obliged to descend, Richard wails further, ‘‘like a frantic man.’’ In the courtyard, Bolingbroke kneels before the king and pledges his service, and Richard bids him stand and assures him that all that rightfully belongs to him will be returned. Richard goes so far as to suggest that Bolingbroke may be made his heir.

Act 3, Scene 4 The queen is sharing her enduring sorrow with her attendants, preventing the two women from even attempting to cheer her. Hoping to eavesdrop on common men, they hide when a gardener and his two servants arrive. After several offhand references to the political goings-on, the gardener eventually makes clear his disdain for Richard and his belief that the king will eventually be deposed. The queen emerges to chastise him and demand to know how he gained this understanding, and the gardener regretfully explains Bolingbroke’s advantageous position. The queen then departs for London.

Act 4, Scene 1 Bolingbroke, who is presiding over a large assembly of lords at Westminster Hall, calls upon Bagot to reveal all that he knows about Gloucester’s

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murder, which Bagot had helped plot. Bagot declares that Aumerle had himself offered to kill Gloucester (who was Aumerle’s uncle) and also that he had expressed his fierce opposition to Bolingbroke. In response, Aumerle calls Bagot a liar and throws down his gage, challenging him to a contest whereby the victor will retain his honor. Bolingbroke tells Bagot not to accept the challenge, but Fitzwater then challenges Aumerle, likewise claiming that he heard Aumerle admit his responsibility for Gloucester’s death. Percy and another lord then also challenge Aumerle, declaring him a liar. Surrey then challenges Fitzwater in support of Aumerle, and Fitzwater asserts that Surrey, too, is a liar. Fitzwater also mentions that the banished Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, said that Aumerle had indeed sent two men to dispose of Gloucester. Aumerle then challenges Mowbray—while upon the revelation that Mowbray may be able to resolve the arguments, Bolingbroke declares that Aumerle’s trial will be postponed until Mowbray returns. However, the Bishop of Carlisle informs the assembly that Mowbray has died in Italy after fighting honorably as a Christian soldier. York then arrives to declare that Richard is immediately passing the kingship to Henry, who will become Henry IV—but Carlisle insists that Bolingbroke has no right to seize the crown, in essence passing judgment on Richard, while the king is absent. Carlisle also declares that by failing to recognize Richard as king as long as he lives, they are bringing a curse upon the ‘‘future ages’’ of the nation. After Northumberland has Carlisle arrested for treason, Bolingbroke decides to have Richard brought forth. Upon arriving, Richard compares his fall to that of Christ and also likens the treason of all the lords to the treason of Judas. At York’s insistence, Richard pronounces that he indeed passes the crown to Henry, though sorrowfully. Bolingbroke asks Richard if he does not give the crown willingly, and Richard equivocates—eventually he reiterates that Henry is being made king. Northumberland attempts to have Richard read aloud the list of offenses he committed during his reign, but Richard resists: he first laments that he is being shamed, then claims that he cannot read the list through his tears. He demands that a mirror be brought so that he can look upon his sinful face; at length he smashes the mirror, ever declaring his grief, then asks Bolingbroke to allow him to simply leave the assembly. Bolingbroke has him conveyed to the Tower of London, and the assembly

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disperses. The Abbot of Westminster, a supporter of Richard, then tells Carlisle and Aumerle that he will hatch a plot to bring about a ‘‘merry day.’’

Act 5, Scene 1 On a street in London, the queen comes across Richard as he is being transported to the Tower of London. Richard urges his wife to flee to a nunnery in France and forsake him, while she questions his integrity for not resisting his deposition. Yet Richard can only ask her to tell his sorrowful tale to whomever she may. Northumberland then arrives to redirect the king to Pomfret and to tell the queen that she is indeed being sent to France. After cursing Northumberland, who admits to bearing guilt, Richard shares a number of romantic sentiments with his parting wife. The queen asserts that she would rather be imprisoned with her husband—but they part.

Act 5, Scene 2 At the York home, the Duke of York is relating to his wife the occasion of Bolingbroke’s and Richard’s passing through the streets of London, where Bolingbroke was worshipped and Richard despised and ill treated. Aumerle then arrives, with his father telling his mother that his new, lesser title is Rutland; York has pledged his own honor on his son’s loyalty to King Henry. As York asks about the future proceedings at Oxford, he notices a document in his son’s breast pocket. Aumerle tries to prevent his father from seeing it, but York indeed reads it—and then declares his son a traitor and prepares to speed off to the king to reveal the plot that the document reveals. Understanding that her son’s life is at stake, the duchess tries to persuade him not to go, but York’s loyalty is to the king; thus, York sets off, and Aumerle and the duchess follow.

Act 5, Scene 3 At Windsor Castle, King Henry is asking Percy to tell him about his son; the prince has been rumored to be frequenting taverns and fraternizing with thieves. The king expresses his hope that his son might one day reform himself. Aumerle then rushes in, demands a secure, private audience with the king, and asks that he be pardoned before he utters a word. The king does so, whether his crime was intended only or already committed. York then arrives and demands entrance himself, informing Henry that Aumerle is a traitor; Henry arms himself and grants York

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entry, and York then gives him the incriminating document. Aumerle then reminds Henry of his pardon and reiterates his regret and change of heart. After reading, Bolingbroke declares that however treacherous Aumerle’s deeds, he would grant him a pardon for the sake of his honorable father, York. York then insists that his son be executed, so as not to be a stain on his honor, when the duchess arrives to plead on behalf of her son. The duchess and Aumerle kneel to beg for his pardon, and York kneels to beg that Henry show them no mercy. The duchess then speaks to Henry’s heart, demanding to hear the word ‘‘pardon’’—not once but twice—before standing. Bolingbroke then orders that the other conspirators be found and, other than his brother-in-law and the Abbot, be executed.

Act 5, Scene 4

In speaking to another man, Sir Pierce Exton determines to kill Richard on behalf of Henry, as Exton had heard the new king rhetorically ask whether he had no friends to eliminate the old king for him.

Act 5, Scene 5 Richard is lamenting the wasting away of his life with no companions but his thoughts, which he mournfully personifies, in Pomfret Castle. He then hears music, which, with its poorly kept time, only reminds him of how the remaining seconds of his life will be ticking miserably away. At length a Groom enters, declaring that he had tended to Richard’s horse when Richard was king and that he had simply wanted to see his old master. He also notes how that horse, Barbary, had proudly borne Henry through the streets of London, and Richard deplores, then forgives, the horse for doing so. A Keeper arrives to first ask the Groom to leave and then deliver a meal to Richard, who asks the Keeper to taste it first, as usual. However, the Keeper admits that he has been instructed to refuse to do so by Exton. Exton and his servants then rush in: Richard disarms and stabs one and also kills another— before being slain himself. Richard dies, and Exton now regrets the murder but nonetheless leaves to bring the body to King Henry.

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS The British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) presented a version of King Richard the Second in 1978, directed by David Giles and starring Derek Jacobi, John Gielgud, Jon Finch, and Wendy Hiller. Bard Productions presented Richard II in 1982, as directed by William Woodman, with the recording distributed by the Shakespeare Video Society. John Farrell directed a film version of Richard II in 2001, released by Sub Rosa Studios, with a low budget and army fatigues for costumes, earning moderate reviews.

that while the Abbot has died after all, Carlisle still lives, and Henry regards the bishop’s honor highly and spares him. Exton then arrives with the coffin bearing Richard, and Henry admits that he had wished for the old king’s death but refuses to thank, befriend, or reward Exton in any way for having committed the murder. He then announces that he intends to launch a Crusade to assuage his guilt for his role in Richard’s death.

CHARACTERS Sir John Bagot Sir John Bagot is a counselor and favorite of King Richard. Instead of being executed like Bushy and Green, he is taken to parliament to accuse Aumerle in the conspiracy against Thomas Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester.

Bishop of Carlisle Act 5, Scene 6 The king is discussing rebel activity with York when Northumberland and Fitzwater arrive separately to report that certain members of the conspiracy have been beheaded. Percy reports


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Loyal to Richard, Carlisle firmly believes in the divine right of Richard to rule. Carlisle’s speech at the parliamentary meeting in act 4 is among the most significant of the play, as he describes how the descendants of the lords supporting

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Richard’s overthrow will suffer ‘‘tumultuous wars’’; in the context of history—and of the succeeding plays in the tetralogy, which indeed treat the civil wars that followed—these words are sadly prescient. After this speech, Carlisle is arrested by Northumberland. He later conspires with the Abbot of Westminster and Aumerle to assassinate Bolingbroke. After the plot is discovered, Bolingbroke gives the bishop a relatively light sentence, citing his ‘‘high sparks of honor.’’

Henry Bolingbroke, Duke of Herford Bolingbroke, who eventually becomes King Henry IV, is Gaunt’s son and King Richard’s cousin. Richard banishes him and seizes Gaunt’s estate, which rightfully belongs to Bolingbroke. Bolingbroke then returns from exile with an army, seeking to reclaim his dukedom. After Bolingbroke takes Richard into custody, the king claims that he is willing to give up his crown to Bolingbroke, and Henry later indeed becomes king. At the end of the play, Bolingbroke promises to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to atone for the murder of Richard, which Sir Pierce of Exton committed on Henry’s behalf. As with Richard, Bolingbroke is alternately viewed with sympathetic and unsympathetic eyes: he is usually seen either as a traitor and usurper or as morally justified in taking the crown from an ineffective king. Some note that just as Richard falls politically but experiences a spiritual rise, Bolingbroke rises politically but undergoes a spiritual decline. Indeed, Bolingbroke can be viewed as a manipulative opportunist, a true politician with a clear sense of his goals. As such, Bolingbroke is often accused of engineering Richard’s downfall and forcing his abdication. On the other hand, all of Bolingbroke’s actions can be interpreted as directed toward the good of the commonwealth, whereas Richard’s were always directed toward his own self-interest. Bolingbroke is often seen as a man of action, as compared to Richard, who is prone to self-pitying reflection. Many acknowledge Bolingbroke to be a pragmatic, realistic man who is simply better equipped to rule than Richard. Thus, in the opinion of many commentators, Richard deposes himself and is not strong-armed into surrender by a ruthless Bolingbroke. In his essay entitled ‘‘The Silent King: Providential Intervention, Fair Sequence and

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Succession,’’ C. G. Thayer offers a very instructive analysis of Bolingbroke’s relative silence throughout the play. Thayer notes that Bolingbroke is rare among Shakespearean protagonists in that ‘‘at critical points he does not tell us what he is thinking about or what he plans to do.’’ Early in the play, Bolingbroke reveals nothing about his intentions either when he accuses Mowbray or when he parts ways with his father at the beginning of his banishment; he is similarly terse about his own motivations during the deposition scene, at the parliamentary meeting. Most glaring, perhaps, is the absence of any scene revealing what Bolingbroke plans to do upon illegally returning to England from France. Referring to the tetralogy as a whole, Thayer asserts, ‘‘A major part of the action of four plays arises from a decision, made in Brittany, by a principal character; and about the circumstances of that decision, as opposed to its outcome, we really know nothing—hence all the guesswork.’’ Indeed, the absence of any insight into Bolingbroke’s character makes a definite analysis of his character almost impossible. One result of this, Thayer notes, is that he comes across as an objective means to Richard’s well-deserved end: ‘‘It is clear enough that Richard has misbehaved prodigiously and that hot vengeance is on the way, and that point, I think, is underscored by Bolingbroke’s silence.’’

Sir John Bushy Sir John Bushy is an advisor and favorite of King Richard. When Bolingbroke returns to England, Bushy and Green fear that Richard will be usurped, and the two men flee in fear of their lives. They are captured and executed by Bolingbroke.

Duchess of Gloucester The duchess is the widow of the murdered Thomas Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester. She pleads with her brother-in-law, Gaunt, to avenge her husband’s death, but Gaunt refuses. In the course of her mourning, the duchess highlights the notion that the blood of kings is holy, such that the ‘‘vial full of Edward’s sacred blood’’ represented by Gloucester should likewise be revered. Sometime after Gaunt’s death, York is told that the duchess has died.

Duchess of York The duchess is the wife of the Duke of York and Aumerle’s mother. She tries to protect Aumerle

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when his plot against Bolingbroke is discovered; she kneels before King Henry to plead for the pardon of her son.

Earl of Berkeley

Duke of Aumerle

Sir Pierce of Exton

York’s son and cousin to both Richard and Bolingbroke, Aumerle is loyal to King Richard and is accused in act 4 of conspiring to kill the Duke of Gloucester. After Richard is deposed, Aumerle plots with the Abbot of Westminster and the Bishop of Carlisle to assassinate Bolingbroke. The plot is discovered by York. Aumerle is pardoned by King Henry but is demoted from Duke of Aumerle to Earl of Rutland.

Duke of Surrey When Aumerle is accused by Fitzwater of murdering the Duke of Gloucester, Surrey defends Aumerle.

The Earl of Salisbury is a supporter of King Richard II. Before Richard’s return from Ireland, Salisbury unsuccessfully implores the Welsh Captain not to desert his king. Northumberland later announces that Salisbury has been executed for rebelling against the new king, Bolingbroke.

Edmund, Duke of York Edmund is Richard and Bolingbroke’s uncle, the brother of Gaunt, and the father of Aumerle. Like Gaunt, York is loyal to king and country, but he is outraged by Richard’s confiscation of Gaunt’s estate. When Bolingbroke returns from exile, York, who has been appointed regent while Richard is in Ireland, tells Bolingbroke that he would have him arrested for his treason if his own forces were not outnumbered by Bolingbroke’s. York then transfers his loyalty to Bolingbroke, who is poised to become the new king. After Richard’s deposition, when York learns of the plot against King Henry, he rushes to warn Bolingbroke—and ends up begging for the punishment of his son and wife alike. York is generally viewed as weak and ineffectual in whatever capacity he serves. Interestingly, C. G. Thayer describes how York serves an additional dramatic purpose as ‘‘a kind of reflector for audience responses to both Richard and Bolingbroke.’’

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While Richard is in Ireland and York is acting as regent, York sends Berkeley to ask Bolingbroke why he has illegally returned to England.

Exton assassinates Richard in his prison cell. He believes that he is following Bolingbroke’s wishes, as he overheard King Henry asking, ‘‘Have I no friend that will rid me of this living fear?’’ Nevertheless, he is overwhelmed with guilt after the murder, and Henry condemns him for the act.

Lord Fitzwater Lord Fitzwater is a nobleman in parliament who supports Bagot’s claim that Aumerle is responsible for the Duke of Gloucester’s death. Bolingbroke, after becoming King Henry IV, rewards Fitzwater for helping to gather and execute Bolingbroke’s enemies.

Gardener

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Queen Isabel overhears the Gardener and his assistant discussing how England has fared under Richard’s rule. Employing the sorts of botanical terms they are familiar with, they symbolically describe England as a garden surrounded by a sea wall, tangled with weeds, and infested with caterpillars. The Gardener then reports to the queen’s dismay that the fact that Richard will inevitably lose his kingship is common knowledge.

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster Gaunt is York’s brother and Richard’s uncle. Gaunt refuses to avenge the death of his brother, Thomas Woodstock, the Duke of Gloucester, because the assassination had been ordered by King Richard, and Gaunt holds God alone more sacred than the king. When Gaunt is dying, his loyalty to his country surfaces, provoking him to request an audience with Richard and then castigate the king for his misrule of the nation. Especially by virtue of his speech to York before the king arrives, in which he refers to ‘‘this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,’’ Gaunt is often held up as the play’s representative of the purest patriotism.

Sir Henry Green An advisor and favorite of King Richard, Green counsels Richard to go to Ireland to suppress an uprising there. Later, Green observes that it would

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have been better if Richard had not left, since Bolingbroke has returned to England. Green and Bushy are executed by Bolingbroke.

between Bolingbroke and Mowbray, but calls it off and banishes both of them instead. Carlisle later reports that Mowbray has died in exile after fighting nobly on behalf of Christian causes.

Groom A former employee of Richard, the Groom visits Richard in prison and describes how Bolingbroke, after his coronation, rode Richard’s favorite horse.

Queen Isabel Queen Isabel is King Richard’s wife. She extensively mourns his downfall, with her attending Ladies proving unable to console her. Upon meeting Richard in the street on his way to imprisonment, she chastises him for surrendering and argues that he should retain his dignity and remain a king in spirit even if he is no longer in fact the king. In real life, the queen was only eleven when the play’s events took place; thus, in portraying her as a mature woman, Shakespeare gives greater depth to Richard’s most significant personal relationship, perhaps allowing audiences to better sympathize with him. Some commentators have suggested that Shakespeare was intentionally transferring the extraordinary affection Richard was known to have had for his first wife, Anne, who died suddenly in 1394, onto Isabel to aid the story.

Keeper The keeper of the prison in Pomfret castle where Richard is being held, he brings Richard his last meal, which has been poisoned by Exton. Richard refuses to eat it.

Ladies The Ladies attend to the queen. They attempt to cheer her up when Richard is in the midst of his downfall, but the queen does not allow them to sing.

Lord Marshal He is the administrator of the trial by combat that Richard has ordered between Bolingbroke and Mowbray. When Richard calls off the trial, the Marshal states his wish to accompany Bolingbroke and see him off as he leaves England.

Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk Bolingbroke accuses Mowbray of embezzlement and of murdering Thomas Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester. Richard orders a trial by combat

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Harry Percy Percy, the son of the Earl of Northumberland, is known as Hotspur. Like his father, he supports Bolingbroke. He has a larger role in Henry IV, Part One, the following play in the tetralogy, in which he becomes the enemy of King Henry IV and the antithesis of Henry’s son, Hal (who is mentioned at the beginning of act 5, scene 3).

Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland Father of Harry Percy (Hotspur) and supporter of Bolingbroke. He, Ross, and Willoughby all criticize Richard after he seizes Gaunt’s estate before rushing off to assist Bolingbroke in his return from exile. Northumberland’s claim in act 2, scene 3 that Bolingbroke has sworn to be seeking only ‘‘his own’’—that is, the Lancaster estate—is significant, as Henry’s later breaking of that oath, known as the Doncaster oath, is cited by the Percys in their rebellion in Henry IV, Part One. Northumberland disrespects King Richard in several instances, referring to him only as Richard and refusing to kneel before him. In act 4, scene 1, Northumberland is the one who insists that Richard read aloud the charges against him.

King Richard II Richard is the title character and the ruler of England. He banishes Mowbray and Bolingbroke and confiscates Gaunt’s estate after the duke dies, using the capital to help finance his military expedition to Ireland. When Richard returns from Ireland, Bolingbroke has already gained the support of most of the nation’s lords and of the populace. Lacking any advantages over Henry, Richard eventually relinquishes his crown to him. The deposed King Richard is then imprisoned and later killed. Critical assessments of Richard vary widely, ranging from condemnation of the king for betraying his royal office to sympathy for a man who is a weak but rightful ruler. In general, the facts testify against Richard. While the matter of Gloucester’s death is only indirectly discussed, Gaunt declares in act 1, scene 2 that ‘‘God’s substitute . . . hath caused his death,’’ such that the audience can understand that Richard was ultimately responsible. Meanwhile,

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the king’s banishment of Bolingbroke was legal but hardly just, as Bolingbroke had committed no offense other than to make an accusation dishonoring Mowbray. Richard’s seizure of Gaunt’s estate was illegal in a very significant way, as he thus undermined the nation’s highly regarded laws of inheritance. Further, offhand reference is made throughout the play to Richard’s burdensome taxation and his excessive spending. Overall, being more concerned with the appearance and ceremonies of kingship than with his responsibilities, Richard creates chaos in his kingdom as a result of both negligence and abuse of power. Shakespeare’s portrayal of Richard, of course, is far more complex than a simple iteration of the facts surrounding his misrule. Some commentators maintain that while Richard is weak, he is not evil. Rather, in his weakness he is influenced by the evil counsel of his advisors, Bushy, Bagot, and Green. Although he is not an effective ruler, he is nevertheless the rightful ruler, as sanctioned by both the law and God. Some critics assert that after Richard loses the kingship, his actions—such as his smashing of the mirror in the course of his deposition— demonstrate that he finally realizes the gulf that exists between the title king and the authority that the title represents. At the close of the play—and the end of his life—he is at last moved to act in a decisive manner rather than simply talk about what has happened to him: when his assassins arrive, he manages to kill two of them before he himself is slain. Some have compared Richard to King Lear, arguing that in his final moments he comprehends the extent of his own responsibility for the events that have occurred. Beyond the straightforward analysis of Richard’s actions, commentators have developed psychological portraits of his character in attempts to determine the extent of his consciousness of his actions. Lewis J. Owen pointedly refers to him as ‘‘a king who believes that his right to be a king relieves him of the responsibility of acting like one.’’ That is, Richard genuinely believes that whatever he does in his capacity as king is proper simply because he is king, and a king, whose position is ordained by God, can essentially do no wrong. Owen contends that Richard’s grand naivete is precisely what allows the audience to sympathize with him; indeed, Elizabethans still subscribed to the supposed


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truth that kings and queens had authority that was nearly divine. Owen concludes, ‘‘Without the strange admixture of truth and delusion, his naivete would become ridiculous, and his weakness and inadequacy would become criminal.’’ Thus, as long as the audience believes that Richard possesses such a limited understanding of his role, they will pity him. Lois Potter, to the contrary, contends that ‘‘irony and a suggestion of duplicity are present in Richard throughout the play.’’ Potter highlights Richard’s successful thwarting of Bolingbroke’s intentions in the deposition scene. That is, Bolingbroke first wants Richard to abdicate the throne voluntarily, so that none might question the legitimacy of the reign of Henry IV; he also wants Richard to read the list of his offenses, so that even if the succession is construed as a deposition, people will be obliged to admit that Richard was ‘‘worthily deposed.’’ In fact, Richard does neither of these things. Regarding his abdication, Richard repeatedly admits, then denies that he is abdicating voluntarily. Earlier, at Flint Castle, he told Bolingbroke, ‘‘What you will have, I’ll give, and willing too, / For do we must what force will have us do.’’ At the parliamentary meeting, when asked to physically hand over the crown, the very symbol of his reign, Richard asks his cousin not to take it but to ‘‘seize’’ it. When Bolingbroke asks, ‘‘Are you contented to resign the crown?’’ seeming to leave no room for equivocation, Richard responds, ‘‘Ay, no; no, ay: for I must nothing be.’’ Thus, the nature of the deposition is left utterly unclear. Regarding the reading of his offenses, Richard manages to first claim that he cannot read through his tears, then declares that he will instead read his sins in his face; still, as Potter states, ‘‘But the mirror shows him no sins; it reveals the face of a king.’’ Thus, through his conniving manipulation of words and of the lords’ sympathy for his pitiful state, Richard manages to cede no ground to Bolingbroke— who in Henry IV, Part One is indeed repeatedly referred to as a usurper.

Lord Ross A supporter of Bolingbroke, he joins Northumberland and Willoughby in supporting Bolingbroke’s return from exile.

Sir Stephen Scroop A supporter and ally of Richard, Scroop informs King Richard that the people have turned

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against him, that Richard’s advisors Bushy and Green have been killed, and that York has joined Bolingbroke.

Welsh Captain The leader of Richard’s troops in Wales (who may be assumed to be Owen Glendower, who is referred to by name in act 3, scene 1 and who plays a significant role in Henry IV, Part One), the Captain tells Salisbury that since no word about Richard has been received, except rumors that he has died, he and his troops will not stay and fight for Richard.

Abbot of Westminster In act 4, Northumberland tells Westminster to take custody of the Bishop of Carlisle, who has just spoken out against Bolingbroke. At the end of this scene, the Abbot, the bishop, and Aumerle conspire to assassinate Bolingbroke. Harry Percy later reports that the Abbot has died.

Lord Willoughby A supporter of Bolingbroke, he conspires with Northumberland and Ross to enable Bolingbroke’s return to England.

THEMES Kingship, Christ, and Divine Right Shakespeare’s examination of kingship in Richard II focuses mainly on the conflict between the legal and divine right to rule on the one hand and the effectiveness of the ruler on the other. In Richard II, King Richard is without doubt legally the rightful king, and he is commonly recognized by other characters in the play as having the divine right to rule. Nevertheless, he does not show himself to be an effective ruler. This opposition between Richard’s right to rule and his failure to do so effectively may lead spectators and readers to favor Richard or Bolingbroke for different reasons—and perhaps to come to favor the other over the course of the play. Readers may be drawn to Bolingbroke’s power and kingly air, especially once they understand that he has been unjustly banished and disinherited. At the same time, they may feel pity or sympathy for Richard, who is demonstrably weak but seems not to be evil and who receives bad counsel from corrupt advisors.

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Additionally, Richard is the rightful king, even though he seems to have deluded himself into thinking that having the noble appearance and rights of a king pre-empt his responsibility to his people. The reader might imagine that Shakespeare had himself favored one man—and the associated notions regarding kingship—over the other, but some critics have suggested that Shakespeare did not favor either view and that he presented both Bolingbroke and Richard in an ambiguous manner so as to explore both sides of the issue. This neutrality may have resulted from real-life political considerations: Queen Elizabeth was in certain ways associated with both men and with both notions of kingship, such that denouncing either could have been unwise. Beyond Shakespeare’s explicit portrayal of the men, the relationships between the perspectives they embody and the way those relationships are presented in the play merit discussion. For example, many critics have debated the question of whether divine right literally overrode the sovereign’s legal obligations. That is, in the context of Richard II, is Richard above the law, since he and many other characters believe that he has been ordained by God to be king? As Lewis J. Owen notes, this issue was still of great relevance in Shakespeare’s era: ‘‘From medieval times, through the reign of Elizabeth, and well into the seventeenth century, there persisted the notion that kings were ordained by God, and that their subjects owed them the absolute obedience due to what amounted to a series of Christs on earth.’’ The comparison between Richard and Christ is highlighted by Shakespeare, who has most of the allusions to Christ come from the mouth of Richard himself. The king makes multiple references to Judas, the apostle who betrayed Christ: Richard first imagines that Bagot, Bushy, and Green have betrayed him, like ‘‘three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas,’’ although Scroop shortly informs him that they were themselves executed. Then, making reference to all the lords present in the deposition scene, he declares, ‘‘The favors of these men: were they not mine? / Did they not sometime cry ‘All hail!’ to me? / So Judas did to Christ: but he in twelve / Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.’’ Soon after this direct comparison between himself and Christ, he accordingly compares all those who judge him with Pilate, the Roman official who

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The arrival of Bolingbroke and Richard II in London, Act V, scene ii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

considered Christ innocent but nevertheless yielded to the mob of people calling for Christ’s death, and who ordered his crucifixion. Pilate famously washed his hands after sentencing Christ in an effort to symbolically relieve himself of responsibility for Jesus’s death; however, from most perspectives Pilate is considered a weak man for simply bowing to the malicious will of the people. Thus, as Richard remarks, ‘‘Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands . . . water cannot wash away your sin,’’ indicating that he holds them all responsible for his sacreligious overthrow. While Shakespeare sketches deep associations between Richard and Christ, he does not allow these associations to negate the need for a king to be accountable to the law. Interestingly, Gaunt and York—who are Richard’s surviving uncles and would thus likely assign his bloodline more importance than would any other characters—acknowledge and respect Richard’s


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divine right to rule but also recognize that Richard has failed to act like a king. Indeed, the play cites several instances where Richard has not just changed or contorted but has broken the law: he is implicated in the murder of Gloucester, and he ignores inheritance laws by confiscating Gaunt’s money, land, and title rather than allowing the transfer of the estate to Gaunt’s son, Bolingbroke. In her essay entitled ‘‘The State of Law in Richard II,’’ Donna B. Hamilton notes that Richard’s disrespect for the law is the ultimate cause of his downfall: ‘‘If he thinks that abuse of law, which amounts to abuse of the relationship between king and people, will make him more powerful, he is deceived. To abuse the law is, in effect, to unavail himself of his authority.’’ Indeed, as Hamilton argues by citing reputed sources from the Elizabethan era, the commonwealth seems to have collectively believed that its king was sanctioned not by God alone but by God and the law together. However, the people had no procedure for

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compelling a king to abide by the law. While Richard is not legally punished, the results of his disobeyance of the law are that he loses the support of his people and that he implicitly gives his subjects license to break the law themselves. Bolingbroke does just that when he returns illegally from exile and eventually seizes the crown. The next question regarding the nature of kingship, then, is what happens when a man such as Bolingbroke ascends the throne with the support of the people but without legal or divine sanction. In Richard II—especially in the context of the tetralogy—all indications are that this king and his entire nation will be punished by God. Bishop Carlisle, in his lengthy speech before parliament, and Richard himself, in several instances, make pointed reference to the bloodshed and destruction that will befall England as a result of Henry’s usurping the throne. And as everyone in Shakespeare’s era knew, a series of rebellions and civil wars indeed followed upon Richard’s deposition. Owen notes that the historical relevance of the argument about kingship largely explains why the characterizations of Richard and Bolingbroke are so complex: because for both Shakespeare and his Elizabethan audience, the primary concern was not for any single human being, but for the whole realm of England. Both Richard and Bolingbroke were in a measure innocent, and in a measure guilty. Richard was a legitimate king, but his rule was ruining England. If England was to live, he must be destroyed; but, paradoxically, this necessary destruction of God’s divine instrument must then be punished.

Only by reading the ensuing plays of the tetralogy, then, can the modern reader conclude the multifaceted discussion over the nature of kingship provoked by Richard II.

Political Facades Shakespeare gives much attention to various types of political facades in Richard II, including role-playing and ceremony. In general, Richard seems to be merely playing the role of king—and that halfheartedly, demonstrating more concern for the nobility of his appearance than for the reality and responsibilities of kingship. Some critics have argued that the play suggests that kingship itself is a sham, and that a great gulf may always exist between the appearance of royal authority and the reality of political power. Others contend that the play reveals the

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY A major factor influencing the relationship between the king and the common people in medieval England was Christianity. Because the common folk were overwhelmingly Christian and believed in the divine right of kings—in which the king was granted his powers by God—a corrupt ruler such as Richard could retain his rule. Write an essay about the role of religion in politics in the United States in the twenty-first century; compare this with the role of religion in politics in medieval England. Many critics have pointed out the absence of a soliloquy by Bolingbroke at any point in Richard II. Write a soliloquy for Bolingbroke, in verse, to be delivered as he stands on the coast of Brittany, France, before departing with his army in return from exile. Assign to Bolingbroke whatever intentions or motivations you wish; the soliloquy should be written with no one else in his immediate presence, such that he need not restrain his speech for political reasons. Research both the political career of the United States president Richard Nixon and the reign of King Richard II, focusing on the series of events that led to their losing their offices. In an essay, compare and contrast the fates of the two men.

King Richard makes several biblical allusions, drawing parallels between himself and Jesus Christ. Consider which political or historical figure you think most resembled, or best represented, the teachings of Christ. Write a report about this person, explaining your rationale, and present the report to your class. Read another play by Shakespeare featuring a tragic hero. Write an essay in which you compare this tragic hero to Richard II, citing passages from the two plays to illustrate both similarities and differences.

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way the kings direct the role-playing of others, with both Richard and Henry controlling or setting the scenes in which they appear; that is, in almost every scene in which these two men appear as king, the actions of all the other characters revolve around their comments, questions, and desires. Further, as each confronts the other throughout the play, the extent to which one directs the other changes in conjunction with the change of their political stature. Also worth examining is the effect of the somewhat comic, farcical scenes—in which Aumerle’s plot against King Henry is discovered and announced to Bolingbroke by Aumerle’s father, York—on the rest of the play’s treatment of roleplaying and ceremony. From one perspective, these scenes could be interpreted as presenting extreme versions of the roles that subjects play in the presence of their king. From another perspective, the comic interlude may provoke the audience to rethink and revalue the more serious—and dignified—ceremonial displays relating to kingship that color the rest of the play. Certain characters in the play, above all Richard and Bolingbroke, take advantage of ceremonies and theatricality to mask their true opinions and intentions. In the opening scenes, Richard’s dry, objective tone—which certainly would have been appropriate for a situation in which he was acting as mediator or judge— utterly conceals whatever sentiments he might have had at the time. Once his fortunes have been reversed, Richard makes use of theatrical antics and language as a diversionary tactic in order to avoid going through with ‘‘unkinging’’ himself and to continue to deny the reality of what is happening. Inversely, Bolingbroke takes advantage of ceremonial situations early in the play to voice his opinions and, to a certain extent, to paint a favorable political portrait of himself. When he becomes king, however, he adopts a ceremonious, stoic attitude that largely obscures his thoughts and convictions.

STYLE ‘‘Symphonic Imagery’’ The scholar Richard D. Altick presents a meticulous analysis of the play’s highly complex forms and presentations of images in his essay ‘‘Symphonic Imagery in Richard II.’’ As Altick points out, certain themes are directly associated


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with certain words and their different meanings, and Shakespeare is careful to present those words in key scenes. This strategic repetition, Altick asserts, ‘‘perceptibly deepens and enriches those meanings and at the same time charges the atmosphere with emotional significance . . . This repeated crisscrossing of familiar images makes of the whole text one vast arabesque of language’’—literally, like a symphony of words. In writing his essay, Altick made reference to John Bartlett’s Complete Concordance to Shakespeare, which provides a statistical index of the frequency of certain words and phrases in Shakespeare’s plays and poems. Among the most important of such thematic words in Richard II are earth, soil, and land, all of which are used to connote the relationship between the people of England and the geographical nation of England. John of Gaunt, who can be viewed as the face of patriotism in the play, uses these words multiple times in his speech to York when he is near death. Richard likewise often refers to the earth, particularly in possessive terms: as king, the land belongs to him as much as he belongs to the land. A related symbolic element is the untended garden, with the elaboration of that image being the most prominent feature of the scene in which the queen eavesdrops on the Gardener. Another word that appears in profound contexts throughout the play is blood, which connotes both the blood that is spilled in war and the blood that ties families together. The theme of blood also serves to associate Richard, as king, with the sun: Richard’s face often reddens (as did the historical Richard’s), and Bolingbroke refers to him once as ‘‘the blushing discontented sun,’’ among similar references. In turn, teardrops, which are also a facial feature of sorts, appear prominently in scenes where Richard and others cry or speak of crying—including the deposition scene, when Richard compares himself to a bucket of tears. Other important thematic words include tongue, as associated with verbalization and language; venom, which ties to snakes and sickness; blot, connoting an irremovable stain; and wash, which relates to the cleansing of guilt and, as Altick notes, specifically to the cleansing of ‘‘the sacred ointment of royalty— the ultimate expiation of kingly sin.’’ The juxtapositions of sweet and sour and of rise and fall are also especially important. Shakespeare’s strategy of iterating and reiterating the various words that evoke the play’s

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central and defining images is not unique to Richard II, of course. Indeed, Altick cites King Lear, Macbeth, and Othello as being masterpieces with respect to such interwoven imagery. Richard II, then, which was written eight to ten years before the three aforementioned plays, represents something of a milestone along Shakespeare’s path to those masterpieces. Altick contends that Richard II ‘‘suggests the existence of a vital relationship between two leading characteristics of Shakespeare’s poetic style: the uncontrolled indulgence of verbal wit in the earlier plays and the use of great imagethemes in the plays of his maturity.’’ Thus, in terms of imagery, at least, Richard II is one of Shakespeare’s seminal plays.

Prototype of the Tragic Hero Just as Richard II serves as a milestone on Shakespeare’s path to the mastery of thematic imagery, the character of Richard is a significant stage in Shakespeare’s development of the tragic hero. The most famous Shakespearean character of this type is perhaps Hamlet, with whom Richard has drawn many comparisons. Derek Traversi masterfully explicates the persona of Richard in view of his relationship to such similar Shakespearean characters: Pathetic and yet too self-conscious to be entirely tragic, sincere and yet engaged in acting his own sincerity, possessed of true feeling and elaborately artificial in expressing it, Richard is the distant predecessor of more than one hero of the mature tragedies, who suffer in acute self-consciousness and whose tragedy expresses itself in terms that clearly point to the presence of the weakness that has been, in part, its cause.

From this perspective of Richard, one of the most telling passages is his prison soliloquy, in which he provides a fairly piercing interpretation of his own person, particularly of his weaknesses. Russ McDonald observes, ‘‘The epiphany he experiences in the prison cell just before his assassination adds a heroic dimension to a character who may until this point have seemed a fool.’’ On the other hand, Traversi notes Richard’s relatively inadequate level of attention to his personal experience in that passage; still, the critic remarks, ‘‘Imperfect as it is, the meditation does foreshadow later developments in the presentation of the tragic hero.’’ Lewis J. Owen notes that Richard is also somewhat inferior to later tragic heroes owing to his ‘‘extended overindulgence in self-pity.’’ Thus, while Richard cannot be viewed

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as positively as some of Shakespeare’s other tragic heroes, he possesses many of the same qualities and habits, and his character may be aptly termed an ‘‘ancestor’’ of men like Hamlet and King Lear.

Anticipation of the Tetralogy The extent to which Shakespeare intended to write a tetralogy when he began Richard II is impossible to determine. As such, the extent to which he planted thematic seeds in the first play so as to allow them to blossom in the succeeding three is also a mystery. Shakespeare’s publishing history seems to suggest that he indeed intended to complete a tetralogy from the onset: between 1590 and 1593 he had written the four plays constituting his Minor Tetralogy—the three parts of Henry VI and Richard III—and the events of the Major Tetralogy end precisely where the Minor Tetralogy begins. On the other hand, when Richard II was first published, it was entitled, in full, The Tragedy of Richard II; that is, it was not referred to or packaged as a history play. Regardless of Shakespeare’s precise intentions, numerous passages seem to explicitly foreshadow later events in the tetralogy, and certain characters seem to make appearances specifically so that the audience will have met them prior to the succeeding play, Henry IV, Part One. The prophecy delivered by the Bishop of Carlisle in the course of the deposition scene, in which he predicts that ‘‘tumultuous wars’’ and ‘‘disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny’’ will befall the nation of England, directly anticipates the rebellion and strife that color the two parts of Henry IV. Meanwhile, Prince Hal, whose development receives perhaps the most consistent overall focus in the following three plays, is pointedly mentioned in Richard II even though his activities essentially bear no relation to the plot. Harry Percy, who will become known as Hotspur and is a major character in Henry IV, Part One, plays a role in Richard II that effectively establishes the background story for that next play. Thematically, Donna B. Hamilton points out that the notion that the kingship is subject to the law appears prominently in Richard II and throughout the three succeeding plays. Derek Traversi, in turn, notes that with respect to Kings Richard II and Henry IV, the tetralogy’s first two plays both feature ‘‘the counterplay of intrigue between powers haunted by past guilt in the form of a trustless present.’’ Henry’s guilt comes from his usurpation of the

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throne and murder of Richard, and throughout his kingship he fears and suspects—and suffers— rebellion. Given the presence of these and other thematic consistencies and connections between the four plays of the Major Tetralogy, the student of Shakespeare can learn much by reading Richard II in conjunction with its three sequels.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Portrayal of King Richard Elizabethan audiences would have had a fairly fresh understanding of the key events at the end of Richard’s reign, such that Shakespeare did not need to explicitly refer to certain aspects of situations. Thus, in examining the historical reality and noting what Shakespeare chose to highlight for his audiences, as well as what he chose to leave unmentioned, the reader can better understand the way Shakespeare meant for his audiences to perceive Richard. With respect to Gloucester’s death, during the actual historical period, as well as when Richard II was first presented on stage, the fact that Richard had ordered Gloucester’s murder was essentially common knowledge; thus, Elizabethan audiences would have understood that in the opening scene, Bolingbroke’s accusation of Mowbray is recognized by everyone present as an indirect accusation of the king himself. In that Shakespeare does not mention this, the spectator may develop the impression that Richard is more honestly diplomatic than he actually is. Similarly, the circumstances of the aborted contest between Mowbray and Bolingbroke were far more nuanced than Shakespeare’s reader can understand. Bolingbroke had actually accused Mowbray not merely of being ‘‘a false traitor, and injurious villain,’’ but specifically of having dishonored the king: Mowbray had told Bolingbroke that Richard would eventually punish them both as revenge for earlier actions that were offensive to the king; Mowbray had also related to Bolingbroke that supporters of Richard were plotting to murder them both. Under these circumstances, the result of the well-publicized contest between Bolingbroke and Mowbray would have been highly meaningful, since, as John Julius Norwich relates in Shakespeare’s Kings, ‘‘the outcome of all such contests was generally believed to be divinely ordained.’’ As such, if Mowbray were to defeat Bolingbroke, the implication would be


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that Mowbray was correct about the king’s desire to seek revenge against them; on the other hand, if Bolingbroke were to win, he would become far too popular for Richard to bear. Thus, in actuality, Richard likely cancelled the contest strictly for the sake of his own reputation, rather than to prevent bloodshed. Nevertheless, Norwich notes, ‘‘For all those present, the sense of anticlimax must have been almost unbearable; the king’s popularity, such as it was, had sustained another devastating blow.’’ Regarding these two early scenes, Lois Potter confirms that they reveal nothing negative about the king’s character: ‘‘His carefully balanced speeches to Mowbray and Bolingbroke do not, unless slanted by the production, help the audience to decide which of the challengers is right (indeed, we never know).’’ Thus, the historical analysis seems to indicate that Richard was acting more out of self-interest than Shakespeare indicates to his spectators and readers—and the reader might therefore deduce that Shakespeare did wish to portray Richard somewhat positively.

The Succession of Queen Elizabeth In general, critics have noted that Shakespeare likely wrote about the fall of Richard II with full consciousness of the applicability of the associated lessons to the Elizabethan era. In particular, Shakespeare’s presentation of issues regarding kingship in the play likely reflected his thoughts on the rule of the monarch who was then serving the nation: Queen Elizabeth. Indeed, Bolingbroke and Richard both represent aspects of kingship that can be related to Elizabeth. Bolingbroke acts like a proper ruler and has the popular support of the people—as was the case with Elizabeth—and Bolingbroke is also tied to Elizabeth in that the royal lineage that he established eventually led to her. Meanwhile, Richard held the legitimate right to rule and was often compared to Elizabeth in the later years of her reign, as she, like Richard, had no heirs and had yet named no successor. Thus, as C. G. Thayer notes, ‘‘If people are comparing Elizabeth with Richard, one had better not specify that Richard’s fall was providential.’’ In fact, the manner in which Elizabeth’s reign would end was of great concern to the nation. Speaking of the people of Elizabethan England, Lewis J. Owen relates, ‘‘The question of succession haunted them, for it was this very question which had led to the bloodshed of the civil wars between York and Lancaster just a

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1400s: The hereditary position of the monarch of England is one of near divinity—and the fact that King Richard proves unfit to rule the nation becomes the source of great disagreement. Some believe that since God bestowed upon him the position of king, no human being can question his method of ruling. Others recognize that the nation is suffering under his rule and that someone else must take his place if the nation is to survive. The fact that Richard has produced no heirs—Queen Isabel, his second wife, was still a preteen at the time of his deposition— heightens the concern and confusion regarding who will next rule the nation. 1600s: The status of the monarch has been somewhat reduced, as Parliament has gained in power and people recognize that the ruler of the nation must be fully capable. Still, the monarch’s position remains hereditary, and Elizabeth’s lack of children results in similar concern and confusion regarding the identity of her successor. In particular, the common people hope that bloodshed can be avoided. Today: While the hereditary monarchy still exists, political power in England, as well as in America, is gained according to the rules of democracy: that is, the people elect the rulers, and power struggles are governed by laws. These laws are not seen as infallible, however: in 2000, the United States Supreme Court determined that George W. Bush would be president of the United States, even though more of the nation’s people voted for Al Gore. Meanwhile, presidential campaigns are extraordinarily costly, time-consuming affairs, such that

little more than a century before.’’ Owing to this uncertainty and, moreover, to the connections between Bolingbroke and Elizabeth as well as

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the question of the succession of rulers is still the subject of lengthy debate.

1400s: Richard makes decisions that greatly affect the lives of others, such as banishing Mowbray and Bolingbroke, without being held accountable for the lack of justice in his decisions—until the return of Bolingbroke. 1600s: Elizabeth is renowned for having managed relationships with other political figures with great skill and finesse; her perceived fairness largely accounts for the stability of her reign. Today: While leaders such as British prime minister Tony Blair and U.S. president George W. Bush are sometimes held accountable for their decisions by other politicians or by the people of their nations, portrayals of their decisions by public relations specialists and by the media often greatly affect public opinion.

1400s: The hereditary position of the monarch of England is one of near divinity, and some believe that since God bestowed upon Richard the position of king, no human being can question his method of ruling. 1600s: The English monarch is still recognized as the head of the Church of England, but the status of the monarch has been somewhat reduced, as Parliament has gained in power and people recognize that the ruler of the nation must be fully capable. Today: Politics have been separated from the succession of the royal family, such that questions regarding how a king or queen might be replaced have become irrelevant.

between Richard and Elizabeth, Shakespeare may have felt compelled to render both Bolingbroke and Richard in a sympathetic

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manner. Thus, much of the play’s dramatic tension may be said to stem from Shakespeare’s wise consideration of the political realities of his own era.

The Medieval World Commentators have widely noted that Richard II provides substantial insight into the cultural structure of the medieval world. In particular, much of the action of the play is presented in ceremonial situations, such as with the dispute between Bolingbroke and Mowbray and with the extended deposition scene. In fact, in almost any scene featuring a king—either Richard or Henry—the other characters present are generally deferential to the point of ceremoniousness even if the situation is entirely informal. In accord with this overarching formality, Shakespeare wrote the entire play in verse and often further stressed formality by incorporating rhyme. One result of the prominence of ceremony and the absence of prose is that interpreting characters’ sentiments becomes a more complicated task for the modern reader. (The spectator, of course, is greatly assisted in this task by the actors.) Indeed, the critic Lois Potter notes, ‘‘Much of our difficulty with the play is a difficulty of knowing what moral connotations to attach to its highly rhetorical language.’’ For example, Richard, in guiding the opening scenes, says little more than his official duties require of him and as such his personal opinion of the proceedings is utterly unclear. Bolingbroke reveals little about his emotions throughout the play. In the context of the tetralogy, this medieval world should be understood by the reader to be in decline; while Richard II does not make this point obvious, the succeeding play, Henry IV, Part One, is widely recognized as illustrating the decline of chivalric medievalism, through the death of Hotspur (Harry Percy), and the rise of Renaissance self-fashioning, through the triumph of Bolingbroke’s son, Prince Hal, who proves to be the tetralogy’s main protagonist. In Richard II, then, the reported attitude of Prince Hal toward the chivalric festivities to be held in Oxford offers a succinct and important commentary on the decline of the medieval world. As Traversi notes, Hal’s wry declaration that he would find the ‘‘commonest’’ glove with which to challenge all others serves as ‘‘a sardonic comment on the decorative but empty tournament world which the events of this play have so effectively shattered.’’


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Thus, in that the medieval world is disappearing, the play presents various manifestations of the novel Renaissance world in the process of establishing itself. With respect to politics, characters are beginning to more readily employ guile and intentionally represent themselves in specific ways. Richard and York both make reference to the manner in which Bolingbroke ingratiates himself with the English population; in Henry IV, Part One, Bolingbroke will pointedly describe his political calculations with regard to his rare public appearances, contrasting himself with Richard and his ill-advised interaction with the commonest people. Traversi refers to the era introduced through Richard II as ‘‘a harsh world of political realities, in which conscience and human feeling have small place.’’ Fear, he notes, becomes a driving factor in characters’ political decisions and actions. Overall, the reader may be left debating whether the dry, seemingly phony ceremony of the medieval world is not preferable to the individualized self-interest of the coming Renaissance world.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW As one of Shakespeare’s earlier plays—perhaps his eleventh—Richard II has received a fair degree of unfavorable criticism. Derek Traversi had less than kind words with respect to some of the dramatic construction, calling the murder of Richard ‘‘no more than a pedestrian piece of melodramatic writing.’’ A. C. Swinburne, as cited by Kenneth Muir, was particularly harsh in his analysis of Shakespeare’s characterizations: ‘‘The poet was not yet dramatist enough to feel for each of his characters an equal or proportionate regard . . . . The subordinate figures became to him but heavy and vexatious encumbrances, to be shifted on and off the stage with as much haste and as little of labor as might be possible to an impatient and uncertain hand.’’ Where Swinburne saw York, Mowbray, and Aumerle as particularly ill-defined, however, Muir perceives them as amply developed. Elsewhere, A. L. French condescendingly describes the passages and events associated with the deposition of King Richard as an ‘‘imaginative blur,’’ eventually coming to the sketchily justified conclusion that ‘‘when he wrote Richard II Shakespeare was not quite sure what he was trying to do.’’ In general, however, French seems to be allergic to any moral

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ambiguity, complaining that the play ‘‘suffers from what we might call double vision, giving us one truth in one place, and another in another, with apparently equal weight and conviction . . . . The overall impression produced by an attentive reading or witnessing of the piece is one of bafflement and irritation at the way our sympathies are tampered with.’’ Of course, especially in light of the issue of Queen Elizabeth’s succession, a dramatic presentation of Bolingbroke’s usurpation of the throne would necessarily have been ambiguous in certain respects. Indeed, in discussing the relevance of Shakespeare’s circumstances, Lewis J. Owen, in his lecture on Richard II, provides a sensible counterpoint to French’s confusion and frustration: ‘‘This dependence for final meaning upon an understanding of particular circumstances is especially true of dramatic art, which by its very nature—its dependence upon special actors and a special audience—becomes more entangled with the conventions of its own times—its manners, its language, its popular beliefs—than does any other literary form.’’ In fact, Owen goes so far as to concede that ‘‘Shakespeare’s histories cannot rank with his tragedies, whose backgrounds and issues are eternal.’’ Thus, the modern reader should perhaps have different expectations with regard to gleaning personal understanding from histories like Richard II. Many critics have praised the play’s finer points. The extremely nuanced characterization of Richard has provoked endless scholarly debate, especially as to whether or not he should be regarded sympathetically. In general, while he is often condemned from a historical point of view, critics give him high praise from a literary point of view. Walter Pater notes that Shakespeare’s English kings in general are ‘‘a very eloquent company, and Richard is the most sweettongued of them all.’’ Muir, in turn, comments on how essential Richard’s characterization is to the play as a whole: ‘‘In Richard II the tragedy is firmly based on character and, as in King Lear, the character of the hero acquires greater depth as his fortunes decline.’’ Potter echoes these sentiments in discussing the presentation of Richard II on the stage: ‘‘If Richard’s part is not a good one, the play is simply not worth seeing; and ‘good,’ in theatrical terms, means not necessarily virtuous but interesting.’’ Potter goes on to contend that Richard’s character is indeed more interesting than virtuous.

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Richard Altick regards Richard II with foremost consideration for the quality of Shakespeare’s use of thematic imagery. In comparing Richard II with later plays that make superior use of such imagery, he remarks that Richard II has ‘‘the method: the tricks of repetition, of cumulative emotional effect, of interweaving and reciprocal coloration. What is yet to come is the full mastery of the artistic possibilities of such a technique.’’ Elaborating on this point of critique, he notes, ‘‘The ultimate condensation, the compression of a universe of meaning into a single bold metaphor, remains to be achieved.’’ Still, while Altick describes the play’s dramatic qualities as lacking refinement, he extends the highest praise to its poetic qualities: ‘‘Thanks to its tightly interwoven imagery Richard II has a poetic unity that is unsurpassed in any of the great tragedies.’’ Kenneth Muir provides a more moderate assessment of the play, perhaps better representing the sum of critical reactions to the play; he simply declares, ‘‘It is closer to mature Shakespearean tragedy than any of the previous plays had been.’’

CRITICISM Maurice Charney In the following essay, Charney briefly discusses the content of the plays in the Henriad (or Lancastrian) tetralogy. The Henriad tetralogy is a series of four plays: Richard II; Henry IV, Part One; Henry IV, Part Two; and Henry V. Charney then explores the primary themes and characters in Richard II and comments on the relevancy of key scenes to events occurring in Shakespeare’s England. Richard II is the first play of the Major Tetralogy, followed by the two parts of Henry IV and Henry V. Shakespeare learned a great deal from writing the four plays of the Minor Tetralogy (the three parts of Henry VI and Richard III), which were probably completed in 1592 or 1593. King John, which was probably written just before Richard II, has many stylistic affinities with it, both plays make important use of the divine right of kings. We can date Richard II fairly confidently to 1595, and the other three plays of the Major Tetralogy follow in the next three or four years. It is curious that the events of the Major Tetralogy exactly precede those of the Minor

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IT IS NECESSARY TO INSIST SO STRONGLY ON THE DIVINE RIGHT OF KINGS IN RICHARD II IN ORDER TO APPRECIATE THE MAGNITUDE OF HENRY IV’S TRANSGRESSION.’’

Tetralogy, which begins with the death of Henry V in 1422 and covers the Wars of the Roses to its conclusion at Bosworth Field in 1485. It looks as if Shakespeare wanted first to establish the origins of the Tudor line and the way that Henry, Duke of Richmond (later Henry VII), providentially ends the Wars of the Roses and unites the houses of York and Lancaster. The Major Tetralogy is much more concentrated historically, beginning with the quarrel of Bolingbroke and Mowbray in 1398 and ending with the triumph of Henry V over France and his marriage to Katherine, daughter of the French king and queen, in 1420. The Major Tetralogy is more selfconsciously a four-part unit than the Minor Tetralogy, with many more interconnections, echoes, and anticipations. The events in Richard II are compressed into only two years, from 1398 to 1400, which helps give the play a feeling of tragedy, by concentrating so strongly on Richard’s fall and creating the sense of a quick-moving and almost fateful action. Richard’s hubris, insolence, presumption, and perhaps just foolishness make his fall inevitable, but once it is clear that he can no longer remain king, the play unleashes a tremendous flood of feeling for Richard in adversity. This is Shakespeare’s first history play to invoke so powerfully the analogy between the fallen king and Christ in extremis. This sense of sorrow for Richard evokes tragic feelings of sympathy and compassion. We forget whatever Richard has done to bring his fate upon himself and think only of his torment and his sufferings. More than any other Shakespeare history play, Richard II goes to great lengths to invoke the doctrine of the divine right of kings, which was popular in the Tudor program of homilies to be read aloud in churches. The heinous sin of Richard’s deposition and murder and the ascent of Bolingbroke to the throne as Henry IV are not


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Ben Miles as Henry Bolingbroke and Kevin Spacey as Richard II at the Old Vic Theatre, London, 2005 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

really resolved until the Wars of the Roses end in the victory of the Earl of Richmond in 1485, who comes to the throne as Henry VII, the first Tudor. . . . It is necessary to insist so strongly on the divine right of kings in Richard II in order to appreciate the magnitude of Henry IV’s transgression. The Bishop of Carlisle’s prophetic speech right before Richard’s deposition looks forward to the bloody events of both tetralogies and is a forecast of English history in the fifteenth century: And if you crown him [Bolingbroke], let me prophesy— The blood of English shall manure the ground, And future ages groan for this foul act . . . (4.1.136–38) Bolingbroke as ‘‘subject’’ cannot ‘‘give sentence on his king’’ (121), since the king is the

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anointed of God. As God’s scourge, Bolingbroke is sure to bring an evil doom on himself and on England, which will ‘‘be called / The field of Golgotha and dead men’s skulls’’ (143–44). The argument of divine right is all that Richard can offer to defend himself, and the conflict is lost before it ever begins. When Richard returns from lreland to safeguard his kingdom against Bolingbroke, who has landed at Ravenspurgh, he speaks largely in ‘‘divine right’’ rhetoric, which his followers see as a counsel of despair: Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king, The breath of wordly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord. (3.2.54–57) Richard’s sense of the forces of Nature being marshaled against the enemy of God seems ludicrous to his troops. He protests: ‘‘Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords’’ (23), but the King’s approach to impending danger is entirely wrong. Richard’s invocation to ‘‘my gentle earth’’ (3.2.12) is unmilitary in the extreme: ‘‘But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, / And heavy-gaited toads lie in their way’’ (14–15). To this Richard continues to add supposedly baleful images: ‘‘Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies’’ (18). It is this ‘‘conjuration’’ of senseless things that his lords are mocking, and Carlisle tells him gently: ‘‘The means that heavens yield must be embraced / And not neglected’’ (29–30). The army of Bolingbroke is unlikely to be defeated by venomous spiders, heavy-gaited toads, and stinging nettles. According to the Renaissance doctrine of the King’s two bodies, the king as a public figure has a sacred body identified with the body politic, but as a private man his body is fragile and vulnerable. Richard argues on both sides of the divine right paradox. When he considers himself as a person, he is subject to all the weaknesses of mortal man, and he is far from having the invulnerable image of a king: I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends—subjected thus, How can you say to me, I am a king? (3.2.175–77) In the pun on subjected—‘‘made a subject’’ and ‘‘subjected to,’’ or ‘‘liable’’—lies the heart of

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the paradox. Richard is moving to an acute awareness of his loss of identity, by giving up the kingship he surrenders the essence of his being and he declines to anonymity and nothingness. The issue of identity becomes of crucial importance in Shakespeare’s later tragedies, such as Othello, when Othello declares that his ‘‘occupation’s gone’’ (3.3.354) or Antony and Cleopatra, when Antony ‘‘cannot hold this visible shape’’ (4. 14. 14). The important theme of Richard’s identity reaches its climax in the deposition scene, when he understands that by giving up his kingship he is giving up everything, including his sense of self: I have no name, no title, No, not that name was given me at the font But ‘tis usurped. (4. 1. 254–56) He seeks total annihilation in his wishfulfillment imagery: O, that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke, To melt myself away in water drops! (259–61) This scene anticipates Hamlet in many places, especially Hamlet’s first soliloquy: O that this too too solid [as in Folio] flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew . . . (Hamlet 1. 2. 129–30) Some lines later, after Richard sends for a mirror and throws it down in disgust, he exclaims: My grief lies all within, And these external manners of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortured soul. (4. 1. 294–97) These lines clearly anticipate Hamlet’s sense of isolation in the Danish court in the same context I quoted before: ‘‘But I have that within which passes show; / These but the trappings and the suits of woe’’ (Hamlet 1. 2. 85–86). Both Richard and Hamlet feel a painful contrast between outward seeming and inward reality. They are both courting the annihilation of self. Richard’s contemplating his face in the mirror is like Hamlet’s contemplating mortality in the skull of Yorick, the king’s jester. It is

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interesting that Richard parodies Doctor Faustus’s famous invocation of Helen of Troy in Marlowe’s play (1592): Was this face the face That every day under his household roof Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face That, like the sun, did make beholders wink? (4.1.280–83) He rejects the image of his face by shattering the looking glass, thus seeking the anonymity he has been flirting with from the beginning of his griefs. At the end of the play before he is murdered at Pomfret Castle, Richard has a long soliloquy meditating on themes of time, life and death, and his own identity. He takes up again the ‘‘nothing’’ theme that echoes throughout the play, as it does in King Lear, and that here signifies the king’s awareness of his own impending death. He imagines himself as an actor, coping with a difficult reality by moving quickly between different identities: ‘‘Thus play I in one person many people, / And none contented’’ (5.5.31–32). Shifting between king and beggar, Richard is finally ‘‘unkinged by Bolingbroke, / And straight am nothing’’ (37–38). From here it is only a quick move to the final step of the reasoning: that no man ‘‘With nothing shall be pleased, till he be eased / With being nothing’’ (40–41). Despite the urgency of death, Richard cannot resist the pleasing cadence of the internal rhyme (‘‘pleased-eased’’), he also manages to kill two of his executioners. The critical question whether Richard is a poet manque´ [unsuccessful, unfulfilled] or an actor manque´ is a deceptive one because Richard is poetical and histrionic [dramatic] in playing his part as a king, especially a deposed king. Hamlet seems actually to be a friend of the traveling players, which Richard is not. Nor has Richard written at least a dozen or sixteen lines to be inserted into the Mousetrap play, nor does he declaim with bravado the Dido and Aeneas play as Hamlet does. But Richard poetizes actively throughout his play and indulges in elaborately ingenious poetic figures called ‘‘conceits.’’ Something grotesque in these excessively worked out images mingles with Richard’s grief to create a sense of hysteria, as in the following:


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Or shall we play the wantons with our woes, And make some pretty match with shedding tears, As thus, to drop them still upon one place, Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth, and, therein laid, ‘‘there lies Two kinsmen digged their graves with weeping eyes’’, Would not this ill do well? (3.3.163–69) The image is extremely literal in its visual requirements, which are uncomfortably specific. That is why, once again, the imagery misfires and the onlookers think it ridiculous: ‘‘Well, well, I see / I talk but idly, and you laugh at me’’ (169–70). In Elizabethan parlance, idly means both lazily and foolishly. Richard is mocking his own poetical style in the manner of Touchstone in As You Like It, who lays it down as gospel that ‘‘the truest poetry is the most feigning’’ (3.3.18–19). Henry Bolingbroke, the son of John of Gaunt, becomes the model for Shakespeare’s political figures: the unheroic, practical man who manages to survive, while more committed and more ideological persons all are doomed to an early death. Bolingbroke is neither poetical nor histironic, but Richard envies him his ability to win political favor easily and spontaneously. Even before his return to England, Richard fears ‘‘his courtship to the common people’’ (1.4.24). Bolingbroke is essentially a political creature with no natural eloquence like Richard, but with an uncanny sense of the right gesture: Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well, And had the tribute of his supple knee . . . (31–33) Unlike Tamburlaine or Richard III, Bolingbroke has no grandiose visions of kingship, and he proceeds step by step without revealing, even to himself, his ultimate objective. We have to believe that when he returns to England from exile he comes only to claim his rightful inheritance from his dead father, Gaunt, and not to depose Richard and be king himself. Yet events move with incredible swiftness and inevitability, and when Bolingbroke condemns Bushy and Green, two of ‘‘The caterpillars of the commonwealth’’ (2.3.166), in act 3, scene 1, he is already acting like the king, who doesn’t need any

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specific legal warrant. Bolingbroke prepares us remarkably for Claudius in Hamlet and perhaps also for Macbeth. In the final scene of the play Bolingbroke resembles Macbeth remarkably in the equivocation he practices with himself. To Exton, who murders Richard II at Pomfret, Bolingbroke speaks only the ambiguous words of guilt: They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead, ` I hate the murderer, love him murdered. (5.6.38–40) This is essentially the Henry IV of the next two plays in the tetralogy: crafty, ineloquent, guilty, and well meaning. If Henry weren’t so troubled in spirit, we would think him a gross hypocrite for making pronouncements like the following: ‘‘Lords, I protest, my soul is full of woe, / That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow’’ (45–46). But Henry does nothing to prevent blood from sprinkling him and he does nothing to conceal his open complicity. He vows here what he vows time and again in the two later plays: to ‘‘make a voyage to the Holy Land, / To wash this blood off from my guilty hand’’ (5.6.49–50), but we are sure that he has not the slightest intention to make this voyage of contrition and expiation. This is not part of his style. He mourns over the ‘‘untimely bier’’ (52) of Richard II, even though it was he himself who had him murdered. Unlike Richard III Bolingbroke is not sardonic, but his sincerity is suspect as a public pronouncement, not a personal commitment. His avalanche of couplets in his final scene reminds us that Richard II was written right around the time of Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, both of which it resembles in its lyric extravagance and its use of set pieces of eloquence. The dying Gaunt’s vision of England is presented as an antithesis to the corruption and decay of England under Richard’s misrule. Gaunt, expiring, speaks like a ‘‘prophet new inspired’’ (2.1.31) of ‘‘This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England’’ (50). It is an extraordinary patriotic effusion, but England is ‘‘now leased out . . . / Like to a tenement or pelting farm’’ (59–60). Farm is a derogatory word used three times in this play to indicate Richard’s outrageous financial exactions. To ‘‘farm’’ the realm is to sell for cash the right to collect royal taxes, such as on crown lands and on customs.

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This is combined with ‘‘blank charters’’ (1.4.48), in which favorites of the king could write in whatever sum they pleased as an exaction on the nobles, and ‘‘benevolences’’ (2.1.250), or forced loans, to create Richard’s ‘‘rash fierce blaze of riot’’ (33). Like a tragic protagonist, Richard is preparing his own fall. The Garden Scene (3, 4) has often been discussed as an internal, choral commentary on the play, but its literal, allegorical quality allies it with early Shakespeare. Later, Shakespeare will embody his meanings much more intrinsically in the dramatic action rather than in symbolic set pieces. The Gardener lectures his servants pedantically about the analogy between the garden commonwealth and the body politic. With the Queen and her Ladies as audience, the Gardener expatiates on the political implications of gardening: O, what pity is it That he had not so trimmed and dressed his land As we this garden! (3.4.55–57) This scene is easy to teach but it doesn’t represent Shakespeare at his best. At the end of the scene, however, the Gardener speaks a touching soliloquy in couplets: Here did she fall a tear; here in this place I’ll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace; Rue even for ruth here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping queen. (3.4.104–7) We are reminded inevitably, as by so much else in this play, of Hamlet, particularly the mad Ophelia’s distribution of flowers: ‘‘There’s rue for you, here’s some for me. We may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. O, you must wear your rue with a difference’’ (Hamlet 4.5.181–83). One incident that hangs over Richard II and is mentioned repeatedly in the play is the murder of Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester and Richard’s uncle, in 1397. These events are treated in the anonymous play Woodstock (sometimes called the first part of Richard II since it deals with the period 1382 to 1397, before Shakespeare’s play opens), which was probably written before Shakespeare’s play. Richard II begins in 1398 with the quarrel between Bolingbroke and Thomas Mowbray, the Duke of Norfolk, who was clearly implicated in Gloucester’s death at Calais, probably under

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orders from Richard. The scene between Bolingbroke and Mowbray is confusing, since the men trade accusations that seem equally powerful. Bolingbroke claims that Mowbray sluiced out Gloucester’s innocent soul through streams of blood; Which blood, like sacrificing Abel’s, cries Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth To me for justice and rough chastisement . . . (1.1.103–6) We never learn for sure about Mowbray’s role in this murder, but we are never allowed to forget Richard’s complicity. In the next scene, the Duchess of Gloucester asks Gaunt to take revenge for his brother’s murder, but Gaunt refuses. This is the first we hear of the doctrine of the divine right of kings, which is so important in the play. Gaunt says directly that the King, God’s substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight, Hath caused his [Gloucester’s] death . . . (1.2.37–39) He adds that ‘‘God’s is the quarrel’’ (37), for Gaunt as a subject ‘‘may never lift / An angry arm against His minister’’ (40–41). This makes the issue of Gloucester’s murder explicit in the play. Before his death Gaunt accuses Richard directly of murdering his uncle: That blood already like the pelican Hast thou tapped out and drunkenly caroused: My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul . . . (126–28) This is almost at the end of Gaunt’s long and prophetic death speech, in which he seems to curse Richard: ‘‘Live in thy shame’’ (135). The issue of Gloucester’s death comes up again in act 4, scene 1, when Bagot specifically accuses Aumerle, the son of the Duke of York (Gaunt’s brother), of having killed Gloucester on orders from Richard. Bagot is joined in his accusations by Fitzwater, Percy, and others, but what is important is that this is the beginning of the deposition scene and the accusations of murder provide a context for the judgment of Richard by Bolingbroke. Richard is not such an innocent as he makes himself out to be. In his grief he makes no effort at all to defend himself, but merely expatiates on his tragic and


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alienated condition. The fallen king appears powerfully as a suffering individual, lyric, meditative, and philosophical in adversity. Richard II is one of the most politically explosive of Shakespeare’s plays. The Deposition Scene (most of act 4, scene 1), in which Richard abdicates the throne, was never printed during Queen Elizabeth’s lifetime and first appeared in the Fourth Quarto of 1608. This is potentially seditious material for which one could be summoned before the Star Chamber. We know that the Essex conspirators got Shakespeare’s company to put on a special performance of Richard II on the eve of their totally disastrous rebellion on February 8, 1601. Presumably, they thought that the Deposition Scene would be good propaganda for the overthrow of Elizabeth, who thought of herself as Richard II: ‘‘I am Richard II. Know ye not that?’’ (E. K. Chambers, William Shakespeare, vol. 2, p. 326). Bolingbroke is clearly labeled as a dangerous usurper in this play and in both parts of Henry IV, constantly anxious about his cloudy title to the throne. His son, Prince Hal, who becomes Henry V, continues these perturbations, and the issue is settled definitively only at the end of Richard III, when the Earl of Richmond defeats Richard at Bosworth Field and becomes Henry VII. As part of the royal myth, the Tudors take the stain off the English throne. Source: Maurice Charney, ‘‘Richard II,’’ in All of Shakespeare, 1993, pp. 160–69.

Barbara J. Baines In the essay that follows, Baines analyzes what she identifies as Shakespeare’s sympathetic portrayal of Bolingbroke, stressing that the dominant theme of the play is not Bolingbroke’s ambition, but Richard’s incompetence. Baines traces Bolingbroke’s actions throughout the play, demonstrating the moral justification for his decisions and activities. Few, if any, characters in the Shakespeare canon evoke such diverse and strong emotional response as the key figures of the second tetralogy: Richard II, Bolingbroke, and Hal. They are of course fascinating psychological portraits, but their special appeal derives from the political and moral issues which they dramatize. Together they present Shakespeare’s courageous exploration of the controversial subject, kingship: the

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THUS THE DOMINANT THEME OF RICHARD II IS THE INCOMPETENCE OF RICHARD, NOT THE AMBITION OF BOLINGBROKE.’’

right to reign, the use and abuse of power, and the reciprocal responsibility of sovereign and subject. In these three kings whose fortunes and identities are inextricably linked, the playwright dramatizes the formidable conflict between political necessity and Christian morality. This conflict, which gives the plays their singular vitality, is part of what Michael Manheim has defined as the ‘weak-king dilemma’ and what Moody Prior, relying on Friedrich Meinecke, has called the dilemma of raison d’e´tat. That Bolingbroke’s behavior often demonstrates Machiavelli’s precepts of political necessity has been irrefutably demonstrated in the past and again recently. But the significance of this behavior in the minds of Bolingbroke and his creator has never been satisfactorily resolved. The complexity of the political-moral issues of the tetralogy is, therefore, most evident in this ambiguous, keystone figure who, like his heir, demonstrates the cardinal virtues requisite of a king. Bolingbroke’s triumph, through the glory of his heir, is made possible by a pragmatic acceptance of the tenuous balance between the claims of political necessity and Christian ethics. I hope to demonstrate that Shakespeare’s attitude toward Bolingbroke is much more sympathetic than critics have been willing to acknowledge and that this sympathy underscores the playwright’s very realistic attitude toward kingship. We know of course that the Tudor establishment, like Richard, expounded the theory of the divine right of kings and the incontestability or virtual infallibility of the king body politic. The Tudor concept of kingship and the subject’s obedience is so pervasive and eloquently expressed that, as G. R. Elton notes, ‘theories of kingship which stressed the rights of subjects and the dominance of law have tended to be overlooked in the dazzling light of God-granted authority’. But the fact remains that these conflicting theories did exist, and it is not likely that Shakespeare would have overlooked them. The struggle between

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Richard and Bolingbroke for the crown shows clearly that he did not. Richard II presents both the Lancastrian sympathetic interpretation of Bolingbroke’s motives and actions and the Yorkist view of Bolingbroke as hypocrite and despicable traitor. Robert Ornstein has recently pointed out that Holinshed, Shakespeare’s primary source, presents essentially a Yorkist view, one that stresses the principle of legitimacy too strongly to have been much comfort to the Tudor monarchs and thus had to be qualified or balanced by the playwright with the Lancastrian view. For many readers the fascination and pathos evoked by Richard in the last two acts tend to overshadow the Lancastrian argument. I would like to argue here that the justification of Richard’s deposition, if we consider the entire tetralogy and give adequate attention to the first three acts of Richard II, is more important to an accurate assessment of the political statement of the plays than the tragic suffering of Richard. In light of the complexity of conflicting ideas about kingship, the singular nature of Bolingbroke— the morally accountable Machiavellian prince— takes on new significance. How Bolingbroke acquires the crown is of course a crucial issue in any assessment of the character. Richard II loses the crown because he denies the principle and laws upon which his right to the crown rests. York, who, along with Gaunt, supports the theory of the divine right of kings, points out that Richard denies his own legal right when he denies Bolingbroke’s rightful inheritance. The destruction of the hereditary order in the duchy of Lancaster prefigures the destruction of the hereditary order in larger England. It is Richard, not Bolingbroke, who causes this destruction. Richard has disturbed the old order of possession by insisting that possession of the crown means possession of Gaunt’s estate. Ironically enough, he discovers that he must live by the new order of possession which he has himself created and sanctioned. The crown and the Lancastrian estate do in fact go hand-in-hand—not because Bolingbroke is a usurper but because Richard has inadvertently disinherited himself through a series of crimes. Disregard for royal blood, for the offspring of King Edward, has already become a practice before the action of the play begins, in the cruel murder of Thomas Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester. The strongest condemnation of Richard, ‘Landlord of England art thou now, not king, / Thy state of law is bondslave to the

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law’, calls to mind the worst of his sins as they are depicted in the anonymous Woodstock. Accordingly, Richard’s fate and the justice of that fate are clearly prophesied by the dying Gaunt: O, had thy grandsire, with a prophet’s eye, Seen how his son’s son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame, Deposing thee before thou wert possessed, Which art possessed now to depose thyself. (II.i.104–8) What Gaunt is describing here is not usurpation but self-deposition. Moreover, he considers the act already accomplished (’Landlord of England art thou now, not king’) before Bolingbroke’s return from exile. Richard’s crimes, not Bolingbroke’s, dictate Gaunt’s final address to Richard not as king but as ‘my brother Edward’s son’ (II.i.124). Bolingbroke receives the crown as a result of his morally sanctioned demand for his inheritance. The first crucial question, then, in an evaluation of Bolingbroke’s policy and ethics is whether or not he has a right to return to England to claim and defend his inheritance. Even as a loyal supporter of the establishment, York reveals that he is torn between two loyalties: one to the state, the other to his conscience: . . . Both are my kinsmen. Th’one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; t’other again Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wronged, Whom conscience and kindred bids to right. (II.ii.111–15) What is significant here is that duty and oath of office (aspects of political necessity) speak for Richard, whereas conscience speaks for Bolingbroke. To York’s blustering accusations (II.iii.87– 111) Bolingbroke appeals to the obligation of kinship, but what is more important, he asserts his right by law: I am denied to sue my livery here, And yet my letters patents give me leave. My father’s goods are all distrained and sold; And these, and all, are all amiss employed. What would you have me do? I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me,


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And therefore personally I lay claim To my inheritance of free descent. (II.iii.129–35) But the rigidly idealistic York insists that the end, however justifiable, will not in this case justify the means. He will not exonerate Bolingbroke’s attempt ‘to find out right with wrong’. At the same time, York can offer no viable alternative to Bolingbroke’s action; to the pragmatic question, ‘What would you have me do?’ he has no answer. This failure best explains York’s impotence and the metaphoric appropriateness of his intention to remain ‘neuter’ (1. 159). The impotence of York (who is, after all, the King’s Regent) underscores the necessity of the course taken by Bolingbroke. Although Bolingbroke’s action is morally justified, his motives and intentions remain a mystery; he never confides in the audience or in another character. There is ample evidence that Bolingbroke, from the beginning, anticipates the necessity of restricting drastically or else abolishing altogether Richard’s authority. The idea of merely reforming or limiting Richard’s power would hardly seem feasible to the realistic Bolingbroke. He knows that Richard is an absolutist and that any form of resistance or criticism would not be tolerated. The fact that Richard is responsible for the death of Gloucester is from the beginning no secret in the Lancaster household. Bolingbroke knows, therefore, that his challenge to Richard’s faithful servant Mowbray is, in fact, a challenge to Richard himself. Richard evidently recognizes the thinly disguised challenge when he accuses Bolingbroke of ‘skyaspiring and ambitious thoughts’ (I.iii.130). The only easy way out is the unjust banishment of both men. The sudden, dramatic, and unjust decision to banish both lords is, in Bolingbroke’s consciousness, sufficient example of Richard’s intolerable abuse of absolute power. Compromise and reconciliation, therefore, could hardly seem a likelihood in Bolingbroke’s mind when he returns from France. It is highly probable, then, that the silent Bolingbroke at this early point—that is, before Richard confiscates the Lancaster estate—already intends a final confrontation with Richard. The time sequence of Act II, scene i, is deliberately ambiguous. It is impossible to tell whether Bolingbroke has had time to receive the news of the confiscation of his inheritance before he sets sail from Brittany with the eight tall ships. The

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John Bowe as Mowbray, Alan Howard as Richard II, and David Suchet as Bolingbroke in Act I, scene iii, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1980 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

confiscation of the Lancaster estate may not be the primary cause for Bolingbroke’s return, but certainly it is a primary factor in Richard’s selfdeposition. Bolingbroke’s defense of his refusal to accept banishment (II.iii.113–36) is fundamentally an accusation of Richard rather than an explanation of his own motives. Part of the ambiguity of Bolingbroke’s motives and intentions derives from the role of resistance which he has chosen. From the beginning he prepares for what he knows will be Richard’s ultimate mistake; the eight tall ships are waiting. Whether or not they actually sailed before Bolingbroke received news that Richard had confiscated the Lancastrian estate is ultimately of little importance. Bolingbroke has already been denied justice at the moment of his banishment, and he knows that Richard will continue, in some form or other, the pattern of injustice. When he returns to claim his rights, he is claiming more than his title and property. He is claiming the right which, according to one theory of kingship, every Englishman has—the right to be governed by a responsible king.

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Bolingbroke does not reveal his plans because he still is not certain how far his confrontation will have to go or should go; a great deal depends upon how Richard behaves. There is no reason to believe that Bolingbroke is being hypocritical when he assures York that he does not intend to oppose himself against the will of heaven (III.iii.18–19). He does not define at this point what he thinks the will of heaven is because he does not know; Richard’s behavior will, to a great extent, clarify the question. In the crucial confrontation scene (III.iii), Bolingbroke quickly kneels before Richard and declares, ‘My gracious lord, I come but for mine own’. But Richard recognizes (as we should by now) that what Bolingbroke’s ‘own’ is has not been defined by Bolingbroke; certainly among other things it includes the right to just government. Richard answers, ‘Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all’. The reality of the situation is ultimately shaped by the mind of Richard, not by the action of Bolingbroke. Richard’s followers have tried to direct his mind away from the madness of despair toward constructive action against Bolingbroke.

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But the prophecy of old John of Gaunt, who described Richard as one ‘which art possessed now to depose thyself’, proves to be an accurate statement of the will of heaven. Another crucial matter to be dealt with in any evaluation of Bolingbroke is his execution of those ‘caterpillars of the commonwealth’, Bushy and Greene. This action has been interpreted as Machiavellian political necessity to assure the capitulation of Richard (Ribner, pp. 181–2). One certainly cannot help recalling this execution scene when much later Bolingbroke on his deathbed alludes to the ‘by-paths and indirect crooked ways’ to the throne (2 Henry IV, IV.v.184). But if we look closely at the situation in Richard II we see that the playwright has created ample grounds to justify Bolingbroke’s behavior. By their own admission Bushy and Greene have emptied the purses of the commons (II.ii.129– 32) and earned their hatred. The straightforward nature of Bolingbroke’s statement of intention ‘to weed and pluck away’ the King’s parasites and the assumption that he will have the Regent’s authority supporting him (II.iii.162–6) imply a strong moral justification for his judgment and execution of the King’s men. York certainly voices no objection to the idea that these men deserve to be executed. His reluctance apparently again concerns Bolingbroke’s methods: ‘It may be I will go with you; but yet I’ll pause, / For I am loath to break our country’s laws’ (II.iii.168–9). York freely chooses to go with Bolingbroke because he realizes that although Bolingbroke’s methods may be questionable, the end result, the good of the commonwealth, is not.

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This question does more than simply define the emblematic correspondences; it suggests that order on a secondary or personal level (within ‘the compass of a pale’) has little meaning when there is no order on the primary or national level (within ‘the sea-walled garden’). The question implies that there is very little motivation to achieve moral order on the personal level when none exists on a national level. The gardener is able to satisfy this complaint and affirm the necessity for private order because Bolingbroke has acted to restore national order. It may well be that on his deathbed Bolingbroke still has the blood of Bushy and Greene on his hands, but their execution is clearly a part of the establishment of order and justice in the kingdom, without which the sea-walled garden would go to ruin.

More important than York’s response to Bolingbroke’s ministration of justice is that of his gardener in the emblematic garden scene (III.iv). The gardener’s man asks:

Bolingbroke’s ministration of justice continues with an effort to identify those involved in the murder of Gloucester (IV.i). This scene, which parallels the opening scene of the play in which Richard presides over the challenge brought by Bolingbroke against Mowbray, dramatizes Bolingbroke’s sincere desire for the truth but even more clearly reveals that Bolingbroke already wields the power of arbitrator and judge, the power of de facto king. Bolingbroke’s willingness to hear and weigh all evidence and his willingness to repeal Mowbray’s banishment sharply contrast with the whimsical, capricious behavior of Richard in the earlier comparable situation. The disruptive intrusion by York to announce that Richard has abdicated and declared Bolingbroke his heir suggests clearly that the right to power goes hand-in-hand with the ability to use it properly. This point is made again through Bolingbroke by the gratitude and respect shown York, the mercy shown Aumerle (V.iii.59–66), and the tolerance shown Carlisle (V.vi.24–29).

Why should we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law and form and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds, her fairest flowers choked up, Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined, Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars? (40–7)

Thus the dominant theme of Richard II is the incompetence of Richard, not the ambition of Bolingbroke. We sympathize with Richard, the man, in Acts IV and V, but earlier in the play we see Richard, the King, in the cold light of his incompetence and crimes. The comparison which Richard draws between himself and ‘glistering Phaeton’ (III.iii.178–79) is intended as a criticism of ‘unruly jades’—those who challenge the king’s authority. The comparison, however, turns ironically on Richard, since in the myth it is Phaeton’s presumption and incompetence


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which threaten the cosmic order. Richard discovers that he is but a mortal—that he is neither sun-god nor Christ. In the mirror episode (IV.i) the myths which Richard has created fade in the harsh light of truth. He sees in the mirror not the image of the king body politic but the image of a simple man. The image in the mirror is a much more accurate reflection of Richard’s sins than any confession which Northumberland could draw up. The recognition of his mortal face forces an acknowledgment that Richard has unfortunately never made during his reign. The history he reads in the glass is one of folly: ‘Was this the face that faced so many follies / And was at last outfaced by Bolingbroke?’ (IV.i.285–86). In this moment of truth Richard does not use the word ‘usurped’ or ‘deposed’ but instead uses the word, ‘outfaced’, which is an accurate description of Bolingbroke’s behavior and an important indicator of the author’s attitudes toward both characters. Richard’s incompetence is stressed also by Shakespeare’s deviation from his main source. In Holinshed’s account of Richard’s fall, Northumberland captures Richard by tricking him into an ambush. Richard is then firmly persuaded by advisors to agree to a peaceful abdication. In Shakespeare’s play Richard rejects the course of resistance offered by Aumerle and Carlisle and retires to Flint Castle, where he quickly and without advice acknowledges Bolingbroke as king. Shakespeare’s Richard clearly has an alternative to abdication. The alternative would require that he acknowledge the injustice of some of his decisions. But Richard, obsessed with the idea of his divine right and virtual infallibility, cannot bend to such a compromise. Since Richard will not change, his abdication is essential to the well-being of the nation. Its strategic location between Richard’s surrender at Flint Castle and Bolingbroke’s acceptance of the crown at Westminster makes the emblematic garden scene again crucial. The gardener may be sympathetic with the fallen king, but his main point and the point of the scene is that the garden must be tended. Bolingbroke understands this fundamental principle of kingship; Richard does not—at least not in time to save his crown. Bolingbroke’s competence as it contrasts with Richard’s incompetence does not go unnoticed by the conservative York. As he observes the unfolding of events, York moves from suspicion and censure, to ambivalence, finally to complete acceptance of Bolingbroke as rightful sovereign.

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He can with good conscience shift his allegiance from Richard to Bolingbroke because Richard ‘with willing soul’ has adopted Bolingbroke as his heir (IV.i.108). York is willing to accept Bolingbroke as king for still another and perhaps more important reason. He realizes that fortune favors Bolingbroke; he has the support of the lords and the parliament and has found no positive resistance in Richard. Circumstances therefore indicate to York that Bolingbroke truly has not opposed the will of heaven. Since in Act V, scene ii, York is alone in his own home with his wife, he has no reason for saying something which he does not truly believe. He describes the joyous reception of Bolingbroke and the public contempt for Richard. Moved to compassion by Richard’s suffering, he nevertheless concludes That, had not God for some strong purpose steeled The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow. (V.ii.34–40) York’s loyalty to Bolingbroke—a loyalty which York considers divinely sanctioned—is put to the supreme test by Aumerle’s involvement in the conspiracy to murder Bolingbroke. York’s providential view of Richard’s fall and Bolingbroke’s rise is reinforced years later by Bolingbroke’s interpretation of the events and his motives for accepting the crown: Though then, God knows, I had no such intent But that necessity so bowed the state That I and greatness were compell’d to kiss . . . (2 Henry IV, III.i.72–74) Compelling necessity was his motive, not ambition. When Henry IV contemplates Northumberland’s treachery, he remembers that Richard accurately predicted the situation. Warwick explains that Richard foresaw Northumberland’s treachery, not because he had any supernatural perception or influence, but because he comprehended an easily discernible pattern in Northumberland’s nature. The disorder which Bolingbroke faces as king is a result of a constant principle in human nature. Necessity cries out in

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the case of Northumberland’s treachery, as it did in the case of Richard’s incompetence, and Bolingbroke prepares himself once more to meet that political necessity (2 Henry IV, III.i.92–94). The point of Northumberland’s rebellion is not that rebellion begets rebellion, but that a king proves his competence and thus his right to rule by his capacity to deal with rebellion. But with all of his competence, Bolingbroke is still a human being, subject to weakness and sin, even in his role as king. In a moment of weakness he voices his wish for Richard’s death. Exton, who makes the wish a reality, reminds Bolingbroke, ‘From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed’ (Richard II, V.vi.37). Bolingbroke does not deny this assertion, nor does he try to justify Richard’s murder on the grounds of political necessity. As a morally responsible individual, Bolingbroke acknowledges his guilt and promises expiation: ‘I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land, / To wash this blood off from my guilty hand’ (V.vi.49–50). Unlike Machiavelli’s model prince, Bolingbroke acknowledges the importance of reconciling political necessity with Christian morality. That he hopes to achieve expiation and at the same time ‘busy giddy minds with foreign quarrels’ does not imply religious hypocrisy, but a pragmatism consistent with the nature of this character. What is important is his refusal to dismiss the moral issue altogether and his awareness that all of his actions will be judged by the failure or success of his reign and by his capacity to perpetuate his reign through his heir. . . . Source: Barbara J. Baines, ‘‘Kingship of the Silent King: A Study of Shakespeare’s Bolingbroke,’’ in English Studies, Vol. 61, No. 1, February, 1980, pp. 24–31.

Wolfgang Clemen Clemen offers an analysis of the imagery in Richard II, contending that in this play Shakespeare turns slightly away from the rigid formalism of Richard III and other previous plays. At the same time, notes Clemen, Shakespeare achieves a ‘‘unity of tone and feeling’’ that is lacking in earlier plays.


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Baker, Herschel, ‘‘Richard II,’’ in The Riverside Shakespeare, edited by G. Blakemore Evans, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1974, pp. 800–04. Black, James, ‘‘The Interlude of the Beggar and the King in Richard II,’’ in Pageantry in the Shakespearean Theater, edited by David M. Bergeron, University of Georgia Press, 1985, pp. 104–13. Clare, Janet, ‘‘The Censorship of the Deposition Scene in Richard II,’’ in Review of English Studies, Vol. 41, No. 161, February 1990, pp. 89–94. Cohen, Derek, ‘‘The Containment of Monarchy: Richard II,’’ in Shakespeare’s Culture of Violence, St. Martin’s Press, 1993, pp. 10–29. French, A. L., ‘‘Who Deposed Richard the Second?,’’ in Essays in Criticism, Vol. 17, No. 4, October 1967, pp. 411–33. Friedman, Donald M., ‘‘John of Gaunt and the Rhetoric of Frustration,’’ in English Literary History, Vol. 43, No. 3, Fall 1976, 279–99. Frye, Northrop, ‘‘The Bolingbroke Plays (Richard II, Henry IV),’’ in Northrop Frye on Shakespeare, edited by Robert Sandler, Yale University Press, 1986, pp. 51–81. Gurr, Andrew, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in King Richard II, by William Shakespeare, Cambridge University Press, 1984, pp. 1–52. Hamilton, Donna B., ‘‘The State of Law in Richard II,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 34, No. 1, Spring 1983, pp. 5–17. Hunter, Edwin R., ‘‘Shakspere’s Intentions Regarding King Richard II,’’ in Shakspere and Common Sense, The Christopher Publishing House, 1954, pp. 31–48. Jensen, Pamela K., ‘‘Beggars and Kings: Cowardice and Courage in Shakespeare’s Richard II,’’ in Interpretations , Vol. 18, No. 1, Fall 1990, pp. 111–43. Kehler, Dorothea, ‘‘King of Tears: Mortality in Richard II,’’ in Rocky Mountain Review of Language and Literature, Vol. 39, No. 1, 1985, pp. 7–18. MacIsaac, Warren J., ‘‘The Three Cousins in Richard II,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 22, No. 2, Spring 1971, pp. 137–46. Maus, Katharine Eisaman, ‘‘Richard II,’’ in The Norton Shakespeare, edited by Stephen Greenblatt, W. W. Norton & Company, 1997, pp. 943–51. Source: Wolfgang Clemen, ‘‘Richard II,’’ in The Development of Shakespeare’s Imagery, Methuan and Co., 1977, pp. 53–62.

Moore, Jeanie Grant, ‘‘Queen of Sorrow, King of Grief: Reflections and Perspectives in Richard II,’’ in In Another Country: Feminist Perspectives on Renaissance Drama, edited by Dorothea Kehler and Susan Baker, Scarecrow Press, 1991, pp. 19–35.

SOURCES Altick, Richard, ‘‘Symphonic Imagery in Richard II,’’ in The Tragedy of King Richard the Second, by William Shakespeare, New American Library, 1963, pp. 199–234.


McDonald, Russ, The Bedford Companion to Shakespeare, 2nd ed., Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2001.

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Muir, Kenneth, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Tragedy of King Richard the Second, by William Shakespeare, New American Library, 1963, pp. xxiii–xxxvii. Norwich, John Julius, Shakespeare’s Kings, Scribner, 1999.

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Owen, Lewis J., ‘‘Richard II,’’ in Lectures on Four of Shakespeare’s History Plays, Carnegie Institute of Technology, 1953, pp. 3–18. Palmer, John, ‘‘Richard of Bordeaux,’’ in Political Characters of Shakespeare, Macmillan and Company, 1945, pp. 118–79. Pater, Walter, ‘‘Shakespeare’s English Kings,’’ in The Tragedy of King Richard the Second, by William Shakespeare, New American Library, 1963, pp. 191–98. Potter, Lois, ‘‘The Antic Disposition of Richard II,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 27, 1974, pp. 33–41. Pye, Christopher, ‘‘The Betrayal of the Gaze: Richard II,’’ in The Regal Phantasm: Shakespeare and the Politics of Spectacle, Routledge, 1990, pp. 82–105. Rackin, Phyllis, ‘‘The Role of the Audience in Shakespeare’s Richard II,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 36, No. 3, Autumn 1985, pp. 262–81. Reese, M. M., ‘‘Richard II,’’ in The Cease of Majesty: A Study of Shakespeare’s History Plays, Edward Arnold Publishers, 1961, pp. 225–60. Shakespeare, William, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second, edited by Kenneth Muir, New American Library, 1963. Suzman, Arthur, ‘‘Imagery and Symbolism in Richard II,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 7, No. 3, Summer 1956, pp. 357–70. Thayer, C. G., ‘‘The Silent King: Providential Intervention, Fair Sequence and Succession,’’ in Shakespearean Politics: Government and Misgovernment in the Great Histories, Ohio University Press, 1983, pp. 62–70. Traversi, Derek, Excerpt from ‘‘Shakespeare from Richard II to Henry V,’’ in The Tragedy of King Richard

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the Second, by William Shakespeare, New American Library, 1963, pp. 235–48.

FURTHER READING Beavan, Bryan, King Richard II, Rubicon, 1996. Beavan presents an objective and enlightening study of the life of the historical Richard II. Saul, Nigel, ed., The Oxford Illustrated History of Medieval England, Oxford University Press, 1997. This comprehensive and accessible treatment of the thousand or so years that constituted medieval times in England addresses the life of Richard II in the context of the evolution of all of English society. Strachey, Lytton, Elizabeth and Essex: A Tragic History, Harvest Books, 2002. The Earl of Essex, once a favorite of Queen Elizabeth and rumored to be a potential mate, eventually attempted to overthrow her, with his conspirators sponsoring a performance of Richard II beforehand as rebellious propaganda. Strachey presents an insightful and compelling portrait of the relationship between Elizabeth and Essex, and where it led. Tomlinson, Richard, Divine Right: The Inglorious Survival of British Royalty, Little Brown Company, 1995. This work brings the discussion regarding the divine right of kings into the modern era, offering a scathing indictment of the manner in which members of the British monarchy have ever held onto their privileged positions.

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Richard III Although Richard III was first published in 1597, most scholars believe that this play about the rise and fall of a wicked king was written several years earlier, probably in 1592 or 1593, and was first performed shortly afterward. Evidence shows that it was popular from the beginning. The Elizabethan actor Richard Burbage achieved distinction playing Richard III, and the character’s final line—‘‘A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!’’—was already famous by the time Richard Corbet wrote a poem about the play in 1618 or 1621. Historians believe that Shakespeare’s audiences would have especially appreciated the patriotic speech given by Richmond, who becomes King Henry VII in the last act and was Queen Elizabeth I’s grandfather.

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Early critical assessment of Richard III was mixed. Sir William Cornwallis (1600) and William Winstanley (1660), for example, objected to Shakespeare’s portrayal of King Richard as ‘‘a monster.’’ In contrast, the poet John Milton (1650) argued that the character in the play was ‘‘true to his historical counterpart.’’ Today, most scholars agree that Shakespeare based the drama primarily on Edward Hall’s The Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Famelies of Lancastre and Yorke (1548). Hall’s work relies on both fact and fiction to tell the history of King Richard III’s family, the House of York, and its long power struggle—known as the Wars of the Roses—with King Henry VII’s family, the House of Lancaster. A secondary source was

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probably Raphael Holinshed’s Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland (1587). In turn, each of these works was based upon Sir Thomas More’s witty and ironic Historie of King Richard the Thirde, published around 1513. In this account, More—who grew up in the household of the bishop of Ely, a minister to Henry VII— used a dry, almost humorous tone to describe Richard as hunchbacked, tyrannical, and evil. Shakespeare’s play varies from its sources in numerous ways but two are of particular importance. The first is that, although Shakespeare borrowed More’s ironic narrative tone, he placed it in Richard’s mouth, so that the character becomes a complex, semicomical villain who laughs at himself and others even while he is plotting to do harm. The fact that Richard III functions as a sequel to Shakespeare’s three plays on the previous monarch, King Henry VI, accounts for the second of Shakespeare’s significant modifications: in Richard III, Margaret, the widow of Henry VI—the Lancastrian king who was murdered by Richard in Henry VI, Part Three—remains in England, where the play is set, rather than sailing home to France, as she did according to history. Onstage, Margaret voices her opinion on the action in the play, predicting the doom and misery that will serve as her revenge on Richard and his supporters. In cursing those who brought about her and her husband’s downfall, Margaret serves the same dramatic function as a chorus; a chorus, or individual choral figures, are sometimes used to describe events that occur before the beginning of a play or to comment on the play’s action as it unfolds. Richard’s complexity and Margaret’s haunting presence have generated much critical discussion, especially with regard to the play’s themes of divine retribution. Richard’s coronation comes toward the end of the Wars of the Roses, a long period of bloody civil strife, and some critics argue that his wickedness functions as both divine punishment against the warring parties and also as a method of cleansing England in preparation for a new era of peace. Margaret proves intricately involved in the development of the play, with her curses on each guilty character eventually being fulfilled. Above all, Richard is the central focus of the play. He is a ruthless, compellingly witty character who arguably has firm control of the people and events around him. In large measure thanks

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to Richard’s dazzling wickedness, Richard III remains one of Shakespeare’s most popular plays.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 At the beginning of Richard III, on a London street, Richard, Duke of Gloucester and brother to King Edward IV, remarks that times of war have come and gone—and since his deformed person (he was purportedly hunchbacked) turns him away from romantic or peaceful interests, he will play the villain and convince King Edward that their other brother, George, Duke of Clarence, is a threat. Indeed, Clarence enters, guarded by Brakenbury, and laments that he is being imprisoned simply for bearing a name that starts with the letter G; a wizard has told King Edward that someone named so should be disinherited. Feigning sympathy, Richard declares that Queen Elizabeth and her brother Earl Rivers must have slandered him. Brakenbury interrupts, and as Clarence is led away, Richard promises aid to his brother. Once alone, Richard remarks that he intends to have Clarence murdered immediately. Lord Hastings, himself just released from prison, arrives to note that King Edward is sick. When Hastings leaves, Richard declares that he intends to marry Lady Anne, whose father-in-law and husband—King Henry VI and his son Edward—Richard recently killed.

Act 1, Scene 2 Lady Anne is seeing the coffin of Henry VI transported through the streets, and the funeral procession pauses so that she can mourn his death—and curse his murderer, Richard. As they prepare to move on, Richard enters and forces them to pause again. When Anne curses Richard to his face, he begs for pity and flatters her. He also denies having killed her husband, blaming Edward instead, but admits to killing Henry, who he claims is better off in heaven. He then professes a desire to gain Lady Anne’s bedchamber, asserting that he in fact killed both men because he was moved by her beauty. She still wishes revenge on Richard, who says that he will love Anne better than did her deceased husband. He then expounds upon how he had never been moved to shed a tear until he was struck by her beauty. When she continues to scorn him, he offers his sword, that she might slay him. She moves to do so—but when he again praises her

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is simply jealous of the political advancement of her kin. Richard accuses Queen Elizabeth of causing Clarence’s imprisonment, which she denies. Queen Margaret, the widow of King Henry VI, then enters to watch the quarreling unnoticed. While Richard speaks of the good deeds he has done on behalf of King Edward, Margaret criticizes him bitterly in asides. Richard accuses Rivers and the others of backing Henry’s house of Lancaster, to which Rivers replies that he was simply serving his king.

Richard III, King of England

beauty, she lowers the weapon. He then tells her that if she again asks him to kill himself, he would; she does not, however, and when Richard offers her his ring, she accepts it. Richard then bids Anne retire to Crosby House, where he will meet her after directing Henry VI’s body to its burial place. When left alone, he reveals that he does not intend to ‘‘keep’’ Anne for long. He even professes amazement that Anne should show him any favor, given how virtuous her deceased husband had been. In the meantime, he will attire himself well.

Act 1, Scene 3 At the palace, Queen Elizabeth is consoled by her brother and sons about the possible death of her husband; Queen Elizabeth also laments that her own son Edward, the heir apparent, would be placed under the guardianship of Richard if King Edward dies. The Duke of Buckingham and Lord Stanley then arrive to note that the king is in fair health and wishes to make peace between parties that have been quarreling recently. Richard then enters to complain that people such as Lord Grey have been unfairly speaking ill of him; Queen Elizabeth retorts that Richard


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At length, Margaret comes forth to declare that she is ignoring her banishment and demanding recognition of the extreme sorrows she has suffered. Invoking the earlier death of Rutland, Richard rouses Queen Elizabeth and the others present to condemn Margaret. Furious, Margaret curses nearly everyone present for their treachery to her family; she lays her longest curse on Richard, warning the others that they will one day wish they had supported that cursing. She expresses no ill will toward Buckingham alone, who tries to make peace, but Margaret insists that God will see that her revenge is had and that they will all regret allying with Richard. When Margaret leaves, Richard plays the role of a penitent and forgiving Christian. After Catesby arrives and ushers everyone else off toward King Edward, Richard muses over how he has convinced Derby, Hastings, and Buckingham that Queen Elizabeth and her relatives conspired against Clarence. The two men whom Richard has hired to kill Clarence then arrive and accept a warrant from Richard. He urges them to kill Clarence without listening to any of his pleas.

Act 1, Scene 4 Clarence relates to the Keeper the dream he had the previous night, in which Richard seemed to knock him overboard accidentally as they were crossing the sea to France; after long drowning and gazing at the morbid wonders beneath the sea, he traveled to hell to be tormented by the souls he had wronged. After Clarence prays for his family’s welfare, he falls asleep; Brakenbury then enters and speaks a few words about the glory of princes, to be followed in by the two Murderers, who present their warrant. After Brakenbury and the Keeper leave, the Murderers have second thoughts about their deed when they remember Judgment Day. They regain their resolve thinking about the reward

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that Richard will give them, with the Second Murderer ruminating on the eternal nagging of the conscience—and losing his resolve again. Clarence awakes, and the two men inform him that they have come on behalf of King Edward to kill him. Clarence pleads that he deserves no harm from them, having never done them harm, but the men invoke the authority of King Edward—which Clarence insists should be ignored if it contradicts the authority of God. But the Murderers point out that Clarence forsook his oath to serve King Henry VI, leaving Clarence to question how Edward, for whose sake he rebelled against Henry, can be justified in ordering his murder. The Murderers inform Clarence that Gloucester—who had correctly anticipated Clarence’s pleading—was no ally of his. Clarence continues to plead, and the Second Murderer hesitates, but the First Murderer finally manages to stab Clarence. He then takes Clarence away to throw him in a wine cask, while the Second Murderer repents.

alive. At length, the children mourn their father’s death, Queen Elizabeth mourns her husband’s death, and the Duchess mourns both deaths. Richard, Buckingham, and others arrive to announce a plan to send a small party to bring the deceased king’s son, also named Edward, to London. Buckingham and Rivers voice their concern over the fragility of the rule of such a young man. Expressing his own hopes of maintaining peace, Richard sends Queen Elizabeth and his mother to fetch the young prince. Buckingham then reveals that he intends to help Richard turn Queen Elizabeth’s kin against young Edward.

Act 2, Scene 3 Three Citizens gather and speak of political matters. Knowing that King Edward is dead, they wonder how effectively the young prince will rule. The Third Citizen points out that both Queen Elizabeth’s kin and Richard might conspire to gain the throne. The First Citizen voices some optimism, but the others have little hope that peace will hold.

Act 2, Scene 1 King Edward delights in the peacemaking he has accomplished among the various courtly parties before him, including Hastings, Rivers, Dorset, Buckingham, and Queen Elizabeth. When Richard arrives, he likewise speaks out in a grand and lofty style on behalf of making peace. Queen Elizabeth then suggests that Clarence should be shown mercy, at which Richard announces that Clarence has died in prison. When Stanley arrives in an untimely fashion to beg clemency for his servant, who committed murder, Edward laments that no one had seen fit to beg him to show clemency to Clarence, as Clarence had done him so much service. When King Edward expresses fear of God’s retribution and departs with others, Richard voices to Buckingham his suspicion that Queen Elizabeth and her kin ordered Clarence’s death.

Act 2, Scene 2 At the palace, the old Duchess of York, mother of King Edward, Richard, and Clarence, is talking to Clarence’s son and daughter about his death and Edward’s sickness. The children inform their grandmother that Richard has blamed Edward for Clarence’s death, which the Duchess disputes. Queen Elizabeth then enters to relate that King Edward has just died. The Duchess expresses her grief over the deaths of the two virtuous images of her husband, with only the ‘‘false glass’’ of Richard remaining

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Act 2, Scene 4 The Duchess of York and Queen Elizabeth wonder at how much Prince Edward has grown, especially in relation to his brother the sprouting Duke of York. York remarks that Richard had told him that weeds grow quickly, flowers slowly; the Duchess remarks that Richard grew slowly but was certainly no flower, and York relates a jest he might have made at Richard’s expense. A Messenger then arrives to announce that Rivers, Grey, and Sir Thomas Vaughan have been taken prisoner, leading Queen Elizabeth to be alarmed at the coming ruin of her house. The Duchess despairs, and Queen Elizabeth and the young York head for sanctuary.

Act 3, Scene 1 Richard and Buckingham welcome Prince Edward, who is weary with travel and grief over his deceased uncles. Richard assures him that they died for being false friends, which Edward doubts. Edward greets the Mayor and Citizens kindly, then wonders why his mother and brother have not arrived; Hastings then enters to note that the two have taken sanctuary, and Buckingham denounces Queen Elizabeth’s peevishness and asks the Cardinal to fetch York. The Cardinal objects, but Buckingham convinces him that to do so would not be a violation of the laws of sanctuary.

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Richard suggests to Prince Edward that he lodge at the Tower, which was built by Julius Caesar. Prince Edward contemplates the nature of fame and determines that he will someday attempt to conquer France. The Cardinal returns with York, who then parries wits with his uncle. At length, Richard persuades York and Prince Edward to proceed to the Tower; when they depart, Buckingham remarks that Queen Elizabeth must have incited York to be insolent. He then asks Catesby whether Hastings will join them in their plot to gain Richard’s coronation as king. Catesby leaves to probe Hastings while informing him of the impending execution of Queen Elizabeth’s kin, Hastings’s enemies; Richard asserts that Hastings will be beheaded if he does not cooperate.

Act 3, Scene 2 At the house of Hastings, a messenger arrives from Lord Stanley, who dreamt that he was beheaded by Richard, ‘‘the boar,’’ and is concerned over the meetings of the separated councils. Hastings tells the messenger that Stanley need not worry, as Catesby will inform him of goings-on at the alternate council. Catesby arrives and tells Hastings of the impending executions, and Hastings rejoices— but remarks that he would never support Richard’s coronation as king, leading Catesby to comment in an aside about Hastings’s impending execution. Stanley then arrives and expresses his concern in person, which Hastings dismisses. Hastings then tells a Pursuivant (a royal messenger) of his delight in the execution of Queen Elizabeth’s kin, and he holds brief counsel with a priest. Buckingham then fetches Hastings to dine—and die—at the Tower.

Act 3, Scene 3 At Pomfret Castle, Ratcliffe leads Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan to their deaths. Rivers and Grey lament the fulfillment of Margaret’s curses.

Act 3, Scene 4 A number of lords are dining at the Tower and planning the date of Edward’s coronation, with Hastings declaring that he will speak on behalf of Richard in his absence. Richard then arrives; after sending the Bishop of Ely to fetch him some strawberries, Richard learns from Buckingham of Hastings’s unwillingness to join their plot. Richard and Buckingham exit, leaving Hastings to assert that Richard is evidently in good spirits.


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When the two men return, Richard complains that Queen Elizabeth and Jane Shore, Edward’s mistress, had practiced witchcraft against him, crippling his arm. Hastings utters a comment that Richard insists is a treasonous defense of Shore and declares that Hastings will be immediately beheaded. Hastings, too, laments the fulfillment of Margaret’s curse.

Act 3, Scene 5 At the Tower, Richard and Buckingham greet the Mayor with a display of paranoia over traitors. When Hastings’s head is brought in, Richard declares that Hastings had been associating with Shore, and Buckingham says that Hastings had been plotting their murders. They express regret that their supporters had seen fit to execute Hastings so hastily, as the Mayor could not then hear his guilty testimony. The Mayor believes them and departs, and Richard tells Buckingham to go to London and persuade the people that Edward’s line is corrupted with bastardy. Meanwhile, Richard will have holy men join him at Baynard’s Castle and remarks that he will have Clarence’s children confined to solitude.

Act 3: Scene 6 The Scrivener who copied the indictment of Hastings notes that the entire episode seems tainted with treachery, but he knows better than to put his own life at risk by saying anything.

Act 3, Scene 7 At Baynard’s Castle, Buckingham reports to Richard that he managed to convince some people that the late King Edward was himself a bastard child and that Richard should be named king instead of Prince Edward. The response to his assertions was unenthusiastic, but the idea was established nevertheless. Richard then enters the castle, while Buckingham will pretend to be seeking an audience with him but having difficulty. Catesby acts as messenger, telling Buckingham in the Mayor’s presence that Richard’s religious duties are his priority; Buckingham then comments pointedly about Richard’s piety, in contrast to the late Edward’s purported adultery. After Catesby goes back inside, Richard appears in the presence of two Bishops and asks why Buckingham and the others have sought him there. Buckingham declares that Richard would be doing the

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nation good service by accepting the crown, but Richard humbly refuses, saying that he has no ambition to rule the nation and that Prince Edward will prove a perfectly capable leader. Buckingham insists, noting there are serious doubts about Prince Edward’s legitimacy as heir to the throne. Richard refuses, Buckingham expresses severe disappointment, and the Mayor and the others leave; Richard then has Catesby call them back, and he tells them that he will accept the kingship for the good of the nation after all. Buckingham announces that the coronation should take place tomorrow, and Richard retires with the Bishops.

Act 4, Scene 1 The Duchess of York, Queen Elizabeth, and Anne cross paths at the Tower. There, Brakenbury informs Queen Elizabeth that Richard— whom he calls first king, then Lord Protector— has disallowed any contact with the Princes Edward and York. Stanley then arrives, sent by Richard to bring Anne to be crowned queen, and Queen Elizabeth mourns that Margaret’s curse is coming to pass; she urges her son Dorset to flee to join Richmond, the stepson of Stanley, in Breton (Brittany), France. Before leaving with Stanley, Anne regrets that she allowed herself to be wooed by the man who killed her husband; in fact, since she cursed whoever would be Richard’s wife, she cursed herself. Before again heading for sanctuary, Queen Elizabeth bids the Tower’s stones keep her sons safe.

Act 4, Scene 2 After being helped to the throne by Buckingham, Richard eventually manages to tell him that he wishes that Prince Edward be slain. Buckingham asks for time to consider the order, and Richard immediately loses confidence in Buckingham and instead asks a page if he knows anyone who would commit murder for a fair reward; the page suggests a man named Tyrrel. Stanley arrives to report that Dorset has fled to the aid of Richmond. Richard then tells Catesby to spread rumors that Anne is grievously ill and declares that he intends to find a lowly mate for Clarence’s daughter while he himself will marry King Edward and Queen Elizabeth’s daughter. Tyrrel arrives, and Richard orders him to kill Edward and York. Buckingham then returns, and while Richard muses over the threat of Richmond, Buckingham boldly and repeatedly asks for the earldom of Hereford, which Richard had

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promised him. When Richard refuses, Buckingham resolves to flee.

Act 4, Scene 3 Tyrrel reveals that two men murdered the princes on his behalf—and afterward regretted doing so. After receiving this news, Richard reveals that Clarence’s children have been dealt with and that Anne has also passed away. Richard then notes that he would woo Elizabeth, daughter of Queen Elizabeth, in part because Richmond might otherwise do so in a ploy to gain the throne. Ratcliffe arrives to announce that the Bishop of Ely has fled to Richmond and that Buckingham is rallying an army of rebellious Welshmen.

Act 4, Scene 4 Queen Margaret, slinking about the palace, happens upon the grieving Queen Elizabeth and Duchess of York. Margaret eventually approaches the women as if to extend sympathy, but instead she rejoices in their sorrows, which she sees as fitting retribution for the wrongs she herself has suffered. She castigates the Duchess for having given birth to Richard, who has brought about so many deaths. Elizabeth wishes only to learn how to issue curses from Margaret, but she merely turns and departs. King Richard then appears, to be intercepted by the two women. He initially has his trumpeters drown out their chiding, but the Duchess demands an audience; she prophecies that Richard will die in battle, with his enemies heartened by the souls of King Edward’s slain children. Queen Elizabeth starts to leave after the Duchess, but Richard asks her to stay and inquires of her daughter, also named Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth declares that she would sooner damage her own self by declaring that someone other than King Edward was the girl’s father than allow her to be used—or killed—for Richard’s advantage. At length, Richard admits that he wishes to marry young Elizabeth, but Queen Elizabeth doubts that his love is genuine and asks how he could actually woo her, given all of their family members whose deaths he ordered. Still, Richard describes how Queen Elizabeth could regain her former stature and rebuild her family by endorsing the match; in place of the sons she lost, she would be blessed with royal grandchildren. Queen Elizabeth resists, offering various objections to the match; when Richard begins to swear an oath, she points out that he

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has already forsaken all sacred people and things and thus has no one and nothing to swear on. Still, Richard insists that only a union between himself and Elizabeth can bring peace to the nation, and Queen Elizabeth at last relents and goes to speak to her daughter. Ratcliffe arrives to inform Richard that Richmond’s navy is awaiting the help of Buckingham’s army on the western coast. Richard seems confused in giving orders to Catesby and Ratcliffe. Stanley arrives and confirms that Richmond is at sea, presumably on his way to ally with Dorset and Buckingham and seek the crown. Stanley assures Richard that his loyalty lies with him, not with his own stepson, and so Richard bids him to raise troops in the north— while another of Stanley’s sons, George Stanley, will be held hostage. Two Messengers arrive to report that various lords are up in arms, but a Third Messenger reports that Buckingham’s army is scattered, and a Fourth Messenger declares that Richmond’s navy has been dispersed by a storm. Finally, Catesby arrives to report that Buckingham has been taken and that Richmond has landed at Milford.

Act 4, Scene 5 Stanley sends Sir Christopher to tell his stepson Richmond that he cannot send aid while his other son is being held by Richard but also that Queen Elizabeth has consented to give Richmond her daughter’s hand. Sir Christopher notes that Richmond has already been joined by a number of valiant soldiers.

Act 5, Scene 1 As he is led to his execution, Buckingham expresses remorse for his role in Richard’s rise to the throne and admits that he deserves the punishment he is receiving.

Act 5, Scene 2 At Richmond’s camp, Richmond announces that they are receiving reinforcements from Stanley and condemns Richard’s bloody tyranny, which brings words of support from Oxford, Blunt, and Herbert.

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for Stanley and retires to his own tent to discuss strategy. In turn, Richard dispatches Catesby to bid Stanley to join them before sunrise; Richard then asks for wine, inquires as to the melancholy Northumberland, and confesses to being somewhat low in spirits. At length, he sleeps. Stanley then arrives at Richmond’s tent to assure him that he will offer his aid in the coming battle; however, with his son’s life at stake, Stanley cannot be too obvious in his support. Richmond prays for his soldiers and likewise falls asleep. As the two men lie unconscious, the ghosts of Richard’s many victims—including King Henry VI, Henry’s son Edward, Clarence, Rivers, Grey, Vaughan, Hastings, the young Princes Edward and York, Lady Anne, and Buckingham—pay them visits, all telling Richard to despair and die and telling Richmond that he should take heart and be victorious. When Richard wakes, he frets over his afflicted conscience and realizes that he deserves the love of no one—and does not even love himself. He imagines that he dreamed the visits of the many ghosts. Ratcliffe then enters to rouse Richard to prepare for battle; fearing the desertion of his friends, Richard entreats Ratcliffe to join him in eavesdropping on their men. Richmond, too, then wakes, much heartened by the kindly visits from the ghosts that he seemed to have dreamed. He delivers an oration to his men, asserting that they are on the side of good, fighting against evil, and that Richard’s allies, who certainly fear him and would rather not be ruled by him, are bound to desert him when confronted in battle. Richard, meanwhile, is reassured as to his men’s loyalty but despairs now at the fact that the sun will not shine that day. Norfolk reveals that he received a cryptic note, which Richard dismisses as a ruse by the enemy. Speaking to his own army, Richard denounces the rebels as unruly, greedy, pathetic vagabonds from France. A Messenger arrives to report that Stanley will not join them, and Richard demands the head of Stanley’s son—but Norwich points out that the enemy is advancing, and they set off to battle.

Act 5, Scene 4 Act 5, Scene 3 At Bosworth Field, Richard’s tent is pitched, and Norfolk assures Richard that Richmond’s rebel army is only a third of the size of the royal army. Meanwhile, Richmond dispatches Blunt with a note


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In the heat of the battle, Catesby seeks help for Richard, who has fought fiercely even on foot. Having slain five of Richmond’s doubles, Richard exclaims that he would give his kingdom for a horse.

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that his son George has fortunately not been killed. Richmond declares that in marrying young Elizabeth, he will at last be uniting his own house of Lancaster with Elizabeth’s house of York, ending the civil strife that has long plagued the nation.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS A critically acclaimed motion picture version of Richard III was produced and directed by Laurence Olivier in 1955 through London Film Productions. The film features Olivier himself, John Gielgud, Ralph Richardson, and Claire Bloom. The film was distributed on video by Embassy Home Entertainment in 1985. The British Broadcasting Corporation and Time-Life Television produced a televised performance of The Tragedy of Richard the Third in 1983, as part of the ‘‘Shakespeare Plays’’ series on PBS. Another motion picture version of Richard III was directed by Richard Loncraine and produced by Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer/United Artists in 1995; it was set in an imaginary England of the 1930s, capturing the political atmosphere of instability and tyranny of the play’s true historical time period. Ian McKellen, who wrote the screenplay, fills the role of Richard III, with other stars including Annette Bening as Queen Elizabeth, Jim Broadbent as Buckingham, Robert Downey Jr. as Rivers, Nigel Hawthorne as Clarence, Kristin Scott Thomas as Anne, and Maggie Smith as the Duchess of York. Al Pacino’s 1996 Looking for Richard is a unique film, mixing documentary interviews about the play with scholars, critics, actors, and people on the street with fully costumed and staged scenes from the play. Pacino directed, cowrote the narration with Frederic Kimball, and stars as Richard III. Winona Ryder is Lady Anne, Alec Baldwin is Clarence, and Kevin Spacey is Buckingham. Estelle Parsons is the cursing Queen Margaret.

Act 5, Scene 5 Richmond slays Richard. Having taken the crown from the deceased King Richard’s head, Stanley turns it over to Richmond. Stanley notes

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CHARACTERS Lady Anne As the widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, who was the son and heir of King Henry VI, Anne hates Richard for murdering her husband and father-in-law, but Richard charms her into marrying him. As Richard’s unhappy queen, she dies of unstated causes after he tires of her. Anne first appears following the coffin of her father-in-law, Henry VI. She laments King Henry’s death and curses his murderer, Richard, and also places a curse on any woman who marries Richard— thus, ironically, cursing herself. When Richard enters and halts the funeral procession, Anne disgustedly calls him a ‘‘foul devil’’ and begs for lightning to strike him dead. But Richard is persistent: he flatters Anne and excuses his crimes by asserting that he was inspired by her beauty, claims he loves her, and even invites her to kill him with his own sword. Eventually, Anne relents. ‘‘I would I knew thy heart,’’ she tells him before agreeing to accept his ring. In acknowledging how implausible this scene is, critics have attempted to show how Richard successfully woos Anne. He carefully listens to her, observes her changing emotions, and adapts his arguments to these changes, eventually winning her sympathy. He plays upon Anne’s grief and skillfully manipulates her. Some critics argue that, in addition to being in mourning, Anne is susceptible to Richard’s advances simply because she behaves as women were expected to at the time. When Anne appears for the next and last time, in act 4, scene 1, she has married Richard and is miserable. She recalls the curse she had made on any woman ‘‘mad’’ enough to become his wife and bitterly laments, ‘‘Within so small a time, my woman’s heart / Grossly grew captive to his honey words, / And prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s curse.’’ She goes unwillingly to Westminster to be crowned Richard’s queen. Richard later starts a rumor that Anne is

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seriously ill, then later still he briefly mentions that she has died. Traditionally, Anne has been regarded as weak and vain for being fooled by Richard’s flattery. However, given Richard’s powerful position as brother to King Edward and his demonstrated ruthlessness, Anne certainly cannot kill him and so has little choice but to accept him. Although her appearance in the play is fairly brief, Anne’s role is important in that her encounter with Richard provides an early and revealing glimpse of his cunning and persuasiveness.

Boy and Daughter Clarence’s children, whose unmentioned names are Edward and Margaret, discuss their father’s death with their grandmother, the Duchess of York, revealing how thoroughly Richard had convinced them that King Edward was the one responsible.

Sir Robert Brakenbury Brakenbury is Lieutenant of the Tower of London and in charge of the prison, where first the Duke of Clarence and later King Edward’s two young sons are held.

Sir William Catesby As a supporter of Richard, Catesby is sent to find out whether Hastings will support Richard’s coronation and manages to probe and advise the lord without revealing his own relationship to the aspiring usurper. Catesby also assists in Richard’s deceptive posing as a man of religion at Baynard’s Castle and, during the battle on Bosworth Field, calls out for the rescue of the frantic King Richard.

Citizens Three Citizens discuss the death of King Edward IV and their low expectations with regard to the country’s future, demonstrating the opinions of the common people.

Marquis of Dorset Dorset is Queen Elizabeth’s son from a previous marriage. He joins the Earl of Richmond’s side after Richard is crowned king.

King Edward IV Edward IV is the king of England at the play’s opening. Edward is ill at the beginning of the play, and his only substantial activity is the peacemaking he accomplishes among his courtly


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followers and his wife’s family. After Richard appears and declares that King Edward’s pardon for their brother, the Duke of Clarence, came too late to save him from death, he laments that no one advised him to be merciful earlier. He then marches off and later dies.

Duke of Buckingham Buckingham is Richard’s primary coconspirator. He helps Richard become king but falls out of favor when he balks at murdering Edward IV’s two young sons. He joins the Earl of Richmond’s side against Richard but is later captured and executed. Serving as Richard’s right-hand man, Buckingham plays an important role in the play. Richard uses him as an adviser and a spy and in fact calls him ‘‘my other self’’ in act 2, scene 2. Buckingham’s first appearances give no indication that he is anything other than a minor character; Richard refers to him merely as one of several ‘‘simple gulls’’ or fools whom he is deceiving in act 1, scene 3. Once King Edward dies, Buckingham gains prominence, as he schemes to place the king’s heir—Edward, Prince of Wales—in Richard’s power by fetching the child to London without the protection of his mother or her kinsmen. When Queen Elizabeth flees to sanctuary with her youngest son, the Duke of York, Buckingham takes it upon himself to order the child brought back to London. In act 3, scene 5, Buckingham asserts that he is nearly as good an actor as Richard is: ‘‘I can counterfeit the deep tragedian,’’ he says, as he and Richard prepare to fool the Mayor of London into believing that Richard is a good man who has been cruelly betrayed. He insists, ‘‘Ghastly ` smiles; / looks / Are at my service, like enforceed And both are ready in their offices / At any time to grace my stratagems.’’ He proves his point well in scene 7 when he helps Richard stage so convincing a performance of pious humility and reluctant royal worth that the citizens of London entreat Richard to become king. Still, Buckingham falls short of being Richard’s ‘‘other self’’ when it comes to murdering the two young princes. In act 4, scene 2, the newly crowned Richard first hints then bluntly states that he wants King Edward’s heirs killed. Buckingham’s reply—‘‘Your Grace may do your pleasure’’—does not satisfy Richard, who needs a perpetrator for a crime so heinous. Buckingham’s next attempt to postpone making a decision only

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infuriates Richard, who mutters, ‘‘High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect.’’ Later, when Buckingham returns to the question of the princes’ murder—as well as that of the earldom he hoped to earn through his treachery—Richard dismisses him. Buckingham’s hesitation costs him his life. Although similar to Richard, having likewise been described as a machiavel, ultimately Buckingham is no match for his deceitful king.

Edward, Prince of Wales The Prince of Wales is the young son and heir of King Edward IV. Along with his younger brother, the Duke of York, he is led to—and imprisoned in—the Tower of London by his ambitious uncle Richard. Later both children are murdered on Richard’s orders.

Queen Elizabeth Formerly Lady Grey, she is the wife of King Edward IV and the mother of Edward, Prince of Wales, and Richard, Duke of York, the King’s two young heirs. She shows a certain familial affiliation for Richard at first—supporting Richard’s schoolyard-style deflection of Margaret’s curse on him, confirming, ‘‘Thus have you breathed your curse against yourself’’—but ultimately Queen Elizabeth hates Richard for murdering her brother and her sons. Nevertheless, he persuades her to consider him as a mate for her daughter, Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth’s presence and comments generally highlight Richard’s ruthless quest for the throne, since, as King Edward’s wife and the mother of the heir, she has perhaps the most direct interest in Richard’s success or failure. As early as the first scene, Richard is seen spreading lies regarding her influence over King Edward, revealing that Queen Elizabeth and her relatives are operating as a distinct faction in the context of the court. Queen Elizabeth first enters in act 1, scene 3, voicing her fears about the king’s illness to her brother, Lord Rivers, and her two older sons, Lord Grey and the Marquis of Dorset. She knows that if King Edward dies, her young son Edward, Prince of Wales, the heir to the throne, could be placed under Richard’s protection, ‘‘a man,’’ she tells her sons and brother, ‘‘that loves not me, nor none of you’’; indeed, Richard appears shortly afterward and insults her. In act 2, scene 1, Queen Elizabeth and her kinsmen reconcile with Richard and other members of the court at King Edward’s request. But

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by scene 2, he is dead, and the distraught Queen Elizabeth agrees with Richard that the Prince of Wales should be brought to court. By scene 4, her situation has worsened, as Richard has imprisoned Rivers and Grey, and also holds the Prince of Wales in his custody. Queen Elizabeth realizes that Richard now controls the government, remarking, ‘‘Insulting tyranny begins to jut / Upon the innocent and aweless throne.’’ She flees with her youngest son, York, into sanctuary, but Richard and Buckingham order York brought back to London to ‘‘lodge’’ in the Tower with the Prince of Wales, and in act 4, scene 1, Elizabeth is barred from visiting them. Elizabeth’s final and most famous encounter with Richard occurs in act 4, scene 4, when she apparently agrees to persuade her daughter to marry him. This scene has been described as a battle of wits between Richard and Elizabeth, and it is not clear who wins. Elizabeth never explicitly states that she will tell her daughter to marry him. Instead she asks, ‘‘Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?’’ and ends by telling Richard, ‘‘I go. Write to me very shortly, / And you shall understand from me her mind.’’ In act 4, scene 5, we are told that she has promised her daughter to the Earl of Richmond. Has Elizabeth been weak-willed and inconsistent, or has she finally outwitted Richard?

George, Duke of Clarence Clarence is the brother of King Edward IV and Richard. He is imprisoned in the Tower of London after Richard turns King Edward against him, never realizing that Richard is his enemy. The dream that he relates to the Keeper is filled with vivid metaphorical imagery that conveys the sense of doom eventually closing over many of the play’s characters. When Richard sends assassins to the Tower, Clarence nearly persuades them not to kill him, but the more determined of the two eventually stabs him.

Ghosts Among the Ghosts who visit King Richard and Richmond on the night before the battle at Bosworth are Edward, Prince of Wales, Henry VI’s son, who was stabbed by Richard; King Henry VI, who was murdered by Richard; Clarence; Rivers, Grey, and Vaughan; Hastings; the young princes Edward and York; Lady Anne; and Buckingham.

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Lord Grey Lord Grey is Queen Elizabeth’s son from a previous marriage; Richard has him assassinated.

Lord Hastings Sometimes called Lord Chamberlain, Hastings is assassinated for expressing that he would not support Richard’s ambition to be king.

Henry, Earl of Richmond Henry, known in the plays as Richmond, is a Lancastrian who raises an army to defeat King Richard III and end his reign of tyranny. Although he is the play’s hero, Richmond’s role is minimal; he interacts with other characters very little, giving only a few substantial speeches on his way to slaying Richard and gaining the throne to become Henry VII.

Margaret is the widow of King Henry VI, who was murdered by Richard. She prophesies revenge for herself and destruction for King Edward IV’s family and supporters. Margaret appears in only two scenes, but her influence is felt throughout the play. She first enters in act 1, scene 3, speaking—as she often does—in asides, commenting to the audience on the bickering among her Yorkist enemies, including Queen Elizabeth and her kinsmen, Richard, Clarence, and the various lords. When Margaret finally speaks directly to those present, she curses them, foretelling misery to Elizabeth and death to Rivers and Hastings, reserving her most virulent words for Richard. By the time she appears again in act 4, scene 4, most of her prophecies have been fulfilled. She exults in her revenge and gives Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York some brief advice about how to curse Richard, who has become, as Margaret had predicted, an enemy to all of them. When Richard III is produced onstage, Margaret’s role is frequently omitted on the grounds that the language in her scenes is too formal and repetitive to have an impact on modern audiences. On the other hand, Margaret provides useful background information on Richard’s grim quest for power. Her predictions and ghostlike presence—in act 4 she states, ‘‘Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d / To watch the waning of mine enemies’’—reinforce the theme of divine retribution in the play, as do the characters’ recollections of her prophecies when they are led to their executions. In act 3,

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scene 4, for example, Hastings laments, ‘‘O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse / Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head.’’ Likewise, in act 5, scene 1, Buckingham cries, ‘‘Thus Margaret’s curse falls heavy on my neck.’’

Lord Mayor of London The Lord Mayor is the leader of the citizens of London. After the death of King Edward IV, Richard and Buckingham deceptively convince him that Richard deserves to become king.

Murderers The Two Murderers sent to dispose of Clarence manage to do so only after some hesitation resulting from moral qualms about the act.

Sir Richard Ratcliffe Ratcliffe provides crucial information regarding the activities of King Richard III’s enemies.

Queen Margaret


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Richard, Duke of Gloucester The younger brother of King Edward IV and George, Duke of Clarence, Richard later becomes King Richard III. The play’s opening couplet (‘‘Now is the winter of our discontent / Made glorious summer by this son of York’’) and the final line of act 5, scene 4 (‘‘A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!’’) are probably the most famous lines in the play; appropriately, they are also the first and the last words that Richard speaks. Richard is the energizing force of the play and is responsible for most of its dark comedy, which usually occurs when he is mocking himself or ridiculing his victims. He has been called a machiavel—one who views politics as outside of morality and will use any means, however unscrupulous, to achieve political power— because of his ruthless drive for power. Almost as soon as he appears onstage he tells us that he is ‘‘determined to prove a villain’’ and mentions the traps he is setting against his own brothers. He describes himself as ‘‘deform’d, unfinish’d,’’ and so unpleasant to look at that dogs bark at him, and he blames his wickedness on his physical appearance. One scholar has noted that explicit connections were indeed drawn between external appearance and internal character in Shakespeare’s time. Richard does not announce his intention to become king until act 3, scene 1, but his plots and murders ever lead in that direction, and in act 4 he is finally crowned. A focus of critical debate has been whether Richard himself truly controls

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Antony Sher as Richard III and Penny Downie as Lady Anne in Act I, scene ii at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1984 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

events or whether he is simply a divine instrument meant to clear England of the corruption of civil war so that the country can begin afresh. In either case, toward the end of the play Richard has definitely lost control as well as his sense of humor; in act 5, scene 3, he notes, ‘‘I have not that alacrity of spirit / Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have.’’ The night before battle, he is tormented by sleeplessness and haunted by the ghosts of those he has murdered. The following day he is killed in battle by Richmond. A frequent topic of discussion is the apparent contradiction between Richard’s monstrous behavior and his continuing attractiveness to audiences. One argument suggests that he is not meant to be a realistic character but a melodramatic, comic villain whose extreme antics lighten the mood of what would otherwise be an unendurably morbid play. A somewhat different view holds that Richard’s witty dialogue and his ability to mock himself lead audiences to disassociate him from the many murders that he orders but does not himself commit; the murders

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that he did commit occur before the action of Richard III. It has also been argued that—with the exception of the two young princes—Richard’s victims are not as innocent as they seem but are instead hypocrites who know they are being used and who try unsuccessfully to use Richard. According to this view, Richard is simply more clever than anyone else in the play at getting what he wants.

Richard, Duke of York The younger son of King Edward IV and thus second in line to the throne when his father dies, York demonstrates a certain cleverness in act 2, scene 4, and parries wits with Richard in act 3, scene 1. He is imprisoned in the Tower along with his elder brother by their ambitious uncle Richard, who later has them murdered.

Earl Rivers Rivers is Queen Elizabeth’s brother; Richard has him assassinated.

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Scrivener In discussing the indictment of Hastings that he copied, the scrivener demonstrates how poorly Richard is disguising his foul deeds.

Lord Stanley, Earl of Derby Stanley is the Earl of Richmond’s stepfather. Stanley demonstrates loyalty to Richard but is distrusted by him because he is related to the primary threat to Richard’s rule. As king, Richard takes Stanley’s son George as hostage, hoping to ensure that Stanley will not dare to fight on Richmond’s side. Stanley manages to prevent Richard from realizing that he is indeed supporting his stepson until just before the battle, when Richard has no time to have Stanley’s son executed.

Sir James Tyrrel Tyrrel is recruited by Richard to arrange for the murder of the two young heirs of Edward IV. His brief soliloquy on that heinous crime serves to highlight Richard’s evil.

Sir Christopher Urswick Urswick is a chaplain who sends a letter to Richmond on behalf of Stanley. He also informs Stanley of other supporters of Richmond.

Duchess of York The Duchess of York is the mother of King Edward IV, of George, Duke of Clarence, and of Richard. She mourns the deaths of King Edward and Clarence and curses Richard for his wickedness. After long inhabiting a passive role, commenting only offhand on her low opinion of the youngest of her three sons, she manages to vehemently curse Richard after gaining inspiration from Margaret.

THEMES Succession In act 2, scene 3, of Richard III, a group of English citizens worries over what will become of the nation now that King Edward IV has died and his heir, Edward, Prince of Wales, is still a child. The citizens know that a Protector will be appointed to govern for Prince Edward until he is old enough to rule by himself. They also know that the child’s uncles are vying with one another to be Protector, and the citizens are frightened


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that the inevitable power struggle will throw the country into turmoil. They have already endured a number of chaotic years in the course of the Wars of the Roses, as the Houses of York and Lancaster have fought back and forth for England’s throne, and the citizens of England long for peace and order. Instead, of course, they get Richard. The question of succession in English law, or the order—based on birth or marriage—by which a person lawfully and rightfully becomes monarch, was of much concern to the citizens of England during Shakespeare’s time since their aging queen, Elizabeth I, was unmarried and had no heirs. Although Elizabeth was England’s lawful queen, she had already weathered several challenges to her power, including those of Mary, Queen of Scots, a relative whom Elizabeth finally saw executed in 1587, and Philip II of Spain, who had sent his Armada in 1588 in hopes of unseating her. Thus, a play about an ambitious relative of a king who was determined to become king himself was very relevant to Shakespeare’s audience. Richard knows that he will in truth be a usurper: he will become king through illegal deeds and knows that if he does not at least appear to be England’s lawful ruler, then he will suffer endless challenges to his power. The string of murders that Richard commits and orders before and after he becomes king can be seen as attempts to legitimize his rule by eliminating others with claims to the throne. Of the three brothers—King Edward IV; George, Duke of Clarence; and Richard, Duke of Gloucester— Richard is the youngest of the king’s brothers and farthest from succession to the crown. Clarence is before him and might become the Protector of Edward’s son and heir, the Prince of Wales, when King Edward dies. Thus, when King Edward falls seriously ill, Richard plots to have Clarence killed, removing in one stroke a possible Protector and a potential claimant to the throne. Richard’s next move is to make certain that he alone becomes Protector to his nephew, the Prince of Wales. He eliminates Rivers, who is the prince’s uncle on his mother’s side, and also murders Lord Grey, the prince’s halfbrother. (The prince’s remaining half-brother, the Marquis of Dorset, escapes to join the Earl of Richmond.) Once Richard becomes the unchallenged Protector, he can more easily seize

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the throne for himself. He murders Hastings after that nobleman swears to remain loyal to Prince Edward’s right to the throne. By suggesting that the Prince of Wales and his younger brother, the Duke of York, are illegitimate and not true sons of Edward IV, and are therefore unqualified for succession, Richard and Buckingham convince the citizens that Richard is the only one left who, by lineage and virtue, deserves to be king. Even after Richard becomes king, he knows that his power is vulnerable to challenge as long as the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York remain alive; although imprisoned and hidden from sight, these two rightful heirs to King Edward’s throne could still serve as a rallying point for dissatisfied or ambitious subjects. So Richard adds the two young princes to his list of victims; still, he does not feel secure. He imprisons Clarence’s son because that child has a better claim to the throne than he, and he marries off Clarence’s daughter to a commoner to destroy any possibility of royal claimants coming from that blood line. Finally, Richard hears that his enemy the Lancastrian Earl of Richmond intends to marry Edward IV’s daughter Elizabeth and thus unite the royal families of York and Lancaster. Richard hopes to prevent this union and strengthen his own claim to the throne by marrying King Edward’s daughter himself, which is why he tries to persuade Queen Elizabeth to consent to such a marriage. Richard’s attempts to legitimize his power through bloodshed end when he is killed in battle by the Earl of Richmond, who begins a new line of succession—the Tudors—and is crowned Henry VII.

Retributive Justice Widespread in Shakespeare’s era was the idea that the members of the court of King Edward IV, inhabiting their positions of power and advantage only as a result of earlier bloodshed and sin, met their downfall as a result of divinely ordained retributive justice—justice that paid them back for what they had done. Based on the prominent references to that notion in Richard III, especially as represented in the curses issued by Margaret. E. M. Y. Tillyard goes as far as to assert, ‘‘The play’s main end is to show the working out of God’s will in English history.’’ Coppe´lia Kahn, in turn, descriptively notes, ‘‘Critics have often interpreted Richard III as the lump of chaos born of England’s chaos, the

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incarnation of its untrammeled slaughter of sons, brothers, fathers.’’ Indeed, Shakespeare calls much attention to the notion of God dispensing justice among those who have committed crimes or misdeeds. In his essay, ‘‘Angel with Horns,’’ A. P. Rossiter points out that Raphael Holinshed, the author of one of Shakespeare’s sources, makes reference to the notion of such justice and that the playwright then incorporated that notion throughout Richard III. In terms of the scenes, several are devoted explicitly to lamentations over those lost, with Margaret offering Queen Elizabeth this conclusion in act 4, scene 4: ‘‘Thus hath the course of justice whirled about / And left thee but a very prey to time.’’ In terms of the language, Shakespeare often has characters repeating lines or responding to each other in backand-forth patterns, suggesting what Rossiter dubs a ‘‘tennis-court game of rhetoric’’ that reflects the equality of payback. Above all, Rossiter highlights ‘‘the simple overriding principle derived from the Tudor historians: that England rests under a chronic curse—the curse of faction, civil dissension, and fundamental anarchy, resulting from the deposition and murder of the Lord’s Anointed (Richard II) and the usurpation of the house of Lancaster.’’ This curse, which issued forth originally from the mouth of Richard II and is later echoed in Richard III by Queen Margaret, is of course ultimately enacted by God alone. Perhaps ironically, then, God proves to enact these curses through the character of Richard III. Regarding Richard’s paradoxical status, Rossiter concludes, He is not only this demon incarnate, he is in effect God’s agent in a predetermined plan of divine retribution: the ‘‘scourge of God.’’ Now by Tudor-Christian historical principles, this plan is right. Thus, in a real sense, Richard is a king who ‘‘can do no wrong’’; for in the pattern of the justice of divine retribution on the wicked, he functions as an avenging angel.

Richard’s evil, then, was in a sense ‘‘good.’’ Shakespeare seems to have also weighted the notion of retributive justice by not including certain scenes that might have served to inspire greater sympathy in the audience. August Wilhelm von Schlegel suggests, ‘‘Shakespeare intended that terror rather than compassion should prevail throughout this tragedy: he has rather avoided than sought the pathetic scenes which he had at command.’’ Schlegel points out that the death of Clarence alone is depicted onstage, with the deaths

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King Richard III was one of the most ruthless politicians ever to grace England’s royal throne, ordering numerous murders to ensure that no one could be considered to have a more legitimate claim to the throne than himself. In modern American politics, far different underhanded tactics are used by politicians to secure power. Write an essay on the American political tradition of mudslinging. Compare this tactic with the tactics used by Richard in moral terms, providing specific recent examples of mudslinging or other such competitive tactics that might be classified as immoral. As a Shakespearean villain and protagonist, Richard III has often been compared to Macbeth. Read Macbeth and write an essay in which you compare and contrast the two title characters. At least one critic has wondered why Shakespeare chose not to include the historical scene in which the Cardinal persuades Queen Elizabeth to release her son Richard, the Duke of York, from sanctuary (this occurs offstage in act 3, scene 1). Write a report on the concept of sanctuary in

of Anne and the young princes only mentioned; meanwhile, characters such as Hastings, Buckingham, and Rivers are not presented in ways that might inspire the audience to pity them. The overall effect, then, is that the audience is fairly indifferent, if not content, when many of these characters are eliminated; as such, the audience more readily agrees with the notion that these characters are being punished by God for their sins and for the sins of their forebears. Schlegel concludes, ‘‘Shakespeare has most accurately observed poetical justice in the genuine sense of the word, that is, as signifying the revelation of an invisible blessing or curse which hangs over human sentiments and actions.’’


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medieval law, discussing whether you believe the Cardinal should or should not have acted as ordered by Buckingham in not truly recognizing York’s right to sanctuary.

Identify a modern film in which the villain is not only the center of attention but also is depicted in a way that solicits the viewer’s sympathy. In an essay, analyze the ways in which the director, writer, and actor in this film humanize the villain, comparing their methods with the theatrical strategies used by Shakespeare in Richard III. (If possible, also view a filmed version of Richard III and address the methods used by the actor playing the title character in your discussion.)

The idea of retributive justice is still invoked in modern times. Write an essay about recent religious leaders who have claimed that events or occurrences signaled punishment from God. Analyze these leaders’ motivations for making such claims and discuss reactions among various segments of the public. (For example, certain figures called the Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004 a retributive act of God.)

STYLE Dark Comedy A persistent thread of comedy runs through Richard III. Since the play is mostly about treachery and vengeance, the comedy it contains is appropriately dark, consisting of dramatic irony as well as parody. On the other hand, this comedy can be partly understood as intended to brighten the somber tone of that period of history. William E. Sheriff proposes that Shakespeare perhaps wished to enhance the last entry in his first group of four history plays from the plays of his competitors: ‘‘A cold-blooded approach to the throne, with no humor in Richard’s character

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and, as a result, less interest, would have repeated the pattern of so many of the contemporary history plays.’’ Some of Richard’s humor comes from his self-ridicule, but much of it comes when he mocks the confidence that others mistakenly place in him. Dramatic irony occurs when the audience understands the real significance of a character’s words or actions but the character or those around him or her do not. Richard’s sympathetic comments to his brother Clarence as he is being taken to prison constitute dramatic irony because the audience knows from Richard’s opening soliloquy that he is responsible for Clarence’s being jailed. Dramatic irony occurs again in act 3, scene 2, when Catesby suggests that Richard should be crowned king in lieu of the Prince of Wales, and Hastings declares: ‘‘I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders / Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplac’d.’’ We already know from Richard’s conversation with Buckingham one scene earlier that Hastings will indeed lose his head if he opposes Richard. Both of these incidents are intended to make the audience smile, if perhaps grimly, at Richard’s trickery and his victims’ naı¨ vete´. Parody is the use of exaggerated imitation to ridicule someone or something that was meant to be taken seriously. Richard mocks both himself and Anne when he parodies a preening lover in act 1, after Anne—against all odds—accepts his ring: ‘‘I’ll be at charges for a looking-glass, / And entertain a score or two of tailors / To study fashions to adorn my body.’’ Part of the humor comes from Richard’s ability to laugh at himself. Richard’s most triumphant parody occurs when he fools the citizens of London into petitioning him to be their king. By imitating a holy man (which he most certainly is not) and appearing reluctant to accept the crown, Richard succeeds in getting the power he wants.

The Ultimate Actor Richard’s character is so central to Richard III that many commentators believe that the play in production is entirely dependent on that one role. For a play to revolve around a single role, that role must perhaps feature the utmost degree of dramatic complexity—and thus demand the utmost theatrical expertise. As quoted by Howard Staunton in The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, Nathan Drake remarks of Richard,

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While to the explorer of the human mind he affords, by his penetration and address, a subject of peculiar interest and delight, he offers to the practised performer a study well calculated to call forth his fullest and finest exertions. He, therefore, whose histrionic powers are adequate to the just exhibition of this character, may be said to have attained the highest honours of his profession.

Indeed, in terms of character, Richard himself can be understood as first and foremost an impeccable actor. A. P. Rossiter offers perhaps the most comprehensive discussion on Richard’s theatricality. He first makes note of ‘‘the appeal of the actor: the talented being who can assume every mood and passion at will, at all events to the extent of making others believe in it.’’ He then points out why the machinations of Richard, however wicked, prove so riveting: ‘‘The specific interest here is the power that would be in the hands of an actor consummate enough to make (quite literally) ‘all the world a stage’ and to work on humanity by the perfect simulation of every feeling.’’ The art of self-presentation, in fact, might be considered the particular realm of both the actor and the politician. Richard has so fine-tuned his ability to present himself that he is able to deceive and outmaneuver all others likewise seeking to claw their way to power. The notion of the ultimate actor is closely related to the notion of the Superman, elaborated most extensively by the nineteenth-century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche contended that the human being with complete control over his emotions and complete harnessing of his ‘‘will to power’’ could in effect out-evolve the rest of humanity, becoming a ‘‘Superman.’’ Rossiter notes that Shakespeare, who predated Nietzsche by two hundred years, would have been exposed to the similar concepts of the Italian political theorist Niccolo` Machiavelli in The Prince. Rossiter notes that Machiavelli’s Prince and Shakespeare’s Richard seek to embody the same quality: ‘‘a lifelong, unremitting vigilance in relentless simulation and impenetrable deception.’’ Rossiter then invokes the language of Nietzsche, asserting, ‘‘There, precisely, lies the super-humanity of the Superman. The will-topower is shorn of its effective power without it. He is an artist in evil.’’ Richard, then, despite his ultimate downfall, was perhaps one of the greatest artists in superhumanity in history.

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Curses and Prophecies Language is a potent weapon in Richard III, particularly as a source of retribution. Prophecies and curses are delivered and fulfilled, while oaths that are sworn but later broken bring about disaster. Curses, prophecies, and false or imprudent oaths occur so frequently and are so powerful that they should be understood as having a profound effect on the play’s outcome. As early as act 1, scene 3, Margaret curses virtually every principal character in the play. She prays for the death of King Edward as well as his heirs and for a life of misery for Queen Elizabeth. She curses Hastings and Rivers with early death, Richard with sleepless nights and ruin. She finishes by prophesying that Buckingham will be betrayed by Richard: ‘‘O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! / Look when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites / His venom tooth will rankle to the death.’’ By the end of the play, nearly all of Margaret’s predictions and curses have been fulfilled. Ironically, many of the characters bring destruction upon themselves by reinforcing Margaret’s curses with their own false oaths and selfcurses. For example, in act 4, scene 4, Richard swears to Queen Elizabeth that he loves her daughter, and he supports this oath with a selfcurse that is meant to take effect if his oath proves false: ‘‘God and fortune, bar me happy hours! / Day, yield me not thy light, nor, night, thy rest!’’ Richard’s oath is indeed false: he does not love Elizabeth’s daughter but hopes to marry her to consolidate his power. His self-curse—ruin and sleepless nights—is identical to Margaret’s curse in act 1, and by the end of the play, it is fulfilled.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Man or Monster? The depiction of Richard III is without question the centerpiece of the play bearing his name, and in turn, the historical accuracy of that depiction— and whether Shakespeare actually sought to portray Richard accurately—has been much discussed. On this topic, John Julius Norwich observes, ‘‘King Richard III, the only English ruler since the Norman Conquest to have been killed in battle, is also the only one to have become a legend. That legend, due first to Sir Thomas More and then to Shakespeare, is that of the lame and twisted hunchback whose misshapen


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body reflects the evil heart within it.’’ One problem is that the printing press was only just coming into use during Richard’s lifetime, so historical records from his era are rare and hard to verify. The ultimate source of most of the information used by Shakespeare—More’s Historie of King Richard the Thirde—was written by a Tudor historian who was quite explicitly describing events from the point of view of Henry VII, the sovereign he was serving. As a result, some modern historians have conjectured that More portrayed Richard with emphasized if not exaggerated monstrosity. Robert Ornstein asserts that More describes Richard ‘‘as an explorer might describe a rare and horrifying species of poisonous snake. Never allowing his reader to savor Richard’s histrionic performances, More makes each of Richard’s successes an occasion for moral outrage, disgust, and scorn.’’ Others have suggested that More demonstrated ample integrity both in other works and throughout his life, and that there is insufficient grounds for questioning his honesty with regard to his portrait of Richard. Norwich points out that More is ‘‘a formally canonized saint’’ in contending, ‘‘Nothing that we know of his character suggests that he would have . . . deliberately written what he knew in his heart to be untrue.’’ Ultimately, no scholarly authority can determine with certainty the degree to which More was faithfully representing the villainy of Richard III. Regardless of the accuracy of More’s portrayal, Shakespeare chooses not to portray Richard as an utter monster. He also endows him with a variety of appealing characteristics. Ornstein declares that what Shakespeare does ‘‘is make Richard’s perversity credible and, more than that, enjoyable, for the heartless murderer More depicts becomes in Shakespeare’s play a humorist and a comedian so cheeky, frank, and enthusiastic in his wickedness that most of his betters seem unpardonably dishonest and dreary.’’ Indeed, much of Richard’s appeal comes from his sense of humor, a trait perhaps prized above all others by some entertainment-seeking audiences. William E. Sheriff asserts that, in this respect, the playwright perhaps sees Richard’s comic depth and intelligence as necessities: ‘‘Shakespeare realized we had to put up with this fellow until we had him seated on the throne in order for the play to sustain interest.’’ That is, if Richard had been portrayed as a mere caricature of a murderous

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1470s: The notion that God will exact revenge on those who participated in the usurping of King Richard II’s throne is in the forefront of the minds of those who are yet suffering through the Wars of the Roses. 1590s: Citizens of Elizabethan England trust that with the retributive justice brought about by King Richard III, peace may be likely to hold—but rebellions must still occasionally be put down. Today:: Wars and disasters are still invoked by some religious leaders as evidence that God is displeased with humankind.

1470s: With written records scarce, people in positions of power can easily manipulate public perceptions of the truth by determining what information is made available. 1590s: Written records are more available, making the falsification of historical events more difficult—but far from impossible.

Today: While journalists and historians usually manage to ensure that people are made aware of historical truths, at least in more open societies, people in powerful political positions still have opportunities to manipulate public perceptions for their own ends.

1470s: Murders are committed and executions are ordered with fair regularity by both those who aspire to, and those who hold, England’s royal throne. 1590s: Queen Elizabeth has maintained her reign for some thirty years, having survived several uprisings by Catholics looking to install her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots— who is eventually executed. Today: The last assassination of an American president was that of John F. Kennedy in 1963; among modern politicians, underhanded tactics are generally limited to slanderous mudslinging.

villain, the play’s central role might have lacked the desired level of psychological and dramatic tension.

this major piece of the plot, Shakespeare does portray Richard as more evil than history indicates he was, if not as more monstrous.

Still, Shakespeare walks a fine line in his effort not to make Richard too likable. Norwich points out that the playwright leaves the audience understanding that Richard is responsible for Clarence’s imprisonment and death. In his opening soliloquy, Richard boasts about how he had set Edward and Clarence at odds with each other, thus, in a sense, claiming responsibility for Clarence’s arrest. Later, Richard is shown giving orders to the Murderers, whom he calls ‘‘my executioners,’’ and the two subsequently declare that their ‘‘reward’’ will come from ‘‘the Duke of Gloucester’s purse’’ and perform their deed uncertainly and as if illicitly. However, in reality, Clarence fully earned his detention in the Tower by, among other missteps, suggesting that Edward was illegitimate, and Edward did consequently condemn him to death. With respect to

Sheriff, meanwhile, posits that even if Shakespeare softened Richard’s monstrosity overall, he made an artistic decision to lessen Richard’s appeal toward the end of the play, as demonstrated by his failure to sway Queen Elizabeth in act 4, scene 4, with his usual conversational ruses. Sheriff states of the playwright,

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It is my opinion that he wished to balance the presentation of his characterization of Richard; that is, whereas he first convinced us of the powers of this monstrous comedian, he now wishes to destroy that image in order that the entire concept of Richard’s character can be shattered on Bosworth Field without regret on the part of the spectator. The qualities we found fascinating in Richard, his brilliant wit, his corrupt sense of humor, his ability to stand outside the scene and watch himself, are missing in his

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encounter with Queen Elizabeth, and we are in this manner prepared for the concluding act of the play.

In other words, as a prelude to his well-deserved death, Shakespeare’s Richard can be understood to demote himself from mesmerizing monster to a merely villainous man.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Overwhelmingly, to be sure, critical attention to Richard III has focused on the title character. Indeed, as Mark Eccles notes, Richard speaks over a third of the plays’ lines and appears in fourteen of twenty-five scenes—with five of his ten soliloquies occurring in the first three scenes—such that ‘‘his shadow hangs over the rest.’’ Thus, the play as a total creation merits judgment based on the single portrait of King Richard III. In that Richard III began life in performance, then, the actors who have inhabited the character of Richard deserve discussion in the context of critical opinion. Indeed, at the turn of the nineteenth century, Nathan Drake asserted that the play had gained renown largely by virtue of the portrayals of the title character: ‘‘The popularity of [Richard III], notwithstanding the moral enormity of its hero, may be readily accounted for, when we recollect that, the versatile and consummate hypocrisy of the tyrant has been embodied by the talents of such masterly performers as Garrick, Kemble, Cooke, and Kean.’’ Regarding those men—all of whom graced the stage in the latter half of the eighteenth century or the beginning of the nineteenth—Eccles confirms that David Garrick was ‘‘the most brilliant actor of his time’’; John Philip Kemble, as Richard, was ‘‘stately and eloquent’’; and George Frederick Cooke made the villain ‘‘diabolical.’’ Eccles offers especial praise for Edmund Kean, who distinguished himself as Richard in London beginning in 1814. After citing Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who said that watching Kean was like ‘‘reading Shakespeare by flashes of lightning,’’ and John Keats, who lauded the actor’s ‘‘intense power of anatomizing the passions,’’ Eccles offers his own assessment: ‘‘The play gave Kean chances to display the whole range of his virtuosity: his violent passions, his pantherlike gaiety, his energy and power. In the last act he held his audience


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spellbound. His awakening from his nightmare sent a shudder of terror through the spectators.’’ Shakespeare is understood to have had Richard Burbage, one of the leading actors in his own company, in mind when he conceived of the role of King Richard III—and if the playwright had not had access to Burbage’s talent, he might have written that role quite differently. Regarding the role itself, A. P. Rossiter finds Richard to be ‘‘a huge triumphant stage personality, an early old masterpiece of the art of rhetorical stage writing, a monstrous being incredible in any sober, historical scheme of things.’’ Similarly, Morton J. Frisch declares, Shakespeare has performed the extraordinary feat of presenting the serpentine wisdom of the tyrannic soul in such a way that it cannot fail to excite our sensibilities. In the satisfaction we receive in contemplating the character of Richard, in the various situations in which Shakespeare has shown him, it is almost as if we lost sight of the cold-blooded, calculating tyrant whose ugly soul is overshadowed and even to some extent obscured by the marvelous play of his intellect.

In turn, William E. Sheriff praises the portrayal of Richard for its prodigious fusion of tragedy and comedy: ‘‘As the dramatist developed in his handling of the English history play genre, he obviously became more adept at using comic elements to enrich his work. He dared to portray his most wicked king as his most comic king.’’ Rossiter, too, highlights Richard’s comedic traits in the context of his theatricality: ‘‘Through his prowess as actor and his embodiment of the comic Vice and impish-to-fiendish humor, he offers the false as more attractive than the true (the actor’s function), and the ugly and evil as admirable and amusing (the clown’s game of value reversals).’’ Indeed, from almost every imaginable perspective, critics have praised and wondered at the extraordinary, sometimes paradoxical complexity of Shakespeare’s King Richard III. The play Richard III is often considered in its context in Shakespeare’s First Tetralogy, where it is the closing entry, following the three parts of Henry VI. August Wilhelm von Schlegel, quoted by Howard Staunton in The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, asserts that in terms of tone and content, the four do function together as a unified work. Comparing the quality of Henry VI, Part Three and Richard III, E. M. W. Tillyard gives the latter qualified praise: ‘‘In style the play is

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better sustained than its predecessor. There is less undifferentiated stuff, and the finest pieces of writing (as distinguished from the finest scenes) are more dramatic.’’ Tillyard speaks less enthusiastically about the overall length and pace of the play in light of Shakespeare’s artistic endurance, contending, ‘‘Richard’s plotting with Buckingham and his acquisition of the throne though strongly organized must have tired Shakespeare. There are even signs of strain in the last stage of the process when Richard appears between the two bishops; the verse droops somewhat. After this . . . the vitality flags, except in patches.’’ Other commentators offer similar criticism of minor or peripheral aspects of the play. Rossiter notes that certain scenes, like the collective lamentation of Queens Margaret and Elizabeth and the Duchess of York, constitute such contrived ‘‘quasi-realistic costume-play stuff’’ that ‘‘even editors have found the proceedings absurd.’’ Overall, however, critics have expressed great appreciation for this fairly early Shakespearean history.

CRITICISM James L. Calderwood Calderwood provides an overview of Richard III’s attitude toward death, noting that the title character perceives the deaths of those around him not as ‘‘real deaths’’ but as ‘‘merely the removal of impediments.’’ In this cavalier attitude toward death, the critic argues, Shakespeare himself is implicit, since his aim with the tragedy is to see that such deaths happen. . . . Richard’s mockery of murder at the end of 1 Henry VI is continued throughout Richard III. From his impatient point of view, brothers, lord, dukes, and princes are merely so much material stuff, so many annoying tubs of guts blocking his path to the crown; their deaths are not real deaths, merely the removal of impediments. And in some degree we share his attitude. Richard seduces us as he seduces Lady Anne, and by the same device—by announcing his desire. He has, he tells us, a goal to achieve, a crown to gain, and plots to gain it by. By keeping us informed of Richard’s plots Shakespeare arouses in us the desire for form, for the completion of an aesthetic pattern. ‘‘Form,’’ Kenneth Burke said years ago, in what is still the best definition we have of the elusive concept, ‘‘is

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the creation of an appetite in the mind of the auditor, and the adequate satisfying of that appetite.’’ When Macbeth speaks of how ‘‘withered murder’’ moves ‘‘towards his design’’ like a ghost, his phrasing echoes the sense of aesthetic form implicit in the Witches’ prophecies and Macbeth’s wicked imaginings on the heath, both of which forecast his movement throughout the play toward the completion of murderous designs. Whatever or whoever frustrates this teleology frustrates us as well as the hero, and must be gotten rid of if the proper end is to be attained. Aaron, Iago, Edmund, and Macbeth all make us long perversely for the successful prosecution of forbidden acts. In a larger sense, Shakespeare the tragic dramatist plays as villainous a role outside his plays as his Machiavellian plotters do within them. He too has murderous desires and designs. Tragedy, after all, is a killing kind of play, and it is the dramatist’s dark business to see that this killing takes place, to try conclusions. Hence, like Richard III and the others, he establishes an appetite in us for a formal completion not just of the villains’ plots but of his own tragic plot, whether there are villains or no. He creates in us an appetite for death the satisfaction of which compensates us for the pity and fear we have been made to suffer. Yet death is not truly death when it is reduced to playing a culminating part in the plot, a part we expect it to play and, in our aesthetic perversity, want it to play. Death in tragedy is denied, demeaned, and diverted. It is also dignified beyond its due. To be touched with a poisoned foil like Hamlet or stabbed by one’s own dagger like Othello is not the same thing as coughing and retching one’s way to the grave like Keats. Most deaths are ugly, pathetic events, and Shakespeare must have seen his share of them in bodies tettered by the pox, made noseless by syphilis, or festering blackly from the plague. Tragic death transcends all of this. When the Player in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead speaks well of histrionic killings and dyings, Guildenstern is indignant: Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That isn’t death! (More quietly.) You scream and choke and sink to your knees, but it doesn’t bring death home to any one—it doesn’t catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says—‘‘One day you are going to die.’’ (He straightens up.) You die so many times; how can you expect them to believe in your death?

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IN RICHARD III, FOUR WIDOWS WALK THE


STAGE: MARGARET, ELIZABETH, THE DUCHESS OF YORK, AND ANNE. . . . THEY LEARN THAT THEIR HUSBANDS WERE NOT ONLY THE SOURCE OF THEIR POWER, BUT

Christopher Marlowe’s Tamburlaine the Great, Parts I and II (1590) retells the story of a Mongol warrior who, like Richard, uses deception to rise to power and eventually meets his downfall. John Milton’s epic poem Paradise Lost (1667) features the character of Satan, to whom Shakespeare’s Richard has been compared.

In her novel The Daughter of Time (1951), featuring a modern British detective who decides to investigate Richard’s crimes, mystery writer Josephine Tey offers a sympathetically revised portrait of Richard III.

Desmond Seward offers a historical account of the life of this play’s main character in the biographical Richard III: England’s Black Legend (1982).

To which the Player replies ‘‘On the contrary, it’s the only death they do believe.’’ Both are right. Theatrical death is the only death they believe, because it lends an aura of vitality and excitement to the drab deaths outside the theater that they dare not believe in because to do so sets off those fatal whispers in the skull. From this standpoint theater itself becomes an immortality system, not merely because it sands the rough edges from death but because it intensifies and glamorizes all human behavior, superimposing on life a grander life replete with grander deaths. Source: James L. Calderwood, ‘‘Tragedy and Death,’’ in Shakespeare and the Denial of Death, University of Massachusetts Press, 1987, pp. 133–35.

Irene G. Dash In her examination of the powerlessness of women in Richard III, Dash focuses primarily upon Margaret, Anne, and Elizabeth. She describes Margaret as ‘‘dynamic,’’ remarking also that she


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WORSE STILL, OF THEIR IDENTITY.’’

is the least conventional of the three women and the character most often left out of productions of the play. Dash describes Anne, by contrast, as more compliant and more typically ‘‘feminine’’ in her obedience to Richard. Finally, she asserts that Elizabeth, who at first seems somewhat lackluster, grows more complex in Act IV, after Richard has murdered her young sons and she has asked Margaret to teach her how to curse her enemies. At this point, Dash compares the two wooing scenes, observing that where Anne falls victim to Richard’s clever words, the more experienced Elizabeth turns the tables on him. In Richard III, four widows walk the stage: Margaret, Elizabeth, the Duchess of York, and Anne. If women are confused by the meaning of power when they are young, being wooed or acting as wives to men of power, they realistically discover its meaning when they become widows. They learn that their husbands were not only the source of their power, but worse still, of their identity. How does a woman cope with this discovery, this becoming a nonperson? Shakespeare offers four versions in Richard III, from the simple acceptance of her status by the Duchess of York to the anxious search for new patterns by Elizabeth, who first entered this tetralogy when, as a widow suing for rights to her husband’s lands, she discovered her powerlessness for the first time. Saved by her wit and beauty, she then moved from powerlessness to power. Like Margaret earlier, she became a queen and the mother of princes. When, in Richard III, the pattern repeats itself, Elizabeth seeks more substantial answers. Her experience continues to mirror Margaret’s despite deviations. Elizabeth’s husband, instead of being murdered by Richard, dies, his illness aggravated by Richard’s histrionics. Instead of losing one son and heir to the throne,

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A scene from the 1995 film Richard III, with Ian McKellen, Annette Bening, and Maggie Smith (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

she loses two. Instead of being childless at the end of the play, she remains a mother with surviving children. Instead of being a widow of a defeated monarch, she is widow of a man who was in power. But it little matters. Like Margaret, Elizabeth too loses power, discovering the strength of the patriarchal system. Finally, near the play’s close, she seeks alternatives. Shakespeare offers a tentative glimpse at women supporting women, women relying on women, women bonding— even if in bitterness—with women. To do this, the dramatist alters history and creates one of the most interesting studies in the play—he retains Margaret. Historically, she never returned to England after the deaths of her son and husband. Moreover, she died before the time of the action of this play. According to the chronicles, she roamed the French court, a woman in mourning for the rest of her life: And where in the beginning of her tyme, she lyved like a Quene, in the middel she ruled like an empresse, toward thende she was vexed with troble, never quyet nor in peace, & in her very extreme age she passed her dayes in Fraunce, more lyke a death then a lyfe, languishyng and

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mornyng in continuall sorowe, not so much for her selfe and her husbande, whose ages were almost consumed and worne, but for the losse of prince Edward her sonne (whome she and her husband thought to leve, both overlyver of their progeny, and also of their kyngdome) to whome in this lyfe nothyng could be either more displeasant or grevous.

Shakespeare not only brings her back to England but gives her an important role in the play. She acts as narrative voice; she is seer and sibyl [a female prophet], predicting the doom of those responsible for the deaths of her son and husband; but she is also a dynamic woman, an anomalous character, roaming the palace of a rival monarch, expressing her opinions in positive language, sneering at York’s unattractive progeny who now control power. Having lost all, she fears no one. Margaret, who weaves in and out of this tetralogy [Henry VI, parts 1–3, and Richard III], the only woman character whose growth we observe from youth to old age, may also have challenged Shakespeare as a creative artist. Knowing that she walked through the court in

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France, a person in constant mourning, he might have wanted to project this image on the stage. Would such a woman have learned anything? Would she have grown? How might she have handled life, alone, in a hostile environment? Finally, has she made any breakthrough in selfknowledge; did she learn anything about herself as a woman? Before she enters, Shakespeare introduces her principal antagonist, Richard, the title character. He defines the power and powerlessness of women in the first scene of Richard III. Introduced in soliloquy, he confides his plans to reach the throne despite the mass of relatives standing between him and his objective. ‘‘I am determined to prove a villain’’ (I.i.30), he proclaims, baring his plot to frame his brother Clarence. When the latter enters, en route to prison, Richard immediately blames a woman for Clarence’s present fate. ‘‘Why, this it is, when men are rul’d by women’’ (62), Richard asserts, implying Queen Elizabeth’s evil influence on Edward. Misogyny runs wild, for Clarence easily agrees, adding Mistress Shore’s name to those who ‘‘rule’’ the King. Before the scene closes, a third woman is mentioned. Richard, again in soliloquy, admits, . . . I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter. What though I kill’d her husband and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father. (I.i.153–56) Moments later Anne, the play’s third widow, walks on following the coffin of King Henry, her father-in-law, and taking it to burial. Asking the pall bearers to ‘‘set down’’ their ‘‘honorable load’’ (I.ii.i), Anne delivers a long set speech of mourning explicitly cursing the murderer, Richard. She then orders the pall-bearers to resume the trek to the place of burial. Richard, unobserved, interferes, countermanding her order. ‘‘Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down’’ (33). At their attempt to continue, Richard threatens with his sword. They obey. Graphically, this scene illustrates Richard’s power and Anne’s powerlessness. Helpless to challenge him physically, she attempts to disarm him with words. She seeks to force her will. Scorn, hatred, vehemence, curses: all fall from her lips. Little anticipating the aim of his confrontation, she is astonished and completely bewildered when Richard offers marriage.


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Historically, Richard pursued Anne for two years before winning her. Shakespeare compresses this into one scene, choosing a moment when she is most confused and emotionally most unstable. In a long protracted courtship, their debates—her responses to his persistent claims— would have to be developed so that the many variables in personality could influence the decision. When compressed into a single scene, his duplicity and her confusion must be apparent at once. Some critics believe that the scene offers an opportunity to prove Richard’s extraordinary ability. More recently critics have become aware of the psychological vulnerability of a person at a time of emotional crisis such as the loss of a husband and a father-in-law. First Richard tries flattery, but Anne resists, assuring him that she would scratch her beauty with her nails (I.ii.126) if she thought it were the cause of the death of her husband or father-inlaw. Then Richard, the consummate actor, offers her his sword and ‘‘lays his breast open’’ for her to kill him. He challenges her in a style that she cannot fathom. Untrained in the use of the sword, unwilling to take a human life, Anne reacts as a normal human being might, especially someone who has not been initiated into the games of war and murder. Although Richard continues ‘‘Nay, do not pause: for I did kill King Henry— / But ’twas thy beauty that provoked me’’ (179–80), she drops the sword. But Richard’s words are really superfluous. All of her training as a woman assures him success. Men are trained to kill. Woman are not. Here, against a defenseless person, in a time of uncertain peace, to kill the brother of the King would be insanity as well as suicide. Richard then poses a false dichotomy for her: ‘‘Take up the sword again, or take up me’’ (I.ii.183). He leaves her no option; she must either kill him or accept him as her husband. Caught between suspicion and her training as a woman, Anne can do no more than say, ‘‘Arise, dissembler! Though I wish thy death, / I will not be thy executioner’’ (184–85). Still she does not acquiesce to marriage. The key interchange between them occurs moments later when Richard offers ‘‘Then bid me kill myself’’ (186) but refuses to accept her words, ‘‘I have already’’ (187). Instead, he then questions the honesty of her original intention. ‘‘That was in thy rage. / Speak it again’’ (187–88) he challenges, promising to kill himself for love. Anne’s agonized words, ‘‘I would I knew thy

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heart’’ (192) are spoken by many of the characters throughout the play. No one knows Richard’s ‘‘heart’’—his intention—until it is too late. For a woman being wooed, however, the price is particularly high—not friendship or allegiance, but marriage. Although Richard congratulates himself on his success—‘‘To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, / With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes’’ (I.ii.231–32)—Shakespeare here creates a situation in which a manipulative liar has the best chance of success, a moment when his prey is most confused. Richard’s timing, audacity, overwhelming flattery, and histrionics with the sword are beyond Anne’s ability to cope. She belongs with such characters as Ophelia [from Shakespeare’s play Hamlet], who is conforming, obedient, docile, ‘‘feminine.’’ Historically, having resisted Richard for two years, she may have had more of the strength of Margaret or an Elizabeth. She may also have had as few options as they did, being sought by the persistent brother of the King. But rather than repeat a pattern already twice told, Shakespeare creates another type of woman, caught in a different situation, and reacting on a level not yet dramatized in this tetralogy. The man she must confront is the man who boasted in the previous play: Why, I can smile, and murther whiles I smile, ... Deceive more slily than Ulysses could, ... Change shapes with Proteus for advantages, ...

Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down. (3 Henry VI, III.ii.182–95) Richard applies his abilities, skills, and techniques to convince Anne. Critics have been harsh in their evaluation of her. August W. Von Schlegel, the nineteenthcentury German scholar, writes that ‘‘Anne disappears without our learning anything further respecting her: in marrying the murderer of her husband she had shown a weakness almost incredible.’’ William Richardson, in the eighteenth century, concludes that ‘‘She is represented by Shakespeare of a mind altogether frivolous; incapable of deep affection; guided by no steady principles of virtue . . . ; the prey of vanity, which is her ruling passion.’’ As Richardson continues,

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he not only says that Richard understands her perfectly but that she is a character of ‘‘no rational or steady virtue, and consequently of no consistency of character.’’ He even suggests that it is ‘‘resentment, rather than grief, which she expresses.’’ Georg Gervinus, the nineteenthcentury German literary historian, offers a more balanced appraisal, however, when he writes, ‘‘We must take into account extraordinary degree of dissimulation, which deceives even experienced men,’’ nothing also how stereotypical a portrait Shakespeare creates in Anne by having her delight in saving ‘‘such a penitent.’’ Anne appears in only one other scene, and that without Richard. Now married, she hopes to visit her nephews—the heirs apparent—held in the tower by her husband. Unlike her historical prototype, she admits: Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Within so small a time, my woman’s heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words, And prov’d the subject of mine own soul’s curse. (IV.i.77–80) She is self-deprecating, and blames herself for her fate. Her conventionality is perhaps best testified to by the fact that she survives in all versions of the play. In Colley Cibber’s version, Richard even tries to tempt her to commit suicide. In a recent production at the Cort Theatre starring Al Pacino, she appears so cold, selfrighteous, and vindictive that audiences applaud Richard’s success. There, although the text that remains is Shakespeare’s, the cuts are reminiscent of Cibber’s popular eighteenth-century work. On the other hand, the one woman who most frequently disappears from productions is the one who challenges Richard, the least conventional woman—Margaret. Cibber set the pattern in 1700 when he eliminated her from his text. Since then, his version with its heavy emphasis on the male ‘‘star’’ role has seldom left the stage. But even when Shakespeare’s text is used, Margaret frequently disappears or loses most of her lines. For example, in a Phelps 1845 prompt-book, she no longer functions as an individual, cursing the many members of the court, but acts rather as a choral voice of doom. Very similar cutting appears in a 1964 typescript of the play. She is also absent from Laurence Olivier’s film version and from the Pacino 1979 production. Comparing the Cibber version

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with Shakespeare’s play, Arthur Colby Sprague writes that: the more obviously memorable episodes . . . have survived. . . . But Margaret is gone and Clarence and Hastings and Edward: the price paid for compactness was high. It is a version . . . which does best when it keeps to surfaces and shallows; an opportunist version, cunning, prosaic and vulgar.

Many productions of Richard III, like Olivier’s and Pacino’s mentioned above, follow Shakespeare’s text but also take their cues for cutting from Cibber. It is perhaps difficult for audiences to realize how deeply eighteenthcentury changes—perhaps because they reflect attitudes toward women that still exist—continue to intrude on, shape, and gently distort the text. Margaret’s absence necessarily affects the total impact of the play; her entrance, in Act I, scene iii, offers a welcome antidote to Richard’s swaggering triumph with Anne. Listening to Queen Elizabeth and Richard arguing, Margaret, once again, as she did so long ago in 1 Henry VI speaks in asides. This time, however, her asides are not the questions of a young virgin but the bitter comments of an old woman. She listens to the conversation of those in power. To Elizabeth’s ‘‘Small joy have I in being England’s Queen’’ (109), Margaret mutters to herself: And less’ned by that small, God I beseech him! Thy honor, state, and seat is due to me. (I.iii.110–11) At once we are reminded that Margaret is a deposed queen. We wonder at her presence in this court. Commenting on Richard’s words, but still speaking in aside, she exclaims: Hie thee to hell for shame, and leave this world, Thou cacodemon, there thy kingdom is. (142–43) Only the audience hears her; nevertheless, her lines establish her strange position. What is she doing at the court, this woman, so unafraid of Richard who, in asides, tells us of the murder of Henry in the tower and the killing of her son Edward? When she speaks aloud, Margaret pierces the false veneer of Richard, but also reveals antagonism for the woman who has made her a shadow, a nonbeing, the woman who is Queen. Although Richard reminds Margaret that she is ‘‘banished on pain of death’’ (166), she dismisses the threat, challenging him to enforce it. ‘‘I do find


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more pain in banishment / Than death can yield me here by my abode’’ (167–68). He then pursues another direction. Always aware of his audience, the people around him on the stage, he attacks Margaret for the murders of York and Rutland. As a result the squabbling members of the court unite against her. Aware of Richard’s technique, she taunts: What? were you snarling all before I came, ... And turn you all your hatred now on me? (187– 89)

She then curses each of them. Still wrestling with the patriarchal values she has absorbed, she first curses the Queen, her alter ego in this strange arrangement where kings are murdered to make way for kings but queens in number are permitted to survive. Listing the parallels between them, Margaret wishes the other woman a fate like her own: Though not by war, by surfeit die your king, As ours by murther, to make him a king! Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence! (I.iii.196–200) She keeps returning to her role of mother. Long mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death, And see another, as I see thee now, Deck’d in thy rights as thou art stall’d in mine! (203–5) Finally, she condemns Elizabeth to a fate too familiar to women. Long die thy happy days before thy death, And after many length’ned hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England’s queen! (206–8) In this long passage, Margaret details her own life as queen. Unlike the curses one might choose for a man, those chosen for Elizabeth have a different emphasis—not death but life continued after joy has passed. When the bitter woman fails to stop her cursing, Richard interrupts. In verbal battle, she responds, wishing him a fate more heinous than the others. Her curse concludes with ‘‘Thou

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detested—.’’ Never one to refuse a challenge, Richard quickly interjects the word ‘‘Margaret.’’ But she is not to be deflected from her purpose. Her sentence continues, ending with ‘‘Richard!’’ Elizabeth, although she bears no love for Richard, is still a victim of that minority status psychology that mandates she express her deepest contempt for another woman. ‘‘Thus have you breath’d your curse against yourself’’ (239), she mocks. Her words are hardly worth including in this exchange except to remind us of the difference between the two women—the sibyllike, intense, passionate Margaret, and the more pedestrian, rational Elizabeth. Finally, Cassandra-like, Margaret warns the one person exempt from her vengeance to beware of Richard: Have not to do with him, beware of him; Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him. (I. iii. 291–93) But Buckingham rejects her warning. Nevertheless, he shudders at her curses. Ironically, she is attacked as being a witch and a lunatic although her listeners recognize the core of truth in her words. During this scene Dorset, the new young lord who is Elizabeth’s son, warns ‘‘Dispute not with her, she is lunatic’’ (253). Buckingham expresses the impact of the curses for all of them. ‘‘My hair doth stand on end to hear her curses’’ (303). When her curses come true, she believes her mission is completed. But Shakespeare suggests that one possibility lies ahead—women extending their hands to each other in support—creating bonds with each other, rather than living in separate isolated worlds, connected only with the men whom they have wed. Entering in Act IV, scene iv, Margaret, in soliloquy, mutters ‘‘So now prosperity begins to mellow’’ (IV. iv. 1). Still bitter, overflowing with anger and hatred, she plans to go to France, hoping the lives of those who robbed her of son and husband will prove ‘‘bitter, black, and tragical’’ (7). She is a figure from the revenge tragedy of the period, asking right for right and Plantagenet for Plantagenet. It is only after the Duchess of York exclaims O Harry’s wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine (IV. iv. 59–60)

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that Margaret explains herself to them: ‘‘I am hungry for revenge’’ (61). She prays for Richard’s end. Aware of her anomic position, Margaret returns to the theme of displacedness—‘‘Thou didst usurp my place’’—and to the role of childlessness and widowhood. She cannot establish a bond with any woman—not lend support, or seek help, or accept friendship. ‘‘Vain flourish of my fortune’’ (IV. iv. 82), she had called Elizabeth. Detailing its meaning, the displaced Queen recognizes the role she played, ‘‘One heav’d ahigh, to be hurl’d down below’’ (86). She knows now that she was merely The flattering index of a direful pageant; ...

. . . a bubble; A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. (85–91) She then enumerates the functions of a queen, listing the bending peers and thronging troops that followed her and Elizabeth when each was Queen. This speech, by the dramatist who later was to list the many roles of man as he progressed from infancy to old age, vibrates with the emptiness of a woman’s roles. ‘‘Vain flourish of my fortune,’’ Margaret had repeated. It is a line that many older women might speak, watching young women seeking success in the world and misreading their husbands’ glories for their own. Although Margaret’s words are full of venom, hatred, and disappointment, Elizabeth seeks to create some bond, some tenuous connection, with this other woman. The scene marks a shift in attitude and is the first in which these women finally speak to each other as equals. Frequently referred to as the scene of the wailing women, it is also the beginning of mutual supportiveness. ‘‘My words are dull, O, quicken them with thine!’’ (124), Elizabeth begs, asking Margaret for instruction in cursing. Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is. (IV. iv. 120–21) The older woman offers a basic premise that provides strength for Elizabeth’s next encounter. Clues to a sometimes ambiguous exchange between characters frequently appear in the sequential arrangement of Shakespeare’s scenes. Moments after Margaret’s advice to Elizabeth, Richard enters and asks for Elizabeth’s

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daughter’s hand in marriage. Uncle Richard, murderer of the young woman’s brothers, now King, anticipates success. In the debate between them, Elizabeth has her first opportunity to apply her newly learned lesson. Questions rather than answers characterize most of her replies. ‘‘Shall I be tempted of the devil thus?’’ (418), she asks. ‘‘Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good’’ (419), Richard sanctimoniously replies. ‘‘Shall I forget myself to be myself’’ (420), she continues. ‘‘Ay, if yourself’s remembrance wrong yourself’’ (421), he answers. When she seems to equivocate, Richard simply carries on as best he can, picking up what he thinks are hints of affirmation. Even Elizabeth’s ‘‘Yet thou didst kill my children’’ (422) fails to daunt him. He offers what he considers a perfectly logical response: But in your daughter’s womb I bury them; Where in that nest of spicery they will breed Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. (IV. iv. 423–25) This speech, so ugly in its lasciviousness, reflecting the character of the man who is speaking, must be answered without disgust by a mother. Again Elizabeth resorts to a question, rather than an answer. ‘‘Shall I go win my daughter to thy will?’’ (426). Has she finally fooled Richard? Immediately after her departure, he gloats, ‘‘Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman’’ (431). She should not fool us. We have heard her scene with Margaret. We have listened to her first words to Richard in this encounter—‘‘For my daughters, Richard, / They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens’’ (201–2)—and we have seen her pity for Anne. The choice of a convent for her grows not from religious conviction—we have not heard any deep expressions of religious faith from Elizabeth—but from the wish to give her daughters control over their own bodies. Elizabeth has expressed herself on this subject from the time of her first appearance in 3 Henry VI. When one compares Anne’s response to Richard with Elizabeth’s series of rhetorical questions topped by the instruction: ‘‘Write to me very shortly, / And you shall understand from me her mind’’ (428–29), one realizes Shakespeare’s artistry. Richard, thinking that he is repeating an earlier wooing scene, assumes a repetition of that success—this time with far less effort than in his encounter with Anne. Because of his misogyny, he fails to hear the nuances that separate the responses of the


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women. He forgets the differences between them: one a young, unwordly heiress, the other a mature woman who has lived a varied existence. Finally, he has figured without understanding the impact of the death of one’s child on a parent. The superb manipulator of people, Richard fails to read a woman accurately, because he fails to understand her feelings toward herself and her children. To an extent, then, Elizabeth has triumphed. She has begun to understand the meaning of power and the necessity for choosing one’s language with care, for restraining one’s words, refraining from cursing. She has learned that she must function alone, leading, not leaning. In this her first test after her encounter with Margaret and her awareness of the role of queen as shadow, she has begun to understand the limits of power for a woman. She succeeds in fooling Richard, but had he not lost his life in battle, she probably would have been powerless against him. Her daughter, instead of becoming a nun, marries Richard’s victorious adversary: Richmond, later Henry VII. Thus, she too becomes a queen, wearing the borrowed robes of power. The women in these plays, queens and duchesses, wives of men of political strength, seek to exert power but discover its elusiveness. Margaret Fuller writes: ‘‘A profound thinker has said ‘No married woman can represent the female world, for she belongs to her husband. The idea of Woman must be represented by a virgin.’’’ Perhaps the Queen in Shakespeare’s audience believed this. The women in these plays, however, demonstrate the powerlessness of women whether virgins, wives, or widows. Fuller herself countered the argument by blaming marriage and ‘‘the present relation between the sexes, that the woman does belong to the man, instead of forming a whole with him.’’ This chapter opened with references to power and to women’s powerlessness in a society where sexual politics is so pervasive that women have internalized the message. Shakespeare illustrates this by revealing the minority psychology of the women. They scorn other women, attempt to imitate men, and tend to believe in their own inferiority. The men too believe the women inferior to them, whether the women are selfconfident and challenge male power, or whether they acquiesce, seeking to appease male anger. The stereotypes do not exist solely among the characters in the plays,

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but appear also in the world outside the plays—in the criticism and productions. We read of Margaret’s unwomanly strength, and of Richard’s womanly guile. A recent critic describes the character’s histrionic talents and sensitivity to people and atmosphere: ‘‘His awareness of other people has, in the best Hitlerian manner, an almost feminine subtlety. The list of roles he assumes is endless’’ (italics mine). On the basis of evidence within the plays, one might have expected a different conclusion For—as well as Richard—York, Edward, Buckingham, and Warwick have been the supreme manipulators, men of guile, organizing behind the scenes and plotting insurrection. Misogyny persists. Optimistically, Fuller recommends that women not be influenced by men because they fail to see the entire picture. She instructs women to look within themselves to find their own ‘‘peculiar secret.’’ This means rejecting the stereotypes and accepting their own strengths. Margaret, struggling with the concept that strength is ‘‘masculine,’’ is vulnerable to the attack of ‘‘unwomanliness.’’ Elizabeth, perhaps discovering her own ‘‘peculiar secret,’’ tries to establish a bond of friendship or support with the woman she had scorned. But learning to curse is hardly a start on the path to understanding that the stereotypes (for ‘‘maleness’’ strength, courage, and initiative; and for ‘‘femaleness’’ docility, passivity, and weakness) must be denied if women are to gain power, not over the lives of others, but over their own lives. Shakespeare dramatizes the reality that women cannot do this alone. These plays reveal the limited world that exists as long as people believe that power belongs to men and powerlessness to women, refusing to recognize ‘‘the benefits . . . the world would gain by ceasing to make sex a disqualification for privileges and a badge of subjection.’’ Source: Irene G. Dash, ‘‘The Paradox of Power: The Henry VI-Richard III Tetralogy,’’ in Wooing, Wedding, and Power: Women in Shakespeare’s Plays, Columbia University Press, 1981, pp. 155–207.

Paul N. Siegel In this excerpt, Siegel closely examines Richard’s speeches and concludes that Richard uses the vocabulary of business in any endeavor he undertakes, whether it be planning the assassination of his brother Clarence or seeking Queen Elizabeth’s blessing to marry her daughter.

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RICHARD IS VERY MUCH OF THE NEW CAPITALIST WORLD. HE USES THE LANGUAGE OF BUSINESS AND DISPLAYS ITS ATTITUDES THROUGHOUT.’’

Richard is very much of the new capitalist world. He uses the language of business and displays its attitudes throughout. Much attention has been paid to the stylization of the play’s dialogue, with its stychomythia in the wooing scene of Anne, its ritualistic curses of Margaret, its chorused laments of the three queens, but little notice has been taken of what Charles Lamb called the ‘‘sprightly colloquial’’ language of Richard, which acts as a counterpoint to this stylization. It is a colloquial language that often recalls the contemporary turns of phrase expressing the values of our own business civilization. We might begin by looking at a line of images which can be called that of ‘‘the peddler and his packhorse.’’ In his soliloquy at the end of the first scene of the play, Richard says that Edward ‘‘must not die/Until George be packed with post horse up to heaven’’ (I, 4, 145 f.). He regards Clarence as a bale of goods which he will sling over a horse’s back and ship express from the kingdom of England to the kingdom of heaven. Richard’s quick mind then leaps ahead to his plans after Clarence and Edward are dead, but he stops himself with the jocular reminder: ‘‘But yet I run before my horse to market. / Clarence still breathes, Edward still lives and reigns; / When they are gone, then must I count my gains.’’ (I, 1, 159–161) ‘‘I run before my horse to market’’ was a proverbial phrase meaning ‘‘I’m running ahead of myself in my eagerness’’ or, as Kittredge glosses it [in his The Complete Works of Shakespeare]. ‘‘I count my chickens before they’re hatched.’’ The packhorse has to take one’s goods to the market before one can make his profit. Only then, when one has carried out his plans, can he sit down to total up what he has made. The image of the peddler and his packhorse is used again when Richard says to Queen Elizabeth of his labors in behalf of her

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husband Edward ‘‘I was a packhorse in his great affairs’’ (I, 3, 121) and also, a little later, when he says in disclaiming any desire to be king, ‘‘I had rather be a peddler.’’ (I, 3, 148) It is an image which seems to spring naturally to his lips. Richard also frequently uses financial and monetary terms. ‘‘Repaired with double riches of content’’ (IV, 4, 319), ‘‘advantaging their loan with interest / Of ten times double gain of happiness’’ (IV, 4, 323 f.), ‘‘go current from suspicion’’(II, 1, 96)—that is, pass as genuine currency without being suspected of being counterfeit— these are but a few examples. In addition to these uses of such terms and subsequent ones I shall cite, I have counted eight others . . . When Richard wishes to entice Elizabeth to marry her daughter to him, he tells her that, after having conquered Buckingham, he will to her daughter ‘‘retail my conquest won, / And she shall be sole victoress.’’ (IV, 4, 323 f.) ‘‘Retail’’, derived from the earlier meaning (OED 1) [OED stands for Oxford English Dictionary] ‘‘to sell (goods, etc.) in small quantities’’, signifies (OED 2) ‘‘to recount or tell over again’’, suggesting not only relating in detail but counting and recounting money. Richard is, therefore, promising Elizabeth’s daughter the joys of gaining all of England, which he represents as something to be counted out bit by bit. Richard uses not only monetary terms but business language. He greets the men he has hired to kill Clarence with ‘‘How now, my hardy stout-resolved mates! / Are you now going to dispatch this thing?’’ and sends them off with ‘‘about your business straight. Go, go, dispatch.’’ (I, 3, 339 f., 353 f.) ‘‘Dispatch’’ was a word with business connotations. One of its meanings was (OED I, 3) ‘‘to dismiss (a person) after attending to him or his business; to settle the business and send away’’. This was easily extended to (OED I, 4) ‘‘to get rid of or dispose of (any one) by putting to death; to make away with, kill’’. Richard is playing on the word: the murder of Clarence is just a little business matter to be speedily taken care of. Clarence may try to talk them out of it, but the professional killers, enterprising free-lance forerunners of Murder, Incorporated, know their jobs (after all, ‘‘business is business’’) and will not allow themselves to be diverted. The word ‘‘business’’ in ‘‘about your business straight’’ suggests the same


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The murder of the princes, Act IV, scene iii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

coldbloodedness as in Edmund’s words in calculating his course, ‘‘A credulous father, and a brother noble . . . I see the business’’ ([King Lear] I, 2, 195–198). Richard is twice referred to by other characters as a business agent. Buckingham, urging him before the citizens to rule in his own stead, not as the lord protector of the boy king, tells him to take on ‘‘the charge and kingly government of this your land; / Not as protector, steward, substitute, / Or lowly factor for another’s gain.’’ (III, 7, 130–133) ‘‘Steward’’ meant, of course, the business manager of an estate, and ‘‘factor’’ meant the business agent acting in behalf of his principal. Richard, despite his public professions, was really not content to be either, but the irony is that in the last analysis a business agent is all that he is: Margaret, reciting the many deaths of guilty persons that have already occurred, says, ‘‘Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, / Only reserved their factor to buy souls / And send them thither.’’ (IV, 4,

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71–73) He is the business agent of hell, buying souls and shipping them off to it. As a businessman, Richard is, to use the language of Babbitt, a ‘‘real hustler,’’ a ‘‘gogetter.’’ [George Babbitt is an American businessman in Sinclair Lewis’s novel Babitt.] He displays enormous energy from the time in 3 Henry VI he says that he is as one ‘‘lost in a thorny wood’’ from which he will ‘‘hew’’ his ‘‘way out with a bloody axe’’ (III, 2, 174–181) until the time of his last battle when he dashes frantically about calling ‘‘A horse! / My kingdom for a horse!’’ (V, 4, 7) Hustle and bustle characterize his behavior throughout. ‘‘Delay leads impotent and snailpaced beggary’’(IV, 3, 53)—inactivity is invariably followed by bankruptcy—he exclaims, calling forth to combat. On the eve of his last battle, he says, in an attempt to regain his old zest, ‘‘Tomorrow is a busy day.’’ (V, 3, 18) And before entering the final fray he cries out, ‘‘Come, bustle, bustle, / Caparison my horse.’’ (V, 3, 290) His underlings in their way speak his language. ‘‘Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate. / Talkers are no good doers,’’ says the First Murderer, (I, 3, 349 f.), assuring him that they will not allow Clarence to engage them in conversation and move their pity. ‘‘Talk is cheap’’ and ‘‘time is money.’’ Richard’s energy is the energy of the bourgeoisie. ‘‘The bourgeoisie,’’ says The Communist Manifesto, ‘‘has disclosed how it came to pass that the brutal display of vigor in the Middle Ages, which reactionists so much admire, found its fitting complement in the most slothful indolence. It has been the first to show what man’s activity can bring about . . . Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones.’’ The word business, it may be pointed out, is derived from ‘‘busyness.’’ With Clarence dead, says Richard, ‘‘God take King Edward to his mercy / And leave the world for me to bustle in!’’ (I, 1, 151 f.) The world which had been rejected by medieval otherworldliness as one of the three great temptations—‘‘the world, the flesh, and the devil’’—he welcomes as his sphere of activity, gladly relinquishing an alleged heaven to Edward. In response to Gratiano’s attempt to joke away Antonio’s melancholy by telling him that he has too great care for the things of this world,

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Antonio replies, ‘‘I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano—/ A stage where every man must play a part’’ (I, 1, 75–78)—a theatre with the ephemerality of the theatre in contradistinction to the eternity of heaven. But for Richard this world is all. The bourgeoisie, says The Communist Manifesto, ‘‘has drowned the most heavenly ecstacies of religious fervor . . . in the icy water of egotistical calculation.’’ Source: Paul N. Siegel, ‘‘Richard III as Businessman,’’ in Shakespeare Jahrbuch, Vol. 114, 1978, pp. 101–06.

A. C. Hamilton Hamilton demonstrates how Richard III ‘‘combines the genres of history play and tragedy,’’ pointing out that if we look at the play’s action through Richard’s eyes, we see the history of his political progress; on the other hand, Margaret turns the play into a tragedy as each of her curses are fulfilled. Finally, Hamilton observes that the momentum of the play is toward Richard’s isolation, since everyone connected with him is destroyed by him; moreover, it is Richard’s isolation which eventually results in his own destruction. Richard III, in its Quarto title ‘‘The Tragedy of King Richard the Third,’’ combines the genres of history play and tragedy. [In drama, a tragedy recounts the significant events or actions in a protagonist’s life which, taken together, bring about the catastrophe.] The demands of history itself upon the history play cause no opposition between the two genres: the strong Lancastrian bias of the age allowed the historical Richard to be as great a villain as the imagination of a tragic dramatist could desire. [John] Milton [in Eikonoklastes, 1650] rightly praises Shakespeare both for being ‘‘so mindfull of Decorum’’ in portraying Richard as a tyrant who counterfeits religious faith, and also for not ‘‘departing from the truth of History, which delivers him a deep dissembler, not of his affections onely, but of Religion.’’ As the stage history of the play demonstrates and any reading confirms, Richard is the greatest of Shakespeare’s historical characters. He embodies all the qualities of the political characters in the Henry VI plays who manipulate events to fit their own desires. [Henry VI, parts one, two, and three, are three plays by Shakespeare which precede Richard III.] He gathers within himself Joan’s duplicity, Eleanor’s aspirations, Winchester’s pride, Buckingham’s and Somerset’s ambition, Margaret’s and Suffolk’s scheming, Clifford’s revengeful fury, and, above all, York’s intense

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ALL THE WORLD LOVES A LOVER, ESPECIALLY IF HE IS ALSO A VILLAIN WHO MAKES EVIL ATTRACTIVE.’’

passion. He stands—or crouches—as the final expression of one who uses time and opportunity to dominate his environment, overcoming for a season the adversity of circumstance, fortune, and fate by sheer human will. If, at his insistence, we look at the play from his perspective, we see a history play that shows his political triumphs, until the final moment brings his faltering before Richmond. Early in the play, however, Margaret opposes Richard; she ensures that his history play becomes a tragedy, the climax to the tragic form that emerges in the Henry VI plays. After the opening scene in 1 Henry VI sets the stage for a tragedy with the funeral of Henry V, the action in that play turns to historical events; Salisbury’s ‘‘woeful tragedy’’ (I.iv.77) is only an episode in the war with France, and the tragedy of Talbot is only one consequence of dissension in England. 2 Henry VI contains the ‘‘tragedy’’ (III.ii.194) of Gloucester’s death and his enemies’ ‘‘plotted tragedy’’ (III.i.153), which ends in chaos with York’s first claim to the crown. 3 Henry VI leads quickly to ‘‘The True Tragedie of Richard, Duke of Yorke’’ (the play’s Quarto title) and concludes with the brutal murder of Henry and his son. In Richard III, the tragic form encompasses the whole play and all the major characters. At the height of the action, Margaret feeds upon the fall of her enemies: So now prosperity begins to mellow And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk’d To watch the waning of mine enemies. A dire induction am I witness to, And will to France, hoping the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. (IV.iv.1–7) She is the instrument through which the historical events in Richard’s reign, including finally Richard himself, become an ‘‘induction’’ [prologue] leading to a catastrophe that proves ‘‘bitter, black, and tragical.’’


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Richard III differs from the earlier history plays in its source. More’s Historie of King Richard the Thirde had already transformed mere chronicle event into a literary tradition with considerable dramatic potentiality. Shakespeare knew More through Hall, [in The Union of the Two Noble and Illustre Famelies of Lancastre and Yorke, 1548] and he may have known also the dramatic treatments in Thomas Legge’s Richardus Tertius (1579) and the anonymous True Tragedie of Richard the Third (1594). The tradition needed only one further transformation to achieve in Richard III one of the most popular plays on the English stage, second perhaps only to Hamlet. The place of Shakespeare’s play within this tradition can be quickly indicated. More describes Richard as an absolute villain: Richard duke of Gloucester . . . was in witte and courage egall with the other [Clarence], but in beautee and liniamentes of nature far underneth bothe, for he was litle of stature, eivill featured of limnes, croke backed, the left shulder touche higher than the righte, harde favoured of visage, such as in estates is called a warlike visage, and emonge commen persones a crabbed face. He was malicious, wrothfull and envious . . . He was close and secrete, a depe dissimuler, lowlye of countenaunce, arrogante of herte, outwardely familier where he inwardely hated, not lettynge to kisse whom he thought to kill, dispiteous and cruell, not alwaie for eivill will, but ofter for ambicion and too serve his purpose, frende and fooe were all indifferent, where his avauntage grewe, he spared no mannes deathe whose life withstode his purpose. He slewe in the towre kynge Henry the sixte, saiynge: now is there no heire male of kynge Edwarde the thirde, but wee of the house of Yorke: whiche murder was doen without kyng Edward his assente.

As a historian, More cannot crown his villain by accusing him of Clarence’s death. He admits that ‘‘of these poinctes there is no certentie, and whosoever divineth or conjectureth, may as wel shote to fer as to shorte’’ (sig.A.Aii). To answer these conjectures, Shakespeare shows how Richard plans that murder, persuades the king to condemn Clarence, and hires the murderers. What the historian does not deny, the dramatist, being ‘‘mindfull of Decorum,’’ supplies, in order that from the beginning his villain may be guilty of an offense that ‘‘hath the primal eldest curse upon’t— / A brother’s murder.’’

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To More’s discussion of Edward’s possible implication in his brother’s death Hall adds the moral lesson: . . . what a pernicious serpent, what a venemous tode, & what a pestiferous Scorpion is that develishe whelpe, called privye envye? Agaynst it no fortres can defend, no cave can hyde, no wood can shadow, no foule can escape, nor no beaste can avoyde, her poyson is so stronge, that never man in authoritie coulde escape from the bytyng of her tethe, scrachyng of her pawes, blastyng of her breath, defoulynge of her tayle. Wherefore, let every indifferent persone, serche Histories, rede Chronicles, looke on aucthores, aswell holy as prophane, and thei shall apparauntly perceive, that neither open warre, daily famyne, or accustomed mortalitie, is not so muche an enemie, nor so greate a malle to destroye, and suppeditate high power and nobilitie, as is roted malice, inwarde grudge, and dissimuled hatred. (sigs. Rrivv-R[r]vr])

In place of this moral abstracted out of the chronicles, Shakespeare offers an image, in which ‘‘that develishe whelpe, called privye envye’’ is embodied in Richard. Earlier dramatic treatments follow More in displaying Richard as the Senecan tyrant [Seneca, a Roman statesman, author, and philosopher of the first century A.D., is famous for nine melodramas which had a great influence on tragic drama in Elizabethan England]. The dramatic limitations of this form show clearly in the True Tragedie, where Richard declares: ‘‘I hope with this lame hand of mine, to rake out that hatefull heart of Richmond, and when I have it, to eate it panting hote with salt, and drinke his blood luke warme’’ (ll. 1979–81). Felix E. Schelling [in his Elizabethan Drama: 1558–1642] believes that Shakespeare continues the line of Tamburlaine [a play by Christopher Marlowe, 1590] by a ‘‘concentration of interest in the heroic dimensions of a unified personality, the master passion of which carries the auditor’s sympathies with it.’’ Yet Shakespeare’s hero differs radically from Marlowe’s. In place of one Threat’ning the world with high astounding terms, And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword (Prologue, Part 1) he offers one whose victories are shameful—over the simple, believing Clarence, a woman’s captive heart, two innocent babes, the trusting Hastings, a gullible commons, and a ‘‘Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman’’ (R.III IV.iv.431).

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Tamburlaine’s relentless ranting here changes into the direct speaking voice of one who can say to the brother whose death he arranges because of his name: Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours: He should, for that, commit your godfathers. O, belike his Majesty hath some intent That you should be new-christ’ned in the Tower. (I.iv.47–50). Since the plot leads to Clarence’s death by being ’’ newchrist’ned’’ in a malmsey-butt, murder has become matter for a brutal jest. Richard’s tone ranges from the vigor of ‘‘Chop off his head’’ (III.i.193) to the sanctimonious ‘‘O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham’’ (III.vii.220), from the Faustian [from Christopher Marlowe’s play Doctor Faustus] cry, ‘‘Have mercy, Jesu!’’ (V.iii.178) to the heroic ‘‘A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!’’ (V.iv.13), or to the quiet thrust of his insolent question, superbly timed to shatter the peace of soul for which the dying Edward yearns: ‘‘Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead?’’ (II.i.79). Shakespeare displays Richard’s character in the second scene, the wooing and winning of Anne. We know that she was fifteen when she first married Henry VI’s son in December 1470, that after her husband’s death in the following May she was disguised as a kitchen maid by Clarence in an effort to gain Warwick’s estates, and that she was found by Richard, who placed her in sanctuary until the king let him marry her. Shakespeare knows only the curious fact that Richard married her the year after he murdered her husband. Accordingly, he invents the scene in which Richard woos her as she attends the funeral of Henry VI, also one of his victims. The scene proves startling from the outset. In his opening soliloquy, Richard scorns Mars [the Roman god of war] for having smoothed his wrinkled front and capering nimbly into a lady’s chamber, while he himself in his deformity must remain, as Mars had been, ‘‘wrinkled’’ and ‘‘grim-visag’d’’: And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. (I.i.9, 28–31) In the closing soliloquy to this opening scene he refers to his ‘‘deep intent’’ (l. 149) in causing Clarence’s death, which we take to be his chance at the throne if the king and his brothers’

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Antony Sher as Richard III in Act V, scene iii, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1984 (Ó Donald Cooper/ Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

children should die. Instead of saying so, however, he adds surprisingly: ‘‘For then I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter’’. (l. 153). Though he hints at having ‘‘another secret close intent’’ (l. 158) in marrying her, that intent, as it turns out, is to prove a villain by proving a lover.

Was ever woman in this humour woo’d? Was ever woman in this humour won? (ll. 227–228)

What! I that kill’d her husband and his father— To take her in her heart’s extremest hate, With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of my hatred by; Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I no friends to back my suit at all But the plain devil and dissembling looks, And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! Ha! (I.ii.230–238)

he asks us; yet he need not pause for an answer. In literature, at any rate, no other woman has been wooed and won by her husband’s murderer while she attends the funeral of her husband’s father, who was also murdered by him. Anne’s yielding cannot be explained by fear, or by her desire for him, or by a sense of guilt because her beauty drove him to murder, or by her not being deceived but cunningly deceiving him. Moral or psychological ‘‘explanation’’ only lessens the scene’s dramatic impact. Anne’s submission becomes ours: with her we recognize the reasons to curse Richard, yet we find our horror replaced by fascination. All the world loves a lover, especially if he is also a villain who makes evil attractive. Her yielding defines the kind of world we must accept, with its outrage of all human feelings, its perversion of love and marriage, and its human weakness when self is divided against self.

The wooing is meant to shock, even as it shocks Richard himself.

Yet the scene’s final dramatic impact lies not in Anne’s submission but in Richard’s triumph. In

Richard’s seduction of Anne is a triumph, as he realizes in mock wonder. No lover’s triumph is more complete:


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the opening soliloquy, where he scorns lovers who trip into ‘‘a lady’s chamber’’ (I.i.12), the suddenness of transition to the lines: And leave the world for me to bustle in! For then I’ll marry Warwick’s youngest daughter (ll. 152–153) astonishes us, and perhaps Richard himself. In his soliloquies and asides throughout the play he reveals himself so intimately that we become his accomplices: in sharing his keen delight in villainy, we share his guilt. No other dramatic character, except possibly Hamlet, appeals on quite the same level in being both intimate and archetypal. If his villainy were less monstrous, if we knew less about him, or even if he took himself seriously, he would become a monster. Instead, he invites our delight in his villainies and browbeats us into accepting him. Yet here we achieve less than full intimacy: he plays a trick on us, and on himself, by proving such a successful lover. His trick is to provide the delight for which we come to the theater, the enjoyment of a moral holiday staged by a consummate actor who always plays his part and plays it perfectly. Hence the delighted surprise with which he trips nimbly into a lady s chamber. The scene takes us into Richard’s mind, where all the significant dramatic action takes place. While the play’s significant action occurs internally as our dramatic interest focuses upon Richard’s mind, the external action is controlled by Margaret. Her role is to project the play as a historical tragedy. She remains at the English court, contrary to historical fact, in order to revile those who have offended against her. In the scene that follows Richard’s seduction of Anne, our attention turns from Richard to Margaret, whose railing causes him and the others to attack her. Ironically, he teaches her how to curse when he claims that York’s curses from bitterness of soul Denounc’d against thee are all fall’n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagu’d thy bloody deed. (I.iii.179–181) In amazement, she learns that curses are effective: Did York’s dread curse prevail so much with heaven

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That Henry’s death, my lovely Edward’s death, Their kingdom’s loss, my woeful banishment, Should all but answer for that peevish brat? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven? Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses! (ll. 191–196) She rails no longer and curses each in turn. Each has brought her curse upon himself by wronging her. In effect, she writes the complots of the tragedies that each then acts out to fulfill her word. Edward, Elizabeth, Rivers, Grey, Hastings, the young Edward, Buckingham, and finally Richard—all suffer and ‘‘die the thrall of Margaret’s curse’’ (IV.i.46). They exist upon the level of her dreams to become what she wishes. In 2 Henry VI, the banished Suffolk wishes ‘‘would curses kill’’ (III.ii.310); now they do, and the action of the play shows how her words become deeds. Within the play, the entire action becomes a play directed by her. Although Richard bustles in the world, dominating it for the present moment through his intelligence and will, he is her chief actor. She is the Past, the present witness to previous wrongs, and her curses determine the future. Allegorically, she is Conscience, Revenge, or one of the Destinies, with the difference that she is involved herself in the guilt, revenge, and fate that she brings on others. The play is organized into rituals of grief. Elizabeth defines the ritual when she bewails the death of the king. In her agony of grief, she is ready to ‘‘join with black despair against my soul / And to myself become an enemy.’’ To the Duchess of York’s question, ‘‘What means this scene of rude impatience?’’ she replies, ‘‘To make an act of tragic violence’’ (II.ii.36–39). The play is composed of such acts of tragic violence. 1 Henry VI has only Talbot’s lament upon the death of his son; 2 Henry VI has Gloucester’s lament, Margaret’s and Suffolk’s lament upon his exile, and Clifford’s lament upon the death of his father; and 3 Henry VI has York’s raging when Margaret goads him to ‘‘rude impatience,’’ Henry’s lament on the molehill, joined by the laments of the father who has slain his son and of the son who has slain his father, and finally Henry’s raging against Richard. In Richard III, every character except Richmond laments, and

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entire scenes are organized into rituals of lamentation.

in [Shakespeare’s] Titus Andronicus that contain a dramatic gathering of rituals of lament.

There is even a competition in weeping. When Elizabeth bewails the death of her husband, the Duchess of York lays claim to having greater cause to grieve,

Lamentation rises to a lyrical climax in a later scene when the Duchess of York, Elizabeth, and Margaret gather to mourn. Elizabeth, who has learned of the murder of her children, wails:

Thine being but a moiety of my moan— To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries, (II.ii.60–61) while Clarence’s children refuse to join Elizabeth’s lament because she did not weep for their father’s death. She responds that she needs no help in weeping, for her tears alone can drown the world. Then their voices join in a three-part ritual of lament: Eliz. Ah for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward! Child. Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence! Duch. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence! Eliz. What stay had I but Edward? and he’s gone. Child. What stay had we but Clarence? and he’s gone. Duch. What stays had I but they? and they are gone. Eliz. Was never widow had so dear a loss. Child. Were never orphans had so dear a loss. Duch. Was never mother had so dear a loss.

This triple threnody [a song of lamentation for the dead] concludes with the Duchess of York’s lament for them all: Alas! I am the mother of these griefs! Their woes are parcell’d, mine is general. She for an Edward weeps, and so do I: I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she. These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I: I for an Edward weep, so do not they. Alas, you three on me, threefold distress’d, Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow’s nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentation. (II.ii.71–88) Such scenes may be compared to the complaint scenes that are a vehicle for Lucrece’s curses and laments in her poem [Shakespeare’s ‘‘The Rape of Lucrece’’], and to a similar competition in weeping between her father and Collatine. They are even closer to similar scenes


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Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs And throw them in the entrails of the wolf? When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done? (IV.iv.22–24) Margaret responds, ‘‘When holy Harry died, and my sweet son’’ (l. 25), and the Duchess of York laments that she is the chronicle of all their woe. When they sit together, Margaret claims the seniority of her griefs and catalogs their woes: I had an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him: I had a husband, till a Richard kill’d him; Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill’d him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill’d him. (ll. 40–43) Elizabeth’s overwhelming grief, which leads her to cry out for ‘‘my tender babes! / My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets!’’ (ll. 9– 10), is modulated with both the quietness of the Duchess of York, who has long been overwhelmed by grief, for So many miseries have craz’d my voice That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute, (ll. 17–18) and Margaret’s joy in their grief: O upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother’s body (ll. 55–57) Though such formalized scenes are often omitted in modern productions as being too stylized for our taste, they shape the play into a tragic history. The story of Hastings, as one ‘‘act of tragic violence,’’ illustrates some features of the play as a historical tragedy and distinguishes it from the earlier history plays that have similar stories of Talbot, Gloucester, and York. For although Shakespeare follows More closely in telling Hastings’ story, he adds ironic humor. Hastings’

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innocent remark on Richard’s cheerful look, ‘‘There’s some conceit or other likes him well’’ (III.iv.51), provides a broadly comic touch, for the ‘‘conceit’’ is the means of chopping off his head. Ironically, in his refusal to support Richard’s claim to the throne, he pronounces his own doom: I’ll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders Before I’ll see the crown so foul misplac’d. (III.ii.43–44) In his later remark, ‘‘God knows I will not do it to the death’’ (l. 55) he speaks more truly than he knows. Such ironic comedy changes the significance of his fall. More, seeing in it an example of ‘‘the vayne surety of mans mynde so neare hys death,’’ comments: ‘‘O lorde God the blyndnesse of our mortal nature, when he most feared, he was in moste suretye, and when he reconed hym selfe moste surest, he lost his lyfe, and that within two houres after’’ (sig. C[C]iiir–v). In the play, Hastings himself recognizes how ‘‘too fond’’ (III.iv.83) he has been, repents that he triumphed over his enemies while he felt secure in grace, and then interprets his own tragedy: O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hope in air of your good looks Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. (ll. 98–103) Through these lines his earlier affability toward Richard—‘‘I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well . . . His gracious pleasure’’— gains new meaning. Just before the blow falls, he speaks of ‘‘The tender love I bear your Grace’’ (l. 65): His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning . . . I think there’s never a man in Christendom Can lesser hide his love or hate than he; For by his face straight shall you know his heart . . . Marry, that with no man here he is offended; For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. (ll. 50, 53–55, 59–60)

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Here we see him hunting for the grace of a mortal man, as he builds his hope in air of Richard’s good looks. Hastings’ moral state is central to the play. Margaret speaks of her murdered son as now in the shade of death, Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up, (I.iii.267–269) Elizabeth of her dead husband in ‘‘his new kingdom of ne’erchanging night’’ (II.ii.46), Richard of the dead Clarence as one ‘‘who I indeed have cast in darkness,’’ (I.iii.327), and Margaret of Elizabeth’s dead sons as having their ‘‘infant morn’’ dimmed to ‘‘aged night.’’ (IV.iv.16), Elizabeth sees herself wrecked by Richard, in such a desp’rate bay of death, Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. (ll. 232–234) In his dream Clarence falls ‘‘overboard / Into the tumbling billows of the main’’ (I.iv.19– 20). The play shows the world poised to fall ‘‘into the fatal bowels of the deep’’; for the bonds between earth and heaven are broken when a ‘‘foul devil’’ (I.ii.50) becomes ‘‘the Lord’s anointed’’ (IV.iv.150). Prayers to God are for revenge, not mercy. Elizabeth accuses God of throwing ‘‘gentle lambs . . . in the entrails of the wolf’’ and sleeping while evil is done. The apocalyptic imagery of harvest, coming darkness, and chaos rises to a scream in Margaret’s curse: But at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end. Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, To have him suddenly convey’d from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live and say ‘‘The dog is dead.’’ (IV.iv.73–78) Movement within this world is downward: Clarence’s dream anticipates his descent into hell, Margaret interprets Elizabeth’s state as ‘‘One heav’d ahigh to be hurl’d down below’’ (l. 86), the death that threatens Stanley’s son is a ‘‘fall / Into the blind cave of eternal night’’ (V.iii.61–62). The movement suggests a world ready for the Last Judgment. England becomes ‘‘this slaughterhouse’’ (IV.i.44), and Hastings prophesies for his country ‘‘the fearfull’st time to thee / That ever wretched

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age hath look’d upon’’ (III.iv.106–107). When Buckingham ‘‘pleads’’ with Richard to assume the throne because England is ‘‘almost should’red in the swallowing gulf / Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion’’ (III.vii.128–129), he mocks the truth. That final shouldering is left to Richard, his high shoulder being the symbol of his malignancy. The hell that each character inhabits is a mental state. Its chief lyrical statement in the play, Clarence’s dream, has three stages: first the blow of being shouldered into the ocean by Richard, then the pain of drowning when the waters smother his soul within him, and finally the ‘‘tempest to [his] soul’’ (I.iv.44) when he enters hell to be accused by those against whom he has sinned: With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environ’d me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries that, with the very noise, I trembling wak’d, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made my dream. (ll. 58–63) The first stage of his dream, that of being knocked overboard by Richard, is the ‘‘real’’ world of historical event where Richard arranges Clarence’s death and the deaths of the others who stand between him and the throne. The second stage, the agony of death, is the demonic world that Richard creates, expressed in the imagery of drowning. The third stage, the tempest to the soul, is the state of despair, the private hell into which the characters fall under the burden of guilt. Edward on his deathbed seeks to reconcile opposing factions at the court, in order that ‘‘more at peace my soul shall part to heaven’’ (II.i.5); but the news of Clarence’s death leaves him to die with his soul ‘‘full of sorrow’’ (l. 96), fearing God’s justice. Elizabeth resolves to ‘‘join with black despair against my soul / And to myself become an enemy.’’ Each character dies weighed down by guilt. One by one, those who stand between Richard and the crown—Clarence, Edward, Rivers, Grey, Vaughan, Hastings, the two princes, Margaret, Elizabeth, the Duchess of York, Anne, and Buckingham—make an ‘‘act of tragic violence.’’ Together they are an ‘‘induction’’ to the thirteenth fall, a catastrophe that proves ‘‘bitter, black, and tragical’’: the death of Richard. The whole movement of the play


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effects his gradual isolation, the cutting away of all supporting human relationships. By the end he stands alone; but, being unsupported, he falls. The tragic irony of his actions is that those who stand in his way support him: after they fall, he must fall. Richard’s fall has two stages: In the first he confronts the lamenting women, the Duchess of York and Elizabeth. Earlier in the scene, Elizabeth begs Margaret: O thou well skill’d in curses, stay awhile And teach me how to curse mine enemies! (IV.iv.116–117) Margaret teaches her, even as she was taught: Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days; Compare dead happiness with living woe; Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is. Bett’ring thy loss makes the bad-causer worse; Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. (ll. 118–123) Then Elizabeth, in turn, teaches the Duchess of York to curse. Up to this moment, the Duchess has submitted patiently to her sorrow, reduced almost to silence, seeing in herself Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe’s scene, world’s shame, grave’s due by life usurp’d, Brief abstract and record of tedious days. (ll. 26–28) Now she asks, ‘‘Why should calamity be full of words?’’ and Elizabeth replies: Windy attorneys to their client woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries, Let them have scope; though what they will impart Help nothing else, yet do they ease the heart. (ll. 127–131) The Duchess now prepares to forgo her patient resignation and make her ‘‘scene of rude impatience’’: If so, then be not tongue-tied. Go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let’s smother My damned son that thy two sweet sons smother’d.

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The trumpet sounds; be copious in exclaims. (ll. 132–135) When Richard enters, she forces him to stand and ‘‘patiently hear my impatience’’ (l. 156). Her curses determine the shape of his future actions: Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse, Which in the day of battle tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st! My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the little souls of Edward’s children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end. Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend. (ll. 187–195) Now, when Richard triumphs over Elizabeth, as earlier he triumphed over Anne, the parallel only reinforces the contrast. Before, he needed only to flatter Anne; now he must curse himself and so swear away his future: As I intend to prosper and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous affairs Of hostile arms! Myself myself confound! Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours! Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest! (ll. 397–401) The triple curse upon him by Margaret, his mother, and himself begins its fulfillment in his dream before the final battle. This dream marks the start of the second, and final, stage of his fall. The ghost of each of his victims urges him to ‘‘despair and die’’ (V.iii.120 ff.): that is, to despair at the moment of death and be eternally damned. Hall, worrying over Richard’s fate after death, ends his story with ’’ . . . but to God whiche knewe his interior cogitacions at the hower of his deathe I remitte the punyshment of his offences committed in his lyfe’’ (sig. [KKv]). If Richard repents at the last moment and so escapes hell, history provides a poor example for posterity. Holinshed [in his Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland, 1587] reproduces Hall’s remark almost exactly, adding hopefully that if it happened that God did punish Richard severely, ‘‘who shall be so hardie as to expostulate and reason why he so dooth.’’ Obviously, this answer does not satisfy.

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Shakespeare answers the question through the cry of the ghosts, ‘‘despair and die,’’ ten times repeated. Yet each cry leaves a gap between ‘‘despair’’ and ‘‘die,’’ affording that moment in which he could repent. But the ghost of Buckingham, who had helped Richard rise to the throne, now assures his fall: O, in the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness! Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death; Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath! (V.iii.169–172) Buckingham’s curse gives Richard no instant for repentance; it dooms him, as he dies, to despair, and while he despairs, to die. He does dream on of bloody deeds and death: ‘‘Give me another horse. Bind up my wounds’’ (l. 177). That final Faustian cry, ‘‘Have mercy, Jesu!’’ comes, as with Faust, too late; for when he awakes and dismisses his dream—‘‘Soft! I did but dream’’ (l. 178)—he is damned. In the final battle he asks only for a horse, and the kingdom that he is willing to give in exchange is greater than he knows. Source: A. C. Hamilton, ‘‘The Resolution of the Early Period: Richard III,’’ in The Early Shakespeare, The Huntington Library, 1967, pp. 186–202.

SOURCES Berman, Ronald, ‘‘Anarchy and Order in Richard III and King John,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 20, 1967, pp. 51–9. Blanpied, John W., ‘‘The Dead-End Comedy of Richard III,’’ originally published in Time and the Artist in Shakespeare’s English Histories, Associated University Presses, 1983, pp. 85–97. Brooks, Harold F., ‘‘Richard III, Unhistorical Amplifications: The Women’s Scenes and Seneca,’’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. 75, No. 4, October 1980, pp. 721–37. Dillon, Janette, ‘‘‘I Am Myself Alone’: Richard III,’’ in Shakespeare and the Solitary Man, Rowman and Littlefield, 1981, pp. 49–60. Eccles, Mark, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Tragedy of Richard the Third, by William Shakespeare, edited by Mark Eccles, Signet Classic, 1988, pp. lxiii–lxxi. ———, ‘‘Richard III on Stage and Screen,’’ in The Tragedy of Richard the Third, by William Shakespeare, edited by Mark Eccles, Signet Classic, 1988, pp. 232–45.

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Frisch, Morton J., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Richard III and the Soul of the Tyrant,’’ originally published in Interpretation: A Journal of Political Philosophy, Vol. 20, No. 3, Spring 1993, pp. 275–84. Gurr, Andrew, ‘‘Richard III and the Democratic Process,’’ in Essays in Criticism, Vol. 24, No. 1, January 1974, pp. 39–47. Heilman, Robert B., ‘‘Satiety and Conscience: Aspects of Richard III,’’ in The Antioch Review, Vol. 24, No. 1, Spring 1964, pp. 57–73. Kahn, Coppe´lia, ‘‘‘Myself Alone’: Richard III and the Dissolution of Masculine Identity,’’ in The Tragedy of Richard the Third, by William Shakespeare, edited by Mark Eccles, Signet Classic, 1988, pp. 227–31. Kott, Jan, ‘‘The Kings,’’ in Shakespeare Our Contemporary, translated by Boleslaw Taborski, Methuen & Co., 1965, pp. 3–46. Krieger, Murray, ‘‘The Dark Generations of Richard III,’’ Criticism, Vol. 1, No. 1, Winter 1959, pp. 32–48.

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Sheriff, William E., ‘‘The Grotesque Comedy of Richard III,’’ originally published in Studies in the Literary Imagination, Vol. 5, No. 1, April 1972, pp. 51–64. Tanner, Stephen L., ‘‘Richard III versus Elizabeth: An Interpretation,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 24, No. 4, Autumn 1973, pp. 468–72. Tillyard, E. M. W., ‘‘Richard III,’’ originally published in Shakespeare’s History Plays, Chatto & Windus, 1944, pp. 198–214. Velz, John W., ‘‘Episodic Structure in Four Tudor Plays: A Virtue of Necessity,’’ in Comparative Drama, Vol. 6, No. 2, Summer 1972, pp. 87–102. Weber, Karl, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Richard III, I.iv.24–33,’’ in Explicator, Vol. 38, No. 3, Spring 1980, pp. 24–6. Wilson, John Dover, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Richard III, by William Shakespeare, Cambridge University Press, 1954, pp. vii–xlv.

Muir, Kenneth, ‘‘Image and Symbol in Shakespeare’s Histories,’’ in Bulletin of the John Rylands Library, Vol. 50, 1967–1968, pp. 103–23. Neill, Michael, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Halle of Mirrors: Play, Politics, and Psychology in Richard III,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 8, 1980, pp. 99–129. Nietzsche, Friedrich, Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future, translated by Walter Kaufmann, Vintage Books, 1966. Norwich, John Julius, Shakespeare’s Kings, Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1999. Ornstein, Robert, ‘‘Richard III,’’ in A Kingdom for a Stage: The Achievement of Shakespeare’s History Plays, Harvard University Press, 1972. Richards, Jeffrey, ‘‘The Riddle of Richard III,’’ in History Today, Vol. 33, No. 8, August 1983, pp. 18–25. Ritchey, David, ‘‘Queen Margaret (Richard III): A Production Note,’’ in North Carolina Journal of Speech and Drama, Vol. 7, No. 2, 1973, pp. 37–41. Rossiter, A. P., ‘‘Angel with Horns: The Unity of Richard III,’’ in Angel with Horns and Other Shakespeare Lectures, Longmans, 1961, pp. 1–22. Shakespeare, William, The Complete Illustrated Shakespeare, edited by Howard Staunton, 1858, reprint, Park Lane, 1979. ———, The Tragedy of Richard the Third, edited by Mark Eccles, Signet Classic, 1988. Shaw, George Bernard, Shaw on Shakespeare, edited by Edwin Wilson, E. P. Dutton, 1961.


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FURTHER READING Fields, Bertram, Royal Blood: Richard III and the Mystery of the Princes, Regan Books, 2000. A lawyer as well as a writer, Fields approaches the historical records from the time of Richard III with a well-honed skepticism and ability to conjecture, offering revisions of the more onesided versions of the king’s story. Hicks, Michael, The Wars of the Roses: 1455–1485, Routledge, 2003. Hicks provides a thought-provoking discussion of the causes of the Wars of the Roses in this relatively concise volume. Marshall, Christopher D., Beyond Retribution: A New Testament Vision for Justice, Crime, and Punishment, William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 2001. This even-keeled work discusses concepts of justice found in the Bible and considers their relevance to modern institutionalized systems of justice. Olivier, Laurence, On Acting, Simon & Schuster, 1987. Widely recognized as one of the greatest Shakespearean actors in history, Olivier provides a far-reaching discussion on the nature of acting, drawing on the lessons he learned playing the most demanding Shakespearean roles, including that of Richard III.

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Romeo and Juliet 1595

Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare’s tragedy of star-crossed lovers, is one of the most popular romantic tragedies in English literature. The drama has been reworked and adapted to the likes and times of audiences from the sixteenth century until today. Shakespeare himself adapted his drama from a folktale that originated at least one hundred years earlier than his play. Despite the changes in the story over the centuries, whether they were made for religious, political, or social concerns, at the core of this drama is a tale that has not been changed and that reaches deeply into the psyche. It is a story about growing up, experiencing love, rebelling against authority, surrendering to the power of fate, and facing mortality—of friends and lovers as well as one’s own. In a capsule, Romeo and Juliet is a play about life. The drama’s consistent popularity proves it. Everyone, at some stage of their lives, can relate to Romeo and Juliet. Pinning down the publication date of this play is difficult. What is known is that Shakespeare wrote it around the same time he wrote Richard II and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which would place Romeo and Juliet around 1595. The official date that has been recorded for the printed version of the play is 1597. Although most critics are sure Shakespeare’s tragedy was presented earlier, there are no specific performances of this play recorded until 1662. By then, the original style of the play had been drastically changed. For example, Sir James Howard’s version of the play during that

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year provided a happy ending to this originally tragic story. The inspiration for Shakespeare’s version of this old story came from Luigi da Porto (1489– 1529), a scholar living in northern Italy, who wrote a story called Giulietta e Romeo. Then in 1562, Arthur Brooks (d. 1563) introduced this story to England via a long poem he called The Tragical History of Romeus and Juliet, which became Shakespeare’s primary source. Shakespeare left many of the same events that occurred in the poem; however, in bringing his work to the stage, Shakespeare sharpened some of the details for dramatic effect. For instance, he shortened the time frame; he reduced Juliet’s age to a more innocent thirteen years; and increased the emphasis on some of the minor characters, adding contrast between them and the young lovers in order to provide more complexities to the personalities of Romeo and Juliet. Since the play was taken from a popular story of the time, Shakespeare’s audiences were not as surprised as modern audiences might be to be told right in the beginning of the play what would happen. Shakespeare’s audiences came not to be surprised but rather to witness how Shakespeare would tell the familiar story. In some ways, this continues today, with modern audiences going to see updated versions of this wellknown story.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Prologue The Prologue of Romeo and Juliet is read by a chorus of one or more people. In many productions of this play, the Prologue is often read by Prince Escalus, the lawmaker of this drama. In a 1997 movie version of this play, the Prologue is read by a television reporter, who presents it as a news report.

Act 1, Scene 1 Two servants from the Capulet household, Sampson and Gregory, talk about their dislike of the Montagues. The young men boast of how they will fight with the men and what they may also do to the women. When young men from the Montagues appear, the men fight. Benvolio, from the Montagues, tries to stop the fighting. However, Tybalt (of the Capulets) misinterprets Benvolio’s drawn sword and attacks.


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Capulet, the head of the family, arrives and sees the master of the Montague family. Capulet calls for his sword. The older men call one another names, but the prince appears and breaks up the impending fight. The prince declares that the feuding between the families must stop, promising a death sentence for anyone who is caught fighting again. Capulet leaves with the prince, while Montague questions Benvolio about who started this brawl. Lady Montague changes the topic, asking if Benvolio has seen her son, Romeo. Benvolio replies that he has seen him and that Romeo appeared depressed. Montague describes Romeo as being different from the other young men. Romeo likes to be alone. He stays up at night and shuns the daylight and is often seen in tears. Then, seeing Romeo approach, Benvolio leaves, telling the Montagues he will find out what troubles Romeo. When Benvolio presses Romeo to tell him why he is sad, Romeo describes the love he feels ‘‘Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs; / Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers’ eyes: / Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.’’ He continues, being somewhat dramatic in his descriptions. Benvolio pokes fun at Romeo, then suggests that he look at other women. As Romeo and Benvolio part, Romeo says: ‘‘Thou canst not teach me to forget [this love].’’ And Benvolio replies: ‘‘I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.’’ In other words, Benvolio has accepted Romeo’s challenge and will do his best to make Romeo forget this love that Benvolio believes Romeo has completely invented.

Act 1, Scene 2 Capulet invites Paris, a kinsman of the prince, to Capulet’s masquerade party. He also talks to Paris about Juliet. Capulet tells Paris that his daughter is too young to marry, but in a couple of years ‘‘we may think her ripe to be a bride.’’ He suggests that Paris woo her and win her heart, but to wait until Juliet is ready. Then Capulet tells Peter, one of his servants, to announce the masquerade party around town. He gives Peter a list of people to invite. Peter leaves but is concerned because he cannot read. He bumps into Romeo who reads the list and finds Rosaline’s name. Peter invites Romeo and Benvolio to come to the party, providing they are not Montagues (he does not know who they are). Benvolio encourages Romeo to go

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will be present that night at the party. Juliet promises her mother that she will pay attention to Paris.

Act 1, Scene 4 Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio are about to enter the Capulet’s masquerade party. Romeo remains in his melancholy mood, claiming he is more comfortable just observing the party but not participating. Mercutio teases Romeo, trying to bring him out of his depressed mood. Mercutio tells Romeo that if he is in love, he should use that love to lighten his state of mind. Romeo insists that love is not tender but rather ‘‘too rough, / Too rude, too boist’rous, and it pricks like thorn.’’ Romeo tries to change the subject, speaking of dreams. Mercutio says that dreams lie. Romeo, on the other hand, believes that dreams tell of the future. Mercutio tells the story of Queen Mab, a fairy queen who visits people in their dreams. Mercutio’s story quickly goes from the lightly romantic to the slightly bizarre; and Romeo tells him to be quiet. The point that Mercutio wants to make is that dreams ‘‘are the children of an idle brain, / Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.’’ Mercutio is trying to tell Romeo that it is time for Romeo to wake up and live. Shakespeare, in the meantime, is contrasting Mercutio’s cynical reaction to love with Romeo’s romantic notions.

Romeo speaking with an apothecary, Act V, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

to meet other women. Romeo agrees, but his reason is to not to meet any one new but to be closer to Rosaline.

Act 1, Scene 3 Lady Capulet searches for her daughter Juliet. When Juliet is found, Lady Capulet dismisses the Nurse, but then changes her mind and asks the Nurse to stay. This points out Lady Capulet’s lack of confidence as a mother. Lady Capulet, remembering that she was Juliet’s age when she gave birth to her daughter, asks Juliet if she has given any thought to marriage. Lady Capulet mentions that Paris has stated an interest and

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Act 1, Scene 5 Romeo is asking who Juliet is, when Tybalt recognizes Romeo’s voice. Tybalt is furious that Romeo has crashed the party. He wants to fight Romeo. Capulet interferes, yelling at Tybalt to not destroy the party. Romeo is heard talking to Juliet for the first time. Note that just before Tybalt leaves the scene, he speaks in rhyme. Then as Romeo and Juliet speak, they also talk in rhyme. This continues, sometimes with Romeo beginning a rhyme and Juliet finishing it, and vice versa. The rhyming helps to soften the mood, building up to Romeo and Juliet’s first kiss. Note also how quickly Romeo forgets about Rosaline as soon as he sets eyes on Juliet. Arguments have been made that this shows Romeo’s immaturity. Others state that Rosaline represented Romeo’s lack of worldly experience; and Juliet marks the beginning of Romeo’s maturity.

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Nurse interrupts the young lovers, and Romeo finds out, through Nurse, that the young woman he just kissed is a Capulet. Shortly after, Juliet also asks Nurse to identify Romeo. Nurse returns and tells Juliet that he is a Montague. ‘‘My only love,’’ Juliet says upon finding out, ‘‘sprung from my only hate!’’ Here again, Shakespeare is setting up opposites. Juliet emphasizes the contrast by stating: ‘‘Prodigious birth of love it is to ` enemy.’’ The me / That I must love a loathed scene ends with everyone leaving the party.

Act 2, Prologue Act 2 begins with another prologue. The chorus recites another sonnet, this time summarizing the events that took place in act 1.

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can they tell if what they are feeling for one another is true love and not just infatuation that will disappear? They decide that the way to prove that they are committed to one another is to get married.

Act 2, Scene 3 Friar Laurence is working with his plants, mentioning how some make poisons. Romeo enters and talks of love. Friar Laurence reacts dismally, thinking Romeo still longs for Rosaline. When Romeo tells him that it is Juliet, Friar Laurence first teases Romeo about the fickleness of his love, but then seems pleased. Friar Laurence hopes that the love between the two young people will end the feuding. Romeo asks Friar Laurence to marry them. The friar consents.

Act 2, Scene 1 Romeo is alone again. Benvolio and Mercutio are looking for him. Mercutio is fed up with Romeo and his romantic ideals, believing that Romeo is still pining for Rosaline. ‘‘The ape is dead, and I must conjure him,’’ Mercutio says. Mercutio talks about the physical aspects of lovemaking. He does not imagine a higher, more spiritual kind of love. Benvolio wants Mercutio to leave Romeo alone, fearing that what Mercutio is talking about will only anger Romeo.

Act 2, Scene 2 This scene incorporates the famous balcony scene at the Capulets’. Romeo has jumped over the garden wall and sees a light in a room he assumes is Juliet’s. He hides under the balcony when she appears. When Juliet and Romeo speak in this scene, they no longer talk through sonnets. They now speak in blank verse, suggesting that they have strayed away from the stereotypical literary protocol of lovers, like the poems that Romeo was once so fond of when he was infatuated with Rosaline. Juliet’s famous line is read: ‘‘O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art though Romeo?’’ She does not know that Romeo is listening, as she announces that she wants Romeo to deny his name, which she will also do, if that is what it will take for them to love one another. The emphasis on her speech is on the meaninglessness of names and words. She is asking why a name should keep them apart. But this emphasis is also Shakespeare’s way of bringing up the topic of love. Juliet and Romeo are trying to define what love is. Romeo has read about it. He knows the words of love. But how


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Act 2, Scene 4 Mercutio and Benvolio mention a letter Romeo has received, containing a challenge from Tybalt. Mercutio states that Romeo ‘‘is already dead, stabbed / with a white wench’s black eye, run through the ear with / a love song.’’ Mercutio is speaking metaphorically but also prophetically. When Romeo appears, Mercutio makes fun of Romeo’s poetic nature. The young men banter back and forth. Mercutio constantly makes sexual overtones in his speech, but he is happy that Romeo appears to have dropped his melancholy mood. Nurse makes an appearance, reminding Romeo that Juliet awaits a word from him. Romeo tells Nurse to have Juliet meet him at Friar Laurence’s.

Act 2, Scene 5 Nurse relates Romeo’s message, including that Juliet should have a ladder ready so that after the wedding, Romeo can enter Juliet’s bedroom.

Act 2, Scene 6 Romeo is waiting with Friar Laurence, when Juliet enters. Friar Laurence joins them in marriage.

Act 3, Scene 1 The tone of the play quickly changes as the wedding scene moves toward the impending trouble. Two groups of men assemble in the streets, one group includes Benvolio and Mercutio; the other group is headed by Tybalt. There is tension between Mercutio and Tybalt until Romeo appears. Then Tybalt challenges Romeo to a

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duel. Tybalt calls Romeo a villain. Upon hearing this, Romeo says that if Tybalt thinks he is a villain, then Tybalt does not really know him. Romeo claims to love Tybalt but says he cannot, right at that moment, explain this. Mercutio, who is too anxious to fight, can stand it no longer. He draws his sword and challenges Tybalt, who responds by drawing his sword. Romeo tries to stop them but cannot. Tybalt thrusts his sword into Mercutio then runs. Mercutio curses both families. Romeo cannot believe Mercutio is badly hurt, but Mercutio states: ‘‘No, ‘tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ‘tis enough, ‘twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.’’ Here Mercutio is making a morbid pun, not really saying that he is mortally injured but at the same time knowing that this is the case. Then Mercutio dies. Romeo says: ‘‘This day’s black fate on more days doth depend; / This but begins the woe others must end,’’ thus prophesying the other deaths that will follow. Benvolio tries to stop Romeo from fighting with Tybalt, but he is unsuccessful. Tybalt dies. Benvolio tells Romeo to run. The prince appears, and Benvolio tells him what has happened. Lady Capulet wants Romeo to suffer for having killed Tybalt. However, Montague argues that Romeo did only what the law would have done by killing Tybalt for having murdered Mercutio. So the prince decides to banish Romeo from Verona, instead.

Act 3, Scene 2 Juliet beseeches Nurse to tell her what has happened. Nurse moans that someone is dead. Juliet believes it is Romeo. Nurse says she has seen the wound in Tybalt’s chest; so Juliet thinks both Tybalt and Romeo are dead. Nurse finally tells Juliet that it is Tybalt who has died and Romeo has been banished. When Nurse settles down, she tries to soothe Juliet, telling her to prepare. Nurse will find Romeo and bring him to Juliet to sleep with her that night.

Act 3, Scene 3 Romeo has not yet heard the prince’s punishment, so he is afraid he might lose his life. But when Friar Laurence tells Romeo he has been banished, Romeo states that it would have been better that he had been put to death, since he will now be so far from Juliet. This makes the Friar

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lose his patience with Romeo, saying: ‘‘O rude unthankfulness!’’ The prince has granted Romeo mercy and the Friar is disappointed that Romeo does not recognize his great fortune. Nurse arrives, telling Romeo that Juliet is feeling miserable. Romeo states that he wants to stab himself. Friar Laurence is again disgusted with Romeo, asking if he really is a man. After a long speech telling Romeo how awfully he has been behaving, Friar tells Romeo, ‘‘Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed.’’

Act 3, Scene 4 Capulet with his wife and Paris console one another about Tybalt’s death. Then Capulet tells his wife to prepare Juliet for Paris’s declaration of love and that on Thursday, they will be married.

Act 3, Scene 5 Romeo and Juliet have spent the night together. Romeo knows he must leave before dawn. He has been banished to Mantua (in northwestern Italy). As the two young lovers say good-bye, their language is filled with poetic images, showing that they have matured. Their love is no adolescent crush. Juliet urges him to be gone so that no one will find him still in the city. Romeo says they will be together again. However, Juliet has a vision of Romeo’s death. Lady Capulet enters the bedroom. She believes Juliet is crying because of Tybalt and promises Juliet that she will send someone to Mantua to poison Romeo. In an ambiguous statement, Juliet tells her mother: ‘‘Indeed I never shall be satisfied/With Romeo till I behold him— dead—/Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vexed.’’ This can be read in two ways. One way is that Juliet is trying to appease her mother, having it sound like she wants to see Romeo dead. But in another reading, Juliet means that her heart is dead until she sees Romeo again. Lady Capulet tells her daughter that she will wed Paris. Juliet rebels against her father’s wishes. Her father says he will disown her if she does not obey. Later, when Juliet turns to Nurse for advice, Nurse tells her to marry Paris.

Act 4, Scene 1 Juliet goes to Friar Laurence pleading for help. Friar Laurence gives her a concoction that will put her into a deep sleep, making it look like she is dead. She will awaken in the tomb, and Friar

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Laurence will make sure Romeo is there to take her to Mantua.

Act 4, Scene 2 Juliet goes back home, and when her father asks where she has been, she tells him she went to church to confess her sin of disobedience.

Act 4, Scene 3

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS In 1936, Romeo and Juliet was produced on film under George Cukor’s direction. It was nominated for four Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Actress (Norma Shearer). Almost twenty years later, in 1954, another film version was made. Laurence Harvey starred in this version, which was directed by Renato Castellani.

Juliet goes to bed and drinks the sleeping potion.

Act 4, Scene 4 It is the next day, and the Capulet household prepares for the wedding.

Act 4, Scene 5 Nurse goes to Juliet’s room and thinks she has found Juliet’s dead body. Capulet, his wife, and Paris all mourn the loss. Friar Laurence quickly appears, pretending not to know what is going on. He tells the family not to mourn, because ‘‘she’s best married that dies married young.’’ The funeral is prepared.

Act 5, Scene 1

Using Leonard Bernstein’s musical score, a story based on Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet was adapted for the screen in 1961. Natalie Wood starred as Maria (the Juliet character) in West Side Story. The movie won ten Academy Awards.

Romeo and Juliet was adapted as a film by Italian director Franco Zeffirelli for Paramount Studios in 1968. The movie won an Academy Award for costume design and cinematography and featured the acting talents of Olivia Hussey, Leonard Whiting, Michael York, and Milo O’Shea.

In 1996, Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes starred in a Baz Luhrmann version of Romeo and Juliet that used modern scenery (it was set in Miami Beach) but retained the language of Shakespeare.

Balthasar, Romeo’s servant, appears in Mantua and mistakenly tells Romeo that Juliet is dead. Distressed, Romeo seeks out the Apothecary for a poison he can take so that he can join Juliet.

Act 5, Scene 2 Friar John appears at Friar Laurence’s, telling him that he was unable to deliver the letter to Romeo, telling him that Juliet is not dead but just in a deep sleep. Friar Laurence says he will make sure another letter is sent to Romeo, and in the meantime, he will hide Juliet until Romeo arrives.

Act 5, Scene 3 Romeo is at the vault and tells Balthasar to take a letter he has written to his family. When Romeo enters the tomb, Paris is inside protecting Juliet’s body. Paris tries to stop Romeo. The two young men fight. Paris dies. Romeo sees Juliet’s body and is surprised that death has no power over her beauty. Romeo kisses her, drinks the poison, and dies. Friar Laurence comes across Balthasar and is happy to hear that Romeo is at the vault. He hurries over. He sees Paris’s bloody body, and then he notices Romeo, who is very pale. Juliet awakens. The friar tells Juliet of the deaths and


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asks her to come to his place. He will take her to a nunnery. The friar leaves, and Juliet kisses Romeo. When a watchman startles her, she finds Romeo’s dagger and stabs herself. Watchmen, Friar Laurence, and the prince enter. Capulet and his wife, as well as Montague, eventually show up. Montague says his wife has died of grief at Romeo’s banishment. The prince demands the friar tell them everything he knows. Then Balthasar brings Romeo’s letter, which fills in all the missing details. The prince points out how both families have been punished for their hatred of one another. Capulet and Montague promise peace, and the prince ends the play with

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the line: ‘‘For never was a story of more woe / Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’’

After Juliet’s death, Capulet makes peace with Montague.

Lady Capulet CHARACTERS Apothecary A maker of drugs and medicines who sells Romeo the poison with which he kills himself.

Balthasar Balthasar, Romeo’s servant, is a minor character in this play. He travels to Mantua to inform Romeo of Juliet’s supposed death. Balthasar then travels with Romeo back to the Capulets’ tomb where Juliet lies. Romeo commands that Balthasar wait outside. He therefore cannot prevent the tragic ending.

Lady Capulet is Capulet’s wife and Juliet’s mother. Her role in the play is small. She is not a warm-hearted mother and is raising her daughter without much affection. She favors Juliet’s marriage to Paris and, with her husband, rebukes her daughter when Juliet protests the match. She also demonstrates that she knows far less about her daughter than Nurse does. In fact, it is Nurse that Juliet turns to for counsel and comfort, not Lady Capulet.

Chorus The chorus narrates the prologues to acts one and two.

Prince Escalus Benvolio Benvolio, who tries to live up to the meaning of his name that implies a man of goodwill, is Montague’s nephew and Romeo’s and Mercutio’s friend. Benvolio tries to make peace between the fighting servants of the Montague and Capulet families in the beginning of the play. He also tries to talk Romeo out of his love sick state when Romeo is infatuated with Rosaline. Later Benvolio attempts in vain to prevent the fight between Mercutio and Tybalt. Adults in this play turn to Benvolio to find out what has happened between the members of Benvolio’s generation. In this way, Shakespeare implies that Benvolio might be the more rational and the more mature of all the young people. Benvolio also is one of the least tainted (along with Romeo and Juliet) by the feud between the Capulets and the Montagues.

Capulet Capulet is the head of the Capulet household and Juliet’s arrogant and domineering father. He is protective of Juliet and is careful about arranging her marriage at first. However, after Tybalt’s death, Capulet insists that Juliet marry Paris. When Juliet refuses, Capulet threatens to abandon her. Capulet, at times in this play, appears to be somewhat level headed, such as when he stops Tybalt from creating a disturbance at the masquerade party when it is discovered that Romeo is there. However, Capulet also often exposes his hot temper, such as when he demonstrates that he is willing to completely disown his daughter.

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Escalus is the prince of Verona and represents the law. He attempts, unsuccessfully, to prevent the public brawls between the feuding houses of the Montagues and Capulets. After Romeo kills Tybalt in a duel, Escalus banishes Romeo from Verona. At the end of the play, at Capulet’s tomb, it is the prince who delivers the news of the deaths of Romeo and Juliet to their parents. It is also the prince who preaches at the parents, making them understand the way their actions have led to these untimely deaths.

Gregory Gregory opens act 1 as he walks down the street with a fellow servant from the Montague household. He boasts of how he will take the Capulet men and their women. Shortly after, he becomes involved in a brawl with Capulet men. Gregory, along with the other young men in this first scene, sets the stage for further developments in the escalating feud between the two families.

Friar John Friar John is a minor player in this drama. A Franciscan monk, he is quarantined in Verona because of the plague and is therefore unable to deliver Friar Laurence’s letter to Romeo which would have told him that Juliet’s death has been contrived.

Juliet Juliet is the tragic heroine of this play, the daughter of Capulet and Lady Capulet, raised almost entirely by the character Nurse. The play opens

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Still of Claire Danes and Leonardo DiCaprio from the 1996 movie Romeo and Juliet (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

with Juliet at the age of thirteen—old enough, her parents believe, to be married. But Juliet has not put much thought into marriage yet, at least, not until she meets Romeo.

symptoms. When she awakens in the Capulet vault to find Romeo dead, she commits suicide by stabbing herself with Romeo’s dagger, preferring not to live without her Romeo.

Juliet’s parents have no interest at all in Romeo. He is the heir of the Montague family, their arch rivals. Instead, at the ball, they introduce her to Paris, who is kin to the prince. Juliet is, at that point, an obedient daughter, who tells her mother she will try to love Paris. But at that same ball Juliet meets Romeo, and she is more taken by him. When the two of them appear together, it is immediately noticeable that Juliet is more level-headed than Romeo. Romeo is rash, where Juliet is calm and rational. Romeo is romantic, where Juliet is practical. But it is through her sudden and deep love of Romeo that Juliet matures, quite quickly.

Juliet represents innocence in some ways. She is not completely innocent when it comes to sex, but she strives for a higher form of connection between a man and a woman. She is innocent, also, in that she is not contaminated by the hatred that runs through her family. She knows of the family feud but does not take part in it. She also elevates herself in this realm, realizing that the only difference between the families is in their names. In other ways, however, Juliet is worldly and wise. She chastises Romeo for being in love with love, for attempting to practice love as if one could read directions for it from a book. She awakens Romeo to his real feelings and is daring enough to make up her own definitions of love. At the end of the play, she kills herself, as Romeo has, but not in the same manner. She uses a dagger, which one might argue is more aggressive than using poison.

Juliet secretly marries Romeo and defies her parents, protesting when they insist that she marry Paris. After Romeo is exiled, Juliet plans her false death to avoid becoming Paris’s wife. She drinks a potion that produces death-like


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Friar Laurence Friar Laurence is the Franciscan priest who marries Romeo and Juliet in a secret wedding. His hope in doing so is that the Montague and Capulet families will stop feuding. After Romeo is banished from Verona, Friar Laurence advises Juliet to marry Paris. Then it is Friar Laurence’s suggestion that leads Juliet to feign her death. Friar Laurence writes a letter to Romeo to explain the false death of Juliet, but his letter does not get to Romeo. At the end, Friar Laurence explains to the families what has happened to the young lovers. Friar Laurence is a catalyst in the play. This is fitting, since besides his religious calling, he also studies the chemical properties of plants. It is through Friar Laurence’s scheming that the tragedy takes place, although his thoughts run in an entirely different direction. He hopes his actions will heal the city and resolve the battle between the two families. Ultimately this does happen, but not until two precious members of those families are dead. Throughout the play, Friar Laurence serves as a friend and counselor to both Romeo and Juliet. He provides a religious dimension to the play, as he attempts to restore peace in Verona and dispel the evil. The Friar is generally viewed as a good man who exercises poor judgment when he hastily marries the lovers. He stands by his actions, however, and tries to prevent Juliet’s marriage to Paris by devising the sleeping potion scheme. The play also offers another perspective of the Friar. Numerous references demonstrate that had he, too, acted with less haste, the tragic deaths of Romeo and Juliet may have been prevented. For example, had the priest sent the message concerning Juliet’s assumed death to Romeo via Balthasar rather than Friar John, the final catastrophe might have been averted. No matter how one interprets his role in the play, Friar Laurence is indeed an active agent in bringing about the lovers’ tragedy.

Mercutio Mercutio, Romeo’s playful friend, is very witty with a touch of sarcasm. He does not believe in love and pokes fun at Romeo for his affections toward Juliet. He quarrels with Tybalt and ends up being killed by him in a duel; this is the critical event that motivates Romeo to seek revenge. The bawdy, or humorously obscene, language of Mercutio (as well as of the Nurse) presents a

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contrast to the innocence of Romeo and Juliet’s passion. For this reason, Mercutio is often interpreted as a comic ‘‘foil’’ to the lovers. (A foil is a character who, through strong contrast, underscores or enhances the distinctive traits of another character.) Mercutio is renowned for his vitality. He is viewed as an extreme egotist and sensualist, whose open personality and coarse sexual humor reflect his individuality and naturalness. Shakespeare has been particularly praised for his well-defined portrait of Mercutio’s character.

Montague Although Montague is Romeo’s father, his role in this play is small. He is the head of the Montague household. He reconciles with Capulet after Romeo’s and Juliet’s deaths and promises to erect a statue in the young girl’s name.

Lady Montague Lady Montague is Montague’s wife and Romeo’s mother. She dies from grief over Romeo’s banishment from Verona.

Nurse Nurse is Juliet’s attendant and provides some comic relief to this tragedy. She has raised Juliet from a baby, having lost her own child. She is more like a mother to Juliet than Lady Capulet is. Her humor often stems from sexual innuendos, providing a contrast to Juliet’s innocence and high ideals of love. Nurse helps arrange Juliet’s secret marriage to Romeo, but after Romeo’s banishment, Nurse advises Juliet to marry Paris. It is Nurse who finds Juliet on the morning of Juliet’s wedding to Paris, in a druginduced fake death. Nurse believes, however, that the death is real and she laments the loss. The Nurse, a well-conceived, rich, and natural character, is often considered one of Shakespeare’s greatest comic creations. Her bawdy, or humorously obscene, language presents a stark contrast to the purity of Romeo and Juliet’s passion. For this reason, her character is often interpreted as a comic ‘‘foil’’ to the lovers.

Paris Paris is a nobleman and Prince Escalus’s kinsman. Paris is just the opposite of Romeo, in that he is very straightforward and lacks passion. He becomes engaged to Juliet without apparent

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love. But his feelings for Juliet appear real when he believes that she has died. In an attempt to protect her body from harm, he duels with Romeo at the Capulet vault. Paris dies at the hands of Romeo.

Peter Peter is a Capulet servant, who is asked to distribute the news around town of a party Capulet is holding. Peter is worried because he cannot read the list of people’s names, and stops to ask Romeo, who happens by, to read it for him. Romeo notices Rosaline’s name. Peter leaves but not before inviting Romeo to the party, assuming he is not a Montague.

Romeo Romeo, along with Juliet, is the main character of this play, the sixteen-year-old (or so) tragic hero. He is the son of Montague and Lady Montague. In the beginning of the play, Romeo sounds much like an immature young man. He is moody and hides from his family and friends so that he might brood in solitude. The reason for his melancholy is his infatuation with Rosaline, a character that never appears in the play, thus alluding to the probability that she is barely aware of Romeo. His love for her, more than likely, is manufactured from the love poems he reads. Romeo wants to be in love, in other words, like the poets that he reads, so he imagines that he is. It is not until he meets level-headed Juliet that Romeo begins to mature. He falls instantly in love with her, this time for real. He is taken by her wit and beauty. Juliet is flesh and blood, not a figment of his imagination. Romeo’s passion now has a true and fulfilling focus. Unfortunately, Romeo’s passion, once it is ignited through his love for Juliet, becomes a bit wild, or uncontained. Whereas before he met Juliet, he shunned the duels that his Montague friends engaged in with the Capulets, now he seeks revenge. When Mercutio is killed, Romeo acts as if he cannot help but kill Tybalt. This sets into action a train of fateful events that will lead to Romeo’s death. But still, Romeo could have stopped that train. Had he but been more patient and sought counsel with Friar Laurence after finding Juliet in the Capulet tomb, this story would have been a romance instead of a tragedy.


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Rosaline Rosaline never appears on stage; she is merely mentioned in the early part of the play. Romeo’s seeming melancholy in the beginning of the play is due to his infatuation with Rosaline. Rosaline, it is said, has taken the vow of chastity, never to love any man. Rosaline is used to provide a contrast between Romeo’s rational but contrived feelings of love as opposed to the emotions that will quickly swoop him off his feet when he meets and falls for Juliet. Rosaline is mentioned throughout much of the play, as many of the characters believe that Romeo’s emotional state is caused by his love for Rosaline. They mock him, believing that his feelings are the result of his reading too many love poems and really have nothing to do with Rosaline at all. When Friar Laurence discovers that Romeo has found a new love with Juliet, someone who returns Romeo’s love, Friar Laurence realizes that Romeo has finally matured.

Sampson Sampson, a young servant of the Montague household, helps to open the first act of this play, as he is walking down a street in Verona with a fellow servant, Gregory. The two young men boast of triumphing over Capulet men and taking their women. Sampson ends up getting in a brawl with some of the Capulet men, thus demonstrating in the beginning of the play the bad feelings between the two families.

Tybalt Tybalt is Lady Capulet’s nephew and Juliet’s cousin. Tybalt is the most unruly and most hotheaded of all the young men in this play. He seems to have no greater goal in life than to fight with the Capulets. He is looked upon as the leader of his group of men, and his ultimate goal, or trophy, appears to be a duel with Romeo. After mortally wounding Mercutio in a fight, he gets his wish. However, Tybalt is killed by Romeo.

THEMES Love In examining the nature of Romeo and Juliet’s relationship, it is important to achieve an understanding of how love is viewed in this play. In some ways, the young lovers’ emotions reflect

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the practice of so-called courtly love that was prevalent in the Middle Ages and affected the European literature of the Renaissance. Although courtly love influenced a part of Romeo and Juliet’s relationship, by definition Romeo’s affection for Rosaline is more closely identified with the language, conventions, and sentiments of this type of relationship. Courtly love was a late medieval tradition that defined what love was and established a code of behavior for lovers. In essence, under this system, love is illicit (not between husband and wife) and is accompanied by great emotional suffering. The lover (in literature, usually a knight) falls in love at first sight and agonizes over his situation until his affection is returned, which it often is not, since the target of the knight’s affection might not even know of him. Whether the feelings are returned is not essential. The emotions that the knight feels as a result of his love are enough to propel him to do great deeds. Romeo’s affection for Rosaline is based on his reading about courtly relationships. He is consumed by the poetry (some of which goes back to the ballads of troubadours) and believes he has fallen in love with this young woman, who never appears on stage. This distance builds the allusion that she is unaware of Romeo’s existence. Therefore, Romeo suffers through his emotional upheaval in solitude, pining for a woman who might not even know Romeo exists. Romeo’s courage to attend the Capulet’s masquerade party is the direct result of his feelings for Rosaline; taking this risk is Romeo’s ‘‘great deed’’ of courtly love. Romeo’s love for Juliet (and hers for him) is also tinged with the precepts of courtly love. According to the conventions of courtly love, the lovers pledge their fidelity to one another and vow to keep their union a secret. Romeo and Juliet have a clandestine relationship, meeting at night and telling no one but Nurse and Friar Laurence of their plans. There are other elements of courtly love that Romeo and Juliet’s affair closely follow: they fall in love at first sight and their love is strengthened rather than weakened by the challenges they must face (in their case, because of their families’ feud). However, Shakespeare takes Romeo and Juliet’s love a step deeper, definitely demonstrating the influence of these concepts, but wanting to show that there is more to love than the

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bookish conventions that order love into neat categories. Whereas Romeo’s love affair with Rosaline followed the concepts of courtly love more faithfully, his love for Juliet differs in major ways. Romeo and Juliet have a love that has a spiritual quality. The couple treats love with great reverence. They are more grounded in one another, facing their fears as they try to define their love not by the book but through their feelings. They also take their love higher than Nurse’s and Mercutio’s bawdy definitions that are based on sex. Romeo removes from his mind the fantasies of the poems he has been reading and the images they presented to him and feels love from his heart instead of from his head. It is Romeo and Juliet’s faithfulness to this higher element of love in the face of violence and hatred, and even to the point of meeting their deaths, that ultimately restores peace and order to Verona. It is as if Shakespeare was saying that, whereas courtly love might read well, it does not have the power of real love. The playwright, through this play, also exposes the power of marrying for love rather than marrying as obedience to one’s parents. There is also the sexual love as talked about through Mercutio and Nurse. Mercutio represents love for carnal pleasure. This type of love does not elevate the object of love but rather generalizes the object. Thus, one woman is as good as any other, for Mercutio’s satisfaction. He does not linger long enough to find out who the woman is or what she thinks or feels. He uses her to satisfy his needs. Nurse also talks about men and women in terms of their sexual drives. However, she adds another element to the discussion of love. When Juliet goes to Nurse for counsel when Capulet insists that Juliet marry Paris, Nurse tells Juliet to forget Romeo and to marry Paris. This is contractual love—marrying someone for rational reasons, whether it be for money, title, or land. Love might develop, but it is not the motivating force.

Hate Just as love is used as a theme, its opposite, hate, is also woven through this play. The hate between the Capulets and the Montagues is demonstrated immediately at the opening of the play. Shakespeare offers no reason for this hate, he only shows how this negative emotion affects everyone in the play. Tybalt, for example, has this hate so enmeshed in his thoughts and his psyche that he believes his honor has been

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crushed merely by Romeo’s presence at the Capulet masquerade party. This hate, unchecked, ends in Mercutio’s and Tybalt’s deaths. The hate is questioned, however, when it extends to Romeo and Juliet. They each fall for one another without knowing what family the other belongs to. When they discover that they are on the opposite sides of the warring families, they must look through their families’ horrible dislike for one another in order to see through to their love. In some ways, it is because of this hate that Romeo and Juliet create such an instantaneous and pure love. Because they are shocked to find out the truth about each other’s families, they question the hate that has been handed down to them. It is through this foil of hate that they realize how deeply felt their love is.

Passion The most obvious example of passion in this play is that of Juliet’s and Romeo’s love for one another. But there are other passions that run through this drama. Mercutio, for example, is a person who does not believe in the passion of love, but does exhibit a passion for life. Mercutio believes that Romeo’s passions for Rosaline robs Romeo of the pleasures of life. He wants to awaken Romeo out of his dark melancholy and show him the beauty of light—he wants Romeo to dance rather than hide in the shadows, to enjoy women rather than pine for them. But Mercutio is not all fun and light himself. He also has dark passions. In act 1, scene 4, Mercutio teases Romeo about his dreams, saying they mean nothing. His joking, however, goes quickly from imagining fairies to conjuring demons. Mercutio begins by talking about love and suddenly turns to talking about cutting throats, exhibiting his own passion for fighting and death. In act 2, scene 4, Mercutio compares different kinds of passion. Mercutio believes that Romeo’s passion for love has made him blind, weak, and useless. In other words, the uplifting emotions of love have left Romeo less than a man, unprepared for the challenges a man must face, such as Tybalt’s duel. But even Tybalt falls short of the fighting passion that Mercutio sees as most pure. Though Tybalt is a master swordsman, Tybalt is too distracted by appearances. He talks with a fake accent and is too interested in all the new clothing fashions. Mercutio, in comparison, is an old-fashioned kind of man, which


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Shakespeare does not fully define but he has Mercutio say: ‘‘Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashionmongers, these pardon-me’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench?’’ Whatever the ‘‘old bench’’ is, it is not the likes of Tybalt. There is another incident with Mercutio, who begins act 3, scene 1 by telling Benvolio that he argues too much. However, as soon as Tybalt makes an appearance and asks to speak to them, Mercutio says: ‘‘And but one word with one of us? / Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.’’ This further demonstrates the difference between Tybalt and Mercutio. Tybalt’s passion might be for swordsmanship; but Mercutio’s is the pleasure of fighting. Words are meaningless, Mercutio implies. He wants something more, like blood. Mercutio’s passion is so strong in this area that he pushes Tybalt into dueling with him. It was not Mercutio’s fight and yet he makes it so. When Romeo arrives, Mercutio is insulted by Romeo’s attempts to calm Tybalt. ‘‘O calm, dishonorable, vile submission!’’ he yells. Mercutio will not allow this night to end without a fight. Passion is exemplified in other characters as well. Capulet, for instance, who asks for peace at his masquerade party when Tybalt discovers Romeo’s presence. However, when Tybalt pushes him, Capulet exhibits his own fighting passions as he raises his voice at Tybalt and threatens him if Tybalt dares to disrupt the party. Capulet also exposes the range in his passions when at one point he tells Paris that his daughter is too tender to marry at the age of thirteen, then suddenly changes his position and he becomes so furious at Juliet’s refusal to obey him that he is willing to cast her out of his life if she does not consent to marrying Paris a few days later In addition, there is a quiet but dominant passion that drives the prince to find peace between the feuding families. There is also Friar Laurence’s misguided passion that drives him to marry Romeo and Juliet, knowing that their families would not approve. He then concocts schemes to make sure Romeo and Juliet can find a way to be together, because he hopes, like the prince, for an end to the family feud.

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Harold Perrineau as Mercutio, giving the Queen Mab speech, from the 1996 film Romeo and Juliet (Ó 20th Century Fox Film Corp/Everett Collection)

Fate As in many of his plays, such as Julius Caesar and Macbeth, Shakespeare explores the theme of fate in this drama. From the opening lines in the prologue to the last act, the characters are helpless to do anything other than what fate directs them to do. Romeo goes to Capulet’s party to seek comfort from Rosaline. He does not even know, at that point, that Juliet exists. And yet, once he sets his eyes upon her, he falls in love instantly. Although Friar Laurence, upon hearing that Romeo wants to marry Juliet, believes this marriage might end the feud between the Capulets and Montagues, fate has twisted this fairy tale. While the coming together of Romeo and Juliet ultimately does end the feud, it is their deaths and not their love that brings the two families together. Also, no matter how hard Friar Laurence works to make sure that the two young people are protected from their families’ hatred, it is Friar Laurence who brings about their deaths. Fate has played against Friar Laurence, disallowing his letter to be delivered. Romeo faces Tybalt in a confident mood

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after he has married Juliet. Even though Romeo extends the love he has for Juliet to her kinsman, fate again steps into the picture. Hot-tempered Mercutio, either too impassioned with hate or too protective of Romeo, decides that the battle should be between himself and Tybalt. Had Mercutio held his temper, Romeo might have walked away, and Tybalt might have put his sword back in its sheath. But Romeo and Juliet, as the chorus states in the prologue, are star-crossed lovers. Thus, their love may be strong but it is not meant to last, at least not on this mortal plane. Had Romeo, on the other hand, mourned Mercutio’s death and declared that the killings should stop there, his life and Juliet’s life might have been spared. But fate would not allow it. Had Capulet not forced his young daughter to marry Paris, Juliet would have had no need to fake her death. And if Romeo had not acted so hastily upon seeing Juliet’s drug-induced slumber, he might not have swallowed the poison. And what would have happened had Juliet awakened a few minutes earlier?

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Bring a copy of the video West Side Story to class. Set up a schedule with your teacher for showing it. After you have seen the video, lead a discussion about the similarities or differences between this story and that of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Questions you can ask to begin the discussion might include: What are the themes of the two stories? How are the emotions of the main characters similar? Do the differences in setting or in time affect the story in any way?

Suppose that before Juliet dies, she writes a letter to her parents. What do you think she would say? How would her remarks differ when she addresses her father and then her mother? Also have her include a note to Nurse. Really try to get into the emotions she would have for each person and use those emotions to affect her words.

Shakespeare uses all these incidents to present the world as a place ruled by a higher power. No matter what the characters intend or wish to do, fate determines the lives all of the characters will lead.

STYLE Passage of Time A prominent aspect of the construction of Romeo and Juliet is Shakespeare’s handling of the passage of time. He has set up the short time frame to underscore the lovers’ hasty actions. This is most clearly emphasized in Romeo and Juliet’s headlong rush to fulfill their love for each other. Shakespeare most notably emphasizes this haste by compressing the several months’ worth of action found in Brooke’s Tragical


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In the seventeenth century, some producers changed the play so that it would end happily. Prepare a script for Romeo and Juliet and act it out with a partner in front of your class. Start with Romeo coming and seeing Juliet in the tomb. What would happen next? What would they have to say to one another? How would they react when their parents show up? How could they stop the family feud without dying? Create two panels of students, one of four or five boys, the other of four or five girls. The topic will be definitions of masculinity. Begin with a presentation of how Shakespeare defines masculinity through this play. Add some research notes that you have made about men of the sixteenth century, from any country, including your own. Then ask your panel to discuss how those definitions have changed over the years. Or have they changed at all?

History of Romeus and Juliet to only five days in his play. Subtle patterns of swift imagery and lively dialogue, as well as the chorus’s commentary, create an undercurrent of tension and impulsiveness that is discernible throughout the play. On several occasions, Shakespeare ironically contrasts the notion of time and haste with a particular character’s dialogue. One example of this technique is the contradiction between the play’s hurried pace and Friar Laurence’s warning to Romeo at the end of act 2, scene 3: ‘‘Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.’’ The priest later fails to heed his own advice, however, when, in act 5, he is startled and hastens from the tomb, leaving Juliet to her fate. Shakespeare employs all of these devices to create a frantic atmosphere in which the characters behave recklessly.

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Construction of a Tragedy Some critics have had trouble deciding if Shakespeare’s tragic design is effective and therefore an authentic tragedy. In drama, a tragedy traditionally recounts the significant events or actions in a protagonist’s life which, taken together, bring about the catastrophe. The ambiguity surrounding the cause of the lovers’ deaths has led some critics to regard the play as an apprentice tragedy, one in which Shakespeare had not yet developed his skills as a tragic dramatist. In fact, Romeo and Juliet is often considered an experiment in tragedy, in which the playwright attempts to break free of traditional patterns by omitting the necessary cause-andeffect relationship between the lovers’ characters and their catastrophe. In trying to determine the validity of the construction of Shakespeare’s play, critics have proposed three main ways to interpret Shakespeare’s arrangement of events and circumstances in Romeo and Juliet. One method of looking at Shakespeare’s arrangement of events is to regard Romeo and Juliet as helpless victims of the arbitrary operation of fate. Numerous tricks of chance in the play support this theory. For example, there are Romeo’s failed attempt to stop the fight between Mercutio and Tybalt, and Friar John’s inability to leave Verona due to the plague. References to fortune and the stars throughout the play, particularly the description of Romeo and Juliet in the prologue to act 1 as ‘‘star-crossed lovers,’’ also uphold this argument. This emphasis on fortune as a guiding force that determines one’s destiny was probably not lost on Elizabethan audiences, who would have been familiar with, and would have likely endorsed, this belief in fate. A second perspective is that Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy of providence or divine will. Proponents of this interpretation maintain that the seemingly coincidental or accidental events in the play are in fact initiated by God to punish and, ultimately, to reconcile the feuding families. God finally achieves this reconciliation by using the deaths of the lovers as a moral example for the others. A third reading of Shakespeare’s tragic design holds that the lovers’ own reckless passion leads to their double suicide. Supporters of this viewpoint sometimes regard Friar Laurence as a spokesman for Shakespeare himself, for the

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monk does not completely endorse Romeo and Juliet’s impetuous behavior but rather cautions them toward a moderate love. These three perspectives on Shakespeare’s tragic design are perhaps the most commonly discussed issues in Romeo and Juliet. At various times throughout the centuries since the tragedy was written, critics have generally emphasized one or another of these interpretations of the play’s construction. Recently, however, commentators have argued that Shakespeare actually presents a balance of all three concepts in the play.

Sonnet Shakespeare uses prose, blank verse (unrhymed metered lines), and sonnets in this play. The sonnets are the most poetic, having metered as well as rhymed lines. The prologues in the beginning of the first and second acts are in the form of sonnets. When Romeo and Juliet first profess their love in act 1, scene 5, they also speak in a sonnet form, in which they divide the lines between them. Many critics believe that it is through the sonnet that Shakespeare imparts the highest of emotions in his early plays. As Shakespeare matured as a writer, however, he used sonnets less frequently. A sonnet is a fourteen-line poem in iambic pentameter (pairs of five double syllables, the first of which is unstressed, the second of which is stressed). The lines are carefully patterned in rhymes. If you look at lines 1 through 14, in the prologue prior to act 1, you will see that the last word in line 1 rhymes with the last word in line 3; the last word in line 2 rhymes with the last word in line 4. Then the pattern changes. Line 5 rhymes with line 7; line 6 rhymes with line 8. Line 9, rhymes with 11; and 10 rhymes with 12. Then lines 12 and 14 rhyme with one another. This is one patterned formed in the sonnet. The rhyming, even if audiences are unaware of it, helps the lines flow together more smoothly than normal speech. The rhymes, as well as the rhythm, hold the speech to a very distinct size and form. The word sonnet comes from the Italian word sonetto meaning ‘‘little song.’’ So when characters on stage recite a sonnet, it is somewhat like having them sing to the audience.

Use of Puns for Comic Relief A pun is a figure of speech that plays on various meanings of a word, usually to create a comic

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sexual connotations, especially in the speeches of Nurse and Mercutio.

Zubin Varla as Romeo and Lucy Whybrow as Juliet in Act V, scene iii, at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1995 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage.

In the first scene of act 1, less serious puns are spoken between Sampson and Gregory, two servants of the house of Montague. As they walk down the street, the first young man mentions the word coal, which is Shakespeare’s time also referred to an insult. The second young man picks up on the meaning of coal as modern readers would understand it, a fuel, stating that if they ‘‘carry coals’’ they then would be called ‘‘colliers,’’ which refers to people who bring the fuel in wagons to various houses to sell it. Then Sampson mentions the word ‘‘choler,’’ which sounds the same as the word ‘‘collier,’’ but means ‘‘anger.’’ And Gregory continues this word play by mentioning the word ‘‘collar,’’ an allusion to the rope noose that is used to hang a person and a word that sounds the same as ‘‘choler.’’ In Shakespeare’s time, the audience would have understood all these allusions as well as the playful confusion between the double meanings of the words and how those meanings completely change the context of the young men’s speech. In this way, despite the fact that the men are talking about dueling, anger, and possible murder, the audience cannot help but laugh at the word play.

Reproduced by permission)

Use of Oxymoron to Deepen or to Deflect Meaning response or ambiguity. Romeo and Juliet is filled with puns. Shakespeare uses many puns in this play to offset some of the tension of the sword fights, the deaths, and the anxiety that builds toward the deaths of his two protagonists. Although audiences in the twenty-first century might not understand the puns that Shakespeare uses in this play, his audiences in Early Modern England would have grabbed their meaning and laughed out loud at the humor and clever wit of the author. Some of the puns are lost on audiences today because the words that are used as puns no longer exist in contemporary language. However, some are still evident. Such a one is in Mercutio’s statement after he has been wounded by Tybalt. In act 3, scene 1, Mercutio says: ‘‘Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.’’ His reference to ‘‘grave man’’ implies both a serious man as well as a dead man. Many other of the puns have


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An oxymoron is another figure of speech that is used to describe a feeling or an object by using two words that appear to contradict one another. In contemporary language, the use of the term friendly fire to describe the action of one army killing one of their own helps to soften the true meaning of the action. Killing one’s own is a terrible event, a tragedy. But by calling it ‘‘friendly fire’’ it downplays the accident, the causes, and the blame. Shakespeare uses an oxymoron in Juliet’s comment when Romeo must leave her. She says, in act 2, scene 3: ‘‘Parting is such sweet sorrow.’’ Sorrow is painful, so why would she refer to it as sweet? Possibly because the sorrow is caused by her love for Romeo, which is definitely sweet. Also in act 1, scene 1, Romeo speaks, using an oxymoron. He uses phrases such as ‘‘heavy lightness,’’ ‘‘Feather of lead,’’ ‘‘cold fire,’’ and ‘‘sick health’’ to explain how melancholy he is in his love for Rosaline.

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Imagery through Metaphor The use of imagery provides the audience with more than the words that are spoken by the actors. Imagery is used to describe some feeling or a person or an action. Using metaphors as imagery involves bringing two unlike things together and showing how they are actually very similar. For example, Romeo describes love in act 1, scene 1 like this: ‘‘Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.’’ This allows the audience to first see the smoke, then replace that image with a person sighing. Everyone knows what they feel like when they sigh. There is a sadness or maybe a joy that takes one’s breath away. So this is how Romeo is feeling when he thinks about love. Shakespeare uses the metaphor not only to describe the feeling but to help the audience to share in that feeling as well.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Religion in Elizabethan England Queen Elizabeth’s father, King Henry VIII (1509–1547), changed the structure of religion in England. Upon falling in love with Anne Boleyn and wanting a divorce from his first wife, King Henry appealed to the Pope, the head of the Catholic religion, of which King Henry was a part. The Pope refused to grant the dispensation that would allow the king to dissolve his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon. So King Henry turned to his parliament, which produced a series of legal acts that reduced the supreme authority of the Roman Catholic Pope in England. When Henry appealed to the Archbishop of Canterbury and went forward with his plans to marry Anne, Pope Clement VII, in 1533, excommunicated King Henry VIII from the Catholic Church. This action was the beginning of the English Reformation, the breaking away of England from the Catholic Church. In 1534, with the Act of Supremacy, Henry VIII declared himself the head of the Church of England; the Pope no longer had any jurisdiction in Henry’s country. During Queen Elizabeth’s reign Catholics and Protestants (Christians who did not recognize the Church under the rule of the Pope) both lived in England. During the reign of Queen Mary I (1553–1558), the power of the Catholic Church had been returned to England, when Mary repealed the Act of Supremacy. However, Elizabeth overturned all the attempts Queen

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Mary had made to reinstate the Pope as the head of the church in England. Through a second Act of Supremacy that Elizabeth pressed for in parliament, she became, as her father had intended, the head of the church. However, England was in no way settled on the issue of religion. Prior to Queen Elizabeth, depending on which monarch was in rule, either Catholics or Protestants were persecuted, losing their land, wealth, status, or even their lives if they acted out against the professed religion of the country (the country was protestant during Henry’s term and Catholic during Mary’s). Elizabeth wanted those persecutions to stop. She believed that Catholics should be allowed to practice their religion as long as their actions did in no way present any danger to the country’s peace or any rebellion to Elizabeth’s rule. Major differences between Catholics and Protestants in England during that time were that the Catholics believed that priests and the Pope were divinely chosen and only they could interpret the Bible and dictate to the people the meaning of religion in the parishioners lives. The Protestants, however, believed ministers of the religion were ordinary people who could marry, wear regular street clothes, and were not responsible for interpreting anything spiritual for the other members.

Short History of Elizabethan Drama Prior to the Elizabethan drama traditions of Shakespeare’s time were the mystery and morality plays of medieval times. In contrast to the Elizabethan dramatic themes, the medieval plays focused on teaching people the morals that were influenced by the Christian religion and were most often produced and played by religious monks. These early plays were produced in order to help the audience learn the teachings of their religion; these plays were basically dramatized interpretations of stories from the Bible. Mystery plays were popular between the tenth and fifteenth centuries. At the end of the fifteenth century in England, a new type of play appeared that was less didactic and less serious than the mystery play and often contained a bit of humor. This type of play was performed most often at the houses of noblemen and was called an Interlude. Performed during special holidays, Interludes were very simple at first but they evolved over time to include music and dance and, under French influence,

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1600s: Dueling is a popular way to settle socalled uncivil behaviors between gentlemen that have caused a loss of honor. King James I attempts to ban stories that postulate this practice as he fears dueling is a threat to law and order. 1800s: In the United States, the most famous duel was between two prominent politicians, Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. Pistols were used, with both men being shot and Hamilton dying the next day. Today: Gangs in many of large United States cities use drive-by shootings as a way to settle arguments or disputes between warring gang members. 1600s: The city of Verona, located in northern Italy between Venice and Milan, enjoys enormous prosperity as part of the Republic of Venice. The many wealthy families of Verona, as well as the affluent religious sects, build large mansions and monasteries in the city.

bouts and tournaments, the arena is newly dedicated to the art of theatric performances. Today: Verona is one of Italy’s biggest tourist attractions. In the city, a balcony on the side of an ancient building, falsely named Casa di Giulietta (The House of Juliet), draws tourists and lovers. They stand at the bottom of the balcony and write love notes that they leave taped to the walls. They also have their pictures taken next to a bronze statue of Shakespeare’s tragic heroine.

1600s: In many European countries, marriage is made official through the sanctioning of the families of the bride and groom, and through a final ceremony at the church. 1800s: Due to Lord Harwicke’s Marriage Act of 1753 in England, the state government becomes involved in sanctioning marriages, with parental consent until age 21 and a legal license required.

1800s: The Roman-built Arena of Verona, constructed in the first century C . E ., is one of Europe’s most stunning and well-preserved amphitheaters. Once used for gladiatorial

Today: Marriage laws are being contested by people who want same-sex marriages approved by the government and sanctioned by the church.

farce—an exaggerated form of comedy. John Heywood (c.1497–1580) was one of the more famous of London’s playwrights at that time, creating several Interludes, one of which was called The Play of the Wether, a New and Mery Interlude of All Maner of Wethers (1533).

write his own play, based on the life of King John of England, sometime around 1596.

Another type of play also was developed in the early sixteenth century. This was the historic play. John Bale (1495–1563), who also wrote mystery plays and interludes, is often cited as one of the more important first playwrights of history plays. Bale’s Kynge Johan (1538) would influence a new direction for other writers, including Shakespeare, who would go on to


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Humanism—a term applied to the philosophical and intellectual flow of thought that valued the ability of the individual to determine what was truth and what was not—and specifically Renaissance humanism, influenced the stage and its productions in the mid-fifteenth century. Through this influence, dramatists began turning to classical works of Greece and Rome. During this time, writers looked to ancient Greek and Roman dramas as sources of new works, which eventually lead to the birth of English tragedy.

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Often accredited as the first English tragedy is Richard Edwards’s Damon and Pythias (1564), a play based on a Greek story about the power of strong friendship. This early tragedy did not contain the elements that would later be used by playwrights such as Shakespeare, however. Those elements were brought to English tragedies first by Jasper Heywood (1553–1598) who translated the plays of a classical Roman playwright called Seneca. It was through Seneca’s work that elements such as blood and violence, grand rhetorical speeches, and the appearance of ghosts would become part of staged productions, such as is seen in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (1599). However, Shakespeare was not the first to write an Elizabethan tragedy. That honor is attributed to two lawyers, Thomas Sackville (1536–1608) and Thomas Norton (1532–1584) who wrote Gorboduc in 1561. This was a play whose message was directed at Elizabeth I, suggesting the importance of her leaving a definite heir to the throne. This was also the first English play to be written in blank verse. The themes and the format of this play are believed to have greatly influenced Shakespeare’s later play King Lear (1605). Queen Elizabeth I supported the arts and viewed many of the staged dramas of her time. Through her encouragement, she helped to create the great contributions that sixteenth and seventeen English dramatists would provide the world—those plays that continue to be enjoyed by twenty-first-century audiences and which are referred to as Elizabethan drama.

Petrarch, His Poetry, and Laura There are several allusions to Petrarch in Romeo and Juliet, especially in the first few acts when Romeo is very much under the influence of love poems. Francesco Petrarch (1304–1374) was an Italian poet, considered to be one of the fathers of the Renaissance and the poet laureate of Rome. Petrarch never married (although he fathered a couple of children) but he is famous, among other things, for passionate poems he wrote to a woman known as Laura. Petrarch’s love of Laura, at least as he writes of it in his poems, was always from a distance, and it is filled both with joy and with anguish. It was through his poems dedicated to Laura that the form of the sonnet was modified, a form that latter poets followed. For his character Romeo, however, it was not the form of the sonnet but rather the sentiments that Petrarch portrayed, the deep longing for the love of a woman who

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will never be reached, the melancholy, the selfpity, and the need to be alone in his suffering.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Romeo and Juliet’s early stage history is only based on speculation. As Andrew Dickson writes in The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, ‘‘It seems probable that Romeo and Juliet was put on initially at the Theatre in Shoreditch [outside London], then perhaps at the nearby Curtain after Shakespeare’s company moved there temporarily in 1597.’’ But there is no recorded evidence to prove this. It was not until William Davenant, a possible godson of Shakespeare’s, produced his version of the play in 1662 that the event was actually recorded. Samuel Pepys, a famous seventeenth-century English diarist attended, and according to Davenant, wrote that after seeing the play, he ‘‘couldn’t decide which he detested more, the play or the actors.’’ Despite this disapproving comment, as Anthony Davies states, writing for The Oxford Companion to Shakespeare, ‘‘the early quartos [published texts of the play] attest to the play’s popularity in the theatres.’’ Davies also mentions that proof of the popularity of this play could also be found in the fact that a preacher named Nicholas Richardson quoted the play ‘‘in a sermon in 1620.’’ However, literary critics tended to point out Shakespeare’s ‘‘over-indulgence in punning and rhyming.’’ The play went through changes in the next decade, returning to the stage as the adapted The History and Fall of Caius Marius (1679), written by Thomas Otway and set in ancient Rome. Otway emphasized the politics of the day, for one thing, but he also changed the ending. Unlike Sir James Howard’s version, which gave the play a happy ending, Otway had Juliet awakening before Romeo dies, giving the lovers an extra scene in which to exchange their love. This version brought audiences back to the theatre, and the ending was retained in future productions in the next century. However, Davies points out that prior to the late nineteenth century: ‘‘Romantic writers and artists across the English-speaking world and continental Europe . . . regarded the play as an unqualified presentation of an ideal love too good for the corrupt world.’’ After this, critics began to focus on whether the play was truly a tragedy. As Maurice Charney writes, in his All of Shakespeare, Romeo

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and Juliet, although classified as a tragedy has more of an affinity with Shakespeare’s romantic comedies written at the same time. ‘‘Shakespeare has trouble endowing Romeo and Juliet with tragic stature; in some ways they are not tragic at all.’’ These characters do not bring tragedy onto themselves, states Charney, ‘‘and they have no identifiable tragic flaw or weakness of character.’’ Therefore, Charney believes, ‘‘they don’t qualify as tragic protagonists.’’ Charney goes on to say that Shakespeare filled the beginning of the play with ‘‘forebodings and portents,’’ but these ‘‘aren’t always relevant to the dramatic context.’’ It is not until Mercutio’s death, according to Charney, that the play takes a turn toward tragedy. ‘‘There seems to be a rush now to realize the implications of all the forebodings.’’ Despite these misgivings, Charney does refer to a part of this play that he likes: ‘‘The representation of love is magical in this play,’’ he writes. However, Charney concludes: ‘‘It is exceedingly difficult to make an emotion as complex and ambivalent as love seem an adequate motivating cause for tragedy.’’ Countering Charney’s point of view is Northrop Frye, in his book Northrop Frye on Shakespeare. Frye writes that tragedy has an ironic side, by which Frye means, in this instance, that the audience knows more than the characters. Tragedy also has a heroic side. Frye contends that Juliet and Romeo were heroic. ‘‘Romeo and Juliet are sacrificial victims, and the ancient rule about sacrifice was that the victim had to be perfect and without blemish.’’ The belief underlying this concept was that nothing that is perfect can exist in this world of imperfection. That which is perfect, ‘‘should be offered up to another world before it deteriorates.’’ It was not only the beauty of Juliet that was perfect, it was also the passion that the two young lovers shared. Their ‘‘passion would soon burn up the world of heavy fathers and snarling Tybalts and gabby Nurses if it stayed there.’’ This not merely a story of love that goes wrong, Frye writes, ‘‘It didn’t go wrong: it went only where it could, out. It always was, as we say, out of this world.’’ Frye concludes his opinions of this play by stating: ‘‘It takes the greatest rhetoric of the greatest poets to bring us a vision of the tragic heroic, and such rhetoric doesn’t make us miserable but exhilarated, not crushed but enlarged in spirit.’’ That is why, he contends, that people all over the world, all through the past centuries have fallen in love with this tragedy.


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The variation of productions is vast. In 1845, the American actress Charlotte Cushman, ‘‘caused a sensation when she played Romeo to her sister’s Juliet at the Haymarket,’’ writes Dickson. The critics loved it. Dickson quotes a newspaper review that states: ‘‘’Miss Cushman’s Romeo is a creative, a living, breathing, animated, ardent, human being.’’’ Then in the mid 1900s, as Dickson writes, Peter Brook used ‘‘a virtually bare stage,’’ meant to emphasize ‘‘the play’s violence.’’ Brook also ended the play without the reconciliation of the feuding families after the deaths of Romeo and Juliet, further darkening the mood of the play. In more modern times, as Dickson writes, the play has gained in popularity, having been ‘‘revived over 350 times internationally in the half-century following World War II.’’ There are at least sixty different filmed versions, with the 1996 version by Baz Luhrmann staging the production near a Miami beach filled with bikini-clad women; with young boys who drive supped-up cars; and an innocent Juliet who falls head-over-heels into a swimming pool when she first meets her Romeo. Norrie Epstein, in The Friendly Shakespeare sums up the play with these words: ‘‘Like adolescence itself, the play has many moods: it is delicate yet intense, occasionally obscene, sometimes funny, and always heartbreaking . . . you’re in for a delightful surprise. This play is terrific.’’

CRITICISM Tom F. Driver Driver examines Romeo and Juliet in terms of the necessity of condensing ‘‘real’’ time into stage time in such a way that the audience will believe the events of the play have actually taken place. The critic points out that Shakespeare compressed the action of Romeo and Juliet in two ways: first, he considerably shortened the length of the action as it appeared in his source, Arthur Brooke’s The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet; second, he used very brief scenes to acount for longer periods of time. This compression, Driver asserts, underscores the theme of haste in the play. The critic also notes how Shakespeare varies the rhythm of the drama, slowing down or speeding up the action to match its meaning.

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IN LIFE, TIME IS CONSTANT. THE DULL DAYS LAST AS LONG AS THE EVENTFUL ONES, IF NOT LONGER. IN A DRAMA TIME SPEEDS UP OR SLOWS DOWN ACCORDING TO THE MEANING OF THE ACTION.’’

In Romeo and Juliet the young Shakespeare learned the craft of creating on stage the illusion of passing time. The Prologue is a kind of author’s pledge that we are to see something that really happened. At least, and for technique it amounts to the same thing, it could have happened. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. [Prologue, 1–4] The story is further summarized, and the Prologue ends with this couplet: The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. [Prologue, 13–14] Once such a beginning is made, the author is under obligation to be as faithful to the clock as possible. He must show one thing happening after another, according to its proper time, and he must keep the audience informed as to how the clock and the calendar are turning. Shakespeare was well aware of the obligation, Romeo and Juliet contains no less than 103 references to the time of the action—that is, 103 references which inform the audience what day things take place, what time of day it is, what time some earlier action happened, when something later will happen, etc. In every case but one Shakespeare was thoroughly consistent. It is not enough, however, for the dramatist to be consistent. He also must be able to make us believe that in the short time we sit in the theater the whole action he describes can take place. He must compress the action of his story into the length of a theatrical performance.

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The fearful passage of their death-marked love, And the continuance of their parents’ rage, . . . Is now the two-hours’ traffic of our stage. [Prologue, 9, 10, 12] Faced with a dramatic necessity, Shakespeare decided to make capital of it. If he has much business to set forth in a short time he will write a play about the shortness of time. In Granville-Barker’s words, Romeo and Juliet is ‘‘a tragedy of precipitate action’’. No little part of the attraction of the play is due to this frank exploitation of a dramatic necessity. Come, Montague; for thou art early up To see thy son and heir more early down. [V. iii. 208–09] In addition to the 103 chronological references noted above, the play contains 51 references to the idea of speed and rapidity of movement. I shall mention only briefly the two ways by which Shakespeare has achieved the uncommonly tight compression of action in this play. His first stratagem was to shorten the length of the action, as found in his source, from nine months to four or five days. With this he achieved two results: he heightened the sense of ‘‘o’er hasty’’ action considerably, and he enabled himself more easily to appear to account for all the ‘‘real’’ time in the story. He did not, of course, account for every hour, but he came nearer to a correspondence between stage time and ‘‘real’’ time. His second stratagem was to make very short scenes on the stage account for comparatively long periods of ‘‘real’’ time. This effect, which has been called ‘‘double’’ time, was mastered by Shakespeare in the course of writing Romeo and Juliet. The play has two notable scenes in this respect: I. v, the feast at Capulet’s house, and V. iii, the final scene. In both, the technique is to focus attention upon a series of small scenes within the major scene, one after another, so that we are forgetful of the clock, and then to tell us at the end that so-and-somuch time has gone by. Because the story has advanced, we are willing to believe the clock did also. So much for the problem of compressing ‘‘real’’ time into stage time and for Shakespeare’s use of the resulting rapidity as a theme in his play.

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There remains a further complexity owing to the drama’s being a performed art. That is the problem of tempo. The sense of rapidity in the movement of the action must be varied. The play must have a rhythm different from the movement of the clock, however that clock may have been accelerated. There must be a fast and slow, and that fast and slow will account for much of the subtle form which the play assumes under the hand of the dramatist. Here is a major difference between art and life. In life, time is constant. The dull days last as long as the eventful ones, if not longer. In a drama time speeds up or slows down according to the meaning of the action. The excitement of dramatic art lies very largely in the tension thus established between chronological tempo and artistic, or dramatic, tempo. Roughly speaking, Romeo and Juliet has four periods or phases—two fast and two slow. It opens in a slow time. True, there is a street fight to begin with; but that is in the nature of a curtain-raiser skillfully used to set the situation. Basically, the first period is the ‘‘Rosaline phase’’, and it moves as languidly as Romeo’s mooning. The second period, of very swift action, begins to accelerate in I. iii. with talk of Paris as a husband. It rushes headlong, with only momentary pauses, through love, courtship, and marriage until Tybalt is impetuously slain. Here there is a pause, while the audience waits with Juliet to see what will happen, and while Friar Laurence cautions Romeo to be patient until he can ‘‘find a time’’ to set matters straight. It is important to notice that this pause accounts for only a very small period of ‘‘real’’ time. The pause is purely psychological—or rather, dramatic. In the midst of it Shakespeare prepares to accelerate the action once more by inserting between two of the lovers’ andante [moderately slow] scenes the very remarkable staccato [abrupt and disjointed] scene iv of Act III, in which Capulet arranges with Paris for Juliet’s marriage. In this short scene of 35 lines there are no less than 15 specific references to time and haste. The scene is all about how soon the marriage can take place—counterpoint to the mood of the lovers, who would turn the morning lark into a nightingale. In the final phase of the play, speed takes over again and we rush to the catastrophe. It is in the last phase that the most interesting relations between dramatic rhythm and chronological clarity may be seen. Two or three


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Chiwetel Ejiofor as Romeo and Charlotte Randle as Juliet in Act III, scene v, at the National Theatre, London, 2000 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

days of ‘‘real’’ time are required to pass in order to make sense of the action: Romeo must be exiled, Friar Laurence must put his plan for Juliet’s false death into effect, messengers must travel, family must grieve, and a funeral be held. But the drama, once Juliet takes the sleeping potion, requires a swift conclusion. Therefore, after that event, references to exact time, which hitherto have been profuse, almost entirely disappear from the text. There is no way for an audience to know when any of the scenes in Act V begins. There are no clues as to what day it is, let alone what time of day, until line 176 of scene iii, when the Watch informs us that Juliet has been buried two days. The vagueness is deliberate. The ‘‘real’’ time is comparatively long, but the play wants to move swiftly. Therefore the audience is given an impression of speed, but specific time references are withheld.

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WHAT DO I READ NEXT? Romeo and Juliet in Jerusalem, published in 2003, is a collection of short stories written by H. C. Kim, about star-crossed modern lovers who must struggle through very difficult situations to realize their love. Butterfly Lovers: A Tale of the Chinese Romeo and Juliet by Fan Dai (2000) takes the theme of star-crossed lovers and adapts it to the Chinese experience. The young female protagonist, Yingtai, the only daughter of a prosperous family, must disguise herself as a man in order to enter school. At school she meets and falls in love with Shanbo, but she does not reveal that she is a woman. Later she is called home, for her parents have arranged a marriage for her. Shanbo finds out that Yingtai is a woman and immediately wants to marry her. The

The foregoing remarks should make it clear that in such a play as Romeo and Juliet, where the story demands a setting more or less realistic, Shakespeare strings his art between two poles: on one side, accurate imitation of what would really happen; on the other, bold shaping of events into an aesthetic pattern. We may say that the play results from a tension between these two. The actual technique is to move from one to the other. Tension, however, expresses our feeling about the play. Imagination and reality seem to be combined in a system of stresses and strains. Time is real, and to imitate action is to imitate time. But there is also in men a capacity for transcending time, which the playwright-artist and his audience know well. Time and its events alone do not produce an action; the imagination, transcending but not escaping time, may do so. Source: Tom F. Driver, ‘‘The Shakesperian Clock: Time and the Vision of Reality in Romeo and Juliet and The Tempest,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. XV, No. 4, Autumn 1964, pp. 363–70.

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book is well-written with turns and twists that match Shakespeare’s tale. Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream is another drama of love, confusion, parental control, and other themes similar to Romeo and Juliet. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was written around the same year, in 1595, and has an added element of fantasy. Another of Shakespeare’s plays written around the same time as Romeo and Juliet is Richard II (1595). The play is based on real life events of England’s king, whose reign was contaminated with Richard’s focus on his wardrobe, rich friends, and meaningless wars rather than on the common people. The play is a tragedy, ending with the king’s death in prison.

The 1957 musical West Side Story tells a tragic love story that was often referred to as a Romeo and Juliet kind of story. The original story for the play was written by Arthur Laurents but it was adapted to novel form by Irving Schulman in 1999. The story is set in New York City and tells of a love that develops between a young woman and young man who are associated with two warring city gangs.

SOURCES Charney, Maurice, All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993. Dickson, Andrew, The Rough Guide to Shakespeare, Rough Guides, Inc., 2005, pp. 305–12. Dobson, Michael and Wells, Stanley, eds., The Oxford Companion to Shakespeare, Oxford University Press, 2005, pp. 397–401. Epstein, Norrie, The Friendly Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1993, p. 316. Fallon, Robert Thomas, How to Enjoy Shakespeare, Ivan R. Dee, 2005. Frye, Northrop, Northrop Frye on Shakespeare, edited by Robert Sandler, Yale University Press, 1986, pp. 15–33. Mack, Maynard, Everybody’s Shakespeare, University of Nebraska Press, 1993. Shakespeare, William, Romeo and Juliet, edited by Peter Holland, Penguin Books, 2000.

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FURTHER READING Bergeron, David M., ‘‘Sickness in Romeo and Juliet,’’ in CLA Journal, Vol. 20, No. 1, March 1977, pp. 356–64. This is a detailed analysis of the imagery of sickness, disease, and remedy in Romeo and Juliet and how it contributes to the tragic structure of the play. Bloom, Harold, ed., Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Chelsea House, 1999. Harold Bloom has collected some of the most important critical essays of the twentieth century on Shakespeare’s play in this book. Bruce, Brenda, ‘‘Nurse in Romeo and Juliet,’’ in Players of Shakespeare: Essays in Shakespearean Performance by Twelve Players with the Royal Shakespeare Company, edited by Philip Brockbank, Cambridge University Press, 1985. This book provides a theatrical insight into the Nurse’s character, describing how she interpreted the role for a 1981 Royal Shakespeare Company production of Romeo and Juliet. Cole, Douglas, ed., Twentieth Century Interpretations of ‘‘Romeo and Juliet,’’ Prentice-Hall, 1970. This volume is a collection of scholarly essays on Romeo and Juliet. Greenblatt, Stephen, Will in the World, W. W. Norton & Company, 2004. Greenblatt presents an interesting view of Shakespeare’s life through the events of his years as well as through his literature.


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Harbage, Alfred, ‘‘Mastery Achieved: Romeo and Juliet,’’ in William Shakespeare: A Reader’s Guide, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1966, pp. 139–61. Harbage offers a scene-by-scene plot summary of Romeo and Juliet accompanied by critical commentary on various aspects of the play. Smith, Warren D., ‘‘Romeo’s Final Dream,’’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. 62, No. 4, October 1967, pp. 577, 580–83. This article considers the lovers’ immortality a major theme of Romeo and Juliet, arguing that several scenes in the play support the Christian ideal of resurrection after death. Wells, Stanley, ‘‘Juliet’s Nurse: The Uses of Inconsequentiality,’’ in Shakespeare’s Styles: Essays in Honour of Kenneth Muir, edited by Philip Edwards, Inga-Stina Ewbank, and G. K. Hunter, Cambridge University Press, 1980, pp. 51–66. This article examines the content and structure of the Nurse’s speech, noting that its lack of intellectual logic marks a new dramatic style for Shakespeare. Williamson, Marilyn L., ‘‘Romeo and Death,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 14, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1981, pp. 129–37. Williamson contends that Romeo’s suicide is not motivated by his love for Juliet but rather by a death wish he harbored before he met her. Williamson admits, however, that the feud does play a part in the catastrophe; because of the feud, Romeo not only expects an early death, he desires one to escape the guilt he suffers regarding the conflict.

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The Sonnets 1592

Historians and scholars are uncertain as to when Shakespeare composed his sonnets; he may have written them over a period of several years, beginning perhaps in 1592 or 1593. Some of the fourteen-line poems were being circulated in manuscript form among the author’s acquaintances as early as 1598, and in 1599 two of them— Sonnets 138 and 144—were published in The Passionate Pilgrim, a collection of verses by several authors. The sonnets as modern readers know them were certainly completed no later than 1609, the year they were published in a quarto by Thomas Thorpe under the title Shake-speares Sonnets. While many scholars have expressed the belief that Thorpe acquired the manuscript on which he based his edition from someone other than the author, modern critics generally see little reason to doubt the text’s authenticity. On the other hand, few believe that Shakespeare directly supervised the publication of the manuscript, as the text is riddled with errors—and Thorpe, not Shakespeare, authored the dedication. Regardless, Thorpe’s 1609 edition is the basis for all modern texts of the sonnets. With only a few exceptions—Sonnets 99, 126, and 145—Shakespeare’s verses follow the established English form of the sonnet. Each is a fourteen-line poem in iambic pentameter, comprising four sections: three quatrains, or groups of four lines, followed by a couplet of two lines. Traditionally, different, though related, ideas are expressed in each quatrain, and the argument or

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theme of the poem is summarized or generalized in the concluding couplet. Many of Shakespeare’s couplets do not have this conventional structure or effect. However, the poet did consistently employ the traditional English sonnet rhyme-scheme: abab cdcd efef gg. Where Shakespeare incorporates feminine rhymes, or rhymes of two syllables with the second unstressed, the last syllable constitutes an added eleventh syllable in the line in question. Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets, taken together, are frequently described as a sequence, and this is generally divided into two sections. Sonnets 1– 126 focus on a young man and the narrator’s intimate friendship with him, and Sonnets 127– 152 focus on the narrator’s relationship with a woman. (The narrator is often referred to as the poet.) However, in only a select number of the poems in the first group can the reader be certain that the person being addressed is male; in fact, most of the poems in the sequence as a whole are not directly addressed to another person. The two concluding verses, Sonnets 153 and 154, are adaptations of classical verses about Cupid; some critics believe they serve a specific purpose—though they disagree about what this may be—but many others view them as providing the collection with perfunctory closure. The English sonnet sequence reached the height of its popularity in the 1590s, when the posthumous publication of Sir Philip Sidney’s Astrophil and Stella (1591) was widely celebrated and led other English poets to put forth their own sonnet collections. In turn, all of these sequences, including Shakespeare’s, are indebted to some degree to the literary conventions established by the Canzoniere, a sonnet sequence composed by the fourteenth-century Italian poet Petrarch. By the time Shakespeare wrote his sonnets, antiPetrarchan conventions had become established, whereby traditional motifs and styles were satirized or exploited. Commentators on Shakespeare’s sonnets frequently compare them to those of his predecessors and contemporaries, including Sidney, Sir Thomas Wyatt, Henry Howard, Samuel Daniel, and Edmund Spenser. The principal topics of twentieth-century critical commentary on the sonnets are their themes and poetic style. Analyses of formal elements in the poems include examinations of the rhetorical devices, syntax, and diction Shakespeare employed throughout. The multiple and indefinite associations of his words and phrases have proved


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especially intriguing—and problematic—for scholars as well as for general readers. The complexity and ambiguity of Shakespeare’s figurative language is also a central critical issue, as is the sequence’s remarkable diversity of tone and mood. Shakespeare’s departures from and modifications of the poetic styles employed by other sonneteers have also drawn a measure of critical attention. Many of Shakespeare’s themes are conventional sonnet topics, such as love and beauty, and the related motifs of time and mutability. Yet Shakespeare treats these themes in his own distinctive fashion, most notably by addressing the poems of love and praise not to a fair maiden but to a young man and by including a second object of passion: a woman of questionable attractiveness and virtue. Critics have frequently called attention to Shakespeare’s complex and paradoxical representations of love in the sonnets. They have long discussed the poet’s claim that he is immortalizing the young man’s beauty in his verses, thereby defying the destructiveness of time. The themes of friendship and the betrayal of friendship are also significant, as is the nature of the relationship between the poet and the young man. The ambiguous eroticism of the sonnets has elicited varying responses, with some commentators asserting that the relationship between the two men is platonic and others contending that it is demonstrably sexual. Because Shakespeare’s lyrics are passionate, intense, and emotionally vivid, over the centuries many readers and commentators have grown convinced that they must have an autobiographical basis. However, little concrete evidence indicates that this is so. Still, biographers have produced endless speculation about what the sonnets may tell us about their creator, and various scholars have attempted to identify the persons who were the original models for the persons the poet refers to and addresses. The fact remains, however, that no one can determine to what degree Shakespeare’s personal experiences are reflected in his sonnets. Likewise, no one can know with any certainty whether the persons depicted in the poems are based on actual individuals or are solely the product of Shakespeare’s observation, imagination, and understanding of the human heart. Overall, contradictions and uncertainties abound in Shakespeare’s sonnets. Both individually and as a collection, the poems resist generalities

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and summations. Their complex language and multiple perspectives have given rise to a number of different interpretations, all of which may in some respect be valid—even when they contradict each other. Few modern critics read the sonnets as personal allegory, with most commentators asserting that speculation as to implications about Shakespeare’s life, morals, and sexuality is a useless exercise. The narrator of the poems, then, is precisely the person he seems to be to each individual reader; as in much great poetry, his confused and ambiguous expressions of thought and emotion serve to heighten readers’ own sentiments about universal matters such as love, friendship, jealousy, hope, and despair.

PLOT SUMMARY Shakespeare’s sonnets do not describe or enact a clear sequence of events, nor do they follow a straightforwardly logical or chronological order. They allude to only a few specific actions, and even these are presented in general rather than particular terms. The setting, too, is generalized, with no reference to any specific locales. A sense of time elapsing is evoked through the sonnets’ portrayal of developments in the speaker’s relationships with the young man and the woman, but only one suggestion is made about how long either of these associations lasted. Below, the sonnets are broadly summarized in a small number of commonly recognized groupings. Only sonnets that belong to connected series or that bear some particular overall significance are mentioned individually; these series and significances were largely gleaned from the Arden Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Third Series, edited by Katherine Duncan-Jones.

Sonnets 1–17 In the first seventeen sonnets—the most coherent group in the sequence, often referred to as the ‘‘procreation sonnets’’—the speaker urges a young man of aristocratic birth to marry and have children so that his extraordinary beauty will be preserved for the ages. The young man is portrayed in this opening group as somewhat vain or narcissistic, through lines such as ‘‘Or who is he so fond will be the tomb / Of his selflove, to stop posterity?’’ (Sonnet 3). Thus, he is understood to be uninterested in procreating because he only truly loves himself. The poet frequently stresses that the young man’s beauty

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Title page of the Sonnets, 1609 (Ó The Folger Shakespeare Library)

will fade as he ages, to be lost entirely upon his death—and saved only in the person of his offspring. Sonnet 1 begins with the argument that the ‘‘fairest creatures’’ are the ones that ought to procreate; Duncan-Jones equates this suggestion with the modern concept of eugenics, wherein the breeding of humans might be controlled so as to improve the race. In Sonnet 11, the poet again states that those whom nature has ‘‘best endowed’’ should seek to reproduce. In Sonnets 5 and 6, the poet likens the process of marrying and begetting children to the process of preserving the essence of a rose by distilling rose water. In Sonnet 10, the poet first reveals that he not only appreciates the young man’s beauty but also bears some degree of affection for him, requesting, ‘‘Make thee another self for love of me.’’ Soon thereafter, in Sonnet 13, the poet calls the young man ‘‘dear my love.’’ In the last three sonnets in this group the poet presents another

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means of forestalling the destructiveness of time: the poet will immortalize the friend’s beauty in his verses.

Sonnet 35 the poet seems somewhat conflicted but forgives his friend. In Sonnets 40–42, the poet reveals that the young man betrayed him by associating with a mistress of the poet’s.

Sonnets 18–126

In Sonnets 43–45 the poet again speaks of an absence from his friend and of seeing his friend’s image at night; he also divides up what Elizabethans understood as the four basic elements, associating earth and water with himself, fire and air with the young man. In Sonnets 46 and 47 the poet’s eyes and heart first compete with each other over the young man, then share in appreciating him. By Sonnet 49, however, the poet is anticipating a future in which the poet and young man will no longer be friendly acquaintances. In Sonnet 50 the poet reluctantly embarks on a journey, once again achieving an absence from the young man, which he laments in the following two sonnets. In Sonnets 53–55, the poet now praises the young man’s moral virtue (irrespective of the earlier mention of betrayal) and asserts that he will immortalize that virtue through his verse. Then again, in Sonnet 56, the poet mentions that the love between the two men has diminished.

As with the first twenty-six sonnets in Shakespeare’s sequence, the ensuing 109 are understood to revolve around the relationship between the poet and the young man (even though many of the sonnets make only unspecific, ungendered reference to a beloved). The two experience absences from each other, and at length the young man is understood to have somehow betrayed the poet in matters of love. Nevertheless, the poet remains largely infatuated with and reverent toward his friend, frequently expressing his devotion. Later on, the poet seems to have likewise been somehow unfaithful to the young man. The last poem in this group is fairly inconclusive, allowing for various interpretations and conjectures as to the fate of the men’s friendship. Overall, Sonnets 27–126 depict a recurring cycle of contrition and coldness on the part of the friend and forgiveness, understanding, praise, and reproach on the part of the poet. The poet vacillates between, on the one hand, confidence in his art and in his friendship with the young man and, on the other, doubt and anxiety that either of these will prove to be of lasting value. Laying aside his insistence that the young man procreate, the poet elaborates on the notion that he can partly preserve his friend’s beauty through his verse in Sonnets 18–26. The poet makes extravagant claims about the fame and durability of his poetry but also expresses some artistic humility. In addition, new motifs are introduced, particularly, in Sonnet 20, the possibility of a physical relationship between the poet and the friend; this famously ambiguous sonnet has been cited both to refute and to support the notion that Shakespeare himself had homosexual inclinations. In Sonnet 21 the poet compares his work to that of other poets; later on, he will make explicit mention of a rival poet. In Sonnets 27–31, the poet relates the emotional experience of suffering his friend’s absence; in Sonnets 27 and 28 he cannot escape the image of the young man at night, while in Sonnets 29 and 30 he laments the failures of his life but is consoled by thoughts of the man. In Sonnets 33 and 34 the poet invokes metaphorical language, speaking of sun, clouds, and rain, to allude to some betrayal committed by the young man; in


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In Sonnets 57 and 58 the poet refers to himself as the young man’s ‘‘slave,’’ reflecting his utter subservience to the friend. In Sonnets 59 and 60, the passage of time and its effects on the world are discussed. In Sonnet 63—which number, being seven times nine, Duncan-Jones refers to as the ‘‘grand climacteric,’’ as associated with great changes in life—the poet ruminates more directly on how the young man must eventually age; in Sonnet 64, the poet anticipates the young man’s death. Duncan-Jones notes that Shakespeare may have made Sonnet 66—which has twelve rather than fourteen lines—a particularly despairing one in connection to the biblical connotations of the ‘‘evil’’ number 666. In the two following sonnets, in turn, the broader corruption of society is mentioned. The poet returns to his friend’s moral qualities in Sonnets 69 and 70, asserting that his outward appearance belies his inward degradation— then suggesting that he is perhaps denounced by others simply because he is so beautiful. In Sonnets 71–74 the poet anticipates his own death and implores the young man to dissociate himself from the disrespected deceased. In Sonnets 76 and 77 the poet focuses on the quality of his verse, as inspired by the young man. In Sonnets 78–80 and 82–86, then, he speaks of

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others who have also written poetry about his friend, perhaps of superior quality; in Sonnet 80 the poet specifically remarks, ‘‘A better spirit doth use your name.’’ However, the poet asserts that even if his verse is plainest, his love for the young man, at least, is the purest and best. Duncan-Jones notes that Sonnet 87 may be interpreted as something of a turning point within the collection of verses about the young man: ‘‘The use of feminine rhymes in every line except 2 and 4 draws attention to the sonnet as unusual in form . . . , perhaps to mark a new phase in the sequence: the rival poet is forgotten, but all is not well with the friends.’’ Sonnets 88– 90, then, focus on a separation between the two men brought about by the disparity in their respective worths. In Sonnets 91 and 92, the poet describes the grief that the young man’s rejection of him would cause and the relief that he would thus find in death; in Sonnets 93–95 he regrets the deceptiveness of the young man’s beautiful, kindly appearance, while in Sonnet 96 he lauds the young man even for his faults. Sonnets 97–99 make further reference to separation between the two men, this time employing the imagery of the seasons. Sonnet 100 is referred to by Duncan-Jones as a ‘‘new beginning,’’ as the poet is attempting to revive his Muse’s interest in the young man. The Arden editor writes, ‘‘We may imagine either that a period of poetic silence has elapsed between 99 and 100, or that the speaker’s absence and preoccupation with mere shadows of the youth [from Sonnet 98] constitutes a poetic desertion of him.’’ In Sonnets 101–103, then, the poet speaks further with his Muse and ponders his recent dearth of verse. In Sonnet 104 the young man seems to finally be aging, though the poet professes to still love him greatly in this and the following verse. Sonnet 107 is understood to allude to the death of Queen Elizabeth—‘‘The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured’’—and the accession to the throne by James I. The poet seems to take stock of his achievements thus far in Sonnet 108, at which point he has matched the length of the seminal sonnet collection by Sir Philip Sidney, Astrophil and Stella. Sonnets 109 and 110 deal with the poet’s voluntary separation from the young man. Sonnet 111 has been widely interpreted as making reference to Shakespeare’s public career as an actor. In Sonnets 113 and 114 the poet speaks of yet seeing the young

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man’s image in all things, while in Sonnets 115 and 116 he ponders the evolving nature of love. In Sonnets 117 and 118, the poet is now defending himself against accusations of unfaithfulness. Afterward, in Sonnets 119 and 120, he contemplates his estimation of his self and the extent to which his love for the young man persists, hoping for forgiveness—but in Sonnet 122 he reveals that he no longer possesses some written work given to him by the young man. In Sonnets 123–125, the poet speaks in somewhat obscure terms about the passage of time, reminiscence about the past, political fortunes, and the permanence of his love. Finally, in Sonnet 126, the poet returns to the subject of the young man’s death, ending with two lines containing naught but empty parentheses. Duncan-Jones provides a survey of possible meanings for these cryptic punctuation marks, including ‘‘marks in an account-book enclosing the final sum, but empty’’; ‘‘the shape of an hourglass, but one that contains no sand’’; or ‘‘a repeated waxing and waning of the moon, pointing to fickleness and frailty.’’ She lastly suggests that they may point to the young man’s failure to have procreated: ‘‘The poet’s verse is incomplete, and so is the youth’s life.’’ Regardless, the sonnets making exclusive reference to the young man have come to a close.

Sonnets 127–154 Sonnets 127–154 portray the poet’s relationship with the woman known as the ‘‘dark lady.’’ The poet offers even less of a sequential story line here than he did in the first 126 sonnets. His attitude toward his mistress—and toward himself—shifts radically from one poem to the next. He teases her, insults her lusty sensuality, accuses her of repeated infidelities, praises her unfashionable dark beauty, upbraids himself for his own carnal desires, and plays bawdily on the numerous meanings of ‘‘will.’’ As with the majority of the sonnets to the young man, the poet’s conflicting thoughts and emotions do not follow any logical sequence; indeed, critics disagree about whether either of these two sections of Shakespeare’s sonnets comes to a close with a sense of finality or resolution. In Sonnet 127, the poet opens the sonnets about the ‘‘dark lady’’ by contrasting her complexion with that of both traditional and modern, cosmetically enhanced beauties. In Sonnet 130, he goes as far as to describe her individual

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Sir John Gielgud, a legendary British theater figure, offered a reading of 120 verses from Shakespeare’s Sonnets in 1963. It was produced by Caedmon Audio and was redistributed in 1996.

Dove Book Audio produced readings of the 154 sonnets and other verses in The Complete Sonnets of William Shakespeare: With ‘‘A Lover’s Complaint’’ & Selected Songs in 1996. The various verses are read and performed by Roscoe Lee Browne, who narrates, as well as Christopher Cazenove, Vanessa Redgrave, Elliot Gould, Alfre Woodward, and Michael York. A comprehensive audio version of William Shakespeare: The Sonnets appeared in 1996. It was produced by HighBridge Classics and was read by the London-born dramaturge Simon Callow. Another audio version entitled William Shakespeare: The Sonnets, featuring all 154 sonnets, was produced by Naxos AudioBooks in 1997, and was read by the English actor Alex Jennings.

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relations. Sonnet 145 is unique in that it features tetrameter instead of pentameter, with the last lines (and the mentions of ‘‘‘hate’ away’’ and ‘‘And’’) perhaps indicating that the Sonnet was written for Anne Hathaway early in Shakespeare’s life. Sonnet 146, in turn, has received critical attention for its religious elements. In Sonnets 147 and 148 the poet speaks of his poor judgment, as debilitated by his affections, while in Sonnet 149 he comments further on his emotional dependence on the mistress in question. Sonnets 151 and 152 speak of the poet’s descent, along with the woman, into sexual sinfulness and her betrayal of him. Finally, in Sonnets 153 and 154 the poet uses a mythological framework to comment on sexual encounters and sexually transmitted diseases, seeming to conclude that even the pain of disease does not quench his libido.

CHARACTERS No ‘‘characters’’ are present in Shakespeare’s sonnets as the term is usually understood in literary analysis. None of the figures to whom the poet refers in the sequence is given a proper name. Specific details about physical features and demeanors are noticeably scarce. For the sake of convenience, many modern commentators have adopted some form of the designations used here, but these names do not appear in the sonnets themselves.

The Dark Lady

features as not apt for comparison to certain traditionally invoked objects. In Sonnet 133 and 134, he laments that the woman has also reduced a friend of his to a sort of amorous servitude. Sonnets 135 and 136, in turn, make fairly explicit reference to the woman’s sexual prowess and desirability. The poet admits that he has been deceiving himself with regard to the woman’s virtue, having judged her based on her attractive appearance, in Sonnets 137 and 138. In Sonnets 139 and 140 he elaborates on the woman’s infidelity, which greatly disturbs him, and in Sonnet 143 he describes her neglect of him. The poet seems to make additional reference to the young man in Sonnet 144, in which he speaks of his ‘‘two loves’’ having had sexual


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While she is specifically called ‘‘dark’’ only once, the woman discussed by the poet in Sonnets 127–152 is understood to have dark hair and eyes. Her social rank or status in society is not specified. She may be married, but the poet refers to her as his ‘‘mistress.’’ He alternately describes her as ill favored and attractive, while characterizing her as sensual, tyrannical, and playful. He eventually alleges that she has betrayed him by seducing his friend, often understood to be the young man of the earlier sonnets. Commentary on the ‘‘dark lady’’ often deals more with the speaker’s frame of mind than with the woman herself. Again, as with the young man, most critics doubt that anyone will ever definitively determine if a ‘‘real-life’’ prototype for the ‘‘dark lady’’ can be determined. Regardless, the reader can consider her character based only on the sonnets that allude to her.

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Indeed, as befits her name, the ‘‘dark lady’’ of Shakespeare’s sonnets is even more shadowy than the young man. She is consistently described as lusty and seductive, and the poet professes that he is irresistibly drawn to her, but little concrete evidence of her character is provided. Commentators suggest that although the poet loves her— or has loved her in the past—he also despises her, perhaps in that through her he has compromised his own virtue. The woman has apparently seduced the young man while carrying on an affair with the poet, but the extent of her promiscuity—along with the question of whether she is married and therefore an adulteress—is not evident to all readers. Several critics have evaluated the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets in the context of literary conventions, arguing that these verses offer a parody of Petrarchan lovers through the depiction of a mistress who has neither virtue nor beauty. Over the centuries, many commentators have identified the woman in question with a debased form of love. However, late twentiethcentury studies, especially those written from feminist perspectives, have been more sympathetic, challenging the accuracy or reliability of the poet’s account of his mistress and calling for an appraisal that takes into account his obvious bias. Regarding the poet’s disparaging portrayal of the ‘‘dark lady,’’ James Winny points out that most of the poet’s descriptions of her suggest, rather brutally, that she is fickle, ill-favored, and cruelly contemptuous of his feelings. J. B. Leishman notes that the poet not only despises her but also loathes himself for loving a woman who has made a slave of his young friend. Similarly, John Klause argues that the poet continues to desire the woman despite his revulsion and that their mutual depravity keeps them together. Philip Edwards, in turn, finds more evidence of the poet’s conflicted attitude toward the woman than of the character of the woman herself in the various descriptions; he pointedly contrasts the warm and charming description of the mistress in Sonnet 130 with the subsequent depiction of her as ‘‘an agent of damnation’’ from whom the poet turns away in disgust. Indeed, as Heather Dubrow and others have remarked, negative appraisals of the woman have often been countered by negative appraisals of the poet himself. Dubrow maintains that the poet’s inconsistent portrait of his mistress should make us wary of trusting his judgment and forming any definitive interpretations about her character.

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Among those who have agreed that the lens of the poet’s verse distorts the image of the woman, S. Schoenbaum suggests that because the disclosures about the woman are obscure and contradictory, and because the speaker’s hostility toward her is so apparent, reliable conclusions about her simply cannot be drawn. Likewise, M. L. Stapleton argues that the poet’s descriptions of his mistress are neither accurate nor reliable. We must always keep in mind, she warns, that the ‘‘dark lady’’ is entirely a creation of the poet’s—and he is a self-admitted liar. Kenneth Muir is one of several critics who have emphasized the bitterness and anger present in many of the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets, pointing out that the mood changes swiftly and frequently as the poet turns from attacking or insulting her to begging for her kindness or forgiving her transgressions. Several commentators—including Douglas L. Peterson, Katharine M. Wilson, and James Winny—have read the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets as a satirical treatment of Petrarchan sonnet conventions, in which context the mistress herself becomes something of a gross caricature of an ‘‘immoral’’ woman by design. Peterson maintains that Shakespeare’s verses effectively mock the Petrarchan ideal of the fair beloved in a sustained parody of the traditional sonnet modes of praise, complaint, and plea. Wilson, meanwhile, asserts that the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets specifically satirize the artificiality of sonnets written by Shakespeare’s English predecessors and contemporaries. Reading the sonnets about the poet’s mistress as a subversion of conventional attitudes toward love in the Petrarchan tradition, Winny identifies several targets of Shakespeare’s satire, including the lover’s devotion, the beloved’s moral perfection, and the ennobling power of love. The character of the ‘‘dark lady,’’ then, especially by virtue of her evident lack of virtue, would be the most essential aspect of this satire.

The Poet As used here, the term poet denotes the narrator of the sonnets—who of course speaks at length of his poetry—as distinguished from the man who wrote them. The poet is a complex and contradictory figure. He appears to be generous and long-suffering—even self-effacing—yet he also expresses anger and pride. The poet describes himself as older than the young man and the mistress, but he gives few indications of what his actual age may be. Furthermore, he

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variously described as enigmatic, self-deluded, inconsistent, and servile. Both Philip Martin and John Klause have discussed the poet’s deferential attitude to the young man. In Martin’s judgment, the poet abandons the self-effacing demeanor of the early sonnets once he and the young man have achieved a relationship of greater intimacy; thus, the poet is initially selfeffacing for the same reasons that any person seeking a relationship with a person deemed of greater worth would be self-effacing. In contrast, Klause argues that the poet’s self-deprecation is one of the strategic ploys he uses as he tries to teach the youth the meaning of love. In Klause’s estimation, the poet’s other strategies include flattery, rebuke, forgiveness, and deceit.

William Shakespeare (AP/Wide World)

refers to himself as untruthful, raising doubts about his reliability in reporting the interpersonal and social situations he describes. This fact is important because only through the poet does the reader know anything about the other figures in the sonnets. Most late twentieth-century critics maintain that the psychological portrait of the poet is in fact the principal focus of the sonnets. In their judgment, the sequence depicts a mind torn between conflicting thoughts and emotions as the speaker deals with issues that are central to human existence: love and friendship; birth and death; self-knowledge and self-delusion; sin and virtue; and the vagaries of fortune and the ravages of time. Many commentators view the poet as prone to misjudge both himself and the young man. Others contend that he willfully avoids facing the truth about the young man’s nature and conduct—either because he continues to love his friend or because he does not want to acknowledge the malignant effect of the relationship on himself. Most agree that the sonnets depict a man who is struggling to make sense of his life and bring order out of chaos. In accord with the poet’s expression of his tortured thoughts and feelings, he has been


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Many critics have disparaged the poet’s servile attitude toward the young man. Others similarly condemn his acquaintance with the ‘‘dark lady,’’ remarking that the poet seems unable to break away from relationships that he finds degrading. Indeed, the poet’s passivity or hesitancy to take action has been frequently noted, as he seems trapped in a state of reflection and beset by fears and anxieties. Belying his otherwise servile attitude, the poet repeatedly notes his own deceitfulness; some critics maintain that the poet himself is the principal victim of his dishonesty, as he brings suffering upon himself by sustaining relationships that he must lie to sustain. In turn, many critics caution that since the poet represents himself as an unreliable witness, the reader should not assume that what he says about the young man and the woman are necessarily true or accurate. Indeed, his descriptions of the other figures in the sequence may reveal as much about himself as about those he describes. The poet’s moral, ethical, and intellectual confusion is fairly prominent. He often refers to the dilemma he faces in remaining constant to a beloved who has proved inconstant. Sometimes he demonstrates generosity, while other times he seems subtly or obviously selfinterested. With respect to his art, he sometimes proudly affirms the power of his poetry and sometimes expresses grave doubts about the value of art and the worth of his own verses. Such inconsistencies in the poet’s characterization have been variously explained. Some commentators allege that if the sonnets were reordered the poet could be shown progressing steadily from one state of mind to the next rather

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than fluctuating back and forth throughout the sequence. Others view this wavering between confidence and uncertainty as a function of the discrepancies in age and social rank between the poet and the young man. Still others see it as a realistic portrayal of the quandary facing a man whose beloved is simultaneously attractive and loathsome. Regarding the poet’s dishonesty—his distortion of the truth or evasion of it—Heather Dubrow argues in her book Captive Victors that this characteristic reflects the poet’s moral confusion and underscores the general absence of truth and certainty in the sonnets. Furthermore, she suggests that the reader’s wavering confidence in the poet’s truthfulness influences his or her responses: the reader may sometimes identify with him, but when his honesty is called into question, the reader may become more detached. Whether the poet is deceiving himself as well as his readers has been addressed by a number of commentators. Emily E. Stockard, for one, maintains that when he can no longer deny the reality of his friend’s desertion, the poet adopts a strategy of consolation designed to isolate him from that reality; thus, he claims to find comfort in the young man’s absence, even though he is essentially deluding himself. Similarly, Michael Cameron Andrews argues that in the sonnets that refer to the young man, the poet is initially unaware of his friend’s true nature, but when the young man’s duplicity becomes evident, the poet devises a series of specious arguments to rationalize or justify what he cannot bear to confront. From Andrews’s perspective, the poet is caught up in a profound struggle as he tries to hide his feelings from himself. Other critics who have considered the issue of the poet’s self-deception include Philip Edwards and James Winny. Focusing on the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets, Edwards argues that here the poet desperately tries to make sense of his life—to understand why a man such as himself would betray the nobler aspects of his nature and be ruled by base instinct. Edwards traces the poet’s various attempts, all grounded in selfdeception, to portray carnal desire as something other than a degradation. Also directing his attention to Sonnets 127–151, Winny maintains that these poems depict the poet struggling with the recognition of his mistress’s unworthiness on the one hand and his inability to resist her on the other. In Winny’s opinion, the poet ultimately

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judges himself as harshly as he judges the woman with whom he has been associating.

The Rival Poet(s) Sonnets 21, 78–80, and 82–86 refer to a competitor or competitors for the young man’s favor and patronage. The poet describes his rival(s’) verses as more ornate and artificial than his own, and he represents them as a threat to his relationship with the friend. The rival poets exist in the sonnets almost exclusively in name, as the narrating poet mentions only their verse, not their persons, and only in passing. Katherine DuncanJones notes that Francis Davison, John Davies, Samuel Daniel, George Chapman, and Ben Jonson, all contemporaries of Shakespeare, have been identified as possible inspirations for the rival poets of the Sonnets.

The Young Man The man about whom the poet writes much of his verse is characterized as younger, as holding superior aristocratic rank, and as unmarried. The poet describes him as unusually beautiful, and at times his inner virtue seems to match his outward nature. On other occasions he appears cold, narcissistic, and morally corrupt. Sometimes he returns the poet’s love, but he is also accused of having an illicit sexual relationship with a woman—perhaps one who was the poet’s mistress. Commentary on the friend has been a mixture of biographical speculation and literary analysis. Many modern commentators believe that the issue of who inspired so many of the sonnets will never be resolved. Thus, they have instead focused attention on the picture of the friend that the poet provides and on what can be determined or inferred about the friend in light of the poet’s constantly changing point of view. Critics have variously viewed the young man as aloof, sensitive, vulnerable, impulsive, and inscrutable. Many have emphasized his essential egotism. While the opening sonnets celebrate his physical beauty, subsequent ones question his integrity and faithfulness, and he is increasingly portrayed as arrogant and self-important. A number of critics have proposed that the young man can be understood as a profoundly contradictory figure. Stephen Spender, for one, explicitly describes him as having a dual or divided nature. On the one hand, Spender observes, the poet relates an idealized portrait of his friend as a young man of incomparable beauty and worth; yet based on the flustered and frustrated

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reactions he occasionally produces in the poet, the young man must also be understood as cold, selfish, proud, and decadent. Similarly, Hallett Smith notes that while the poet focuses on his friend’s merits and beauty, the young man demonstrates that he is capable of slighting and even rejecting the poet. Providing a less sympathetic view of the young man, John Klause emphasizes his inferior judgment and character. From Klause’s perspective, the young man has not yet learned how to love or how to be worthy of love. Also highlighting the friend’s contradictory nature, Michael Cameron Andrews remarks on the disparity between the youth’s attractive appearance and his offensive behavior. In Andrews’s judgment, the friend’s unusual beauty masks a ‘‘rampant sexuality,’’ and his most prominent attribute is deception. Interestingly, the treatment of the young man throughout the sonnets features a remarkable lack of specificity. To begin with, his beauty is generalized rather than particularized; J. B. Leishman observes that the reader is never told anything of his height, for example, or of the color of his eyes and hair. Beyond the young man’s appearance, the reader only hears of his words and actions through the poet’s responses and reports, and in fact, the young man is never portrayed or described in the midst of some activity where he displays the charms and graces the poet ascribes to him. The poet eventually accuses him of a grave fault—seemingly of a sensual nature—but even this fault is never completely particularized. Thus, the young man is a thoroughly indistinct figure, presented suggestively rather than concretely. Heather Dubrow has noted that the friend never functions as an active participant in the sonnets. She also highlights the fact that in addition to being nameless and shadow-like, he has no voice of his own; the poet either reports what the young man has said or predicts what he is likely to say. In Dubrow’s judgment, this contributes to a sense of detachment—a failure of engagement—between the reader and the friend. Several commentators have called attention to the significant change in the relationship between the poet and the friend after Sonnets 1–17. Hallett Smith proposes that Sonnet 18 signals that the poet’s friend has become his beloved, and Kenneth Muir offers a similar assertion. Muir also argues that in Sonnet 20 the poet recognizes that his love for the young man is erotic as well as


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spiritual. Robert Crosman interprets Sonnets 1–17 as reflecting a period when the poet and the friend were establishing a personal association—one that would grow from friendship and patronage to a union of kindred souls, linked by mutual sympathy and understanding. Yet, as Katherine DuncanJones notes, the last sonnet in the portion of the sequence devoted to the young man, with its closing of two lines of empty parentheses, seems to indicate that ultimately, the friendship in question came to some sort of an end.

THEMES Love of All Kinds Human love—in a variety of manifestations—is a principal focus of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Among the many different kinds of love expressed in these verses are spiritual and erotic, parental and filial, and love that ennobles and love that corrupts. The poet explores the paradoxical nature of human passion at length from different perspectives, sometimes idealizing love and sometimes treating it sardonically. Many critics have highlighted Shakespeare’s innovative and unique treatment of the traditions of courtly and Petrarchan love, comparing the Renaissance ideal of human love— a relationship in which earthly and heavenly desires are balanced and complementary—with the sonnets’ representation of these desires as polar opposites. In Shakespeare’s sonnets, critics have argued, love is sometimes presented as an inspiration for transcendent art, with the lover claiming that he can eternalize his beloved’s worth and beauty by enshrining them in his poetry. Thus, love and art can unite to triumph over time and its destructive effects. Love is also represented as an impulse that can help a person realize the noblest aspects of human nature: patience, understanding, selflessness, and forgiveness. On the other hand, some commentators maintain that the sonnets’ depiction of self-effacing love represents a satire on the servile lover of sonnet tradition, who willingly assumes the role of abject servant and devotes himself to obeying his mistress’s every wish. Critics have pointed out that love in the sonnets sometimes manifests itself as infatuation, turning the lover’s head and blinding his judgment. It is also represented, particularly in Sonnets 127–152, as lust or carnal desire, a passion that corrodes the soul and debases the

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lover. Yet, as critics have pointed out, some of the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets wittily and exuberantly portray sensual love as a vital expression of human nature. Love is also represented as friendship, and some commentators have read the relationship between the poet and the friend in terms of the classical notion that an intimate friendship between two men has greater intrinsic value than a sexual relationship between a man and a woman. Among the commentators who have discussed the paradoxical nature of love as presented in the sonnets, David Lloyd Stevenson, for one, discusses the literary conventions that shaped Shakespeare’s depiction of human passion. In Stevenson’s judgment, the bard made use of conventional romantic sentiment but rejected the traditional notion of idealized love. Instead, he argues, Shakespeare emphasized the irrationality of human love—the conflicting impulses of aversion and attraction that are characteristic of the experience of sexual desire. Likewise addressing the sonnets’ depiction of love as contradictory or paradoxical, Anthony Hecht notes that these verses exploit, and to a certain extent seek to reshape, the traditional philosophical notion that the antagonism between soul and body can be resolved when sacred and profane love are brought together in an ideal relationship. Marion Bodwell Smith similarly evaluates the theme of love in the sonnets in the context of Renaissance philosophy, concluding that Shakespeare disavowed the notion that love could encompass both spiritual and physical values. Instead, Smith maintains, the sonnets portray the two faces of love as polarities: in the verses to the young man, love is a joining of souls, but in the ones involving the mistress, love is an enslavement of the body. Stephen Spender suggests that one conflict in the sonnets is that between the appearance of love and the actual experience of it. He suggests that the poet is committed to reconciling the disparity between the outward semblance of love in the young man and his corrupt inner nature.

Ambiguous Eroticism Over the centuries, commentators have alternately denied, confronted, accepted, and celebrated the ambiguous eroticism of the sonnets. In 1640 John Benson infamously exchanged all the masculine pronouns and adjectives with their feminine counterparts so that the beloved of Sonnets 1–126 became a woman. Eighteenth- and nineteenth-century editors and commentators

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likewise struggled with the implications of the use of masculine address in the central portion of the sequence. Twentieth-century critics, in turn, were divided on the issue of whether the relationship between the poet and the young man should be considered sexual. In turn, critics remain unsure as to whether the nature of the relationship portrayed in the sonnets sheds light on the personal life of their author. Regardless of the presence of autobiographical aspects, critical discussions of the nature of the relationship between the poet and the young man typically raise the question of whether it is represented as love-in-friendship or whether it has a sexual component. Kenneth Muir, for one, interprets Sonnet 20—a verse at the center of this controversy—as the poet’s frank admission that his feelings for the young man are not only spiritual but also erotic. In that verse, the poet praises the young man as being like a woman but superior in several respects, with his eyes brighter and his emotions more constant. The poet goes on to express regret over the fact that nature had not left him a woman, as he was ‘‘first created,’’ but had added ‘‘one thing’’ to make him a man. The pun in line 13 leaves no doubt as to what this addition was, as the poet, addressing the young man, rues that nature ‘‘pricked thee out for women’s pleasure.’’ The question, then, is whether the poet and the young man can or should be understood to enjoy any sort of sexual relationship regardless of whom nature intended them to please. Muir, for one, asserts that even if the poet experiences erotic inclinations toward the young man, he never seems to consider acting on them: ‘‘There seems to be no thought in his mind of the possibility of a physical consummation of his love, or even that he would have been tempted if the possibility had existed.’’ To the contrary, in his 1985 book Such Is My Love: A Study of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Joseph Pequigney put forth one of the first comprehensive readings of the poems as demonstrating sincere homosexual affection. He contends ‘‘that the friendship treated in Sonnets 1–126 is decidedly amorous—passionate to a degree and in ways not dreamed of in the published philology, the interaction between the friends being sexual in both orientation and practice,’’ as well as ‘‘that Shakespeare produced not only extraordinary amatory verse but the grand masterpiece of homoerotic poetry.’’ Like many preceding commentators, Pequigney

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Paul Innes describes social and cultural norms governing relationships between men in the English Renaissance. He notes that the system of literary patronage deepened the gap between aristocratic benefactors and socially inferior writers. Calling attention to the connection between ‘‘the language of love and the discourse of patronage’’ in the sonnets, Innes suggests that one of the poet’s greatest fears is that if the young man rejects his love, he will lose the social and monetary benefits he presently enjoys. Overall, while various critics have made various suppositions about the degree of amorousness between the poet and the young man, no one is expected to ever be able to offer irrefutable proof on the matter.

Infidelity

Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton

offers a detailed examination of Sonnet 20. After a complex analysis of the possible meanings and connotations of various words within the sonnet, including ‘‘purpose’’ and ‘‘treasure,’’ he concludes, ‘‘Even though Nature’s creative ‘addition’ may be represented as an obstacle to fleshly intimacy between the friends, its presence does not divert the poet’s ‘passion’ but may, indeed, serve as a principal cause of its arousal.’’ Pequigney goes on to identify Sonnets 52, 75, and 87 as seeming to contain sexual innuendo regarding interactions between the men. Other critics have offered diverging perspectives on the eroticism inherent in the sonnets. Marion Bodwell Smith suggests that Shakespeare’s sequence simply traces the development—and dissolution—of love-in-friendship, as the poet moves from confidence to doubt and from despair to an acceptance of the contradictions inherent in human love. Anthony Hecht calls attention to the fact that from the classical era through the Renaissance, male friendship was seen as an advanced form of human relations— that is, superior to heterosexual love. Hecht suggests that from this perspective, Shakespeare’s sonnets constitute an inquiry into the truth of that notion. Likewise reading the sonnets in the context of the era in which they were written,


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In Shakespeare’s sonnets, an important theme associated with love is the betrayal of love. Most commentators agree that although the poet accuses his mistress of sexual infidelity, he is far less concerned about her faithlessness than he is about the young man’s. As critics have noted, the poet fears that the young man will prove inconstant, yet he tries to suppress his doubts and trust his friend. When the young man betrays him, the poet attempts to justify and excuse his infidelity, then reproaches the young man for his deception and himself for believing in the youth. Several commentators have remarked that the shock of the betrayal is intensified because the poet is convinced that there is a direct symmetry between the young man’s outward appearance—his extraordinary beauty—and his inner self; when the poet finds disparity rather than correspondence there, he is desolate. Indeed, physical beauty was more often associated with moral virtue in the Elizabethan era than in modern times, with both sorts of assets being grouped together as gifts bestowed on individuals by nature. In the case of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, the poet must come to terms with the moral deficiency of the beautiful man, as manifested in his infidelity. Overall, commentators generally agree that the poet’s love for the young man is sustained to the end, as tempered by a more realistic appraisal of the friend’s true nature. Critics have generally agreed with regard to the poet’s gradual revelations regarding the young man’s true nature. M. M. Mahood highlights the poet’s frequently expressed fears that the young man is treacherous and deceitful and

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concludes that the young man is destined to be unfaithful. Still, Mahood confirms that the poet’s love endures: even when the young man repudiates him, the poet assures him of his continuing affection. Hilton Landry focuses on the poet’s response to betrayal in Sonnets 92–96, finding in this series a variety of reactions, including fear, irony, ambivalence, and concern for the young man’s well-being. Kenneth Muir also sees irony and ambivalence in the poet’s reactions to his friend’s faithlessness, but in addition he detects disgrace and shame. The poet certainly experiences precisely the wide range of emotions one would expect him to display given the emotional circumstance of having to come to terms with the infidelity of a beloved.

Narcissism Several critics have asserted that narcissism is an important motif related to the principal theme of love. Indeed, this motif is most evident in the socalled ‘‘procreation sonnets,’’ the first seventeen, in which the poet urges the young man to marry and beget children so that his beauty and virtue will be replicated in succeeding generations of his family. Many of these initial verses underscore the sterility and deceptiveness of self-love and emphasize the belief that ‘‘To give away yourself keeps yourself still’’ (Sonnet 16). Critics have pointed out that the sonnets equate self-love with barrenness in other ways as well. A narcissistic view of one’s natural gifts as personal assets rather than attributes to be shared with others is also a sort of sterility; hoarding one’s treasures rather than using them is the same as wasting them, for time will ultimately consume them. Moreover, some commentators observe, the sonnets warn that self-love inevitably traps the narcissist into believing what false friends and lovers tell him about himself. Philip Martin proposes that Shakespeare’s treatment of the young man’s narcissism is unusually complex. Self-love, the critic argues, is portrayed as a destructive alliance with ‘‘devouring time,’’ for by concentrating on himself the friend will inevitably lose his essence instead of perpetuating it through procreation and love of others. In a psychoanalytic reading of the sonnets, Jane Hedley contends that the poet himself is caught up in narcissism. She asserts that by loving a youth of incomparable beauty, the poet is able to recapture an idealized image of himself—one that has been eroded as he has grown older. Similarly, Stephen Spender discusses the affinity between the narcissistic young man and the poet

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TOPICS FOR FURTHER STUDY Pick one of Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets and write an intense examination of the verse without the assistance of an editor’s annotations. With regard to style, discuss the nature of the rhymes, any possible variations in the meter, and poetic qualities like assonance and alliteration. Look for multiple meanings in words, and provide a discussion of the overall thematic content and message of the poem. Afterward, consult critical comments and annotations on the sonnet and mention any noteworthy discrepancies, corrections, and agreements provided by the scholars in question. Finally, comment on the process of analyzing Shakespeare’s verse without any assistance. In an essay, provide a full account of ancient Greek conceptions of love (of all kinds) between men, then contrast this historical perspective with prevalent societal attitudes toward love between men in modern America. Images from nature appear frequently in Shakespeare’s Sonnets. Write a report in which you identify ten sonnets featuring images from nature and compare and contrast the various connotations and symbolic meanings of these images.

Research the nature of the plagues that occasionally afflicted London and its environs during Shakespeare’s lifetime. In an essay, present your findings and offer a detailed comparison of the overarching threat of plague to some similar threat that has been experienced in modern society.

Write an essay about the Japanese haiku, a poetic form with historical significance comparable to that of the sonnet.

who seeks to immortalize his beauty. In Spender’s judgment, both men regard the friend’s beauty as a ‘‘unique value’’ that must be preserved in some way, and in their shared determination to achieve this, they become one.

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STYLE The Absence of a Narrative Assessments of narrative elements in the sonnets frequently begin by pointing out that the order in which Shakespeare’s sonnets appear in most modern editions follows the one established by Thomas Thorpe in the original publication of these verses in 1609. Historians are unsure as to whether Shakespeare had any hand in this publication, and thus no one can definitively assert that he intended them to be read in the order they are presented therein. Many scholars, believing that a coherent story would emerge if the sonnets were rearranged, have revised the order, but none of these rearrangements has gained significant acceptance among other critics and commentators. While countless summaries of the narrative line of Shakespeare’s sonnets have appeared in print, ranging in length from one sentence to thirty pages or more, critics generally agree that few traces of a traditional plot can be found in the sonnets. Indeed, most commentators offer some analysis regarding the absence of a definable progression of events, specific actions, and indications of time and place. More recently, critics have considered the possibility that some of Sonnets 1–126— long assumed to all be addressed to the young man—may be addressed to the ‘‘dark lady.’’ Of course, since scholars cannot be certain as to whom many of the sonnets refer, they cannot easily trace the course of a developing—if illogical—narrative. Thus, in that critics have generally agreed that the sonnet sequence focuses not on a linear series of events but on the speaker’s thoughts and emotions, debate has revolved around the extent to which the sequence does contain narrative or dramatic elements. Most twentieth-century commentators find little more than a skeletal ‘‘story’’ in these verses. Kenneth Muir, for instance, summarizes what he termed ‘‘the basic facts’’ of the sonnets in a single sentence. He reminds readers that the verses do not represent a novel in poetic form, although he acknowledges that Shakespeare effectively convinces the reader that the sonnets are sincere expressions of the speaker’s emotions, from one day to the next and from year to year. Heather Dubrow stresses the fact that only rarely do the sonnets relate even a brief chronological sequence of events. She calls attention to the lack of specific references to time and place,


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and to the scarcity of sonnets that describe something that actually happens to the poet, the young man, or the mistress. Thus, the experiences of the poet, in being vague, are more universal, and the resulting emotions are more easily vicariously felt by the reader. From the middle of the nineteenth century to the present, Shakespeare’s sonnets have frequently been read as a series of dramatic speeches. Thus, many commentators describe the sonnets as ‘‘dramatic’’ in that they provide immediate emotional contact between the poet, who can be thought of as a speaker, and his reading audience. Indeed, Dubrow, for one, interprets the sonnets as a series of internal monologues, delivered in a lyrical mode, bringing before the reader, immediately and intensely, the conflicted mind of the speaker. In a way, dramatic confrontations occur not between external forces but between the poet’s competing or contradictory thoughts and emotions, and this struggle is conveyed through meditations that resemble, to some degree, soliloquies in plays. Michael Cameron Andrews also maintains that the sonnets are dramatic in the sense that they constitute a dynamic portrayal of a mind at war with itself. He argues that these poems vivify the tempestuous flow of conflicting emotions in the speaker’s mind as he tries desperately to resolve—through justification, pretense, self-deception, and other subterfuges—the discrepancy between his idealized vision of the young man and the knowledge that his friend has deceived him. G. K. Hunter similarly maintains that Shakespeare’s sonnets bring readers into direct contact with the poet’s suffering and, through their poignancy and immediacy, evoke the same feelings of pity and terror elicited by tragic drama. Furthermore, some critics view the tensions that the poet describes between himself and the young man, and between himself and his mistress, as essentially dramatic in nature. On the other hand, some critics argue that the sonnets are non-dramatic in that they seem to take place in an eternal present.

Multifaceted Language The linguistic inventiveness of the sonnets is one of their most celebrated characteristics. Critics have noted that the language is dense and complex, with richness in significance, contradictions, overtones, and echoes. Many have pointed out that Shakespeare’s vocabulary, imagery, and diction are inseparable from the various themes or

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topics within each poem. Some have argued that the ambiguity of Shakespeare’s language is a reflection of his ambivalent attitude toward the subjects of his poetry. Others have suggested that the wide range of tone in the sequence—with the often abrupt shifts from playfulness to derision, intensity to detachment, ecstasy to despair— should be read as evidence of Shakespeare’s extensive understanding of the multifaceted operations of the human mind under the influence of love. In general, studies of the sonnets’ elaborate verbal patterns have focused on such elements as alliteration, assonance, syntax, neologisms (words originally coined), punning, and other forms of wordplay, as well as on Shakespeare’s use of paradox and antithesis. Regarding the connections between verbal and stylistic patterns and the sonnets’ various themes and topics, Philip Martin argues that the poems characteristically display an intimate connection between themes and linguistic modes. Martin offers a deft analysis of the phraseology of Sonnet 1, observing the manner in which certain words balance others in terms of meaning, rhythm, and poetic quality. In the first line, for example, ‘‘From fairest creatures we desire increase,’’ the words ‘‘creatures’’ and ‘‘increase’’ are connected by placement within the line, by alliteration, and by logical association; in the seventh line, in turn, ‘‘Making a famine where aboundance lies,’’ the words ‘‘famine’’ and ‘‘aboundance’’ are contrasted through placement, rhythm, and meaning. Regarding the ambivalent nature of this opening sonnet, Martin concludes, ‘‘It is not just the equivocality of attitude which is characteristic of so many later sonnets: it is the slyness of tone which goes with this attitude and reveals it.’’ Calling attention to the patterns of balance, repetition, and reiteration that occur throughout Sonnets 1–17, Martin suggests that in addition to stressing the idea that the youth must marry and have children, this group of verses introduces or suggests all the central themes of Sonnets 1–126. Thus, he concludes, the initial verbal balancing effort is directly related to the overall ideological balancing effort: ‘‘This is not a clever balancing-act or parrying of experience, nor an attempt to stand outside or above it: it is a recognition of many-sidedness, of the need to give full weight to the various and sometimes conflicting elements which may be present simultaneously in human affairs.’’ Jane Hedley, in turn, emphasizes the regular appearance

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of ambiguity, obsessive repetition, contradiction, and specious argument in the sonnets dealing with the young man. She links these verbal patterns to the poet’s frequent shifts between identification with and estrangement from the young man. In countless instances, the words and images in Shakespeare’s sonnets—as in his plays—have multiple meanings and associations. Stephen Booth compiled an exhaustive commentary on the many connotations, nuances, and references in almost every line of the 154 sonnets. He offers encouragement to modern readers, asserting that Shakespeare’s original audience would have been as challenged and bemused alike by the poet’s words and phrases. Philip Martin recommends that the reader proceed slowly through each sonnet in order not to miss the networks of meanings embedded in the lyrics; this is ‘‘a poetry for contemplation,’’ he advises, that can only be fully appreciated through careful consideration of each line and phrase. In offering a close reading of Sonnet 94, Hilton Landry remarks that this particular verse has been interpreted in many different ways; the language is so allusive, he argues, that the poem must be read in the light of those that precede and follow it, such that its richness, complexity, and subtlety are given some context.

Interconnected Imagery The figurative or metaphorical language of the sonnets is a chief topic of critical interest. Generally, critics agree that the imagery of Shakespeare’s sonnets is functional rather than merely ornamental: imagery often serves as a unifying agent between individual sonnets, creating formal patterns that link together poems that are otherwise discontinuous in logic or topic. Various commentators have contended that single images are often intentionally endowed with multiple associations, such that readers should not try to find one meaning in the rich mixture of connotations that is more significant than the others. Images drawn from nature appear frequently throughout the sequence, particularly with reference to heavenly bodies, to the passing of the seasons, and to cycles of growth and decay. Other important metaphorical patterns are linked to treasure or riches, corruption and disease, scarcity and abundance, and the effectiveness of procreation and poetry as means of immortalizing beauty and defying time.

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Among the many critics who have discussed images and metaphors in the sonnets and their connections with thematic issues are Winifred M. T. Nowottny, James Dawes, Arthur Mizener, Neal L. Goldstien, and Anne Ferry. Focusing on the first six sonnets, Nowottny demonstrates that within an individual sonnet various images may at first seem unrelated, but closer examination shows that they are connected to images in adjacent verses. Thus, Shakespeare used imagery not merely for its beauty but as a means of integrating different parts of the sequence and intensifying the expression of the poet’s experience. In an examination of images that represent mutability and constancy, Dawes similarly notes the unifying effect of the sonnets’ imagery. He asserts that clusters of images that recur throughout the sequence function as substitutes for a traditional narrative or plot, weaving together different parts of the sequence. Mizener analyzes Shakespeare’s compound metaphors, calling attention to the rich blend of connotations in many of them. No one meaning stands out from the others, he declares, or claims the reader’s exclusive attention; instead, all meanings should be seen and understood simultaneously. Goldstien directs readers’ attention to the various forms and associations of money imagery in the sonnets, noting that Shakespeare often uses riches as a synonym for sexuality and links treasure and beauty. Goldstien argues that these interwoven associations underscore the poet’s profoundly ambivalent attitude toward love. Ferry assesses the significance of Shakespeare’s immortalizing metaphors or conceits, particularly in Sonnet 15. Through metaphors that associate immortality with art and vegetation, she argues, the poet accentuates the principal idea of that poem: that he is at war with time. Ferry also points out that the use of the present tense in this sonnet represents another expression of the poet’s attempt to control time.

The Art of Poetry The topic of poetry as an art form merits brief mention here in that it is present in Shakespeare’s Sonnets both thematically, with the poet often referring to the quality and possible immortality of his verse, and in the style of the work itself. That is, to a certain extent, Shakespeare devised poems that aptly reflect the mindset of his narrator not just in content but also in form. Katharine M. Wilson supports the notion that Shakespeare shaped his verse with the utmost deliberation: ‘‘He is an artist; that is to say, a


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conscious practitioner in the art of expressing feeling. He does not write by chance, nor wholly by intuition, but with deliberate design.’’ In particular, both Winifred Nowottny and Douglas L. Peterson have commented on the frequent juxtaposition of an artificial or ornate style with a more direct or simpler one. Nowottny points out that the artificial style predominates when the speaker is most self-conscious; by contrast, when he expresses his feelings more sincerely, the style tends toward the commonplace. Peterson focuses on the sonnets invoking the rival poets and the ‘‘dark lady,’’ concluding that the verses in both these groups demonstrate that Shakespeare found the traditional plain style employed by some sonnet writers just as insincere and exaggerated as the overly eloquent mode used by others.

The Sonnets as Parody Few critics have disputed the notion that Shakespeare’s sonnets are fairly extraordinary when viewed in light of the English sonnet tradition, for two primary reasons: first, most of the sonnets praise the beauty and virtue not of a woman but of a young man, and second, when Shakespeare finally does get around to glorifying a woman, he readily admits that the woman in question is not conventionally, if at all, attractive and can hardly be described as virtuous. Based on these and other aspects of the sonnets, then, some critics have concluded that Shakespeare wrote his sonnets with the express intent of producing a parody. Katharine M. Wilson offers a comprehensive analysis of the sonnets as parody in her text Shakespeare’s Sugared Sonnets. She first offers a discussion of the history of the sonnet, especially as employed by Englishmen in the sixteenth century. By the 1590s, she notes, sonnets were largely being passed around within a concentrated community of respected poets, almost all of whom were connected to the royal court in some way. Shakespeare, she asserts, ‘‘was neither a courtier nor a knight. He did not grow up in any such atmosphere. Although as a person he seems to have been respected, his status as an actor would not qualify him to be called a gentleman.’’ The point she goes on to develop is that Shakespeare was not necessarily the type of person who would have played the game of courtly sonneteering simply for the sake of adhering to aristocratic social conventions. In fact, Wilson

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Engraving of William Shakespeare performing on stage before Queen Elizabeth I

observes that the nature of the era itself seems to suggest that such a genius as Shakespeare would not have undertaken the writing of sonnets as a serious endeavor. Regarding Queen Elizabeth, she remarks, ‘‘It was in her reign that the English love sonnet had its short flowering. Perhaps I should say fruitage rather than flowering since by this time it was over ripe, at the decadent end of its history, with no basis in social reality.’’ Evoking Shakespeare’s personal history, then, she asserts that he would have found ‘‘sonnet love’’ to be marked by ‘‘unreality and artificiality.’’ Wilson next observes that Shakespeare’s plays evidence a fairly critical attitude toward the sonnet tradition, such as in the very early comedy Love’s Labours Lost, where a group of young men somewhat perfunctorily adopt the practice of penning poetry as if simply taking the next logical step after falling in love. Katherine Duncan-Jones likewise contends that Shakespeare demonstrates a disparaging attitude toward poetry in his plays, citing Much

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Ado About Nothing, All’s Well That Ends Well, and The Merry Wives of Windsor as all containing derogatory references to the writing of sonnets. Finally invoking a pair of Shakespeare’s most famous male protagonists (the former coming from As You Like It), she observes, ‘‘Two of Shakespeare’s most intelligent lovers, Orlando and Hamlet, deliver themselves when in love of puerile verses (though not in sonnet form) which suggest mental and aesthetic collapse. In the theatre, it seems, Shakespeare almost invariably presents the writing of love poetry in general, and sonnets in particular, as ridiculous.’’ Having drawn the same conclusion regarding the plays, Wilson finally addresses the nature of Shakespeare’s sonnets themselves. The character of the ‘‘dark lady’’ alone certainly attests to the possibility that Shakespeare was not being serious, as she is essentially opposite to the traditional woman of sonnet idolatry in every respect; she is dark in mind and character as well as in complexion. Further, Shakespeare seems to have

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closely imitated certain sonnets by his contemporaries, including Barnabe Barnes, Samuel Daniel, and Henry Constable. Wilson identifies sonnet VII in Thomas Watson’s Passionate Centurie of Love as being one candidate for the basis of parody in Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130. Among other such similar lines, where Watson writes, ‘‘Her lips more red than any coral stone,’’ Shakespeare counters, ‘‘Coral is far more red, than her lips red.’’ She identifies numerous other sonnets that Shakespeare is likely to have read, and whether or not he intentionally parodied specific verses, he certainly seems to have parodied the types of verses in question. Overall, then, in the ‘‘dark lady’’ series, he took the typical sonnet proceedings and applied them to a situation that made them absurd. Wilson makes similar arguments with respect to the sonnets associated with the young man. To begin with, sonnets simply were not traditionally addressed from one man to another, and Shakespeare’s doing so would have been understood as comical by his contemporaries. Regarding Sonnets 1–17, all advocating procreation for the sake of the preservation of beauty, Wilson asserts that they effectively twist arguments made in a treatise by the Dutch Renaissance scholar Desiderius Erasmus; she states, ‘‘All seventeen sonnets are structured to climb wittily to their inevitable end in an identical laughable climax which parodies equally Erasmus and the sonneteers.’’ Wilson goes on to offer side-by-side comparisons of the remainder of Shakespeare’s sonnets with contemporary verse, as well as with poetry by the ancient Roman Ovid, ever noting that given Shakespeare’s genius and nature, he could not have been so pedantic as to offer such obviously unoriginal verse in any seriousness.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Story of the Sonnet Of all poetic forms, the sonnet perhaps occupies the most singular and influential place in history. In her text The Sonnet Over Time: A Study in the Sonnets of Petrarch, Shakespeare, and Baudelaire, Sandra L. Bermann remarks, ‘‘It would not be an exaggeration to say that the sonnet as first popularized by Petrarch and his Italian imitators played a larger role than any other single form in building a highly competitive, if also cohesive, European literary community.’’ In discussing


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Petrarch’s contributions, Bermann notes that the fourteenth-century Italian’s sonnets were widely copied with respect to form as well as theme and particular rhetoric throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In fact, in the Elizabethan era originality was not held as so important a quality in poetic or dramatic works; Shakespeare appropriated a variety of stories from the annals of history and world literature for use in his plays, and some ‘‘poets’’ did little more than directly translate work from foreign languages—such as the sonnets of Petrarch. In theorizing as to the sonnet’s popularity, Bermann points out that since the rhyme and meter were loosely standardized, poets could distinguish themselves by making only minor adjustments to the form. Interestingly, Bermann connects the appeal of a well-defined verse structure among the poetic community to the bourgeois mode of life: ‘‘Countless sonnet voices called for a hearing in the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. Together they moved in the direction of the solidifying ideals of middle-class culture: an easy freedom within constraint, a graceful containment of the individual within the larger community.’’ In England, the publication of Sir Philip Sidney’s Astrophil and Stella in 1591 essentially launched a sonnet craze within courtly circles in England. As Stanley Wells notes, within the next six years, around twenty sonnet sequences were published by various poets; Bermann notes that with its publication date of 1609, ‘‘Shakespeare’s sequence appeared at the very end of the English Renaissance sonnet vogue.’’ Offering an elaboration of Bermann’s cultural analysis regarding the sonnet’s popularity throughout Europe, Paul Innes ties the brief but intense popularity of the sonnet in England to its adherence to idealized notions of courtly love. That is, in writing verse that presented women in traditionally objectified ways, with the various parts of their bodies compared to various objects in nature, English Renaissance poets were invoking a chivalric aspect of human interaction that had largely been forsaken. Shakespeare, then, in writing of a woman of questionable virtue in his Sonnets, can be understood as responding to the gradual shift away from patriarchal feudalism and toward a less distinctly gendered society. Innes concludes, ‘‘Shakespeare’s sonnets can therefore be seen as an attempt to manage the feminine subject in the midst of change.’’

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Aside from Shakespeare’s treatment of the ‘‘dark lady’’ in his sonnets, he diverged from the form’s English and Italian roots in other unconventional ways. Bermann highlights Shakespeare’s verbal intricacy, especially as marked by ambiguity and contradiction, as marks of his poetic originality; in her words, ‘‘The disturbing, often paradoxical play of Shakespeare’s wit and the open-ended nature of his sequence make the Sonnets undoubtedly the most complex and problematic lyric collection of the era.’’ Further, sonneteers before Shakespeare had rarely directly addressed their thoughts and statements to their beloved, as Shakespeare so often does. In that he incorporates the person being praised or discussed into the context of his verse, using the word ‘‘thou’’ with fair frequency, he adds a significant dramatic dimension to the work. A last singular aspect of Shakespeare’s verse is the cumulative effect of his style on the reader, which commentators have attempted to describe in various ways. Bermann cites Samuel Taylor Coleridge as having described this aspect with particular eloquence; he remarked that Shakespeare constantly creates and evolves ideas throughout his individual poems, ‘‘just as a serpent moves, which makes a fulcrum of its own body and seems forever twisting and untwisting its own strength.’’ In summarizing Shakespeare’s relationship to the overall development of the sonnet, Bermann is especially insightful. After commenting on how Shakespeare approached the sonnet from innovative angles while yet working within its accepted parameters, she states, ‘‘Though Shakespeare’s Sonnets could hardly have been more tied to the tradition it deftly revised, the sequence virtually ended the sonnet’s Renaissance phase.’’ Noting that historical factors unrelated to Shakespeare’s actual composition of his poems certainly influenced the sonnet’s diminution in cultural relevance, she goes on to link his efforts to more expansive literary forms: ‘‘His revolutionary use of the sonnet found its most immediate echoes in larger lyric forms, as well as in the drama and narrative, which his well-defined sonnet personae and their ‘plot’ prefigure. But with the rise of these more capacious forms, the sonnet itself was gradually abandoned until, in the eighteenth century, it all but disappeared.’’ Thus, in a sense, Shakespeare’s literary successors could not outdo his performance in the Sonnets without turning to a less confining genre.

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Shakespeare’s Intentions Scholars have long understood that Shakespeare composed and published his two narrative poems Venus and Adonis and Lucrece during a two-year-period early in his career when the London theaters were closed due to an outbreak of the plague. He would have been searching for income, and publishing poems dedicated to a noted literary patron would have helped him to both establish his reputation and secure his livelihood. The Sonnets, in contrast, were published midway through Shakespeare’s career, in 1609, and scholars agree that he had written at least a portion of them back in the mid-1590s. Many historians, then, have wondered why, given his talent and primary interest in acting and the theater, Shakespeare chose to write such a substantial and unique sequence of courtly love sonnets. Regarding the timing of the publication of the Sonnets, Katherine Duncan-Jones notes that from 1606 through 1610 plague indeed again infected London, resulting in the frequent closure of theaters. In fact, she suggests that the sonnets Shakespeare wrote early in his career ‘‘were, perhaps, being saved up against a plague-ridden day.’’ Thus, once the closures had extended long enough to erase his theater income, he would have been financially obligated to make use of his poetry. Some historical scholars have contended that Thomas Thorpe, the man who published the text and also authored its cryptic dedication, in fact published the poems without Shakespeare’s approval. Recent scholars, however, often citing Thorpe’s distinguished and respectable publishing record as well as his friendship with the poet, have generally settled on the notion that Shakespeare probably failed to author the dedication himself simply due to a need to attend to business outside of London— as well as a desire to escape the plague-ridden urban environment as quickly as possible. With the publication of the Sonnets accounted for, scholars have been left to wonder more specifically what Shakespeare’s motivations were in writing them in the first place. In that the sonnet as a poetic form had arguably already moved beyond the pinnacle of its fashionableness in 1609, some commentators have contended that the ingenious Shakespeare was explicitly attempting to offer a new interpretation of the form. After pointing out the low opinion of poetry that the playwright demonstrates in his stage drama, Duncan-Jones

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states, ‘‘One answer, then, to the question of why Shakespeare composed a sonnet sequence might be literary. He sought to appropriate and redefine the genre, rejecting the stale conceits of mistress-worship, and to create a sonnet sequence so different from all his predecessors that the form could never be the same again.’’ Stanley Wells offers similar comments, focusing on Shakespeare’s portrayal of the ‘‘dark lady’’ in relation to the conventional adulatory praise of beautiful women: ‘‘The sonnets clearly addressed to a woman revile her for cruelty and infidelity, speak ill of her appearance, and explore a self-disgusted emotional and physical entanglement in language of, at times, gross sexuality. Shakespeare’s sonnets can be seen, then, as both an endorsement of a convention and a fierce reaction against it.’’ In a more conjectural vein, Katharine M. Wilson contends that Shakespeare in fact sought to parody the systematic and conventional sonnets of some of his contemporaries, thus seeking to produce a humorous effect. Wilson herself came across the Sonnets in the course of researching Elizabethan sonnets as a genre, and having so recently perused the same publications that Shakespeare is likely to have read, she could not help but view them as intentionally comical. She asserts, ‘‘Shakespeare must have had the cadences, imagery and ideas of his predecessors in his mind as he wrote. He used the same or similar tunes and the same imagery and conceits as the other sonneteers, to pay the same flattering and devoted attention, but to a man, not a woman.’’ Wilson concludes that by virtue of the manner in which Shakespeare directly imitated his predecessors with such contrary premises, ‘‘He reduced the whole thing to the absurd.’’ Ultimately, of course, Shakespeare’s precise intentions can presumably never be proved.

The Autobiographical Question Perhaps since the first publication of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, scholarly and lay readers alike have wondered as to what extent, if at all, the verses are autobiographical. Certain well-read commentators have made statements for or against this notion, igniting or swaying their contemporaries: In the early nineteenth century, William Wordsworth declared in a poem that the sonnets were the key with which ‘‘Shakespeare unlocked his heart,’’ and as Kenneth Muir notes, critical discussion throughout that century revolved around that contention. More


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recently, Stephen Booth’s pronouncement on what is termed the biographical fallacy has been frequently cited by other critics: ‘‘William Shakespeare was almost certainly homosexual, bisexual, or heterosexual. The sonnets provide no evidence on the matter.’’ Muir cites J. W. Lever as notably advocating a balanced perspective with regard to the possibility of the sonnets’ containing autobiographical material; Lever remarked, ‘‘The danger is twofold; of naivety, in accepting any sonnet as literal autobiography; or of false sophistication, in dismissing it off hand as mere ‘literary exercise.’’’ Robert Giroux elaborates on the notion that scholars would be unwise to dismiss the possibility that autobiographical material can be gleaned from Shakespeare’s Sonnets. Giroux cites John Berryman as asserting, ‘‘‘One thing critics not themselves writers of poetry occasionally forget is that poetry is composed by actual human beings, and tracts of it are very closely about them. When Shakespeare wrote, ‘Two loves I have,’ reader, he was not kidding.’’’ Likewise, Giroux concludes that one should not assume either that any given sonnet is autobiographical or that none of them are, declaring, ‘‘The truth is that we cannot assume anything. To eschew the biographical approach in favour of the antibiographical, in the hope of obtaining a purer or more accurate literary understanding of the sonnets, is an illusion.’’

The Identity of the Young Man For hundreds of years, researchers have attempted to determine whether Shakespeare modeled the young man of the sonnets on a specific person. Many critics have considered investigations into the identity of the young man to be more important than those conducted in search of the ‘‘dark lady.’’ As Robert Giroux observes of the mistress of the sonnets in opposition to the gentleman, Her identity really makes very little difference to our knowledge of most of the poems. The identity of the young man is quite another matter, because, if it can be determined, it would throw great light on the date of the poems’ composition, on puzzling textual questions, and on matters of poetic sincerity and truth, and would thus increase enormously our understanding and appreciation of the sonnets.

Most searches for the young man’s identity have begun with the enigmatic dedication of the 1609 edition of the poems to ‘‘Mr. W. H.,’’ described as ‘‘the only begetter of these ensuing

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sonnets.’’ Some scholars have contended that ‘‘begetter’’ means that ‘‘Mr. W. H.’’ provided the publisher with the text of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Others believe that ‘‘Mr. W. H.’’ alludes to the young man who inspired the poems, and over the centuries, an impressive array of possible candidates has been proposed. At the top of the list are Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton (1573–1624), and William Herbert, Earl of Pembroke (1580–1630). Henry Wriothesley, commonly referred to as Southampton, has generally been supported as the most likely candidate by those who consider the Sonnets to have been almost entirely written in the mid-1590s, early in Shakespeare’s career. Shakespeare did dedicate both Venus and Adonis and Lucrece to Southampton, which makes him a strong candidate for a subsequent dedication. Robert Giroux finds a significant correlation between these two dedications and Sonnet 26, with its emphasis on ‘‘duty.’’ R. J. C. Wait, meanwhile, contends that Southampton must be the man in question because, the critic posits, Sonnet 126 seems to refer to the fact that a son and heir was finally born to the young man he had been urging to procreate all along. In contrast to Giroux, Katherine Duncan-Jones contends that the sonnets were written over a greater span of time, with Shakespeare having devoted energy to them not only in the mid1590s but also around 1600, around 1603, and through the end of 1608 into 1609, just before their publication. Duncan-Jones suggests that if this dating is accepted, Southampton is less probably the young man of the sonnets in part because he was thirty-five years old by 1609, such that Shakespeare would not have been likely to write poetry then as if Southampton were far younger. In addition, Shakespeare makes no mention of any of the activities in which Southampton was involved as a young man, such as military matters—and, of course, his actual initials, H. W., would have to be inexplicably reversed to get the initials in the dedication in the Sonnets. Duncan-Jones, then, considers the more likely candidate to be William Herbert, also referred to as Pembroke. Later, in 1623, Shakespeare’s First Folio would be dedicated to Pembroke and his brother, Philip Herbert, such that an earlier dedication to the earl would not have been unlikely. Duncan-Jones cites J. Dover Wilson as suggesting that Herbert’s mother, the

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Countess of Pembroke, may have asked Shakespeare to meet the young man on the occasion of his seventeenth birthday, in 1597, and to write seventeen sonnets devoted to the virtues of procreation. In fact, Pembroke proved unwilling to marry women suggested by his parents on several occasions, matching his character to that of the young man of the Sonnets. Further, by the time Shakespeare published his poems, Pembroke had proven willing to provide writers with financial remunerations for their efforts; Duncan-Jones describes him as ‘‘an exceptionally generous and intelligent patron of letters, and even something of a poet.’’ Thus, of course, his sympathies are that much more likely to have lain with an established playwright and poet like Shakespeare. Regarding the dedication’s reference to W. H. as ‘‘Mr.,’’ rather than as ‘‘Earl,’’ which seemingly would have been more proper, Duncan-Jones notes that in using the title that Pembroke would have borne until his father’s death around 1601, Shakespeare could have been referring to the earlier period of time when Pembroke served as his inspiration. Overall, then, the editor of the Arden Sonnets argues quite convincingly that Pembroke is both the subject of the dedication and the gentleman on whom Shakespeare modeled the young man in his verses.

The Identity of the Dark Lady As with the young man, much of what has been written about the ‘‘dark lady’’ over the centuries has been concerned with whether she has a historical antecedent. While her identity arguably bears less relevance to the full comprehension of the sonnets than the identity of the young man, some critics have focused on the ‘‘dark lady’’ far more ambitiously. Katherine Duncan-Jones posits two reasons for this particular focus: To begin with, proving the existence of a particular woman with whom Shakespeare was enamored would have made his enshrinement among the greatest European sonneteers—many of whose objects of affection gained substantial renown— much easier than if the woman in question was imaginary. Further, and perhaps more significantly, critical focus on the identity of the ‘‘dark lady’’ essentially served to divert attention from the fact that the majority of Shakespeare’s sonnets are actually about a young man. As Duncan-Jones relates, ‘‘The foregrounding of ‘the Lady’ strongly implies that the predominant thrust of Shakespeare’s Sonnets is heterosexual. Devotees of an idealized, domesticated image of

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1609: Men receiving secondary education are likely to be exposed to the ancient Greek notion that the love shared between men can be superior to the love shared between men and women; still, Shakespeare’s sonnets, with their depiction of a poet’s fierce and possibly romantic appreciation for a young man, do not prove popular. Today: In Western cultures, after centuries in which homosexuality has been widely outlawed and condemned, a large proportion of men have difficulty displaying genuine affection toward other men; in mainstream films, romances between men as part of the central plot are extremely rare.

Shakespeare the man may be a little uncomfortable at a suspicion of adultery, but this is nothing like so alarming as a suspicion of pederasty.’’ Regardless of the motivation for the search, the question of the identity of the ‘‘dark lady’’ bears some relevance to the study of the sonnets themselves, partly in that arguments in favor of certain women affect arguments in favor of certain young men, as the two are romantically linked in the Sonnets. Mary Fitton, a lady in waiting to Queen Elizabeth, has been high on the list of candidates, but Duncan-Jones points out that evidence suggests that Fitton had a fair complexion; also, given her position within the royal court, Shakespeare would have likely had few, if any, opportunities to consort with her. Other candidates have included Luce Morgan, a London brothel-keeper, and Emilia Lanier, a woman whose virtue was apparently regularly compromised. Evidence regarding real-life inspirations for the ‘‘dark lady’’ is scarcer than that for the young man, such that few scholars proclaim with confidence that they have discovered a certain correlation. Anthony Burgess offers a useful perspective to adopt in this respect: ‘‘It is best to keep the Dark Lady anonymous, even


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1609: Actors have difficulty subsisting on their talents during outbreaks of the plague, as theaters were periodically closed to prevent the spread of the disease. Today: Thanks to ever-increasing numbers of cable channels, television acting jobs are becoming easier to obtain.

1609: Sexually explicit references in Shakespeare’s Sonnets are considered partly responsible for its lukewarm reception. Today: With children of all ages exposed to such lewd entertainment vessels as MTV and Howard Stern’s radio show, people are understood to be gaining sexual consciousness earlier in life.

composite. Shakespeare was a long time in London, and we cannot think that he limited himself to one affair. The Sonnets make statements of permanent validity about some of the commonest experiences known to men—obsession with a woman’s body, revulsion, pain in desertion, resignation at another’s treachery.’’ The ‘‘dark lady,’’ then, can be understood as an essential inspiration for these universal sentiments regardless of what her name might have been.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW While Shakespeare’s sonnets are generally celebrated in modern times, they were in fact long ignored, denounced, and even despised. In her introduction to the work, Katherine DuncanJones contrasts the sonnets’ reception to those experienced by Venus and Adonis and Lucrece, Shakespeare’s more successful poetic publications, both of which eventually saw numerous quarto runs. Referring to the sonnet quarto as ‘‘Q,’’ as do many commentators, Duncan-Jones

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remarks, ‘‘Whereas the early narrative poems were received with immediate enthusiasm, prompting dozens of early allusions, citations and imitations, the 1609 Q seems to have been greeted largely in silence—a silence the more surprising given Shakespeare’s literary celebrity in 1609, in contrast to his relative obscurity in 1593– 1594.’’ Duncan-Jones notes that the public may very well have been disappointed and even upset by the sonnets, likely because of the nature of the material. She posits that the contemporary author Ben Jonson, for one, may have found Shakespeare’s narrator’s devotion to a young man to be ‘‘morally compromising’’; in turn, many readers may have found repugnant the fairly explicit, if colloquial, references to sexual activity in the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets. Thus, the verses may not have been publicly discussed simply for propriety’s sake. One anonymous reader annotated the end of a copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets with the remark, ‘‘What a heap of wretched Infidel Stuff.’’ In fact, Shakespeare gained critical exposure when a pirated copy of the Sonnets was produced in 1640 by John Benson, who changed the pronouns in the references to the young man, such that the poems’ addressee became a woman. Benson also reordered the sonnets and interspersed them with other works, but his publication was largely accepted as accurate for over a century. Regardless, critical opinions remained generally unfavorable; the sonnet itself became fairly unfashionable, and Shakespeare’s sonnets in particular rarely garnered attention. In 1793, George Steevens displayed great disdain for the sonnets in excluding them from a copy of Shakespeare’s collected plays and declaring that not even an act of Parliament could compel readers to find them favorable. Kenneth Muir notes that the renowned English poet William Wordsworth once offered a particularly negative view of the ‘‘dark lady’’ sonnets, calling them ‘‘abominably harsh, obscure and worthless’’ and describing them as characterized by ‘‘sameness, tediousness, quaintness, and elaborate obscurity.’’ Critical inattention or rejection continued through the nineteenth century, often on the grounds that Shakespeare was essentially promoting homosexuality. Muir notes that in 1839 the scholar Henry Hallam, making reference to the sonnets—and undoubtedly alluding to the narrator’s devotion to the young man—declared,

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‘‘There is a weakness and folly in all excessive and mis-placed affection, which is not redeemed by the touches of nobler sentiments that abound.’’ Duncan-Jones points out that Oscar Wilde demonstrated particular interest in Shakespeare’s sonnets, approvedly theorizing in The Portrait of Mr. W. H. (1889) that the ‘‘begetter’’ of Shakespeare’s sonnets was the boy actor Willie Hughes. In that Wilde was later jailed for two years for homosexual acts, his affiliation with Shakespeare certainly did not soften attitudes toward the ambiguously erotic Sonnets. Duncan-Jones points out that critical attitudes finally, if slowly, grew more sympathetic and approving once the British Parliament made homosexual activity legal for consenting adults in 1967 (making Steevens’s aforementioned comment somewhat ironic). In general, modern commentators have managed to appreciate the poetry of Shakespeare’s Sonnets irrespective of the supposed moral worth or biographical relevance of their contents. In distinguishing the appeal of Shakespeare’s collection from that of other such sequences published during the same era, R. J. C. Wait asserts that some of Shakespeare’s sonnets ‘‘are generally thought to be among the finest poetry in the English or any other language.’’ Echoing that sentiment almost exactly, Stanley Wells remarks, ‘‘Shakespeare’s sonnets include some of the greatest individual love poems in the English language.’’ Wait also aptly verbalizes the notion that the sequence as a whole bears a certain unique historical value: ‘‘If some or all of its contents do indeed reflect personal experiences and emotions they represent practically the only personal statement which has been left to us by one of the greatest figures of the world’s literature.’’ Indeed, Shakespeare has somewhat tantalizingly left behind a collection of poetry that begs for interpretation in light of his personal life, even though any given line or word may have entirely fictional connotations. Wait concludes, ‘‘The immortality which their author claimed for the Sonnets, and about which the modern reader also holds no doubts, is due, not to any key which they may or may not contain to the secrets of Shakespeare’s heart, but simply to their quality as poetry.’’ Wells likewise focuses on the quality of the poetry itself, finding the challenging nature of the Sonnets to be especially redeeming. He notes that reading the verses in order is a difficult endeavor in that the final couplets limit the overall flow, no narrative

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sequence is provided, and the poet’s mood changes so abruptly; further, the poet’s emotions are at times quite dark, as characterized by disillusionment, self-abasement, and self-contempt. Wells admiringly concludes, ‘‘The single poem which is Shakespeare’s Sonnets will never have the popularity of some of its parts, but, in its rapid shifts of mood, its intense exploration of the ‘heaven’ and the ‘hell’ of being in love, it is far greater than the sum of those parts.’’ Also perceiving a lack of autobiographical content in the Sonnets, Katharine M. Wilson contends that the sequence as a whole constitutes a grand parody of the sonnet tradition; in analyzing Shakespeare’s approach from this angle, her appreciative critical stance is quite distinct from those of many of her fellow scholars. She writes, ‘‘As to method, Shakespeare gets fun out of such things as making play with the imagery or the situation, with exaggerating and mocking, with naive explanations or expressions of surprise that his experience is different, with translating sonnet situations into terms of reality and by treating them seriously showing how absurd they are.’’ Wilson goes on to declare that the art of the sonnets is not diminished by their lack of gravity: ‘‘The parody has a sort of greatness, which I should say is sensed chiefly in its music. It mimics in a dance that has its own breadth, dignity and grace.’’ She concludes that Shakespeare’s sonnets ‘‘have the sound of great poetry’’ and ‘‘reveal a new aspect of his genius.’’ Overall, critical inquiry into the Sonnets is likely to continue indefinitely, given the many ambiguities surrounding Shakespeare’s sequence. Critics may ever theorize with regard to the degree of autobiographical content; the identities of the young man and ‘‘dark lady’’; the dates when the individual poems were written; the influence of contemporary authors on Shakespeare’s creative imagination; and, of course, the meanings inherent in the poems themselves. Duncan-Jones notes that women were responsible for many of the most insightful readings of the late twentieth century; she conjectures that women may be generally better tuned to the ‘‘predominantly reflective, introspective subject matter’’ of the Sonnets while also perhaps being ‘‘able to remain at once calmly observant of, yet emotionally receptive to, the masculine homoerotic thrust of 1–126 that has caused such upset to generations of male readers.’’


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In offering what he unabashedly frames as his own subjective reading of the Sonnets, David K. Weiser compares the multiplicity of meanings to be found therein with the countless combinations of moves that can be carried out in a game of chess. He writes, ‘‘Standard gambits and strategies do exist, but gifted players still devise endless variations. . . . There are 154 sonnets, most of them packed with enough complexity to inspire a dissertation. And there are infinite ways of combining them into meaningful patterns.’’ Duncan-Jones echoes the thought that the Sonnets should be especially prized for their complexity, as possible ‘‘semantic readings,’’ she asserts, ‘‘are, in truth, inexhaustible.’’ She satisfactorily concludes, ‘‘Here, even more than in the rest of Shakespeare’s work, it is open to each and every reader to arrive at an individual and original response. The notorious truism that no two people ever concur in interpreting Sonnets is not cause for despair, but for rejoicing.’’

CRITICISM Maurice Charney In this concise appraisal of various issues associated with Shakespeare’s sonnets, Charney pays particular attention to Shakespeare’s development of the sonnet form and the effectiveness of his concluding couplets. Charney also discusses the motifs of time and mutability, the presence of both lyric and dramatic elements in the sequence, and the poet-speaker’s reflections on his creative powers. Thomas Thorpe published 154 Sonnets by Shakespeare followed by A Lover’s Complaint (also said to be by Shakespeare) in 1609. Unlike the texts of Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece, the printed text has many obvious errors, and Shakespeare clearly did not proofread it or see it through the press. Although the Sonnets seem to have an authoritative manuscript behind them, they were certainly not published with Shakespeare’s knowledge or permission. Sonnets usually circulated in handwritten ‘‘books’’ among one’s private friends and acquaintances. It was not considered necessary or even desirable to publish them. The great vogue of sonnet writing was in the 1590s, and we know from Sonnet 104 that three years had passed since the poet first saw his ‘‘fair friend,’’ which makes it likely that the writing of

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SONNET 20 SEEMS TO LAY OUT CLEARLY THE DISTINCTION BETWEEN AN ENNOBLING LOVE BETWEEN TWO MALE FRIENDS AND THE POTENTIALLY DEBASING SEXUAL LOVE BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN.’’

the Sonnets occupied at least three years in the 1590s, probably the early 1590s. Some of the Sonnets may have been written in the early 1600s, but the bulk of them are associated with Shakespeare’s ingenious, heavily conceited, and self-consciously rhetorical style of the early and mid-1590s. In 1598 Francis Meres mentions in Palladis Tamia Shakespeare’s ‘‘sugred sonnets among his priuate friends,’’ an obvious compliment to his elegant style, although we may have some doubts about sugred as a term of praise. In 1599 two Sonnets, 138 and 144, were printed in a slightly different form in The Passionate Pilgrim. The Sonnets were dedicated to ‘‘Mr. W. H.’’ as ‘‘the only begetter,’’ but it is hard to know whether this is the poet’s or the publisher’s dedication. It is unlike the formal dedications of Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece to the Earl of Southampton, and it may be that Mr. W. H. is the only begetter in the sense that he made his manuscript copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets available to the publisher. There has been endless and mostly fruitless biographical speculation about the Sonnets, and even more elaborate autobiographical guessing about Shakespeare’s own personal relation to the experience described in the Sonnets and to characters in the Sonnets such as the Friend, the Dark Lady, and the Rival Poet or Poets. There is no independent confirmation in other writing or records of the time of anything factual that is said in Shakespeare’s Sonnets. We would expect, at the least, some outside confirmation of the Rival Poet’s activities: his sonnets to the friend or to the lady, or some account of his love life. It is curious that in the elaborately punning Sonnets 135 and 136 it seems that Shakespeare, the Dark Lady’s husband, and the Friend are all named Will. This is convenient because will is also a word for carnal appetite and lust.

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Portrait of William Shakespeare, part III (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

We know nothing definite about the historical identity of the Dark Lady and the Friend. The Sonnets seem to be strongly homoerotic, but in terms of Petrarchan love conventions, the Platonic idea of friendship offers a much higher ideal than heterosexual love, as we can see plainly in the opening sequence between Leontes and Polixenes in The Winter’s Tale or in the friendship of Palamon and Arcite (and Emilia and Flavina) in The Two Noble Kinsmen. Leontes’ fiendish jealousy seems to be generated, like Original Sin, from sexuality itself, as Hermione his wife so keenly recognizes. Sexual love is represented repeatedly in the Sonnets as a source of

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grief and enslavement, nowhere more strongly than in Sonnet 129, ‘‘Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame.’’ Sonnet 20 seems to lay out clearly the distinction between an ennobling love between two male friends and the potentially debasing sexual love between a man and a woman. The Friend has ‘‘A woman’s face, with Nature’s own hand painted’’ and is ‘‘the master mistress of my passion.’’ Nature first created him ‘‘for a woman,’’ but then ‘‘fell a-doting, / And by addition me of thee defeated.’’ Nature’s ‘‘addition’’ seems to be clearly a penis, as we learn from the punning couplet close: But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure, Mine be thy love, and thy love’s use their treasure. There is a clear distinction between the noble ‘‘love’’ and the lesser ‘‘love’s use,’’ or intercourse. We learn later that the Dark Lady has seduced the Friend and engaged him in a sexual relationship (Sonnets 35, 40, 41, etc.). Sonnet 20 makes a sharp distinction between noble friendship and physical love. Sex is excluded from the relation with the Friend. The Shakespearean or English sonnet is derived from the Earl of Surrey and has three quatrains (rhyming abab, cdcd, and efef) with a concluding couplet (gg) all in iambic pentameter. Most of the sonnets have fourteen lines, although there is one (Sonnet 99) of fifteen, with an introductory first line, and one of twelve (Sonnet 126), which has six couplets. There are vestiges of the Italian sonnet in Shakespeare, in which an octave is set against a sestet. The octave of two quatrains contrasts with the sestet, which consists of a quatrain and a couplet considered as a single unit. These are relatively uncommon in Shakespeare, although Sonnet 18 has the feeling of an Italian sonnet: it has three quatrains and a couplet, but the third quatrain has a different logical movement from the first two. The feeling of a distinct sestet is continued through the triumphant couplet: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. This couplet provides an upbeat ending. The most problematic feature of the Shakespearean sonnet is the couplet close, which is sometimes disappointing because it is so


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epigrammatic, so didactic, so much like a neat summary tacked on to a poem that doesn’t need it. There are many feeble couplets, for example the one in Sonnet 37: Look what is best, that best I wish in thee. This wish I have, then ten times happy me! This seems like mere filler for a sonnet that is clearly not one of the best, but is nevertheless complex, about a poet ‘‘made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite,’’ who shares in his friend’s ‘‘abundance.’’ This certainly doesn’t indicate that the poet is literally ‘‘lame,’’ and the couplet doesn’t do justice to the poetic reasoning of the three previous quatrains. The couplet works wonderfully well in Sonnet 73, and is generally successful when it has an element of dramatic surprise, like a punch line. In Sonnet 19 the couplet comes upon us as a sudden peripeteia to the irresistible powers of ‘‘Devouring Time’’: Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. This couplet introduces an alternative with its ‘‘Yet’’ and ‘‘despite’’ that comes upon us as a hidden truth. Sonnet 65 is similar. Against ‘‘sad mortality’’ and his ‘‘spoil of beauty’’ there is no protection, except for the miracle of poetry trumpeted in the couplet: O, none, unless this miracle have might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. The couplet form lends itself in the Sonnets (and in Shakespeare’s plays, too, especially scene-ending couplets) to bold and emphatic statement. Sonnet 56 is not particularly memorable, but its couplet ending vibrates with promise and new possibility. The poem is an appeal to ‘‘Sweet love’’ to ‘‘renew thy force,’’ presumably in a period of absence or neglect. The ‘‘Return of love’’ is connected syntactically with the couplet: Or call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer’s welcome thrice more wished, more rare. A series of five accented syllables beginning with thrice in the last line is driven home with the unusual fourth-beat caesura, or mid-line pause, after wished. More rare soars in a way that redeems the entire poem.

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Time is the most frequently repeated concept and image in the Sonnets. This is the pervasive Renaissance theme of mutability, and the poet presents various ways to defy Time. The first seventeen Sonnets constitute the most distinctive unit of the whole sequence, which is arranged more or less logically by similarity of theme. We don’t, of course, know who devised the ordering of the Sonnets or what relation the sequence has to date of composition. The first seventeen sonnets all urge the young friend to marry and to reproduce his beauty in children. This is the familiar doctrine of use that is part of Venus’s argument to Adonis in Venus and Adonis and that echoes the often-repeated parable of the talents in Matt. 25: 14–30. Man is the steward, not the owner, of his good qualities and possessions, and he is obligated to put his natural gifts to use for the benefit of others. If you are beautiful, you must make use of your beauty (as money accumulates ‘‘use’’ or interest) by having children on whom to bestow your god-given gifts. The beginning of the first sonnet announces the immortality of beauty through propagation: From fairest creatures we desire increase, That thereby beauty’s rose might never die. You are not allowed to be in love with yourself and waste your substance in ‘‘niggarding,’’ or hoarding, to be ‘‘contracted to thine own bright eyes’’ and feed ‘‘thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel.’’ This is to make ‘‘a famine where abundance lies,’’ that is, the potential abundance that comes from creating children to perpetuate one’s beauty. Children are like ‘‘flowers distilled’’ (Sonnet 3), or perfume, that defies the tyranny of Time. Another way to wage war against Time is to write verse, which confers a kind of immortality upon the Friend. This is a repeated theme in the Sonnets. Posterity and poetry both do battle against oblivion. Nature is a destroyer of beauty, but poetry is immutable and guarantees that ‘‘thy eternal summer shall not fade’’ (Sonnet 18). In Sonnet 65 there is a series of unanswerable questions about Time, one in each of the first two quatrains, and two in the third:

from the ravaging hand of Time, who threatens to seize him and put him in his chest. How can ‘‘beauty hold a plea’’ against the rage of Time? The only solution to this ‘‘fearful meditation’’ is the miracle of poetry: ‘‘That in black ink my love may still shine bright.’’ The immanence and immortality of poetry are postulated as a defense against the ravages of Time. Two sonnets dwell specifically on music, 8 and 128, but the musicality of the Sonnets as a group is striking. The slow, sad lyrical effects are the most impressive, and they lend themselves to being set to music (as many sonnets have been). Sonnet 30 is best remembered as supplying C. K. Scott Moncrieff with the English title for Proust’s A La Recherche du Temps Perdu. It is artful in its heavy use of alliteration and its legal / commercial imagery. In the first quatrain, ‘‘remembrance of things past’’ is summoned to appear at the ‘‘sessions of sweet silent thought,’’ in which the poet presumably sits in judgment on the events of his own life. The predominance of s-sounds in the opening line immediately establishes a mood of reverie and meditation—the sibilants are associated with sleep, as in the colloquial expression a few z’s, meaning a short nap. ‘‘My dear Time’s waste’’ continues the most repeated theme in the Sonnets of Time the Destroyer. The memorializing of the second quatrain presents a mournful threnody for ‘‘precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,’’ ‘‘love’s long since canceled woe,’’ and ‘‘th’ expense of many a vanished sight.’’ The sonnet is an elegy to death, the expiration of love, and the gradual disappearance of all that is lovely and beautiful. There is a sense in the third quatrain that ‘‘grievances foregone’’ can never be forgotten and that ‘‘The sad account ` moan’’ must be paid anew as if of fore-bemoaned it had never been paid before. The music of the three quatrains is an almost perfect elegy for ‘‘remembrance of things past,’’ but the couplet is jarring and facile: But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

O, fearful meditation, where, alack, Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid?

It is as if a mere thought of the ‘‘dear friend’’ is enough to cancel the previous three quatrains. This is one of the most disturbing and inappropriate couplets in the Sonnets. We are soon to learn of many negative and unfavorable aspects of the ‘‘dear friend.’’

Presumably, ‘‘Time’s best jewel’’ is the beautiful Friend, whom the Poet is trying to conceal

Sonnet 73 is similar to Sonnet 30 in its elegiac tone and in its meditation on man’s mortality. It

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does not use such deliberate alliteration, but its prominent caesuras, or midline pauses, slow the rhythm down, especially in the three caesuras of line 2:

The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes . . . (Hamlet 3.1.70–74)

That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold . . .

Despite verbal similarities in the catalogues of ills, in Hamlet’s ‘‘To be, or not to be’’ speech they are part of an intolerable strain that includes the possibility of suicide. In Sonnet 66 the cry for ‘‘restful death’’ is rejected in the couplet close because it would isolate the poet from his love. The sonnet itself is a self-contained logical unit that ends by rejecting the possibilities of the first three quatrains. It has no relation to a highly characterized speaker or to a specific point in the dramatic action.

The numerous accented syllables in the fourth line also slow down the movement of the poem practically to a funeral dirge: ‘‘Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.’’ ‘‘Bare ruined choirs’’ and ‘‘sweet birds sang’’ are all heavily accented without any intervening unaccented syllables. The autumn of the first quatrain is matched by twilight in the second, with black night and sleep, which is described as ‘‘Death’s second self.’’ In the third quatrain, the embers of the fires of youth match autumn and twilight as images of death. The fire consumes ‘‘that which it was nourished by.’’ In this sonnet, the couplet is a perfect conclusion to the somber mood and adagio movement of the first three quatrains: This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. Love is intimately connected with death, and the idea of mutability and mortality should serve to make love more intense. The Sonnets are obviously related to the plays, but generically there are important differences between lyric and dramatic expression. The wooing sonnet in Romeo and Juliet (1.5.95ff.), for example, is a playful and witty part of the early courtship of Romeo and Juliet—they answer each other—but it would be inappropriate later in the play. If we consider specific sonnets in relation to plays, it is clear that Sonnet 66 looks ahead to Hamlet in its account of ‘‘The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’’ (3.1.58), especially in the third quatrain: And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctorlike) controlling skill, And simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill. Hamlet’s ‘‘sea of troubles’’ includes the whips and scorns of time, Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,


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Even if radical differences exist between the Sonnets and the plays, the best sonnets still use dramatic devices that are similar to those in the plays. The sonnets that are most appealing seem to be those that explore a strong sense of turmoil and perturbation and that consequently offer poignant, often negative, characterizations. Sonnet 94 is powerfully dramatic—not theatrical in the sense of any imagined scenes—in its characterization of the Friend as cold, disdainful, and unattached. Despite all the earlier sonnets on the doctrine of use and the insistence on man’s stewardship rather than absolute possession of his beauty, in the octave the Friend ironically claims to be one of those who are ‘‘the lords and owners of their faces’’ rather than ‘‘stewards of their excellence.’’ He is ` cold’’ and husbands ‘‘nature’s riches ‘‘Unmoved, from expense.’’ The opening line, ‘‘They that have pow’r to hurt and will do none,’’ is so frightening because the powerful Friend is affectless, lacedemonian, and uninvolved. Therefore his beauty is like a flower that suffers ‘‘base infection,’’ and that is why, finally, ‘‘Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.’’ The lily pretends to be a nobler flower than a weed, and hence its possibilities of corruption are more extreme. The Friend is characterized in this and many of the surrounding sonnets as incapable of real love. A comparably dramatic sonnet is 129 about the Dark Lady, who appears in Sonnets 127–52. She is much more specifically sexual than any of Shakespeare’s dramatic heroines, including Cleopatra and Cressida, and she seems to enslave the Poet (and his Friend, too) in an irresistible but shameful intensity of lust, such as Tarquin’s selfdefeating lust in The Rape of Lucrece. Sonnet 129 is not directly about the Dark Lady, but about her demonic effect on the Poet, who doesn’t

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know how ‘‘To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.’’ Active lust involves ‘‘Th’ expense of spirit,’’ or the expenditure of seminal fluid, ‘‘in a waste of shame,’’ which may pun on waste and waist. Until ejaculation, male lust follows the pattern of Tarquin, who seems to be arguing with another self that he doesn’t recognize: lust ‘‘Is perjured, murd’rous, bloody, full of blame, / Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust.’’ The spondaic thrust of the last line carries some of the metrical and phonetic harshness of the meaning. Lust is deceptive and self-defeating: ‘‘Enjoyed no ` straight’’ and ‘‘A bliss in sooner but despised proof, and proved, a very woe.’’ The stark alternatives make this a very dramatic sonnet, as if lust is entirely outside a man’s power to control. The Dark Lady is therefore both the heaven and the hell of the Poet. The personal anguish of Sonnet 129 is displaced in the witty, mannered, sexual puns of Sonnet 151, ‘‘Love is too young to know what conscience is.’’ It is as if the Poet has finally mastered the ‘‘sensual fault’’ (Sonnet 35) and ‘‘Lascivious grace’’ (Sonnet 40) of earlier poems, and he can proceed to the ‘‘sensual feast’’ (Sonnet 141) without any trepidations or pricks of conscience. The Poet willingly betrays his soul to his ‘‘gross body’s treason,’’ and ‘‘flesh’’ (specifically the penis) doesn’t wait for any further excuses, ‘‘But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee, / As his triumphant prize.’’ The double entendres on erection—reason, rising, pride, stand, and rise and fall—resemble Shakespeare’s early comedies. Lust is no longer an excruciating torment, but rather an entertainment. The couplet cadence is playful:

cliche´s of a woman’s beauty that were made so much fun of in Love’s Labor’s Lost and Shakespeare’s early comedies. The Dark Lady, by definition, doesn’t fulfill the Nordic criteria of beauty established in the 1590s: exceptionally white skin, brightly rosy cheeks, and brilliantly blonde hair, which standards were met more vividly by cosmetics than by nature. As Hamlet complains to Ophelia: ‘‘I have heard of your paintings, well enough. God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another’’ (Hamlet 3. 1. 143–45). The Dark Lady, then, has eyes that ‘‘are nothing like the sun,’’ presumably in clarity and brilliance. She lacks the classic war between the white and the red in her cheeks: I have seen roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks. Her lips are not as red as coral nor her breasts white as snow. They are, in fact, ‘‘dun’’ colored, or dark and swarthy, like Cleopatra’s, another Dark Lady, who shows a ‘‘tawny front’’ (Antony and Cleopatra 1.1.6) and is sunburned, ‘‘with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black’’ (1.5.28). The Dark Lady is a practical and seemingly unromantic figure: her breath ‘‘reeks,’’ her speaking voice is not very musical, and ‘‘when she walks’’ she is unlike a goddess because she ‘‘treads on the ground.’’ The couplet conclusion, however, is in an entirely different and unexpected tone: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

This is a good example of a couplet that really concludes the three preceding quatrains and seems to answer the opening proposition of the sonnet. I am not offering the ingenious Sonnet 151 as an example of one of Shakespeare’s best sonnets, but it does provide a contrast to the ferocious energy and reckless mood of Sonnet 129.

The soaring assertion and affirmation in the couplet is out of keeping with Sonnet 129, ‘‘Th’ expense of spirit in a waste of shame,’’ that immediately precedes it. This should give us pause about making exact autobiographical claims for Shakespeare’s Sonnets. We don’t know who arranged the poems in their present order—perhaps it was the printer, or perhaps he was only following the sequence of his manuscript—but there are some striking inconsistencies of tone and mood. The Dark Lady is hardly the same figure in Sonnets 129 and 130, nor do her sexual attractions seem to match in Sonnets 129 and 151.

The wittiest sonnet is undoubtedly 130, which is endlessly quoted although it is not at all characteristic of Shakespeare’s entire sequence. It stands out because it satirizes the very Petrarchan conventions upon which Shakespeare so firmly depends. Specifically, it ridicules the accepted

We are struck by Shakespeare’s skepticism about his own powers as a poet and a dramatist. He is excessively deferential to the Rival Poet or Poets, who are also writing sonnets to the Friend and the Dark Lady. His ‘‘poor rude lines’’ (Sonnet 32) are ‘‘exceeded by the height of

No want of conscience hold it that I call Her ‘‘love’’ for whose dear love I rise and fall.

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happier men’’—‘‘happier’’ in the sense of more gifted. The ‘‘proud full sail’’ of the Rival Poet’s ‘‘great verse’’ has ‘‘struck me dead’’ and swallowed up ‘‘my ripe thoughts in my brain,’’ as if their womb became their tomb (Sonnet 86). This undercuts in some important way the power of the Poet to confer immortality on the love object through his poetry. Shakespeare feels himself unable to cope with the newer and more refined style of such poets as John Donne and the Metaphysicals, who wrote what the Elizabethans called ‘‘strong lines.’’ In Sonnet 76, Shakespeare complains that his verse is ‘‘barren of new pride,’’ ‘‘far from variation or quick change,’’ but ‘‘still all one, ever the same.’’ He cannot seize the moment and use ‘‘new-found methods’’ and ‘‘compounds strange.’’ The explanation is rather facile: ‘‘I always write of you,’’ ‘‘So all my best is dressing old words new.’’ We feel that the Poet is dissatisfied with the fact that ‘‘every word doth almost tell my name,’’ but he doesn’t know how to shift into a more innovative style. The Poet expresses even stronger dissatisfaction with his public career as a playwright and actor, in which he feels trapped. In a striking image from daily life: And almost thence my nature is subdued To what it works in, like the dyer’s hand. (Sonnet 111) Like Macbeth’s, the dyer’s hand is ‘‘incarnadine’’ (Macbeth 2.2.61), and ‘‘all great Neptune’s ocean’’ (59) cannot change its color. Shakespeare is engaged in a profession to please the public, and ‘‘public means’’ breed ‘‘public manners.’’ From this obvious cause comes the fact that ‘‘my name receives a brand.’’ In the previous sonnet (110), Shakespeare apologizes to the Friend that he has made himself ‘‘a motley,’’ or clown dressed in a motley, parti-colored costume, ‘‘to the view,’’ and ‘‘Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear.’’ In other words, he has betrayed his innermost thoughts to the public scrutiny of the theatrical public. I am not assuming that this is an autobiographical statement of utmost sincerity, but merely that it is an essential part of the fictional persona (and personas) created in the Sonnets. If Shakespeare is the most unrevealing and paradoxical English Renaissance author in his plays, there is no convincing reason to believe that he bares his heart in the Sonnets. The very


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directness of the revelations should put us on our guard. It is unfortunate that Shakespeare’s Sonnets have attracted a mass of biographical speculation different from that expended on the plays. Some of the same questions haunt all of Shakespeare’s works, both dramatic and nondramatic: the ambiguous nature of art, revealing and concealing at the same time; the tendency to dramatize experience, as if ‘‘All the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players’’ (As You Like It 2.7.138–39); and, most comprehensively, the fictionalizing of human experience on the assumption that we enact and represent a reality that we create in our minds from our own histrionic imagination. The Sonnets share these qualities with Shakespeare’s other works, especially those of the earlier 1590s. They can’t be dealt with autonomously as if they were written by a poet separate from the man who wrote the plays. Source: Maurice Charney, ‘‘The Sonnets,’’ in All of Shakespeare, Columbia University Press, 1993, pp. 388–99.

Stephen Spender Spender—the distinguished English poet and critic—suggests that the young man of the sonnets possesses a double or divided nature. Sometimes the friend’s mind and heart appear to be as beautiful as his outward form, but on other occasions he is cold, selfish, arrogant, and dissolute. The poet reacts to this basic disparity in various ways, Spender observes, ranging from objectivity and irony to bitterness and despair. Spender also discusses what he sees as the friend’s narcissism. He suggests that the poet’s determination to preserve the young man’s beauty in his verses reveals that he endows it with the same inestimable value as does the young man himself. Clearing our minds of preconceptions, if we read the sonnets simply accepting what they tell us about [the young man], what impression would we get? The first thing that would strike us is, I think, that he has opposite characteristics. He is divided between his ideal nature, corresponding to his outward beauty, and his actual behavior, which is shown to be cold, self-seeking, proud, and corrupt. On the one hand the poet reiterates the theme of ‘‘kind and true’’ and ‘‘For nothing this wide universe I call, / Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all’’ (109). On the other hand the rose is cankered (95):

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SO THE SONNETS EXPRESS THE CONFLICT BETWEEN IDEALIZATION OF THE YOUNG MAN AS THE LIVING EQUAL OF THE POET’S IMAGININGS, AND THE REALIZATION THAT HE IS DIFFERENT FROM THIS.’’

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! On the one hand the young man is pure essence; on the other hand he is essence tainted at the source. Shakespeare was, of course, addressing the sonnets to the friend. He was not making a word portrait of him, and we attempt to deduce his character from things written to him, about him. What we see are two things, characteristics which the poet doubtless found present in the real young man, but which are so idealized that it is difficult to form a realistic picture from them: and, opposite to this, references to the friend’s lasciviousness, sensual faults, coldness, falsity, and his ill reputation, a kind of counter-image held up before his eyes as a terrible example. One cannot but be reminded of the scene in which Hamlet holds up before his mother’s eyes ‘‘the counterfeit presentment of two brothers,’’ one with ‘‘a station like the herald Mercury,’’ the other ‘‘like a mildew’d ear.’’ From reading the sonnets and making my own deductions—which may be very different from those of other readers—the picture I have is of a person who produced in the minds of others the double impression of the self-fixated. The doubleness in such people consists essentially in their being loved, but being unable to love back in return, through the cold self-sufficiency and self-attachment which is the result of their very beauty. They like to be loved partly because being loved is reflected self-admiration, but partly also because they would themselves perhaps like to love and think that through being loved they may learn to do so. The combination of beauty, coldness, and desire to learn to love, gives them a kind of purity. But in their behavior they may be corrupt because they accept, with

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Shakespeare’s Contemporaries (clockwise from top): Ben Jonson, John Fletcher, Michael Drayton, James Shirley, Philip Massigner, Francis Beaumont, and Spenser (center) (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

involuntary indifference, whatever love they get, though they retain the air of perpetual seeking. What they are genuinely seeking is those qualities which they lack. When such a person is loved by an artist, he has the attraction of being an empty vessel, a blank page into which the admirer can read his own ideal. [Bernard] Shaw points out that however much Shakespeare may have suffered on account of the dark lady, it is wrong to regard him as a victim. She can hardly have been happy reading about herself in 127, 130, and 138. The same holds good for the young man, whose behavior the sonnets analyze and excoriate. From the internal evidence of the sonnets he sometimes tried to answer accusation with counter-accusation. In 120 the poet admits in lines close to doggerel:

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For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by yours, you’ve pass’d a hell of time, And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffer’d in your crime. There are critics who idealize the young man and others who abhor him. But the poet’s attitude to the friend is hardly discussed; and there is surely an element of unfairness in putting pressure on him to be something that he is not, and of then turning on him because he has failed to be the ideal. The poet seems often as much in love with the picture in his mind of the arranged relationship of complete mutuality as with the young man, who has to fit into this picture. Yet so long as the poet continued to write sonnets I think that he must have believed in some ultimate quality of pure being which resided in the young man, under the misbehavior and the falsity. Even after bitter disillusionment he reverts to the purity of the original concept; in 105, for example: Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence. So the sonnets express the conflict between idealization of the young man as the living equal of the poet’s imaginings, and the realization that he is different from this. Sometimes the difference is analyzed as betrayal, sometimes the poet endeavors to find a basis on which he can accept it and yet retain the relationship. Sonnet 36 is an extreme example of acceptance of difference, in which he admits that their ways must be separate: ‘‘Let me confess that we two must be twain’’ and yet their ‘‘undivided loves are one.’’ He invents metaphors for the relationship which suggest a rethinking of what it really is or must be. In 37, it is of father and son, and, indeed, where the young man fails, it tends to shift from the pattern of mutuality to that of a son whose errors are seen and suffered and forgiven by a loving father. In 33, contemplating the withdrawal of the ‘‘sun’’ into the ‘‘region cloud,’’ the poet resumes the pun in the couplet with: Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth; Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth. In 93, desperation drives the poet to the metaphor of a ‘‘deceived husband’’; and frequently he is a slave who tends upon, and waits for, his lord. Whether one thinks, as I do, that Shakespeare continued, in spite of everything, to love and (like a forgiving father) believe in the young


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man, or that the disillusionment of realization led to his regarding him only (or with very little qualification of charitable feeling) as a subject for irony, affects one’s interpretation of the very important 94, ‘‘They that have power to hurt and will do none.’’ After a very close analysis, William Empson concludes (in Some Versions of Pastoral) that this sonnet expresses almost total contempt for the friend. The contempt is qualified only by the poet discovering, through his pretending to praise what he does not admire, ‘‘a way of praising W.H. in spite of everything.’’ It is not possible here to argue my way through Empson’s close analysis, for which I have great respect. My disagreement with him is not in disputing his interpretation of references and complexities of meaning in particular phrases, but because I think that, through the irony and the realization, there seems to me a note of exhortation which still clings to belief, and which arises from a love that endures. In a word, I would say the sonnet found ‘‘a way of loving in spite of everything,’’ rather than, or as well as, a way of praising. The love is cruel, but praise would be nothing except cruel and contradictory, since it means praising what the poet did not regard as praiseworthy. If it is praise, the sonnet is, as Empson notes, an ‘‘evasion.’’ But if it is love, it is more in the nature of a desperate warning. My argument is clear if I say that the two last lines of the previous sonnet (93), ‘‘How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow, / If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!’’ are more exhortatory than condemnatory. The poet still clings to the hope that even if while the young man’s face shows nothing but sweet love (’’ . . . heaven in thy creation did decree / That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell’’) his heart (unlike others whose false hearts show in the ‘‘wrinkles strange’’ of their faces) may be false—that even so, he can, by an effort of willing truth, make inner being conform to the outward appearance of love. The kind of exertion required is not of making a lie true, but of making what is true, which has for some perverse reason become falsified, revert to its real nature, become true again. It is an argument based on love which appeals to the imagination to realize in action the truth which exists. It is a creative attitude different from a modern irony, though of course it uses irony. In fact it is very much the type of

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argument which Hamlet uses to his mother when, showing her the pictures of her two husbands, he appeals to her to use her eyes (her inner eyes) in order to make a choice which is imposed on her simply by her seeing which is false and which is true. Condensing the argument of 94, the desperate appeal, based on a cool appreciation of the young man’s nature, seems to me of this kind: ‘‘If you are cold and self-centered as I have now come to realize you are, then you may perhaps participate in the power, justice, and virtue of those who are detached from passion, but who nevertheless control the lives of others; but to be like them, you must have the virtue of coldness which is chastity. You are, after all, more like the funereal lily than the generous rose; but remember that when the cold are false, their corruption is far more evil than that of the warm.’’ The thought is perhaps that the warm, being essentially more alive (and not like stone) go on being capable of self-renewal and repentance. This is very much the attitude that a father, himself believing in the personal values of human relations and love and imagination, might feel toward a much-loved son, whom he discovered to be of a cold nature, but possessed of beauty and power to entrap others. The father does not cease to love his son, but begins to realize that his moral character will be ruined, unless he match his power with scrupulousness, his coldness with chastity. Otherwise the corruption of his personality will be worse than that of a person who is lascivious but warm-hearted, and because warm-hearted, capable of contrition and change. The sonnet expresses, of course, a change of attitude, coming—as 93 and 95, the sonnets on each side of it, show—from a shock of realization of the deep corruption of the young man. That the powerful are praised has surprised many readers. Previously, although a world of power has been taken for granted, it has not been discussed; it has remained the background to personal relations. But suddenly the poet expresses his admiration for the cold and powerful. If one remembers once again that the sonnets are one side of a dialogue, this is not so surprising. Number 94 was written perhaps during a phase when the poet was most critical of the friend’s character. Surely, the friend may have said to the poet: ‘‘The truth is that your sorts of people are not mine. The people I admire are the

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great and powerful, and I want to belong to them.’’ In this case the sonnet may be seen as taking up the theme, accepting, with whatever undertones of bitterness and despair, that the friend might belong to this other world, but using the acceptance as another way of hammering in the lesson of pure being. Although 94 expresses such a shift from personal to public values, from the imagination to the world of power, the thematic material introduced in the sestet, which indicates the presence of the young man, remains the same as in earlier sonnets. In fact the poem takes the form of a general statement about the virtues of the great and powerful, in the octave and then, in the sestet, applies this to the young man. The octave is, as it were, a different voice, not quite that of the poet, but to which the poet assents, indeed lends his gift, stating a case in the strongest and most favorable terms. The case is that those who are great and powerful and who, although they might do so, do not use their power to cause others pain— those who, while making others act, remain immovable themselves, and are untempted, incorruptible—merit their position. There is a feeling of rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. There is irony, but there is also assent. Angelo, in Measure for Measure, is admired so long as he remains cold and powerful. It is when he becomes lascivious and corrupt that he appears far worse than the carnal sinners on whom he sits in judgment. In the first line of the sestet the young man appears in a guise with which we have been made familiar very early on, in fact in the first sonnet, where we read of the young man, ’’ . . . thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, / Feeds’t thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel.’’ Here he is the summer’s flower, ‘‘to the summer sweet, / Though to itself it only live and die.’’ The position is restated. In the first sonnet the self-sufficient lovely boy is asked to marry. Later he is asked to love the friend. Now he is being warned that perhaps he would do well to model himself on the coldly powerful, since he is himself cold. But if he does so, let him remain like them, solitary, chaste. If he does not do so, the lily (which he has chosen to become rather than the rose to which he has previously been compared) will, festering, ‘‘smell far worse than weeds.’’

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Doubtless there is irony here, and bitterness, but what seems to me the strongest feeling is a despairing acceptance of the young man’s coldness combined with an equally despairing warning. The first seventeen sonnets are usually . . . regarded as being outside the main series. They are so, but they are also a kind of prelude, and throw light on the character of the friend. Here, when the poet is exhorting the friend to marry, he also makes very apparent the reasons why he should not do so. They are that he is concentrated on, almost married to, his own image. The arguments used to persuade him to marry are that a son would provide, as it were, a mirror projecting the image of that beauty which culminates in his face now, into the future (13): O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are No longer yours than you yourself here live. So while the friend is warned of the dangers of ‘‘having traffic with thyself alone,’’ the poet nevertheless shares with him the view that he is the paragon. The poet puts himself at the young man’s side fighting for the cause which is that a means should be found to perpetuate his beauty exactly as it now is. The poet offers two means of achieving this result. One is fathering a child, and the other, which plays an even more persistent part in the sequence, is the poetry. Sonnet 17 unites these two themes in the culminating couplet: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme. So that while the poet dutifully uses the poetry to urge the friend to marriage, his verse itself is advertized as a means of achieving the same result as a son might do. In a manner of speaking, both child and poetry are mirrors of the young man’s own face. The modern reader may well be tempted to condemn the obvious narcissism of the friend, which Shakespeare exploits so much as argument. But it should be noted that Shakespeare does not appear to condemn it, though he may, later, deplore its callous effects. But he is in complete agreement with the friend as to his beauty, as though it is a value which both share, the young man having his face, and the poet having his poetry, which he identifies with the lovely boy. The poet has an attitude towards the young man’s beauty which seems exactly the same as that of the young man himself. Both


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regard it as a unique value which must by every means possible be preserved. The young man’s narcissism—which, versed in modern psychology, we are apt to condemn— may indeed have been precious to the poet. For it is very difficult in the world of the sonnets to draw a line between the young man’s selfregard—which the poet supports—and the claims that the poet makes for his immortal verse. To us, the readers, they may seem very different, but given the extraordinary aesthetic cult of the young man’s external appearance, which is central to the sonnets, they may seem the same thing. Again and again the argument is put forward that the poetry is the immortalization of the young man’s beauty. The boy’s beauty has the inestimable virtue of being life. The virtue of the poetry is as a perpetuating mirror which freezes on its bright surface the fleeting image which will die. The attraction of the young man is that of all life, made incarnate in an incomparable beauty of form. Narcissus fell in love with himself, but the water in which he gazed at his reflection surely also fell in love with his image. The mirror is in love with the mirrored because it becomes the gazer—that which the gazer never succeeds in doing himself. The poet through his poetry can retain the beauty which the friend himself is bound to lose. Moreover, the poet is changed into the beauty of the youth by virtue of retaining that image in his heart (22): My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date ... Most critics are puzzled by the insistence of the poet on the contrast between his ‘‘chopped antiquity’’ and the young man’s beauty and youth. Nothing is really less surprising. For a relationship which is based on the idea of identity is inevitably upset by dissonances. So the great and perhaps excessive insistence on the immortality of the poetry in these poems is a claim made not for the poet but for the friend. It is he who is going to survive in these lines, we are told through many variations (63): His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green. So the poet was occupied in giving back, by the means of his poetry, the image of the friend to himself. To us this bargain seems unequal,

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because all we have of the young man is the written words, which are Shakespeare’s self. We should remember, though, that for the poet, the matter was different. He was taking life in its miraculous complexity and giving back words. The fact that the words are so marvelous is due (or may have seemed to him due) to the fact that the living reality was of such extraordinary value. Occasionally, for example, in 53, we experience the impact of million-faceted flesh, worshipped as the moment of beauty never matched in all past time: What is your substance, whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? The mirror image constantly occurs in the sonnets. There is also implicitly the idea of two mirrors reflecting one another with rays that reach into infinity. When the ‘‘lovely boy’’ looks into the friend’s poetry, he sees not only his own image, but that the physical presence of the poet has been changed into that beauty.

been—in the young man’s external beauty, and leading there to the love in which they shared their being. The poetry is a plea to him to be true to his own appearance, and in doing this, true to the poet’s imagination. Source: Stephen Spender, ‘‘The Alike and the Other,’’ in The Riddle of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Basic Books, 1962, pp. 91–128.

Winifred T. Nowottny Nowottny examines in detail the relation between diction, syntax, and imagery in the first six sonnets of Shakespeare’s sequence. Particularly in Sonnets 5 and 6 she finds a carefully crafted organization of formal elements that enhances the development of the principal motifs in this group: beauty as a physical attribute and beauty as a treasure or inheritance that must be accounted for. Nowottony maintains that this harmony of ideas and style is sustained throughout the collection.

Perhaps the significance of the narcissism of the friend may be that if the narcissist has a character that requires a mirror, the artist also requires a mirror of life in which to see his art. As Hoelderlin observed in Socrates and Alcibiades, ‘‘often in the end the wise pay homage to the most beautiful.’’ The world of art or thought which fills the mind of genius is essentially lonely. He finds it least of all reflected in the minds of other artists, and the public. He seeks it therefore in the beautiful, particularly among those in whom nature seems to have flowered spontaneously without the interruption of toomuch intellectual process. The narcissist, in his self-cultivation (Montherlant describes the poet as one who gives himself up to ‘‘noble selfcultivation’’) may appear to have an affinity with the artist. The narcissist might be described as a living poem going in search of a poet. At the same time, the discovery that the narcissist is vulgar, that his self-absorption and isolation do not prevent his belonging to the ‘‘region cloud,’’ that he will look in any broken fragment of glass to see the same reflection of himself, is inevitable. But there was a time in the sonnets when the young man’s beauty seemed of the season which is fresh in nature and which was also incomparably fresh in Shakespeare’s poetry. The failure was that of the poet to discover his own inner being mirrored—as it should have

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Dawes, James, ‘‘Truth and Decay in Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in Cahiers Elisabethains, Vol. 47, April 1995, pp. 43–53. Devereux, James A., ‘‘The Last Temptation of Shakespeare: The Sonnets and Despair,’’ in Renaissance Papers 1979, edited by A. Leigh Deneef and M. Thomas Hester, Southeastern Renaissance Conference, 1980, pp. 29–38. Dubrow, Heather, ‘‘‘Conceit Deceitful’: The Sonnets,’’ in Captive Victors: Shakespeare’s Narrative Poems and Sonnets, Cornell University Press, 1987, pp. 169–257. ———, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Undramatic Monologues: Toward a Reading of the Sonnets,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 32, No. 1, Spring 1981, pp. 55–68. ———, ‘‘‘Incertainties Now Crown Themselves Assur’d’: The Politics of Plotting Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 47, No. 3, Fall 1996, pp. 291–305. Duncan-Jones, Katherine, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Shakespeare’s Sonnets, by William Shakespeare, Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1997, pp. 1–105. Edwards, Philip, ‘‘The Sonnets to the Dark Woman,’’ in Shakespeare and the Confines of Art, Methuen, 1968, pp. 17–31. Ferry, Anne, ‘‘Shakespeare,’’ in All in War with Time: Love Poetry of Shakespeare, Donne, Jonson, Marvell, Harvard University Press, 1975, pp. 3–63. Giroux, Robert, The Book Known as Q: A Consideration of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Atheneum, 1982. Source: Winifred T. Nowottny, ‘‘Formal Elements in Shakespeare’s Sonnets: Sonnets I–VI,’’ in Essays in Criticism, Vol. II, No. 1, January, 1952, pp. 76–84.

Goldstien, Neal L., ‘‘Money and Love in Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in Bucknell Review, Vol. 17, No. 3, December 1969, pp. 91–106. Grundy, Joan, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Sonnets and the Elizabethan Sonneteers,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 15, 1962, pp. 41–9. Hecht, Anthony, ‘‘The Sonnet: Ruminations on Form, Sex, and History,’’ in Antioch Review, Vol. 55, No. 2, Spring 1997, pp. 134–47.

SOURCES Allen, Michael J. B., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Man Descending a Staircase: Sonnets 126 to 154,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 31, 1978, pp. 127–38. Andrews, Michael Cameron, ‘‘Sincerity and Subterfuge in Three Shakespearean Sonnet Groups,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 33, No. 3, Autumn 1982, pp. 314–27. Bermann, Sandra, The Sonnet Over Time: A Study in the Sonnets of Petrarch, Shakespeare, and Baudelaire, University of North Carolina Press, 1988.

Hedley, Jane, ‘‘Since First Your Eye I Eyed: Shakespeare’s Sonnets and the Poetics of Narcissism,’’ in Style, Vol. 28, No. 1, Spring 1994, pp. 1–30. Hunter, G. K., ‘‘The Dramatic Technique of Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in Essays in Criticism Vol. 3, No. 2, April 1953, pp. 152–64. Innes, Paul, Shakespeare and the English Renaissance Sonnet, St. Martin’s Press, 1997.

Booth, Stephen, ‘‘Commentary,’’ in Shakespeare’s Sonnets, by William Shakespeare, Yale University Press, 1977 pp. 135–538.

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Klause, John, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Sonnets: Age in Love and the Goring of Thoughts,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 80, No. 3, Summer 1983, pp. 300–24.

Crosman, Robert, ‘‘Making Love Out of Nothing at All: The Issue of Story in Shakespeare’s Procreation Sonnets,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 41, No. 4, Winter 1990, pp. 470–88.

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Landry, Hilton, ‘‘The Unmoved Movers: Sonnet 94 and the Contexts of Interpretation,’’ in Interpretations in

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Stevenson, David Lloyd, ‘‘Conflict in Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in The Love-Game Comedy, AMS Press, 1966, pp. 174–84. Stockard, Emily E., ‘‘Patterns of Consolation in Shakespeare’s Sonnets 1–126,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 94, No. 4, Fall 1997, pp. 465–93. Wait, R. J. C., The Background to Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Schocken Books, 1972, pp. 1–8. Weiser, David K., Mind in Character: Shakespeare’s Speaker in the Sonnets, University of Missouri Press, 1987. Wells, Stanley, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Oxford University Press, 1985, pp. 1–11. Wilson, Katharine M., Shakespeare’s Sugared Sonnets, Allen & Unwin, 1974, pp. 26, 80–3, 149, 320–21. Winny, James, ‘‘The Dark Lady,’’ in The MasterMistress, Chatto & Windus, 1968, pp. 90–120.

———, ‘‘Detachment and Engagement in Shakespeare’s Sonnets: 94, 116, and 129,’’ in PMLA, Vol. 92, No. 1, January 1977, pp. 83–95. Pequigney, Joseph, Such Is My Love: A Study of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, University of Chicago Press, 1985, pp. 1, 37. Peterson, Douglas L., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in The English Lyric from Wyatt to Donne, Princeton University Press, 1967, pp. 212–51. Platt, Michael, ‘‘Shakespearean Wisdom?’’ in Shakespeare as Political Thinker, edited by John Alvis and Thomas G. West, Carolina Academic Press, 1981, pp. 257–76. Rowse, A. L., Shakespeare’s Sonnets: The Problems Solved, Macmillan, 1973. Schoenbaum, S., ‘‘Shakespeare’s Dark Lady: A Question of Identity,’’ in Shakespeare’s Styles: Essays in Honour of Kenneth Muir, edited by Philip Edwards, Inga-Stina Ewbank, and G. K. Hunter, Cambridge University Press, 1980, pp. 221–39. Shakespeare, William, Shakespeare’s Sonnets, edited by Katherine Duncan-Jones, Thomas Nelson and Sons, 1997. Shore, David R., ‘‘‘So Long Lives This’: Turning to Poetry in Shakespeare’s Sonnets,’’ in English Studies in Canada, Vol. 14, No. 1, March 1988, pp. 1–14. Smith, Hallett, ‘‘Personae,’’ in The Tension of the Lyre: Poetry in Shakespeare’s Sonnets, Huntington Library, 1981, pp. 13–41. Smith, Marion Bodwell, ‘‘The Poetry of Ambivalence,’’ in Dualities in Shakespeare, University of Toronto Press, 1966, pp. 53–78. Stapleton, M. L., ‘‘‘My False Eyes’: The Dark Lady and Self-Knowledge,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 90, No. 2, Spring 1993, pp. 213–30


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FURTHER READING Bell, Ilona, Elizabethan Women and the Poetry of Courtship, Cambridge University Press, 1999. In a work well respected by scholars, Bell examines the courtly poetry of Elizabethan England from the perspective of women, discussing their responses to poetic suitors and their own poetic works. Sidney, Philip, Sir Philip Sidney: The Major Works, edited by Katherine Duncan-Jones, Oxford University Press, 2002. Duncan-Jones, who edited the third Arden edition of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, presents the most important works by a man who was not only a contemporary of Shakespeare’s but also the uncle of William Herbert, who may have been the renowned young man of the Sonnets. Smith, Bruce R., Homosexual Desire in Shakespeare’s England: A Cultural Poetics, University of Chicago Press, 1995. Smith offers what is widely viewed as the most comprehensive analysis of the homoerotic content of English Renaissance poetry, with substantial discussion of Shakespeare’s sonnets. Spiller, Michael R. G., The Development of the Sonnet: An Introduction, Routledge, 1992. Focusing partly on its Italian origins but mostly on its evolution in England, Spiller offers an excellent introductory examination of many aspects of the poetic form of the sonnet.

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The Taming of the Shrew 1592

Shakespeare is thought to have written The Taming of the Shrew between 1590 and 1594, although the only version that has survived is the one published in the First Folio in 1623. It appears to have been staged several times during Shakespeare’s lifetime at both the Globe and the Blackfriars theaters, and a sequel written by John Fletcher between 1604 and 1617 attests to its popularity. It was also produced in 1633 at the court of Charles I. The play has a complex structure. It begins with a two-scene ‘‘Induction’’ or introductory segment, which concerns an elaborate practical joke played by a nobleman on a drunken tinker. At the end of the Induction the various characters settle down to watch a play. This play within a play, which in turn consists of a main plot and a complex subplot, constitutes the main action of The Taming of the Shrew. The depth and complexity of The Taming of the Shrew is evidenced by the wide range of interpretations that attend it, both on stage and in literary criticism. Moreover, modern interpretation of the play is complicated by the centrality to the play of issues that are hotly debated in our own time—in particular, the question of what roles men and women can and should play in society and in relationship to each other. The play raises probing questions about society and relationships. Is Petruchio a loving husband who teaches his maladjusted bride to find happiness in marriage, or is he a clever bully who forces her

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to bow to his will? Does Katherine’s acquiescence in playing the part of obedient wife reflect a joyous acceptance of her assigned role as a married woman and the beginning of a fulfilling partnership with her husband? Does it, instead, mean that she has learned to play the obedient wife in public so as to get her own way in private? Or does it reflect the defeat of a spirited and intelligent woman forced to give in to a society that dominates and controls women and allows them only very limited room for self-expression? The answers to these questions may have less to do with the play itself than with readers’ attitudes about the issues and ideas it explores.

PLOT SUMMARY Induction At the beginning of The Taming of the Shrew, Christopher Sly, a drunken tinker, is expelled from a tavern and falls asleep on the ground. He is discovered by a lord and his huntsmen. As a joke, the lord orders his men to dress Sly in fine clothes, lay out a feast, and put him to bed at the lord’s home in the best chamber. When Sly awakes, lord and servants conspire to convince him that he is really a nobleman. Meanwhile, a traveling group of actors has come to the lord’s home, and he asks them to perform for his guest. He only tells them not to react to the odd behavior of the other lord in the house. Sly is told that a comedy will be played for him to aid his recovery. The lord’s page (a young male attendant) dresses like a woman and pretends to be Sly’s wife, delighted that he has finally come to his senses after all those years of believing he was a beggar. After some initial confusion and a great deal of convincing by the servants, Sly accepts that he is a nobleman. Sly will comment briefly on the play at the end of act 1, scene 1, then disappear from the text.

Act 1 The play-within-a-play begins. Lucentio, son of a wealthy Pisan merchant, and his servant, Tranio, arrive in Padua, where Lucentio intends to study. Baptista Minola, his two daughters (Katherine and Bianca), and two suitors to Bianca arrive. Katherine is outraged and loud, and Baptista informs the suitors that until Katherine, his elder daughter, is married, Bianca must remain single. From the remarks of Bianca’s suitors, Hortensio


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and Gremio, and Katherine’s angry reaction to them, it appears that Bianca is perceived as sweetnatured and mild, while Katherine is considered a shrew—a stubborn, domineering, and sharptongued woman. Lucentio tells Tranio that he has fallen in love with Bianca. In order to gain access to Bianca, they plan that Lucentio will pretend to be a schoolmaster, while Tranio will pretend to be Lucentio and present himself as another suitor for Bianca. Petruchio and his servant, Grumio, arrive in Padua from Verona. Petruchio tells Hortensio that he has come to Padua to find a wealthy wife. Hortensio tells him about Katherine, warning him that while she is wealthy and beautiful, she is shrewish in temperament. Petruchio insists that he cares nothing for looks, youth, or manners, so long as his bride is rich. Grumio enters with Lucentio, whom he presents as Cambio, a schoolmaster for Bianca. Tranio also enters, dressed as Lucentio, and reveals his intention to woo Bianca. Lucentio hopes that the other suitors will be distracted by the competition of a third suitor, thus leaving him freer to woo Bianca. Tranio and the other suitors agree that they can be friendly toward one another, and they leave for drinks.

Act 2 Katherine beats Bianca, whose hands are tied. When Baptista scolds Katherine, she accuses him of favoritism. A group of men come to the door, interrupting the squabble. Petruchio presents his suit for Katherine and offers Litio (actually Hortensio in disguise) as a music teacher for her. Baptista welcomes Petruchio but expresses doubt that he will find Katherine to his liking. Gremio presents Cambio (actually Lucentio in disguise) as a schoolmaster, while Tranio (in disguise as Lucentio) asks to be admitted among Bianca’s suitors. Baptista and Petruchio quickly agree on terms for Katherine’s hand. Petruchio is not fazed when Hortensio appears with his head bleeding, after Katherine hit him with the lute he attempted to teach her to play. In their first meeting, Katherine responds to Petruchio’s compliments by telling him to leave. She finds that Petruchio, unlike the men with whom she is used to sparring, is as quick-witted and biting as she. Their ensuing exchange of insults soon turns to sexual innuendo. She hits him, and he threatens to hit her back if she does

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tattered and mismatched clothing and riding a broken-down horse. Baptista asks him to change into clothes that are more appropriate, but he refuses. While Petruchio and the others go off in search of Katherine, Tranio tells Lucentio of his plan to have someone pose as Lucentio’s father, while Lucentio suggests that he may elope with Bianca. Gremio enters and reports on the wedding ceremony: Petruchio swore at and struck the priest, threw wine in the sexton’s face, and kissed the bride noisily. The wedding party enters. Although Katherine wants to stay for the banquet, Petruchio draws his sword, announces that he will protect his property, and forces her to leave with him immediately. Once they are gone, the wedding party wonders how two such people ever got married, and Baptista turns his attention to Bianca’s wedding.

‘‘The Music Lesson’’ (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

it again. When Baptista enters with Gremio and Tranio, Katherine denounces Petruchio as ‘‘one half lunatic / A madcap ruffian and a swearing Jack.’’ Petruchio, however, insists that they have reached an agreement to marry on the coming Sunday, and Baptista agrees to the marriage. Baptista immediately turns to the matter of a match for Bianca, settling on ‘‘Lucentio’’ (Tranio) when he offers the largest dower (her inheritance should she be widowed). However, he stipulates that Lucentio’s father must first guarantee the dower. Tranio resolves to find an old man to pose as Lucentio’s father.

Act 3 Cambio and Litio take turns tutoring Bianca. While pretending to translate a passage from Ovid, Cambio reveals his identity to Bianca; Bianca responds by the same method, telling him, ‘‘presume not . . . despair not.’’ While she does not tell him she loves him, she does not reject him, either. When Litio subtly lets her know of his love, she outright rejects him. When she and Cambio leave, he is alone and resolves that if Bianca will not marry him, he will simply find another woman who will. On Katherine’s appointed wedding day Petruchio first is late, and then appears wearing

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Act 4 Petruchio and Katherine arrive at Petruchio’s country house after various mishaps along the way. Petruchio is unhappy that the servants are not prepared to attend to him and his bride properly, and he demands a meal. Petruchio finds fault with everything the servants do, cursing and beating them and refusing to let Katherine eat supper because, he says, the meat is overcooked. Katherine, exhausted herself, attempts to speak out on the servants’ behalf, asking Petruchio to be kinder and more patient. He refuses to take her advice, insisting that his bride will only have perfection. After Katherine and Petruchio exit to the bridal chamber, one of the servants reports that Petruchio is ‘‘making a sermon of continency’’ to Katherine, while she sits bewildered, ‘‘as one new risen from a dream.’’ In a soliloquy, Petruchio compares his treatment of Katherine to the taming of falcons, which were left hungry and deprived of sleep until they became docile. He decides that he will keep her from sleeping by complaining all night. Meanwhile, in Padua, ‘‘Lucentio’’ (Tranio) convinces ‘‘Litio’’ (Hortensio) to abandon his suit after they find Bianca flirting with ‘‘Cambio’’ (Lucentio). Hortensio tells Tranio he will marry a wealthy widow. Tranio tells Bianca and Lucentio that Hortensio will go to Petruchio’s ‘‘taming school’’ to learn to control the widow. By a clever ploy, Tranio persuades an aged Pedant (scholar) to pose as Lucentio’s father. Back at Petruchio’s house, Hortensio is visiting. Petruchio invites

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS The 1929 production by Pickford Corporation, Elton Corporation, and United Artists is the earliest film version of The Taming of the Shrew. It was an early talkie featuring the only pairing of real-life couple Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks. The film was distributed by Nostalgia Family Video, and was a Critics’ Choice Video. It was reedited in 1966. In 1953 MGM released Kiss Me Kate, the film version of the 1948 Cole Porter musical based on The Taming of the Shrew, directed by George Sidney. In this version, two divorced actors are unable to separate their real lives from their stage lives after they are cast to play Katherine and Petruchio in a production of Shakespeare’s play. Howard Keel and Kathryn Grayson star as Petruchio and Katherine.

two scenes from the play: Petruchio vows to marry Katherine, and he begins the process of taming her.

Columbia’s 1967 The Taming of the Shrew was a lavish screen version, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and directed by Franco Zeffirelli. It is distributed by Columbia Tristar Home Video, The Video Catalog, and PBS Video.

In 1974, the International Film Bureau produced The Taming of the Shrew, which presents

Katherine to eat with them, but insists that she thank him before allowing her to eat. A tailor and a haberdasher arrive with new clothes that Petruchio has ordered for Katherine, but he finds fault with everything they offer and, despite Katherine’s protests, sends the men away. After announcing that they will leave for Padua immediately he begins talking nonsense, saying they will mount their horses and go on foot and claiming that it is morning when it is afternoon. When Katherine corrects him, he states that before they go to Padua, ‘‘It shall be what a’ clock I say it is.’’ Back in Padua, Tranio, the Pedant, and Baptista agree to meet at Lucentio’s lodgings to seal


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NET’s 1980 The Taming of the Shrew features a performance by the American Conservatory Theatre at the Geary Theatre in San Francisco. It is distributed by WNET/ Thirteen Non-Broadcast.

In 1981, the BBC released its version, produced by Cedric Messina and Jonathan Miller. It stars John Cleese and Sarah Badel, and is distributed by Ambrose Video Publishing. Jonathan Miller also directed, envisioning Petruchio as an early Puritan who values essences over social superficialities.

In 1981 a documentary titled Kiss Me, Petruchio was produced by the New York Shakespeare Festival, directed by Christopher Dixon. It is a backstage look at the New York Shakespeare Festival’s production of The Taming of the Shrew, with legendary performances by Meryl Streep as Katherine and Raul Julia as Petruchio. It is distributed by Films Inc. Video, Professional Media Service Corporation.

Bianca’s betrothal. Meanwhile, on their way to Padua, Petruchio and Katherine argue about whether the sun or the moon is shining. Petruchio insists they will not continue to Padua until she agrees with him. Katherine gives in, saying, ‘‘What you will have it nam’d, even that it is, / And so it shall be so for Katherine.’’ Hortensio tells Petruchio that ‘‘the field is won.’’ They encounter an old man, whom Petruchio addresses as a young woman. Katherine follows Petruchio’s lead, calling the old man a ‘‘budding virgin.’’ When Petruchio then corrects her, she begs pardon for her ‘‘mad mistaking.’’ The old man turns out to be Lucentio’s real father, Vincentio, and they all continue to Padua together.

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Act 5

First Huntsman

Lucentio and Bianca sneak off to be married. Katherine, Petruchio, and Vincentio arrive at Lucentio’s lodgings. The Pedant and Vincentio argue violently over which of them is Lucentio’s father, and Vincentio is in danger of being arrested until Lucentio and Bianca, newly married, arrive on the scene, explain the deception, and beg pardon of their fathers. They all exit, and Katherine wants to follow; but Petruchio first obliges her to kiss him in public. At the wedding banquet, the men place bets as to which of them has the most obedient wife. All three send for their wives, but only Katherine obeys and appears. Petruchio sends her to bring the other wives. The men concede the bet to Petruchio, but he insists on a further demonstration. He tells Katherine to take off her cap and stamp on it, which she does, then orders her to tell the women their ‘‘duty’’ to ‘‘their lords and husbands.’’ Katherine responds with a long speech in favor of wifely obedience. Petruchio praises and kisses her, and they go off to bed as the other men congratulate Petruchio on having tamed his shrew.

This is one (of two) of the Lord’s huntsmen who are with him when he discovers Sly.

Gremio Gremio is an elderly man, but one of Bianca’s suitors. In act 3, scene 2, he tells Lucentio and Tranio about Petruchio’s scandalous behavior during the marriage ceremony between Petruchio and Katherine.

Grumio Grumio is Petruchio’s servant. He often misunderstands, or pretends to misunderstand, Petruchio’s commands, with comic results. In act 4, scene 1, he recounts the various mishaps that befell him, Katherine, and Petruchio on their way to Petruchio’s country house. Later, he teases Katherine when she asks for food.

Haberdasher The haberdasher is summoned by Petruchio to make new clothes for Katherine.

Hortensio CHARACTERS Bartholomew The Lord’s page (a young male attendant) on the Lord’s orders, dresses like a woman and pretends to be Sly’s loving and obedient wife.

Another of Bianca’s suitors, and a friend of Petruchio’s, Hortensio pretends to be a music teacher named Litio in order to see Bianca. When he discovers her flirting with ‘‘Cambio,’’ he abandons his suit and marries a wealthy widow after visiting Petruchio in the country to obtain tips on controlling a woman.

Hostess Bianca Baptista’s younger daughter initially appears quiet and submissive. However, she skillfully intrigues with Lucentio, with whom she eventually elopes, and in the final scene of the play refuses to come when her husband calls her.

Biondello As one of Lucentio’s servants, Biondello is aware of Lucentio and Tranio’s ploy of changing identities but is not immediately told the reason for it.

Curtis Curtis is one of the servants at Petruchio’s country house. Grumio tells him about the journey from Padua to the country house. Later, Curtis tells the other servants about Petruchio’s odd behavior during the marriage ceremony.

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The hostess ejects Sly from the tavern at the beginning of the play.

Joseph Joseph is a servant at Petruchio’s country house.

Katherine Katherine (Katherina or Katharina, according to some sources), or simply Kate, is established as a shrew—a loud, unmanageable, bad-tempered woman—by her own behavior and by the comments of other characters, who repeatedly characterize her as ill-tempered and unreasonable. Unlike the stock character of the shrew found in many plays from Shakespeare’s time, however, Katherine emerges as a complex individual who engages the audience’s sympathy and concern. Baptista’s obvious preference for Katherine’s sister, Bianca, his crassly materialistic approach to his daughters’ marriages, and the shallowness

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and rudeness of the Paduan suitors suggest possible reasons for Katherine’s shrewish behavior. Her shrewish remarks are generally also clever and to the point, suggesting that she possesses a keen intelligence. Moreover, despite her shrewishness, she is capable of concern for others, repeatedly trying to shield the servants from Petruchio’s violent displeasure. Katherine’s personality is so strong that it dominates nearly every scene in which she is present. Katherine first appears in act 1, scene 1, where she vigorously protests both Baptista’s decision not to allow Bianca to marry until a husband is found for Katherine, and also the insulting remarks of Gremio and Hortensio. This leads Tranio, who is looking on with Lucentio, to comment that she is ‘‘stark mad or wonderful froward [disobedient, unmanageable].’’ Despite her strong temper, Katherine sometimes follows the leadership of the men in her life. In Katherine’s first meeting with Petruchio, she meets his initial overture with hostility and insults. He responds with sexual innuendos to the point that she strikes him. When her father enters, she denounces Petruchio as ‘‘one half lunatic’’ and responds to his insistence that they have agreed to be married on Sunday by commenting, ‘‘I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first.’’ But when Petruchio claims that she is only pretending to oppose the marriage and Baptista agrees to the match, she exits without saying anything further. In act 3, when Petruchio at first fails to show for his wedding, Katherine complains bitterly: not only has she been forced against her will to accept ‘‘a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen,’’ but now she is being made a fool. She exits weeping. Nonetheless, when Petruchio insists that they leave immediately after the ceremony, Katherine resists, first entreating Petruchio to stay, then firmly refusing to leave. When Petruchio insists on his right to make her leave, she goes with him without further comment. In Petruchio’s house, two of Katherine’s traits reveal themselves—her compassionate side, and her acceptance of Petruchio’s will. After her horse falls on her, Petruchio begins to beat Grumio, and Katherine ‘‘waded through the dirt to pluck him off.’’ When at the country house Petruchio upbraids and strikes the servants, Katherine defends them and urges him to be patient. In subsequent scenes, Petruchio repeatedly imposes his will despite Katherine’s


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resistance and verbal protests. In act 4, scene 5, as they return to Padua for Bianca’s wedding, Katherine again contradicts Petruchio, saying that the sun is shining when he has commented on the brightness of the moon. When he refuses to go on unless she agrees with him, she gives in, only to have him insist that it is indeed the sun. Commenting that ‘‘the moon changes even as your mind,’’ Katherine gives in again, agreeing to call it whatever he chooses. Katherine’s acceptance of Petruchio’s will here is generally seen as a turning point in their relationship, although critics have offered varying opinions as to Katherine’s mood, as well as the real meaning of this turning point. When the travelers meet Vincentio on the road, Katherine easily falls in with Petruchio’s joke of addressing the old man as if he were a young woman. In Padua, as the Bianca-Lucentio subplot comes unraveled, Katherine wants to follow the other characters to see the outcome. Petruchio insists that she first kiss him publicly, and after brief resistance, she complies. At Bianca’s wedding banquet, Katherine becomes involved in an argument with the Widow when the latter refers to Katherine’s reputation as a shrew. Later, when Petruchio, Lucentio, and Hortensio place bets on their respective wives’ obedience, Katherine is the only wife to come when summoned. She obediently brings in the other wives, and when Petruchio tells her to take off her cap and stamp on it, she complies. When Petruchio orders her to instruct the other wives on their duty to their husbands, Katherine responds with a long speech advocating wifely obedience. Emphasizing the ‘‘painful labor’’ a husband takes on to ensure the security of his wife, she states that wives owe husbands a ‘‘debt’’ of ‘‘love, fair looks, and true obedience.’’ She remarks that women are ‘‘soft’’ and ‘‘weak,’’ and urges them to give up their pride, ‘‘for it is no boot’’ [there is no remedy]. In her final words in the play, she offers to place her hand under Petruchio’s foot, to ‘‘do him ease.’’ The complexity of Katherine’s character is evident in the interpretive range of her final speech. Directors and actresses have adopted a variety of approaches to this speech, depending on their interpretation of the play’s meaning. Sometimes it is delivered ironically, as if Katherine does not mean what she says and is either humoring Petruchio or treating his wager as a joke. When the speech is delivered seriously,

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the tone adopted may vary from one of joyful acceptance to one of despair and resignation.

Lord Returning from a hunt, the Lord finds Sly drunk and asleep. As a practical joke, he and his men try to convince Sly he is a nobleman. The Lord arranges for the players to present the play that constitutes the main action of The Taming of the Shrew.

Lucentio The son of a wealthy Pisan merchant, Lucentio comes to Padua intending to study but immediately falls in love with Bianca, whom he sees in the street. He pretends to be a schoolmaster named Cambio in order to gain access to Bianca, and eventually elopes with her.

Messenger The messenger announces that the play is about to begin.

Baptista Minola Baptista is a wealthy Paduan merchant with two daughters, Katherine and Bianca. He decides that he will not allow Bianca to marry until a husband is found for Katherine.

Nathaniel Nathaniel is a servant at Petruchio’s country house.

Nicholas Nicholas is a servant at Petruchio’s country house.

Pedant The pedant is an elderly scholar from Mantua who is persuaded by Tranio to pose as Lucentio’s father.

Petruchio The traditional interpretation of the character of Petruchio sees him as a romantic and dashing figure, sweeping Katherine off her feet with his manly energy, intelligence, and determination. His displays of violence and bad temper are presented as merely a ploy, intended either to show Katherine the absurdity of her own violence and bad temper, or to shock her out of her habitual contrariness. While this remains the most common dramatic interpretation of the role, more recently literary critics and some productions of

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the play have portrayed Petruchio as a less than ideal man. These interpretations present his violent, domineering, and frequently unreasonable behavior as an intrinsic part of his character, rather than as an affectation assumed for Katherine’s benefit. They also tend to stress the crudity of many of his comments about marriage and about Katherine. Petruchio first appears at the beginning of act 1, scene 2. When he tells Hortensio he has come to Padua to seek a wife, Hortensio tells him he knows of a woman who is very wealthy, but shrewish. Despite warnings from both Hortensio and Gremio about Katherine’s temperament, Petruchio insists that he will woo her, claiming that wealth is his sole requirement in a wife and that he will not be frightened off by mere noise. In act 2, Petruchio presents himself to Baptista as a suitor for Katherine and immediately opens negotiations about the amount of money to be settled on Katherine. He and Baptista swiftly reach agreement. When Baptista stipulates that Petruchio must first obtain Katherine’s love, Petruchio replies that ‘‘that is nothing,’’ adding that he is ‘‘as peremptory as she proud-minded’’ and predicting that she will ‘‘yield’’ to him. Petruchio is a bit of a schemer and seems to enjoy engaging his mind in unusual endeavors. In a soliloquy in act 2, scene 1, just before his first meeting with Katherine, Petruchio describes his plan for dealing with her. Whatever she does, he will act as if she has done the opposite: If she is verbally abusive, he will praise her sweet voice; if she refuses to speak, he will applaud her eloquence; if she refuses to marry, he will ask her to set a date. When Katherine enters, they become embroiled in an exchange of insults that soon turns to sexual innuendo. When she strikes him, he threatens to strike her back if she hits him again. Despite Katherine’s hostility, when Baptista returns Petruchio says they have agreed to marry. When Katherine protests, Petruchio claims they have agreed that she will continue to behave shrewishly ‘‘in company.’’ Baptista agrees to the marriage. Petruchio’s irreverence for authority reaches its height on his wedding day. He arrives late and dressed in rags, defending his inappropriate attire by saying that Katherine is marrying him, not his clothes. His behavior at the ceremony, which takes place offstage, offends Gremio, who subsequently describes it: Petruchio swore in

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church, struck the priest, guzzled the wine and threw the remainder in the sexton’s face, and kissed the bride noisily. After the ceremony, Petruchio insists that he and Katherine must leave immediately. He overrides Katherine’s objections by announcing that he ‘‘will be master of what is [his] own’’ and pretending to protect her against the others’ desire to detain her. Never hiding his true self, Petruchio shows what kind of master he is as soon as he and Katherine arrive at his country house. He verbally abuses and beats the servants and sends the dinner back uneaten, telling Katherine it is burned and bad for their health. In the bridal chamber, he treats her to a lecture on selfrestraint. In his second soliloquy, Petruchio likens Katherine to a wild falcon that must be prevented from eating and sleeping until it is tamed. Subsequently, he repeatedly frustrates Katherine’s needs and desires, all the while insisting that he does so for her own good. He also insists that Katherine agree with him even when he contradicts the most obvious realities, leading even his friend Hortensio to comment on his unreasonableness. Later, on the road to Padua, he repeatedly changes his opinion as to whether the sun or the moon is shining and refuses to continue until Katherine agrees with him. Her eventual statement that ‘‘What you will have it nam’d, even that it is’’ is usually regarded as marking her capitulation to Petruchio. When they meet Vincentio on the road, Katherine plays along with her husband’s joke when he pretends to think the old man is a young woman. Through the remainder of the play Petruchio repeatedly tests Katherine’s compliance. When they reach Padua, he threatens to return home unless she kisses him in the street. At Bianca and Lucentio’s wedding banquet, a number of the other guests imply that Petruchio has failed to get control over Katherine. Petruchio proposes a wager on which of the three new wives—Katherine, Bianca, or the widow Hortensio has married—is most obedient. When Katherine is the only one of the three wives to come when summoned, Petruchio sends her to fetch the other wives, then tells her to take off her cap and stamp on it. Finally, he orders her to ‘‘tell these headstrong women / What duty they do owe their lords and husbands.’’ At the end of Katherine’s long speech in favor of male authority and female obedience, Katherine offers to


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place her hand under her husband’s foot, to ‘‘do him ease.’’ Petruchio praises her, kisses her, and takes her off to bed, suggesting as they leave that Hortensio and Lucentio have a hard road before them in their marriages. Critical commentary and play productions reflect a wide diversity of opinion regarding both the nature of Petruchio’s treatment of Katherine and his reasons for it. Motivations ascribed to his character range from love for Katherine to a will to dominate, from self-interest to a simple enjoyment of a challenge. Similarly, a wide variety of interpretations have been put forward regarding the dynamics of his relationship with Katherine. Some see him as bullying his wife into submission; others claim that he insightfully leads her to an acceptance of her ‘‘true’’ nature and of her rightful role in society. Still others claim that in the course of the play, Katherine and Petruchio negotiate a mutually acceptable mode of co-existence within the limits imposed by their society.

Philip Philip is a servant at Petruchio’s country house.

Players The players are a group of traveling actors who arrive at the tavern. The Lord, who has seen them perform before, asks them to put on a play.

Second Huntsman The second (of two) of the Lord’s huntsmen is with him when he discovers Sly.

Servants The Lord’s attendants, who join in his practical joke on Sly.

Christopher Sly Sly is a poor tinker (a traveling mender of housewares). As a practical joke, a lord and his attendants try to convince him that he is really a nobleman who has been suffering from insanity. The play that constitutes the five acts of The Taming of the Shrew is put on for Sly’s entertainment. He comments once on the play at the end of act 1, scene 1, then disappears from the text.

Sugarsop Sugarsop is a servant at Petruchio’s country house.

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Tailor The tailor is summoned by Petruchio to make new clothes for Katherine.

Tranio As Lucentio’s servant, Tranio assists Lucentio in plotting the latter’s elopement with Bianca. On Lucentio’s orders, Tranio pretends to be Lucentio while Lucentio is pretending to be Cambio. As Lucentio, Tranio presents himself as a suitor for Bianca’s hand and is selected by her father to marry her.

Vincentio Vincentio is Lucentio’s father. On his way to Padua to visit Lucentio, he becomes the butt of a joke initiated by Petruchio and taken up by Katherine. On his arrival in Padua, he is nearly thrown into prison when Tranio, the Pedant, and Biondello all insist he is an imposter.

Walter Walter is a servant at Petruchio’s country house.

Widow Hortensio marries the widow when he gives up his suit for Bianca. In the final scene of the play, she quarrels with Katherine and refuses to come when Hortensio summons her.

THEMES Gender Roles Since Katherine’s shrewish behavior constitutes the central problem of the play, it is not surprising that most critical commentary on The Taming of the Shrew deals to some extent with the play’s vision of the relative roles of men and women. Until well into the nineteenth century, audiences and critics alike seem to have accepted at face value what appears to be the play’s central assumption about gender roles: that male dominance and female submission constitute the right and natural relationship between the sexes. In this context, Petruchio’s taming of Katherine was generally seen as innocent fun. By the end of the century, however, critics were beginning to show some discomfort with the relationship between Petruchio and Katherine. The play’s treatment of gender goes well beyond its basic plot. Unlike most playwrights who wrote plays about shrews in the early

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modern period, Shakespeare suggests possible motivations for Katherine’s shrewishness. Her father clearly favors her sister, Bianca; the prospective suitors are shallow and rude; father and suitors alike tend to treat marriage as a purely commercial transaction. Katherine’s relationship with Petruchio is complex. Their early verbal exchanges suggest a certain equality of intelligence. Although the text of the play leaves room for a wide variety of theatrical interpretations of the relationship, the traditional and most common approach emphasizes a strong sexual attraction between Katherine and Petruchio as well as a growing comradeship. Moreover, although Petruchio seeks to control Katherine, he appears to admire and value her spirit. The relationship between the play’s main plot, subplot, and Induction also affects its depictions of gender roles. A struggle for power between men and women is introduced as an issue from the beginning of the play, when, in the Induction, a woman—the Hostess—throws a drunken Christopher Sly out of her tavern. In the course of the Lord’s practical joke, one of his young male attendants dresses like a woman and pretends to be Sly’s noble, soft-spoken, and obedient wife. The practical joke itself can be seen as a parallel to Petruchio’s efforts to reform Katherine, as both involve attempts to transform one sort of character into another. For some critics, the Lord’s inability to effect a convincing change in Sly’s character contrasts with Petruchio’s successful transformation of Katherine in the main plot. For others, however, the obvious artificiality of both Sly’s transformation into a nobleman and the page’s transformation into a woman are meant to indicate that Katherine’s transformation is equally artificial.

Appearance versus Reality Confusion between appearance and reality is a principal source of humor in The Taming of the Shrew. In the Induction, Sly is misled by carefully orchestrated appearances into believing that he is really a wealthy nobleman rather than a poor tinker. The subplot likewise depends on the confusion of appearance and reality as various characters practice elaborate deceptions. Hortensio pretends to be the music teacher Litio. Lucentio poses as the schoolmaster Cambio. He and Bianca use Latin lessons as a cover for their courtship, and they deceive her father by eloping on the eve of her planned betrothal to another

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Heath Ledger and Julia Stiles in a scene from the movie 10 Things I Hate About You (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

man. Lucentio’s servant, Tranio, pretends to be his master and persuades an elderly scholar to pose as his master’s father. In the main plot, the difficulty of distinguishing between appearance and reality is emphasized in various ways. Petruchio’s servant Grumio often misinterprets his master’s instructions, with comic results. More crucially, Petruchio’s strategy in dealing with Katherine often involves replacing the most apparent of realities with something more to his own liking. ‘‘Say that she rail, why then I’ll tell her plain / She sings as sweetly as a nightingale,’’ Petruchio resolves before his first meeting with Katherine. Although she insists she wants nothing to do with him, he tells her father they have agreed to be married. At his country house and on the road back to Padua he declares that it is morning when it is afternoon and that the moon is shining in broad daylight. When Katherine finally gives in to him, her surrender is signaled by her acceptance of his version of reality, in defiance of appearance: ‘‘What you will have it


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nam’d, even that it is,/ And so it shall be so for Katherine.’’ The various deceptions in the Induction and the subplot seem to poke fun at social distinctions, suggesting that the difference between a servant and a master, or between a poor Latin teacher and a wealthy merchant’s son, is merely a matter of appearance. This idea is echoed in the main plot by Petruchio when he appears at his wedding in rags and says of Katherine, ‘‘To me she’s married, not unto my clothes,’’ or when he tells Katherine not to worry about the way she is dressed because ‘‘’tis the mind that makes the body rich.’’ The theme of appearance and reality is also related to the play’s treatment of gender roles. Some commentators maintain that Petruchio transforms Katherine by refusing to accept her appearance of shrewishness as reality. Instead, he sets up a sort of alternate reality, insisting that she is really lovable and obedient until she accepts his view of her identity. Other people

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There is critical controversy surrounding Katherine and whether or not she is really changed by the end of The Taming of the Shrew. What is your position on this issue? Find a partner and stage a debate in front of at least three people. Structure your debate so that each of you makes your case, the other has the opportunity to ask questions, and each presents a concluding speech to persuade your audience to adopt your position.

What specific techniques does Petruchio use to tame Katherine? Using the presentation format of your choice (poster board, Power Point, display board, etc.) list at least three, with details about how they would be used on a person. Predict how effective each of these would be and explain why. Conclude with a statement about the ethics of using such techniques in interpersonal relationships.

The dynamics among Baptista, Bianca, and Katherine are not uncommon, even today. Conduct psychological research in family dynamics to determine how realistic Shakespeare’s portrayal of the young women is. Based on your findings, what kind of wives and mothers will Bianca and Katherine

argue, however, that the continual confusion of appearances and reality in the play undermines the concept of male dominance. They suggest that with so much deception going on in the play, the audience should be suspicious of taking Katherine’s transformation at face value. Perhaps she is merely pretending to give in to Petruchio. Or perhaps—as other critics have maintained—male supremacy itself is shown to be merely an illusion.

Games and Role-Playing Closely related to the theme of appearance versus reality is the play’s emphasis on games and role-

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become? What kind of man will Baptista be as he continues to age? Producing The Taming of the Shrew for a modern audience presents certain challenges. Imagine that you have been chosen to direct the play, and the producers have given you complete creative control. What decisions would you make? Would you do the play as Shakespeare wrote it? How would you direct Katherine, especially in her last speech? What would you look for in casting? Write out a plan for the producers, describing your vision and your approach.

Gender roles and expectations comprise a major theme of The Taming of the Shrew. Gender roles continue to be discussed today. Create a timeline of major historical events related to this issue from 1600 to the present. Explain how the issue has evolved since Shakespeare’s time.

Read about Queen Elizabeth I’s upbringing, ascension to the throne, and reign. Given what you understand about her, what do you think her reaction to The Taming of the Shrew was? Write a diary entry in her voice on the evening after she first saw the play.

playing. It has been suggested that Petruchio treats social conventions—including the conventions governing relations between men and women—as a sort of game. The airy cynicism with which he discusses his search for a wife contrasts with both Lucentio’s romanticism and Baptista’s businesslike materialism. He treats the marriage ceremony itself as a joke, arriving late and poorly dressed, insulting the clergy, and forcing the bride to leave early. He seems to welcome Katherine’s shrewishness as an interesting challenge, and compares his efforts to tame her to a sportsman’s taming of a falcon. According to this view, Petruchio’s strategy in taming Katherine is

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to convince her to join in this game with him. This strategy seems particularly clear during the journey back to Padua in act 4, when Katherine finally decides to go along with Petruchio’s assertions contrary to fact and joins him in pretending that the aged Vincentio is a young woman. Katherine’s final speech to the other wives is then seen as marking her agreement to play the role of obedient wife, secure in the knowledge that she and her husband both know this is merely a role. Role-playing and playacting also figure prominently in The Taming of the Shrew. The play-within-a-play structure emphasizes to the audience members that what they are about to see is a performance—not reality, but someone’s interpretation of reality. Many of the characters become actors in the play: Tranio plays the role of Lucentio, Lucentio poses as Cambio, Hortensio poses as Litio, and so on. Thus, for instance, a single actor might appear as one of the players in the Induction, as Tranio at the beginning of act 1, and later as Tranio-playingLucentio. Petruchio himself often seems to be playing an exaggerated role for Katherine’s benefit. Recently, several critics have pointed out that Shakespeare also draws attention to the Elizabethan practice of using boys to play women’s parts. This is especially true in the Induction, where the page Bartholomew pretends to be Sly’s wife.

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The reader’s assumptions about the actors’ intention in performing this play for Sly will affect how much of the play is taken as farce and irony, and how much is taken as an honest portrayal of the characters and their situations.

Farce There has been much critical commentary about whether The Taming of the Shrew is farcical. While some critics point to the exaggerated antics and satire of the play to argue that it is farce, others point to the genuine feelings and realism of the play to argue that it is not. In either case, it is important to understand what farce is in order to follow the debate. Farce is a humorous dramatic approach that favors action over characterization. Its humor results from absurdity, wit, crudeness and vulgarity, and physical comedy. Farce appears outlandish and unrealistic on the surface, but its deeper content is often serious and pointed. Farce is often satiric, satire being a humorous way of criticizing customs, issues, trends, society, or people. Satirists generally take something that their audiences will recognize (usually a type of person or a social convention) and make its faults larger than life in order to point out those faults. Readers often see Katherine, Petruchio, or both characters as overdrawn to make a point about love relationships and the ability (or inability) to ‘‘tame’’ another person.

Imagery STYLE Play-within-a-Play Shakespeare begins The Taming of the Shrew with the Induction, whose purpose seems to be establishing that the rest of the play will be a playwithin-a-play. The action of The Taming of the Shrew is performed by an acting troupe for the entertainment of Christopher Sly. Oddly, Shakespeare does not return to Sly, the lord, and the troupe at the end of the play. Critics have debated the necessity of this technique, but the fact remains that readers must approach the play with the understanding that it is being performed, seemingly, for an audience of one. Based on what the reader imagines as the lord’s (or the troupe’s) motives with the entertainment, the play is being performed either to please him (reflecting his views) or to educate him (challenging his views).


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Of particular importance in The Taming of the Shrew is Shakespeare’s use of imagery in portraying various characters’ attitudes toward other characters, toward women in general, and toward marriage. The play is especially rich in animal imagery, beginning with the traditional use of the word shrew to describe a willful and quarrelsome woman. When Katherine and Petruchio first meet, their rapid exchange of insults is filled with references to animals, as is the exchange of jests by the wedding guests in the final scene of the play. Dogs and horses figure prominently in the play, and several characters are compared to animals. In act 4, Petruchio likens his handling of Katherine to the methods used in taming falcons or hawks. In many cases, the use of animal imagery to describe a character is clearly demeaning, as when Gremio refers to Katherine

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as a ‘‘wild-cat’’, or Hortensio describes Bianca as a ‘‘proud disdainful haggard [untamed hawk]’’. In other cases, the effect is more complex. While some critics see Petruchio’s use of animal imagery in referring to Katherine as indicative of a desire to subdue and control her, others have argued that Petruchio’s likening of Katherine to a falcon, for instance, reflects a recognition that a successful marriage requires two minds working in partnership. Much of the play’s animal imagery is also an imagery of games and sport. Early in the Induction the Lord arrives from hunting, and subsequently hunting is used to typify both the pursuit of women by the play’s various suitors, and the behavior of women toward each other. Clothing and entertaining, particularly dining, also figure prominently as images in the play. Petruchio’s strategy for subduing Katherine involves both his refusal to dress as expected when he arrives at their wedding in outlandish clothes, and his refusal to allow Katherine to purchase the clothing she wants. Clothing is also important to the various deceptions in the Induction and the subplot. At various points in the play, Katherine’s exclusion from or participation in banquets or dinner parties becomes an issue. Petruchio prevents her from taking part in the banquet at her own wedding, and later allows her to join him and Hortensio at dinner only after she has thanked him for providing food. Toward the end of the play he threatens to keep her from Bianca’s wedding banquet unless Katherine kisses him in public. Finally, it is at that banquet that Katherine makes the public display of obedience which convinces the other guests that she has truly been ‘‘tamed.’’

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Textual Background Shakespeare appears to have drawn on many sources in writing the play. The character of the shrew— a word used to indicate an opinionated, domineering, and sharp-tongued woman—is found in the folklore and literature of many cultures. The earliest example in English drama is thought to be the character of Noah’s wife in the medieval mystery plays. In the sixteenth century, shrewish wives were featured in a number of plays, many of which depicted cruel physical punishments for the shrew.

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The principal source of the Bianca-Lucentio subplot is George Gascoigne’s play The Supposes (1566). Gascoigne’s play was itself derived from an Italian play, Ludovico Ariosto’s I suppositi (1509), and many of its elements can be traced back to the classical Latin comedies of Plautus and Terence. As for the Induction, the story of a poor man tricked into thinking he is a nobleman was common in Europe and Asia in the sixteenth century. In addition, an anonymous play entitled The Taming of a Shrew and published in 1594 is generally thought to be either a pirated copy of Shakespeare’s play or an inaccurate copy of an earlier play that may have been another source for Shakespeare’s version. While the action of The Taming of a Shrew is very close to that of Shakespeare’s play, both the language and the names of the characters are different. One interesting difference between the two plays concerns the Induction. In Shakespeare’s play as we have it, the characters in the Induction are not mentioned in the text after the end of act 1, scene 1. In A Shrew, on the other hand, the story line of the Induction is brought to a conclusion at the end of the play. Some modern productions of Shakespeare’s Shrew incorporate material from The Taming of a Shrew in order to complete the story introduced in the Induction. Others eliminate the Induction altogether.

Reign of Queen Elizabeth Queen Elizabeth is remembered as the great Tudor monarch who brought stability and growth to England over the course of her reign. The daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth became what many deem England’s greatest monarch. She was beloved by her people and respected among world leaders. During her rule, great artistic, literary, and naval figures rose to prominence. It was during her reign that the defeat of the Spanish Armada took place. Her years on the throne were not without conflict, however. Europe was in the throes of religious turmoil, and Elizabeth’s establishment of the Anglican Church, observing Protestantism, was controversial. Persecution against Catholics followed, with the religious question far from resolved. Elizabeth’s court was widely regarded as a great cultural center. In fact, Elizabeth herself was sometimes the subject of artistic expression.

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

Late 1500s: London theater is thriving as the English language has become a major vehicle for literary expression. By combining English interests and culture with conventions of classical drama, the English theater is full of relevance. Besides portraying stories about relationships, history, and politics, the London theater has become a vital part of the passionate religious debates of the day.

Today: Theater must compete with television and film for audience interest. Although many theaters still attract large audiences, the most popular plays tend to be well-known musicals, or plays by already-established playwrights. While there is room in the theater world for experimental and modern drama, audiences for these types of plays tend to be made up of a small but committed group of theatergoers. Late 1500s: Gender roles are well established, and characters such as Katherine are intended to portray the exception, or even the extreme, of feminine independence. In the play, Katherine is outspoken, rash, and independent, but she is still subject to the will of her father before her marriage and Petruchio’s will after her marriage. This reflects the limitations on women; even women from well-to-do families are expected to marry unless they choose to enter convents. The ideal woman is seen at the end of the play, when Katherine has been (at least seemingly) tamed. Men, on the other hand, are free to be docile or rowdy, with few social consequences. Today: Gender roles have been seriously challenged and redefined over the course of the twentieth century. Women are often as

Edmund Spenser dedicated his epic work, The Faerie Queene (1590), to her, explaining in a letter to Sir John Walter Raleigh that the queen represents Elizabeth. She employed foreign


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outspoken and independent as men, and the negative backlash of such behavior is lessening. As for marriage, women are free to choose not only whom they marry, but if they marry at all.

Late 1500s: It is common for families to arrange marriages, and they can be arranged while the bride and groom are young teenagers. The parents make these deals with one another to try to improve the social or financial standing of their families. Gender roles in marriage remain traditional, with the man working to support his family and the woman overseeing domestic responsibilities. Women possess no political power (with the obvious exception of monarchs) and they are not empowered to own land. Submission to their husbands is important for the family to run smoothly and for the family to be respected in society. Today: Not just in England, but throughout the Western world, gender roles in marriage are more fluid than ever. Men and women decide whether they will both work, and if not, which of them will stay home. Men and women share an abundance of work opportunities, based on their education and experience rather than gender. This gives married couples a greater degree of flexibility than in the past to make decisions about how their work will factor into their marriage. At home, gender roles are no longer assigned or assumed. Either the husband or the wife may perform domestic duties, manage the family finances, or make social plans. The norm is for the couple to make major decisions together in equal partnership.

artists in her court to paint portraits and create theatrical pieces and other works. Elizabeth also patronized Thomas Tallis and William Byrd, arguably the greatest English composers of the

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time. She even set aside her religious intolerance for them; they were both Catholic, yet she extended her protection to them. Elizabeth was also a lover of theater, and Shakespeare was a favorite.

Shakespeare’s English Theater A prolific writer of comedies, tragedies, and histories, Shakespeare is credited with authorship of thirty-seven plays, many of which are frequently performed in today’s theater. As a playwright, Shakespeare’s achievement is considered by many to be unparalleled and his era to be a pivotal time in Western literature. Historians frequently observe that Shakespeare’s arrival on the London theater scene was well timed. In many ways, Shakespeare is a product of Elizabethan theater because the opportunity was wide open for his talent when he arrived. The theater was coming into its own as a serious literary venue, and plays were diverse in subject matter. The theaters in London were also well attended and patronized. Shakespeare’s unique ability to write about universal human experiences and truths brought depth and accessibility to his dramas as well as his comedies. By also writing histories, he reinforced the popular interest in national, classical, and monarchical history, while paying homage to the monarchs on whose support he depended. Shakespeare wrote during the reigns of Elizabeth and James, and he found the two monarchs preferred different things. Elizabethan drama often took neoclassical themes and settings, a thread obvious in Shakespeare’s body of work. Some of his histories include events in the lives of Elizabeth’s ancestors, such as Henry VII. Shakespeare also employed what is called Elizabethan bawdy, a type of low humor that specifically targets the mentally ill, the uneducated, and female sexuality.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW The Taming of the Shrew has received a great deal of critical commentary and, because of its subject matter, that commentary has reflected trends over the years. The central idea of the play is the taming of a shrewish woman, a concept that became less favorably received over the course of the twentieth century. Thus gender roles and the analysis of the play’s two main

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characters has been the subject of much criticism. The play is complex, however, lending itself to commentary on its themes, imagery, and even debate as to whether or not the play is a farce. Numerous critics have weighed in on the play’s treatment of gender roles: that is, what it has to say about socially accepted definitions of appropriate male and female behavior. In the end, Kate has apparently come round to the socially accepted definition, giving a long speech proclaiming the rightness of male dominance and female submissiveness. Until fairly recently, few people challenged this view of the play. In fact, the play knew centuries of popularity with audiences who found Petruchio’s taming of Katherine both inoffensive and amusing. Critics’ examinations of various aspects of the play have led to no consensus as to the play’s attitude toward gender roles. A number of critics continue to maintain that the play ultimately accepts and reinforces male dominance of women. In ‘‘Bad’’ Shakespeare: Revaluations of the Shakespeare Canon, Shirley Nelson Garner exposes what she sees as a misogynistic, or woman-hating, overtone of the play. Garner explains that even if a teacher offers an ‘‘ingenious reading’’ of the play, students will quite likely see through it. She adds, ‘‘They will know in their hearts that—at the least—there is something wrong with the way Kate is treated. And they will be right.’’ Later in her treatment of the play, Garner notes, ‘‘The central joke in The Taming of the Shrew is directed against a woman. The play seems written to please a misogynist audience.’’ Many of these critics also argue, however, that while accepting male dominance, the play emphasizes the need for mutual affection, cooperation, and partnership in marriage. Another view maintains that Katherine’s final speech should be read ironically, with the implication that she will pretend to defer to Petruchio in public while ruling the household in private. Yet other commentators argue that the play ultimately undermines male dominance of women by showing this dominance to be artificial and illogical. Directors of modern productions of The Taming of the Shrew have also offered a wide variety of interpretations of this issue. In fact, in her Introduction to Cambridge

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University Press’s edition of the play, Ann Thompson remarks:

this is ‘‘a symbol of her new realization of what she has been but is no longer.’’

[T]hroughout its stage history The Taming of the Shrew has probably received fewer completely straight performances than any other Shakespearean play of comparable popularity on the stage. The apparently unrelieved ethic of male supremacy has proved unpalatable, and generation after generation of producers and directors have altered and adapted the text in more or less flagrant ways in order to soften the ending.

Many different interpretations of Katherine’s character have been put forward both on the stage and by the critics. One popular view sees Katherine as a miserable and maladjusted woman at the beginning of the play who by its end has been transformed into a happy wife who has learned to accept joyfully her appointed role in society. A number of other critics see Katherine’s true character as loving and amenable. Others see her as a forerunner of Shakespeare’s later, more attractively drawn comic heroines, such as Rosalind in As You Like It and Beatrice in Much Ado about Nothing. Like them, these critics point out, Katherine possess a keen wit, a passionate nature, and a strong will.

Subsequently, many critics have sought to defend The Taming of the Shrew against charges of sexism by contending that the play takes a tongue-in-cheek view of traditional gender roles. The idea is that Katherine’s submission is not to be taken seriously. In this view, the audience is meant to perceive that Katherine will dominate the marriage by allowing Petruchio an outward show of mastery. More recently, several commentators have suggested that the play ultimately undermines conventional social and gender roles. Many critics, however, reject an ironic reading of Petruchio’s subduing of Katherine. The prevalence of animal imagery in The Taming of the Shrew, particularly imagery having to do with falconry and hunting, has been interpreted in various ways. Margaret Loftus Ranald in Essays in Literature finds this imagery very revealing. She notes that ‘‘Petruchio rejoices in Kate’s faults. She will be a haggard worth the taming, a good hawk for his hand.’’ Ranald explores this theme fully, concluding: [T]he hawking imagery carries more weight than the mere suggestion that wives and falcons are more tractable when half starved. Its real value lies in emphasizing the fact that the taming of a wild, mature falcon aims at achieving mutual respect between bird and keeper.

Images having to do with clothing and various forms of entertainment also figure prominently in The Taming of the Shrew. Norman Sanders in Renaissance Papers points out that while the domestic realm reveals the social implications of Katherine’s temperament, ‘‘it is by sartorial imagery that she is shown the personal [implications]. For clothes can be a measure of either the inward man or of the deception he practices on others or on himself.’’ Sanders adds that at the end of the play, it is Katherine’s cap that Petruchio tells her to throw down, and that


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A rather different interpretation also common on the stage is that Katherine is not really tamed at all. Rather, she learns to humor Petruchio’s need to feel that he is in control; she plays the obedient wife in public so as to exercise control at home. In an article for Modern Language Studies, Coppe´lia Kahn describes the last scene as one in which Petruchio finally achieves lordship over his wife and is seen as a superior husband compared to his peers. She adds that Shakespeare ‘‘just makes it clear to us, through the contextual irony of Kate’s last speech, that her husband is deluded.’’ In Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Harold Bloom analyzes the moment in which Katherine agrees with Petruchio that the moon is the sun. He asserts, ‘‘From this moment on, Kate firmly rules while endlessly protesting her obedience to the delighted Petruchio, a marvelous Shakespearean reversal of Petruchio’s earlier strategy of proclaiming Kate’s mildness even as she raged on.’’ A key question in interpreting The Taming of the Shrew is whether Shakespeare presents Petruchio as an admirable character or as an offensive one. Closely related is the matter of his motives for wanting to marry Katherine and his goals in taming her. Productions of the play have differed widely in their answers to these questions, as have the critics’ opinions. Many writers point to Petruchio’s energy, imagination, and firmness of purpose as qualities that make him an attractive character. Petruchio’s violent and willful behavior is not limited to the taming process, but is demonstrated in the play well before he meets Katherine. Petruchio, they

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argue, is even more shrewish than Katherine, but his behavior is considered acceptable and even praiseworthy because he is a man. Petruchio’s motives have also been the subject of critical debate. While some critics see Petruchio as a strong-willed man smitten with a woman who is strong enough to be his mate, others see him as little more than a bully. In Shakespeare’s Comic Sequence, author Kenneth Muir reminds readers that by his own admission, Petruchio is seeking a wealthy wife. Muir adds that Petruchio’s ‘‘method of taming Katherine is that of a bully.’’ Muir lists the ways Petruchio tames Katherine, including using his physical strength, humiliating her at her wedding, forcing her to leave her wedding feast, starving her into submission, forcing her to say untrue things, and betting on her. Muir concludes, ‘‘A high-spirited girl has been tamed by brutal and shameful methods into accepting slavery.’’ Bloom comments on how the process of taming Katherine worsens Petruchio’s character. He points to ‘‘their shared, quite violent forms of expression, which Petruchio ‘cures’ at the high cost of augmenting his own boisterousness to an extreme where it can hardly be distinguished from a paranoid mania.’’ As fascinating as Katherine and Petruchio are individually, the issue of their love for each other proves equally intriguing. George R. Hibbard in Shakespearean Essays concludes that the two enjoy a happy, healthy marriage. He explains, ‘‘It is their knowledge of, and their trust in, each other, which have grown out of experience, that give this pair such an advantage over the other two pairs at the end of the play.’’ Hibbard notes that Hortensio and his widow, and Lucentio and Bianca, do not even know each other, not yet having had the chance to build love and trust. He sees in the play Shakespeare’s distaste for arranged marriages. He writes, ‘‘The play’s disapproval of the arranged match, in which no account is taken of the feelings of the principals, could not be plainer.’’ Critics such as Ruth Nevo make the argument that Katherine is truly in love with Petruchio. Nevo writes in Comic Transformation in Shakespeare: That Kate is in love by Act V, is, I believe, what the play invites us to perceive. And indeed she may well be. The man she has married has humour and high spirits, intuition, patience, self-command, and masterly intelligence; and there is more than merely a homily for Elizabethan wives in her famous speech.

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Because of the complexity of the issues surrounding characterization, motivation, and true resolution, critics have not reached a consensus on whether The Taming of the Shrew is a farce or not. Harold C. Goddard in The Meaning of Shakespeare contends that ‘‘the play within the play is given a simplification and exaggeration that bring its main plot to the edge of farce, while its minor plot, the story of Bianca’s wooers, goes quite over that edge.’’ Kahn writes, ‘‘In making Kate react almost automatically to the contradictory kinds of treatment Petruchio administers . . . Shakespeare molds her to the needs of the farce.’’ Kahn adds that Shakespeare’s use of farce in this play is intended to reveal a failing in Petruchio: ‘‘It . . . pushes us to see this wish for dominance as a childish dream of omnipotence. In short, the farce portrays Petruchio’s manliness as infantile.’’ H. J. Oliver categorizes the play as a farce, but notes the realism in its portrayal of the problems of marriage at the time, ‘‘not as it appeared in the romances of the day, but as it was in Shakespeare’s England.’’ In his Introduction to The Taming of the Shrew, Oliver contends that Katherine is too sympathetic a character to be farcical: ‘‘It is as if Shakespeare set out to write a farce about taming a shrew but had hardly begun before he asked himself what might make a woman shrewish anyway—and found his first answer in her home background.’’ Oliver concludes, ‘‘We sympathize with Katherine—and as soon as we do, farce becomes impossible.’’ Garner accuses those who interpret the play as farcical of trying to find a way to keep the play in good standing, despite its depiction of women. She writes that efforts to see it as farcical or ironic are intended to ‘‘separate Shakespeare from [the play’s] misogynist attitudes, to keep him as nearly unblemished as possible.’’

CRITICISM Ervin Beck In this essay, Beck examines the passage in The Taming of the Shrew in which Petruchio orders Katherine to remove her cap. The critic contends that this act, far from serving as a final sign that Katherine has resigned herself to obey Petruchio, ‘‘may instead be a sign that he thereby liberates her from subordination to him’’

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As a visual preface to Kate’s sermon to wives, the cap in act 5 embodies St. Paul’s discussion of Christian headship in 1 Corinthians 11.3–15: TRADITIONALLY SEEN AS A FINAL SIGN OF KATHERINE’S CONDITIONED SUBSERVIENCE, PETRUCHIO’S TELLING KATHERINE TO REMOVE HER CAP MAY INSTEAD BE A SIGN THAT HE THEREBY LIBERATES HER FROM SUBORDINATION TO HIM.’’

Katherine’s encomium to wives at the end of The Taming of the Shrew is initiated by Petruchio’s command: Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not. Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot. (1) Katherine’s plucking her cap off her head, throwing it to the floor, and possibly even stomping on it make up a crucial, symbolic event, although its theological significance seems to have passed unnoticed. Traditionally seen as a final sign of Katherine’s conditioned subservience, Petruchio’s telling Katherine to remove her cap may instead be a sign that he thereby liberates her from subordination to him. Critics usually see in the discarded cap merely a variation of act 4, scene 3, where Petruchio withholds from Kate the Haberdasher’s cap that she covets. By logical extension, then, in act 5 Kate’s obedience to Petruchio’s ‘‘impossibly humiliating demand’’ shows that ‘‘she has learned the pointlessness of such selfish stubbornness.’’ (2) By conflating both cap scenes in such a formalist manner, even a New Historicist like Stephen Greenblatt arrives at a similar single-minded conclusion in his discussion of Shakespeare’s use of the ‘‘fetishism of costume’’ to communicate ‘‘what can be said, thought, felt in this culture’’ (57). He, too, says that Kate’s discarding of her cap ‘‘demonstrates [Petruchio’s] authority’’ over his ‘‘tamed wife’’ (58). Whether or not the actual physical cap in act 5 is the one the haberdasher offered in act 3, the meaning of ‘‘cap’’ in Kate and Petruchio’s relationship has changed or expanded since the symbol was first introduced into the discourse of the play. In act 3, the cap raises the issue of who will decide which cap Kate will wear. But in act 5, the issue is the much larger theological issue of whether Kate needs to wear any cap at all.


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But I would have you know, that the head of every man is Christ; and the head of every woman is the man; and the head of Christ is God. Every man praying or prophesying, having his head covered, dishonoureth his head. But every woman that prayeth or prophesieth with her head uncovered dishonoureth her head . . . (3–6, King James Version)

Traditionally these verses have been used to justify the tradition of women having their heads covered during worship—and even in everyday life—to show respect to Christ by showing respect to their husbands. Kate’s wearing of a cap stands for submission to her husband. That well-established association is spoken to in ‘‘A Homily of the State of Matrimony’’ published in 1563 for reading in Anglican churches in The Second Tome of Homilies by Archbishop Matthew Parker, Bishop James Pilkington, Rachard Taverner, and others. (3) After discussing proper wifely obedience, the homily continues: This [obedience] let the wife have ever in mind, the rather admonished thereby by the apparel of her head, whereby is signified, that she is under coven or obedience of her husband. And . . . that apparel is of nature so appointed to declare her subjection [to her husband] . . . For if it be not lawful for the woman to have her head bare, but to bear thereon the sign of her power wheresoever she goeth, more is it required that she declare the thing that is meant thereby. And therefore these ancient women of the old world called their husbands lords, and showed them reverence in obeying them. (177)

This conventional value given to the woman’s head covering raises the intriguing possibility that by telling Kate to discard her cap Petruchio is actually freeing Kate from patriarchal subservience to him and creating a relationship of mutuality rather than hierarchy. Kate is now at liberty to do and say what she wants. Just as Kate’s encomium begins with a symbolic action initiated by Petruchio, so it concludes with another equally symbolic action initiated by Kate. That is, of course, her offer to place her hands under her husband’s foot as token of her full submission to him. Speaking first to the Widow and Bianca she says: And place your hands below your husband’s foot,

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‘‘The Wedding Trousseau’’, Act IV, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready, may it do him ease. (5.2.181–83) This speech has been used to support opposite interpretations of the play. If Kate indeed places her hands under Petruchio’s foot, then patriarchal dominance is confirmed. Most critics, however, have assumed that Petruchio does not allow Kate to do so. Her speech is, after all, only an offer. And Petruchio responds to the offer, not by asking her to humiliate herself, but by asking her to kiss him—‘‘Come on, and kiss me, Kate’’(184)—which emphasizes mutual affection rather than servile devotion. Just as Petruchio is testing Kate in this scene—by seeing what she is like when given freedom in the marital relationship—so Kate can be seen as testing Petruchio with her final offer to place her hands under his feet: Does he really mean that she now has the liberty to be what and who she wants to be? If so, then he will reject or ignore her offer, treat her as an equal—and the play concludes in a satisfactorily ‘‘romantic’’ manner. Meanwhile, during her speech and the final other lines, Kate’s symbolic cap has lain on the floor—perhaps even kicked around a bit—as a mute reminder of the bondage from which she is now free.

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The objections to so oversimplified an interpretation are, of course, obvious. It is Petruchio, after all, who has permitted—even commanded— Kate to reject this symbol of masculine authority. And her obedience to him in doffing the cap is fully in keeping with the successful conditioning of Kate that he has engineered in the preceding scenes. Yet Kate’s speech is so eloquently persuasive that it seems to come from the heart. And the symbolic actions that frame it help us believe in the freedom and sincerity with which Kate delivers it. Relating Kate’s cap to the I Corinthians text does not simplify the ending; in fact, it renders its possibilities more complex. It may show that Shakespeare is working within a conventional view of male and female relationships that is as old as the Wife of Bath’s tale in Chaucer: What does a woman want most of all? Sovereignty. What does she do as soon as she obtains sovereignty? Yield to the wishes of her husband— because she loves him. That may be merely male wish fulfillment, again, and it certainly does not match what feminist critics today regard as good gender relationships. But it helps establish a kind of mutuality in marriage that is usually present in Shakespeare’s

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documents give insight into the pertinent issues of the play, and commentary helps guide the reader into a deeper understanding of Shakespeare’s text.


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Shakespeare Reread: The Texts in New Contexts (1994) contains Linda Boose’s article, ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew, Good Husbandry, and Enclosure.’’ In her article, Boose relates the play’s treatment of social and sexual hierarchy to socioeconomic changes and class conflict in early modern England. In 1950’s Essays and Studies, Nevil Coghill’s essay ‘‘The Basis of Shakespearian Comedy’’ is one of the first essays to argue that Katherine, not Petruchio, is the one who succeeds in mastering the art and practice of matrimony. Frances E. Dolan’s 1996 ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew’’: Texts and Contexts considers the play from a wide range of perspectives, including feminist and cultural. Primary

romantic comedies and it makes a disputed comedy even more teasingly complex. Source: Ervin Beck, ‘‘Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in The Explicator, Vol. 57, No. 1, Fall 1998, pp. 8–12.

Anthony Holden’s 2002 William Shakespeare: An Illustrated Biography offers readers an honest attempt to present the facts of Shakespeare’s life, separate from the legends that surround the playwright. The book is brought to life by the inclusion of illustrations and mementos related to the Bard’s life.

Maynard Mack’s ‘‘Engagement and Detachment in Shakespeare’s Plays’’ appears in Essays on Shakespeare and Elizabethan Drama in Honor of Hardin Craig (1962). In his essay, Mack examines the psychological process by which Petruchio tries to change Katherine’s view of her own identity.

In Fashioning Femininity and English Renaissance Drama (1991), Karen Newman closely examines the portrayals of women in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama to see how their submission was depicted. She spends an entire chapter on family dynamics and The Taming of the Shrew.

done by making it appear that Katherine’s submission is not to be taken seriously, although sometimes productions go to the other extreme and imply that Katherine has been brainwashed. Thomspon concludes that contemporary social and political attitudes will continue to color productions of the play.

Ann Thompson In a review of the stage history of The Taming of the Shrew, Thompson suggests that the play has always ‘‘been disturbing as well as enjoyable’’ and that its ‘‘‘barbaric and disgusting’ quality has always been an important part of its appeal.’’ Until the middle of the nineteenth century, she points out, the play was almost always produced with considerable modifications to Shakespeare’s text. Many of the changes increased the roughness of Petruchio’s behavior, while others, often in the same version, ‘‘softened’’ the play, making it explicit that Katherine is in love with Petruchio and that Petruchio’s domineering behavior is only a ploy. More recently, as women’s rights have become an issue, directors have tended to give their productions an ironic tone. Usually this is


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Source: Ann Thompson, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Taming of the Shrew, Cambridge University Press, 1984, pp. 1–41.

H. J. Oliver In the following excerpt, Oliver analyzes Petruchio’s suitability for the task of ‘‘taming’’ Katherine. The critic rejects readings that see Petruchio as motivated by love as well as evaluations that suggest Katherine and Petruchio are merely ‘‘playing a game.’’ Instead, Oliver emphasizes Petruchio’s superior maturity and experience and his ability to make a plan and stick to it as the primary reasons for his success. The critic also suggests that Petruchio’s treatment of Katherine is at times so harsh that it would have won sympathy for Katherine even from an Elizabethan audience hardened to plays about ‘‘shrew-taming.’’

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tradition of parents arranging their children’s marriages was being challenged, while a new ideal of mutual love between partners was taking root. The Taming of Shrew satirizes the old, mercenary order, Hibbard maintains, especially in the scene where Baptista appears to auction off Bianca to the highest bidder. But it also rejects the romantic view of marriage depicted in the Bianca-Lucentio subplot in favor of matches such as Katherine and Petruchio’s, based on ‘‘real knowledge and experience.’’ The critic calls attention to the directness and honesty of the conflict between the latter couple and contrasts it with Bianca and Lucentio’s reliance on ploys and deceptions. A case, of sorts, can be made out for the view that The Shrew is designed to bring out and contrast the two opposed attitudes to marriage that existed at the time when it was written: the idea of marriage as a purely business matter, which may be called realistic since it corresponds to the facts, and the idea of it as a union of hearts and minds, which may be called romantic. That some kind of contrast is intended is evident from the conduct of the two plots, which alternate with each other in a regular and contrapuntal fashion until the final scene, where they come together and are rounded off. In this reading of the play the realistic attitude is embodied in Petruchio who makes no secret of his mercenary intentions. To Hortensio, who asks him why he has come to Padua, he replies: Antonio, my father, is deceased, And I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may. [I. ii. 54–6] A few lines later he clinches the matter when, having said that the age and appearance of the lady are of no importance so long as she is rich, he adds: I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. [I. ii. 75–6] Source: H. J. Oliver, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Taming of the Shrew, Oxford at the Clarendon Press, 1982, pp. 1–75.

George R. Hibbard Hibbard suggests that The Taming of the Shrew contrasts opposing views of marriage that coexisted in Elizabethan England. He asserts that in the last decades of the sixteenth century, the

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He plainly belongs to the old conservative school of thought, and his views on wives and their place are in keeping. In III. ii, having married Katharina, he pretends to defend her against her friends and kinsmen, ostensibly telling them but in fact telling her: Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret, I will be master of what is my own.

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THE SCENES INVOLVING PETRUCHIO AND KATHARINA HAVE MUCH MORE VITALITY THAN THOSE INVOLVING BIANCA. WE ARE LEFT AT THE END WITH THE CONVICTION THAT THE ARRANGED MATCH IS A FAR MORE DURABLE AND SOLID THING THAN THE ROMANTIC ONE.’’

She is my goods, my chattels, she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing. [III. ii. 228–32] The words are substantially a version of the tenth commandment and they serve as a forcible reminder of the weight of authority and tradition behind the attitude to woman which they express. In accordance with this same body of ideas, Petruchio feels that his wife should be in complete subjection to him; uses the appropriate means to subdue her to his will; and having achieved this purpose, explains its significance to Hortensio in V. ii by saying: Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, An awful rule and right supremacy; And, to be short, what not, that’s sweet and happy. [V. ii. 108–10] In contrast to this story, in which the woman is treated as a chattel, enjoys none of the pleasures of court-ship and is humiliated and subdued, there runs alongside it the tale of Bianca. She enjoys the pleasures of being wooed by no fewer than four men, of making her own choice from among them, of deceiving her father, of stealing a runaway marriage, of having it approved of by both the fathers concerned, and, most important of all, of continuing to get her own way with her husband after marriage as well as before it. Put in these terms, The Shrew looks like an argument for the romantic attitude. But this conclusion only has to be stated for it to be found unacceptable. The scenes involving Petruchio and Katharina have much more vitality than


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those involving Bianca. We are left at the end with the conviction that the arranged match is a far more durable and solid thing than the romantic one. The most eloquent speech in the whole play is Katharina’s, extolling the principle of male dominance and female subjection as a law of nature, and it follows on Petruchio’s triumph over Lucentio in the matter of the wager. The main interest of the play is in Petruchio and Katharina, not in the rest. Does this mean, then, that Shakespeare has come down on the side of the arranged marriage and the old order? In general terms it would seem unlikely, for in his subsequent comedies love is the central value. More to the point, however, such an inference will not square with the evidence of the second half of II. i, which is a pointed and effective piece of comic satire on the marriage market. In the first half of the scene Petruchio has wooed Katharina and the match between them has been fixed. Petruchio makes his exit saying: Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu, I will to Venice—Sunday comes apace— We will have rings, and things, and fine array, And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o’ Sunday. [II. i. 321–24] The way is now open for Baptista to dispose of his younger daughter and he wastes no time in setting about it. The scene that follows, between him and Gremio and Tranio, is conducted on a blatantly commercial level. Baptista’s opening words, referring to the match that has just been concluded between Katharina and Petruchio, set the tone: Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part, And venture madly on a desperate mart. [II. i. 326–27] Tranio catches the allusion at once, and endorses it by saying: ’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you, ’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas. [II. i. 328–29] Both of them regard Katharina as a questionable piece of goods that Baptista has done well to get off his hands. At this point Gremio puts in his claim for the hand of Bianca and Tranio promptly asserts his counterclaim. Both begin by saying that they love her, but the

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Richard Burton as Petruchio and Elizabeth Taylor as Katharina from the 1967 film The Taming of the Shrew (Everett Collection)

statement really amounts to nothing—in any case Tranio is only standing in for Lucentio— and Baptista immediately brings the whole thing down to the only terms that matter when he stops the incipient quarrel with the words: Content you, gentlemen, I will compound this strife, ’Tis deeds must win the prize, and he, of both, That can assure my daughter greatest dower, Shall have Bianca’s love. [II. i. 341–44] The dower involved here is the money the husband assured to his wife on marriage, in order to provide for her widowhood if he should die before her. It was an essential part of the marriage contract in Shakespeare’s England. Deeds in this context mean, not the service with which the lover of romance won his lady, but property and cash. There is surely a pun on the sense of title-deeds. Bianca’s fate is

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to be settled by an auction, not by a knightly combat. Gremio makes his bid; Tranio puts in a better; Gremio increases his offer; Tranio outbids him once more, and actually uses the word ‘‘out-vied’’ to describe his success. The satire is unmistakable. It is clinched by Baptista’s weighing of the two offers and settling, with a careful proviso, for the higher. Turning to Tranio, he says: I must confess your offer is the best, And, let your father make her the assurance, She is your own—else, you must pardon me, If you should die before him, where’s her dower? [II. i. 386–89] But, being a good business man, he keeps the second customer in reserve. If Tranio’s father fails to back up his son’s offer, Bianca will be married to Gremio after all. The scene leaves one in no doubt about the play’s attitude to the marriage market. With it in

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mind, it is now possible to go back to the two contrasted plots and to consider them afresh. The fundamental difference between them in terms of their construction has been well analyzed by Bertrand Evans, who shows that while the Bianca story is developed through an intricate series of deceptions and disguises, there is no deception whatever in the KatharinaPetruchio story. Petruchio is told in no uncertain terms about Katharina’s character before he meets her, and he, in turn, tells her, at their first meeting in II. i, that he intends to tame her. To use Evans’s own words: The Taming of the Shrew, then, is unique among Shakespeare’s comedies in that it has two distinct plots, one relying mainly on discrepant awarenesses, the other using them not at all.

This contrast is more than a matter of the mechanics of plotting and of exploiting two different kinds of awareness in the audience. It is functional, springing from the contrasted characters of those involved in the two actions and from the antithetical attitudes to life and marriage that are presented through them. Viewed in relation to the characters of the sisters, the two plots develop along the same lines, each containing a complete reversal. At the opening Bianca appears to be everything that the age thought a girl ought to be, obedient to her father, submissive to her elder sister, modest, unobtrusive and quiet. Katharina is her opposite, disobedient to her father, tyrannical towards her younger sister, aggressive, rebellious and noisy. In each case, however, these initial impressions are misleading. As the play goes on the two girls change places, as it were, until, at the end of it, Katharina is revealed as the perfect wife and Bianca as the difficult and troublesome one. Each has, in fact, shown herself as she really is. Nor has the change been an arbitrary one; it has been implicit from the beginning, where there are clear indications that things are not as they seem. Baptista’s initial offer in I. i to allow Gremio and Hortensio to court Katharina, if they wish, terrifies Gremio. His answer is an outraged recoil: To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me . . . There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? [I. i. 55–6] Carting was, of course, the punishment inflicted on harlots. As well as being treated like a chattel by her father, Katharina is being


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grossly insulted by the old pantaloon. Her vigorous complaint to Baptista is fully justified: I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates? [I. i. 57–8] Stale has a double meaning. Primarily in this context it signifies ‘‘a laughing-stock,’’ but it also carries the sense of ‘‘whore.’’ Katharina is a woman of independent spirit revolting against a society in which girls are bought and sold in marriage. Moreover, the word mates, which she uses of Gremio and Hortensio, is also carefully chosen. It means ‘‘vulgar fellows of no real worth,’’ and its accuracy is borne out by their reactions to her contempt and her threats. ‘‘From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!’’ says Gremio, to which Hortensio adds, ‘‘And me too, good Lord!’’ [I. i. 66, 67]. They are both poor-spirited creatures, with no vigour or masculinity about them. Instead of standing up to Katharina, they are cowed by her. And she knows it. As Petruchio shrewdly remarks in II. i, ‘‘If she be curst it is for policy’’ [II. i. 292]. Her shrewishness is not bad temper, but the expression of her self-respect. Indeed, it even looks like a deliberately adopted form of self-defence, a means of testing the quality of the men she meets, in order to ensure that she has some say in the matter of marriage and is not sold off to a wealthy milksop. She is certainly not opposed to the prospect of marriage. The opening of II. i makes this plain enough, for in it she ill-treats Bianca for being so successful with men, and, when her father seeks to restrain her, she cries out in a jealous fury: What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband, I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day And for your love to her lead apes in hell. [II. i. 31–4] She detests the idea of being an old maid and of her younger sister preceding her in marriage. She is attached to traditional notions of order and fitness. Provided that she can find a man who will stand up to her and earn her respect, she is ready and even eager to marry. Her subsequent behaviour, including her final speech, is all of a piece with her character and attitude as revealed in these two appearances and in the analogy drawn by Petruchio at the end of IV.i between the process by which he tames her and the methods used to tame a haggard, for the

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Elizabethans believed that falcons and the like were really of an affectionate nature and could be brought to love the man who trained them. Gervase Markham, for example, after listing the various kinds of hawks, adds these words: ‘‘all these Hawkes are hardy, meeke, and louing to the man’’ [in his Country Contentments]. Moreover, in his subsequent directions for training them, he lays great stress on kindness, writing as follows: All Hawkes generally are manned after one manner, that is to say, by watching and keeping them from sleep, by a continuall carrying of them vpon your fist, and by a most familiar stroaking and playing with them, with the Wing of a dead Foule or such like, and by often gazing and looking of them in the face, with a louing and gentle Countenace, and so making them acquainted with the man.

‘‘Hardy (i.e. bold), meeke, and louing to the man’’ is a very accurate description of Katharina’s real character. At this stage in the action it is not yet clear what Bianca’s nature is. We still do not know whether Katharina’s hearty dislike of her is the result of jealousy, or whether it rests on other and more creditable grounds. Her role so far has been a passive one, though it is already evident that she is her father’s favourite and knows that she can rely on his support. In III. i, however, she appears in a new situation, and much that has hitherto been obscure ceases to be so. Alone with two of her suitors, Lucentio, disguised as a teacher of Latin, and Hortensio, disguised as a teacher of music, Bianca discards the submissive mask she has worn in the presence of her father and shows her true disposition. As the two lovers dispute over which of them shall give his lesson first, she asserts her authority, saying: Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, To strive for that which resteth in my choice: I am no breeching scholar in the schools, I’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times, But learn my lessons as I please myself. And to cut off all strife, here sit we down: Take you your instrument, play you the whiles— His lecture will be done ere you have tuned. [III. i. 16–23] The kitten shows her claws. She is in complete control of the situation enforcing her will on both men, and she remains in control of it for the rest of the play. Her refusal in V. ii, after she

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has married Lucentio, to come at his bidding is already implicit in this scene. The differences between the two sisters are more than differences of character, they also have a representative quality which is reflected in the way the two plots are conducted. In a society where the subjection of women is taken for granted two courses are open to the woman who does not accept this assumption: she can either resort to open revolt, or she can take the more devious, and usually more effective, line of apparent acquiescence and submission as a means to getting her own way through deception, intrigue and petticoat government. Katharina and Bianca embody these two different kinds of reaction to the existing situation; and so do the two plots, the one proceeding openly through a conflict of wills and tempers, the other moving to its end through a complicated tangle of misdirection and disguises. The Taming of the Shrew is an incisive piece of social criticism as well as an amusing play. The scope of this criticism is widened and enriched by Shakespeare’s presentation and handling of the men. Here again the main instrument is contrast. As I have pointed out, the men of Padua, with whom Lucentio may be included though he comes from Pisa, are a poor-spirited lot, content to play the marriage game along the conventional lines of dowries and intrigue. Petruchio, however, is something quite different. From the moment that he enters the play, at the opening of I. ii, his masculinity is emphasized. He is violent and aggressive, thoroughly enjoying the row with his servant, Grumio. He is always frank and honest, with himself as well as with others. He resorts to no subterfuges, but states his motive in coming to Padua so openly and unashamedly that it sounds like a challenge to instead of an acceptance of, the conventions: I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. He bursts in on the intrigues rather like an Elizabethan buccaneer descending on a civilized but effete Mediterranean city. He brings a breath of fresh air with him; his very language is boisterous and blustering . . . Petruchio’s other great asset is his confidence in himself and his sportsman’s love of risk. Audacity is the keynote of his wooing. Recognizing Katharina’s spirit he deliberately engages her, through his calculated familiarity

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and impudence, in a battle of wits that leads on to a physical struggle and a battle of wills. She cannot resist the challenge he throws down; and the whole affair is conducted like a game within the limits supplied by certain rules which are tacitly accepted by both. She oversteps those rules when she strikes him, but the warning he gives: ‘‘I swear I’ll cuff you, if you strike again,’’, [II. i. 220], is enough to make her realize that the rules must be kept. Neither of them must injure the other’s self-respect and, once he has released her, there must be no further resort to direct physical force. The engagement—in the military as well as the marital sense of the word—that follows is really a process by which each of them comes to know and to appreciate the other fully. And it is very significant that although they are married in III. ii they do not seem to go to bed together to consummate their marriage until the very end of the play, by which time they are allies and lovers, for Katharina has kissed Petruchio in the street at the end of V. i. It is their knowledge of, and their trust in, each other, which have grown out of experience, that give this pair such an advantage over the other two pairs at the end of the play. Hortensio and his widow do not know one another, nor do Lucentio and Bianca. How should they? Hortensio has married on the rebound, and Lucentio’s wooing of Bianca has been conducted in terms that allow of no real engagement of heart or head. The stratagems that have led to his success have not been his own but Tranio’s. It is Tranio who gets rid of Hortensio as a rival wooer, who instructs the Pedant in his part and who tells Lucentio when and how to steal the marriage. Lucentio is depicted throughout as a man besotted by love of a rather fanciful kind and, consequently, incapable of initiating any action. The brittle, bookish, artificial style of his language as a lover is an effective criticism of his shortcomings as a man. He has nothing of Petruchio’s independence, self-reliance and grasp on essentials. His lyrical description of Bianca in V. i. when he refers to her as ‘‘the wished haven of my bliss’’ [V. i. 128], is a convincing proof that he has not so much as noticed the pointers to her true nature which are set out so clearly in III. i. That The Shrew is a gay, high-spirited, rollicking play, full of broad farcical scenes and richly comic narrative passages is self-evident. What I have tried to show is that it also has a


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serious side to it. Underneath the comic exaggeration it is basically realistic. It portrays the marriage situation, not as it appeared in the romances of the day, but as it was in Shakespeare’s England. And the criticism it brings to bear on it is constructive as well as destructive. Baptista, the foolish father who knows nothing about his daughters yet seeks to order their lives, is defeated all along the line. So is Gremio, the old pantaloon, who thinks he can buy a wife. The play’s disapproval of the arranged match, in which no account is taken of the feelings of the principals, could not be plainer. Within the framework of marriage as it existed at the time, it comes out in favour of the match based on real knowledge and experience, over against the more fanciful kind of wooing that ignores facts in favour of bookishly conventional attitudes and expressions of feeling. Paradoxically enough it is Katharina and Petruchio, for each of whom it is the other, as the other really is, that matters, who embody the new revolutionary attitude to marriage, rather than Lucentio and Bianca. Source: George R. Hibbard, ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew: A Social Comedy,’’ in Shakespearean Essays, edited by Alwin Thaler and Norman Sanders, University of Tennessee Press, 1964, pp. 15–28.

Norman Sanders In the following excerpt, Sanders focuses on the importance in the play of clothing and images related to household management. By disrupting the conventions of dining and proper attire, the critic suggests, Petruchio drives home to Katherine the social and personal implications of her disorderly behavior. In both the main action and in the subplot, the critic maintains, clothing becomes indicative of the discrepancy that can exist between a person’s appearance and his or her true identity. The critic also comments briefly on the symbolic significance of music in the play and on Shakespeare’s use of imagery to achieve dramatic unity. Dining and entertainment are traditionally and theatrically symbols of concord, amity and respect; and thus it is that Kate’s first lesson is given in a travesty of a feast. She is first dragged away from the wedding banquet where, as Petruchio says, the ‘‘honest company . . . Dine with my father, drink a health to me’’ (III.ii.192– 95). The entertainment she experiences at her new home is rather different. Grumio enters to set the scene of the journey from which the guests are to be received: a journey of tired jades, lost cruppers, burst bridles, and foul ways, with the travellers

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WHEN IN THE FINAL SCENE IT IS KATE’S CAP THAT PETRUCHIO ORDERS HER TO THROW AS A BAUBLE UNDER FOOT, IT BECOMES FOR THE AUDIENCE A SYMBOL OF HER NEW REALISATION OF WHAT SHE HAS BEEN BUT IS NO LONGER.’’

mere pieces of ice in a cold world. The reception is equally calamitous: there is ‘‘no man at the door’’ to hold a stirrup or take a horse, ‘‘no regard, no attendance, no duty,’’ and no meeting in the park by the ‘‘loggerheaded and unpolished grooms.’’ And, as the scene proceeds, the music accompanying the meal becomes snippets of old ballads, the washing of the hands a slapstick routine, and the dishes are used as aggressive weapons on ‘‘heedless joltheads and unmannered slaves.’’ The food itself is burnt and dried, mere overcooked flesh that ‘‘engenders choler, and planteth anger.’’ By Petruchio’s report Kate’s bed of rest after the journey is to be of a piece with her other entertainment: Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not: . . . some undeserved fault I’ll find about the making of the bed And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster, This way the coverlet, another way the sheets. (III.iii.191–95) Later, at a less ‘‘formal’’ level of entertainment Grumio is to drive home the lesson, only to be followed by Petruchio with the rituals of dining, and a speech which demands for its true effect that the meal he has prepared himself be either microscopic or quickly taken away from her. But although by such inverted domestic rites Kate is shown the social implications of her disorder, it is by sartorial imagery that she is shown the personal ones. For clothes can be a measure of either the inward man or of the deception he practises on others or on himself. Kate’s persecution of Bianca early in the play takes this form in Bianca’s plea:

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but for these other gawds, Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself, Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat. (II.i.3–5) Once the wedding is planned, Petruchio (as well he might) sees his preparations in terms of garments: ‘‘I will unto Venice to buy apparel ’gainst my wedding day . . . I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine . . . We will have have rings and things and fine array’’ (II.i.307–16). Bianca will not dance barefoot but will help dress her sister’s chamber. However, when the day arrives this normality is transgressed by means of clothes. Biondello heralds Petruchio’s and Grumio’s approach in a long verbal tour de force describing ‘‘a monster, a very monster in apparel.’’ Petruchio’s attire is called a shame to his estate and an ‘‘eyesore to our solemn festival.’’ But as Tranio observes he ‘‘has some meaning in his mad attire.’’ His dress is a parallel to Kate’s equally ‘‘mad’’ attitude which only Petruchio sees as being something which is donned but not so easily doffed as his outlandish garb. To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. Could I repair what she will wear in me As I can change these poor accouterments, ’Twere well for Kate and better for myself. (III.ii.116–19) The clothes imagery becomes physical comedy in the scene with the tailor and haberdasher. Petruchio states normal practice again. And now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father’s house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and fardingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of brav’ry. (IV.i.52–57) But at the end of the scene, by sheer verbal pyrotechnics, he has reduced the topic of clothes and their maker to ‘‘a rag, a remnant’’ and mere ‘‘masquing stuff’’; and he can universalise his lesson. Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor, For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds So honor peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark

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Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel Because his painted skin contents the eye? O no, good Kate. (IV.i.172–79) When in the final scene it is Kate’s cap that Petruchio orders her to throw as a bauble under foot, it becomes for the audience a symbol of her new realisation of what she has been but is no longer. In the Bianca/Lucentio plot, too, clothes are used as a means of deception and the theme runs as a more conventional commentary on the more complex deceptions practised by Kate and Petruchio. Tranio takes his master’s ‘‘colored hat and cloak’’ as a sign of his assumption of Lucentio’s role, and puts on his ‘‘apparel and countenance.’’ Vincentio is to notice first Tranio’s attire when they first meet: ‘‘O fine villain! A silken doublet! a velvet hose! a scarlet cloak! and a copatain hat!’’ (IV.iv.63–64). Lucentio will put on a further change and go disguised ‘‘in sober robes, / To old Baptista’’ as a pedant. A true Pedant, in his turn, is clothed as it becomes him to pretend he is Vincentio; and Hortensio plays his part as a musician. While the images of clothes and household management are used as a means of showing Kate’s adjustment to society, it is the imagery of music which conveys the degree and implications of her maladjustment in the main sections of the play. I need not dwell on this, for Mr. T. W. Herbert and Mrs. T. R. Waldo have presented all the pertinent evidence in an interesting article on the subject [in Shakespeare Quarterly, 1959]. Although their principal aim was to prove Shakespeare’s sole authorship of the play, they do make some points material to my case. They point out that man’s adjustment to nature and society was frequently seen in terms of musical harmony, the cosmic expression of which was the music of the spheres; and they gather together those allusions in the play which show Kate as ‘‘anti-musical,’’ allusions which culminate with a visual impact when she breaks the lute over Hortensio’s head. However, I think we may go further and notice that while Bianca, seen by Lucentio as ‘‘the patroness of heavenly harmony,’’ is contrasted with her sister in that she ‘‘taketh most delight / In music, instruments, and poetry,’’ we are given a hint of her married frowardness by her rejection of music in the scene with Hortensio, and her willing association


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with dalliance and disguise. Thus it is ironical that whereas Kate, who at first ‘‘chides as loud / As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack,’’ is taught to sing as sweetly as the nightingale; it is Bianca who finally causes her husband to lament of her ‘‘it is harsh hearing when women are froward.’’ One final point might be made about the conscious artistry and essential unity of the play. In the induction scenes all of the themes and images are mooted: from the harsh sound of hounds and hunting horns to the Lord’s assurance that if Sly would have music ‘‘twenty caged nightingales do sing’’; from the cold bed of rejection on which Sly sleeps so soundly to the luxurious bed of acceptance in which he wakes. The water, the conserves, the sack and costly raiment all make their appearance, and are offered to the tinker as he sits like Kate on her wedding night like one ‘‘new risen from a dream.’’ Here we find too the wife who is no wife and absents herself from her husband’s bed; but who is to all appearances a humble wife ready to show her duty and make known her love with kind embracements. And finally the Lord’s whole action is like that of Petruchio an experiment in the manipulation of a human personality: for Sly, like Kate, is ‘‘monstrous’’—though it is with ale rather than pride. It is for this reason too that, while admitting the final scene in The Taming of a Shrew has some attractive features, I think Shakespeare knew what he was about when he allowed Sly’s ‘‘flattering dream or worthless fancy’’ to pass early and without note into the certainly not profound but nevertheless assured comedy of Kate’s reformation. Source: Norman Sanders, ‘‘Themes and Imagery in The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Renaissance Papers, April 1963, pp. 63–72.

SOURCES Bloom, Harold, ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Books, 1998, pp. 516–45. Garner, Shirley Nelson, ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew: Inside or Outside of the Joke?,’’ in ‘‘Bad’’ Shakespeare: Revaluations of the Shakespeare Canon, edited by Maurice Charney, Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1988, pp. 105–19.

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Goddard, Harold C., ‘‘‘The Taming of the Shrew,’’’ in The Meaning of Shakespeare, University of Chicago Press, 1951, pp. 68–73. Hibbard, George R., ‘‘‘The Taming of the Shrew’: A Social Comedy,’’ in Shakespearean Essays, edited by Alwin Thaler and Norman Sanders, University of Tennessee Press, 1964, pp. 15–28. Kahn, Coppe´lia, ‘‘‘The Taming of the Shrew’: Shakespeare’s Mirror of Marriage,’’ in Modern Language Studies, Vol. 5, No. 1, Spring 1975, pp. 88–102. Muir, Kenneth, ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comic Sequence, Barnes & Noble, 1979, pp. 22–8. Nevo, Ruth, ‘‘Kate of Kate Hall,’’ in Comic Transformations in Shakespeare, Methuen, 1980, pp. 37–52. Oliver, H. J., ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Taming of the Shrew, Oxford at the Clarendon Press, 1982, pp. 1–75. Ranald, Margaret Loftus, ‘‘The Manning of the Haggard: or The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Essays in Literature, Vol. 1, No. 2, Fall 1974, pp. 149–65. Sanders, Norman, ‘‘Themes and Imagery in The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Renaissance Papers, April 1963, pp. 63–72. Shakespeare, William, The Taming of the Shrew, 2nd series, edited by Brian Morris, Arden Shakespeare, 1982. Thompson, Ann, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Taming of the Shrew, Cambridge University Press, 1984, pp. 1–41.

FURTHER READING Asp, Caroline, ‘‘‘Be bloody, bold and resolute’: Tragic Action and Sexual Stereotyping in Macbeth,’’ in Studies in Philology, Vol. 78, No.2, Spring 1981, pp. 153–69. Asp discusses the effect that stereotyping sexual roles has on the major characters in Macbeth. Bradbrook, Muriel C., ‘‘Dramatic Role as Social Image: A Study of The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Shakespeare Jahrbuch, Vol. 94, 1958, pp. 132–50. Bradbrook examines Shakespeare’s adaptation of the traditional roles associated with characters in earlier treatments of the shrew story, focusing in particular on his development of the characters of Katherine and Petruchio.

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Brooks, Charles, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Romantic Shrews,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 1, No. 3, Summer 1960, pp. 351–56. Brooks compares Katherine and Bianca with other Shakespearean female characters. Dusinberre, Juliet, ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew: Women, Acting, and Power,’’ in Studies in the Literary Imagination, Vol. 26, No. 1, Spring 1993, pp. 67–84. Dusinberre points out ways in which the play calls attention to the Elizabethan practice of using boy actors in female roles and examines the effect of this practice on the play’s portrayal of gender relations. Heffernan, Carol F., ‘‘The Taming of the Shrew: The Bourgeoisie in Love,’’ in Essays in Literature, Vol. 12, No. 1, Spring 1985, pp. 3–14. Heffernan analyzes the play’s portrayal of the values of the emergent middle class and its critique of the materialistic nature of Elizabethan marriage arrangements. Heilman, Robert B., ‘‘The ‘Taming’ Untamed, or, The Return of the Shrew,’’ in Modern Language Quarterly, Vol. 27, No. 2, June 1966, pp. 147–61. Heilman argues against twentieth-century interpretations of The Shrew that turn this ‘‘free-swinging farce’’ into ‘‘a brittlely ironic comic drama.’’ Ranald, Margaret Loftus, ‘‘The Performance of Feminism in The Taming of the Shrew,’’ in Theatre Research International, Vol. 19, No. 3, Fall 1994, pp. 214–25. This article provides a brief review of the play’s performance history, focusing in particular on how the relationship between Katherine and Petruchio has been portrayed. Traversi, Derek, ‘‘‘The Taming of the Shrew,’’’ in William Shakespeare: The Early Comedies, The British Council, 1960, pp. 14–22. Traversi maintains that The Taming of the Shrew defends the view that male domination of women is ordained by nature. West, Michael, ‘‘The Folk Background of Petruchio’s Wooing Dance: Male Supremacy in ‘The Taming of the Shrew,’’’ in Shakespeare Studies: An Annual Gathering of Research, Criticism, and Reviews, Vol. 7, 1974, pp. 65–73. West examines similarities between the play and folk traditions of courtship in arguing that the principal source of the play’s imaginative appeal is its lusty depiction of the rites of sexual initiation.

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The Tempest The first record of its performance, in the court Revels Account, indicates that The Tempest was presented before James I and his court on November 1, 1611, Hallomas night, at Whitehall, by Shakespeare’s own acting company, the King’s Men. The Tempest was performed for the court again around February 1613, along with a dozen other plays of a festive and celebratory nature, to celebrate the wedding of James I’s daughter, Elizabeth to the Elector Palatine, who would later briefly reign as the king of Bohemia. The performance date of November 1611 is especially useful in dating the composition of The Tempest because the play is not listed in the notebook of a London doctor named Simon Foreman, who jotted down the plays he saw. Foreman noted that he saw Cymbeline (1610) and The Winter’s Tale (1611) but does not list The Tempest. Foreman died in September of 1611.

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Its first printing appeared in 1623 when The Tempest was given pride of place in the commemorative Folio edition of Shakespeare’s plays, issued and introduced by two of his fellow players in the King’s Men, John Heminges and Henry Condell. It is a particularly good text among Shakespeare’s plays, where bad editions and poor printing can cause editors much distress. Its source is thought to be a clean copy made for publication directly from Shakespeare’s own papers by his acting company’s own scrivener, Ralph Crane. (The company’s scrivener was the man who copied out the plays

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and performed other secretarial functions, an essential person in an age before any mechanical reproduction existed other than printing done with moveable type set by hand.) Uncharacteristically, with the exception of Love’s Labors Lost, the plot of The Tempest has not been taken from any previous story. It is Shakespeare’s own invention, but it is compounded from folk stories and several significant contemporary elements and events. In June 1609, a fleet of nine ships with some 500 colonists set out from Plymouth, England, for Jamestown, Virginia, intending to settle in the New World. Around Bermuda, the lead ship, Sea Venture, was separated from the rest of the fleet in a storm. All the other ships safely reached the port of Jamestown. The Sea Venture’s crew and passengers, including the admiral and the governor-to-be of the colony, were given up for dead. However, on May 23, 1610, nearly a year later, the passengers from the wrecked ship arrived in Jamestown in two ships they themselves had made. Two accounts of their shipwreck, of the island in the Caribbean they happened upon, and of their subsequent experiences, were published in London in 1610. One was A Discovery of the Barmudas, otherwise called Ile of Divels by Sylvester Jourdain. The other, which appeared about a month later, was The True Declaration of the estate of the Colonie in Virginia. It was a report of the Virginia Company, which was financing the venture. Shakespeare was a friend of two of the leaders of the Virginia Company, the Earls of Southampton and Pembroke; he is likely not only to have seen the ‘‘Bermuda pamphlets,’’ as these reports were called, but to have considered their particulars with his friends. It is also certain that Shakespeare, in addition, had read Montaigne’s essay ‘‘Of the Cannibals,’’ in which the great French essayist speculates that the savages of the New World, despite their primitive ways, may have significant human virtues that the Europeans lack. Since the later part of the twentieth century, the intimate connection that The Tempest has with the discovery and exploitation of the New World has made it of particular interest to scholars concerned with colonialism, patriarchy, and the hierarchical relations associated with them. For people in the seventeenth century, before the closing of the theaters by the Puritans in 1642

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or after their reopening by Charles II with the Restoration of the monarchy in 1661, after the fall of the Puritan Commonwealth, The Tempest was a play that lent itself to celebratory spectacle and imaginative scenery. Shakespeare’s theater had not used scenery. It was an open air theater, modeled on the platforms that had been set up in inn-yards when plays were presented. But The Tempest includes a masque. The masque, a staged spectacular performed for court entertainment during the years of Charles I, was already gaining popularity under James I. It was heavily dependent upon scenery and stage effects. When Charles II reopened the theaters in 1661, he made Sir William Davenant head of a company of actors called The Duke’s Men and gave him performance rights to a number of preCromwellian plays including nine by Shakespeare, of which The Tempest was one. A storm, spirits, apparitions, magic, a monster, and an enchanted isle all lent themselves to the sort of spectacular opulence that Davenant recalled from when he had staged masques for King Charles I. In his effort to tame and to bring Restoration sophistication to plays which were considered rough and primitive, in addition to rewriting them, Davenant introduced scenery and spectacular stage machinery. The Tempest, now called The Enchanted Isle, rewritten by Davenant and John Dryden, with many new songs set to music thought to have been composed for the play by Henry Purcell, and staged by Davenant, was a very different play from Shakespeare’s. Significantly, however, it was one of the principle plays instrumental in inspiring the design of the proscenium stage, which could accommodate panels of painted scenery— called flats—and, consequently, helped shape how theaters were imagined and built until the middle of the twentieth century. Because it is the last complete play Shakespeare wrote without a collaborator, and since his death in 1616 followed the play’s composition only by some five years, and since it is a play about a magus giving up his magic (which can be seen as comparable to an artist separating himself from his art) and retiring into a life where ‘‘every third thought shall be my grave,’’ The Tempest has come to be seen as Shakespeare’s valediction, an attribute that clings to it even if some textual scholarship demurs.

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Act I, scene ii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 The Tempest begins with a great sea storm tearing a ship apart, the efforts of the crew to save the ship, and the curses of some of the passengers, who seem to think the mariners are not making a great enough effort in trying to keep the ship afloat. But all is lost. The ship cracks in the storm and goes down.

Act 1, Scene 2 Miranda and her father, Prospero, sit on the shore watching the sea as Miranda describes the storm and the shipwreck, the clash of sea and sky. She tells her father, too, how her heart went out to the creatures on the ship and how she suffered with them. So deep is her pity, and so well is she acquainted with her father, that she guesses that the storm is his work, and begs him, if it is, to calm the waves he has set thrashing. Acknowledging her insight, Prospero tells her to


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be easy, that all aboard the ship are safe and that he has done nothing but for her benefit. He then asks her if she remembers anything of her childhood or how they came to be living on the island. She tells him she remembers several serving women who attended her, and he tells her the story of their life before the time she can remember, before their life on the island Prospero had been the Duke of Milan, but he had been more devoted to study than to governing his realm. He had given over that responsibility to his brother, Antonio. Greedy for power, rather than serving as an honorable deputy, Antonio confederated with the king of Naples, pledging to pay tribute taxes to him, in order to banish Prospero and take his place. Prospero and Miranda were cast off on a poor boat and left to whatever fate befell them at sea, but Gonzalo, an honest minister, supplied them with garments, food, and, of great importance, some of Prospero’s books. They survived at sea and the currents took them to an uninhabited

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island. Prospero tells Miranda that now fortune has sent all his enemies to him on the ship she has seen wrecked and that if he acts carefully, he can bring them both good fortune. But now he tells her she is feeling sleepy, and she sleeps. Prospero summons Ariel, a spirit of the air, whom he commands, and questions him how well he performed his task of simulating a shipwreck and if everyone is safe. Ariel reports that all went well and everyone is safe upon the island, but wandering about, dazed, in several separated groups. Thus the king of Naples thinks his son, Ferdinand, is drowned, and Ferdinand believes his father has perished. When Prospero tells Ariel there is more work to be done, Ariel reminds him that Prospero has promised to free him. Prospero responds angrily that he will but not ‘‘before the time be out.’’ He reminds Ariel of the condition he (Ariel) was in before Prospero arrived. Ariel had been the servant of an evil witch named Sycorax who had confined him in the hollow of a tree after he refused to obey her. When she died, Ariel remained imprisoned for twelve years until Prospero arrived and freed him. If Ariel complains, Prospero threatens, he will ‘‘rend an oak and peg’’ him in it for another twelve years. Ariel begs pardon and promises obedience, and Prospero promises him his freedom once his work is finished. He commands Ariel to turn himself into a sea nymph now and return to Prospero in that shape. When Ariel is gone, Prospero wakes Miranda and summons his other slave, the ugly and deformed Caliban. Not an airy spirit but a brute creature of the earth, whom Prospero employs to carry firewood, Caliban is the son of the witch Sycorax. When Prospero and Miranda arrived upon the island, they treated Caliban well and taught him to speak. He, in turn, showed them secret places on the island where they could get food. But Caliban’s nature is brutish and base. He tried to rape Miranda and people the island with his progeny. Prospero then made Caliban his slave rather than his pupil. He exercises his control by means of magic power: he disciplines and punishes Caliban by wracking him with intense body pain. After Prospero dismisses Caliban, Ariel returns. He is leading Ferdinand, the king’s son. Although Ariel is invisible to Ferdinand, Ferdinand can hear the songs he sings. One of them, ‘‘Full fathom five thy father lies,’’ reminds

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Ferdinand of his father, whom he believes is drowned. When Ferdinand and Miranda see each other, with one look exchanged, they fall in love. This is exactly what Prospero wishes to happen, yet to test the lovers, he says, and to make their love not seem too easy, he sets himself up as an obstacle to it, assumes a forbidding attitude, accuses Ferdinand of sneaking onto the island to steal his daughter and take his place. Miranda is shocked to see her father thus enraged, tells him how she loves Ferdinand, but Prospero rebuffs her. When Ferdinand tries to resist Prospero, Prospero casts a spell on him that makes his muscles powerless. Ferdinand says he does not mind being a prisoner as long as he can see Miranda but once a day from his prison. Miranda tells him not to worry, that her father is of a better nature than what he seems to be. To Ariel, in an aside, Prospero rejoices at their love and promises him his freedom after their work is completed

Act 2, Scene 1 On another part of the island, Alonso, king of Naples; his brother, Sebastian; Prospero’s brother, the usurping Duke of Milan, Antonio; Gonzalo, the counselor who had supplied Prospero with provisions and some of his books when he was set adrift; and several courtiers, all survivors of the wreck, wander about, amazed at this strange place. Gonzalo advises the king to be merry and not to despair of his son, Ferdinand, who is not among them. As Gonzalo and Alonso talk, Antonio and Sebastian mock them, particularly Gonzalo’s optimism, intended to distract the king from his grief. From their conversation, the audience/reader learns that they are all coming home from the marriage of Alonso’s daughter, Claribel, to the king of Tunisia. As they are speaking, Ariel enters invisible and casts a sleep spell on everyone except for Antonio and Sebastian. As the rest sleep, Antonio goads Sebastian to the murder of his brother Alonso, the king of Naples, so that he may take his brother’s place. Antonio reminds him by way of encouragement, how he successfully supplanted his brother, Prospero. As they stand with swords drawn about to commit murder, Ariel sets up a buzzing in Gonzalo’s ears. He wakes, sees them drawn, and wakes the king. Sebastian and Antonio explain that they drew their swords because they heard a noise as of a herd of dangerous cattle and were preparing to defend the king. Their explanation accepted, the

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party, weapons drawn, move from where they are to find a safer spot on the island. Ariel closes the scene, voicing his intention to report to Prospero what has so far happened.

Act 2, Scene 2 Caliban is alone on stage carrying wood for Prospero, cursing him, and describing how Prospero’s spirits torment him with cramps and aches for every small act of defiance. When he sees Trinculo, Alonso’s jester, approaching, he assumes it is one of Prospero’s agents come to punish him and he lies down, hoping to escape his notice. Trinculo, seeing a storm approaching, looks for some place to take shelter and sees Caliban’s form, mostly hidden under the garment he is wearing. Trinculo pokes about. Seeing in Caliban the strange shape of a ‘‘monster,’’ he reflects that such a creature put on display in England might make his fortune. Then he slips under Caliban’s garment for protection when he hears thunder in the distance. Stephano, the king’s butler, enters. He is carrying a bottle and he is drunk and singing a bawdy song. Caliban, fearing he is one of Prospero’s spirits about to hurt him cries out for mercy, startling Stephano, who wonders what he has come upon. Investigating, since Trinculo and Caliban are lying together under Caliban’s garment, he thinks there is a fourlegged monster partially in the shape of a man, partly in a more brutish, perhaps fish-like form. Caliban continues to cry out in fear. In order to calm the strange monster Stephano pours some of his liquor into Caliban’s mouth. Hearing Stephano talking to himself and to the monster, hidden Trinculo recognizes Stephano’s voice and calls out his name, amazing the drunken Stephano. Stephano drags Trinculo out from under Caliban’s garment. Caliban, now drunk, seeing the two, considers that they are ‘‘fine things.’’ Additionally, he believes that Stephano, bearing the bottle, must be a god. Caliban swears he will serve him. They all drink more, and the two survivors tease Caliban, Stephano saying he is the man in the moon, and are delighted by Caliban’s gullibility. Caliban promises to show them all the glories of the island, vowing again to serve Stephano now and proclaiming his freedom from Prospero.

Act 3, Scene 1 In front of Prospero’s cell, Ferdinand is doing Caliban’s work of log bearing. Miranda enters


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and Prospero follows, eavesdropping, unseen by either of them. Miranda expresses pity that Ferdinand must work as he does and offers to do the log bearing for him. He asks her name and she tells him, realizing she has violated her father’s command. They proclaim their love for each other, Ferdinand saying she is finer than any woman he may ever have cared for and Miranda saying that although she has not seen other men except her father and Caliban to compare him to, she would want no other but him. She calls him ‘‘husband.’’ He calls her ‘‘mistress, dearest.’’ They take hands and bind their hearts together. They depart in different directions leaving a delighted Prospero alone who proclaims that he can not be so glad of their love as they are, but that he could not have a greater gladness at anything than he has at their union.

Act 3, Scene 2 Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo have gotten drunker. Caliban proclaims himself Stephano’s slave. In their drunkenness, they begin to quarrel, Caliban claiming that Trinculo mocks him. Ariel enters invisible and adds to the chaos and makes them more quarrelsome by throwing his voice and making it seem like Trinculo is indeed saying disrespectful things and calling both Caliban and Stephano liars. Caliban tells Stephano that the island is ruled by Prospero, whom he calls a tyrant and a sorcerer, who has cheated Caliban out of it. Caliban urges Stephano to seize Prospero’s magic books, burn them, and kill Prospero, then become king of the island and marry Miranda. Trinculo and Stephano agree to the conspiracy, but Ariel, invisible, makes music sound around them, amazing and frightening them. In response, Caliban explains the enchantments of the island to them, in a speech the beauty of whose language contradicts the brutishness of his character. They leave the stage unwittingly following Ariel, led by his music.

Act 3, Scene 3 The scene shifts to Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, and their party. They are also being led in a trance around the island until Gonzalo proclaims he is too weary to go any further. Alonso agrees and adds that it does not matter to him what they do since he is out of hope that his son Ferdinand is still alive. Antonio and Sebastian voice their gladness to each other that the king is in despair and plot to make a second attempt on his life that evening.

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Prospero and Ariel enter unseen and Ariel directs a group of spirits who bring in a table with a banquet set for the amazed travelers. But before they can begin to eat, the banquet vanishes and Ariel appears in the form of a harpy. Addressing Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio, he calls them ‘‘three men of sin.’’ He tells them that they have been spat up on the island for the wrong they did to Prospero and that they will suffer unless they repent the evil they have done from the depths of their hearts. Prospero praises Ariel for his work and says that he is now going to visit Ferdinand and Miranda. Coming out of his trance, Alonso tells Gonzalo he heard Prospero’s name spoken and mention made of the crimes he has committed against him. The party advances and Gonzalo tells the courtiers to follow closely, for they are desperate men and he is old, slow, and tired.

Act 4, Scene 1 Prospero reveals his true, glad feelings about their love to Ferdinand and Miranda. He sets, however, a very serious condition for his continuing favor. Ferdinand must refrain from breaking Miranda’s ‘‘virgin knot,’’ before their wedding. Ferdinand vows that willingly he will obey. Prospero then summons Ariel and commands him to present a masque, a wedding pageant for the lovers. There follows then a little play within the play in which Iris, the goddess of the rainbow, which is a bridge between heaven and earth, Ceres, the goddess of agricultural plenty, Juno, goddess of heaven, and several nymphs sing, dance, and offer their best wishes for joy and plenty to the couple. A special point is made that Venus and Cupid, representatives of erotic rather than chaste love, are to be absent from the pageant. In the midst of the pageant, however, Prospero recalls the plot against him by Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo, and in a sudden fit, breaks off the masque. Ferdinand is surprised by the sudden change. Prospero tells him not to be disturbed, and in a famous speech, ‘‘Our revels now are ended,’’ explains that what he saw were merely shadows which have vanished as everything will vanish, including ourselves, for ‘‘we are such stuff / As dreams are made on, and our little life / Is rounded with a sleep.’’ He tells them he will walk by himself a bit ‘‘to still his beating mind,’’ and wishing him peace, the lovers depart.

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Prospero summons Ariel to deal with Caliban and his cohorts. He commands Ariel to hang fancy garments on a clothes line. The drunken conspirators enter, soaking wet and contentious, having been led by Ariel’s music through foul bogs. Stephano and Trinculo are diverted from their purpose, murdering Prospero, by the allure of the garments. Caliban warns them to ignore the fancy clothing, that they are a snare and a delusion. The drunken servants are taken in by the glitter, however, and when they reach to take the garments, Prospero and Ariel set a pack of fierce dogs upon them.

Act 5, Scene 1 Prospero appears in his magic robes with his book and magician’s staff ready to conclude the work he undertook when he first planned the tempest. He asks Ariel how the king and his followers are faring. Ariel tells him they are all prisoners, unable to leave the lime grove in front of his cell. Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio, he tells Prospero, are ‘‘distracted,’’ and the rest watch them, grieving. Ariel says the spectacle would be enough to soften his heart were he human. Prospero then reveals the motive for his plot when he agrees with Ariel and explains that he has set reason above fury and not brought his enemies to him for vengeance but, if they are penitent, for reconciliation. He instructs Ariel to bring the king’s party to him. Ariel departs. Alone, Prospero invokes the elves that haunt such natural places as hills, brooks, and lakes and whose powers he has commanded. He reviews the supernatural feats he has accomplished, like ‘‘bedim[ming] the noontide sun,’’ and vows now to ‘‘abjure’’ ‘‘this rough magic’’ when his work is finished. He has one more task to accomplish and afterwards, he will break his staff and drown his book. Ariel returns leading the king’s party, who now stand, captive, within a charmed circle; the king, Antonio, and Sebastian are jerking like madmen, the others are trying to attend to them. Prospero orders ‘‘solemn’’ music to sound and as their spirits are calmed, he addresses each, reintroducing himself. He speaks first to Gonzalo, recognizes his virtue, and calls him ‘‘honorable’’ and ‘‘good.’’ He rebukes Alonso for his role in his [Prospero’s] overthrow and similarly reprimands Sebastian. Turning to his own brother, first denouncing his unnatural ambition in usurping his place and then his plot to murder Alonso, Prospero forgives him. As the king’s party

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MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

A Tempestade, an opera in Portuguese by Ronaldo Miranda, premiered in 2006.

Caliban’s Hour (1995) is a novel by Tad Williams set twenty years after the last act of The Tempest. Caliban travels to Naples, breaks into Miranda’s bedroom with the desire to avenge himself upon Prospero by murdering her, and tells her, first, the story of The Tempest from his point of view.

The 1957 science fiction movie Forbidden Planet turns Prospero’s island into a planet, the shipwrecked castaways into space cadets, Caliban into a robot named Robby, and Prospero himself into a mad scientist who has unleashed the destructive forces of the Freudian id.

In Prospero’s Books, John Gielgud is Prospero in Peter Greenaway’s highly sensuous reimagination of the play, which premiered in 1991.

‘‘Requiem for Methuselah,’’ episode No. 76 of Star Trek: Original Series, was first broadcast on February 14, 1969. The episode was written by Jerome Bixby, and

awakens from their spell, Prospero changes from his magician’s robe back into court clothing. Prospero then sends Ariel to the cove where the ship lies safely anchored, instructing him to bring the crew to him. Gonzalo is the first to speak. He issues a prayer that ‘‘some heavenly power guide us out of this fearful country!’’ Prospero interrupts him by introducing himself to the king as ‘the wronged Duke of Milan.’’ He embraces him and welcomes him to the island. In a daze, Alonso cannot be sure if what is happening is illusion and the result of enchantment or if the actual Prospero stands before him in reality. No matter which, Alonso says, since he has seen Prospero, ‘‘Th’affliction of


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directed by Murray Golden, and derives its plot and characters from The Tempest.

The Tempest was an opera based on ` It preShakespeare’s play by Thomas Ades. miered in 2004 and featured a libretto by Meredith Oakes.

The Tempest, Derek Jarman’s 1979 film adaptation, deconstructs and recomposes Shakespeare’s play by cutting it into pieces, rearranging them, and adding some new ones, like the high camp ending—a production number with a chorus line of sailors dancing in a shower of golden glitter and singing ‘‘Stormy Weather.’’

Paul Mazursky’s 1982 film, called simply Tempest, turns Prospero into a bitter architect whose actress wife is unfaithful and who flees to a Greek island with his daughter and his girlfriend.

In 1998, Jack Bender directed a version of The Tempest starring Peter Fonda. It was set in the American south between 1851 and 1863 in the period preceding and including the Civil War.

my mind mends.’’ He imagines Prospero has ‘‘a most strange story’’ to tell, and without even being asked resigns as Duke of Milan and begs Prospero’s pardon for the wrongs he has done him. Prospero embraces Gonzalo, scolds Sebastian and Antonio for their plot against Alonso, but promises not to tell him of it, at least not now. He reviles Antonio again, whom he says he cannot call brother, but forgives him and demands his dukedom back. Throughout the scene Antonio says nothing. It is the job of the director and actor or the reader to imagine his response, whether he is gracious and penitent or resentful and capitulates only because he has no other choice.

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Alonso then tells Prospero that despite this good fortune his grief is still great because in the tempest he lost his son, Ferdinand. Prospero commiserates by telling that he has suffered a similar loss in the storm, that he has lost his daughter. Alonso speaks what must be Prospero’s very thoughts and the end of his scheme. ‘‘O heavens,’’ he says, ‘‘that they were living both in Naples, / The King and Queen there!’’ After Prospero reassures the company that he is Prospero, he shows them the cell in which he lives, and reveals Ferdinand and Miranda within playing a game of chess. Alonso is astonished by the vision of his son alive. Ferdinand kneels to his father. Miranda is dazzled by the sight of humanity and utters her astonishment: ‘‘O, wonder! / How many goodly creatures are there here! / How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world / That has such people in’t.’’ Prospero checks her delicately, having had experience of mankind, and says, ‘‘’Tis new to thee.’’ The parents all agree upon the marriage. Gonzalo gives voice to the optimism which governs the play and is the result of the triumph of reconciliation over revenge. He tells them to ‘‘rejoice beyond a common joy,’’ and asks rhetorically, ‘‘Was Milan thrust from Milan that his issue / Should become kings of Naples?’’ He ends by celebrating how ‘‘all of us’’ found ‘‘ourselves / When no man was his own.’’ Ariel enters with the amazed crew of the ship and then leaves to bring in Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo. Prospero takes responsibility for Caliban: ‘‘this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine.’’ Caliban vows that he was ‘‘a thrice-double ass’’ to take Stephano for a god, and promises to be ‘‘wise’’ and to ‘‘seek for grace.’’ Prospero invites the court party into his small cell to rest and says that in the morning they can all set out for Naples where the wedding of Ferdinand and Miranda will be celebrated and then he will go back to Milan, to govern, but ‘‘where / Every third thought will be my grave.’’

Epilogue When the stage is clear, Prospero remains and addresses the audience directly as a man, like other men, with no magic powers, or even as the actor who has played Prospero. He has, he says no strength but the strength of prayer and begs the audience to set him free from the spell of the island with their applause.

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CHARACTERS Adrian Adrian is a courtier stranded on Prospero’s island with Alonso’s group.

Alonso The King of Naples, Alonso is returning from Tunisia, where he has given his daughter, Claribel, in marriage. He conspired with Antonio in the coup against Prospero some twelve years earlier.

Antonio Antonio overthrew his brother, Prospero, and became Duke of Milan twelve years before the start of the play. By his orders, Prospero and Miranda were set adrift at sea.

Ariel Ariel is an air spirit who had been confined in a tree by the witch, Sycorax. When Prospero arrived on the island, he freed Ariel from that prison, but did not grant him liberty, making him rather the primary artificer of his magic. Prospero promises, however, to free Ariel after his present enterprise. Ariel has the power to be invisible or to assume whatever shapes, or become whatever sounds, he chooses.

Boatswain The boatswain is one of the crewmen who battle the storm and must contend at the same time with the angry passengers in the first scene during the apparent shipwreck.

Caliban Caliban is a strange and monstrous creature, partially human, partially bestial. He is the son of the witch, Sycorax, and a demon. He is Prospero’s slave and drudge. Although Prospero had tried to tame him and had taught him language, Caliban remained a brute, but an eloquent brute with an aesthetic sensitivity as well as a debased appetite. Caliban attempted to rape Miranda. Prospero controls him by tormenting him, through his magic, with physical pain. When the shipwrecked party arrive on the island, Caliban is thrown into company with Alonso’s butler, Stephano, and with Alonso’s jester, Trinculo. Stephano gets Caliban drunk and, being drunk, Caliban takes Stephano for a god and makes him his new master, then goads

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him on to murder Prospero and become ruler of the island.

Ceres Ceres is the earth goddess of agricultural plenty who lost her daughter Persephone when Pluto raped her and took her to his death kingdom, Hades. Ceres appears in the wedding masque Prospero presents to Ferdinand and Miranda to wish bounteousness upon them.

Ferdinand Ferdinand is a prince, the son of Alonso, the king of Naples. He is cast upon Prospero’s island by himself, separated from his father during the shipwreck. Ferdinand is convinced that his father has been drowned. When he sees Miranda, he falls in love with her instantly. He is tender, upstanding, and chaste in his virtue.

Gonzalo Gonzalo is a wise and tired old counselor to Antonio. He had helped Prospero at the time of his expulsion from Milan, supplying him with provisions and the most important volumes of his books. Gonzalo is of an optimistic nature and on the island he tries to keep up the king’s good cheer.

John Light as Caliban and Patrick Stewart as Prospero in Act I, scene ii at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 2006 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Iris Iris is the goddess of the rainbow. She appears in Prospero’s wedding masque for Ferdinand and Miranda. With the rainbow she joins heaven and earth.

Juno The goddess Juno appears in Prospero’s wedding masque representing heavenly blessings.

Miranda Miranda is Prospero’s well-educated but innocent daughter. Until those who were shipwrecked appeared on the island, she had never seen a man save her father and Caliban (to the degree that he is a man). When she sees Ferdinand, Miranda falls in love with him immediately. She persists in loving him despite her father’s apparent objections to him and despite her usual obedience to her father.

arts, and to the practice of magic than to governing, Prospero delegated most of his authority to his brother Antonio. Antonio, thus elevated, was overcome by the lust to hold power completely and banished Prospero from Milan. With his infant daughter, Miranda, Prospero was set adrift in a small boat and left to the mercies of the sea. The currents carried the boat to an island inhabited only by spirits, an evil witch who ruled them, and her son. Through the power of his magic, Prospero overcame the power of Sycorax the witch, and assumed command of the spirits and of her son, the half-human, halfbestial Caliban.

Sebastian Prospero Twelve years before the start of The Tempest, Prospero had been the Duke of Milan. More devoted to his books, to the study of the liberal


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Sebastian is the brother of Alonso, the king of Naples. He, too, is shipwrecked on the island with his brother. Antonio goads Sebastian to kill Alonso and become king.

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Stephano Stephano is Alonso’s butler. On the island, he has found a cask of wine from the ship. He is drunk throughout the play. When Caliban drinks some of his liquor and gets drunk, he thinks Stephano is a god and convinces him to overthrow Prospero, take Miranda to wife, and rule the island.

Trinculo Trinculo is Alonso’s jester and Stephano’s friend. He participates in Caliban’s drunken plot to kill Prospero.

THEMES Revenge versus Reconciliation Nearly all the tragedies written during the reigns of Queen Elizabeth and King James I were plays about revenge. The greatest among them are by Shakespeare, who examined the theme dramatically, and the idea itself in nuanced soliloquies and conversations in his most complex tragedies. In The Tempest, he took a situation that the dramatists of his age were accustomed to present in a revenge tragedy and used it to fashion a reconciliation comedy. The first act of The Tempest actually comes after the events of a tragedy—the usurpatious brother overthrows the righteous ruler. Instead of killing Prospero, however, Antonio sets him adrift on the sea. And instead of seeking revenge, Prospero, the righteous ruler, forgives his brother, seeks reconciliation, and sets reason above passion.

Art, Magic, and Illusion The Tempest is a play about art, magic, and illusion, and it depends upon illusion for its effect. The art that Prospero has mastered, and Shakespeare’s art as a dramatist, reflect each other. Both can make unreal things seem real and both can influence, by their art, how others will feel. [And as any playwright may fear might happen among his audience or his readers, Prospero occasionally puts people to sleep.] Shakespeare’s audience would have been aware of two types of magic, the white (good) and the black (evil). Prospero is a theurgist. He practices white magic—a force derived from divine sources and used for the control of natural elements. This form of magic has affinities with the natural sciences, as in the study of alchemy (the

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forerunner of modern chemistry). The other form of magic, black magic, is tangentially related to the action of The Tempest. Black magicians, like Caliban’s mother, the witch Sycorax, derive their power from demonic forces.

Chastity Central to The Tempest is the theme of chastity. Prospero is adamant that Ferdinand and Miranda remain chaste until their wedding night. He warns Ferdinand that if he ‘‘break’’ Miranda’s ‘‘virgin knot before / All sanctimonious ceremonies may / With full and holy rite be minist’red,’’ that ‘‘No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall / To make this contract grow; but barren hate, / Soureyed disdain, and discord,’’ will be the result of their union. In the masque itself, Juno pointedly asks Iris about Venus and Cupid, patrons of unchaste, erotic love. Iris assures her they will not be present and will cause no trouble to Ferdinand and Miranda ‘‘Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid,’’ until after their marriage. The importance of chastity for Prospero is its reliance on reason to command passion, which is his course with regard to vengeance and forgiveness, and which is what art (or magic) is: the domination of raw natural phenomena by the organizing and ordering process of the intelligence and the rational will.

Humanity Versus Brutality When Miranda exclaims upon seeing Alonso’s party for the first time, ‘‘O brave new world / That has such people in’t!’’ Prospero tempers her enthusiasm, saying, ‘‘’Tis new to thee.’’ In her naı¨ vete´, she is actually echoing a similar thought to the one Hamlet utters with much more sophistication when he declaims to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, ‘‘What a piece of work is man.’’ What Prospero is pointing out to her is that, despite the pleasing form that most people present, bestiality resides in men as surely as it does in Caliban. Caliban represents the irrational and brutal forces that reside within mankind as well as the noble ones. And Caliban is also susceptible to noble insight as his final promise shows, and to delicate sensibility, as his exquisite speeches describing the island demonstrate. The discovery of savages and cannibals in the New World shook the common understanding of what people actually are. In The Tempest, Shakespeare seems to be tracing the range of human possibility from the bestial and brutish

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Valediction


In a well-developed essay of not less than five hundred words, compare and contrast The Tempest (Shakespeare’s original) with Davenant and Dryden’s version (which is readily available on-line).

Imagine you are a social worker assigned the family of Prospero, Miranda, and Caliban as part of your case load. Write a report of your visit to that family including discussions of their environment, their characters, and their interactions. State what you think their essential problems are and what actions ought to be taken to aid this family.

Write one monologue each for three of the major characters of The Tempest in which that character gives his or her take on the events of the play. Present your monologues to the class. Imagine you are a sailor on board the ship that is apparently shipwrecked at the beginning of The Tempest. Write a letter to a friend back in Milan describing what you experienced yourself, where you were during the action of the play, what you saw, and how it all has affected you.

Write an adaptation of The Tempest set in contemporary times, in contemporary settings with contemporary characters and situations, reflecting similar themes and concerns to those found in The Tempest. Read Shakespeare’s King Lear, and in a thoughtfully crafted essay of at least five hundred words, compare Lear with Prospero. Focus on their relationships to their daughters, their power, and the consequences of their actions.

in Caliban, through the virtuous and rational, as exemplified, for example, by Ferdinand, and reaching to the ethereal, as represented by Ariel.


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The Tempest is the last complete play that Shakespeare wrote. Afterwards, he collaborated with John Fletcher on Henry VIII and The Two Noble Kinsmen. Only five years after finishing The Tempest, moreover, he died. Readers have always had a sense that when Prospero gives up the practice of magic, Shakespeare is suggesting his own farewell to playwriting and the theater. Like Shakespeare, Prospero makes the story of The Tempest happen. He set it in motion with the storm, and he directs the actions of the characters through his magical interventions. Like Prospero, Shakespeare is a kind of magician, having created characters out of thin air, his imagination, and past events in his plays. The story of The Tempest itself is, also, the conclusion of a much older and longer story, the overthrow of Prospero by his brother, and it is the resolution of that story. Prospero not only abjures his magic, but leaves his island to return home where death will be always in his thoughts. Similarly, Shakespeare retired to his home in Stratford, leaving the insular life that a London theater man lived. It is unwise to make a hard and fast connection between Prospero and Shakespeare simply because it is purely a fanciful hypothesis, and because the play works perfectly well without it. Nevertheless, an amplitude of sentiment is achieved when readers do bring the two figures imaginatively together, as inevitably, given what is known of Shakespeare’s life, they must.

STYLE Blank Verse While parts of The Tempest are written in prose, most of it, except for Ariel’s songs and the verse in Prospero’s wedding masque, is written in blank verse. Blank verse is composed of unrhymed pentameter lines usually written in iambics. A pentameter line is a line composed of five feet. A foot is made up of two syllables. In iambic pentameter, the first syllable of each foot is unstressed and the second is stressed. Look, for example, at line 303 in act 1, scene 2: ‘‘To every eyeball else. Go take this shape.’’ ‘‘To’’ is unstressed. ‘‘Ev’’ of ‘‘every’’ is stressed, while the second syllable of ‘‘every’’ is unstressed, but ‘‘eye’’ of ‘‘eyeball’’ is. Thus: ‘‘to EV/’ry EYE/ ball ELSE.’’ (The verse in the masque is generally composed of rhymed couplets, which are lines in

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pairs rhyming with each other. The continuous closure of the rhyme on each second line makes this kind of verse good for didactic and ceremonial verses. Blank verse, because of the absence of rhyme, flows like unregulated speech.)

Epilogue Like several of Shakespeare’s comedies, The Tempest closes with an epilogue, a speech made by a leading character (in this case Prospero), who partially steps out of his role and speaks directly to the audience, often alluding to a theme of the play in his request for applause. Prospero speaks of being forgiven and released from the bonds of sin.

Masque As part of the celebration of their marriage, and to give some pleasing example of his art as a magician, Prospero presents a masque before Ferdinand and Miranda. The masque is a form of entertainment that was fashionable in the courts of both James I and Charles I. Not really a play, it was a spectacular event with costumes, scenery, astonishing and sumptuous stage devices (machines that could lower supposedly divine characters down from the heavens, for example), music and dancing. There also was not a clear separation between the performers and the audience. In fact, the action of a masque centers around the audience, as it does in The Tempest, where the focus is on blessing its two viewers, Ferdinand and Miranda, and their coming nuptials. In the court masques, the king was usually at the center of the action. At the time Shakespeare wrote The Tempest his fellow playwright, and therefore his rival, Ben Jonson, was writing masques for the court regularly.

Mirroring Mirroring is a technique often found in Shakespeare’s plays, whether tragic or comic, which makes one set of characters or one line of action reflect another set of characters or another line of action. In The Tempest, Antonio and Sebastian’s plot to kill Alonso, Sebastian’s brother, so that Sebastian may become king of Naples reflects Antonio’s usurpation of his brother Prospero’s place twelve years earlier. The comic plot in which Caliban, Trinculo, and Stephano conspire to murder Prospero mirrors and burlesques both.

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Music, Song, Spectacle Music, song, dancing and stage machinery, like the throne on which Juno alights, are concentrated in the masque in The Tempest but are also structural parts of the entire play. Ariel actually sings three songs. Music sounds throughout the island and often is used to induce spells or to calm mental distress. Music also accompanies spectacular stage devices, as when Prospero appears ‘‘on the top,’’ in act 3, scene 3 and watches ‘‘several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet; and dance about it’’ and, soon after, when Ariel appears as a harpy and the table disappears. Musical harmonies, in the Renaissance, were believed to have magical powers themselves; the nearer music in its harmonies approached the absolute music of the heavens, the greater the power. It was believed that the celestial frames that were thought to hold the heavenly bodies in their movements moved all the planets and the stars. The sound made by the harmonious motions of these spheres was called the music of the spheres.

The Unities The classical unities of time, place, and action, which Aristotle describes as being among the characteristics of a drama, were often ignored by playwrights writing during the reigns of Elizabeth I and James I. Shakespeare seldom followed the unities. Most of his plays sprawl, in the words of the chorus in Henry V ‘‘jumping o’er times, / Turning th’ accomplishment of many years / Into an hour glass.’’ In The Tempest, however, Shakespeare adhered strictly to the unities, so much so that Prospero even asks Ariel, at the beginning of act 5, ‘‘How’s the day?’’ and Ariel answers, ‘‘On the sixth hour, at which time, my lord, / You said our work should cease.’’ Everything happens in a single day. All the strands of the plot are woven together into the single action of reconciliation. The action occurs in a single place, on Prospero’s island.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Magic Prospero is a magician who has come to his power through the study of the liberal arts. Magic, in the sixteenth and seventeenth century, was not the practice of amazing tricks which

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

Today: Shakespeare’s plays still appeal to a mass audience and he is regarded as one of the greatest playwrights of all time

mankind and changing the nature of the social landscape, are being discovered through the exploration of outer space, cyberspace, genetic research, and cloning.

1600s: Shakespeare’s plays appealed to a mass audience and Shakespeare was regarded as the foremost playwright of his era.

1600s: News of geographical exploration and discovery in the New World excited essayists like Montaigne in France and dramatists like Shakespeare in England to think about traditional European values, systems of governance, and even about the fundamental nature of mankind. Today: Once again, new and perplexing realms, which have the potential for redefining

defied the apparent laws of nature, as it is thought of presently, although Prospero is capable of such feats. Magic was considered a branch of knowledge not clearly distinguished from fields like mathematics and chemistry—which in those centuries was called alchemy and had magical and transformative associations. A prominent scholar named John Dee, who died impoverished in 1608 or 1609, studied magic and believed he conversed with spirits and gained the reputation of being an evil magician, seems a likely partial model for Prospero.

New Worlds James I granted a charter to the Virginia Company in June 1606 to establish a colony in the New World. On May 14, 1607, explorers working for the company landed on Jamestown Island and established the Virginia English colony. In 1609, some five hundred English colonists sailed from Plymouth, England, to Jamestown. They encountered a storm in the Caribbean and Sea Venture, the lead ship, was lost. The rest of the fleet of nine vessels made it safely to Jamestown. Nearly a year later, two boats arrived with the shipwrecked passengers,


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1600s: Young women were given in marriage by their fathers to their husbands, and were not considered independent persons in their own right Today: While in some cultural enclaves, even in countries like England, women are still subject to the rule of their fathers, in general, women have gained the right to live independently and to choose their husbands themselves or to live both unmarried and independently of their fathers.

including the admiral and the governor of the colony. The news spread to London and two personal accounts of the experience on the island of Bermuda and the return to civilization were written. They came to be known as ‘‘the Bermuda pamphlets.’’ Shakespeare undoubtedly saw them before composing The Tempest. The idea of the New World and of people who were different from Europeans had already become a matter for literary consideration by the time Shakespeare wrote The Tempest. Michel de Montaigne, the French essayist (1533–1592), speculated on the New World in an essay, ‘‘Of the Cannibals.’’ Gonzalo’s speech about a Utopian commonwealth is derived from that essay, which Shakespeare must have read in a translation by John Florio.

Revolution and Restoration From 1642, some thirty years after the composition of The Tempest, until 1649, a series of civil wars were fought between the forces of King Charles I and those loyal to Parliament. Parliamentary forces won, and in 1649, the English Commonwealth and then the Protectorate, were established in place of the monarchy. Beginning in 1642, the

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theaters in London were closed. When the monarchy was restored and the theaters were given license to function by King Charles II, in 1661, the theatrical style had changed considerably. While no theater had been ongoing in England, the court in exile had been established in France and theater continued to develop there, where conventions and mores were different. Two examples of the changes were that women, rather than boys, played women’s parts onstage and scenery was used on a proscenium stage, for example. Under these altered circumstances, The Tempest was often performed in its radically revised version entitled The Enchanted Isle by William Davenant and John Dryden.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Thomas McFarland argues that The Tempest ‘‘constitutes the alpha and omega of Shakespeare’s comedy,’’ by the way it brings together ‘‘the two great realities of Shakespeare’s comic vision—the movement towards social concord on the one hand and on the other the recognition of disharmony and disruption.’’ While McFarland concludes that ‘‘The Tempest serenely reasserts the enchantment of brotherhood and social harmony,’’ other critics do not agree. William J. Martz emphasizes that the conflict of these forces occurs within Prospero himself as an internal, character struggle. The purpose of his struggle, according to Martz, is to overcome his own eroticized love for his daughter in the external world through reconciliation with his enemies. The plot of The Tempest, Martz argues, springs from Prospero’s need to create the context in which he may surrender his desire as he gives his daughter as a gift in marriage to the son of the king of Naples, the former enemy with whom he has become reconciled. Rather than focusing on theme or character, Derek Traversi sees Shakespeare as less concerned than he had been in plays like The Winter’s Tale, which just precedes The Tempest, ‘‘with the evolution of experience towards . . . its symbolic representation,’’ which is achieved through character and plot development. In The Tempest, he asserts, ‘‘the various characters and situations exist from the first entirely in terms of a definite ‘symbolic’ function.’’ Robert H. West believes that what is being symbolized in The Tempest is ‘‘the poignance of man’s insubstantial pageant . . . . of human

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happiness against the shadow of mortality.’’ In the ‘‘great tragedies,’’ West writes, Shakespeare explores the mystery of ‘‘iniquity;’’ while in The Tempest, Shakespeare examines ‘‘the mystery of felicity.’’ Early critics of The Tempest were as enthusiastic about the play as these middle and later twentieth-century critics. Rather, however, than emphasizing the psychological, philosophical, symbolic, or moral aspects of the play, they were excited by how it ‘‘show[ed],’’ as John Dryden wrote, in 1679, ‘‘the copiousness of [Shakespeare’s] invention.’’ Thirty years later, in 1709, Nicholas Rowe wrote that Shakespeare’s ‘‘greatness . . . do’s no where so much appear, as where he gives his Imagination an entire Loose, and raises his Fancy to a flight above Mankind and the limits of the visible World.’’ As a representative of this kind of imaginative invention, Rowe calls The Tempest ‘‘perfect.’’ Nearly fifty years later, Joseph Warton, in 1753, wrote, ‘‘Of all the plays of Shakespeare, The Tempest is the most striking instance of his creative power. He has there given the reins to his boundless imagination, and has carried the romantic, the wonderful, and the wild, to the most pleasing extravagance.’’ In a lecture given in 1811 or 1812, Samuel Taylor Coleridge still finds it essential to focus on the fact that in The Tempest, ‘‘Shakespeare has especially appealed to the imagination.’’ In a written ‘‘Analysis of Act I,’’ Coleridge asserts that ‘‘the power of poetry is, by a single word perhaps, to instil that energy into the mind, which compels the imagination to produce the picture.’’ Coleridge then cites Prospero’s phrase ‘‘hurried thence / Me, and thy crying self,’’ and argues that ‘‘by introducing a single happy epithet, ‘crying,’ . . . a complete picture is presented to the mind, and in the production of such pictures the power of genius consists.’’ Astonishment at the imaginative, dramatic and intellectual heights Shakespeare achieved in The Tempest continued throughout the nineteenth century. Nearly a hundred years after Coleridge, writing in 1909, the great novelist Henry James wrote that ‘‘the value of The Tempest is, exquisitely, in its refinement of power, its renewed artistic freshness . . . Prospero has simply waited, to cast his magic ring into the sea, till the jewel set in it shall have begun to burn as never before.’’ A major thrust of nineteenth-century criticism of The Tempest was allegorical criticism, wherein the critics see the text as a symbolic representation of something else, and the characters represent

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ideas or characteristics. Edward R. Russell, for example, argued that Prospero stood for God. Critics like W. A. Schlegel in Germany, Victor Hugo in France, Russell and John Ruskin in England, are but some of the most noteworthy to understand The Tempest as an attempt to represent universals—political or metaphysical or psychological or spiritual truths—symbolically, and who saw the play’s characters as representing abstract concepts like beauty, goodness, evil, et cetera. Starting in the 1930s, scholars like J. Middleton Murry, E. M. W. Tillyard, G. Wilson Knight, Reuben Brower, and Frank Kermode, while not repudiating the past writings on The Tempest, began to treat the play more carefully with regard to its structure, imagery, characters, unity, and historical context than had been the habit of earlier critics. In the 1980s, as critics grew interested in the connection between literature and historical or social phenomena, the way The Tempest appeared to treat European imperialism and colonial people became a significant topic in critical writing about the play. Francis Barker and Peter Hulme, for example, put forth the argument in 1985, in ‘‘The Tempest and Oppression,’’ that the real plot of the play is Prospero’s anxiety about his legitimacy as ruler of the island, and that the plot towards reconciliation which he generates and which seems to be the main action of the play is really a sub-plot.

CRITICISM Neil Heims In the following essay, Heims suggests there is a connection between Prospero’s decision to give his daughter in marriage and his decision to forgive rather than take revenge upon those who have wronged him. A common strand in many of Shakespeare’s plots concerns a conflict between a father and his daughter regarding her choice of a husband. In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice, Othello, and Cymbeline, among other plays of his, Shakespeare presents a situation in which a daughter defies her father in the choice of a husband. The subsequent action in each of these plays always involves a consequence of that opposition and that defiance.


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THE DEFINING ACTION OF THE TEMPEST IS PROSPERO’S DECISION TO FORGIVE HIS ENEMIES RATHER THAN TO AVENGE HIMSELF FOR THE WRONGS DONE TO HIM.’’

Usually, this father/daughter conflict is central to tragedy, but Shakespeare has introduced it into comedies, too, as in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where Hermia prevails over her father’s objections and marries Lysander. In The Tempest, Shakespeare resolves the father daughter conflict that has so often concerned him, turning the material of tragedy into comedy by connecting the father/daughter motif to what is probably the primary theme of the majority of his plays—revenge. The defining action of The Tempest is Prospero’s decision to forgive his enemies rather than to avenge himself for the wrongs done to him. In the period spanning the reigns of Elizabeth I and James I, when tragic drama was almost entirely made up of revenge tragedies, this reversal is unique in the body of Shakespeare’s work. The fundamental action of a revenge tragedy, whether it is one of the precursor plays to Hamlet like the blood soaked The Spanish Tragedy by Thomas Kyd, or such a sophisticated and complex play as Hamlet itself, King Lear, or Othello, consists of a wrong perpetrated and the crosscurrents of revenge that wrong-doing generates. In The Tempest, twelve years before the opening scene of the play, Prospero had been seized by his brother, stripped of his dukedom, and cast out to sea with his infant daughter, Miranda, in a small boat which was hardly sea worthy. That action, which comprises the usual opening for a revenge tragedy, is the prologue to The Tempest. The Tempest itself takes that action as its starting point and also recapitulates that past action of overthrowing Prospero in the two parallel subplots. The first subplot involves Antonio and Sebastian’s attempt to murder Alonso and usurp his crown. The second involves Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo in their plot to murder Prospero and become rulers

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of the island. In these two threads, the tragic material is debased by what must be parody. That Antonio and Sebastian, who are shipwrecked and castaway on a strange, and apparently uninhabited, island should be concerned about staging a coup d’etat is ridiculous. For the three drunkards, the attempt to kill Prospero is an exercise in low comedy. Parodic as these two subplots are, nevertheless, they keep alive in the present two facts from the past. Antonio is still a villain, and Prospero and other figures of authority and order, like Alonso, the king of Naples, are still in danger. Disorder still threatens to destabilize the established order—even on this remote island. Even so, the principle action of The Tempest turns on the desire to return good for evil rather than to take revenge, to let anger go rather than to nurse it. Without forcing an absolute cause and effect relation between the two, it may be noticed that Prospero’s act of letting go of anger and eschewing revenge, and of letting go of his daughter, function simultaneously and may be seen as reflections of each other. If letting go of his anger means eschewing revenge, the question remains: what, in Shakespeare’s plays, does a father’s act of letting go of his daughter mean he is eschewing? Reflecting the social reality of their time in their assertion of the father/daughter bond as a bond of possession, Shakespeare’s plays, nevertheless, transform that social fact into a literary motif with its own literary function. The father’s control of his daughter, in Shakespeare’s worlds, seems to express a generalized characteristic of mankind, the desire to possess and the reluctance to yield. In Shakespeare’s plays, within that desire to possess and to control, there is often interwoven an erotic element. That element is often submerged and can be discovered through the study of images or through character analysis. But there are instances where the motif is overt. The most obvious example comes in the first of Shakespeare’s four last plays, Pericles, Prince of Tyre, of which The Tempest is the last. In Pericles, Antiochus, the king of Antioch, sets an obstacle for all suitors for his daughter. They must solve a riddle. The suitor who can solve the riddle will marry his daughter. Those who fail are beheaded and their heads hung on the pales of the gates surrounding the palace. Here’s the riddle:

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I am no viper, yet I feed On mother’s flesh which did me breed. I sought a husband, in which labour I found that kindness in a father. He’s father, son, and husband mild; I mother, wife, and yet his child. How they may be, and yet in two, As you will live, resolve it you. Pericles understands that to solve the riddle is to confront the king and his daughter with the fact of their incestuous relationship. In fear for his life, he flees. Later, when he has a daughter of his own and his wife has died, Pericles gives the daughter whom he cherishes into the care of the king and queen of Tharsus, whose land he has saved from famine. When he gives them his daughter to raise, he also makes a rather strange vow: Till she be married . . . By bright Diana, whom we honour all, Unscissored shall this hair of mine remain, Though I show ill in’t. He has developed a sort of traumatic response to his own experience with Antiochus and his daughter. Pericles’s vow, in the name of Diana, the goddess of chastity, seems to indicate a fear of falling into the same evil that Antiochus practiced. By putting his infant daughter, Marina, beyond his reach and by vowing not to cut his hair, although it will make him physically unattractive, until after she is married, Pericles attempts to protect himself and his daughter from the threat of incest. In The Winter’s Tale, the play Shakespeare wrote right before he wrote The Tempest, there is also a hint of the illicit attraction fathers can have for their daughters when Leontes, king of Sicilia, first sees Perdita, whom he does not know is his daughter, and says to Florizel, her betrothed, ‘‘I’d beg your precious mistress.’’ Perhaps the most significant example of the destabilization that the improper passion of a father for his daughter can cause is explored in King Lear. While there may or may not be suggestions in the text of an actual erotic fixation on his daughters, Lear’s desire to command their entire love is in itself a form of lust, as Cordelia herself intimates when she asks, ‘‘Why have my sisters husbands, if they say / They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, / That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry / Half my love with him, half my care and duty. / Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, / To love my father all.’’

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Alec Clunes, Patrick Wymark, and Clive Revill in a scene from The Tempest at the Stratford Festival, 1957 (Central Press/Getty Images)

In The Tempest itself, as Prospero is relating the story of his overthrow to Miranda in act 1, scene 2, just after he announces that ‘‘Twelve year since, / Thy father was the Duke of Milan,’’


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Miranda asks, at line 55, ‘‘Sir, are not you my father?’’ He answers that her mother was a virtuous woman and ‘‘She said thou wast my daughter.’’ It is an innocent enough exchange, and

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Miranda’s confusion at hearing so unexpected a revelation easily accounts for it. Yet the very inclusion of this exchange suggests the odd possibility that Prospero could have answered in the negative and left open Antiochus’ prerogative for himself. But, of course, he does not. The very purpose of his project, which constitutes the story line of The Tempest, is to transfer his possession of Miranda to a husband. When Prospero does give his daughter in marriage to Ferdinand, he is fierce in setting the condition that Ferdinand avoid the temptation to ‘‘break her virgin knot’’ before all proper marriage ceremonies and rituals are performed. With the firmness of one who has practiced similar self-restraint himself, Prospero imposes such restraint on Ferdinand. By doing so, Prospero is not only giving his daughter to Ferdinand, but he is passing on to the prince a particular piece of behavioral wisdom, essentially stated in his words to Ariel: ‘‘with my nobler reason ‘gainst my fury / Do I take part.’’ Prospero is teaching Ferdinand to serve reason, which is a faculty dependent upon the restraint of passion—fury being one sort of passion—rather than to be dominated by desire and thus become, in Hamlet’s phrase, ‘‘passion’s slave.’’ In his lesson, Prospero is not opposing possession. Rather he is opposing the lust to possess. Social order, according to Prospero, functions within the boundaries of possession. A husband possesses his wife; a king or a duke possesses his title and all to which, by that title, he is entitled. Prospero returns to Milan, after all, and resumes his role as the Duke of Milan. But even as he takes possession of his old dukedom, he has become wise enough to begin to let it go, promising that every third thought will be about dying. To grasp at a desire from passion for possession, as Antonio, Alonso, Sebastian, Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo all do in The Tempest, does not further a just social order but rather, it furthers chaos and injustice. In the same way that Prospero does not oppose possession, Prospero does not oppose desire. He opposes allowing desire to overwhelm and vanquish reason. In the marriage of Ferdinand and Miranda, Prospero’s ideal is exemplified. It is a marriage in which reason and the restraints of ceremony on the one side, and passionate desire on the other, are in harmony. Reason governs passion and passion is satisfied through the mediating

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power of reason. Consequently, chaos is avoided and order is maintained. In The Tempest, Prospero can repudiate the sort of desire Caliban represents, a libidinal rapacity, because he is aware of it in himself. The recognition of a part of himself in Caliban helps to explain also the painful severity of the punishments he inflicts on Caliban. Prospero is not avenging himself on Caliban for Caliban’s brutish behavior. He is attempting to suppress it using a pre-Pavlovian sort of behavior modification. The restraint he enforces on Caliban with aches and stitches Prospero enforces on himself with reason. That Prospero recognizes that he and Caliban bear similarities, despite their great differences, is subtly conveyed toward the end of The Tempest when things are being sorted out. Pointing to Caliban, Prospero says, ‘‘this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine.’’ The versification is such that the acknowledgment has the force of a psychological insight. The line break comes after the word ‘‘I’’. Thus pointing to Caliban, Prospero says, ‘‘This thing of darkness I,’’ suggesting some identity between himself and Caliban—I am this thing of darkness—before he completes the thought in the next line with ‘‘Acknowledge mine.’’ It is tempting to argue that because Prospero has renounced possession of his daughter he is able to renounce vengeance and, consequently, to regain what he has lost and to cause the others, as Gonzalo says, in act 5, scene 1, to find themselves ‘‘when no man was his own.’’ Having overcome himself in the one sphere, Prospero is able to do so in the other. But even allowing only a restrained interpretation that avoids a direct cause and effect relationship, it is apparent that eschewing vengeance and letting go of his daughter are aspects of the same accomplishment of his soul and his intellect. Much earlier in his career, Shakespeare wrote in the thirteenth line of his sixteenth sonnet, ‘‘To give away yourself keeps yourself still.’’ By letting go of his daughter and his fury, Prospero becomes his own, recovering his dukedom and the humanity which comes from the recognition of mortality. Source: Neil Heims, Critical Essay on The Tempest, in Shakespeare For Students, Second Edition, Thomson Gale, 2007.

Craig Bernthal Bernthal examines the issues of guilt, judgment, and redemption in The Tempest. The play, he

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In 1921, William Butler Yeats published a poem called, ‘‘A Prayer for My Daughter.’’ Yeats’s poem follows the meditations of a father about the life he has led, and the life he wishes for his daughter, as he sits by the cradle of his infant daughter while a storm in the Atlantic rages outside.

Book IV of the Latin poet Virgil’s homage to Augustus Caesar and the Roman Empire, The Aeneid (29–19 B . C . E .), recounts the story of the bitter love affair between the Trojan Aeneas on his course to Italy after the Trojan War and Dido, Queen of Carthage, who kills herself for his love. There is also an opera, Dido and Aeneas (1689), by Henry Purcell with text by Nahum Tate (who revised Shakespeare’s King Learfor the stage in 1681). François-Rene´ de Chateaubriand’s early nineteenth century novels, Atala and Rene (1801, are set in large part in the southern United States in forests among Indians. The people and the landscape suggest a different kind of world from the European world that Chateaubriand’s hero is fleeing from—and from which Chateaubriand himself fled on the eve of the French Revolution.

In his 1846 poem, ‘‘Caliban upon Setebos,’’ nineteenth-century poet Robert Browning makes Caliban an emblem of man. As the speaker of a dramatic monologue, he considers the existence of a deity and his relation to it.

In 1904, W. H. Hudson published Green Mansions, a classic story of Rima the Bird Girl in the forest and the conflict of nature and culture.

Paul and Virginia, was published by JacquesHenri Bernardin de Saint-Pierre in 1787 as Paul et Virginie (Paul and Virginia). Hardly known today, it was immensely popular during the first half of the nineteenth century. The novel is set on the island of Mauritius amid natural beauty and its theme is the conflict of nature and civilization.

Peter Pan (1904) is J. M. Barrie’s classic tale of the conflict between grown up responsibility and the threatened paradise of childhood.

Aldous Huxley took the name of his famous 1932 novel, Brave New World, from The Tempest and also derived many of his themes from it, especially the conflict between the spontaneous brutality of nature and the controlled cruelty of imposed order.

‘‘Caliban in the Coal Mines’’ was Louis Untermyer’s 1914 poem about the plight of coal miners. The poem embodies them in the figure of Caliban, defining Caliban as an oppressed creature in an unjust society.

Daniel Defoe’s novel Robinson Crusoe, published in 1719, traces the history of an Englishman who is shipwrecked and becomes a castaway on an island; he asserts his command over the natural environment through his industriousness, and has to deal with ‘‘savages’’ and cannibals. Like The Tempest, Robinson Crusoe has its roots in a real event, the plight of the Scottish sailor, Alexander Selkirk, who had been cast away on an island off the Chilean coast in 1709. After his rescue, he published an account of his adventures in 1712.

notes, contains Biblical references to judgment and divine providence that audiences in Shakespeare’s time would have been extremely familiar with. The character of Prospero, for example,

attempts to induce guilt and extend forgiveness. In the end, Garber contends that in Shakespeare’s play, the concept of free will remains intact.


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PROSPERO’S METHOD OF ELICITING REPENTANCE FOLLOWS THE BIBLICAL MODEL. HE PREACHES WRATH TO PROMOTE A SENSE OF GUILT, HOPING THAT GUILT WILL LEAD TO SORROW AND SORROW TO TRUE REPENTANCE.’’

. . . [A]lthough Prospero can create tempests and illusions, cramp the muscles of his enemies, or make them fall asleep, he has no direct access to their hearts; he can only create situations and take actions that may lead Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian to repent. Their wills remain their own. In this limitation, Prospero is like the three witches of Macbeth, who can plague a sailor with storms ‘‘sev’n-nights nine times nine,’’ but who have no power to sink the sailor’s ship or make him despair: ‘‘Though his bark cannot be lost, / Yet it shall be tempest tost.’’ If the man hangs onto his courage and will, he will survive— unless a power higher than the witches or sorcerers decrees otherwise. Prospero’s method of eliciting repentance follows the biblical model. He preaches wrath to promote a sense of guilt, hoping that guilt will lead to sorrow and sorrow to true repentance. Though repentance founded on ‘‘attrition’’—the sheer terror of divine punishment—was held to be acceptable to God, ‘‘contrition’’—repentance motivated by genuine sorrow for one’s sins—was better, for it acknowledged God’s justice as well as his power. (Thus, we see Duke Vincentio in Measure for Measure trying to reason Claudio out of the fear of death so that he can make a true act of contrition.) Prospero would prefer that Alonso, Antonio, and Sebastian be truly sorry for what they have done to him and Miranda, for the sake of their ‘‘fraughting souls’’ as well as his own satisfaction, so he forces them into situations in which they are forced to experience what he and Miranda have experienced. This is not eye-for-aneye vengeance, but an attempt to induce in the men some empathy for Prospero and Miranda’s sufferings. First, the men are made to believe that they have been shipwrecked, as have been Prospero and Miranda. Because Miranda, then a three-year-old, would likely have died along with

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‘‘The Raising of the Storm’’ (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

her father, Prospero plagues Alonso with the apparent death of his son Ferdinand. On the island, the castaways find no apparent sources of food or water, and they have no idea how they will sustain themselves—problems they knew Prospero and Miranda would confront if they survived drowning. To drive this point home, Prospero tantalizes the men with a banquet that vanishes when they attempt to eat it. Robert Gram Hunter likens the banquet to the sacrament of Holy Communion, from which ‘‘notorious and unrepentant sinners are traditionally excluded . . . ’’ Clearly, none of the men is sorry for what they have done to Prospero and Miranda; Antonio and Sebastian only remember the coup as a precedent for murdering Alonso. Ariel, in the form of a harpy, removes the feast and pronounces the men’s guilt, adding understanding to their suffering. The ‘‘Homily on Repentance,’’ with which Shakespeare’s audience would have been very familiar, lists four requirements of adequate repentance: contrition of heart, unfeigned confession and acknowledgment of sins, faith that God will pardon one’s sins, and the amendment of one’s life, which included a sincere attempt to make restitution for previous wrongdoing. Prospero will try to take Alonso and his men

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along this path. Ariel begins by trying to induce a true sense of guilt in the men: You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,— That hath to instrument this lower world And what is in’t,—the never-surfeited sea Hath caus’d to belch up you; and on this island, Where man doth not inhabit,—you ’mongst men Being most unfit to live . . . For that’s my business to you,—that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero: Expos’d unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed, The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incens’d the seas and shores, yea all the creatures Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce by me Ling’ring perdition—worse than any death Can be at once—shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,— Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads,—is nothing but heartsorrow, And a clear life ensuing. (3.3.53–58; 69–82) The only way to avoid the wrath of Fate (Shakespeare could not use the word ‘‘God’’ because the 1605 Statue of Abuses forbade it to be said on stage) is through ‘‘heart’s sorrow’’ and a ‘‘clear [blameless] life ensuing,’’ which restates the standard church doctrine of repentance. Ariel’s pronoucement of guilt drives the three men to desperation, though in different ways. Antonio and Sebastian, with drawn swords, rush off stage to fight legions of fiends; Alonso, believing that his sins have caused Ferdinand’s death, threatens suicide: O, it is monstrous, monstrous! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded,


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And with him there lie mudded. (3.3.95–102) Gonzalo, fearing that the men will harm themselves, tells the others to follow them. Gonzalo recognizes the guilt of the three, but moreover, recognizes the spiritual corruption within them: All three of them are desperate: their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you, That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly, And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to. (3.3.104–09) At this point the play turns toward the comedy of forgiveness . . . Once Alonso feels the pain that Prospero has been put through, Prospero perhaps recalls his own pain and begins to feel a bond with his enemy. Even Ariel, nimble, mercurial, and inhuman, can feel the spiritual pain of the shipwrecked men: Ariel: The King, His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, And the remainder mourning over them, Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly Him that you term’d, sir, ‘‘The good old lord, Gonzalo’’; His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works ’em That if you now beheld them, your affections Would become tender. Prospero: Dost thou think so, spirit? Ariel: Mine would, sir, were I human. Prospero: And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th’ quick, Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury Do I take part: The rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further. (5.1.11–30)

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Prospero has clearly made the Christian choice. His judgment extends charity to others, as he hopes to attain it himself at the moment of his death. Yet, as the play draws to a close, Shakespeare raises doubts about whether Prospero’s god-like manipulation of events has led Alonso, Antonio, or Sebastian to sincere repentance, or whether Prospero’s decision against vengeance rises to the level of forgiveness. Certainly the three ‘‘men of guilt’’ have been scared out of their wits and Alonso has been bludgeoned with the death of his son. If any of the three feels sorry for what he has done, it is surely Alonso, and when Prospero reveals Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess, and Alonso knows his son to be alive and in love with a beautiful and noble woman, his reconciliation with Prospero, through the marriage of their children, seems sure. Alonso takes all the steps of repentance, asking forgiveness of the one wronged and offering to make reparations. He tells Prospero: ‘‘Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat / Thou pardon me my wrongs’’ (5.1.118–19). Alonso’s transformation makes poetic truth of the song that Ariel sings to Ferdinand in act 1, which seemed to speak of Alonso’s death but also foreshadowed his rebirth and transformation through the baptism of shipwreck: Full fadom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. (1.2.399–403) From Sebastian, however, Prospero gets only an antagonistic lie. When Prospero tells Sebastian and Antonio that he knows about their plot to kill Alonso, he says ‘‘But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, / I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you, / And justify you traitors’’; Sebastian’s response is, ‘‘The devil speaks in him’’ (5.1.126–30). When Prospero forgives his brother, his speech strives toward forgiveness, but perhaps falls short: For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault,—all of them;—and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know, Thou must restore. (5.1.130–34)

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Antonio gives Prospero no thanks in reply and offers no apologies. He does not ask to be forgiven, and he has nothing to restore to Prospero, Alonso having returned the dukedom already. Antonio does not find his voice until Caliban, Stephano, and Trinculo appear on stage, and then it is only to throw a verbal barb at Caliban. There is nothing to indicate that either Antonio or Stephano are repentant. Grace does not reach them. Stephano and Trinculo wish only to be free of their cramps and are only as repentant as children who want to stop being spanked. But perhaps Caliban has learned something, for he recognizes his foolishness: ‘‘I’ll be wise hereafter, / And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass / Was I to take this drunkard for a god, / And worship this dull fool!’’ Perhaps Caliban’s resolution to seek grace refers only to his asking Prospero’s forgiveness, but we cannot be sure he does not refer to a higher source, and even if he does seek only Prospero’s ‘‘grace,’’ for Caliban that is a step in the right direction. Gonzalo brings the idea of Providence back into the play at this point, and his summary has the elevation of a psalm: . . . look down you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown! For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way Which brought us hither . . . Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become Kings of Naples? O rejoice Beyond a common joy! and set it down With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle, and all of us ourselves When no man was his own. (5.1.201–04; 205–13) Gonzalo’s characteristic optimism leads him to overstatement, since there is little evidence that Antonio and Sebastian or Stephano and Trinculo have found their lost selves, the selves they could become if they allowed grace to enter their lives. But in Shakespeare’s Christian view, which is certainly more Roman Catholic than Calvinist or Lutheran, every man’s soul is his own; free will remains intact, and no one is transformed who does not want to be. Source: Craig Bernthal, ‘‘Judgment and Divine Providence,’’ in The Trial of Man: Christianity and Judgment in the World of Shakespeare, ISI Books, 2003, pp. 248–55.

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Ernest Gohn In the following essay, Gohn discusses Shakespeare’s use—hitherto unprecedented in his plays—of the classical unities of time and place in The Tempest. He argues that the work’s structural unity, with action occurring as it does over the course of approximately three hours, is reflected in a thematic emphasis on the present. Gohn’s analysis continues by relating this dramatic sense of urgency and preoccupation with the ‘‘now’’ in the play to its themes of hoped-for redemption and reconciliation. Critics have spent so much time on characteranalysis—and upon possible biographical, allegorical, and symbolic implications of The Tempest— that they have overlooked the great emphasis put on the sense of the present in the play. But it is an emphasis which we cannot ignore: such words and phrases as ‘now’, ‘at this moment’, ‘at this instant’ echo and reinforce one another throughout the play. Furthermore, the episodes of the play are usually conceived in a present which is a crucial nexus uniting the past to the future: the past is relevant only as it affects the present, the future only as it grows out of the present. The past is defined as that which occurred years ago in Milan, the future as that which will take place after the characters leave the island. Shakespeare no sooner finishes his brief opening shipwreck scene than be begins to emphasize the crucial quality of the present. Prospero assures Miranda, who has been moved to pity by the sight of the wreck, that all he has done in raising the storm has been done in care of her, who is ignorant of what she and her father are. But now ‘‘Tis time’, says Prospero, ‘I should inform thee farther’ (I, ii, 22–33). Prospero’s care for his daughter, which has led him to raise the storm, is, then, intimately related to the time at which Miranda must learn of her past: he repeats, ‘For thou must now know farther’ (I, ii, 33). Prospero has at times in the past started to tell his history to her, but in the past he has always stopped, ‘Concluding, ‘‘Stay, not yet’’’ (I, ii, 36). At this moment, however, ‘the hour’, ‘the very minute’ (I, ii, 36–37) has come. Miranda must know of her origins before she can take her place in Prospero’s present scheme. As he assures her later in the midst of his narrative: Hear a little further, And then I’ll bring thee to the present business


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FURTHERMORE, THE EPISODES OF THE PLAY ARE USUALLY CONCEIVED IN A PRESENT WHICH IS A CRUCIAL NEXUS UNITING THE PAST TO THE FUTURE: THE PAST IS RELEVANT ONLY AS IT AFFECTS THE PRESENT, THE FUTURE ONLY AS IT GROWS OUT OF THE PRESENT.’’

Which now’s upon ’s, without the which this story Were most impertinent. (I, ii, 135–38) To Miranda, the ‘present business’ which is ‘now’ upon them must refer to the storm she has just witnessed. To Prospero, also, the shipwreck seems to be the ‘present business’; but he evidently has more in mind, for when Miranda asks him his reason for raising the tempest, he replies in most general terms, terms which neither she nor the audience can understand until the play is over: Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore. And by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions. (I, ii, 177–84) Prospero’s storm is merely the first phase of a larger sense of the moment which he ‘now’ courts, a sense which includes everything in the play. It is, one supposes, to keep his larger scheme secret that he carefully sends Miranda to sleep before he calls for Ariel: ‘I am ready now’ (I, ii, 187). Ariel’s interview with Prospero is, of course, mainly further exposition: we learn how Ariel has acted as Prospero’s agent in creating the shipwreck and in disposing the various groups about the isle; we also learn of Ariel’s imprisonment by Sycorax (the pre-Prospero history of the island). But between these two bits of exposition,

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we are again recalled to the sense of the present, made vivid by the pressure of time: ‘The time ’twixt six and now / Must by us both be spent most preciously’ (I, ii, 240–41). In this instance, Prospero’s ‘now’ is that moment at least ‘two glasses’ after noon. But in Ariel’s slight attempt at rebellion and in its happy resolution (‘That’s my noble master! / What shall I do? Say what. What shall I do?’—I, ii, 299–300), we realize that for Ariel, as for Prospero, the ‘present business’ is ‘now’ in another sense. Having performed his duties in this scheme of Prospero, he will be free. He had asked for his liberty ‘Before the time be out’ (I, ii, 246), but in his glad acceptance of Prospero’s promise, we cannot help but think for Ariel the present is the larger action in which he must play his part.

Adrian though ridiculed by Antonio and Sebastian, extols the idyllic quality of the island. He is most amazed, however, that their clothes are ‘now’ (II, i, 68, 97) still as fresh as when they first put them on in Africa for the marriage of Claribel who ‘now’ (II, i, 98) is Queen at Tunis. Gonzalo’s moralizing does not ease the sorrow of Alonzo; rather, it stimulates lamentation for what he had done in the past that has occasioned the sorrow of the present. (Ironically, he does not realize how right he is, in a sense of which he is yet ignorant.) After Gonzalo’s description of the ideal commonwealth—the possibilities of their present predicament now so obviously contrary to what they had known in the past in Milan and Naples—Ariel sends them all, except Sebastian and Antonio, to sleep.

Having been sent off by Propero’s whispered command, Ariel returns, leading Ferdinand onstage. Ferdinand’s passion has been allayed by Ariel’s song, which, he recognizes, is ‘no mortal business’ (I, ii, 406). Prospero has thus prepared Ferdinand for the transcendant experience which he is now to have. Ferdinand ‘now’ (I, ii, 407) hears the music above him, and Prospero immediately directs Miranda to look at what she first thinks is a spirit. That Shakespeare’s young lovers love at first sight is certainly no news, but in no other play is the event revealed so dramatically in the present, in a moment so pregnant. Miranda thinks that Ferdinand must be something divine, Ferdinand that Miranda must be a goddess. They have, as Prospero recognizes, changed eyes ‘at first sight’ (I, ii, 440), but the intensity of the present is revealed must fully in their mutual wonder. As they recognize their humanity, Miranda reveals that this is the ‘first’ (I, ii, 445) man that she ever sighed for; Ferdinand ignores Prospero’s ungentle tone to propose marriage immediately. It is a ‘swift business’ (I, ii, 450) which causes Prospero to impose the test on Ferdinand. As the scene ends, Miranda comforts Ferdinand by assuring him that her father’s nature is gentler than it has just appeared: ‘This is unwonted / Which now came from him’ (I, ii, 497–98). Something about this occasion makes him act in a manner unusual to him.

For these men, left awake to do the wicked plotting which so explicitly reproduces the earlier plot against Prospero, the memory of the past stimulates the action of the present. Like Prospero, they see an occasion not to be missed. As Antonio begins to prod Sebastian.

As Shakespeare turns to the shipwrecked crew in Act II, we soon discover that for them, too, the present is of peculiar significance. Gonzalo immediately recognizes the miraculous quality of their preservation and, joined by

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The occasion speaks thee, and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head. (II, i, 207–9) Sebastian is ‘standing water’, but Antonio will teach him ‘how to flow’ (II, i, 221–22). As Antonio proceeds to be more explicit, he says ‘what’s past is prologue, what to come, / In yours and my discharge’ (II, i, 253–54). This murder must be performed now. If it were death that ‘now’ (II, i, 261) had seized the sleepers, they would be no worse off than they are ‘now’ (II, i, 262). In the past Prospero’s servants were Antonio’s fellows; ‘now’ (II, i, 274) they are Antonio’s men. Alonzo would be no better than the earth he lies upon, ‘If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead’ (II, i, 282). Ready to carry out their treachery, they draw their swords, when Ariel enters to sing in Gonzalo’s ear. If the sleepers are not kept living, Prospero’s ‘project’ will not succeed (II, i, 299). In his song Ariel warns Gonzalo that conspiracy has taken this opportunity (‘His time’—II, i, 303). The conspirators are about to ‘be sudden’ (II, i, 306) but Gonzalo awakes, saying ‘Now good angels / Preserve the King!’ (II, i, 306–7). Even Sebastian’s lying explanation for their drawn swords stresses the present—‘Even now we heard a hollow burst . . . ’ (II, i, 311). In this episode we again see the overwhelming relevance of action in the present. For Antonio and Sebastian, the present

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‘‘The Prince in Servitude’’ (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

moment (not before or later) is the occasion to carry out their evil purposes. They are stopped only by the timely appearance of Ariel. The Antonio-Sebastian-Alonzo subplot is thus intimately a part of Prospero’s larger project—his conduct of the ‘present business’ which is the major concern of the play. Were the conspirators to succeed now, Prospero’s unique opportunity for reconciliation with Alonzo would be lost. A lesser, evil instant would destroy the larger, good instant. When we next see the court party, they are weary from their fruitless search for Ferdinand, and, stopping to rest, Alonzo will ‘no longer’ (III, iii, 8) keep hope for his flatterer. Antonio and Sebastian see in the abandonment of hope and in the weariness the possibility of another attempt on the king’s life. They agree to take the ‘next advantage’ (III, iii, 13), which will be ‘tonight, / For now they are oppressed with travel’ (III, iii, 14–15). But at this moment Prospero again intervenes, this time with the dumb-show banquet. Sebastian will ‘now’ (III, iii, 21) believe in unicorns and in the phoenix; Gonzalo recognizes that if the reported this ‘now’ (III, iii, 28) in Naples, he would scarce be credited, although stories which had seemed unbelievable in his youth are ‘now’ (III, iii, 47) vouched for by travellers. As they approach the


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table to eat, Ariel appears in the guise of a harpy, the banquet suddenly vanishes, and Ariel delivers the speech which Prospero has commanded. In this speech Alonzo and his followers are first accused of evil, then reminded of their powerlessness (‘Your swords are now too massy for your strengths’—III, iii, 67). But Ariel’s most important business is to recall their treachery to Prospero in the past, again bringing the past into the context of the crucial present. The powers have delayed, not forgotten (III, iii, 73). Alonzo is promised punishment in the future, a punishment to be avoided only by repentance. Prospero compliments Ariel on his performance and observes that his enemies are ‘now’ (III, iii, 90) in his power. As Prospero goes off to join Miranda and Ferdinand, Alonzo recalls his early sin. For him, Ariel’s speech, with its references to Providence, Fate, Prospero, and foul deeds is the moment of moral awakening, although at this point it drives him to despair instead of repentance. As Gonzalo observes, after Alonzo and the others have run off: Their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now ’gins to bite the spirits. (III, iii, 104–6) They must be stopped from the suicide to which they are ‘now’ (III, iii, 109) provoked. Following his formal gift of Miranda to Ferdinand (in the course of which Ferdinand promises not to violate her chastity, as he hopes for long life with ‘such love as ’tis now’— IV, i, 25), Prospero calls for Ariel so that he can present the masque. Ariel asks, ‘Presently?’ and Prospero replies, ‘Aye, with a twink’ (IV, i, 42– 43). Ariel promises to fulfill the task Before you can say, ‘come’, and ‘go’, Breathe twice and cry, ‘so, so’. (IV, i, 44–45) Ariel is not to approach until Prosporo calls for him, but it is after only six lines that Prospero bids, ‘Now come, my Ariel!’ (IV, i, 57). As the masque ends with a dance, Prospero suddenly recalls the Caliban-Stephano-Trinculo conspiracy, the ‘minute’ (IV, i, 141) of whose plot has come. Again, that is, Prospero recalls the importance of the moment: there is a minute for Alonso, for Ferdinand, and even for Caliban. We recall that from his first meeting with Stephano and Trinculo, Caliban, having discovered that they were not plaguing spirits, had perceived them as agents through whom to effect his own liberation.

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As Prospero breaks up the entertainment, the revels ‘now’ (IV, i, 148) are ended. When Caliban approaches the cell, he, too, is aware of the precious quality of the moment: ‘We are now near his cell’ (IV, i, 195). Caliban’s urgency can only be increased as Stephano and Trinculo are beguiled by the trumpery; Caliban will have none of it, for ‘we shall lose our time’ (IV, i, 248). The plotters being chased away, Prospero knows he is in absolute control: At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies. Shortly shall my labors end . . . (IV, i, 263–65) The enemies are in Prospero’s power, but as Shakespeare approaches his fifth-act denouement [the final explanation or outcome of the plot] he maintains the emphasis on the present. The act opens with Prospero’s assertion that ‘Now’ his project gathers ‘to a head’ (V, i, 1). He asks Ariel the time and learns that it is the sixth hour, ‘at which time’ (V, i, 4). Prospero had promised their work would cease. Ariel tells Prospero how he had left the court party mourning—if Prospero ‘now’ (V, i, 18) beheld them, he would be moved. While Ariel goes to release Alonzo and the others, Prospero abjures his rough magic; he will break his staff as soon as he has commanded some heavenly music, which ‘even now’ (V, i, 52) he does. Ariel brings in the distracted party, whose charms are dissolving ‘apace’ (V, i, 64); as Prospero reminds them of their past sins, their understanding grows. It will ‘shortly’ be clear that ‘now’ (V, i, 81–82) is muddy. Ariel is asked to fetch Prospero’s Milanese garments ‘quickly’ (V, i, 86). Knowing that he will ‘ere long’ (V, i, 87) be free, Ariel can sing that he will live merrily ‘now’ (V, i, 93); he is then sent to bring the boatswain and the master to Prospero ‘presently’ (V, i, 101). Prospero, clad in his ducal robes, then reveals himself to the others, reassuring them that a living prince does ‘now’ (V, i, 109) speak to them. Alonzo immediately resigns the dukedom and entreats pardon, and Prospero embraces Gonzalo. Prospero could cause the disgrace of Sebastian and Antonio, but ‘at this time’ (V, i, 128) he will remain silent. Alonzo, thinking that the loss of his son is irreparable, laments, and Prospero reveals the living presence of Ferdinand, whom Alonzo greets, ‘Now all the blessings / Of a glad father compass thee about’ (V, i, 179–80). Miranda’s response to the brave new world now revealed to her echoes the

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immediacy of her response to Ferdinand. Learning that Miranda is Prospero’s daughter, Alonzo would ask her pardon, but Prospero, his purpose now accomplished, has no more use for the past: Let us not burden our remembrance with A heaviness that’s gone. (V, i, 199–200) As we approach the end of the play, we find that even the minor characters have experienced the suddenness of events. The master and boatswain had ‘even now’ (V, i, 232) been awaked and had been brought from the ship ‘on a trice’ (V, i, 238). Sent to free Caliban and his companions, Ariel drives them in only three lines later. Stephano (who is drunk ‘now’—V, i, 278) and Trinculo are recognized by the court party, and Prospero acknowledges Caliban as his; the three are ordered to trim the cell, as a condition of their pardon. From the events of the day, even Caliban seems to have learned something: he immediately assents to Prospero’s command (instead of cursing) and promises to be wise ‘hereafter’ (V, i, 294). The play ends with Prospero’s promise to tell the others his story and with his final command to Ariel. The auspicious gales provided, Ariel will then be free . . . When Prospero reveals his identity to Alonzo, Sebastian, and the others, he does not tell them, though they ask, how he came to be lord of the isle, For ’tis a chronicle of day by day, Not a relation for a breakfast, nor Befitting this first meeting. (V, i, 162–64) The play that Shakespeare has usually written is a chronicle of day by day: an event happening at a particular time causes another event at some subsequent time. The Tempest is not such a play. Except for the few details which he has told Miranda in the first act—and the added hints we get from the scenes with Ariel and Caliban—we in the audience know no more of the story of Prospero than does Alonzo. At the end of other plays, notably Hamlet, Shakespeare has one character promise to tell the ignorant and amazed auditory what has happened—as Prospero promises at the end of The Tempest. The difference is that we in the audience already know what Horatio will tell the others—in fact, we know some things about Hamlet of which Horatio is probably ignorant. In The Tempest we do not know. We can assume that Shakespeare

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considered such knowledge irrelevant to his play, that the tale of Prospero on the island is nonessential; for Shakespeare is here not interested in the sequence of day by day, but in the now which can redeem the past. If this reading of The Tempest is correct, we can find a reason for Shakespeare’s use of unity in this play, a reason which is, moreover, essential for our understanding of the play. What we perceived in the foregoing discussion is the great emphasis which Shakespeare puts on the idea of the present in The Tempest. If this play is, like the other romances, about reconciliation, it is about reconciliation now, within the few hours which Prospero must seize. Unlike Leontes, Prospero does not need time to repent. Rather, he needs to grasp the moment in which he can offer money, can stay his fury, can effect the awakening of Alonzo’s conscience, can restore his daughter to her proper place among mankind. To tell this story, incorporating such themes, Shakespeare used the form most likely to create this sense of the urgency of the moment. He wrote a unified play. Source: Ernest Gohn, ‘‘The Tempest: Theme and Structure,’’ in English Studies, Vol. 45, No. 2, April 1964, pp. 116–25.

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Nuttal, A. D., ‘‘The Tempest and Its Romantic Critics’’ and ‘‘The Tempest,’’ in Two Concepts of Allegory: A Study of Shakespeare’s The Tempest and the Logic of Allegorical Expression, Barnes & Noble, Inc., 1967, pp. 6–12. Rowe, Nicholas, ‘‘Solemn and Poetical Magic,’’ in Shakespeare: The Tempest: A Casebook, edited by D. J. Palmer, Macmillan, 1968, p. 31 . Shakespeare, William, Hamlet, edited by Edward Hubler, Signet Classics, 1963. ———, Henry V, edited by John Russell Brown, Signet Classics, 1965. ———, Pericles, Prince of Tyre, edited by Ernest Schanzer, Signet Classics, 1965, pp. 48–9, 100–01. ———, The Sonnets, edited by William Burto, Signet Classics, 1964, p. 56. ———, The Tragedy of King Lear, edited by Russell Fraser, Signet Classics, 1963, p. 43. ———, The Tempest, edited by Robert Langbaum, Signet Classics, 1964. ———, The Winter’s Tale, edited by Frank Kermode, Signet Classics, 1963, p. 140. Traversi, Derek, ‘‘The Tempest,’’ in Shakespeare: The Last Phase, Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1953, p. 193. Warton, Richard, ‘‘Amazing Wildness of Fancy,’’ in Shakespeare: The Tempest: A Casebook, edited by D. J. Palmer, Macmillan, 1968, p. 32–6. West, Robert H., ‘‘Ariel and the Outer Mystery,’’ in Shakespeare: 1564–1964, Brown University Press, 1964, p. 115.

SOURCES Barker, Francis, and Peter Hulme, ‘‘The Tempest and Oppression,’’ Shakespeare: The Tempest: A Casebook, edited by D. J. Palmer, Macmillan, 1968, p. 208. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, ‘‘An Analysis of Act I,’’ in Shakespeare: The Tempest: A Casebook, edited by D. J. Palmer, Macmillan, 1968, p. 47. ———, ‘‘Lecture 9,’’ from ‘‘The Lectures of 1811–1812,’’ in The Tempest, by William Shakespeare, Signet Classics, edited by Robert Langbaum, 1964, p. 141. Dryden, John, ‘‘The Character of Caliban,’’ in Shakespeare: The Tempest: A Casebook, edited by D. J. Palmer, Macmillan, 1968, p. 30. James, Henry, ‘‘Introduction to The Tempest,’’ in Shakespeare: The Tempest: A Casebook, edited by D. J. Palmer, Macmillan, 1968, p. 76. Martz, William J., The Place of ‘‘The Tempest’’ in Shakespeare’s Universe of Comedy, Coronado Press, 1978, pp. 22–7. McFarland, Thomas, ‘‘‘So Rare a Wondered Father’: The Tempest and the Vision of Paradise,’’ in Shakespeare’s Pastoral Comedy, University of North Carolina Press, 1972, p. 146.


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FURTHER READING Brown, Paul, ‘‘‘This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine’: The Tempest and the Discourse of Colonialism,’’ in Political Shakespeare: New Essays in Cultural Materialism, edited by Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield, pp. 48–71, Cornell University Press, 1985. Brown reads The Tempest as a work that addresses British colonialism in Shakespeare’s time. Cobb, Noel, Prospero’s Island: The Secret Alchemy at the Heart of The Tempest, Coventure, 1984. Grounded in the works of the psychologists C. G. Jung and James Hillman, and starting with the idea that ‘‘images’’ are ‘‘the speech of the soul,’’ Cobb explores the nature and function of magic in The Tempest, and the power Prospero has as a magician. Hamilton, Donna B., Virgil and The Tempest: The Politics of Imitation, Ohio State University Press, 1990. Drawing on the story of Dido and Aeneas in the Aeneid, Hamilton sees parallels in The Tempest and argues that Shakespeare’s play

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‘‘is not a transcendent, indifferent text and that Shakespeare was not an apologist for monarchy,’’ but was proposing questions about the nature of proper government, and was describing some of the political ambiguities of his own era.

Orgel, Stephen., ed., Ben Jonson: Selected Masques, Yale University Press, 1970. Orgel introduces and annotates fifteen of Jonson’s masques, the extravagant spectacles glorifying the monarch which were presented in the courts of King James I and King Charles I.

Hollander, John, The Untuning of the Sky: Ideas of Music in English Poetry, 1500–1700, Princeton University Press, 1961. A dense and scholarly work, in which Hollander traces the changing use of music and ideas concerning the powers and properties of music during two centuries of English poetry.

Taylor, Gary, Reinventing Shakespeare, Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1983. Taylor chronicles the way Shakespeare was understood, adapted, and performed beginning in his own time and extending to ours. Taylor charts the eighteenth-century response to The Tempest in detail.

Montaigne, Michel Eyquem de, ‘‘Of the Cannibals,’’ 1577. In his essay Montaigne, who had himself met a cannibal in Rouen fifteen years before, considers the institutions of European civilization as they can be contrasted to the descriptions of how people live in the New World.

Vaughan, Alden T., and Virginia Mason Vaughan, Shakespeare’s Caliban: A Cultural History, Cambridge University Press, 1991. The authors provide a comprehensive view of the historical responses to and interpretations of Caliban, showing how he is made to reflect the ideas of each era.

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Twelfth Night William Shakespeare wrote Twelfth Night possibly as early as 1599 but more likely in 1601. The earliest performance recorded is dated February 2, 1602, at the Middle Temple. Written most likely after the comedies Much Ado about Nothing and As You Like It, and before the great tragedies Hamlet, Macbeth, and King Lear, Twelfth Night has earned critical praise over the centuries for its superb construction and comedic form. Twentieth-century director and critic Harley Granville-Barker, for example, called Twelfth Night ‘‘the last play of Shakespeare’s golden age.’’

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Twelfth Night is most often praised by critics for its comedic structure and artistic unity. Its interrelated themes are complex and intriguing and have inspired many controversial and contradictory theories. Some view it as Shakespeare’s farewell to comedy and note that its melancholy undertone foreshadow his great tragedies. However, most modern critics agree that festivity and Saturnalian pursuits lie at the heart of this play. Twelfth Night explores a variety of themes and issues. The major theme of celebration and festivity was prevalent in all of the sources from which Shakespeare drew. The conflict between appearance and reality is brought to the fore by the elements of role-playing and disguise. Additionally, the use of language to deceive as well as the failure of characters to communicate effectively or truthfully are also issues studied and debated among critics and students of the play.

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PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 Twelfth Night opens with Orsino, the Duke of Illyria. He is lovesick for Olivia and has been trying to court her. He has his musicians perform for him as he pines for Olivia. He surrenders to the way the music evokes emotions. When his attendant, Curio, suggests that getting out on a hunt might do him good, he responds that he would like to hunt Olivia. His attendant, Valentine, who has tried to get Orsino to face reality, arrives with the news that Olivia is discouraging suitors through her decision to mourn her brother’s death for seven years. She will allow no one to see her during that time, let alone consider marrying anyone. Orsino is not discouraged by this news but instead expounds on how a woman with such a sensitive and loyal heart would be devoted to her lover.

Act 1, Scene 2 Meanwhile, a young noblewoman, Viola, lands on the shore of Illyria after a shipwreck, assuming her twin brother, Sebastian, has been lost at sea. The captain who saves her tells her that he spotted Sebastian trying to stay afloat in the storm by tying himself to a mast. Viola is conflicted about whether or not to hold onto hope for his survival. Regardless, she is now alone and needs a way to support herself. The captain, who was reared in Illyria, tells Viola about Orsino, upon which she recalls hearing of him and remembering that he had been a bachelor. The captain informs her that he is still unwed but that he is quite in love with Olivia. The captain explains to Viola about the death of Olivia’s brother and her subsequent lengthy mourning period. When Viola says that she would like to work for Olivia and be isolated from the rest of the world (so she, too, can mourn her brother), the captain tells her that because Olivia refuses to see anyone at all, she is not likely to interview and hire anyone new. Viola then determines to disguise herself as a eunuch named Cesario so she can work for Orsino. There, she will sing, play music, and curry the duke’s favor. The captain agrees to help.

Act 1, Scene 3 At Olivia’s house, her lady-in-waiting, Maria, admonishes Olivia’s live-in uncle, Sir Toby, telling him that Olivia does not like his drinking and

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that she has heard that Sir Toby has brought a reckless friend, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, to court Olivia. Maria has heard that Sir Andrew is little more than a gambling, loud-mouthed drunkard. But Sir Toby insists that Sir Andrew is wealthy and well-educated, thus making him a good match for his niece. Sir Andrew, however, makes a bad first impression when he bungles Maria’s name. When Maria leaves, Sir Andrew confesses that he does not think Olivia cares for him in the least and that it might be best if he left her to Orsino. Sir Toby dismisses such a claim, convincing Sir Andrew that he is a much better match for her; through flattery, he persuades Sir Andrew to stay.

Act 1, Scene 4 After only three days in Orsino’s service, Viola/ Cesario has won his confidence. When Viola/ Cesario enters, Orsino sends the other attendants away so that the two of them may speak in confidence. Viola agrees to court Olivia for him, but secretly she wishes to be his wife. Although Viola attempts to convince Orsino that it is not a good time to romance Olivia, Orsino remarks that with as attractive a messenger as Viola/ Cesario, Olivia is sure to pay attention. In fact, Orsino asks Viola/Cesario to carry on as if he admires her as much as Orsino himself does.

Act 1, Scene 5 Meanwhile, in Olivia’s house, Maria and Feste, the jester, discuss Feste’s recent, inexplicable absence. Maria warns Feste that Olivia is likely to fire him, but he still refuses to tell Maria where he has been. Olivia arrives with her steward, Malvolio, and when she tells the servants to throw Feste out, he uses his wit to lift her mood. Feste also asks Olivia about her mourning, and she explains that her brother has died. Feste tries to encourage her by reminding her that if he is in heaven, there is nothing to mourn. Malvolio challenges Olivia’s decision to keep someone like Feste in her household, but Olivia defends her decision. When Viola/Cesario arrives to see Olivia, Malvolio attempts to send her away. Olivia, however, relents and receives Viola/Cesario after hearing how handsome and delicate he appears; Viola/ Cesario, in turn, begins romancing Olivia by abandoning her rehearsed speech. Olivia is intrigued and sends her attendants away as Viola/Cesario eloquently delivers the heart of Orsino’s message. But Olivia becomes more interested in the messenger than the message, asking Viola/Cesario about

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his upbringing and parentage. When she learns that he is of noble upbringing, she is impressed. Olivia ultimately sends Viola/Cesario back to Orsino with the message that she cannot love him, but also with an invitation for Viola/Cesario to visit again. To ensure Viola/Cesario’s return, she sends Malvolio after her with a ring she claims Viola/Cesario left behind.

Act 2, Scene 1 On the coast, a man named Antonio has been housing Sebastian, the twin brother Viola thought she lost at sea. Although Sebastian had at first used a pseudonym with Antonio, now that he is well enough to move on, he tells his host his real name and the story of his sister. Sebastian tells Antonio that Viola has drowned in the sea, where Sebastian would have died too if Antonio had not saved him. Sebastian carries on about Viola’s beauty and keen intellect, and wonders if it might have been better if he had died with her. Antonio decides it is best to leave Sebastian alone with his grief. Like Viola, Sebastian feels alone in the world and plans to travel aimlessly for awhile. Antonio has grown fond of Sebastian and wants to accompany him on his travels, but Sebastian is concerned that it might be too dangerous because of Antonio’s enemies in Orsino’s court. Sebastian leaves for Orsino’s court, but Antonio stays behind because of the enemies he has there. Ultimately, however, he decides to risk the dangers of the court and follow his friend.

Act 2, Scene 2 Back at Olivia’s house, Malvolio chases down Viola/Cesario with the ring Olivia sent. He is haughty and rebukes the young man for being so careless, telling him not to return on Orsino’s behalf. Malvolio throws the ring at Viola’s/ Cesario’s feet after she—playing along with the ruse—insists that Olivia keep it. Viola begins to realize the trouble her disguise has created. After Malvolio leaves, she picks up the ring and wonders if it signifies Olivia’s love for Cesario. She feels pity for Olivia, who has no idea she has fallen in love with another woman. She says it would be better for Olivia to love a dream. In a matter of days, Viola has found herself in the middle of a strange love triangle.

Act 2, Scene 3 Meanwhile, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew have been up late drinking. Noisily singing and talking,


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they begin discussing logic and scholarly matters. It is an exercise in nonsense. Feste finds the two and joins in their drunken revelry. When Feste sings for the boisterous Sir Toby and Sir Andrew (who has been called to bring more wine), Maria warns them that they need to be more quiet or Olivia will have Malvolio throw them out of the house. Malvolio arrives to quiet them but is mocked by the merrymakers. He is outraged to hear such talk in Olivia’s house, and he tries to shame Maria for taking part in the revelry. As Malvolio rushes off to tell Olivia what is happening, the trio plot revenge against him. Maria has the idea to exploit Malvolio’s overblown ego by writing letters as if they were from Olivia; the letters will talk admiringly and lovingly about Malvolio so that he will believe his mistress is in love with him. The three are anxious to see Malvolio made a fool, and Sir Toby and Sir Andrew will eavesdrop to see Malvolio’s response.

Act 2, Scene 4 The next day, Orsino talks about love to Viola/ Cesario, revealing that he can tell that Viola/ Cesario is in love. Viola/Cesario admits that Orsino is right and when pressed about the object of his affection, says that the one he loves is similar to Orsino. Clueless, Orsino encourages Viola/Cesario to give his affection to a younger woman who can keep a man’s fickle heart for longer. Orsino then sends for Feste, who entertains at both Olivia’s and Orsino’s homes. After Feste sings a sad love song, Orsino insists that Viola/Cesario go to Olivia again and tell her of Orsino’s great love for her. Speaking again in veiled language, Viola/Cesario tries to convince Orsino that Olivia is no more interested in him than he would be in a woman he did not love. To make a point, Viola/Cesario tells a story about his father’s daughter (whom Orsino assumes to be Cesario’s sister), who was in love with a man but never told him, and died as a result. His passion for Olivia still alive, Orsino sends Viola/Cesario with a jewel to present on his visit to Olivia.

Act 2, Scene 5 Back in Olivia’s garden, Maria, Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and another servant, Fabian, are ready to launch their practical joke on Malvolio. Maria drops a letter where he will find it and runs away. The other three hide in the bushes to watch the action unfold. Surprisingly, Malvolio walks up and is musing aloud on what life would be like as

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Malcolm Scates as Fabian and David Calder as Sir Toby Belch in Act II, scene V at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1997 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

Olivia’s husband, the Count, enjoying all the power in the household. Just then, he finds the letter and identifies Olivia as the author. The letter is about her love for someone whose identity she cannot reveal, but it gives the following hint: MOAI. Malvolio concludes that it must be him because all the letters are in his name, after all. The letter goes on to say that Olivia wants to give power and status to her beloved. When he reads that Olivia wishes her secret love to confirm his love for her by appearing cross-gartered and in yellow stockings, being rude to Sir Toby and the servants, and smiling constantly, Malvolio assumes she is writing to him and plans to do everything she asks. Malvolio exits, and the men come out of their hiding place. Sir Toby is delighted with Maria’s work, and when she returns, they all laugh. They are particularly amused to learn that all of the things that Malvolio plans to do are things that Olivia hates.

the house, and the two enjoy some good-natured joking. Feste enters the house to announce Viola/Cesario’s arrival. While he is waiting, Viola/Cesario soliloquizes on the nature of playing a fool and how complicated it actually is. Then he encounters Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, drunk as usual. Olivia comes into the garden and sends everyone else away so she can give Viola/ Cesario her full attention. Olivia pleads with him not to bring any more messages from Orsino declaring his love. She boldly states that she is actually in love with Viola/Cesario. When he responds that he cannot love her or any other woman, he also tells her that he cannot return to her house. She begs him to come again, suggesting either that she thinks Viola/Cesario will change his mind or that she might be convinced to change her mind about Orsino. She is desperate for any excuse to see Viola/Cesario again.

Act 3, Scene 2 Act 3, Scene 1 Viola/Cesario returns to Olivia’s house as instructed by Orsino. He meets Feste outside

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Lamenting that Olivia has shown greater favor to Viola/Cesario than to him, Sir Andrew decides it is time for him to go. Not wanting Sir

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Andrew to leave, Fabian and Sir Toby goad him into challenging Viola/Cesario to a duel to prove his love. They make him believe that Olivia may just be trying to make him jealous. Sir Andrew agrees to challenge the youth, and Sir Toby and Fabian volunteer to deliver the challenge. When Sir Andrew leaves to write the letter, Sir Toby and Fabian laugh at the joke they have arranged. Maria interrupts them with news of Malvolio having been seen wearing yellow stockings and cross-garters. He is making a complete fool of himself and does not know it. They rush off to see the spectacle.

fight. Suddenly Antonio enters, and believing Viola/Cesario to be Sebastian, steps in to defend him. Antonio wants to fight in ‘‘Sebastian’s’’ place but is recognized and arrested. When this happens, he asks Viola/Cesario for his money to pay bail, but Viola/Cesario does not know him. Antonio responds by calling Viola/Cesario ungrateful after Antonio saved his life, and she realizes as Antonio is being taken away that he has mistaken her for her twin, Sebastian, who must still be alive. Immediately, Viola/Cesario races off in search of her brother, much to the confusion of Sir Andrew and Sir Toby.

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Act 4, Scene 1

In Illyria, Antonio catches up with Sebastian, offering to accompany him for protection, and asks Sebastian to keep his money for him. The reader learns that the reason Antonio is not safe in Orsino’s court is that there was a sea battle in which Antonio did significant damage to Orsino’s forces. Sebastian agrees to travel with Antonio, who then goes to make arrangements for their stay at a nearby inn. They agree to meet in an hour, and Sebastian heads into town on his own.

Outside Olivia’s house, Feste encounters Sebastian, thinking he is Viola/Cesario. Sebastian is understandably confused when Feste claims to know him and tries to get him to return to Olivia’s house. Sir Toby and Sir Andrew arrive, and Sir Andrew immediately attacks Sebastian because he thinks he is the man who just fled the duel. Sir Andrew strikes Sebastian to continue the duel, but is surprised by Sebastian’s skillful swordsmanship. Unlike Viola, Sebastian is not afraid to fight and begins hitting Sir Andrew with his dagger. Sir Andrew responds by weeping and begging for mercy. Feste threatens to inform Olivia that her new favorite is mistreating her uncle and her suitor. Sebastian has no idea what is going on around him and tries to leave, but Sir Toby stops him. After exchanging barbs with one another, they draw their weapons. Olivia approaches them, thinking that Sir Toby is about to fight the man she loves. She orders everyone away, apologizes to Sebastian for their behavior, and ushers him inside.

Act 3, Scene 4 Meanwhile, Olivia sends a servant after Cesario in hopes that he will come back to her. As she waits and plans for how she will entertain him, she sends for Malvolio because she needs someone level-headed to help her devise a plan. When Olivia and Maria encounter Malvolio in his garb, smiling incessantly, and speaking nonsense (actually, quotes from the letter), Olivia thinks he has gone mad and sends for Sir Toby and Maria to attend to him. She has received word that Cesario has returned, and she is anxious to get to him. Despite Olivia’s reaction, Malvolio still believes in the words of the letter. Sir Toby, Maria, and Fabian arrive to tend to him and pretend to be sure that he is possessed and determine to lock him in a dark room as treatment. Sir Toby takes advantage of the fact the Olivia thinks Malvolio has lost his mind and will not care what happens to him. Sir Andrew arrives with a written challenge for Viola/Cesario. Sir Toby promises to deliver it, but instead he decides to deliver his own oral version of the challenge. He goes between the two, telling each that the other is enraged, violent, and terrifying. Neither really wants to fight the other at all, but they reluctantly begin to


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Act 4, Scene 2 Meanwhile, Maria and Sir Toby disguise Feste as a priest named Sir Topas to torment Malvolio, who is being kept in a dark room. ‘‘Sir Topas’’ speaks in a disguised voice and uses just enough Latin phrases and philosophical comments to sound convincing. Malvolio begs to be released and insists that he is perfectly sane, but ‘‘Sir Topas’’ pretends to misunderstand, and he lies to Malvolio about the room to try to convince him that he really is crazy. But Malvolio knows he is sane and asks ‘‘Sir Topas’’ to pose questions to prove it. In response, ‘‘Sir Topas’’ asks absurd questions and toys with the answers. When Feste returns to his cohorts, they all have a good laugh, but Sir Toby tires of the game. He is

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concerned that if Olivia finds out how cruel they were being to Malvolio, she will make him leave her house. He decides to end Malvolio’s torment, and Feste returns to Malvolio, using his own voice and the one he used as Sir Topas so that it sounds as if they are having a conversation. Feste honors Malvolio’s request for paper and pen so that he can write to Olivia.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

Act 4, Scene 3 Although he is happy in Olivia’s house, Sebastian wishes he could find Antonio to ask him advice. He comments that Antonio was not at the inn where they were supposed to meet. Olivia keeps giving him gifts and professing her love for him. He doesn’t understand this rich and beautiful noblewoman’s affection for him, and he keeps wondering if it is all a dream. Holding a pearl, however, gives him tangible proof that he is awake. He decides to go ahead and marry her when she shows up with a priest. They agree to have a more lavish ceremony later, as would be expected of someone of Olivia’s social standing. But for now, they are content to wed in secret.

Act 5, Scene 1 Orsino and Viola/Cesario arrive in front of Olivia’s house just as the duke’s officers enter with Antonio. Viola/Cesario tells Orsino that it was Antonio who rescued him from the duel earlier. Orsino remembers him and asks why he came to a place he knew would be dangerous. Antonio tells the whole story of housing Sebastian and becoming close friends with him, only to have him betray him in Illyria. Angry, he accuses Viola/Cesario of abandoning him and keeping his money. Orsino dismisses it because Viola/ Cesario has been in his service for three months. Olivia then arrives and mistakes Viola/ Cesario for Sebastian, her new husband. Orsino, thinking that Olivia has married his page, first wants to kill Olivia. He then decides to sacrifice his page, who willingly agrees to death if it would give the duke rest, and confesses her love for him. Believing herself betrayed, Olivia calls for the priest to attest to Viola/Cesario’s pledge, who confirms it. Just as the duke decides to banish Viola/Cesario and Olivia, Sir Andrew bursts in, accusing Viola/Cesario of wounding him and Sir Toby. Viola/Cesario, however, insists that he was nowhere near the brawl. Sir Andrew and Sir Toby leave to find a doctor.

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Perhaps the earliest media adaptation of Twelfth Night was the 1910 film by Vitagraph. It was a silent film directed by Eugene Mullins and Charles Kent.

The British Broadcasting Company (BBC) released a 1980 production as part of its ‘‘Shakespeare Plays’’ series (distributed by Ambrose Video Publishing) that continues to earn the respect of critics and viewers. It was directed by John Gorrie and starred Felicity Kendal as Viola, Michael Thomas as Sebastian, Sinead Cusack as Olivia, and Clive Arrindell as Duke Orsino. A 1996 film adapted and directed by Trevor Nunn and produced by Renaissance Films starred Helena Bonham Carter as Olivia, Ben Kingsley as Feste, and Imogen Stubbs as Viola. Nunn adapted the original to a setting in the eighteenth century.

Sebastian enters. He apologizes for his rough treatment of Sir Toby and Sir Andrew, and he is thrilled to see Antonio. As everyone looks at Viola/Cesario and Sebastian, the twins recognize each other. After a series of questions to confirm that they are each other’s twin, Viola/Cesario asks Sebastian to wait while she changes back into her woman’s attire. At that point, the onlookers understand that Cesario is actually a woman in disguise. Olivia realizes it is not Viola but Sebastian to whom she is married, and the duke gladly releases Olivia to him. Orsino realizes that Cesario is really a woman—Viola—who will gladly marry him. He recalls their conversations and understands that all along, Viola has told him that she loved him. Orsino is anxious to see Viola dressed as a woman, when suddenly everyone remembers Malvolio. Feste and Fabian earlier arrived with his letter, which is read aloud to the entire group. After hearing the contents of the letter, Olivia does not believe that he is insane and calls for him to be brought to her. When he

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is presented to her, he shows her the letter Maria wrote, and Olivia recognizes the handwriting. She quickly figures out the prank played on Malvolio and promises to grant justice to the wronged Malvolio, but he storms out vowing revenge. Fabian explains why the trick was played, and an announcement is made that Sir Toby has married Maria for her wit, as he suggested he might do earlier in the play. Orsino announces the upcoming double wedding (he and Viola will wed, along with Sebastian and Olivia), and Feste is the last one on the stage. He sings a song about growing old, and the play ends.

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that the prank against Malvolio has gone far enough, it is not because his conscience directs him to stop, but because he is afraid his niece will be angry and turn him out of her house. Sir Toby and Maria serve as contrasts against the stark seriousness and ego of Malvolio.

Captain The captain is Viola’s friend. He saves Olivia from drowning and assists her in disguising herself as a pageboy.

Curio Curio is one of the duke’s attendants. He and Valentine assist Orsino by sending messages for him.

CHARACTERS Fabian

Sir Andrew Aguecheek Sir Andrew is Sir Toby’s friend. He is manipulated by Sir Toby to romantically pursue Olivia, and he finds himself opposing Viola/Cesario and later Sebastian in a duel for Olivia’s favor. Sir Andrew is foolish and easily manipulated. It takes almost no convincing by Sir Toby to make him believe that an elite woman like Olivia would be interested in marrying him. Every time he tells Sir Toby he should leave because she is obviously not interested, Sir Toby tricks him into staying and continuing the pursuit.

Antonio Antonio is a sea captain and a friend to Sebastian. He saves Sebastian from drowning and leads him to Illyria. There, he risks his own life to protect his friend.

Sir Toby Belch Sir Toby is Olivia’s uncle. He lives with Olivia and wants her to marry his friend and benefactor, Sir Andrew, in order to maintain a place in her household. Sir Toby is essentially a user; he uses Sir Andrew for his money and as a ‘‘straight man’’ for his jokes, and he also uses Olivia to have a place to stay. Sir Toby is highly intelligent, and even when drunk (which is most of the time), he can craft a pun and engage in spirited wordplay. He can also be cruel in pranks. He toys with Viola/Cesario and his supposed friend, Sir Andrew, when he riles them to fight with each other, even though neither one really wants to fight at all. He also takes an active role in the prank against Malvolio. And when he decides


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Fabian is Olivia’s servant. He joins the merrymakers Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria in the humiliation of Malvolio.

Feste Feste is a clown. He is a servant to Olivia and entertains the residents of Illyria with his riddles and songs. He is the perpetrator of folly in the play and the polar opposite of his colleague Malvolio, Olivia’s other servant. Feste’s function in this society is to be an objective observer and commentator, and in so doing reveal the ridiculousness in the others’ behavior. In his first appearance, in act 1, scene 5, he convinces Olivia that it is foolish to mourn her brother’s death when his soul is in heaven. Later, in act 2, scene 4, Feste sings for Orsino, who requests a silly love song. Feste, however, perhaps to poke fun at Orsino’s excessive lovesickness, performs a melodramatic song about a lover who died alone for an unrequited love. The duke in response briskly dismisses him. When Feste, dressed as Sir Topas, a priest, visits Malvolio in his confinement in act 4, scene 2, he tries to convince Malvolio that he is blind and that things are really quite different from the way Malvolio perceives them. In the final act, Feste summarizes the play with a song. Commentators point out that, paradoxically, the character designated as a fool is the one who grasps the simple truths behind the action, which is that appearance does not always reflect reality. Feste observes of himself ‘‘cucullus non facit monachum [the cowl does not make the monk]: that’s as much to say, as I wear not motley in my brain’’—in other words, ‘‘the way

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I dress does not define me; while I may look stupid, my mind is quite sharp.’’ When first encountering Feste in act 3, scene 1, Viola is one of the few characters to appreciate the depth of his insight when she observes, ‘‘This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, / And to do that well, craves a kind of wit.’’

Malvolio Malvolio is Olivia’s steward. He is tricked by Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria into believing that Olivia is in love with him. He appears in yellow stockings with crossed garters, believing she wants him to do so to prove his love for her. Malvolio, whose name literally means ‘‘illwisher,’’ first appears in act 1, scene 5, with his lady Olivia. His disposition is in direct opposition to Feste the clown, as Feste softens Olivia with his wit. Malvolio, however, is not won over. His insults to the clown prompt Olivia to declare ‘‘O, you are sick with self-love, Malvolio, and taste / with a distempered appetite.’’ Malvolio is the center of the subplot that develops in act 2, scene 3, as Feste, Sir Andrew, Sir Toby, and Maria are participating in revelry. Malvolio interrupts the merriment to say that if they cannot be quiet they will have to leave. The merrymakers mock and disregard Malvolio, so he vows to tell Olivia of the disruption their festivities are causing. In revenge, the four merrymakers devise a plan to make Malvolio look foolish in Olivia’s eyes by capitalizing on his oversized ego. In the fifth scene of act 2, Maria writes a letter supposedly from Olivia and drops it in Malvolio’s path. He is letting his mind wander to the preferential way Olivia treats him and contemplating himself in the role of her husband, the Count. Suddenly, he spies the letter and reads the cryptic message. His vanity identifies him as the object of Olivia’s secret love, as he ‘‘crushes’’ the letters M.O.A.I. to fit his name. The letter asks its subject to appear smiling in yellow stockings and crossed garters, which Malvolio does at the first chance he gets to see Olivia, in act 3, scene 4. She thinks he has gone mad and sends for Sir Toby to look after him. The merrymakers torment Malvolio further in act 4, scene 2, by disguising Feste as a priest who convinces Malvolio that he has gone blind. Sir Toby finally decides to end the game, and Feste grants Malvolio’s request for pen and paper, which Malvolio uses to record the injustices

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done to him for Olivia to read. When he finally gets an audience with her in the final act, she promises Malvolio that he will be both ‘‘plaintiff and the judge / Of thine own cause,’’ but Malvolio storms out, declaring ‘‘I’ll be reveng’d on the whole pack of you!’’ Critics often note that the character of Malvolio stands in stark contrast to the atmosphere of gaiety that pervades the play. In a society where sensual indulgence is encouraged, Malvolio stands for law and order and is vilified for his position. He is fighting a losing battle. He has been compared by some scholars to the Puritans of Elizabethan times for his somber attitude and his crushing of the message in the letter to fit his fantasies, much like the Puritans bent the Biblical text to suit their own purposes. It is often noted that, because of his dissimilarity to the rest of the characters, Malvolio’s presence in the play is critical. He plays the defender of the rules meant to be broken, in order to provide a scapegoat for the pranks of the merrymakers. Without the tension his character creates, the comic possibilities of the play would be severely diminished. Malvolio’s punishment is particularly fitting because it exploits his own character defects. It is his own vanity that delivers him into the hands of the merrymakers and overcomes his rational restraint. Thus Malvolio is tricked into appearing to be the opposite of his true nature: the consummate killjoy is smiling and dressed like a clown.

Maria Maria is Olivia’s gentlewoman. She conceives and carries out the plan to humiliate Malvolio, and in the course of events she marries Sir Toby, who is her social superior. Maria respects her mistress and wants to help maintain order in the house, but she is enough of a rebel to be drawn into the plot against Malvolio. She is not a passive participant at all; it is she who devises the plan and writes the letter. With her wit and sense of biting humor, she catches Sir Toby’s eye. She and Sir Toby serve as contrasts against the stark seriousness and ego of Malvolio.

Olivia Olivia is a rich and beautiful countess. She rejects Orsino’s romantic attention in favor of Cesario, whose twin brother, Sebastian, she marries, mistaking him for the pageboy she loves. She also handily rejects Sir Andrew’s courtship,

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Duke Orsino Orsino is the Duke of Illyria. He is lovesick for Olivia, and is trying to win her affections. Like Olivia, he is driven by his own unchecked emotions, and he lives in his own world of excess. Characterized by melancholy, he pines painfully and longingly for Olivia at the beginning of the play but easily lets her go at the end when he discovers that Cesario is actually Viola, who is madly in love with him. He is prone to get caught up in his own emotional drama, which turns out to be very shallow. This is ironic in light of the speech he gives Cesario about how much deeper men’s passions are than women’s. In the end, he loves the one who admires him most. For all his emotionalism and rashness, Orsino is also known as a gentleman who is brave and honorable. That he values honor is evident in his memory of Antonio; he is an enemy, but he does not discredit Antonio’s honorable conduct in battle.

Priest The priest is a holy man. He conducts the wedding ceremony of Olivia and Sebastian.

Helena Bonham Carter from the 1996 film Twelfth Night (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

Sebastian

which she never takes seriously. Olivia is a highly emotional person who is initially seen throwing herself into the depths of a self-imposed sevenyear mourning period for the death of her brother, and is later seen consumed with passion for Cesario. Olivia has little understanding of the needs and feelings of others and is content to have those in her court revolve around her every whim.

Valentine

For all her faults, however, Olivia is not a flat character. Although her sentimentality is extreme, she does possess genuine feelings of compassion and pity. After all, she allows her uncle, Sir Toby, to live with her despite his not being a courteous house guest. She also pities Malvolio in the last scene when she reads his letter. She is able to ascertain that he has been the subject of a prank and not only calls for his release but assures him that the wrongs will be made right. Olivia also exhibits wisdom in running her household and managing her sometimes out-of-control servants and houseguests.

It is important to discuss the relationship between Viola and Olivia to better understand the characters. The principal scenes shared by Olivia and Viola begin with scene 5 in act 1, when the two women meet face to face. Viola has heard of Olivia from the captain and Orsino, but meets her for the first time when she arrives with Orsino’s message. From early in the conversation, Viola/Cesario matches Olivia in wit and wins an audience with her, even though Olivia has heard Orsino’s message before. Yet she is intrigued with Viola/Cesario’s bold style and responds to Viola/Cesario’s request to lift


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Sebastian is Viola’s twin brother. The residents of Illyria assume he is Cesario, which leads to his betrothal to Olivia.

Valentine is one of the duke’s attendants. He and Curio assist Orsino by sending messages for him.

Viola Viola is Sebastian’s twin sister. She disguises herself as a pageboy named ‘‘Cesario’’ and courts Olivia on behalf of the duke. However, the plan backfires when Olivia falls for Cesario instead.

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her veil. Viola/Cesario encourages Olivia to not leave her beauty in the grave but to embrace love while she is young and can have children. When Olivia starts asking questions of Viola/Cesario, it becomes clear that her energies have shifted from maintaining her refusal of Orsino to learning more about the page who is such an eloquent gentleman. When in act 2, scene 2, Viola/Cesario receives the ring from Malvolio that Olivia claims she left, Viola begins to realize the futility of the love triangle her disguise has created: ‘‘My master loves her dearly, / And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, / And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me: / What will become of this?’’

of Twelfth Night; without the insights she shares with Olivia and Orsino on love and life, the lovesick duke and the stubborn object of his affections may have otherwise simply grown old and died in a stalemate. Furthermore, Viola becomes interchangeable with Olivia to the duke, as he abruptly ends his pining for Olivia when he learns that Viola is a woman and he accepts her in place of Olivia as a wife.

Olivia continues to pursue Viola/Cesario, and Viola continues to deflect her attentions. When Olivia encounters Sebastian in act 4, scene 1, she asks him back to her house. When he seems amenable to her affections, she wastes no time in finding a priest to officiate the fledgling commitment between them. This, however, creates a problem when Olivia meets Viola/ Cesario again in the final act, and Viola/ Cesario acts surprised at Olivia’s familiar tone. Viola confesses that she loves the duke, so Olivia, feeling betrayed and not wanting to be taken for a fool, brings out the priest to vouch for their vows. The confusion clears when Sebastian arrives on the scene, and Olivia realizes that she is indeed betrothed—to a real man. Viola is thus freed from her disguise and is engaged to marry the Duke.

Twelfth Night’s light-hearted gaiety is fitting for a play named for the Epiphany, the last night in the twelve days of Christmas. While the Christian tradition celebrated January sixth as the Feast of the Magi, the celebrations of the Renaissance era were a time for plays, banquets, and disguises, when cultural roles were reversed and normal customs playfully subverted. The historical precedent to this celebration is the Roman Saturnalia, which took place during the winter solstice and included the practices of giftgiving and showing mock hostility to those authority figures normally associated with dampening celebration.

The comparison of Viola and Olivia has engaged critics in frequent debate. Viola and Olivia, whose names are essentially anagrams of each other, are parallel characters in many ways; however, Viola is generally regarded as the principal character. The women begin the play in similar circumstances: Olivia disguises herself behind a veil of mourning, and Viola dresses as a pageboy. They both have also recently lost brothers. However, the women behave very differently. While Olivia chooses to waste her youth engaged in a meaningless ritual of mourning, languishing in exquisite selfdenial, Viola continues to hope for her brother’s welfare but chooses to get on with the business of living. Furthermore, it is Viola, some critics argue, who possesses the ability to see past the masks of the other characters, and who encourages Olivia to drop the veil and seize love while she is young. Olivia recognizes the value in this and does so, in a misdirected way at first, but with happy results in the end. Viola’s arrival in Illyria is key to the action

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THEMES Celebration and Festivity

While the action of Twelfth Night occurs in the spring, and no mention of Epiphany is made, the joyful spirit of the play reflects the Saturnalian release and carnival pursuits generally associated with the holiday. The youthful lovers engage in courtship rituals, and the one figure who rebukes festivity, Malvolio, is mocked for his commitment to order. The Saturnalian tradition of disguise is also a major theme in Twelfth Night, with Viola donning the uniform of a pageboy, Olivia hiding behind a veil of mourning, Malvolio appearing in cross-gartered yellow stockings, and the wisest of all characters, Feste, in the costume of a clown. However, some critics argue that, as Feste reminds the audience, nothing is as it seems; underneath the festival atmosphere of Illyria lies a darker side, which is revealed in brief episodes like the gulling of Malvolio. While the merrymakers contribute to the high comedy of the play through their practical joke, its conception lies in their desire for revenge.

Identity Nearly every character in Twelfth Night adopts a role or otherwise disguises his or her identity. Viola disguises herself as a man upon her arrival

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in Illyria, setting the plot in motion. Feste disguises himself as a priest and visits the imprisoned Malvolio. The deliberate deception of these consciously adopted disguises provides a contrast to the subtle self-deception practiced by Olivia and Orsino: when the play opens Olivia is clinging to the role of grieving sister long after the time for such behavior has passed, while Orsino stubbornly hangs on to the role of persistent suitor despite Olivia’s lack of interest in him. Yet another example of role playing can be seen in the duping of Malvolio, which involves outlining a role for him to play before Olivia—that of a secretly loved servant. Critics have attempted to show how these disguises and adopted roles relate to the various themes of the play. Their overall effect is to make Illyria a place where appearances cannot be trusted, and the discrepancy between appearances and reality is a central issue in Twelfth Night. The roles and disguises influence the major characters’ ability to find love and happiness.

Language and Communication Wordplay is one of the most notable features of Twelfth Night. Feste’s wittiness is an obvious example: words that seem to mean one thing are twisted around to mean another. He states that words cannot be trusted, yet he skillfully uses words for his own purposes. Viola, too, demonstrates a talent for wordplay in her conversations with Orsino, when she hints at her feelings for him, and with Olivia, when she makes veiled references to her disguise. In these instances, the listener must look beneath the surface meaning of the words being used to discover their true import. Thus, language contributes to the contrast of illusion and reality in the play. Commentators have also examined how the written messages in Twelfth Night also contribute to the theme of language and communication. When the play begins, Orsino and Olivia are engaged in a continuing exchange of messages that state and restate stubbornly held positions that lack any real emotion to back them up. Another formal message, in the form of a letter, dupes Malvolio into believing that Olivia loves him. In these instances, formal messages convey no truth but instead serve only to perpetuate the fantasies of the characters in the play. Malvolio’s message to Olivia is an exception: while he is imprisoned, Malvolio pleads his case passionately to her in a letter. This instance of true


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communication provides a contrast to the selfindulgent fantasizing of Olivia and Orsino.

STYLE Irony Because Viola has a dual identity, the opportunities for irony are rich. Viola, disguised as Cesario, is secretly in love with Orsino. When she talks to him, she hints at her feelings in a way that is very obvious to the audience (knowing she is a woman) but that eludes Orsino completely. She tells him that she is in love with someone very much like Orsino, and then she tells a story about her ‘‘father’s daughter,’’ who loved a man but died because she never told him. Of course, Orsino assumes Cesario is talking about his sister, not realizing that it is actually Viola talking about herself. When she tells that this sister died, Viola claims that now she represents all the daughters and sons of the house, which is true, but Orsino does not yet understand it. The irony is especially pointed because only Viola and the audience share the secret that reveals the irony. In the final scene, Orsino understands the ironic nature of their earlier conversations about love, and he immediately grasps the depth of Viola’s love for him. His sudden emotional change at the end of the play is ironic, given the diatribe he delivered to Cesario about how much more deeply men love than women. In fact, his love for Olivia, despite all of his sighing and begging, is quite shallow. He is content to love the one who admires him and supports his ego. Malvolio’s attempts to signal Olivia that he returns her love are ironic. He is deceived into believing that she wants her beloved to wear yellow stockings with crossed garters and smile all the time. In reality, Olivia hates yellow and crossed garters, and because she is mourning her brother, she does not want to see those around her having silly smiles pasted across their faces. Every effort Malvolio makes to bring him closer to Olivia ironically pushes him away from her. To make this point especially clear, Shakespeare makes Malvolio’s first appearance in this garb at a time when Olivia asks for him because she wants his help. She means to bring him near to her (though not romantically), but his ridiculous appearance and behavior provokes her to reject him completely.

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Viola and Olivia are the central female characters in Twelfth Night, and their names are almost anagrams of one another. Create character sketches of these two characters in a sideby-side format that enables you to show their similarities and differences. What point or points do you think Shakespeare was trying to make with these two characters?

Twelfth Night remains one of Shakespeare’s most popular plays in production. Imagine that you have been chosen to direct the play, and the producers have given you complete creative control. What decisions would you make? How would you direct Viola and Sebastian to be convincing, yet distinguishable, in their alternate identities? Based on your perception of Malvolio, how would you direct your actor to make him more or less sympathetic? What would you look for in casting? Write out a plan for the producers, describing your vision and your approach.

‘‘If music be the food of love, play on,’’ declares lovesick Orsino. Literature is replete with metaphors for love, this being just one. Locate three other metaphors for love in literature (drama, poetry, or fiction) and use them, along with Orsino’s, to describe love to someone who has never been in love. You may act it out, write it in the form of a one-act play, or use any other presentation that is appropriate for your content. Gender bending accounts for confusion and humor in Twelfth Night. Can you think of a modern example of a play, movie, or television show that utilizes the same technique? Compare the two, with the goal being to

conclude why this approach is universally entertaining, intriguing, and insightful. What is it about gender identity that is so basic to the human experience? Present a short lecture on your conclusions, giving examples to support your main ideas. Be sure to leave a short period of time for questions.

If you had to choose one of the characters in Twelfth Night to love, who would it be? Which character is most appealing to you, and why? Write a love letter to this character, declaring your feelings in a way that would be best received by that particular character.

There is nothing quite like acting out Shakespeare. Choose an acting partner and together, select a dialogue to memorize and perform. Do your selection for your class or for a beginning acting class. How does putting yourself in the play affect your understanding or appreciation of it?

Twelfth Night has a second title, What You Will. What do you think this means, and would it be a better primary title for this play? Make your case in the form of a theater review in Shakespeare’s time, as if you are trying to convince the bard himself that your point of view is correct.

How would you characterize Illyria? Make a list of its qualities and those of its inhabitants. Is there a modern equivalent to this place? If so, what is it? If you are able to draw parallels between Illyria and a modern city, use photos of that city, quotes from Twelfth Night, and any other relevant selections to create a slideshow proving your point of view.

Hyperbole Love in Illyria is accompanied by overblown speeches and exaggerated emotional expression. Orsino is not simply in love with Olivia at the

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beginning of the play, he is obsessed with wallowing in his own sentimentality. He has his musicians play music for him that gives his feelings a rich context. Orsino is frequently swooning to

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music, love songs, and his own thoughts of Olivia. According to him, his extravagant love for her is equaled only by her cruelty at rejecting his passion. Even Viola indulges in hyperbole when she declares her love for Orsino in the final act. As she is ready to be taken off and killed, she remarks that she would willingly die ‘‘a thousand deaths’’ for him. Grief finds hyperbole in Twelfth Night, too. Olivia announces that to mourn her brother will require seven years of hiding her face behind a black veil and seeing no one. Viola finds this approach to grieving so desirable that, upon arriving in Illyria and hearing about Olivia, she wishes to be in her service and join her in solitary mourning. Sebastian, too, takes his grief over the edge. He warns Antonio that he needs to be alone with the weight of his grief because he is afraid it will burden Antonio. As it turns out, Sebastian is so overly emotional with his expressions that Antonio (of all people) does not want to be near him at that time.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Twelfth Night In Tudor England, a winter festival began on All Hallow’s Eve (Halloween) and ended on the twelfth night after Christmas, or January 6. A Lord of Misrule was appointed to oversee the festival, and the Twelfth Night marked the end of his reign. Until then, his rule was characterized by the reversal of the normal order of things. This tradition of the Lord of Misrule traces back to the Roman festival of Saturnalia. Twelfth Night saw people feasting and taking down Christmas decorations. The king cake is traditionally served in France and England on the Twelfth Night to commemorate the journey of the Magi to visit the Christ child. In some Christian traditions, Christmas Day is the first of the Twelve Holy Days, ending on the Twelfth Night. This date, January 5, is the last night before Epiphany.

Textual Background Twelfth Night was most likely informed by an Italian play titled Gl’Ingannati, (The Deceived Ones), which also utilizes themes of mistaken identity. Written in 1531, this play, in turn, informed the story ‘‘Apolonius and Silla’’ by Barnabe Riche, in his Riche, His Farewell to the


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Military Profession, (1581). The latter story supplied Shakespeare with additional plot elements missing from the Italian work. Matteo Bandello’s 1554 Novelle, translated into French by Francois de Belleforest in his 1579 Histoires tragiques, is another version of this story. Twelfth Night also shares similarities with other plays within the Shakespeare canon: The Comedy of Errors also includes identical twins, and The Two Gentlemen of Verona includes a girl dressed as a page, who must woo another woman for the man she loves.

Reign of Queen Elizabeth Queen Elizabeth is remembered as the great Tudor monarch who brought stability and growth to England over the course of her reign (1533–1603). The daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth became what many deem England’s greatest monarch. She was beloved by her people and respected among world leaders. During her rule, great artistic, literary, and naval figures ascended to prominence. Her efforts to strengthen England’s naval power would have made her sympathize with Orsino and his vendetta against Antonio, who seriously damaged Orsino’s fleet of ships at sea. It was during her reign that such events as the defeat of the Spanish Armada took place (1588). Her years on the throne were not without conflict, however. Europe was in the throes of religious turmoil, and Elizabeth’s establishment of the Anglican Church, observing Protestantism, was controversial. Persecution against Catholics followed, with the religious question remaining far from resolved. Elizabeth’s court was widely regarded as a great cultural center. In fact, Elizabeth herself was sometimes the subject of artistic expression. Edmund Spenser dedicated his epic work, The Faerie Queene, to her, explaining in a letter to Sir John Walter Raleigh that his title character represents Elizabeth. She employed foreign painters in her court to do portraits, theatrical pieces, and other works. Elizabeth also patronized Thomas Tallis and William Byrd, arguably the greatest English composers of the time. She even set aside her religious intolerance for them; they were both Catholic, yet she extended her protection over them. Elizabeth was also a great lover of theater, and Shakespeare was a favorite.

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

Late 1500s: In Elizabethan theater, plays are performed exclusively by male actors, meaning that women’s roles had to be played by men. Because of their youthful appearance, slight frames, and lack of facial hair, young men were cast in these roles. Audience members were accustomed to this substitution and thus had no problem accepting that men were acting as women. In some plays, however, where characters were hiding their true genders, the gender-swapping added a layer irony. In plays such as Twelfth Night, the fact that a male actor was playing a female character pretending to be a man added humor to the performance. In fact, playwrights sometimes went so far as to write lines that indirectly acknowledged this truth of Elizabethan theater. Today: On the stage and screen, women play female roles and men play male roles. In cases where the actor’s gender is different from the character’s, the decision is made intentionally to make a statement, shock the audience, or play up comedic elements.

Late 1500s: Twelfth Night is a popular and widespread celebration marked by masquerades, feasting, festivities, and traditions. People caroused in taverns, sliced up the Twelfth Night cake to see who would be that night’s king or queen (one piece of cake had hidden in it a bean, coin, or small statue of baby Jesus), and drank wassail. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, participants added actors and performers

CRITICAL OVERVIEW With its hectic pace, intriguing characters, festivity, and trickery, Twelfth Night remains a favorite of audiences and critics alike. In fact, author and critic Harold Bloom writes in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, ‘‘I

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to the entertainment, and they often hosted elaborate balls. Today: Twelfth Night is all but forgotten, outside of the Christmas carol ‘‘The Twelve Days of Christmas.’’ Even with the popularity of that carol, most people have no awareness of the traditional Twelfth Night celebration. In some Hispanic cultures, ‘‘King’s Day’’ is still celebrated on January 6 to commemorate the Magi visiting the Christ child.

Late 1500s: Ships are widely used for transporting people and goods across seas and oceans. Shipwrecks occur due to bad weather, faulty design or construction, unstable cargo, equipment failure, piracy, or navigational errors. Because maps are still being perfected, people who survive shipwrecks are often stranded with little idea where they are or how to get back. They also have little hope of being rescued. Today: Shipwrecks are very uncommon, thanks to advances in technology and shipbuilding. Ships are very safe, and the equipment used at sea helps them stay on course and avoid hitting icebergs, reefs, and other dangerous features. Further, when there is an incident, technology allows the captain to call for help. People generally travel across seas and ocean by plane, with the major exception of cruise ships used for leisure travel. Some industries, such as fishing, still rely heavily on ships (even in bad weather), but technology is available to keep the people aboard as safe as possible.

would have to admit that Twelfth Night is surely the greatest of all Shakespeare’s pure comedies.’’ Bloom finds that the structure of the play, although apparently spontaneous, is highly organized to reflect the craziness of the characters. He explains, ‘‘The play is decentered; there is almost no significant action, perhaps because

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nearly everyone behaves involuntarily.’’ Much of the humor of the play arises from the characters’s impulsive decisions regarding love. The themes of celebration and festivity were central to the sources that inspired Shakespeare in writing this play. The incorporation of the Twelfth Night holiday was probably suggested by the Italian play Gl’Ingannati, which contained a reference to La Notte di Beffania, the Epiphany. However, recent criticism has reached past the surface gaiety suggested by the title and delved into the themes behind the temporary release of a celebration. Thad Jenkins Logan of Studies in English Literature, 1500 to 1900 reveals darker undercurrents of the festivities of the play. He writes, ‘‘As its title suggests, the world of this play is a night world, and festivity here has lost its innocence.’’ Logan reminds the reader that the celebration in the play appeals to pleasure and shaking off restraints, and he even characterizes the people of Illyria as ‘‘parasitical pleasure-seekers.’’ He suggests that the message of the play is a cautionary one: ‘‘In Twelfth Night Shakespeare leads us to explore the possibility that our drives to pleasure are ultimately irreconcilable with social and moral norms of goodness.’’ Within this world of revelry, there are two characters, Malvolio and Feste, who serve as counter-balances to the other characters’s pursuits. Logan explains that as the play unfolds, the audience sees the need for the conscientiousness that Malvolio offers. He explains, ‘‘The play itself has discovered . . . the dangers of life without the principle of order that Malvolio stands for—’’ As for Feste, Logan writes: There is within the play world one character who provides an ironic commentary on revelry, who seems to know that the pursuit of pleasure can be destructive, and who leads the audience toward a recognition of the emptiness of festive excess. Paradoxically, this is Feste the jester, whose name and office closely associate him with the festive experience.

Many critics have identified the problem of identity as a major issue in Twelfth Night and correlate the self-deception and disguises that are prevalent in the play with this theme. In an article for Modern Language Quarterly on the subject of identity problems in Twelfth Night, J. Dennis Huston maintains that identity is an ongoing concern in Shakespeare’s work and is manifest in Viola in this particular play. He writes that as she washes up on shore, ‘‘Behind her is the sea of lost identity, which has washed


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away the foundations of her previous existence. Gone is her childhood tie to family, for her father is dead, her mother never to be heard of, and her brother apparently drowned.’’ Huston adds that Viola is separated from her hometown and must make her own way in the world. Her decisions lead to confusion about her own identity, and especially with her sexual identity, thus complicating her situation. But Viola must be appreciated as more than an angst-ridden young woman in search of her true self. Bloom finds her mysterious and enigmatic and remarks, ‘‘The largest puzzle of the charming Viola is her extraordinary passivity, which doubtless helps explain her falling in love with Orsino.’’ The use of language contributes to the sense of comedic festivity: much of the humor in the play centers on wordplay or choice of language. In Shakespeare’s Comedies: Explorations in Form, Ralph Berry emphasizes the central role of communication in Twelfth Night, explaining, ‘‘The burden of the theme of fantasy and reality is entrusted to a particular device: the message. The action of Twelfth Night is in great part the business, literal and symbolic, of communication.’’ He notes that the play begins with the message of Olivia’s vow to mourn her brother for seven years. He lists other important messages, such as the false message from Olivia to Malvolio as well as Malvolio’s letter. Because almost all messages are misleading, Berry comments that ‘‘the comic business develops the serious concern of Twelfth Night, the fallibility of human communication.’’ In an article for Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakespearean Study and Production, Elizabeth M. Yearling asserts that ‘‘often in Twelfth Night [Shakespeare] shows words to be frivolous, conventional, or false.’’ She ultimately concludes, ‘‘Character and theme emerge from the nature of the words and the way they are combined.’’ Yearling gives as examples words used ‘‘as mere decoration’’ by characters such as Sir Andrew, and ‘‘the language of compliment’’ that comes so naturally to the upper class, enabling them to seem polite when their intentions are altogether different. She pays special attention to Viola’s way of speaking, noting, ‘‘Much of Viola’s language, especially to Olivia, is affected, courtly, artificial, not the style we expect of a Shakespearian heroine. But Shakespeare exploits this conventional speech brilliantly.’’ Malvolio has intrigued critics for centuries. In the seventeenth century, Charles I was so taken by

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Malvolio’s mistreatment that he changed the name of the play in the Second Folio to Malvolio. Critics in the nineteenth century argued whether Malvolio was a Puritan, or whether he represented the emerging bourgeoisie class, questions that are still being debated today. David Willbern of Shakespeare Quarterly describes Malvolio as a ‘‘humorless steward, sick of merrymakers and self-love, [who] seems almost a stranger to the festive world of Illyria . . . . Everything about Malvolio’s character sets him apart from frivolity.’’ Bloom interprets Malvolio as a stage version of Shakespeare’s rival Ben Jonson. He elaborates, writing that Malvolio ‘‘is wickedly funny and is a sublime satire upon the moralizing Ben Jonson.’’ But there is a darker purpose in Malvolio’s presence in the play. In the University of Kansas City Review, critic Melvin Seiden suggests that Malvolio’s function in the play is as a scapegoat for the antics of the other characters. Seiden writes that Malvolio is in the play ‘‘so that Shakespeare’s lovers may preserve their status free from the nothing-if-not-critical comic scrutiny which would otherwise expose their romantic pretensions to the withering winds of laughter.’’ Seiden goes on to explain that Malvolio ‘‘is the scapegoat; he is the man who undergoes a sacrificial comic death so that they may live unscathed.’’ Willbern acknowledges the gravity of Malvolio’s sacrifice when he notes that the ‘‘underlying seriousness of Malvolio’s fall is further suggested by the nature of the punishment he suffers . . . . Malvolio is not only mortified; metaphorically he is also mortally assaulted, killed, and buried.’’ According to Seiden, Malvolio’s role in the drama is absolutely critical to the success of the play. He maintains that ‘‘without Malvolio the comedy of Twelfth Night would be impoverished; I would go farther and argue that without him the comedy, the play as a whole, would not work.’’ Willbern comments on the complexity of Malvolio’s character as a man fundamentally divided. He notes, ‘‘Up to the moment of his fall, Malvolio had been able to keep his overt behavior and his covert desires neatly separate.’’ Even at the end, Malvolio believes he is keeping up appearances, as Willbern explains, ‘‘But Malvolio’s careful division between act and desire, reason and fantasy, collapses when he falls into Maria’s trap, even though he himself is certain he has maintained it yet.’’

goes so far as to call Malvolio and Feste ‘‘symbolic brothers.’’ In fact, many critics pair these men as the two characters going against the current in Illyria. Feste is considered by many critics to be the best of Shakespeare’s fools. Bloom applauds the character, declaring, ‘‘The genius of Twelfth Night is Feste, the most charming of all Shakespeare’s fools, and the only sane character in a wild play.’’ According to Alan S. Downer in College English, ‘‘Feste is disguised both in costume and in behavior . . . . His disguise, like Viola’s, is a kind of protection; he is an allowed fool and may speak frankly what other men, in other disguises, must say only to themselves.’’ Feste also plays an important role for the audience; Downer remarks that Feste’s function is ‘‘to make plain to the audience the artificial, foolish attitudes of the principal figures.’’ Commenting on Feste’s pivotal role in the play, Downer points to the moment when Feste drives Sebastian and Olivia together. He writes, ‘‘It is Feste’s only direct contribution to the action of the play; it is also the single decisive action which cuts the comic knot; and it is a visual dramatic symbol of his relationship to the whole play.’’ ELH’s Joan Hartwig adds another dimension of meaning in interpreting Feste’s function in the play. According to Hartwig: Feste’s manipulation of Malvolio resembles the playwright’s manipulation of his audience’s will, but in such a reduced way that we cannot avoid seeing the difference between merely human revenge and the larger benevolence that control’s the play’s design.

CRITICISM Anthony Brian Taylor In the following essay, Taylor examines Twelfth Night in light of the mythological story of Narcissus, ‘‘the boy who confused illusion with reality and was deceived by his own image.’’ The critic sees evidence of the myth of Narcissus in the characters of Malvolio, Orsino, and—perhaps most importantly—Olivia.

According to Bloom, ‘‘Malvolio is, with Feste, Shakespeare’s great creation’’ in the play. Willbern

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Olivia, Maria, and Malvolio at Olivia’s house, Act III, scene iv

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Anthony Holden’s 2002 William Shakespeare: An Illustrated Biography offers readers an honest attempt to present the facts of Shakespeare’s life, separate from the legends that surround the playwright. The book is brought to life by the inclusion of illustrations and ephemera related to the bard’s life.

In Shakespeare’s Comedy of Love (1974), Alexander Legatt offers an extended analysis of the play, concluding that Twelfth Night is unique among Shakespeare’s comedies in its depiction of the opposition between an ideal ‘‘golden world’’ of order and the seemingly disordered everyday world. As You Like It is among Shakespeare’s most popular comedies. Written in approximately 1599, the play explores themes of comedy, social expectations, and power. In addition to their affection for the heroine, Rosalind, audience members are intrigued by elements of gender confusion, trickery, and true love.

Written for actors, producers, and directors, Michael Pennington’s Twelfth Night: A User’s Guide (2004) presents a solid understanding of the play, along with practical considerations for performing it on today’s stage.

Edited by Bruce R. Smith, Twelfth Night: Texts and Contexts (2001) contains a wide range of historical and cultural documents shedding light on such topics as Puritan conduct, household economy, the history of Twelfth Night’s production, and boy actors in Elizabethan drama. The Teaching Shakespeare Institute’s Shakespeare Set Free: Teaching Twelfth Night and Othello (2006) is a resource for teachers and serious students, complete with in-depth essays, assignment ideas, and performance techniques.


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Source: Anthony Brian Taylor, ‘‘Narcissus, Olivia, and a Greek Tradition,’’ in Notes and Queries, Vol. 44, No. 1, March 1997, pp. 58–62.

Cynthia Lewis Lewis positions Antonio as a Christ figure against which Viola’s moral growth, the central concern of the play, is measured throughout Twelfth Night. Viola demonstrates sacrificial qualities early in the play, but they only come to fruition through her service and ultimate sacrifice to Orsino. Her major obstacle is her fear of losing control, but her salvation, the critic asserts, is her clear-sightedness. This quality is demonstrated in Viola’s interpretation of Olivia returning the ring she claimed Viola left behind as opposed to Malvolio’s cloudy reasoning when attempting to decipher the letter he thinks is from Olivia. Antonio’s example of sacrificing himself for Cesario, whom he believes to be Sebastian, followed by Viola when she offers to take the punishment Orsino would like to deal to Olivia. The critic links the ideal of sacrifice to the manifestation of the Messiah in the Epiphany and asserts

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THIS KEY EPISODE IN WHICH VIOLA AND ANTONIO ARE CONTRASTED REVEALS THE MAJOR OBSTACLE THAT VIOLA MUST SURMOUNT BEFORE SHE CAN GROW TO LOVE COMPLETELY: FEAR OF LOSING CONTROL.’’

that Christian love informs romantic love in the play. Viola’s characterization throughout Twelfth Night reveals that the play concerns itself fundamentally with her moral growth. Shakespeare continually plays Viola off the other characters to illustrate how far she has come and how much farther she has to go. Initially, she has all the makings of an Antonio. She generously rewards first the sea captain and then Feste (I.ii.18, III.i.43), and she lashes out at ingratitude when Antonio accuses her of it (III.iv.354–57). Her willingness to woo another woman for the man she loves also indicates her magnanimity. Yet she often appears self-absorbed. Nowhere is this trait clearer than when she offers Antonio only half her coffer (III.iv.345–47). Next to the total altruism that Antonio showed Sebastian in the preceding scene (III.iii.38), Viola’s reserve seems downright stingy. Granted, Viola is not rich; nor does she even know Antonio. Her giving anything at all under these circumstances could thus be admired. But the contrast between the two characters is evident: Viola is willing to go far for someone else, but only so far. Similarly, Viola has good reason in III.iv to be stunned by the sudden possibility that Sebastian may yet live and thus to ignore Antonio’s arrest; but Antonio, having intervened to save her life, surely deserves more attention from Viola/Cesario than she gives. Even if Viola exits at the close of this scene in pursuit of Antonio and the officers, she apparently does so not to aid Antonio but to discover more about Sebastian’s history. This key episode in which Viola and Antonio are contrasted reveals the major obstacle that Viola must surmount before she can grow to love completely: fear of losing control. That she loves both her brother and her master is

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obvious to us, but a great deal of the potential and actual destructiveness in Twelfth Night arises from Viola’s refusal to expose herself openly to others—to give herself away. She is consistently associated with walls—barriers to love—throughout the play. Her disguise becomes an emblem of her and others’ fear: many such walls appear in the play and must be let down or broken through before genuine love can be enjoyed. Orsino uses cliche´d love language to put a safe distance between himself and Olivia (e.g., I.i); Viola refers to the hypocrisy of most people, who hide their wickedness behind the ‘‘beauteous wall’’ of appearance (I.ii.48); Viola herself attempts to use language like Orsino’s in wooing Olivia and in protecting herself, until she finds it will not shield her well (e.g., II.ii); Olivia hides in her house and behind her wit and her veil (II.ii, etc.). The spirit of Epiphany, represented by Antonio’s willingness to manifest his true self for the sake of another, is stifled behind these barriers. Viola’s brilliant repartee with Feste demonstrates her capacity for folly, for letting go and enjoying another’s company (III.i.1–59). Admiring his wit, she expresses appreciation for its wisdom and thus signals her own association with Christlike folly and her own understanding that folly comes in two forms: ‘‘For folly that he wisely shows is fit, / But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit’’ (III.i.67–68). But when Feste cuts gently at Orsino’s folly (ll. 39–41), Viola resists hearing more: ‘‘Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee’’ (ll. 42–43). Viola here seems reluctant to acknowledge the value of Feste’s remarks. For a long time she appears unable either to admit that Orsino’s attraction to Olivia is not genuine love or to deal directly with her feelings for Orsino. Her reaction to Feste’s song in II.iv exemplifies the poor judgment that results from her infatuation. ‘‘Come away, come away, death’’ has got to be some of the most morbid verse ever set to music, as Feste kindly suggests to Orsino (II.iv.73–78), and the music that accompanies it would be anything but cheering. But Viola identifies with its gloom: ‘‘It gives a very echo to the seat / Where Love is thron’d’’ (II.iv.21–22). Viola’s exaggerated sympathy for Orsino’s pain mirrors his selfindulgence. In its irrationality, Viola’s love for Orsino resembles Antonio’s love for Sebastian and Olivia’s for Viola/Cesario. It is potentially good

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Ben Kingsley as Feste in the 1996 movie of Twelfth Night (Reproduced by permission of The Picture Desk, Inc.)

folly. But enclosed within her, it waxes overly melancholic. When she can express it in even veiled language, as she does in II.iv, it regains some of its health: Vio. My father had a daughter lov’d a man As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. Duke. And what’s her history? Vio. A blank, my lord; she never told her

love, But let concealment like a worm i’ th’ bud Feed on her damask cheek; she pin’d in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sate like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? (ll. 107–15) Perhaps because this passage demands that Viola objectify her feelings, it is less self-pitying than her attraction to Feste’s song. Furthermore, Viola’s hidden love at least eventually permits her to instruct Orsino: Vio. But if she [Olivia] cannot love you, sir? Duke. I cannot be so answer’d.


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Vio. Sooth, but you must. (II.iv.87–88)

Yet Viola herself realizes that secret longings fester within, ‘‘like a worm i’ th’ bud.’’ The self must be honestly exposed to survive; Viola must reveal her inner self to become fully human. Another of Viola’s potential virtues emerges as she is compared and contrasted with Malvolio. In much the same way that Malvolio seeks to unravel the letter he finds in II.v, Viola tries to read the significance of the allegedly returned ring in II.ii. The concept linking the two scenes is interpretation. On this score Viola obviously does much better than Malvolio. Her vision is not so dreamyeyed as to obscure the true meaning of receiving the ring, whereas poor Malvolio’s hopes absolutely blind him to the facts. Viola’s visionary quality— composed of a clear-sightedness like Feste’s and a power like Antonio’s to perceive how others feel— will guide her through the snarls to come. Yet on this point too she fudges, when she thrusts all responsibility onto an external force: ‘‘O time, thou must untangle this, not I, / It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie’’ (II.ii.40–41). Notwithstanding

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the partial truth of this statement, Viola will sooner or later have to participate in shaping her own life. Time can and does help, but it requires a cooperation from her, a total commitment of herself to love.

final scene Olivia also grows to accept Viola/ Cesario as a ‘‘sister’’ and Orsino as her brother (ll. 326, 317). The good folly that is well on its way to triumphing over all is not limited to romantic love, but leads to general good will and fellowship.

Whether or not Viola learns how to make such an investment directly from Antonio, the sea captain’s dramatic purpose is to provide such an example, and Viola comes to reflect his behavior. The turning point for her, when all the potentially fine qualities we have seen in her come together, is also the heart of the play. It comes in her answer to Orsino’s angry threat on her life:

Appropriately, after Viola’s declaration of devotion to Orsino, the majority of the characters are in some respect set free. Viola’s self-sacrifice is not the single twist in the plot that accounts for every subsequent revelation: many other actions, like Sebastian’s entrance (l. 208), intervene before Viola’s true identity is discovered. But Viola’s new openness to love sets a tone early in the scene for the series of manifestations and apparent miracles to follow. The twins are reunited; the four lovers are rightly matched; the sea captain who has possession of Viola’s clothes is ‘‘enlarged’’ (l. 278); and Malvolio is ‘‘deliver’d’’ (l. 315), though that does not guarantee his freedom, which only he can claim for himself. Even Fabian, caught up in the ‘‘wonder’’ of ‘‘this present hour,’’ freely confesses the joke on Malvolio and tries to ease the tension between the revelers and the steward (ll. 355–68). ‘‘Golden time’’ is ripe for love like Antonio’s.

I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. (V.i.130–31) The Christian implications of the ‘‘sacrificial lamb’’ ought to ring clear, and Viola’s sudden ‘‘willingness’’ to give not just some, but all, endows her with new virtue: And I most jocund, apt, and willingly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. (ll. 132–33) Like Antonio, who has earlier offered to protect her with his life (III.iv.312–14), Viola now substitutes herself for Olivia, in order to give Orsino ‘‘rest.’’ She gladly takes upon herself the punishment through which Orsino would ‘‘spite’’ another. Here lies the Epiphany in Twelfth Night, where the meaning of Christ’s birth, His sacrifice for humanity, manifests itself in the actions of human beings. Viola’s commitment of her life to love is the wisest folly she can pursue. To dismiss all barriers to love, to disregard even the welfare of one’s physical being, is divine. Viola’s altruistic attitude toward love, which alludes to a Christian ideal, permits spiritual love and romantic love to be linked in Twelfth Night. Ultimately, we are not shown a world in which different types of love—say, physical and nonphysical—are qualitatively different or are opposed. Rather, Christian love, as epitomized in Antonio, works itself into the worldliest of relationships through the four lovers, principally Viola, as well as through Feste. Thus, Christian love can inform romantic love, and the two comic traditions that shape the play—the romantic and the serious—are joined compatibly as Viola grows to become more like Antonio. Significantly, in this

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But the play’s problematic nature persists to the end, modifying and augmenting the harmonious resolution. For instance, what of Antonio? Are we to assume that Orsino will also set him free? It seems rather that the question of Antonio’s future, like so many other questions at the closing, is left dangling for a reason. Interestingly, the other salient loose end here is that Viola has still not removed her disguise by the time Twelfth Night is finished. These two details do more than blur the play’s resolution, as do questions about whether Malvolio will repair his ruined pride and whether Maria will help curb her new husband’s former excesses. Most importantly, these unresolved elements involve the audience’s sense of responsibility in determining their own future. Indeed, Act V would not challenge us morally if it clearly and simply showed that all ended well. Twelfth Night finally asks us whether we will make all well by divesting ourselves of the walls around us that shut out love like Antonio’s and keep it imprisoned. Will we embrace the spirit of Epiphany, which shapes the play throughout, and thus free Christian love in our own world? By agreeing to, we will, in effect, liberate Antonio and change as radically as if we moved, along with Viola, from male to female. When Twelfth Night closes, it has already ‘‘pleased’’ us, as Feste promises (V.i.408). If it is also going to teach us when

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the ‘‘play is done’’ (l. 407), then we must respond to it by unveiling. Source: Cynthia Lewis, ‘‘Viola, Antonio, and Epiphany in Twelfth Night,’’ in Essays in Literature, Vol. XIII, No. 2, Fall 1986, pp. 187–99.

Elizabeth M. Yearling Yearling contends that in Twelfth Night, language communicates truth, despite the play’s deliberate deceptions and wordplay. Choice of language helps to convey a sense of character: Viola’s ability to adapt to changing circumstances, for example, is reflected in her speech, which varies from courtly compliments to ‘‘rude jargon’’ depending on her audience. Sir Toby mixes colloquial expressions with elaborate language, reflecting his ‘‘disorder’’ as a knight with questionable habits. Malvolio, even when he is alone, chooses pretentious words, reflecting his egotism. Yearling goes on to show how language supports a thematic contrast of the play: throughout Twelfth Night, characters abruptly switch from elaborate, indirect speech to short, direct, action-focused sentences, reflecting the contrast between the make-believe world of holiday festivities and the ordinary world of work and responsibility.


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Street scene with the Duke, Viola, Antonio, and Olivia, Act V, scene i (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

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SUBJECT TO EVERY FLEETING WHIM, WHAT CAN SOMEONE LIKE ORSINO DO? HE CANNOT DO MUCH MORE THAN TALK ABOUT WHAT HE MIGHT DO, OR, AT BEST, DEMAND THAT OTHERS DO URGENTLY FOR HIM WHAT HE CAN ONLY URGENTLY DEMAND THEM TO DO.’’

Michael Taylor Taylor compares the passive posturing of Orsino, who reflects the acceptance of events shaped by a carefree or festive approach, to the more active stance of Viola, who aptly captures the essence of the subtitle ‘What You Will’. Olivia and Orsino both retreat from reality in their respective emotional indulgences: Orsino’s in unrequited love and Olivia’s in grief for her brother. The critic contends that Malvolio, however, believes he can change his reality through sheer force of will and therefore also acts according to the subtitle in his quest for greatness. Although the exact chronology of Shakespeare’s plays is still in dispute, on the available evidence most commentators think Twelft Night to be the last of the Romantic Comedies, close in time to Hamlet. The piquancy of this association has not gone unnoticed, and there is occasionally an anachronistic ring to critical judgements on Twelfth Night, caught best by the one that thrusts Hamlet’s greatness upon Malvolio. Yet the dilemma which confounds the tragic protagonist appears also to disturb the equanimity of those in the comedy who, like him, balk at what seem to them excessively difficult situations, and who, like him also, are unable to end their troubles simply by opposing them. Even in indulgent Illyria, retreat into langour or knock-aboutcomedy does not muffle entirely the clamorous demands from the real world for decisions to be made and actions taken. Over the play hangs Sir Toby’s great question, ‘Is it a world to hide virtues in?’ (I.3.117–118).

Source: Elizabeth M. Yearling, ‘‘Language, Theme, and Character in Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakesperian Study and Production, Cambridge University Press, Vol. 35, 1982, pp. 79–86.


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In many ways, of course, Illyria, unlike Hamlet’s Denmark, offers its aristocratic inhabitants a life freed from the obligation to exercise their virtues. The kind of licence that the play’s main title conveys can be enjoyed at its most

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Aislin McGuckin as Olivia and Richard Cordery as Malvolio in Act III, scene iv at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 2005 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

untrammelled in the simple indulgences of the sub-plot. Although Sir Toby has as much contempt for his drinking companion, Sir Andrew Aguecheek, as he has for his puritan enemy, Malvolio, Sir Andrew’s naive conception of the good life lies at the heart of their activity: ‘it rather consists of eating and drinking’ (II.3.10– 11). If it were not for Maria, who hatches the plot against Malvolio, the sub-plot would have little to offer other than the spectacle of aimless roistering. Despite Sir Toby’s noisy contempt for ‘the modest limits of order’ (I.3.8), or his lack of respect for place, persons and time (to echo Malvolio’s accusation), his belligerent claim to the hedonistic life does not amount to very much. The festive spirit, given free reign on Twelfth Night, depends here, as elsewhere in the play, upon an essential passivity on the part of its adherents.

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Passivity in the guise of a carefree enjoyment of the good things of life may be more tolerable than in the form it takes with Orsino, whose contribution to a Twelfth Night philosophy has nothing to recommend it. Of all Shakespeare’s romantic heroes his role must surely be the most difficult for any actor to make attractive. Supine in his passion, Orsino conducts his love-affair with Olivia through emissaries, Valentine initially, and then Viola as Cesario. This leaves him free to contemplate the tyrant sway of his ‘love-thoughts’ from which in fact he longs to escape, or says he does: ‘And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds / E’er since pursue me’ (I.1.123–24). Unable to act, he cannot take responsibility for his own feelings, as his figure indicates, divorcing himself from them as though they were external agents sent to plague him. He seems no more able to translate words into deeds than Olivia’s other suitor, Sir Andrew, whom he also resembles, though on a more highly poetic plane, in his vacillation and instability of opinion. In the space of some ninety lines in Act II, Orsino moves from a conception of himself as devoted to the ‘constant image of the creature / That is beloved’ (II.4.18–19) through an attack on the inconstancy of men’s affections when compared with women’s (II.4.32–34) to an attack on women’s inconstancy in love when compared with men: Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver but the palate, That suffers surfeit, cloyment, and revolt. (II.4.96–98) Orsino’s patronizing regret, here, for the crudity of women’s love for men not only contradicts his recent opinion as to ‘giddy and unfirm’ masculine fancies, but does so in language which cannot but remind us of the play’s opening lines, where he appeals on his own behalf for a medicinal ‘surfeiting’ in order that his ‘appetite may sicken and so die’ (I.1.3). ‘Surfeit, cloyment, and revolt’, in fact, constitute the cycle from whose paralyzing influence Orsino escapes only in his marriage to Viola. Subject to every fleeting whim, what can someone like Orsino do? He cannot do much more than talk about what he might do, or, at best, demand that others do urgently for him what he can only urgently demand them to do. ‘Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds’ (I.4.20) he urges Viola, for (in a pophetic line) ‘It shall become thee well to act my woes’ (I.4.25). ‘What

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shall I do?’ (V.1.109) he asks Olivia, whose reply nicely balances courtesy and contempt: ‘Even what it please my lord, that shall become him’ (V.1.110). Although his question may not be so inane as Sir Andrew’s ‘What is ‘‘pourquoi’’? Do, or not do?’ (I.3.83), between them they voice in comic fashion the alternative which faces Hamlet: do, or not do. In both their cases (unlike his), any attempt to take decisive action is doomed to be comically ineffectual. When Orsino discovers that Olivia believes herself to be in love with Cesario he indulges his fury in self-dramatization and empty threats: Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, Like to th’Egyptian thief at point of death, Kill what I love? (V.1.111–113) Such bombast circumstance gives way to a recognition of impotence (though still phrased bombastically): ‘Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still’ (V.1.118). Indolence, passivity and impotence are constitutive of a Twelfth Night philosophy: care must be, indeed, the enemy of this life. With Viola’s entry onto Twelfth Night’s stage, the emphasis shifts temporarily (to return each time she returns) to a meaning of the play’s sub-title ‘What You Will’ which offers itself as a genuine alternative to the main title. She supplies what those idling through an Illyrian Twelfth Night lack: direction, willed purpose, persistence and decisiveness. ‘I’ll serve this duke’ (I.2.55) she says when we meet her first, indicating how much more than simply an Orsinian lament was her original question: ‘And what should I do in Illyria?’ (I.2.3). In her disguise as Cesario, she obeys Orsino’s instructions to the letter, much to Malvolio’s discomfiture. ‘He’s fortified against any denial’ (I.5.138–139) Malvolio complains to an intrigued Olivia, ‘He’ll speak with you, will you or no’ (I.5.147–148). How much her purposefulness becomes her is indicated, of course, in Olivia’s admiring, ‘You might do much’ (I.5.263). In these circumstances, Viola’s perplexity over Olivia’s continued rejection of Orsino’s suit does not extend beyond herself. We can see quite clearly why her active involvement in Illyrian affairs should in a trice break down Olivia’s self-denying and artificial barriers against natural feeling. ‘Even so quickly may one catch the plague?’ (I.5.281) wonders Olivia. In these circumstances, even so.


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Having caught it Olivia does not retire into sweet beds of flowers, even though she suffers the same treatment from Viola that she has been according Orsino. Her resilience here does not come as a total surprise to us, for she has displayed, from the outset, her own brand of willed purpose. In her misplaced determination to mourn her brother’s death for seven years, we acknowledge a strength of will, however perverse. Valentine’s caustic account to Orsino of her decision grasps its comic impropriety: But like a cloistress she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance. (1.1.29–33) Valentine reduces Olivia’s daily expression of devotion to an unthinking exercise in the art of sad remembrance, as mechanical as watering flowers, except that the salt in Olivia’s tears hurts her eyes. His metaphor from preserving meat, the ambiguity in ‘eye-offending’ and his pointed use of the transferred epithet (‘a brother’s dead love’) tell us why Olivia might well have to strain hard for her tears. Her persistence is unnatural and foolish, a stubborn exertion of the misdirected will. A determination to pursue a course of action, no matter how fatuous, obviously provides no real alternative to an indulgence of inertia. Olivia’s activity in memory of her dead brother resembles Orsino’s languor in behalf of love: each a retreat from reality. In Shakespeare’s presentation of Malvolio (whose name means ‘bad will’), his conviction that reality can be transformed by an exercise of the will overwhelms all his notions of social decorum and subdues his common-sense. Malvolio has no intention of hiding his virtues, for he is, in Maria’s words, ‘the best persuaded of himself; so crammed as he thinks, with excellencies that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him’ (II.3.136–139). Maria’s trick against him exploits this supreme conceit, relying on Malvolio’s strength of will to pursue inanity to excess and surfeit. Her letter cleverly appeals to his ‘blood’ and ‘spirit’, askin him to inure himself ‘to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh’ (II.5.135–137). Unlike Orsino, Malvolio finds nothing difficult nor

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distasteful in the activities demanded of him, despite their demeaning tricks of singularity: Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity . . . Remember who commended thy yellow stockings and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. (II.5.137–141)

Malvolio’s performance exceeds expectation. Only a man blindly convinced of his own worth, assured that in no circumstances can he possibly appear ridiculous, could parade himself in this manner. Arrogantly self-willed, Malvolio, more extremely than Olivia, brings the notion of self-assertion in the play’s sub-title into greater disrepute than Sir Toby the license implicit in ‘Twelfth Night’. The letter speaks to his deepest convictions about himself, especially in one of its last injunctions: ‘Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so’ (II.5.142–143) [my italics], releasing in him a flood of ‘wills’: I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-devise, the very man. (II.5.148–150)

Such a rhapsody, despite his insistence on Jove’s benign intervention, places Malvolio squarely in the second and third of the three categories of greatness the letter describes: ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ‘em’ (II.5.132–134). Source: Michael Taylor, ‘‘Twelfth Night and What You Will,’’ in Critical Quarterly, Vol. 16, No. 1, Spring 1974, pp. 71–80.

SOURCES Berry, Ralph, ‘‘The Messages of Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comedies: Explorations in Form, Princeton University Press, 1972, pp. 196–212. Bloom, Harold, ‘‘Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Riverhead Books, 1998, pp. 226–46. Downer, Alan S., ‘‘Feste’s Night,’’ in College English, Vol. 13, No. 5, February 1952, pp. 258–65. Granville-Barker, Harley, ‘‘Preface to Twelfth Night,’’ in Prefaces to Shakespeare, Vol. 6, B. T. Batsford Ltd., 1974, pp. 26–32. Hartwig, Joan, ‘‘Feste’s ‘Whirligig of Time’ and the Comic Providence of Twelfth Night,’’ in ELH, Vol. 40, No. 4, Winter 1973, pp. 501–13.

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Huston, J. Dennis, ‘‘When I Came to Man’s Estate: Twelfth Night and Problems of Identity,’’ in Modern Language Quarterly, Vol. 33, No. 3, September 1972, pp. 274–88. Logan, Thad Jenkins, ‘‘Twelfth Night: The Limits of Festivity,’’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500 to 1900, Vol. 22, No. 2, Spring 1982, pp. 223–38. Seiden, Melvin, ‘‘Malvolio Reconsidered,’’ in University of Kansas City Review, Vol. 28, No. 2, December 1961, pp. 105–14. Shakespeare, William, Twelfth Night, 2nd Series, edited by J. M. Lothian and T. W. Craik, Arden Shakespeare, 1975. Willbern, David, ‘‘Malvolio’s Fall,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 29, No. 1, Winter 1978, pp. 85–90. Yearling, Elizabeth M., ‘‘Language, Theme, and Character in Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare Survey: An Annual Survey of Shakespearean Study and Production, Vol. 35, 1982, pp. 79–86.

FURTHER READING Berry, Ralph, ‘‘The Season of Twelfth Night,’’ New York Literary Forum, Vol. 1, Spring 1978, pp. 139–49. Berry compares late nineteenth-century productions of the play with modern ones, finding that the former emphasized comedic elements of the play at the expense of its darker themes. ———, ‘‘’Twelfth Night’: The Experience of the Audience,’’ in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 34, 1981, pp. 111–19. Berry contends that the play would have had a disturbing effect on its original audiences, much like a joke that goes too far. Crane, Milton, ‘‘Twelfth Night and Shakespearean Comedy,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 6, No. 1, Winter 1955, pp. 1–8. Crane places Twelfth Night in the context of Shakespeare’s comedies, which Crane contends are based upon themes of classical comedy but depart from these conventions to an increasingly larger degree in the later plays. Donno, Elizabeth Story, ‘‘Introduction’’ to Twelfth Night or What You Will, by William Shakespeare, Cambridge University Press, 1985, pp. 1–40. Donno provides an overview of issues relating to the play, including its sources, theatrical history, and critical commentary. Eagleton, Terrence, ‘‘Language and Reality in ‘Twelfth Night,’’’ in The Critical Quarterly, Vol. 9, No. 3, Autumn 1967, pp. 217–28. Eagleton delves into the complex relationship between language, roles, and illusion in the play.

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Fleming, William H., ‘‘Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare’ Plots: A Study in Dramatic Construction, Hutchinson & Co., 1949, pp. 68–76. Fleming praises the lyrical elements of Twelfth Night as a means of expressing the theme of love, and discusses the humor, farce, and satire within the play. Fortin, Rene´ E., ‘‘Twelfth Night: Shakespeare’s Drama of Initiation,’’ in Papers on Language and Literature, Vol. 8, No. 2, Spring 1972, pp. 135–46. Fortin provides a symbolic interpretation of the play as a drama centering on Viola’s search for her sexual identity. Gaskill, Gayle, ‘‘The Role of Fortune in Twelfth Night,’’ in Iowa English Bulletin, Vol. 30, No. 1, Fall 1980, pp. 20–23, 32. Gaskill examines the workings of fortune in the play and how each character’s nature is revealed by their reaction to it. Gerard, Albert, ‘‘Shipload of Fools: A Note on Twelfth Night,’’ in English Studies, Vol. 45, No. 2, Autumn 1964, p. 109. Gerard demonstrates that in Twelfth Night, there are intimations of the tragic themes of Shakespeare’s later plays. Lewalski, Barbara K., ‘‘Thematic Patterns in Twelfth Night,’’ in Shakespeare Studies: An Annual Gathering of Research, Criticism, and Reviews, Vol. 1, 1965, pp. 168–81.


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Lewalski discusses the pagan celebration of Twelfth Night and examines the Christian concept of Epiphany in the play. Siegel, Paul N., ‘‘Malvolio: Comic Puritan Automaton,’’ in New York Literary Forum, Vol. 6, 1980, pp. 217–30. Siegel analyzes Malvolio as a representation of Puritan self-discipline and predictability. Stane, Bob, ‘‘The Genealogy of Sir Andrew Aguecheek,’’ in The Shakespeare Newsletter, Vol. 32, Nos. 5–6, Winter 1982, p. 32. Stane suggests that the role of Sir Andrew Aguecheek was inspired by a personality type readily recognizable to all levels of English society. Swander, Homer, ‘‘Twelfth Night: Critics, Players, and a Script,’’ in Educational Theatre Journal, Vol. 16, No. 2, May 1964, pp. 114–21. This article surveys critical reactions to various New York productions of the play, arguing that to be successful a production must convey the underlying moral warning against self-love and folly. Williams, Porter, Jr., ‘‘Mistakes in Twelfth Night and Their Resolution: A Study in Some Relationships of Plot and Theme,’’ in PMLA, Vol. 76, No. 3, June 1961, 193–99. Williams shows how the mistakes made by characters in the play reveal themes of love and personal relationships common to all of Shakespeare’s comedies.

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Venus and Adonis 1593

Venus and Adonis is one of Shakespeare’s two most substantial narrative poems, the other being Lucrece. Shakespeare is commonly believed to have written both of these poems early in his career while the London theaters were closed to prevent the spread of the plague. Also, both narrative poems were dedicated to the Earl of Southampton, a noted literary patron; critics have noted that, as courtly poetry, the works signaled a fair degree of ambition on Shakespeare’s part. M. C. Bradbrook notes in Shakespeare: The Poet in His World that with the dissemination of Venus and Adonis, ‘‘The author at once received recognition and respectful notice, even among those who despised, or affected to despise, the work of the common stages.’’ Venus and Adonis certainly merits comparison with Shakespeare’s drama; at nearly twelve hundred lines, the poem is fully two-thirds the size of his shortest play, The Comedy of Errors. Given the poem’s complex and nuanced treatment of its universally appreciated subject matter—love, lust, and desire—it has perhaps received more critical attention and praise. In his introduction to the play, Jonathan Crewe speaks of its ‘‘rhetorical brilliance and showiness,’’ its ‘‘conventional yet extraordinarily sophisticated reflection on relations between nature and art,’’ and its ‘‘densely layered allusion to other texts and literary traditions.’’ Venus and Adonis also received a great degree of immediate popular attention, as some

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sixteen editions were produced between its initial publication in 1593, and 1640. Venus and Adonis is often referred to as an epyllion, which is a narrative poem in the style of an epic poem but shorter. It is largely based on the work of the ancient Latin poet Ovid, whose Metamorphoses contains not only a seminal version of the story of Venus’s courtship of Adonis but also other myths that shaped Shakespeare’s portrayal of the pair. Crewe also refers to the work as an ‘‘etiological poem,’’ in that it describes the origins of some axiomatic truth; specifically, at the poem’s conclusion, Venus condemns the relationships of all future lovers to confusion and strife. The figurative heart of the poem is its depiction of the ambling discourse between the aggressive Venus and the withdrawn Adonis. That depiction has received a wide variety of interpretations— perhaps unsurprisingly, as where love is concerned, beauty as well as truth are in the eye and mind of the beholder.

PLOT SUMMARY Lines 1–96 In the opening stanza of Venus and Adonis, the narrator establishes the basis of the poem: the young Adonis has gone out hunting and is indifferent to romance, while the lovesick Venus has become infatuated with Adonis and has begun to boldly court him. They are understood to be meeting each other somewhere in the forest. Venus compares Adonis’s beauty to that of a flower and asks him to dismount so that she can kiss him. Indeed, she takes his hand, ‘‘plucks’’ him from his horse, holds him under her arm, confines his horse, and finally pushes him to the ground. With the two lying down beside each other, Venus caresses Adonis, who begins to protest but is cut off by Venus. Adonis grows ashamed of the compromising situation, but Venus kisses him repeatedly, in various places, nevertheless. As he lies still, ‘‘forced to content,’’ she delightedly inhales his breath. Adonis is likened to a bird caught in a net; he remains sullen, even as she constantly entreats him. She then declares that she will never remove her hand from his chest if he does not help dry her tears by returning just a single kiss. He seems to agree, raising his chin—but at the last moment he turns away, leaving Venus hot and bothered.


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Title page of Venus and Adonis, with three stanzas, 1593

Lines 97–174 Venus launches into an extensive plaint to Adonis. She mentions how Mars, the god of war, had once wooed her and had essentially become her slave, giving her the chance to teach him to be more light-hearted. Still, Adonis had somehow mastered her. She looks him in the eyes and asks once more for a kiss, saying that if he feels ashamed, he can always simply close his eyes. She says his youth and beauty should not be wasted in want of romance, and since she has no defects of person, physical or psychological, why should he refuse her company? She has her own youth (of an immortal kind, of course) and beauty and merely in speaking with him she would transport him to a wonderful place. Love itself is deemed something ‘‘light,’’ such that she herself can be supported by mere flowers and doves. She eventually wonders if he is simply infatuated with himself, like Narcissus, and thus

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incapable of love. She concludes that as a living creature he is obliged to reproduce, particularly so that his beauty can be passed to his offspring.

looks, leading her to again shed tears. She takes him by the hand.

Lines 367–450 Lines 175–258 As the sun passes overhead, Adonis declares that he must give no more thought to love and remove himself from the heat. Venus assures him that with her immortal powers she can cool him, and regardless, the heat of the sun is no stronger than the passion that he inflames her with. She laments his hard-heartedness and again begs for kisses, eventually declaring that he must not be a man if he has no romantic inclinations. Venus then can speak no more, as she is overwhelmed by her tears. Venus is beside herself, gazing and clutching at Adonis, while he tries to free himself from her grasp. She compares herself to a park, him to a deer, imploring him to graze wherever he will, as he will need live or roam nowhere else. Still, Adonis smiles disdainfully, producing dimples in his cheeks that nevertheless only enchant Venus further. As she pleads, he hastens toward his horse.

Lines 259–366 Just then, a lusty young female horse emerges from a nearby copse, provoking Adonis’s horse to break free from his reins, which were tied to a tree. Adonis’s horse leaps and bounds about, breaking his saddle straps and crushing his iron bit in his throes of passion. The stallion’s display seems intended to exhibit his strength to the mare, and indeed, the horse appears fitter than any a painter might conceive: he is perfectly proportioned and, as the narrator states, lacks only a ‘‘proud rider.’’ The stallion continues frolicking about, neighing to the mare, while the mare, herself proud, resists his courtship. At length he grows agitated—and the mare finally relents and grows kinder toward him. When Adonis, then, tries to recapture his stallion, the two horses run off together. Thoroughly angered and sorrowed, Adonis sits down and curses his horse—perhaps leaving him ripe to finally be courted by Venus and her sweet words. Indeed, she approaches him and he is emotionally revived, although he lowers his hat to hide his anger and pretends not to notice her. She kneels before him, raises his hat and strokes his cheek. Still, he resists her wooing

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Venus resumes entreating Adonis, offering him solace, but he asks her to release his hand—and so she asks him to release her heart. He then grows agitated himself, blaming her for his lost horse and declaring that he can think only of how to get the stallion back. In turn, she advises him to learn something from his stallion and give priority to matters of love; indeed, the stallion was inspired to free himself from confinement at the sight of the beautiful mare. Venus cannot understand Adonis’s coldness, but he affirms that he simply does not intend to ‘‘know love,’’ which he understands to mark the end of the youthful, adventurous hunting life he treasures. He beseeches her again to release his hand. She laments that his words would be so unkind, especially in that his voice is yet so melodious to her. She adds that she would need but any one of her five senses to appreciate and love him.

Lines 451–546 Adonis opens his mouth to speak, and in anticipation Venus feels the sting of his words even before they emerge; in fact, his look alone causes her to fall to the ground. Believing she has actually died, Adonis softens at heart and claps at her cheek; he even kisses her to revive her, but she remains cunningly still. At length, she opens her eyes, and only his vexation clouds the shining of their met gazes. Venus exclaims that she has been brought back from death by Adonis’s kiss and begs for more, declaring that she would essentially sell herself for his affection. She goes so far as to detail the number of kisses that will purchase her heart. Still, he declares that he simply cannot love until he knows himself; he believes himself metaphorically too unripe to be eaten. As it is late, he suggests that they finally part, offering one last kiss—and in kissing, they fall back to the ground together.

Lines 547–612 Finally, Venus has the chance to draw as much treasure from Adonis’s lips as she can, and like an infant lulled by rocking, he fully submits to her advances. Indeed, Venus would not have gained love’s rewards had she not been so insistent in courting him.

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After a while, Adonis yet demands that he be allowed to leave, and Venus has decided to no longer hold him by force. He declares that she will remain sorrowful until they meet again, which she hopes will be tomorrow—but he announces his intent to instead hunt boar with his friends. At this she grows fearful and throws her arms around his neck, pulling him atop her as she lies back on the ground. As he fails to take advantage of the situation, she seeks to kiss him again, but he only again demands his release.

Lines 613–714 To begin a lengthy speech, Venus declares that hunting boar is like courting death, given the boar’s sharp tusks and his warlike disposition. The boar is well insulated from attack and even lions avoid him, and a boar will pay no heed to Adonis’s beauty. She has grown very apprehensive at the thought of him hunting, and in her mind, she sees an image of Adonis slain, gored by a boar—and indeed, she prophesies that if he hunts tomorrow, he will die. She urges him to chase some harmless creature instead: The hare, for one, is cunning and can use the scents of other animals deceptively, making for a worthy chase. Venus conjures the image of a hare standing on a hilltop and growing sorrowful at the sound of the hounds resuming their chase of him, to then be scratched by the thornbushes he runs through.

Lines 715–810 When Venus pauses, Adonis declares that he wishes to hear no more. Venus states that the moon is clouded over because she is shamed in being less beautiful than Adonis. Indeed, the moon, as a goddess, has arranged for destiny to sometimes overtake nature’s beautiful creations, through such ‘‘mischances’’ as smaller illnesses and plagues alike; even the most beautiful, then, might be stuck down by some misfortune. As such, to ensure humanity’s survival, Adonis should feel obliged to breed before exposing himself to mortal danger. Adonis declares that he is not at all swayed by Venus’s unending entreaties, as he is unaffected by her mermaid song. He asserts that his heart rests peacefully alone at night and that he is averse not to love itself but to Venus’s wantonness. Indeed, though she speaks of reproducing, he deems her overly lustful, and lust to him is the very opposite of love. He again declares that he shall leave, ashamed and saddened by her conduct.


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Lines 811–912 Adonis indeed runs off, and Venus chases him, but he is eventually obscured by the night. Venus then lies down, lost and overcome with woe, and sings to herself throughout the rest of the night, until the lark signals the coming of the new day’s sun, which Venus greets with words of Adonis’s own shining beauty. At length, idling in a grove, Venus hears the hounds and horn of Adonis’s hunt. She runs toward them, hindered by the bushes, and then hears that the hounds have cornered some wild animal, stoking her anxiety. She is certain that they have found some dangerous animal, as it is not running but making a stand. She finds herself frozen with fear, and in trying to calm herself she sees the boar itself, its mouth frothing and bloody. Now maddened with fear, Venus knows not which way to run.

Lines 913–1026 Venus then comes across a few hounds, all licking their wounds and sorrowful, then all howling. Seeing the bleeding creatures, Venus grows certain that Adonis has been taken by death, which ‘‘grim-grinning ghost’’ she rebukes for claiming so fair a youth. Tears storm onto and over her face again and again, stricken as she is with countless sorrows. Suddenly, Venus hears a huntsman call out, and she imagines that the man is Adonis, stemming the flow of her tears. Indeed, the narrator notes that those in love often suffer from extremity of emotional reaction. In Venus’s mind, Adonis most definitely lives, and Venus instinctively retracts the unduly harsh words she spoke of death. She blames the boar for having provoked her to such vengeful anger and flatters death greatly. She calls out to Jove, declaring her own foolishness in believing that such a beautiful youth would be allowed to die. She hears a horn.

Lines 1027–1123 Venus rushes off in the direction of the horn—to suddenly happen upon Adonis, slain after all, sending her eyes reeling back into her head, unable to see anything more. But her wounded heart groans, causing parts of her body to quake and her eyes to open again—and she again sees the deceased Adonis, who had been gored in the flank, leaving the ground drenched with his blood. Venus is left in disbelief, her mind

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CHARACTERS Adonis

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

The Royal Shakespeare Company and the Little Angel Theatre collaborated to produce an hour-long marionette version of Venus and Adonis in 2004. The production was directed by Gregory Doran. A video was recorded by, and is held at, the Theater Museum of the United Kingdom’s National Museum of the Performing Arts.

distorting and multiplying the sights of the wound, his face, and his limbs. She exclaims in despair that not one but two Adonises are dead and that her heart has been turned to lead: the most beautiful thing on earth has ceased to exist. She passes blame to the sun and wind, who had sought to rob him of his fairness. Even the most feral animals, she notes, had been enchanted by him. Fish and birds, likewise, favored him. But the boar, she posits, had been looking groundward and had not seen him; or if it had seen Adonis, it had only gored him in trying to kiss him. She realizes that she, too, would have gored him had she been so naturally armed. She falls to the ground and embraces him.

Lines 1124–1194 Venus touches and speaks to the slain Adonis, opening his eyes to witness the absence of light there. Having lost her own love, she prophesies now that ever after, love will ultimately bring jealousy and strife, afflicting people of all sorts with foolishness and confusion and even causing wars. Adonis then melts away, leaving only a flower of mottled purple (or blood-crimson) and white. Venus plucks the flower, to keep it always near her heart, treating it as Adonis’s only kin. Venus is then carried off into the skies by her silver doves to Paphos, her home.

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Although he says far less than his counterpart in the tale, Adonis merits as much attention by virtue of his character’s complexity. In fact, where Venus’s speeches leave little doubt in the reader’s mind as to her nature, Adonis’s comparative silence has provoked many commentators to proffer elaborate explanations regarding his state of mind. In fact, comparatively few analyses revolve around the major speech he delivers from lines 769 to 810, in which he seems to relate that his reluctance simply stems from his low opinion of the genuine nature of Venus’s ‘‘love.’’ (Nevertheless, these lines have been highlighted by Belsey, among others, as revealing much about the Elizabethan conceptions of love and lust.) To the contrary, Adonis is generally understood to shy away from Venus’s advances simply because he has not yet reached a state of manhood. Shakespeare establishes early on that Adonis is but a ‘‘tender boy,’’ and throughout the poem he blushes and pales with embarrassment and shame in treading what is evidently unfamiliar romantic territory. Many critics have invoked the language of psychology in discussing Adonis’s character, making reference to theorists such as Sigmund Freud and Erik Erikson. In psychological terms, Adonis’s youth and reluctance can be understood to signal that he has yet to form his own identity; without an identity, he would not be able to cope with the merging of selves brought about by sexual union. Coppe´lia Kahn elaborates, ‘‘The Adonis of Shakespeare’s poem is caught between the poles of intimacy and isolation: intimacy with Venus, which constitutes entry into manhood, and the emotional isolation of narcissism, which constitutes a denial of growth, change, and the natural fact of mortality that underlies them.’’ Indeed, Adonis’s evident narcissism, or excessive self-love, may be understood to stem in part from his exceptional beauty. Just as any other young man or woman might, Adonis seems to perceive his beauty as enhanced by his purity, which would be ‘‘lost’’ were he to lose his virginity. William E. Sheidley, for one, contends that the poem’s conclusion—Adonis’s death at the tusks of the boar—signifies that the author has, to a certain extent, sided with Venus, who argues all along that sexual love is simply necessary for

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the propagation of the human race. Sheidley writes, ‘‘The chaste and sexless beauty of Adonis shadows forth an ideal perfection that precludes the phallic. But the poem reveals that, no matter how attractive it may be, the notion of its existence in the temporal world is an illusion that must be exploded.’’

The Boar Although making only the briefest appearance— receiving one stanza of description upon its appearance before Venus—and though not even human, the boar plays so significant a role in the poem as to merit recognition as one of its characters. Indeed, critical works such as William E. Sheidley’s ‘‘‘Unless It Be a Boar’: Love and Wisdom in Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis’’ and A. T. Hatto’s ‘‘Venus and Adonis—and the Boar’’ reveal that the boar may be seen as the symbolic key to the entire story. Sheidley views the boar as ‘‘the locus of the missing phallic impulse’’—that is, where Adonis refuses to provide Venus with the sexual gratification she desires, the boar intrudes and with his tusk inflicts that ‘‘phallic impulse’’ on Adonis, killing him. Hatto draws on a long history of boars symbolizing sexual potency in literature, citing works by the fourteenth-century Italian poet Giovanni Boccaccio and the Englishman Geoffrey Chaucer, to make a similar argument. Sheidley, in turn, furthers this line of argument by citing the various instances in Shakespeare’s plays where mention is made of the boar, such as in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Cymbeline, and As You Like It, all of which give the boar sexual connotations. Succinctly summing up other critical perspectives on the poem’s violent beast, Sheidley writes, ‘‘The Boar has received various interpretations, ranging from his role as winter or the advent of winter in the seasonal explication of the myth, through a generalization upon his function that renders him Death personified, to the iconographical gloss through swine as gluttony.’’ Considering the historical context, M. C. Bradbrook notes that the boar ‘‘may be a direct symbol of the plague, for the wound is in the flank or groin, where the dreaded plague spots, the ‘bubos,’ appeared—under the armpits and at the crotch.’’ Overall, no single interpretation of the boar’s role need be favored to the exclusion of the others, as Shakespeare may very well have had all of the suggested meanings in mind—or, consciously, none at all—as he wrote.


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The Horses The horses, in turn, are given enough attention by Shakespeare—the episode of their courtship constitutes a full sixty-six lines—to merit discussion. In general, critics assert that the romantic display provided by the horses serves as a contrast to the romantic attention that Adonis fails to bestow on Venus. Indeed, Venus says to Adonis with regard to his horse, ‘‘learn of him . . . / To take advantage on presented joy,’’ and, shortly afterward, ‘‘learn to love; the lesson is but plain.’’ Even the narrator, who insinuates himself into the action of the poem only subtly— such as by occasionally offering comparisons between the main characters and animals— remarks that all the virile stallion lacks is ‘‘a proud rider on so proud a back.’’ Indeed, continuing his comprehensive analysis of the poem’s beasts, Sheidley remarks of the horses, ‘‘By painting that picture of sexuality untrammeled by obstacles or perversions, Shakespeare provides a standard by which the defects in the relationship between Venus and Adonis may be precisely measured and defined.’’

Venus As she speaks something close to half of the poem’s twelve hundred lines, Venus has been the focus of much of the critical attention devoted to the work. In fact, Venus’s convictions, expressions, and actions are doubly significant in that she is the mythical personification of Love, such that Shakespeare can be understood to be commenting upon that most central of all human emotions through his depiction of her. Much of the discourse between the two, of course, concerns their impressions of love and lust. Perhaps Venus’s most prominent trait is her sexual aggression, a fairly unique feature among romantic heroines even in modern times. Catherine Belsey notes that Shakespeare did not shy away from highlighting this aspect of the story, as ‘‘the text makes witty capital out of the scandal it creates when Venus draws explicit attention to the role reversal.’’ In line 369 Venus imagines how the situation might be improved if their positions were reversed back to the traditional ones, remarking, ‘‘Would thou wert as I am, and I a man.’’ In taking note of the goddess’s assertiveness in a broader sense, Christy Desmet states that Venus can be viewed as ‘‘the earliest Shakespearean woman to have beauty, passion, and a golden tongue,’’ such that

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she merits comparison alongside such characters as Isabella from Measure for Measure and Helena from All’s Well That Ends Well. Venus’s aggression seems to account for much of Adonis’s reluctance to engage in a physical relationship with her; he remarks in line 789, ‘‘I hate not love, but your device in love.’’ Indeed, with her forcible restraint of Adonis and her single-minded persistence in gaining his favor, Venus has been noted as aggressive to the point of comedy, nowhere more pointedly than when she first ‘‘plucks’’ Adonis from his horse. Making reference to this aggression, Jonathan Crewe offers an assessment of her characterization: ‘‘Venus as an older woman implies the threat stereotypically experienced by young men of being overwhelmed by demanding, suffocating mother figures.’’ In fact, Venus refers to herself with maternal connotations in several instances, most notably when she compares herself to a park and Adonis to a deer which should feed there, evoking the idea of her providing sustenance. This reference is made more explicit when she speaks of her ‘‘pleasant fountains,’’ the breasts that would provide nourishment to her infant. The scholar Peter Erickson, for one, has noted that Shakespeare may have portrayed Venus as maternal in part because he was thereby making subtle political reference to Queen Elizabeth.

THEMES Desire The nature of desire is a major theme in Venus and Adonis, especially as represented by Venus and as absent in Adonis. Indeed, Shakespeare has portrayed the personification of love as simply overflowing with desire, and many commentators have thus seen Venus’s characterization as largely negative and fairly comical. Catherine Belsey provides a survey of other critics who have used terms such as ‘‘sick excess,’’ ‘‘unnatural and disorderly,’’ and ‘‘perverse’’ to describe Venus’s emotional state. Belsey contends that the desire itself is given more blame than the woman who embodies it: ‘‘Irrational, irregular, incited by prohibition, and thus quite unable to take ‘no’ for an answer, desire is in every sense of the term an outlaw.’’ Thus, Venus is not just overflowing with, but also dominated by, her desire for Adonis.

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Belsey notes that a key passage is the one in which the narrator compares Venus to the legendary birds who were deceived into thinking that grapes painted by Zeuxis, an ancient Greek, were real. Belsey writes, ‘‘In the same way, despite her best efforts, Venus finds that the provocative outward image of Adonis conceals nothing to her purpose: his beauty evokes a longing, which remains unsatisfied, for his desire.’’ When she cannot conjure Adonis’s desire, Venus only craves his company all the more. Belsey concludes by noting that Adonis’s metamorphosis after his death is the culmination of the discussion about desire: ‘‘The flower—beautiful, fragile, mutable, and all that remains of a youth who became an object of desire for the goddess of love—thus appears in its elusiveness the quintessential signifier of desire itself.’’ That is, in that the flower cannot be permanently possessed by anyone—once plucked, it is bound to wither and die—it represents all objects of affection which ultimately fail to return that affection. With respect to Adonis, his failure to exhibit any desire is equated with his enduring boyhood. As Coppe´lia Kahn notes, ‘‘In Venus and Adonis Shakespeare is saying that the life apart from eros is death, and that for a man, sexual love of woman is vital to masculinity.’’ Thus, rather than depending in any way on Venus’s actions or exhortations, Adonis’s desire for the opposite sex may be seen as simply not yet existing. Outside of the levels of desire exhibited by the title characters, accounts of the poem may take into account the desire of a third personage: the reader. Indeed, some critics have noted that one function of the poem, which is widely referred to as ‘‘erotic’’ literature, is to spark desire in the reader. Bruce R. Smith remarks of Venus and Adonis and two contemporary works, ‘‘Sexual arousal in these poems is as much the reader’s as the protagonists’.’’ Sheidley, in turn, notes, ‘‘Fruition is denied in Venus and Adonis, but Shakespeare makes sure that it exists in his reader’s mind as a ready potentiality.’’ He adds that the reader’s experience with the poem necessarily includes ‘‘desires orchestrated by Shakespeare and substantiated by the philosophy of Venus’’; that is, Venus effectively argues that without desire—and more to the point, without the consummation of desire—the human race would cease to exist. And the reader is perhaps more likely to agree with this hypothesis when moved by desire of his or her own.

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Birds are mentioned in a variety of contexts throughout Venus and Adonis. In an essay, discuss the nature of these references and their relevance to the poem as a whole. Some critics have suggested that Shakespeare portrayed Adonis as refusing Venus’s advances because he had homosexual leanings. Research and write a report on the history of the gay rights movement in the United States.

Discuss how modern American concepts regarding love, lust, and chastity are reflected in movies, on television, and on the Internet. In Ovid’s version of the myth of Venus and Adonis, Venus relates the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes; Shakespeare may have excluded this digression because it did not fit with his interpretation of the overall story. Read Ovid’s version of the myth of Atalanta and Hippomenes, then write several stanzas to be included in the appropriate location in Venus and Adonis in which Venus relates that myth. Alter that myth however you choose so that it best fits into Shakespeare’s narrative poem.

STYLE Mythology In that the entire story of Venus and Adonis originates in Roman mythology, Shakespeare’s poem is worth examining not only as an individual work but also alongside that myth and others from which the author drew. Shakespeare did not exclusively adhere to the facts of the primary myth, which he is understood to have learned from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, written around 8 C.E. Most notably, Ovid depicts Venus as fairly reserved in terms of her sexuality. John Doebler notes of Ovid’s Venus, ‘‘Dressed as a virginal

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Diana hunting harmless game, she is content to haunt the presence of Adonis,’’ while ‘‘her love is protective, reserved, and maternal, in no way rapacious.’’ The goddess does bestow kisses on the youth, but she otherwise simply sits with him and relates the tale of Atalanta and Hippomenes.



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In fact, Shakespeare’s exclusion of the retelling of the myth of Atalanta and Hippomenes is also significant, as in Ovid’s version the tale may be understood to illustrate the danger of seeking to satisfy lust. In roughly the same place in the framing tale of Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare inserted the episode of the horses’ courtship, which, to the contrary, endorses the notion of allowing oneself to be guided by animalistic attractions. Shakespeare also omitted other aspects of Ovid’s tale that seemed to warn against the satisfaction of lust. He failed to mention the fact that Venus and Mars were ridiculed by the other gods when Vulcan, Venus’s husband, exposed the two, and he makes no mention of the fact that Adonis was conceived through incest between father and daughter. As Doebler notes, in Ovid’s tale, ‘‘The fate of Adonis completes a cycle of retribution arising from illicit passion.’’ In Shakespeare’s work, meanwhile, only Adonis’s own words— and some of the narrator’s—reflect the notion that excessive passion might cause any woe. Shakespeare is understood to have borrowed from several other classical myths in shaping his characters in Venus and Adonis. The manner in which Adonis rejects Venus is reminiscent of the rejection of Echo by Narcissus, who loves himself so much that he has no affection to offer to anyone else. Coppe´lia Kahn notes that Adonis also fairly resembles Hermaphroditus, who likewise refused to love a woman and subsequently met with an unkindly fate. Further, Shakespeare’s Venus is quite similar to the character of Salmacis, the woman who forcibly embraces Hermaphroditus, resulting in the merging of their sexualities. Kahn observes that while the fates of the two women are distinct, ‘‘Venus’s style of wooing is, in general, inspired by that of Salmacis, who first offers herself to Hermaphroditus boldly, but in carefully controlled rhetoric.’’ Overall, Shakespeare drew on classical mythology in various inventive ways to achieve precisely the effect he desired in his own retelling of the story of Venus and Adonis.

Red and White As in all of Shakespeare’s longer works, recurring imagery plays a substantial role in the poetic

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construction. The most prominent image motif in Venus and Adonis features what Coppe´lia Kahn calls ‘‘the beauteous war of red and white.’’ Those colors are mentioned, individually and together, in various contexts throughout the poem. Most frequently, red represents love, passion, and emotion, as when Venus is ‘‘red and hot as coals of glowing fire’’ over Adonis, or when she speaks of leading Mars by a ‘‘red-rose chain.’’ Adonis is associated with red almost exclusively when he blushes—that is, when he is overcome with emotion. White, on the other hand, represents virtue, coldness, and to a certain extent, chastity. Adonis, of course, is often referred to as pale or white in some respect, Venus less frequently so. Still, Venus seems to contain more ‘‘white’’ than Adonis contains ‘‘red’’; two significant lines related to this topic come early in the poem: ‘‘Being red, she loves him best, and being white, / Her best is bettered with a more delight.’’ These lines might be interpreted as an assertion that passionate feelings and virtue are compatible and are embodied by Venus. However, a later passage seems to indicate that while the sentiments or traits symbolized by the two colors can coexist, they cannot do so peacefully. When Venus approaches Adonis after his horse has fled, the narrator mentions ‘‘the fighting conflict of her hue, / How white and red each other did destroy! / But now her cheek was pale, and by and by / It flashed forth fire, as lightning from the sky.’’ The colors red and white appear in two of the poems most important scenes: on the boar’s ‘‘frothy mouth, bepainted all with red, / Like milk and blood being mingled both together,’’ and on the flower that Adonis becomes, ‘‘Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood / Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood.’’ Indeed, Kahn highlights the relevance of this last intermingling of the two colors: ‘‘His transformation to a purple (from Lat. purpureus, a variety of red) and white flower represents the ending of the war of white and red mentioned so often. Adonis’s pale coldness opposes Venus’s fiery ardor; in death, his red blood stains the perfect whiteness of his skin.’’

HISTORICAL CONTEXT The Elizabethan Concept of Love The most prominent reason for examining Venus and Adonis in its historical context is that conceptions regarding love—and lust—in Elizabethan times were vastly different from those in

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modern times. As Russ McDonald notes in his Bedford Companion to Shakespeare, marriage frequently had little, if anything, to do with the degree of love shared by the partners in question. Especially among upper class families, who possessed capital and estates that potential brides could give to their suitors as dowries, the agreeability of the financial arrangement and the effect the union would have on the social status of each were frequently the most important matchmaking factors. While ‘‘love’’ certainly sprang from such arrangements over time, the unions often functioned more as partnerships than as marriages. William E. Sheidley notes that the story’s conclusion—Adonis meeting death after spurning Venus—can, and perhaps should, be read as his punishment for failing to give himself over to the goddess of love. Sheidley frames his discussion in part around the contrast between religious and secular points of view, which he differentiates as ‘‘the mystical neoplatonic vision of love as the pathway to God, and the somewhat less exotic and more characteristically Shakespearean understanding of love, through its consummation in marriage and procreation, as the ordering principle and unifying bond of the cosmos.’’ That is, without love—and sex— the human race would cease to exist. Taking note of the literary climate, he states, ‘‘English poets of the era, like many members of the Christian humanist intellectual community in general, frequently express ambivalence or perplexity about the traditional poetic vision of love.’’ Indeed, some Elizabethan writers came to adopt ‘‘antilove’’ standpoints, which better accorded with contemporary religious views touting the virtues of chastity. Shakespeare, to the contrary, perhaps recognized that humans, like all earthly mammals, could certainly enjoy physical love outside of the context of a spiritually pure romantic relationship. Sheidley asserts that in Venus and Adonis, Shakespeare ‘‘conveys his realization that sexual love is not composed entirely of soft sweetness and warmth, but involves an untender element, an element even, as with human nature itself, of the bestial.’’ He concludes, ‘‘The properly ordered human being must acknowledge and integrate this lower nature.’’ Catherine Belsey frames her discussion on the subject around the Elizabethan connotations of the words love and lust. Adonis, of course, draws a very fine distinction between the words, concluding

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Venus and Adonis (oil on canvas), by Charles Joseph Natoire (Venus and Adonis (oil on canvas), Natoire, Charles Joseph (1700-77), photograph. Giraudon, Musee des Beaux-Arts, Nimes, France/The Bridgeman Art Library International)

several stanzas of comparisons with the twin dec` lies.’’ larations, ‘‘Love is all truth, lust full of forged Yet Belsey notes that this distinction is not played out in the rest of the text, with love and lust used interchangeably to describe Venus’s emotional state. Belsey states, ‘‘The emergence of a radical distinction between the two—a process inadvertently encouraged, as it turns out, by the voice of Adonis—marks a moment in the cultural history of desire which . . . has proved formative for our own cultural norms and values.’’ That is, in modern times, love and lust largely have precisely the connotations that Adonis assigns them. Belsey draws on a wide variety of sources to show that at the time of the publication of Venus and Adonis, lust quite often had perfectly positive connotations, as associated and coupled with virtuous ‘‘true love.’’ The years afterward witnessed a gradual shift, such that ‘‘by the mid-seventeenth century the term had acquired a primarily sexual and strongly pejorative meaning.’’


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Queen Elizabeth While the powerful and manipulative woman was not a common character in literature in Shakespeare’s time, one would not have to search very hard to find a prime example of just such a personage: Queen Elizabeth herself. Commentators have noted that Shakespeare would certainly have been conscious of the possibility that comparisons would be drawn between his female lead and the nation’s, especially because Elizabeth never married or produced an heir, such that her possible romantic relations were ever on the mind of the public. Indeed, as Peter Erickson notes in his essay on the topic, ‘‘Venus evokes the erotic flirtation in Elizabeth’s practice of courtship.’’ Erickson highlights the fact that Shakespeare wrote Venus and Adonis—as well as the subsequent Rape of Lucrece—for the Earl of Southampton, a subordinate to the queen. As such, both poems can be seen to evidence a ‘‘responsiveness to the latent gender tension involved in male reaction to female rule.’’

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COMPARE & CONTRAST

1590s: England, a nation that is primarily patriarchal both legally and socially finds itself under the rule of a woman, Queen Elizabeth, for over forty years. Today: A nation whose laws generally provide for the equal treatment of the sexes, the United States of America, has yet to be led by a female president.

1590s: The words love and lust have yet to receive wholly distinct connotations, such that lust is often referred to positively. Today: Lust is widely recognized as one of the ‘‘seven deadly sins,’’ in the United States. But the proliferation of health programs

Erickson goes on to note, ‘‘Venus’s domination evokes Elizabeth’s control, and this undercurrent helps to account for the poem’s unstable tonal mixture of defensive jocularity and genuine alarm.’’ That is, while some critics have lamented that the poem itself seems unsure as to whether it wishes to be comedic or tragic, Erickson asserts that both of these moods result naturally from the historical context. He concludes that the pair of narrative poems Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece—which, as indicated by the title, entails the ultimate subordination and violation of a woman—together amount to a literary fantasy of revolt: ‘‘The primary wish fulfilled by the overall progression of the two poems is the elimination of the threat of Elizabeth’s power.’’ Heather Dubrow draws very similar conclusions, stating, ‘‘Venus’s assertions of power may well reflect resentment of Elizabeth herself.’’ Dubrow, too, takes note of the poem’s alternating tone and the associated alternately favorable and unfavorable depictions of Venus: ‘‘Ambivalence about an unsuccessfully manipulative heroine encodes ambivalence about a brilliantly manipulative queen.’’

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preaching abstinence rather than the use of condoms suggests that lust is to be ignored.

1590s: As the word homosexual would not be coined for some three hundred years, people are not categorized according to their sexual desires. Today: For many, the question of ‘‘sexual identity’’ is crucial and must be answered in some definitive way to allow for full maturation. While some social scientists have suggested that all people fall not into a category but somewhere along a range of sexuality, fewer than 2 percent of Americans identify themselves as bisexual.

Sexuality In that Adonis, a perfectly healthy young male, remains unstirred by Venus’s advances, some scholars have speculated that Shakespeare intentionally depicted him in a way that left his sexuality in question. To begin with, Adonis is repeatedly described not merely as an attractive or powerful male but as a beautiful male. His blushing shyness, in turn, is more typically a feminine trait. In Homosexual Desire in Shakespeare’s England, Bruce Smith notes that owing to ‘‘their androgyny,’’ or combination of traditional femininity and masculinity alike, Adonis and two other male figures in contemporary works ‘‘embody, quite literally, the ambiguities of sexual desire in English Renaissance culture and the ambivalences of homosexual desire in particular. They represent, not an exclusive sexual taste, but an inclusive one. To use the categories of our own day, these poems are bisexual fantasies.’’ Other critics have drawn different conclusions regarding the perspective on sexuality revealed in the poem. C. L. Barber has raised the possibility that the boar’s goring of Adonis with his tusk can be interpreted as representing

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an act of homosexual rape. Meanwhile, in Shakespeare and the Earl of Southampton, G. P. V. Akrigg discusses the possibility that the earl and literary patron was in fact homosexual. Peter Erickson then notes that if the poem itself is meant to express frustration over the rule of the female monarch, it was perhaps also intended to reveal ‘‘ambivalence about Southampton in the role of Adonis-like courtier.’’ Erickson concludes, ‘‘Adonis’s refusal can be read as heterosexual impotence that implies a homosexual motive, toward whose fulfillment the poem expresses reservations as strong as its restiveness about female power.’’ Regardless of what interpretation of Adonis’s sexuality is favored, Shakespeare’s treatment of the subject can be understood to reflect the cultural realities of the era.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW Critical opinions of Venus and Adonis have varied greatly over the years, especially because earlier critics invested less energy in what was long considered a minor Shakespearean work. Indeed, Heather Dubrow notes of both this poem and the subsequent Rape of Lucrece, The habits of not reading them sensitively and of not reading them at all both stem from the same preconception: these poems are a mere ‘gorgeous gallery of gallant inventions.’ We are prone, in other words, to consider them literary samplers: we assume that their author is principally involved in displaying the tropes and other formal devices that he, like his contemporaries, had so thoroughly learned in grammar school. This assumption shapes what critics find—and, more to the point, fail to find—in the poems.

Although some critics have found fault with a seeming lack of moral clarity to the poem, others have interpreted that lack of clarity as utterly intentional and relevant in literary terms. William Sheidley cites, ‘‘Kenneth Muir, for instance, taxes the poem with an ‘ambivalence’ which ‘is caused partly by the poet’s own acceptance of conflicting feelings about love.’’’ Similarly, Catherine Belsey describes early critics as having been ‘‘tantalized by the poem’s lack of closure,’’ such that they ‘‘sought to make something happen, at least at the thematic level, by locating a moral center that would furnish the work with a final meaning, a conclusion, a definitive statement.’’ To the contrary, Sheidley himself declares, ‘‘The poem’s seeming contradictions


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result from the multiplicity of its viewpoints on its subject. Shakespeare generates a dialectic between ideals and possibilities, developing the recognition that, with love as with everything else, it is self-defeating to demand perfection in an imperfect world.’’ Sheidley concludes that ‘‘with a brilliant stroke,’’ Shakespeare puts forth ‘‘a compelling poetic argument with important moral, philosophical, and artistic implications.’’ Coppe´lia Kahn likewise refers to Shakespeare’s improvisation on several tales by Ovid as ‘‘brilliantly’’ done. Like Dubrow and Sheidley, Kahn gives the poem greater praise than she had seen given by her predecessors: ‘‘Venus and Adonis has long been seen as a young man’s poem for relatively superficial reasons: its erotic subject matter and sensuous playfulness. But Shakespeare deserves more credit than he has been given for his understanding of youth’s deeper conflicts, of how eros shapes the growing masculine self.’’

CRITICISM Lauren Shohet Shohet provides an analysis of the ‘‘different poetic and erotic modes’’ found in Venus and Adonis. The critic argues that past criticism of the poem has adequately failed to compare the work’s treatment of love with its poetic language. In particular, she addresses the ‘‘range of disagreements between Venus and Adonis—sexual, linguistic, and representational.’’ In Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, when Venus solicits Adonis, he famously turns away, Venus entreats: ‘‘Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, And reign his proud head to the saddle-bow; If thou wilt deign this favor, for thy meed A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.’’ Adonis rebuffs her, because ‘‘Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn’’ (line 4). The critical tradition has discussed in great detail Adonis’s refusal to love. But, importantly, this line does not begin with a refusal. Rather, it introduces Adonis with a positive predicate: he ‘‘loves’’ hunting. Moreover, the ‘‘but’’ that conjoins his predilection for hunting with his antipathy to love has dialectical overtones: Adonis would seem to scorn ‘‘love’’ more as an alternative to the hunt than as an independent proposition.

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desire, and exploring how different poetic and erotic modes might inflect one another. ADONIS’S DESIRE DIFFERS FROM VENUS’S BOTH IN ITS TARGET AND IN THE WAY IT RELATES SUBJECT TO OBJECT. WHEREAS VENUS DESIRES AN EROS THAT MERGES LOVER AND BELOVED. ADONIS DESIRES THE HUNT, WHICH DEPENDS UPON BOUNDARIES BETWEEN SUBJECT AND OBJECT (ALBEIT CONTINGENT AND PERHAPS TEMPORARY ONES).’’

The two characters thus articulate distinct forms of ‘‘love’’ that present competing models of desire. Furthermore, the poem provocatively interrelates models of desire and language. In the stanza cited above, if Adonis alights, Venus will reward him with ‘‘‘a thousand honey secrets.’’’ Not only does Venus promise the linguistic reward of ‘‘‘secrets’’’ for erotic surrender, but her proposal of ‘‘‘honey secrets’’’ as ‘‘‘meed’’’ (‘‘reward,’’ punning on ‘‘mead’’ [honey liquor]) also intertwines these linguistic treats with the honeyed sexual ‘‘‘secrets’’’ also on offer (‘‘‘honey’’’ denoting moreover sexual bliss). And while Adonis straightforwardly ‘‘loves’’ hunting, he does not simply ‘‘scorn’’ Venus—as grammatical parallelism would have him do—but rather ‘‘laugh[s] to scorn’’ her (my emphasis). Metrical contingency aside, this doubled verb adds a layer of complexity to Adonis’s response to ‘‘love.’’ Whereas hunting elicits an unmediated affective response (‘‘hunting he loved’’), the poem’s evocation of eros emphasizes the mode through which Adonis (unlike Venus) distinctively expresses his response of affective withdrawal. Such intersections of desire and discourse have been remarked in various literary contexts—commentators include Michel de Montaigne and Michel Foucault—and have occasioned innumerable provocative analyses In criticism of the last two decades. Relatively less explored in Shakespeare studies have been the questions of whether different kinds of desire require different poetics, and whether, conversely, different modes of discourse produce different kinds of desire. I propose that we might fruitfully read Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis as addressing just these questions: as considering multiple and competing discourses of

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Previous criticism of Venus and Adonis certainly has remarked on the poem’s engagement with love on the one hand and language on the other. But most scholarship on Venus and Adonis focuses either on questions of desire and subjectivity or on issues of language and representation. More significantly, the limited number of analyses that bring these areas together tend to take only one of the two categories as a complex and multiple field. In considering the poem’s ‘‘taxonomy of desire,’’ for example. Catherine Belsey argues that the poem innovatively distinguishes between the concepts of love and lust. But while her focus on the difference between these terms has discursive implications. Belsey’s interest lies in contrasting modes of desire, not modes or representation. Similarly, Heather Dubrow connects Venus’s ‘‘linguistic’’ and ‘‘psychological’’ ‘‘habits,’’ but relies on a unified notion of ‘‘language itself,’’ whereas I would propose that the poem encompasses multiple and competing notions of what language is. In one further example, James Schiffer remarks (in passing) that the poem illustrates the interdependence of economies of language and desire in Lacanian analysis (‘‘Venus’ prophecy-curse also reminds us of the relationship throughout the poem between language and desire’’), but Schiffer distinguishes neither among kinds of desire (as Belsey does) nor kinds of language. In this essay, by contrast, I want to focus particularly on the range of disagreements between Venus and Adonis—sexual, linguistic, and representational—to explore how these contrasting views come together into distinct (if asymmetrically articulated) discursive models of poetic subjectivity. Venus’s amorous eagerness is met with Adonis’s disdainful withdrawal; Venus’s heteroerotic desire for Adonis with his homoerotic desire for the hunt; Venus’s invocations of a mythic realm of abstraction, personification, and analogy with Adonis’s emphasis on the historical realm of particular experience; Venus’s reliance on literary convention with the narrative innovation of Adonis’s erotic refusal. Wryly dissociating the seduction and ‘‘venery’’ (‘‘hunting’’) linked in traditional puns and mythography, the poem distinguishes between Venus’s views of language, desire, and selfhood— largely consonant with the dominant Elizabeth models Jane Hedley characterizes as ‘‘static, synchronistic, and centripetal’’—and Adonis’s desires, which sketch out a tentative exploration

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of alternatives. The vagueness of my last locution reflects the difficulty of definitively discerning Adonis’s desires in a text largely controlled by the opposition. For Shakespeare’s poem rearticulates the traditionally fecund venus genetrix in Venus’s extraordinary volubility; she gushes forth stanza after stanza of erotic desire, hampering intrusions by her interlocutor or even, it seems, the narrator. Rather like the copious production of panegyric by Elizabeth’s court. Venus’s linguistic facility leaves little room for alternatives, effectively preventing Adonis’s admittedly rather inchoate desires from coming fully into focus. Yet, as I shall argue below, the openendedness of Adonis’s aims is an important part of what makes them distinctive. For Adonis does formulate positive aims. To be sure, Adonis’s first direct speech in the poem (not granted him until line 185) is ‘‘‘Fie, no more of love!’’’: the next line adds to this wholesome rejection the intransitively negative ‘‘‘I must remove’’’ (line 186). Adonis is, however, fleeing toward something as well. He actively ‘‘‘removes’’’—re-moves— to the homosocial alternative of the boar hunt. He prefers keeping faith with his male hunting band to tarrying with Venus: ‘‘‘I am,’ quoth he, ‘expected of my friends’’’ (line 718). And, as we have seen, the poem’s very first claim about Adonis reports. ‘‘Hunting he lov’d’’ (line 4). Although it might be possible to interpret ‘‘hunt-love’’ here as an ironic aggregation opposed to the second phrase’s ‘‘love’’ (‘‘love he laugh’s to scorn’’). Adonis protests in other lines as well that he does indeed ‘‘love’’ hunting, or perhaps the hunt, or even the deadly boar himself: ‘‘‘I know not love,’ quoth he, ‘nor will not know it. / Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it’’’ (lines 409–10). Adonis’s desire differs from Venus’s both in its target and in the way it relates subject to object. Whereas Venus desires an eros that merges lover and beloved. Adonis desires the hunt, which depends upon boundaries between subject and object (albeit contingent and perhaps temporary ones). Adonis’s desire fits somewhere along a homosocial-homoerotic continuum that is distinct in both its ends and its means from Venus’s desires, as shown by three elements of his preference: Adonis’s attraction to the boar itself his allegiance to the masculine hunting band and the ways in which the hunt suggests patriarchal order. The poem’s presentation of the boar is, of course, quite phallic. Unlike Venus’s suggested alternatives of foxes, hares, and roes (which Adonis spurns), the boar has tusks, a ‘‘‘battle set / Of


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bristly pikes’’’ (lines 619–20), and a grave-digging snout. Adonis’s keen interest in the boar hunt and simultaneous disdain for innocuous quarries betray some attraction to the deadly possibility of being penetrated by the boarish tusk. More significant than this genitally suggestive imagery are the abstract qualities linking the boar not merely to the penis but to the phallus, with the full weight of cultural privilege which that term connotes. For the poem emphasizes the boar’s powers of intention, resolution, invulnerability, and efficacy. As Venus fearfully describes him. Being mov’d, he strikes, what e’er is in his way, And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. ‘‘His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed, Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter; His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed; Being ireful, on the lion he will venter, The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes.’’ (lines 623–30) Moreover, Adonis’s desire draws him to the more abstractly phallic order of the hunt: an activity that develops identity—what Lacan calls the ‘‘social I’’—by projecting the power, knowledge, and autonomy that the subject hopes to gain onto the ever-receding Other who putatively commands this mastery (who, in Lacanian terms, possesses the phallus). Hence, whereas in discussing the boar as the ‘‘locus of the missing phallic impulse’’ William Sheidley uses ‘‘phallus’’ more or less synonymously with ‘‘penis,’’ the Lacanian notion that the ‘‘phallus’’ is always illusory would suggest that the hunt itself, rather than the boar, embodies the ‘‘phallic impulse’’ that constitutes masculine self-realization. In the poem (as in culture generally), the compensation for the impossibility of these young men ever attaining full mastery—because no subject ever realizes complete autonomy—is nothing other than patriarchy: a fraternal band, excluding women and children by the nature of its mission, linked in the bonds of a common purpose made all the more permanent because the goal never can be definitively accomplished (i.e., because patriarchy operates without authentic patriarchs). ‘‘‘Expected of my friends.’’’ Adonis is not only awaited by his friends, but also, partitively, expected to become ‘‘of’’ his friends: part of a masculine order based on perpetual quest.

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Detail of Venus and Adonis by Antonio Canova (Ó Mimmo Jodice/Corbis)

Significantly, the poem articulates Adonis’s desire not as finding, overcoming, or killing the boar, but rather as ‘‘chasing’’ him: ‘‘‘I know not

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love,’ quoth he, ‘nor will not know it. / Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it’’’ (lines 409–10). It is pursuit itself that attracts Adonis: a relation

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that depends upon preserving distance between desirer and object. By its nature, the ever-receding object of his desire is constitutively ungraspable. By contrast, Venus’s erotics specifically seek to vanquish this distance: as Coppelia Kahn notes, Venus desires the ‘‘blurring of boundaries, an anonymous merging of eyes and lips.’’ Merging and boundlessness characterize Venus’s version of erotic idyll: ‘‘‘My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt. / Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt’’’ (lines 143– 4). Significantly, these same qualities prove fatal to Adonis, culminating in the images of commingling surrounding his death. The boar’s mouth is painted with red, ‘‘Like milk and blood being mingled both together’’ (line 902); as the wound breaches Adonis’s bodily boundaries, ‘‘No flow’r was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf, or weed, / But stole his blood, and seem’d with him to bleed’’ (lines 1055–6). Congruently, whereas Venus’s erotics suspend time at the moment of consummation, pursuit rather than capture is endless in Adonis’s ‘‘chase.’’ (Accordingly, one of Adonis’s two moments of erotic engagement with Venus comes at a point when he believes her to be similarly unattainable, in her deathlike swoon [lines 475–80]; In the other, he teases Venus with a kiss proffered and retracted [lines 88–90]). The proximity and the breaching of boundaries that constitute infinite and ecstatic fulfillment for Venus are inherently fatal in the hunt, an opposition emphasized by Venus’s use of ‘‘‘kiss[ing]’’’ to describe the boar’s mortally wounding Adonis (line 1114). Indeed, the successful approach of hunter to quarry necessarily signals the end of the hunt, usually accompanied by the death of one or more participants. Associated with these different modes of desire are different modes of poeisis. Venus’s hermeneusis relies on mythic/conventional presentation; Adonis tends toward the palpable and the particular. Venus seeks to inscribe Adonis into an archetypal tale of seduction, speaking as the goddess of love who advocates eros and procreation as general principles: ‘‘Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed, Unless the earth with thy increase be fed? By law of nature thou art bound to breed. That thine may live, when thou thyself art end.’’ (lines 169–72)


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Near silent for most of the poem and dead at the end. Adonis struggles less than articulately to assert a character whose volition is undetermined by tradition or myth. Venus serves, perhaps, as the ‘‘straight’’ reader of Ovid, following the mythic script. Adonis resists this, but the sophisticated, ironic, self-reflective Ovid of the elite Elizabethan reader does not seem fully available to him either. Instead, eschewing both elegant rhetoric and erotic action, Adonis refuses to be written into the timeless seduction scene and insists on his present, idiosyncratic discomfort and lack of interest: ‘‘‘Fie, no more of love! / The sun doth burn my face, I must remove’’’ (lines 185–6). In Adonis’s narrative, particularity makes Venus and Adonis into personae with some degree of agency, rather than inherited figures whose desires are determined by the metatextual drama they enact. The poem renders the mythic and realistic modes emphatically incompatible; indeed, the pointedly ridiculous effect of realistically narrating mythic action creates the poem’s humor. Comically, the mythic/conventional narrative relishes a poetic eloquence that the realistic eschews. The meter of the poem’s opening lines is unapologetically elegant: Even as the sun with purple-color’d face Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek’d Adonis hied him to the chase; Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn. (lines 1–4) The stanza’s concluding couplet, on the other hand, introduces the seduction theme in a burlesque rhyme: ‘‘Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him. / And like a bold-fac’d suitor gins to woo him’’ (lines 5–6). The second stanza reverts to the stylishness of the first four lines, but in the third stanza, when Venus ceases lauding Adonis and begins soliciting him, singsong meter and comically overblown feminine rhyme return (‘‘‘Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses. / And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses’’’ [lines 17–8]). When Venus finally takes decisive action, in couplet lines, the metrical reinforcement of the plot is farcically pat: ‘‘Being so enrag’d, desire doth lend her force / Courageously to pluck him from his horse’’ (lines 29–30). The caesura trumpets dramatic suspense; the iambic regularity of the fast-reading, five-foot, mostly monosyllabic line 30 underlines the physical ease with which Venus

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accomplishes her kidnap, the melodramatic acceleration in tempo pointing up the ludicrousness of sweatily embodying the Goddess of Love.

Kissing, speaking, the refracting and multiplying of Venus’s speech, and the silencing of Adonis are simultaneously effects of a single gesture:

More significantly, the poetic and narrative effects of the two discourses work to opposite ends. Venus’s linguistic and erotic initiatives alike impede the diegetic progress of the suspended hunt narrative that Adonis desires to resume. For, although language serves many needs for Venus, narrative momentum is not one of them. Her discourse winds along digressive paths shaped by the figurative logic of her images or the forensic logic of her conventional arguments, interrupting the progression of the plot. In the opening stanzas discussed above, Venus addresses Adonis for three and a half figure-laden stanzas before seizing him. By contrast, the poem’s so-called ‘‘action’’—Adonis’s sporadic bursts of motion away from Venus and toward the hunt—moves briskly forward precisely whenever Venus stops talking. Even Adonis’s most extended speech, the seven stanzas that culminate in his narratively decisive departure,

now doth he frown, And gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips, And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, ‘‘If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.’’ (lines 45–8)

With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast. And homeward through the dark laund runs apace. (lines 811–3) seems terse and active in comparison to the preceding twenty-five stanzas of Venus’s attempts to dissuade him—a passage that confuses even Venus, who must ask in the middle ‘‘‘Where did I leave?’’’ (line 715). As judged by capriciousness, poetic versatility, facility, and claims on the reader’s attention—i.e., by the standards of humanist sprezzatura—it is Venus who owns language in the poem. The poem associates Adonis’s silences with his refusal of Venus’s erotics: inverting this link. Venus’s language is inextricably intertwined with the passion governing and governed by the goddess. Language and desire produce and magnify one another: That all the neighbor caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her [Venus’s] moans; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: ‘‘Ay me!’’ she cries, and twenty times, ‘‘Woe, woe!’’ And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. (lines 830–4)

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Even the ruptures in Venus’s speech—the kisses that render her ‘‘‘lustful language broken’’’—do not impede language so much as disperse it. Greedily inserting itself everywhere, Venus’s language operates in an economy of lust that utterly overcomes Adonis’s volition. When Adonis tries to articulate his refusal of Venus’s arguments, her kiss prevents him: ‘‘He saith she is immodest, blames her miss: / What follows more, she murthers with a kiss’’ (lines 53–4). ‘‘Murthers’’ figuratively realizes the earlier threat that disobedient lips ‘‘‘shall never open’’’ (line 48); ‘‘‘smother[ing]’’’ Adonis (line 18), her kisses deny him both oxygen and argument. Through conventional rhetorical strategies, Venus’s discourse blurs temporal and rhetorical boundaries as well, to ends equally antipathetic to Adonis. Substitution of the figurative for the literal permeates Venus’s arguments. She assures Adonis: ‘‘The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine. What seest thou in the ground? hold up thy head, Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?’’ (lines 117–20) Departing from the Neoplatonic axiom that beauty lies in the beholder’s eye, Venus advances a formal argument for acknowledging through action the commensurability between lips and eyes already established by conventional logic and by analogy. Erasing substantive difference between gazes and kisses, Venus’s argument—like Scholastic or indeed Petrarchan reasoning—treats ‘‘‘eyes’’’ and lips ‘‘‘lips’’’ as interchangeable subjects of formal manipulation. This congruence rhetorically anticipates concession, further eroding distinctions between logic and volition, suggestion and acquiescence, wish and fulfillment. Furthermore, love’s language propels its speakers out of narrative temporality into the timelessness of the mythic: ‘‘copious stories, oftentimes begun. / End without audience, and are never done’’ (lines 845–6). Accordingly, Venus’s first declaration of

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passion for Adonis violates temporal boundaries by serving as prophecy, articulating the future in the present. The floral—and, inconguously, also apocalyptic—images she addresses to Adonis prefigure his eventual transformation in death: he is, ominously, ‘‘‘more lovely than a man’’’ (line 9). Furthermore, ‘‘‘Nature, that made thee with herself at strife. / Saith that the world hath ending with thy life’’’ (lines 11–2). As metaphoric comparison that also serves as literal prediction, this language of desire likewise dissolves the semantic distinction between vehicle and tenor. Venus’s reasoning from analogy, together with her characteristic equation of distinct categories, thus exemplifies what Foucault calls ‘‘analogical’’ thought, distinct from the ‘‘modern’’ disjunctions between words and things and among kinds of things. ‘‘Analogic’’ thought ponders a world that ‘‘fold[s] in upon itself, duplicate[s] itself, reflect[s] itself, or form[s] a chain with itself so that things can resemble one another’’; this language ‘‘partakes in the worldwide dissemination of similitudes and signatures.’’ Whereas Venus’s discourse is predicated on proximity and analogy, Adonis’s is more invested in separation and substitution—in Foucault’s terms, with ‘‘modern’’ signification: that is, the ‘‘ordering of things by means of . . . fabricated signs’’ for a ‘‘knowledge based upon identity and difference.’’ The poem figures Venus’s affect through pathetic fallacies: her thoughts leach into nature as troubled ‘‘neighbor caves’’ murmur her longing (line 830) and ‘‘shrilltongu’d tapsters’’ share her anxiety (line 849). Adonis’s death, by contrast, is represented by signifiers requiring interpretation: the ‘‘sad signs’’ (line 929) the narrator associates with ‘‘apparitions . . . and prodigies’’ (line 926). Adonis’s hunting hounds are saddened by his death, but not with the same kind of pathetic sorrow that Venus’s caves express. Whereas the caves iconically participate in Venus’s affect (in Roman Jakobson’s sense of ‘‘icons’’ as signifiers that represent a signified by sharing its essence), the hounds suggest a signifying narrative. In their silence, wound licking, and scowling (lines 914–7). the hounds present information that is interpretable but not transparent, emphasizing disjunctions and incommensurabilities where the caves and tapsters emphasize contiguities. Hence the hunting hounds do not share a language with Venus, but rather preserve distinctions among species of discourse: ‘‘here she meets another


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sadly scowling, / To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling’’ (lines 917–8, my emphasis). Adonis’s death and metamorphosis further link him to semiotic habits associated with separation, distinction, and mediated ‘‘signification,’’ as opposed to comparison, analogy and iconicity. The flower that Adonis becomes functions not as an icon but as a sign. To be more precise, it is a sign in the terms of his story: the meanings of the metamorphosis—indeed of metamorphosis in general—diverge significantly in the two logical frameworks. Venus attempts rather desperately to impose an analogical likeness onto the blossom: in her vision of the dead Adonis, the flower ‘‘Resemb[les] well his pale cheeks’’ (line 1169), and Venus informs the flower that it shares a kinship tie with Adonis: ‘‘‘Here was thy father’s bed’’’ (line 1183). But despite her insistence on the filial continuity between bloom and man, the point of view we can infer from Adonis’s words as well as his representation in the poem makes the flower function as an incommensurable standin—like a sign—for the young man made absent by death. For existence as a flower, immobile and delicate, is utterly incompatible with existence as a hunter. Despite herself. Venus betrays the gap between Adonis and the flower by disingenuously suggesting that she has won the amorous contest. Claiming that her breast was ‘‘‘thy father’s bed’’’ and announcing with a certain compensatory triumph that ‘‘‘There shall not be one minute in an hour / Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flow’r’’’ (lines 1187–8) Venus glosses over a crucial inversion of agency: she had begged for the live Adonis to kiss her. The conventional association of flowering with completion or fulfillment casts further ironic light on the phrase ‘‘‘my sweet love’s flower’’’; Adonis’s transformation hardly constitutes Venus’s love come to flower, but rather its final frustration. Soon to wither, deprived of the potential to grant the acquiescence Venus craves, the blossom escapes Venus’s erotics despite its imprisonment in the ‘‘‘hollow cradle’’’—we might emphasize ‘‘‘hollow’’’—of her breasts (line 1185). Metamorphosis directly engages questions of contiguity and separation, sameness and difference, the object as Ding an sich and the object as contingent and mutable manifestation of first matter, ideal form, or similar early modern notions of the cosmic relatedness of all things. In its play on form as stable, autonomous

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identity versus form as signifier of other potential or erstwhile states, metamorphosis provides the poem another arena for working through the difference between the mythic/conventional and the historical/particular modes of narrative, desire, and subjectivity. Like the actual metamorphosis that closes the tale, other metamorphoses figuratively invoked earlier in the poem provide double interpretative possibilities. These transformations contrast metamorphosis as the transcendent instantiation of analogy (similarity among things) to metamorphosis as destruction (the annihilation of a thing, alienated when a profoundly different form overcomes it). As part of her seduction argument, for example, Venus suggests an extended analogy between Adonis and a deer: ‘‘since I have hemm’d thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I’ll be a park, and thou shall be my deer: Feed where thou wilt, on mountain, or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.’’ (lines 229–34) Within the logic of Venus’s poetics, the deer figure allows Adonis to be both himself and something else. That is. Venus proposes a metaphor that provides an alternative lexical framework for actions—whether grazing or caressing—that are equally possible for a man or a deer. The easy continuity in Venus’s discourse between vehicle and tenor underlines the full congruence between Venus-as-body and Venus-as-park, conveying the wholesomeness, the delightful variety, and the naturalness of habitat (she maintains) for hart and lover alike. Adonis’s transformation into a fragile flower, whose inevitable demise Venus rudely hastens, retroactively suggests a dissenting view of this same image: the deer metamorphosis that Adonis refuses would transform the young man into an entity inimical and fatal to his self—in fact, into quarry for his proper self. The echoes of Actaeon in the metamorphosis Venus offers heighten the opposition Adonis seems to see between heteroerotic seduction and hunting. Such alienation would certainly follow from a deer grazing/gazing on a goddess: Actaeon’s transformation turned him from hunter to hunted, and Adonis wants no part of it. Adonis’s metamorphosis simultaneously realizes and frustrates both Venus’s and Adonis’s aims. Adonis escapes Venus’s logic only to be

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returned helplessly to her bosom: Venus finally sees Adonis’s scrupulously defended boundaries breached only to render him incapable of satisfying her passion. In its traditionally tragic end, the myth of Venus and Adonis explores the impossibility of erotic satisfaction when mortals are involved; Shakespeare’s text distills this aspect of the tale into Venus’s version of the story. This poem’s reluctant Adonis renders another kind of fulfillment impossible—a pleasure that depends on escaping Venus. The entire narrative has shown the two figures’ desires to be incompatible: analyzing Adonis’s metamorphosis shows that the mere existence of each desire undermines the other’s conditions of possibility. On one side, Adonis’s distaste for Venus’s proposals, together with the ways the poem pokes fun at Venus’s excesses, suggests her limitations. On the other, Venus’s use of mythic logic, her assertions of infinite analogy, and her own identity as the personification of love operate as inherently self-evident and universal: hence, they cannot accommodate compromise. Notably, however, Adonis offers objections rather than alternatives: Venus’s poetic dominance makes post-lively articulating other erotics, poetics, or values impossible. Thus, whereas Peter Erickson and Patrick Murphy have interpreted the poem’s cautiousness in representing alternatives to Venus’s views as mere political circumspection, I would argue that the poem’s recourse to indirect suggestions of vaguely delineated choices indicates more than strategic self-censorship. Adonis’s hesitations also gesture toward emergent paradigms of subjectivity and semiotics that are not sufficiently manifest to be clearly represented: something akin to what Francis Barker characterizes as the ‘‘incipient modernity’’ of Hamlet’s ‘‘anachronistic’’ longing for a more modern subject position than his historical moment permits. If we were to characterize the poem’s competing modes of desire and representation historically, then, my understanding of Adonis’s [proto] subjectivity would lead in the opposite direction from Nona Fienberg’s conclusions. Fienberg associates Andonis with an aristocratic ‘‘fixity,’’ ‘‘absoluteness,’’ and ‘‘patriarchy’’ that she characterizes as essentially medieval, while her Venus evidences a ‘‘mutability and diversity’’ that ‘‘provid[e] . . . a way to reevaluate patriarchy.’’ While I agree to an extent that the poem associates Adonis’s desires with ‘‘fixity’’ and ‘‘patriarchy.’’ I would argue that these do not, as Fienberg claims, constitute the status quo in the

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poem—nor, entirely, in its historical context. Rather, the Venus whom Fienberg argues to be fluid and ‘‘dynamic’’ uses this ‘‘flexibility’’ only instrumentally, within traditional humanist rhetorical practice, to ingeniously and irrefutably perpetuate paradigms based on rhetorical analogy, ontological continuity, and the authority of mythic and literary-conventional tradition. Whereas Fienberg (in a move medievalists might find oversimplifying) characterizes Adonis as ‘‘a relic of the time before the commercial and humanist revolutions, when value was a given’’ who ‘‘holds on to his old ways of measuring time, growth, maturity, and value.’’ I would argue that through inclining in both his desires and his semiotics toward deferral, separation, and idiosyncrasy. Adonis emerges as something of a figure for protomodernity, or at least for resistance to the values Venus espouses. It is semiotic absoluteness, autonomous identity, and social patriarchy, I think, that the poem presents as constituting a departure. The poem’s simultaneous representation of different discursivities and subjectivities might, however, give pause to the project of firmly historicizing these modes as (a Foucauldean version of the Whiggish march to modernity). It might be more fruitful, and more accurate, to consider what I have called the poem’s protomodern and nonmodern modes as simultaneous aspects of a typically mixed cultural moment. Indeed, particularly intriguing about this poem (and its milieu) are the differences between the modes and interests here aligned as congruent (femininity/status quo/speech for example, versus versus masculinity/marginality/silence) with our more expected aggregations. This is not to say that the poem celebrates a happy heteroglossia of Elizabethan culture. By confining its represented action to what Venus witnesses, and by demonstrating the limitations of her practices, the poem thematizes the difficulty of representation competing models (whether we trace this difficulty to an authoritarian queen, the poetic demands of generic convention, a watershed moment in the history of subjectivity, covert cultural contests between masculinist poetic culture and propagandists for the Cult of Elizabeth—or concede it to be overdetermined). The hunting band provides the locus for alternatives to Venus’s authority, in a way that may have been particularly satisfying for the primary 1590s (male) readership at the Inns of Court or indeed the royal court—but precisely what these alternatives


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would be remains pointedly oblique. In the end, the poem draws much of its energy from this obliqueness, creating an epyllion about what Ovidian poetry cannot represent—a gushing epideictic on an overbearing queen, a camp triangulation of a Venus who does not realize she is in a poem, an Adonis who half realizes and does not want to be, and a reader who smugly knows the score. And in this obliqueness, I suggest, Adonis’s positions come closest to a kind of realization, insofar as the poem’s silences draw the reader into fleshing out what the text occludes. Venus argues her familiar positions all too thoroughly, leaving the reader no task but assent. But drawing the reader into chasing an alternative that is not fully visible, traceable from two steps behind through prints left between the lines, does not the poem invite the reader into the oppositional hunting band? Source: Lauren Shohet, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Eager Adonis,’’ in Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900, Vol. 42, No. 1, Winter 2002, pp. 85–102.

Anthony Mortimer In the following excerpt, Mortimer examines how Shakespeare drastically altered the story line for Venus and Adonis from the original source for the tale, Ovid’s Metamorphoses. However, contends Mortimer, Shakespeare stayed true to the original tale in one crucial respect: the ending. For much of Venus and Adonis Shakespeare seems careful to avoid direct confrontation with his source for the tale in the Metamorphoses, Book X. It is not simply that he omits all the antecedents that Ovid provides (the incestuous union of Cinyras and Myrrha, the miraculous birth of Adonis, the wounding of Venus with Cupid’s arrow) and modifies the whole situation by making Adonis resist the advances of the goddess. The striking fact is that most of the frequent Ovidian echoes seem to derive from anywhere in the Metamorphoses except the passage which gave him the story in the first place. The sexually aggressive female and the reluctant youth recall Salmacis and Hermaphroditus (IV. 285–388) and, to a lesser extent, Echo and Narcissus (III. 339–510); the Lament of Venus owes little to Ovid’s goddess, but a great deal to his long line of desperately eloquent human heroines (including those of the Heroides); the episode of Mars and Venus harks back to Book IV (171–89): even the description of the boar takes its details not from the boar of Book X, but from

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THE BIRTH OF ADONIS WAS THE RESULT OF AN


INCESTUOUS FATHER-DAUGHTER UNION (CINYRAS AND MYRRHA); VENUS EXPLOITS HIS DEATH AND METAMORPHOSIS TO ENVISAGE A FURTHER INCEST

William Sheidley notes that Shakespeare likely gleaned certain notions regarding procreation from the poem Zodiake of Life (1543), by Marcellus Palingenius, which was translated by Barnabe Googe in 1976. Edmund Spenser, a contemporary of Shakespeare’s, also retold the tale of Venus and Adonis, in the third book of his epic poem The Faerie Queene (1590).

WHICH IS THAT OF MOTHER AND SON.’’

Many comparisons have been drawn between Venus and Adonis and Christopher Marlowe’s Hero and Leander (1598)—which was completed by George Chapman—especially with respect to the two poems’ erotic content.

A world classic that deals with a woman who looks outside her marriage to satisfy her sexual needs is Anna Karenina (1877), by Leo Tolstoy.

the Calydonian boar of Book VIII. Shakespeare, while happy to plunder the riches of the Metamorphoses, is not writing the kind of paraphrase, adaptation or expansion that keeps sending his readers back to the original. There is, however, one moment when the direct confrontation becomes unavoidable. However much of the Ovidian story Shakespeare might omit and however he might change the relation between the protagonists, the final metamorphosis had to remain: this was the moment his readers had been waiting for and, with Ovid in mind, they would expect a virtuoso performance. Shakespeare’s task, briefly put, was to provide a metamorphosis that would rival Ovid’s while still conforming to his own rereading of the myth. The challenge, it must be said, was formidable. Here is Ovid in his most dazzling form and the passage must be quoted in full if we are to appreciate the significance of the Shakespearean revisions . . .

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‘But all shall not be in your [the Fates’] power. My grief, Adonis, shall have an enduring monument, and each passing year in memory of your death shall give an imitation of my grief. But your blood shall be changed to a flower. Or was it once allowed to thee, Persephone, to change a maiden’s form to fragrant mint, and shall the change of my hero, offspring of Cinyras, be grudged to me?’ So saying, with sweetscented nectar she sprinkled the blood; and this, touched by the nectar, swelled as when clear bubbles rise up from yellow mud. With no longer than an hour’s delay a flower sprang up of blood-red hue such as pomegranates bear which hide their seeds beneath the tenacious rind. But short-lived is their flower; for the winds from which it takes its name shake off the flower so delicately clinging and doomed easily to fall. Ovid’s conclusion to the story is finely balanced between consolation and regret. Venus establishes an annual ritual (the Adoniazusae) to commemorate the death of her lover. She does not have the power to grant him anything like a fullblown apotheosis and she needs to invoke the precedent of Persephone in order to justify the metamorphosis. But she does, at least, bring into being a flower that will continue to embody his

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beauty and his fragility. The last two lines, with the wonderfully mimetic suspension of the syntax and the final sighing exhalation of venti, leave us with the consolation that beauty, in some form or other, will always be renewed and with the regret that its specific incarnations will always prove transient. In turning to Shakespeare, the first thing we notice is that his Venus is incapable of offering Adonis even the limited form of perpetuation granted in the Metamorphoses. Ovid’s Venus defies the Fates (‘all shall not be in your power’) first by creating the ritual and then by performing the metamorphosis. Shakespeare’s Venus seems too overcome by events to think of such positive action. There is, first of all, no suggestion of an annual commemoration and this is hardly surprising if we consider the tone of the immediately preceding speech where, under the guise of etiological prophecy, she has pronounced a curse on love and lovers: Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, They that love best their loves shall not enjoy. (1163–4) A communal rite of mourning would, after all, be a way of coming to terms with death and a gesture of solidarity that Shakespeare’s vindictive Venus, out of love with the world, is in no mood to make or accept. Even more important is the fact that in Shakespeare the metamorphosis of Adonis appears as a natural miracle which owes nothing to the intentions or powers of the goddess: By this the boy that by her side lay killed Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spilled A purple flower sprung up check’red with white. (1165–8) ‘By this’ is typical of the poem’s rapid transitions (‘At this’, ‘With this’, ‘This said’) and, as we can see from previous occurrences (175, 877, 973), indicates mere succession with no necessary suggestion of causality—especially since the preceding speech contains no reference whatsoever to metamorphosis. Venus, therefore, has no power over the natural world and the metamorphosis appears less as a consolation for the death of Adonis than as the last stage of the process that takes him from her. A number of details confirm that Shakespeare is, in fact, consciously undermining traditional readings of the myth. Not


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only is there no indication that Adonis embodies the vegetative and seasonal cycle (an aspect that is, in any case, barely perceptible in Ovid), but even the idea that the flower will somehow perpetuate his beauty is frustrated by the action of Venus herself. She bows her head the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath, And says within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death. She crops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears. (1171–6) This gesture, absent in Ovid, is the one she has conventionally attributed to Death (‘thou pluck’st a flower’, 946), but it also recalls her own attempt to crop the flower of Adonis’s virginity and her argument that flowers should be ‘gath’red in their prime’ (131). By now literalizing her own metaphor Venus inverts its significance. The metaphorical cropping of the youth’s virginity would have ensured his perpetuation through offspring; the literal cropping of the flower cuts off any hope of regeneration. In this context, it may well be significant that Shakespeare does not identify the flower. Ovid specifies that, though it resembles the bloom of the pomegranate, it is, indeed, the flower that takes its name from the wind, the anemone (from Greek anemos) that his readers could recognize. By omitting to name the flower Shakespeare may be implying that it no longer exists; its beauty, like that of Adonis, has been lost without trace. We remember that Venus had urged on Adonis the reproductive example of ‘sappy plants’ (165), but here the ‘green-dropping sap’ of the Adonis-flower falls to the earth like wasted semen. Shakespeare clearly modifies Ovid by depriving the metamorphosis of its consolatory function. And yet this modification remains in the spirit of Ovid where the metamorphosis usually involves two stages—first the progressive dissolution of the human identity and then the subject’s reemergence in a radically simple form reflecting the status to which he or she has been reduced by the story. As Leonard Barkan remarks, ‘the artistic effect of metamorphosis is to transform human identities into images’. Thus, to take only one example, the metamorphosis of Arachne (Met. VI. 1–145) eliminates all that made her an individual—her lowly birth, her

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professional pride, her irreverence towards the gods—and makes her simply a spider, the embodiment of skill in weaving. Even where the concluding image is more attractive, as with Daphne transformed into a laurel, admiration at the aesthetic solution is still tempered with a sense of human loss. Shakespeare’s Adonis receives the same kind of treatment. Not only is the complex adolescent we have known reduced to a single image of beauty, but, in conformity with his role throughout the poem, it is a beauty that will not be reproduced. Since Venus has not herself performed the metamorphosis, she remains uncertain as to how it should be understood. The radical ambivalence of her gesture in cropping the flower is reflected in a final speech that hovers between a recognition that it is no real perpetuation of Adonis and a desire to cherish it as his child. ‘‘Poor flower’’, quoth she, ‘‘this was thy father’s guise— Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire— For every little grief to wet his eyes; To grow unto himself was his desire, And so ’tis thine, but know it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. ‘‘Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right. Lo, in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night; There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower’’. (1177–88) The two stanzas complete Venus’s rewriting of the story which, omitting all reference to her sexual aggression and his resistance, has already transformed the stubborn young hunter into a marvellous child who, like the child in Virgil’s Fourth Eclogue restores Nature to a prelapsarian harmony where the lamb need no longer fear the wolf and where even the boar only wounds Adonis in a misguided attempt to kiss him (1081–1116). Now the Adonis-flower becomes both a child to be cradled at her breast and the lover that Adonis has never been. Jonathan Bate has argued persuasively that the image of the son who takes his father’s place in the mother’s bed is an ‘adroit variation’ on the Myrrha story in Ovid. Ovid begins his tale with Adonis as a son issuing from a tree, Shakespeare ends his with a flower issuing from Adonis who thus becomes a father. Shakespeare’s Venus acts out an

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extraordinary family romance. By imaging her lover as a father, she makes herself into the mother and the flower into the fruit of their union. But the logic of the imagery dictates that the flower is her sexual partner as well as her child, for it clearly substitutes for Adonis himself.

The birth of Adonis was the result of an incestuous father-daughter union (Cinyras and Myrrha); Venus exploits his death and metamorphosis to envisage a further incest which is that of mother and son. But even without reference to the Myrrha story, it would still be clear that incest is the only conclusion that can satisfy Venus’s desire to possess Adonis both as child and as lover. Throughout the poem she has alternated between bouts of sexual aggression and moments of maternal protectiveness. She concludes with the only image that can reconcile her ‘variable passions’ (967). Venus exploits the power that the living usually have over the dead, that of being able to transform them into self-flattering fictions. The Adonis-flower, unlike Adonis himself, cannot answer back to say that he is no longer a child and will not be a lover. But the passage suggests that Venus is not really convinced by her own rhetoric. The consolation involved in seeing the flower as the child of Adonis is undermined by her memory of the Adonis who refused procreation despite her argument that ‘things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse’ (166). To grow unto himself was his desire, And so ’tis thine, but know it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. (1180–2) This, surely, is a recognition that the metamorphosis must be ultimately meaningless. Even cradled at her breast, the flower will still wither and is, therefore, no real perpetuation of Adonis. Only ironically can the flower be made to resemble Adonis by being rendered barren. There is a touch of the same vindictiveness that marked her curse on love. Adonis himself has vanished without trace, and so she condemns the flower to the same extinction. Venus had prophesied that the world and its beauty could not survive the death of Adonis (10–11, 1019–20); that prophecy has obviously not been fulfilled (‘The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim’, 1079), but she does her best to take revenge for Nature’s indifference by cropping whatever beauty comes to hand.

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It is, finally, disgust with the world that gains the upper hand over the illusory consolations of the metamorphosis. Thus weary of the world away she hies, And yokes her silver doves, by whose swift aid Their mistress, mounted, through the empty skies, In her light chariot quickly is conveyed, Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself, and not be seen. (1189–94) There is a fine irony in the suggestion that Venus, whose habitual imagery has been so all-embracing, so world-welcoming, (the metaphorical expansion of her body into a deer-park, 229–40) now intends, by immuring herself, to imitate the attitude of Adonis who yearned for ‘quiet closure’ and the solitude of his bed-chamber (781–6) As for the flight, the couplet may, as Roe suggests, contain an echo of Virgil . . . She herself through the sky goes her way to Paphos, and joyfully revisits her abode, where the temple and its hundred altars steam with Sabaean incense and are fragrant with garlands ever fresh.

If Shakespeare is indeed inviting comparison with the Virgilian passage, then our attention is drawn to the difference between the role of the goddess in his poem and her very different status in the epic. Virgil’s Venus leaves her son, Aeneas, with words of encouragement after demonstrating her power to protect him; Shakespeare’s Venus leaves Adonis whom she regards as the son she has been unable to protect. Aeneas is destined to become the father of a great race; Adonis has no progeny. In the Aeneid Venus flies away in a joyful spirit to receive the homage of her worshippers and to be greeted with ‘garlands ever fresh’; in Venus and Adonis she is ‘weary of the world’, ‘means to immure herself’ and carries a flower that will wither at her breast. For Virgil’s Venus divinity involves a power to change the world; for Shakespeare’s goddess divinity offers, at best, an escape from the world that she cannot change. There is, of course, also a flight to Paphos in Ovid. After warning Adonis of the dangers of hunting, Venus leaves for Paphos and is recalled in mid-flight by the groans of the dying youth (Met. X. 717–20). Thus Ovid’s story ends not with Venus abandoning the world, but with her


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returning to it, accepting her share of grief and offering the consolation of a ritual and a metamorphosis. Shakespeare’s Venus has nothing to offer the world except her curse. Ovid’s version concludes with a goddess who stands on earth, sharing our common human experience of transience and loss; but Shakespeare’s goddess has already been all too human—frustrated, sweating and repeatedly falling to the ground. Being a creature of extremes, she reacts by a rejection of humanity. There is no trace here of the goddess who, according to Heather Asals, undergoes a Neoplatonic education and rises from lust to love. For most of the poem Venus has been descending not ascending the Neoplatonic ladder (see her inversion of the hierarchy of the senses, 433–50), and the sensuality of her last incestuous image does not suggest that she has changed very much. What has changed is that the goddess of love has discovered what it is like to be subject to her own law (‘Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn’, 251) and has not enjoyed the experience. It is precisely because her descent has ended in defeat that her ascent sounds so resentfully definitive. The comparisons with Virgil and Ovid might lead us to think that Venus and Adonis ends with the desolate vision of a world deprived of divine sympathy or protection, overarched by ‘the empty skies’ and abandoned to the meaningless violence of the boar. But any sense of gloom is surely dispelled by the grace, swiftness and lightness of the imagery. Venus may intend to ‘immure herself’, but her actual movement is one of aerial and unrestricted freedom. There is, if anything, a sense of relief in seeing the goddess restored to her supernatural element of space and soaring flight, finally released from the gravity that bound her to earth and to the human condition. We respond this way because we too are released from gravity, freed from any temptation to read this ending as the conclusion to a real human tragedy. The burden of pathos that might have been imposed on the reader by seeing Venus as a mater dolorosa is lifted by this magical Venus whose silver doves draw her chariot through the skies. We need not feel too sorry for someone who can so easily shake off the weight of the world and we are, indeed, slyly encouraged to think that her protestations of eternal devotion to the memory of Adonis should be taken with a pinch of salt. We are not told that she will, in fact, ‘immure herself, and not be seen’, only that she ‘means’ to do so. Shakespeare does not go as far as Ronsard who

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reminds us that she will soon replace Adonis with the Phrygian shepherd, Anchises (‘Telles sont et seront les amitiez des femmes’), but there is a hint of the same urbane cynicism. Shakespeare’s handling of the conclusion works on two levels: on the one hand, as we have seen, he undermines the positive significance or the metamorphosis as a perpetuation of beauty or as a myth of seasonal regeneration; on the other hand, he clears the atmosphere and lightens the spirit by finally restoring the tale to the realm of fable. And this procedure brings to the surface some of the assumptions that underlie Shakespeare’s treatment of his Ovidian source. For all the portentous interpretations of classical myth offered by Renaissance Neoplatonists (some of them still plague criticism of Venus and Adonis), the Ovidian revival of the sixteenth century did not necessarily lend itself to solemnity. Though an occasional allegorical gloss might come in useful to deflect censorship, there is little evidence that Lodge, Marlowe, Shakespeare, Drayton and other authors of epyllia regarded classical mythology as a repository of universal wisdom. Given the reverence with which modern criticism usually uses the term ‘myth’, it might be better to speak of the Ovidian stories as ‘fables’— fables which did not invite the reader to suspend his disbelief and which, therefore, allowed Renaissance poets to treat potentially serious sexual themes without committing themselves to seriousness. The ending of Venus and Adonis is consistent with this attitude. It is designed to distance the reader from the often hilarious but frequently uncomfortable psychological realism of the poem he has been reading. The real and final metamorphosis is that of a frustrated woman and a sullen youth into miraculous apparitions who vanish in the turning of a verse. Adonis is ‘melted’ from our sight and Venus disappears into ‘the empty skies’. The whole poem, so fraught with unresolved tensions, so psychologically convincing, so solidly rooted in our earthly experience, dissolves like the masque in The Tempest,freeing us to regard as entertainment the disturbing passions it has entertained. Source: Anthony Mortimer, ‘‘The Ending of Venus and Adonis,’’ in English Studies, Vol. 78, No. 4, July 1997, pp. 334–41.

Wayne A. Rebhorn In this essay, Rebhorn examines the character of Venus in Venus and Adonis, arguing that previous

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scholarship has oversimplified her character. On the one hand, Rebhorn contends, Venus has been seen as a vehicle of female lust, and on the other as a symbol of sexual reproduction. Instead, the critic contends, Venus’s love for Adonis ‘‘is really dominated by a strongly maternal response.’’ With few exceptions, readers of Venus and Adonis have either condemned Venus as lust, praised her as the spokeswoman for generation and propagation, or argued for her ambiguity as a representative sometimes of lust and sometimes of generation. In the last few years especially, there has been a tendency to evaluate her more positively and at the same time to criticize Adonis for self-centered egotism and for his refusal to accept his duty to propagate his kind, a refusal sometimes proposed almost as a kind of justification for his being killed by the boar. Yet the identification of Venus as lust or generation or both oversimplifies her character in the poem. It fails to deal adequately with her complex responses, both verbal and physical, to Adonis and ignores the very real and justifiable fears Adonis has of the particular sort of love she offers him. Although the element of sexual desire in Venus’ attraction to Adonis cannot be denied, her love for him is really dominated by a strongly maternal response, which renders that love— and Venus’ character generally—far more interesting than equations with lust and generation would suggest. The maternal nature of Venus’ love explains Adonis’ fear of her, is the source of the narrator’s and reader’s ambivalence about her character, and is the cause of a certain nervousness that infects the laughter produced by the poem’s inversion of normal male-female courtship roles. Finally, by characterizing Venus’ love for Adonis as primarily a desire to mother the boy, Shakespeare’s poem reveals itself as something more than either a condemnation of lust or a celebration of generation; it offers a fundamental revelation concerning the nature of man’s—and especially Renaissance man’s—fear of women, a fear that lay behind the characterizations given to the enchantresses, whether human or divine, who appear in both courtly love lyrics and heroic romances. From the start of the poem, Venus appears a creature of superior power who descends to woo a mere mortal, a member of a weaker, inferior order. Physically stronger than Adonis, able to pluck him off his horse and carry him easily under her arm, Venus seems a massive figure

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ALTHOUGH THE ELEMENT OF SEXUAL DESIRE IN VENUS’ ATTRACTION TO ADONIS CANNOT BE DENIED, HER LOVE FOR HIM IS REALLY DOMINATED BY A STRONGLY MATERNAL RESPONSE, WHICH RENDERS THAT LOVE—AND VENUS’ CHARACTER GENERALLY— FAR MORE INTERESTING THAN EQUATIONS WITH LUST AND GENERATION WOULD SUGGEST.’’

out of a canvas by Rubens. The flowers beneath her, though she claims to ‘‘trip’’ lightly upon them (146), really do seem to support her ‘‘like sturdy trees’’ (152). Despite her reference to her ‘‘youth’’ (1120), a term that included a period in life now referred to as mature adulthood, Venus has been perceived by readers of the poem as considerably older than the boy she courts, a middle-aged amazon at the very least. While there is no hard evidence in the poem for ascribing any particular age to this conventionally ageless goddess, such responses are sound intuitions. Venus does totally dominate Adonis in a physical way just as she overwhelms him with rhetoric, and she is consistently portrayed as a mature woman of wide sexual experience whereas Adonis is consistently seen as a virginal slip of a boy. The most important reason, however, why readers of the poem have been led to perceive Venus as an older woman is the consistency with which she is presented as a mothering figure in relation to Adonis, while he in turn is characterized as an infant or child. In her first address to Adonis, Venus praises him as being ‘‘more lovely than a man’’ (9), an ambiguous phrase of courtship, which both elevates him above the status of mere mortality and suggests that his particular loveliness is really that of a boy. Later, Venus will make the true basis of her praise patent: she will reproach Adonis as ‘‘flint-hearted boy’’ (95), coax him to love her by calling him her ‘‘fondling’’ (229), a term of endearment usually reserved for infants, and finally rail against Death for blindly having cleft ‘‘an infant’s heart’’ (942). When Adonis goes off to hunt the boar, Venus refers to him as a ‘‘son that sucked an earthly mother’’ (863),


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thus identifying him not as an adult lover or an object of sexual desire but as a nursing infant, an innocent and helpless babe. Moreover, like Venus, Shakespeare’s narrator also characterizes Adonis in these terms, describing him as a ‘‘tender boy’’ (32) and comparing him, when he passively refuses to respond to Venus’ desperate advances, to a ‘‘froward infant stilled with dandling’’ (562) Finally, Adonis himself, quite aware of his own immaturity, stresses it repeatedly in resisting Venus’ attacks (415–20, 523 ff.), and his responses to her are frequently described in terms that suggest childish behavior: he blushes and pouts (33), frowns and frets (75), and petulantly chides Venus for having spoiled the fun he could have had that day (380). The love Venus feels for this boy has a complementary maternal character. For instance, in her first speech to Adonis, Venus conjures up a childhood world to tempt him off his horse: the two of them will share a ‘‘thousand honey secrets’’ (16) together and will play at kissing, shortening long summer days with ‘‘time-beguiling sport’’ (24). Later, in a wittily erotic passage, Venus transforms her body metaphorically into a ‘‘park’’ (229 ff.) where Adonis can wander and play at will. This passage also underscores a second aspect of Venus’ love, which defines its maternal quality: in her ‘‘park’’ she offers Adonis nourishment as well as a playpen. In fact, Venus’ language throughout the poem is marked by gustatory metaphors: the secrets she holds out to Adonis are ‘‘honey’’ (16); her lips provide ‘‘plenty’’ (20); and when she transforms her body into a ‘‘park,’’ she offers it as a feast for Adonis in which her breasts become fountains and he is invited to nibble her ‘‘sweet bottom-grass’’ (236). Finally, the maternal love Venus holds out to Adonis is characterized by a distinctively protective quality. No ‘‘serpent hisses’’ (17) at the spot where he is invited to sit down with her, and the secluded park of her body, with its ‘‘brakes obscure and rough, / To shelter thee from tempest and from rain’’ (237–38), is a secure retreat into which no dog could penetrate to harm her precious ‘‘deer’’ (239). Clearly, in offering a love that provides the innocence of sports and games, complete nourishment, and secure protection, and in being portrayed as the physically dominant and more widely experienced member of the pair, Venus plays mother to Adonis’ infant. It is thus quite fitting that the narrator twice refers to the arms

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Engraving of Greek mythological figures Venus and Adonis (after a painting by Titian) (Time Life Pictures/ Mansell/Time Life Pictures/Getty Images.)

and hands with which she imprisons him as a ‘‘band’’ (225, 363), a term that meant a restrictive binding but was also a common ellipsis for a swaddling band. If Adonis fails to realize the sexual element in his coy responses to Venus’ advances, Venus hardly understands the maternal character of her responses to him. Her explicit arguments all focus on the pleasure and innocence of sex and on the duty of man to propagate children, but in her treatment of Adonis and in her frequent descriptions of him as a child or infant, she seems to want to mother him as much as—or

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more than—to have sex with him. Either Venus wants some sort of incest without knowing it (one should recall that Adonis himself sprang from an incestuous union), or she really wants an infant to cradle and confuses her maternal and sexual impulses, not seeing Adonis as the father of her child but as her child itself. There is a fine ambiguity in the last dramatic gesture she makes in the poem when she snaps off the flower that grew from Adonis’ blood. She treats it like a child, placing it within the ‘‘hollow cradle’’ of her breasts to be rocked by her ‘‘throbbing heart’’ (1185–86). Although she addresses the flower as the ‘‘sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire’’

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(1178), the flower is not Adonis’ child but Adonis himself metamorphosed; he whom she called metaphorically the ‘‘field’s chief flower, sweet above compare’’ (8) has literally become a flower and in this ultimately passive form can no longer avoid the cradling Venus has wanted to give him from the start. That Venus sees this flower as Adonis’ child and not as Adonis himself is eloquent testimony to her ignorance of the real nature of her motives. This last gesture serves as a stunning conclusion, a final revelation in vivid terms of what Venus wanted all along. The striking images of predatory animals with which Venus is associated in the poem (eagle, vulture, falcon) and her frequent references to Adonis as food, as a feast to devour, as the object of her gluttony, all appropriately have been summoned up as evidence to identify her as lust. Granting such an interpretation, it could be argued that Venus is involved in a fundamental self-contradiction. On the one hand, her maternal instincts lead her to wish to protect and nourish Adonis, while on the other, her lust moves her to want to devour and destroy him in an act of incestuous cannibalism. But it could also be argued that these images essentially reveal a contradiction inherent in the maternal love Venus feels. This inherent contradiction can best be understood if the ‘‘park’’ receives a bit more scrutiny. As she describes that ‘‘park’’ to Adonis, it is both a world of security, nourishment, and play and unmistakably a trap or prison. It is walled by an ‘‘ivory pale’’ (230; Venus’ arms), the means by which Adonis has been ‘‘hemmed’’ (229) in. In fact, until he leaves to hunt the boar, he is almost continuously ‘‘prisoned’’ (362) within the ‘‘band’’ Venus throws around him, and he twice is compared by the narrator to a bird tangled in a net, a wild creature eventually ‘‘tamed with too much handling’’ (560). The maternal security and nourishment Venus offers thus involve at the same time a surrendering of freedom and loss of autonomy, which imply the giving up of selfhood and personal identity. In loving Venus as she wants, not only would Adonis be returning to the innocent gaiety and security that mark the child’s condition, but Shakespeare’s images also suggest he would be totally engulfed by Venus, swallowed up in her embrace, smothered, as she herself says (18), beneath the awesome load of her kisses. Seen in terms of this perspective, Adonis really is a morsel for Venus to devour;


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the metaphors of eating not only suggest lust but also imply the swallowing up of Adonis’ self that giving in to Venus’ love entails. Adonis does indeed face the danger that Venus will ‘‘draw his lips’ rich treasure dry’’ (552) a phrase that hints at vampire-like horrors, at loss of breath and vital fluid, perhaps even loss of soul. The loss of autonomy involved in loving Venus is precisely the reason why Adonis finds that love so threatening and explains why the more she persists, the more adamantly he refuses her. To be sure, in rejecting Venus Adonis may be faulted for self-centeredness, a priggish refusal to dally with a charming female, and an insane rejection of generation in favor of loving the boar and all it represents. But just as surely, he must be granted some credit for sensing the danger Venus’ love poses for him and for having wisely refused it. Though he may be accused of waxing puritanical in denouncing Venus as a ‘‘glutton’’ (803) because of her lust, as a caterpillar feeding on the leaves of his beauty (795–98), his images harmonize perfectly with those used by Shakespeare’s narrator himself to characterize Venus’ love throughout the poem. Moreover, Adonis’ most persistent argument against Venus stresses that he is still ‘‘unripe’’ (524), still a ‘‘bud’’ (416) and not a flower, still a green plum that if ‘‘early plucked’’ would taste sour. (527–28) In all these images he responds directly to the predatory character of Venus’ love, refuses implicitly the return to childhood that that love entails, and insists upon his need for freedom to grow up into manhood even if that means the risk of possible death beneath the tusks of the boar. However lacking in compassion Adonis may appear to be in leaving Venus, he is at least somewhat justified in rejecting an offer that promises his enduring infantilization. As he goes out to hunt the boar, he really does reject—though his phrase may be understood differently—a love he aptly calls a ‘‘life in death’’ (413). The maternal character of Venus’ love also generates the particular features she attributes to the boar in the poem. In fact, it should be noted that the reader largely sees the boar through her eyes, understands it in her terms. Adonis does not describe it when saying he likes to hunt it, and the narrator says relatively little about it, except on a few occasions when he may well be attempting to present how it looks from Venus’ perspective. Venus, however, goes on about it at length. At what must be considered the turning

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point of the poem, startled by Adonis’ announcement that he will hunt the boar (589), she describes it fearfully as a ‘‘butcher’’ (618), a beast whose snout digs sepulchers (622), which cannot be injured by spears (626), and which causes plants and animals—all of nature—to scurry terrified out of its way (629–30). Later, Venus’ language suggests that she identifies the boar with Death: she sees both as aggressive creatures ‘‘striking’’ at whatever gets in their way (623, 938); both have piercing instruments of death, the boar’s ‘‘tushes’’ and Death’s ‘‘dart’’ (941); and both are ultimate powers that cannot be destroyed. Consistent with the image pattern established throughout the poem, where Venus is identified with predatory birds and animals and Adonis with deers and hares and helpless birds, the boar and Death are both personified, one as a ‘‘butcher’’ and the other as the ‘‘invisible commander’’ (1004). They are thus identified as humans whose superior force allows them to hunt down both predatory animals and their victims alike. Fittingly, as Venus runs off toward the sound of hunting horns to seek Adonis, she is compared to a falcon flying to a lure (1027), a bird of prey man has tamed and taught its ultimate impotence. Finally, Venus characterizes both the boar and Death as diabolic and serpent-like. The former is one of the ‘‘foul fiends’’ (638) and is frequently imagined as a snake: the wounds it gives the dogs are ‘‘venomed’’ (916); when Venus hears the cry of the hounds, she starts like one who has spied an adder (878); and at one point she imagines Adonis lying beneath the boar’s ‘‘fangs’’ (663). Death is likewise berated as ‘‘earth’s worm’’ (933), a frequent term for serpent. This distinctly diabolic characterization of the boar and Death relates directly to the world of maternal security Venus would offer Adonis. She would give him the garden of her body, an enclosure that barking dogs—and the hunters who follow them—could not penetrate. Almost the first thing Venus offers Adonis is security from diabolic evil: ‘‘Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses’’ (17). Unfortunately for her, Adonis refuses to return to the childhood garden of false innocence she offers him. From Venus’ point of view, he has succumbed to the temptation of the serpent who rules this fallen world of experience, and his fall into death not only destroys Venus’ illusory paradise but, according to her final prophecy, perverts love forever. Ironically, the strength of Venus’ maternal drive half-blinds her to the illusory nature of the paradise she offers Adonis. Clearly, she wants to

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present that world as though it were free from evil, time, and death. The ‘‘sport’’ Venus would have Adonis play is significantly described as ‘‘time-beguiling’’ (24), a phrase that suggests man’s triumph over time, though it may also be interpreted as implying his self-deception about its passage. Whether at this point Venus recognizes the power of time over all things mortal, including Adonis and his beauty, may be doubted, but in her long speech attempting to persuade him into her embrace, when she sounds the carpe diem theme and stresses the importance of generation, she demonstrates a real schizophrenia concerning Adonis’ exposure to time and death. At one point, she implicitly acknowledges his mortality: By law of nature thou art bound to breed, That thine may live when thou thyself art dead; And so, in spite of death, thou dost survive, In that thy likeness still is left alive. (171–74) And yet, in the very same speech, Venus also argues in radically different terms, which hark back to her original identification of Adonis as a flower: Fair flowers that are not gath’red in their prime Rot and consume themselves in little time. (131–32) Clearly in these two passages Venus contradicts herself, both recognizing the law of mutability and decay that rules all earthly things and pretending to Adonis—and herself—that by being plucked he can paradoxically escape decay. Her last gestures in the poem reinforce the impression that Venus is more than a little selfdeceived, perhaps seduced by the power of her maternal yearnings into imagining she can provide an enduring paradise for her ‘‘fondling.’’ At the very moment she remarks to the flower she has plucked, ‘‘it is as good / To wither in my breast as in his blood’’ (1181–82) she also declares that her heart will rock it day and night, that there will be no ‘‘minute in an hour / Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flow’r’’ (1187–88). Finally, Venus’ long prophecy of doom for love after Adonis’ death testifies to her implicit self-deceiving belief that the childhood garden of love she offered him would have preserved his beauty intact and kept him from the fall that has taken the world and love down with him. Whatever Venus’ personal version of

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the myth of the fall may be, however, the reader is directed by the implications of her carpe diem arguments to see it as personal projection rather than objective truth. Venus and Adonis dwell in this fallen world, where the earthly paradise is, for Venus, an illusory maternal fantasy and, for Adonis, an alluring, treacherous bower of bliss. The smothering maternal love that appears negative from Adonis’ point of view is not presented quite so negatively by the narrative as a whole. Though predatory and suffocating, threatening complete loss of personal autonomy through permanent infantilization, Venus’ love, when looked at from the perspective of her motives, is considerably more ambiguous. The narrator deliberately shapes the reader’s responses to emphasize this ambiguity, and the status of Venus and Adonis as a comi-tragedy, a work transformed from high comedy to pathetic drama somewhere near its middle, can be directly related to the ambiguity of Venus’ love. During the first half of the poem, the narrator suppresses most of the positive elements in this love, repeatedly characterizing Venus as a predator and Adonis as her hapless prey. Even here, however, he roguishly praises Venus’ cleverness in stopping Adonis’ reprimands with a kiss (469–74) and criticizes Adonis for his ‘‘lazy sprite’’ (181), implying that he has failed to give Venus the sexual satisfaction a ‘‘real man’’ would offer her. Nevertheless, it is principally after Adonis announces his intention to hunt the boar that the narrator begins to shift his and the reader’s sympathies markedly toward Venus. In the second half of the poem, Venus’ desperate pleading with Adonis to stay and her repeated references to him as an infant emphasize the truly protective and nurturing side of the maternal love she feels. Moreover, because the boar and Death are both depicted as all-powerful human or diabolic predators, Venus, who at first appeared an all-powerful, predatory mother, now experiences the genuine limits of her powers. The narrator, by means of a series of effective images, underscores the pathos of her inability to save the life of the infant she loves. Though she urges Adonis to hunt the hare, her lengthy description of the hunt reveals her identification with the pursued little animal and not the hunters. When she sees Adonis’ dead body, she is compared to a snail, ‘‘whose tender horns being hit, / Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with


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pain’’ (1033–34). The frothy-mouthed boar appears to her mothering vision as having ‘‘milk and blood’’ (902) mixed on its snout, in a stark suggestion of infant massacre. And in an absolutely wrenching image, which climaxes all those that render sympathetic the maternal element in Venus, the narrator describes her as a ‘‘milch doe whose swelling dugs do ache / Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake’’ (875–76). Here the brake is a real one, not the metaphoric brake of Venus’ body, and it hinders this less-than-allpowerful goddess from reaching her love rather than serving as a place of protection and pleasure for him. Both Venus and the ‘‘fawn’’ she aches to feed are pathetic victims of forces beyond either’s control. The effect of all these images and the narrator’s shift of perspective on Venus, in seeing her first as a victimizer and later as a powerless victim, is not to obliterate but, rather, to qualify the previously presented negative features of her maternal drive and to characterize it as the paradoxical force it really is. If Venus’ smothery mothering makes the reader’s lustful laughter at her sexual forwardness rather nervous at times, Venus as a protective, pathetic maternal figure arouses the quite different response of pity and sympathy. Even though her last gesture of plucking Adonis’ flower is an outrageous, though unconscious, fulfillment of her destructive side, her despairing prophecy of lost love, her grief over Adonis’ death, and her final decision to retreat from the world, all balance that destructive gesture and leave the reader with a firm sense of the ultimate ambivalence of her character . . . Source: Wayne A. Rebhorn, ‘‘Mother Venus: Temptation in Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis,’’ in Shakespeare Studies, Vol. 11, 1978, pp. 1–19.

SOURCES Akrigg, G. P. V., Shakespeare and the Earl of Southampton, H. Hamilton, 1968. Barber, C. L., and Richard P. Wheeler, The Whole Journey: Shakespeare’s Power of Development, University of California Press, 1986. Belsey, Catherine, ‘‘Love as Trompe-l’oeil: Taxonomies of Desire in Venus and Adonis,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 46, No. 3, Fall 1995, pp. 257–76.

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Bradbrook, M. C., Shakespeare: The Poet in His World, Columbia University Press, 1978, pp. 72–5. Crewe, Jonathan, ‘‘Introduction,’’ in The Narrative Poems, by William Shakespeare, Penguin Books, 1999, pp. xxix–lii. Desmet, Christy, ‘‘‘Who Is’t Can Read a Woman?’: Rhetoric and Gender in Venus and Adonis, Measure for Measure, and All’s Well That Ends Well,’’ in Reading Shakespeare’s Characters: Rhetoric, Ethics, and Identity, University of Massachusetts Press, 1992, pp. 134–63. Doebler, John, ‘‘The Reluctant Adonis: Titian and Shakespeare,’’ in Shakespeare Quarterly, Vol. 33, No. 4, Winter 1982, pp. 480–90. Dubrow, Heather, ‘‘‘Upon Misprision Growing’: Venus and Adonis,’’ in Captive Victors: Shakespeare’s Narrative Poems and Sonnets, Cornell University Press, 1987, pp. 21–79. Erickson, Peter, ‘‘Refracted Images of Queen Elizabeth in Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece,’’ in Rewriting Shakespeare, Rewriting Ourselves, University of California Press, 1991, pp. 31–56. Hatto, A. T., ‘‘Venus and Adonis—and the Boar,’’ in Modern Language Review, Vol. 41, No. 4, October 1946, pp. 353–61. Jahn, J. D., ‘‘The Lamb of Lust: The Role of Adonis in Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis, in Shakespeare Survey, Vol. 6, 1970, pp. 11–25. Kahn, Coppe´lia, ‘‘Self and Eros in Venus and Adonis,’’ in Man’s Estate: Masculine Identity in Shakespeare, University of California Press, 1981, pp. 21–46. Muir, Kenneth, ‘‘Venus and Adonis: Comedy or Tragedy?,’’ in Shakespearean Essays, edited by Alwin Thaler and Norman Sanders, Knoxville, 1964. Shakespeare, William, Venus and Adonis, in The Narrative Poems, Penguin Books, 1999, pp. 2–48.

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Sheidley, William E., ‘‘‘Unless It Be a Boar’: Love and Wisdom in Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis,’’ in Modern Language Quarterly, Vol. 35, No. 1, March 1974, pp. 3–15. Smith, Bruce R., Homosexual Desire in Shakespeare’s England: A Cultural Poetics, University of Chicago Press, 1991.

FURTHER READING Gray, John, Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus: The Classic Guide to Understanding the Opposite Sex, Harper, 2004. In this modern bestseller, Gray, who holds a doctorate, discusses the many emotional and psychological differences typically found between men and women. Haynes, Alan, Untam’d Desire: Sex in Elizabethan England, Stackpole Books, 1997. While his writing style has been described as overly ornate, Haynes nevertheless provides an incisive account of cultural attitudes toward sex in Shakespeare’s era. Morford, Mark P. O., and Robert J. Lenardon, Classical Mythology, Oxford University Press, 2002. This academic work presents not only a comprehensive retelling of classical myths but also analyses of their historical relevance. Wilson, Marie C., ed., If Women Ruled the World, Inner Ocean Publishing, 2004. This volume includes a variety of essays, anecdotes, and meditations by women who ponder what the world would be like if more women held positions of political power.

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The Winter’s Tale In his Diary, Simon Forman, an Elizabethan astrologer and surgeon, records that he saw The Winter’s Tale performed on May 15, 1611, at the Globe Theater, the home of the King’s Men, Shakespeare’s acting company. A performance on November 5, 1611 is recorded in the Revels Account; another performance was given in the spring of 1613. In 1623, Sir Henry Herbert, Master of the Revels, refers to The Winter’s Tale as ‘‘an olde playe formerly allowed by Sir George Bucke.’’ Bucke had been appointed Master of the Revels in 1610, making it relatively certain that The Winter’s Tale had not been written before 1610. (The Master of the Revels was an officer of the royal court who licensed plays for performance in London and selected which plays would be performed at court. He also functioned as a royal censor.) The ‘‘Dance of the Satyrs,’’ which a servant introduces in act 4, scene 4, of The Winter’s Tale, and says had been performed at court, is presumed to be a dance performed before King James on January 1, 1611 as part of Ben Jonson’s Masque of Oberon.

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The Winter’s Tale first appeared in print in 1623 in the Folio edition of Shakespeare’s plays, which was assembled as a tribute to him by Henry Condell and John Hemminges, two of his fellow actors in the King’s Men. Although the play appears as the last among the comedies and was probably a late addition to the Folio, it is considered by editors to be a good, reliable text, thought to have been printed from a manuscript

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prepared by Ralph Crane, the company’s scrivener or secretary-copyist. Robert Greene’s novella, Pandosto, or The Triumph of Time, written in 1588 and frequently reprinted afterwards, is the source for The Winter’s Tale. Despite numerous alterations, including the happy ending and the statue of Hermione, Shakespeare followed the core story as Greene devised it. Shakespeare’s words are sometimes very close to Greene’s, too, as in Hermione’s defense of herself and the oracle’s pronouncement. However, Shakespeare added Paulina and Autolocus, whose tricks he derived from another work by Greene, The Second Part of Cony-catching, 1591, a study of the London criminal underworld. The Winter’s Tale enjoyed great popularity on the Jacobean stage. It was presented at court in 1618, 1619, 1624, and 1634. The theaters were closed in 1642 and did not reopen until 1661, after the Puritan revolution had failed and the monarchy was restored in 1660. The re-opening of the theaters under King Charles II did not see the restoration of The Winter’s Tale to the stage, however, until 1741, when it was performed at the small theater of Goodman’s Fields successfully enough for it to be moved to the larger Covent Garden the next year. But Shakespeare’s play, in its original form, was supplanted for the rest of the eighteenth century by Macnamara Morgan’s adaptation, The Sheep-Shearing: or Florizel and Perdita, which was first produced in 1754 at Covent Garden; and by another play by the actor-manager David Garrick, whose play, Florizel and Perdita, A Dramatic Pastoral, was first staged at the Drury Lane theater in 1756. Both of these adaptations placed a great emphasis on spectacle, replacing drama with scenery and singing, and significantly cutting much of the grim first three acts and focusing on the pastoral romance of the fourth. During the nineteenth century, Shakespeare’s original was returned to the stage, although usually cut. In 1802, John Philip Kemble produced The Winter’s Tale, omitting the choral figure of Time. In 1856, Charles Kean set his production in ancient Greece, using elaborately evocative Hellenic sets and costumes. Henry Irving and Sir Herbert Beerbohm-Tree both produced spectacular versions of the play with elaborate costumes and scenery during the last decades of the nineteenth century. In 1910,Winthrop Ames staged The Winter’s Tale

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in Jacobean style on an apron stage—the common Elizabethan stage surrounded by the audience on three sides—the first such staging since 1634. In 1912, Harley Granville-Barker staged the play with far less emphasis on scenery and spectacle and more focus on the actual text than had come to be the practice since 1634. In 1951, Peter Brook directed The Winter’s Tale at the Old Vic in London with Sir John Gielgud as Leontes in a performance that has come to be considered a classic. Since then, The Winter’s Tale has become one of Shakespeare’s most frequently staged plays, by both amateurs and professionals.

PLOT SUMMARY Act 1, Scene 1 The Winter’s Tale opens with Camillo, Leontes’s Lord Chamberlain, and Archidamus, one of the lords of Bohemia, exchanging courtesies. Archidamus is visiting Leontes’s court in Sicilia with Polixenes, King of Bohemia. Archidamus commends Leontes’s hospitality and confesses that when Leontes visits Polixenes in Bohemia, they will not be able to match its magnificence, but their love will be as great. Camillo assures him that the hospitality is freely given and nothing is expected in return. He rejoices at the great love for each other the two monarchs share and recalls its deep roots. Their bond goes back to their childhood. Archidamus says he thinks there is nothing which could make them alter their love for each other. He remarks what a treasure the young prince of Sicilia, Mamillius, is. Camillo agrees, saying how much he delights the people’s hearts and how they long to stay alive, even if they must bear the infirmities of age, just for the pleasure of seeing him grow to manhood. Archidamus asks if otherwise they would be ‘‘content to die.’’ Camillo says they would, if they had no other reason to live. Archidamus disagrees, saying they would always find a reason for wishing to stay alive, even if it were only to wait for the king to have a son.

Act 1, Scene 2 Polixenes tells Leontes that he has already stayed nine months with him and must end his visit and return to Bohemia. Leontes asks him to stay a while longer. Polixenes tells him it is not possible. His absence so long may even threaten the

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Douglas Hodge as Leontes and Rolf Saxon as Polixenes in Act I, scene ii at The Roundhouse, London, 2002 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

security of his throne. Leontes persists in his entreaties and Polixenes continues to insist he must leave. Leontes then turns to his queen, Hermione, who is big with child, and asks her to try to persuade Polixenes to stay longer. When Hermione succeeds, rather than rejoicing, Leontes becomes overwhelmingly jealous. Insulted that Polixenes has acceded to her request while refusing his, he reasons they must be lovers and that the child Hermione is carrying belongs to Polixenes. In order to persuade Polixenes to stay, Hermione offered him, teasingly, the choice of being either her guest or her prisoner. Polixenes chivalrously accepted the offer to be her guest, saying that to be her prisoner would suggest he had offended her. She then asks him about himself and Leontes and how they were when they were boys. Polixenes paints a picture of a world of innocence in which they were innocent, before they knew the sin of sexual desire. Hermione chides him for suggesting that she and his wife are devils who have caused him and Leontes to fall, but assures him that if they have only fallen with their own wives, it has been no sin. It is at this point that Leontes asks, ‘‘Is he


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won yet?’’ and Hermione answers ‘‘He’ll stay, my lord,’’ and Leontes says (it is up to the director or the actor to say whether he says it aloud or mumbles it to himself and to choose his tone of voice), ‘‘At my request he would not,’’ which begins Leontes’s nightmare descent into jealousy. Through what seems to be nearly innocuous dialogue, Shakespeare begins to present the internal development of Leontes’s jealousy. He says to Hermione, when she tells him Polixenes will stay that this is the second time she has spoken well. She asks when the first time was; he answers when she agreed to be his wife, but even as he speaks, there is a bitter tinge to his ` months’’ remark because it took ‘‘three crabbed before he could win her consent. Her answer, courtly in intent, cuts him. She seems to equate having ‘‘forever earned a royal husband’’ and having secured ‘‘for some while a friend’’ to stay. As Hermione walks with Polixenes and engages him in conversation, Leontes speaks, but only for the audience to hear, and describes the physical symptoms of his jealousy and turns

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every gesture of Hermione’s and Polixenes’s into an indication of their mutual passion shamelessly exhibited. He takes his young son, Mamillius, on his lap and continues his self-tormenting monologue until Polixenes notices that Leontes seems distraught and comments on it to Hermione. She asks Leontes if something is disturbing him. He says no, he is only lost in thought looking at Mamillius. He says he recalled himself as a boy. He asks Polixenes if he is as fond of his son as he, Leontes, is of Mamillius. Polixenes describes the delight he takes in his boy. Hermione and Polixenes and some attendants leave for a walk around the garden. Leontes tangles himself further in jealous fantasies and rage and sends Mamillius off to play, giving the word a more sinister meaning as he repeats it to himself. ‘‘Go play, boy, play: thy mother plays, and I / Play too—but so disgraced a part.’’ When Mamillius is gone, Camillo remains with him. Leontes, seeming to speak casually, comments that Polixenes will stay. Camillo conversationally responds that it was difficult to get him to stay and remarks that he would not at first agreed to when Leontes had asked, that it took Hermione’s entreaty. This response is exactly what can nourish Leontes’s jealousy. He imagines he is already being spoken about as a deceived husband. When Camillo speaks of Hermione, he calls her the ‘‘good Queen.’’ Leontes repeats his words with a bitter emphasis implying the opposite. Leontes confides in Camillo his surety that Hermione and Polixenes are lovers. Camillo denies it and calls the instances of proof Leontes offers ‘‘nothing.’’ But Leontes is relentless and will not be convinced that his jealousy is mistaken madness. Camillo sees that Leontes cannot be shaken and is violent in his jealous passion. Consequently, to assuage him, he seems to come around. When Leontes suggests that Camillo, who serves as Polixenes’s cupbearer, might poison him, Camillo agrees to do it on condition that once Polixenes is dispatched, Leontes will promise to do Hermione no harm. Leontes agrees and says Camillo’s advice conforms to his own thinking. As Leontes leaves, Camillo tells him that if he poisons Polixenes, he will be rewarded, but if he fails to, he will himself be executed. Camillo promises to do it, although equivocating, saying he is not Leontes’s servant if he does not. Alone, Camillo reflects on Hermione’s sad plight and then upon his own danger. He will not poison ‘‘good Polixenes,’’ and his only option

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then is to leave Sicilia and the court. As he is ruminating, Polixenes enters and asks Camillo if something is wrong: Leontes looks distraught and his behavior has changed. Camillo tells him that Leontes is ill with the disease of jealousy, that he believes Polixenes has slept with Hermione, is the father of her child, and that he has ordered Camillo to poison him. Polixenes understands how great Leontes’s fury must be. If it were true, it would be a grave violation of trust and friendship. He is afraid. Camillo proposes that Polixenes leave Sicilia immediately and that he, Camillo, go with him in order to escape Leontes’s wrath for disobedience. They go.

Act 2, Scene 1 The scene begins with Hermione expressing vexation. Mamillius is with her and she asks one of the women to take him. She says ‘‘he so troubles me, / ’Tis past enduring.’’ It is not clear that she is referring to Mamillius. If she is, there is no indication why. ‘‘He’’ may also refer to the child in her womb, who, as children in the womb do, can cause painful discomfort by kicking and moving about. Or it maybe Leontes to whom Hermione is referring. His behavior has become strange enough for Polixenes to have noticed. Hermione’s women banter with Mamillius and talk about his mother’s pregnancy with him. Hermione, feeling easier, takes the boy to her again, and at her urging, he begins to tell her a story. As he begins his tale of a man who ‘‘dwelt by a churchyard,’’ a graveyard, Leontes enters speaking distractedly to several courtiers about how Polixenes and Camillo have stolen away from the court and how their hasty departure confirms his jealous fears and makes him realize that Camillo was part of a plot by Polixenes to steal his wife, kill him, and take his crown. He orders Hermione to give him Mamillius, and sends the boy away. In front of the court, Leontes accuses Hermione of carrying Polixenes’s child. She denies it. He reaffirms that she is an adulteress, will not hear her protestations, and orders that she be taken to prison. She leaves with dignity, saying tears would have been appropriate only if she had been guilty and she voices tender concern for Leontes, sorry that she will see him having to be sorry. After Hermione has been removed, his courtiers try to convince Leontes that he is mistaken, that the queen is innocent and no woman more virtuous than she. He refuses to hear them and stubbornly insists on the truth of his indictment

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and on his sole power to bring it. He adds, however, that he has sent messengers to Delphos to enquire about Hermione’s guilt of the oracle in order to confirm his judgment and not seem tyrannical.

Act 2, Scene 2 Visiting the prison in which Hermione is held, Paulina is forbidden to see the queen. She learns from Emilia, a lady-in-waiting with Hermione, that Hermione has given birth to a girl. Paulina convinces the jailer to allow her to take the baby to Leontes, thinking that the sight of his new daughter may cause him to soften.

Act 2, Scene 3 In torment, Leontes thinks that if he has Hermione executed he may have some peace. A servant enters and informs him that Mamillius has rested well after becoming ill. Leontes tells the servant that the boy is ill because he is ashamed of his mother’s transgression. Leontes continues to entertain crazy thoughts of taking vengeance on Hermione, and regrets that Camillo and Polixenes are out of reach of his punishment. He imagines that they are laughing at him. Paulina, carrying the baby, tries to enter the chamber. A Lord prevents her, but she rebuffs him, scolds him for obeying Leontes, whom she brands a tyrant. She reproaches the Lord for not being concerned about the queen. She tells the Lord she comes to bring Leontes comfort. Leontes, hearing the altercation, asks who is there. When told it is Paulina, he tells the Lord not to admit her and tells Antigonus, one of his courtiers and Paulina’s husband, that he told him to keep her away, but when Antigonus says that he did, Leontes reproaches him for not being able to control his wife. Paulina answers that regarding any act of virtue, he can, but she will not be ruled not to be virtuous, and Antigonus backs her up. Paulina shows Leontes the baby and defies him when she calls the queen good by reasserting the adjective when he denies it. She lays the baby at his feet. He calls her a witch. He orders Antigonus to pick up the baby, whom he calls the bastard, and give it back to Paulina. Paulina puts a curse on him if he picks up the baby. When Antigonus heeds his wife, Leontes calls him a traitor. He protests and so does Paulina. Leontes threatens to burn Paulina, but she returns his rage with defiance. She leaves, telling him to care for his daughter. Leontes orders


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Antigonus to throw the baby into the fire. Antigonus and the other courtiers beg Leontes to spare the child. He concedes, ordering, instead, that Antigonus take it to some distant, barren place and expose the child to the elements. Antigonus takes up the baby and departs to fulfill the command. A servant enters and tells the king the messengers are returned from Delphos with the oracle’s judgment.

Act 3, Scene 1 Cleomenes and Dion are galloping back to Leontes palace from the Delphic oracle carrying the oracle’s judgment. They remember the power and mystery of Delphos and express their belief in Hermione’s innocence and their hope that the judgment of the oracle will make all well.

Act 3, Scene 2 Leontes calls Hermione’s trial to order, proclaiming how painful a thing it is for him to do and how he hopes it will clear him of the charge of being tyrannical in his proceedings against his wife. He orders Hermione brought in, although he calls her ‘‘the prisoner’’ rather than using her name. In her presence, the indictment is read. She is accused of treason for committing adultery with Polixenes, plotting the murder of Leontes, and aiding in the flight of Camillo and Polixenes. Hermione proclaims her innocence, speaking quietly and eloquently. She speaks of her honor, her upbringing, her past life with Leontes, and the propriety of her behavior with Polixenes. Leontes dismisses her, saying that her denials are merely an indication of her boldness as a deceiver. She refutes the accusations in his indictment point by point, and he reverts to them afterwards. She tells him he is but dreaming. He repeats his delusions as if they were facts and threatens her with death. She responds that she has no dread of death, everything in her life which she valued having been taken from her, but she requests he consult the oracle before passing sentence. He says it is a fair request and has, in fact, done so. Dion and Cleomenes enter with the oracle’s judgment. It is opened and read. The oracle says that Hermione is chaste, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, that Leontes is a tyrant, and that he will live without an heir if something which has been lost is not found. Leontes responds by crying out that the oracle is false. A messenger runs in with the news that his son Mamillius has died. Hermione

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drops in a death swoon. Leontes orders her taken away saying her heart was strained but she will recover. He says that he has been wrong and has believed his own suspicions. He orders that Hermione be cared for and humbles himself before Apollo for profaning his oracle. He proclaims he will repent, reconcile himself with Polixenes, woo Hermione anew, and recall Camillo. He confesses his own misdeeds and is filled with horror at what he has done and how he has been. Paulina enters, rails against him, condemning each of his actions, says she cares not what punishment he can give her for speaking against him. She finishes by reporting that Hermione is dead. Rather than punishing her for her vilification of him, Leontes tells her to continue. She apologizes for speaking as she has, but he tells her he wishes her to continue to recount his faults. He makes her a sort of minister of penance to him. The scene ends as Leontes goes to visit the chapel where the bodies of his wife and son lie, vowing to visit it daily and live his life a penitent.

Act 3, Scene 3 The scene changes to the seacoast of Bohemia where Antigonus arrives with Hermione’s baby. The skies are stormy. Antigonus orders the mariner to return to the ship while he finds a place to lay the bundled baby. He speaks to himself, regretting that he must do it and remembers a dream he had last night. Weeping, Hermione appeared to him in a white robe, instructed him to leave the child in Bohemia and to name it Perdita. For being the instrument, although unwillingly, of this exposure, she tells him he will never see his wife again. Antigonus believes Hermione is dead, thinks that she has chosen Bohemia to deposit the child because it is Polixenes’s, blesses the child, lays it down with a bundle of letters indicating who she is, along with gold, and attempts to return to the ship, which is beset by a storm, but he is pursued by a bear as he exits and is devoured by the bear. A shepherd enters, complaining to himself about the follies of youth. He spots the baby and the bundle, gathers them up and says he will take and care for the baby but will wait for his son to return before he goes home. His son, the Clown, of whom he had been speaking before he noticed the baby, saying what a bother young people are, enters and tells his father that he has seen a man devoured by a bear and a ship go down in the storm. His father, saying that his son has seen

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dying things, but he has seen newborn things, shows him the child and the gold. The clown tells his father good fortune has come to them. He tells him to go home with the child while he goes to see if the bear has finished with the man and then together they will bury what is left of him.

Act 4, Scene 1 The figure of Time steps forth from inside the confines of the play and acts as a chorus, telling the spectators that sixteen years have passed, that Leontes has spent them grieving, but that the scene has shifted to Bohemia where Perdita has grown into a graceful and beautiful young woman and that the son of Polixenes, who had been mentioned earlier, has now grown to manhood. Time wishes that we never spend time worse than watching the play he is presenting and to which he now returns us.

Act 4, Scene 2 Polixenes begs Camillo to put away his desire to return to Sicilia and Leontes and to remain in Bohemia. He tells him how great his service to him has been and how greatly he still requires him. In fact, he tells him that he is troubled that his son is often absent from the court and his spies have informed him that Florizel spends most of the time at the home of a lowly shepherd who has unaccountably risen in fortune. Camillo says he has heard of him and that he has a beautiful daughter. Polixenes responds that he fears it is to see the girl that he is drawn there, and suggests that they themselves, in disguise, go to the shepherd’s house to see what is going on. Camillo agrees.

Act 4, Scene 3 With a burst of song celebrating the re-appearance of spring (although it is autumn) and the sprouting of daffodils, of red-blooded energy, of larks and unruly lovemaking, Autolycus, a mirthful and frolicsome figure, a pickpocket and a fast-talking con man appears. He tells the audience that he has served Florizel, that he steals the linen hung out to dry on lines on washdays, but that he keeps his crimes small because he does not want to be beaten or hanged. As he is pattering, he sees the Clown, the Shepherd’s son and Perdita’s brother, approaching. The Clown is off to make purchases of sugar, currents, spices, dates, figs, and raisins for a sheepshearing celebration, and he is occupying his time remembering his shopping list and trying to tally the profits of the sheep-shearing in his head, but the

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arithmetic confounds him. Autolycus pretends that he has been robbed and beaten and calls out for his help. The good Clown stops to help him, and as he lifts him from the ground, Autolycus picks his pocket and then graciously refuses some money when the Clown offers to help him. They part, the Clown to buy his provisions, for which he will find he does not have the money, and Autolycus, merrily singing, to go to the sheepshearing feast, where he will fleece the guests.

Act 4, Scene 4 Florizel and Perdita appear at the sheep-shearing feast. He is dressed as a lowly shepherd and she as the queen of the festival. He remarks on her beauty and she admits misgivings to be so adorned and to see him dressed so below his rank. He says he blesses the time his falcon strayed across her father’s land and he met her, but she says the disparity in their rank makes her fearful for their love and of his father’s disapproval. The prince tells her not to worry and to rejoice, and he reminds her of all the gods who assumed human form for the sake of a beloved, but none compares to her, and that he is superior to those gods since his love is honorable and chaste. She responds that his father’s disapproval, nevertheless, will chasten his love for her, but he denies it, saying he will choose her, if a choice has to be made, over his kingdom. She prays that it be so. The guests approach and the old Shepherd lovingly chides her for not attending to them, describing how his wife bustled about the table serving the guests when she was alive. Polixenes and Camillo, in disguise, are among the guests. Perdita offers them flowers with her greeting. She gives them rosemary and rue, signifying grace and remembrance, and she notes those flowers can survive the winter. Polixenes thanks her, noting that winter flowers are appropriate to their ages. Perdita, continuing to speak of flowers, notes that in their season, now autumn, the fairest flowers are carnations and streaked gilyvors, which are called nature’s bastards and that she will not plant those in her garden. Polixenes explains to her that they are flowers produced by grafting two separate stocks together, a wild one and a gentle one, to produce such flowers. She says she will not have them just for the reason that they are the products of art rather than nature, and says it is like a woman wearing make-up. But Polixenes tries to correct her, arguing that the art which is used to produce such flowers is an art taught by nature, an art which


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‘‘mends’’ nature and is thus itself natural. But she persists and protests she will not plant such flowers. Once again, she welcomes them to the feast, and Camillo praises her beauty. She says she wishes she had spring flowers to give to Florizel and to the maidens, and she thinks of the flowers that Proserpina (or Persephone) dropped when she was kidnapped by Dis (or Hades), the god of the underworld, and taken to the underworld. (There is an echo of the very story of The Winter’s Tale in her allusion to the story of Proserpina’s rape. Demeter (Ceres) her mother, the goddess of vegetation, withdrew her energy from the earth when her daughter was abducted, and winter was the result. Demeter resembles Hermione; Proserpina resembles Perdita.) After Perdita expresses her desire to cover Florizel with flowers, he asks her if she means to bestrew him like a corpse. She answers that it would rather be like a bank for them to lie on loving, and he describes her as a flowing wave. Even Polixenes is taken with her beauty as they watch the lovers whisper to each other. Autolycus bursts into this festive setting like a peddler with ribbons, gewgaws and ballads to sell, and there is country clowning, romancing, singing and dancing. During the festivities, Polixenes tells Camillo that the attachment between Florizel and Perdita has gone too far and that it is time to part them. With this in mind, Polixenes asks Florizel why he did not buy Perdita trinkets in order to show his love and increase hers. Florizel responds that she does not value such trifles. Instead he takes her hand and vows his love before the assembled company and as they are about to join themselves in a rustic wedding, Polixenes inquires if Florizel’s father knows of his love. Florizel answers that he does not and that he will not. As Florizel then says ‘‘Mark our contract,’’ meaning his engagement to Perdita, Polixenes reveals himself, crying ‘‘Mark your divorce.’’ He tells Florizel if he ever finds him near Perdita again, he will prevent him from becoming king. He threatens to scratch Perdita’s beauty with thorns and to sentence her to death and to execute her father, too. He does not apply to his son and Perdita the philosophy of grafting he had advocated with regard to horticulture a little earlier. After he leaves, Perdita says this is just what she had been afraid of. But Florizel tells her it changes nothing, that he is constant. Camillo has

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remained at the feast. He asks Florizel what his plans are. Florizel tells him he has determined nothing but to leave Bohemia with Perdita, but where he will go he does not know and it is not Camillo’s business, anyhow. Camillo suggests, however, that he take Perdita to Sicilia and tell Leontes he has been sent by his father with greetings. Camillo can supply him with documents and credentials, and once he arrives in Sicilia, before being presented to Leontes, Camillo can arrange for them both to be properly attired. Florizel and Perdita agree. Spotting Autolycus, Camillo has him change clothes with Florizel. Florizel and Perdita, now disguised—she wearing Autolycus’s hat—set off to Sicilia. Camillo then reveals the rest of his plan. So great is his longing, as he has already told Polixenes when Polixenes denied him permission to go, to see Sicilia, that he will tell Polixenes of the lovers’ flight, confident that they will then follow them to Sicilia. Left by himself, Autolycus muses that he is not the only one who practices deception. Moreover, he decides that since it would show honesty in him to let Polixenes know of Florizel’s departure, he will not do it. The Shepherd and the Clown enter, frightened that they will be executed because of their relationship to Perdita. They have brought the chest that was bundled with her, in which the papers revealing her actual identity and her infant swaddling clothes are stored, in order to show them to Polixenes to exculpate themselves. Autolycus waylays them, tells them he is a courtier, frightens them, and promises to bring them to him. But he actually intends to bring them to Florizel to show him their bundle, thinking it may concern him.

has arrived with his princess and desires to see Leontes. Leontes is surprised at such a sudden visit and that Florizel is not accompanied by an entourage. The servant speaks of Perdita’s beauty and Paulina reproaches him for slighting Hermione’s memory. The presence of Florizel also painfully recalls the absence of Mamillius, who died when Leontes persecuted his mother. Upon seeing Florizel, Leontes notes how much he resembles Polixenes by saying that his mother was true to wedlock. Florizel says he has stopped at Sicilia at his father’s command to give Leontes his greetings. Leontes gives him welcome and praises Perdita’s beauty. Florizel tells him she is a Libyan princess. As they speak, a Lord enters with news that Polixenes has landed in Sicilia and asks that Leontes take Florizel prisoner because he has defied his father and eloped with a shepherd’s daughter. In addition, he reports that Perdita’s father has arrived in Sicilia, too, and has met with Polixenes. Florizel says Camillo must have betrayed him, and Leontes rejoices to hear him named. Perdita laments over what will become of her poor father and adds that they will never be able to be married now. When Leontes hears that they are not married and that Perdita is not a king’s daughter, he becomes stern. Momentarily, too, he expresses his own desire for Perdita, and when Paulina reproaches him for betraying the memory of his queen, he says he thought of Hermione as he looked at Perdita. When Florizel assures him that he and Perdita have remained chaste, Leontes promises to intervene with Polixenes on their behalf.

Act 5, Scene 1

Act 5, Scene 2

In Sicilia, Leontes tells the courtiers who argue that he has mourned and done penance long enough and ought to think about marrying again and producing an heir lest there be a problem regarding succession after his death. Paulina encourages his resistance. They recall Hermione’s splendor and his betrayal of her virtue. To marry again would kill her again, Paulina and Leontes agree. Furthermore, Leontes promises that if he does marry again it will only be with Paulina’s permission, and Paulina says she will only approve his marriage when Hermione is alive again.

The revelation of Perdita’s identity and the reconciliation of Leontes and Polixenes is not shown but rather described in the conversation between a group of Gentleman. Autolycus is among them, but he says little until they finish narrating the events of the disclosure, how they saw the proofs of Perdita’s identity, how the participants wept with joy and sorrow, and how Paulina invited them to her house so that they might see a statue of Hermione that she owns. When Autolycus is alone, the Shepherd and his son, the Clown, enter. They have now become gentlemen and they promise to protect Autolycus, providing he mends his ways, which he promises to do.

A servant enters and announces that a young man purporting to be Prince Florizel of Bohemia

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one’s pardon, blesses everyone, and asks Paulina to lead them from her house so that, at their leisure, they may tell how they have lived in the sixteen years that they have been separated.

MEDIA ADAPTATIONS

CHARACTERS

In 1962, The Winter’s Tale was filmed for the BBC, with Robert Shaw as Leontes.

A 1968 London production of The Winter’s Tale, directed by Frank Dunlop and starring Laurence Harvey as Leontes and Jane Asher as Perdita, was released as a film.

A 1981 BBC film version of The Winter’s Tale was directed by Jane Howell.

The 1999 Royal Shakespeare Company production of The Winter’s Tale was also made into a film.

Wintermaerchen (2000) is an operatic adaptation of The Winter’s Tale by Philippe Boesmans, a Belgian composer.

Antigonus Antigonus is Paulina’s husband. Leontes orders him to take his newborn daughter, Perdita, insisting she is not his but Polixenes’s, and expose the infant in the wilderness. Despite misgivings, Antigonus obeys and, following a visitation from Perdita’s mother, Hermione, in a dream vision, leaves the baby on the seacoast of Bohemia with a letter and gold. Antigonus is then eaten by a bear.

Archidamus Archidamus is a Bohemian courtier who visits Leontes’s court in Sicilia with Polixenes.

Autolycus Autolycus is a free-spirited pickpocket who makes mischief but accomplishes good.

Act 5, Scene 3 All have gathered in Paulina’s chapel for the unveiling of a statue of Hermione. When they see it, everyone is overcome by its perfect resemblance to Hermione and by a wonderful lifelike quality in the marble. When Paulina sees how touched they are, she asks them if they would like to see more. Leontes assures her he does, and she demands his assurance that he will not accuse her of witchcraft. Readily he agrees. She commands music to be played and Hermione descends from her pedestal, no longer a marble statue but a living woman. Hermione embraces Leontes and then turns to Perdita and begs a blessing of the gods for her and then, like a loving mother, asks where she has lived, how she has lived, how found her way back to the court. Of herself she says that knowing from Paulina that the oracle gave hope that Perdita was alive, she has preserved herself in hope of seeing her again. Paulina says there is time enough to answer all the questions later, but right now she calls them all winners and tells them to rejoice in each other as she withdraws alone into her solitariness. But Leontes interrupts her and says she must have a husband and joins her with Camillo. Leontes begs each


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Camillo Camillo is a courtier in Sicilia, and Leontes’s chief counselor. Rather than obey Leontes’ order to poison Polixenes, Camillo tells Polixenes of the danger he is in because Leontes believes he has had sexual relations with Hermione, Leontes’s wife. Camillo flees with Polixenes to Bohemia, where Camillo becomes Polixenes’s chief adviser. Sixteen years later, Camillo, longing to return home, helps Perdita and Florizel flee to Sicilia because Polixenes has forbidden her marriage to his son, Florizel.

Cleomenes Cleomenes is one of the courtiers Leontes sends to the Delphic Oracle to find out the truth about Hermione’s suspected infidelity with Polixenes.

Clown The Clown is the Shepherd’s son. When Antigonus abandons Perdita on the seacoast of Bohemia, he sees him devoured by a bear before he can reach his ship; the ship then goes down in a raging storm. The Clown is a simple but virtuous bumpkin.

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Dion Dion is the other courtier Leontes sends to consult the Oracle at Delphi regarding Hermione’s marital fidelity.

Paulina’s guidance. Leontes stays a penitent for sixteen years, until his daughter, Perdita, whom he had ordered exposed to the elements, is found.

Mamillius Dorcas Dorcas is one of the peasant girls who attends the sheep-shearing festival in act 4, scene 4.

Mamillius is Leontes’s and Hermione’s young son. He dies of grief after his father imprisons his mother for adultery.

Emilia

Mopsa

Emilia is one of Hermione’s serving women who accompanies her to jail when Leontes imprisons her.

Mopsa is a country wench who is a participant at the sheep-shearing festival.

Paulina Florizel Florizel is the son of Polixenes, king of Bohemia. He falls in love with Perdita, the daughter of Leontes and Hermione, when everyone thinks she is the Shepherd’s daughter. When Polixenes learns of their intended marriage, which Florizel has kept hidden from him, he forbids it. With the help of Camillo, Florizel and Perdita flee to Sicilia with the hope of getting married there. Florizel is upright, virtuous, and chaste. At the sheep-shearing he is called Doricles.

Hermione Hermione is Leontes’s virtuous and patient queen, nine months pregnant as the play begins. She persuades Polixenes to extend his visit to Sicilia after Polixenes refuses Leontes’s request to stay. Offended that she succeeded when he had been rebuffed, Leontes attributes her success to a sexual relationship between her and Polixenes. Jealous, he imprisons her for treason and orders her death. Their son, Mamillius, dies of grief. Leontes then orders the death of their daughter, claiming it is Polixenes’s child, not his. After sixteen years, her lady-in-waiting, Paulina, presents a statue of Hermione to the reconciled kings and their children. When she orders music to be played, Hermione’s statue moves and Hermione returns to life.

Leontes Leontes is king of Sicilia. When Polixenes, king of Bohemia, his childhood friend, declines his request to extend his visit to Sicilia but agrees to stay when Hermione presses him, Leontes becomes jealous. Believing that Hermione has been unfaithful with Polixenes, Leontes orders Camillo to poison him; after Polixenes and Camillo flee, Leontes imprisons Hermione. After his son and wife die, Leontes repents and undergoes the life of a penitent, under

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Paulina is Antigonus’s wife and Hermione’s lady-in-waiting. When Leontes falsely accuses Hermione of adultery, Paulina rebukes him for his tyrannical stupidity. After Hermione is reported dead and Leontes repents, Paulina takes on the role of his officer of penance for the sixteen years that separate the first part of the play from the last. Paulina, unbeknownst to Leontes, cares for Hermione, whom she gives out as dead for the sixteen years that Perdita is missing. It is Paulina who returns Hermione to Leontes after Perdita is found, when she presents her as a statue that comes to life. The suggestion clings to Paulina that she has supernatural skills.

Perdita Perdita is the daughter of Hermione and Leontes, whom Leontes believes is Polixenes’s issue and orders exposed to die. She is beautiful, virtuous, and graceful. Antigonus leaves her on the seacoast of Bohemia where the Shepherd finds her and raises her as his own child. Her name means the lost one, and she is the subject of the Delphic oracle’s prophecy. Until she is found, Leontes will live without an heir. Florizel, the prince of Bohemia, falls in love with her and keeps his love secret from his father. When Polixenes attends the sheep shearing festival in disguise in order to spy on his secretive son, and learns of his son’s love, Polixenes refuses to allow their marriage.

Polixenes Polixenes is the king of Bohemia. He is Leontes’s childhood friend. Leontes becomes jealous of him after Polixenes refuses to extend his visit to Sicilia at Leontes’s request but accedes to Hermione’s request. With Camillo’s help, he escapes from Sicilia. Sixteen years later, in Bohemia, he refuses to grant Camillo permission to return to Sicilia

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THEMES Art and Nature

Illustration of Perdita, by H J Ford (Ó Blue Lantern Studio/Corbis)

and involves him in a plot to discover what his son Florizel, who has been absent from the court, is doing. When Polixenes learns of Florizel’s intended marriage to Perdita, thought to be a shepherd’s daughter, he forbids it. After Florizel and Perdita flee to Sicilia, he follows them, is given evidence of Perdita’s actual identity, and his friendship with Leontes is restored.

Shepherd The Shepherd finds the crib containing the infant Perdita, gold, and several tokens of her identity on the seacoast of Bohemia after Antigonus has abandoned her. He raises her as his own daughter.

Time Time is introduced in the first scene of the fourth act as a choral character who bridges the sixteen years that pass between the end of act 3 and the beginning of act 4.


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Nature and art are shown to be in a complex, interdependent relationship to each other in The Winter’s Tale. Nature, although generative and creative, is guided by the intervention of human activity, but nature guides the actions which guide it. Active human intervention, or art which shapes nature, is itself a part of and a process of nature. This paradox is at the root of the argument between Perdita and Polixenes in act 4, scene 4 regarding what kinds of flowers to plant in her garden. Perdita thinks of nature as a force which proceeds on its own without human intervention: flowers grow. Polixenes represents it as a force which needs mending or human intervention for its improvement: horticulturists graft varieties of flowers together to produce a finer flower. When Perdita recoils from such tampering with nature, Polixenes explains that nature itself provides the means to allow that tampering: art is the expression of a natural process at work in people. Whereas the horticulturist’s art may be deliberate, not all art—or intervention—in The Winter’s Tale, is deliberate. The plot is pushed forward by a number of actions which are not intended to push it towards the conclusion it reaches; nevertheless these actions do move the plot towards the conclusion. That is nature guiding art. The final interaction of art and nature, when the statue of Hermione metamorphoses into the person of Hermione, is a representation of an art so strong that it transforms itself into something essentially human: we are an incomprehensible and inextricably joined union of art and nature.

Innocence and Guilt As Leontes begins to weave fantasies of betrayal and infidelity, Hermione and Polixenes, after she asks him to tell her of his and Leontes’s boyhoods, are discussing innocence and guilt. Polixenes suggests that there is a pre-sexually aware state of boyhood, which he calls a state of innocence. That state allows for a careless exchange of friendship. But with adolescence, Polixenes says, he and Leontes came to know ‘‘the doctrine of ill-doing,’’ suggesting that they became vulnerable to the original sin of sexual lustfulness. Lust is a form of selfishness which raises self-interest over common interest and cooperation. When the old Shepherd enters at the end of the third act, he speaks of the unruly

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sexual acts of adolescents and wishes they could be by-passed. He refers to two boys, although only one ever appears, who have lost two of his sheep. But what the Shepherd is introducing is the paradoxical concept of a sort of innocent guiltiness, of a natural wildness that is not guilty, for the Clown when he appears is not an emblem of guilt, but of simplicity. This sort of natural innocence is carried over in the characters of Perdita and Florizel, and their love, which is intensely passionate yet chaste. They do not live in the fallen world of the court, like Leontes, who goes from guilt to penance, but in the green world of nature, where even a scamp like Autolycus, thief and mischief maker that he is, represents a wild, unrestrained innocence, a self untrammeled, rather than an adult-sized evil.

Jealousy Jealousy is the motive force, the engine of the plot in both the first and second parts of The Winter’s Tale. It is more openly expressed and apparent in the first section. Leontes becomes jealous of Polixenes, thinking he has taken Hermione from him and had sexual relations with her. With its sexual component bracketed off, jealousy can be seen as a variety of selfishness. It is a lust to have, to keep for oneself. In the first conversation in the second part of The Winter’s Tale, in the dialogue between Camillo and Polixenes, Camillo requests his (Polixenes’s) permission to return to Sicilia. Polixenes refuses, arguing how much he needs Camillo, reminding the reader of Leontes’s previous refusal to allow Polixenes to return to Bohemia. Polixenes shows a kind of jealousy of Leontes in this case. When Camillo acquiesces, Polixenes’s next order of business introduces another form of jealousy. It is a jealousy of his son, Florizel. Florizel has grown distant from his father. He has turned his affections, which Polixenes had described to Leontes in the first act with great fatherly pride, away from his father and redirected them towards Perdita.

The Triumph of Time Pandosto, the source for The Winter’s Tale, is subtitled The Triumph of Time. In The Winter’s Tale, time is a process which works to restore unsettled balances and is, thus, a central theme in the play. The importance of time is suggested by the appearance of Time itself as a character in the play. Time appears as the Chorus in The

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Read ‘‘The Tale of Ill-advised Curiosity (Chapters 33, 34, and 35 of Miguel de Cervantes’s novel Don Quixote). Compare and contrast it to The Winter’s Tale.

Recount in detail a situation in which you became mistakenly jealous or became the victim of someone else’s mistaken jealousy and the consequences of this mistake. Include the things which contributed to the jealousy, considering external events and internal psychological forces. Similarly, when describing the effects, pay attention to psychological responses as well as external occurrences. Read Leo Tolstoy’s short story, ‘‘God Sees the Truth, but Waits,’’ (1872). Compare and contrast it to The Winter’s Tale. After reading Shakespeare’s As You Like It, compare and contrast the situations and the characters of Perdita and Rosalind.

Read Shakespeare’s play, Othello, and write an essay of a thousand words. In this essay, compare and contrast Othello and Leontes, and Desdemona and Hermione. Then imagine and describe how each set of characters would react if placed in the other’s situation.

Winter’s Tale. Time bridges the sixteen year gap between the two sections of the play and speaks directly to the audience. Time also implies patience. After he realizes the evil of his actions, Leontes repents, but repentance does not yield immediate results. It requires patience, especially in light of the oracle, which does promise restoration to Leontes if his daughter is found. And that takes time. Hermione, too, must bear the passage of time patiently as she waits, sequestered by Paulina, for the oracle to be fulfilled. The triumph of time is a function both of the passage of time and of Leontes’s and Hermione’s ability to surrender their wills to time and to wait.

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STYLE Romance The Winter’s Tale, is often called a romance. Romance refers to a kind of literary work which was popular during the Elizabethan period. It involves love between persons who are of noble birth. It mixes elements of idealized beauty and virtue with elements of ugliness and evil. Structurally, romances yoke tragedy and comedy, and conclude with the triumph of the comic. Supernatural events, and events directed by chance, determine the outcome. Romances take place in both a court and in an idealized pastoral setting. The passage of time, as in The Winter’s Tale, plays an important role in the resolution of the plot.

Narration Narrative exposition plays a significant structural role in The Winter’s Tale. The first scene presents a conversation with no dramatic significance but which serves only to convey information. Similarly, most of the second scene of the fifth act is given over to a narration, by unnamed gentlemen, of the reunion of the two kings and the rediscovery of Perdita’s identity. This encounter is not presented dramatically, although it would appear to deserve dramatic presentation because of its climactic power. Paul Goodman has suggested in The Structure of Literature, that it is presented in narrative form in order to reserve climactic privilege to the next scene, in which Hermione’s statue comes to life.

Mirroring Despite its apparent structural disunity, among the many elements which work to make The Winter’s Tale a coherent and unified entity is the way its parts mirror each other. Polixenes’s refusal to part with Camillo in act 4 mirrors Leonte’s earlier refusal to part with Polixenes in act 1. So, too, Polixenes’s tyranny towards Florizel, and especially Perdita, mirrors Leontes’s tyrannical persecution of Perdita’s mother. When Perdita condemns spotted gilyvors as ‘‘nature’s bastards’’ she echoes Leontes’s rejection of her as Polixenes’s bastard. The process of grafting, which she debates with Polixenes, whereby plants of different varieties are united to form a new flower, mirrors the romance between her and Florizel. They are of differing classes. Although Polixenes favors grafting in the realms of horticulture, he opposes it in the human sphere. When Hermione re-appears as


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a statue, that statue is a mirror image of her, and when that statue moves and Hermione returns to the realm of the living, it is as if through the power that art has to mirror nature that she has stepped back into the world through the looking glass.

Sudden Change Sudden change is a repeated element in The Winter’s Tale and seems to suggest the power of a force which helps to determine the shape of lives and destinies. Leontes’s jealousy is sudden. It seems to come upon him independently of himself. His repentance of his folly after he defies the oracle is just as sudden. But that seems to be an act of true recognition on his part. Hermione’s death is sudden. That seems like a natural response to a blow of fortune, but later appears also as a dramatic trick of art. The news of Mamillius’s death is also sudden. But his death appears like the natural result of the grief he suffers when the order of his family breaks down and he loses his mother. The shift from the events of the first part of the play to the second is sudden. Polixenes’s revelation of himself at the sheep-shearing is sudden for the lovers, however the audience is aware of his disguise. Camillo’s and Polixenes’s departure from Sicilia in the first act seems sudden to Leontes, and it is, but the audience understands its necessity, as the king does not. Florizel and Perdita’s flight from Bohemia in the fourth act is a sudden departure that mirrors Camillo’s and Polixenes’s sudden departure earlier in the play. The Shepherd and the Clown experience a sudden change of fortune twice. And Hermione’s transformation is a sudden return of life from the realm of death. All these examples of sudden change contrast with the unrushed pace of time, inside which they occur.

Sheep Imagery Images of sheep and shepherding are pervasive throughout The Winter’s Tale, beginning with Polixenes’s reference to ‘‘the shepherd’s note’’ in the second line of act 1, scene 2, to indicate awareness of the passage of time. Sixty-five lines later, describing to Hermione what his youthful friendship with Leontes was like, Polixenes compares them to ‘‘twinned lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun, / And bleat the one at th’ other.’’ In the third scene of act 3, at line 58, the turning point of the play, a Shepherd enters, complaining about two young men, one of them his son, who ‘‘have scared away two of my best sheep.’’ The

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Shepherd fears ‘‘the wolf will sooner find [them] than the master.’’ This line causes a resonance for the reader or spectator with the past story of the ‘‘twinned lambs,’’ Leontes and Polixenes, who have strayed away from the shepherd into the wolf’s den. The great pastoral scene of the play, scene 4, of act 4, takes place at a sheepshearing festival where all the characters are being shepherded, although they do not know it, to safety. Autolycus is present to provide a parodic fleecing of the host and the guests, and is fleeced himself when he and Florizel exchange garments under the shepherdly care of Camillo, who has compared himself to a sheep when he tells Perdita at line 109, ‘‘I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, / And only live by gazing.’’

Flower Imagery After the winter—like contractions of the first part of the play, the second half bursts out in act 4, scene 3 with a jolly song whose first words celebrate how daffodils ‘‘begin to peer.’’ And from then on, there is a great deal of flower imagery, suggesting the rich vibrancy of nature and the matter that artists can use imaginatively in the creation of art. Florizel, the prince, whose name suggests flowers, characterizes Perdita as the goddess of flowers. Throughout the scene, she frequently refers to flowers, distributes flowers, refers to the resemblance between the seasons in which certain flowers grow and humans grow old. She discusses the ways to grow flowers, approving of the natural ways and disdaining artifice. She is also compared to Persephone gathering flowers, before Hades ravished her and took her to the underworld. Since Perdita’s absence in Sicilia is the cause of the long winter there, the comparison is particularly apt. Flowers are used to represent seasons of time, aspects of humanity, ways of thinking about class relationships, and the relationship between art and nature.

Manipulating Awareness In The Winter’s Tale, for dramatic purposes, Shakespeare manipulates the awareness of the audience as well as the awareness of the characters in the play. Leontes is deceived about Hermione and Polixenes when he becomes jealous because of an error in perception. Shakespeare deliberately causes the audience to have a mistaken perception about Hermione’s death. Perdita, Florizel and Camillo are not aware who Perdita really is, nor are the Shepherd and the Clown, even though they know she is not whom

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everyone else thinks she is. Perdita and Florizel are not aware that two of their guests at the sheep-shearing festival are the king and Camillo. The audience is aware of Perdita’s true identity and of Polixenes’s and Camillo’s, but the audience is not aware, as Leontes is not aware, that Hermione is not truly dead.

HISTORICAL CONTEXT Bear Baiting While Shakespeare’s famous stage direction, ‘‘Exit, pursued by a bear,’’ recapitulates the very words of an image from King Lear, act 3, scene 4, 9–11, in which Lear says to Kent, ‘‘Thoud’st shun a bear; / But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, / Thoud’st meet the bear i’ th’ mouth.’’ The presence of the bear at line 58 of act 3, scene 3 in The Winter’s Tale also reflects the Elizabethan and Jacobean fancy for bear baiting, a gruesome blood sport much favored by Queen Elizabeth herself. A bear was chained to a stake in a pit, above which spectators were seated on grandstands, and dogs were released in the bear pit. The dogs attacked the bear and the ones that survived were the ones able to leap out of the bear’s range, limited by the length of the bear’s chain. The spectators, who reportedly enjoyed the sport immensely and laughed to see it, bet on whether the bear or the dogs would survive the contest. Bear baiting was not banned in England until the nineteenth century.

Outdoor and Indoor Theaters The Winter’s Tale was performed at both the Globe Theater, where Simon Forman saw it, and at the Blackfriars Theater. The Globe was an outdoor theater modeled on the playing spaces set up at inn yards. Performances were lighted by daylight, and the audience was composed of people from all strata of society. The ‘‘penny–public’’ stood while the wealthier might sit in boxes. The stage was an apron that stuck out into the crowd. Spectators could surround it on three sides (as opposed to the more modern proscenium, which can only be viewed from one side). The Blackfriars was an indoor theater owned by Shakespeare’s company. The Winter’s Tale was performed there, too. Indoor playhouses required artificial lighting, lanterns, and consequently, allowed more opportunity for

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Today: Whereas most theaters are indoor theaters, especially in the summertime, outdoor theaters, especially outdoor theaters dedicated to presenting Shakespeare’s plays—and which are modeled to a greater or lesser degree on the Globe—flourish. Electric lighting allows nighttime performances at outdoor theaters. Going to the theater, however, has become far more expensive than it was in Shakespeare’s times and people go to the movies and watch cable television for popular entertainment instead.

1600s: Londoners enjoy watching bear baiting spectacles and laugh at the sight of animals attacking and killing each other.

Today: Bear baiting is banned, but secret gatherings of dog fighting and cock fighting still take place. Boxing is also considered by a majority of people to be an acceptable sport despite the number of injuries boxers sustain, as well as the occasional death that occurs. People also find the excitement of seeing others risk injury and death in events like racing cars, racing motorcycles, or other extreme sports competitions. 1600s: Plays are performed in outdoor theaters like the Globe Theater, which is the home theater of Shakespeare’s acting company, the King’s Men. It is modeled on the performing space established at inn yards, where platforms are set up and spectators surround an apron stage on three sides. In theaters like the Globe, members of the various social classes mingle. Poor folk, the penny public, stand. Those who can afford them have seats to sit on. Indoor theaters are frequented by those who can pay to go to them. Rather than relying on daylight for illumination, as the outdoor venues do, they require artificial lighting. The Winter’s Tale is performed at both the Globe Theater and the indoor Blackfriars Theater.

theatrically shaping the performance environment than did outdoor spaces. During Shakespeare’s time, the apron stage was also the stage of the indoor theater. The proscenium stage was introduced in the 1660s after the fall of the Commonwealth and the beginning of the restoration of the monarchy. Because of a more costly admission price, the audiences at indoor theaters were more select and restricted than the ones which gathered outdoors.


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1600s: Scripts are written for the theater in order to be performed. Whereas some scripts are printed, published and sold, that is of secondary concern. In consequence, many scripts have been lost and many of those which have survived are quite imperfect. Today: Scripts written for radio, television, and even the movies are usually regarded as written for performance and are not printed. Some film scripts are published, but those tend to be regarded as having artistic merit in and of themselves. The advent of digital technology, however, has replaced publication. Popular television programs do not vanish after broadcast because they exist on video tape and DVD transfers.

CRITICAL OVERVIEW In his overview of the critical response historically to The Winter’s Tale, in the Arden edition of the play, J. H. P. Pafford cites early rejections. John Dryden wrote, in 1672, in the essay, ‘‘Defense of the Epilogue,’’ that The Winter’s Tale was ‘‘made up of some ridiculous and incoherent story,’’ that it was ‘‘either grounded on impossibilities, or at least so meanly written, that the comedy neither

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caused your mirth, nor the serious part your concernment.’’ In 1753, Charlotte Lennox wrote in Shakespeare Illustrated that ‘‘the paltry Story on which it is founded . . . [is] much less absurd and ridiculous.’’ William Warburton, in a letter to David Garrick, congratulating him on his adaptation of the play, called The Winter’s Tale ‘‘a monstrous composition.’’ By the time Coleridge wrote about it in 1813, critics’ perceptions of The Winter’s Tale had undergone a sea change. Coleridge admired Shakespeare’s presentation of jealousy ‘‘as a vice of the mind,’’ and the psychological penetration that allowed Shakespeare to have Leontes express his jealousy through ‘‘a soliloquy in the mask of dialogue.’’ In 1817, despite his faulting Shakespeare for such ‘‘slips or blemishes’’ as introducing the figure of Time to bridge a sixteen year gap, or having Antigonus land on the seacoast of Bohemia—in actuality, land-locked Bohemia has no seacoast—William Hazlitt praised Shakespeare for the depth and truthfulness of his characters and for how suitable for acting the play is. This is a rare tribute among nineteenth century critics in their consideration of the stageworthiness of Shakespeare’s plays. The plays were generally considered better for reading than for seeing. In 1832, Anna Brownell Jameson, in Characteristics of Women, praised Shakespeare’s ability to embody psychological characteristics in human form in her perceptive analysis of Hermione: The character of Hermione exhibits . . . dignity without pride, love without passion, and tenderness without weakness . . . . [T]o delineate such a character in the poetical form, to develop it through the medium of action and dialogue, without the aid of description to preserve its tranquil, mild and serious beauty, its unimpassioned dignity, and at the same time keep the strongest hold upon our sympathy and our imagination and out of this exterior calm, produce the most profound pathos, the most vivid impression of life and internal power: it is this which renders the character of Hermione one of Shakespeare’s masterpieces.

By the end of the nineteenth century, Earnest Dowden’s view that The Winter’s Tale is a great and serene work of Shakespeare’s mellow last years had become the dominant view of the play, even after it was attacked in 1904 by Lytton Strachey. While twentieth-century critics rejected the sentimental subjectivity in Dowden’s account, or in A. C. Swinburne’s similarly tender-hearted reading, neither did they accept Strachey’s condemnation of the play, as Pafford summarizes it,

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as the grotesque and ugly work of a Shakespeare who had become bored with his art. Twentieth century critics have generally endorsed F. R. Leavis’s judgment, passed in his essay written in 1952, ‘‘The Criticism of Shakespeare’s Late Plays,’’ that The Winter’s Tale is a masterpiece and have attended to varying forms of close analysis offering Christian and secular readings of the play founded on analyses of structure, imagery, verse patterns and language, or character. Roy Battenhouse, for example, in his introduction to a selection of essays on The Winter’s Tale in Shakespeare’s Christian Dimension observes the parodic reflection of Leontes in Autolycus. Just as Leontes called out for help from Hermione, who in stooping to help him got robbed by him of her purse (her good name and her baby), so Autolycus robs the naı¨ ve shepherd. Autolycus goes on to parallel Leontes in many more ways—for instance, by peddling his trumperies to gullible ears as Leontes peddles to courtiers his trumped up nothings, and by singing of tumbling with doxies like a Leontes fantasizing about a ‘‘hobbyhorse’’ wife.

By the end of the twentieth century and at the beginning of the twenty first century, The Winter’s Tale has established its place among Shakespeare’s masterpieces. In pursuit of discovering greater keys to its unity and its complex meanings, its details are being considered, whether through the study of the varied use of the word ‘‘bear,’’ as in Maurice Hunt’s essay, ‘‘Bearing Hence,’’ or by suggesting new emendations of puzzling lines in the First Folio as in Susan Bruce’s reading of the ‘‘Final Exchange’’ between Leontes and Mamillius, or in Martine Van Elk’s study of the models of courtly speech designed for women in the Renaissance, or Mark Fortier’s study of infanticide in early seventeenthcentury England.

CRITICISM Allan Bloom In the excerpt below, Bloom analyzes how the friendship between Leontes and Polixenes is torn apart by the former’s jealousy of the frienship between Polixenes and Hermione, Leontes’s wife. Only the death of his beloved son extinguishes the jealousy that consumes Leontes, but by then the royal household has been devastated—a devastation

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that can only be overcome, contends Bloom, by the healing power of nature. The Winter’s Tale takes place in Sicily and Bohemia at an uncertain date, and its characters seem to partake in equal measure of the religion and life of old Greece and Rome and of Christianity. It begins with the celebration of a classical-style friendship between two kings, Leontes and Polixenes, who have known each other from childhood and have a perfect harmony in their reciprocal admiration of each other’s virtues. This very short beginning conveys the joy of confidence and trust combined with the enthusiasm of friendship. Human association for these two men is natural and a peak of pleasure. They do not use or need each other, at least not in any narrow sense. They understand each other, share views, and simply want to be together, although their kingly responsibilities keep them separate most of the time. This glimpse of perfect friendship in action is immediately disturbed by an inexplicable and unmotivated storm of jealousy that destroys the atmosphere of trust and the friendship. Jealousy means doubt about the sexual fidelity of one to whom a person is attached. Leontes suddenly comes to believe that his friend and his wife have had illicit relations. Leontes is both friend and husband, but there has never before been any tension between the two kinds of attachment. His wife, Hermione, seems to be just like him and to have adopted his friend as her friend. The openness and lack of reserve characteristic of friendship are not usual between a married woman and a man not her husband. But their friendship is apparently part of the old friendship between her husband and his friend. The sudden explosion of angry jealousy brings to light a problem about a married woman’s blameless friendship with a man. The suspicions aroused make it impossible to have that confidence required for men and women to be together without tincture of erotic involvement. Moreover their new condition of marriage also raises doubts about the possibility of friendship between married men. The arousal of jealousy, which is so sudden and seems such a mystery, needs interpretation. Leontes’ jealousy is unlike that experienced by Troilus, whose beloved is guilty, and is akin to that of Othello, whose beloved is not guilty. Leontes’ case, however, is much more extreme than that of Othello, who must be seduced into


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AND THEN IT HAPPENS. SUDDENLY LEONTES LIVES IN A WORLD OF TEMPTATIONS AND BETRAYAL. EVERY DEED AND GESTURE HAS AN EXPLICIT SEXUAL MEANING. LUST IS EVERYWHERE, AND IT CANNOT BE CONTROLLED BY THE RULES OF MORALITY.’’

his passion by a subtle devil. Leontes’ whole vision of the world changes in an instant and without provocation. Shakespeare usually treats this kind of terrible passion as a mistake on the part of the man. Cymbeline gives us another such case. What is so unusual about Leontes in this play is the speed of his change from trust to certitude of disloyalty. As soon as this takes place, the old world of friendship disappear. There is reconciliation and a happy ending, but it does not restore the old world, and it gives a definite primacy to marriage over friendship. Shakespeare seems preoccupied with the distrust in men about the genuineness of women’s attachment and what it leads to. Shakespeare is fully aware of the difficulty of real unity between human beings, even, or especially, in love matters. But it is indicative of his temper that he concentrates so much on the unfoundedness of such suspicion, and hence affirms the possibility of unconstrained connectedness. This inexplicable transformation is almost miraculous since one cannot treat Leontes as a sickly, weak soul, prone to suspicions. In Shakespeare one can almost always get guidance as to the character of a man by the kind of friends he has and how they behave with him. Not only is Leontes’ wife a most remarkable woman, with whom he seems to have had up to now a free and open relationship, unstained by doubts, but he has also evidently been faithful and irreproachable in friendship. There are no villains in Leontes’ entourage. On the contrary, they are all honest and forthright persons who serve loyally because of the character of the man they serve and are used to speaking with him on a level of frank equality. He has no flatterers, which makes it all the more difficult for him to follow the logic of his jealousy, because no one supports him in it. I can clarify the problem of his jealousy only by what

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A Chapel in Paulina’s House, Act V, scene iii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

immediately precedes it (I.ii 1–108). Leontes has failed to persuade Polixenes to prolong his stay with them in Sicily. He turns the task of persuasion over to Hermione, who succeeds. After she had done so, she starts asking questions about what the two friends were like when they were young. Polixenes tells her of their perfect joy in each other’s company, which was most characterized by innocence. Polixenes makes it clear that he means by innocence sexual innocence and refers, pagan though he is, to the doctrine of original sin. Prior to sexual development they could have answered to heaven, except for the guilt associated with that sin that all men inherit, the Fall. Hermione slyly picks up on this and suggests that he, and perhaps her husband too, have ‘‘tripp’d since’’ that time of innocence. Polixenes rather ambiguously replies that there have been temptations since ‘‘the stronger blood’’ was born in them. She playfully returns to the assault and says that Polixenes’ wife and she will answer for any sins connected with them. She refers to their married sexual relations here as sins, but affirms that there

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will be no punishment for them if there were no other sins committed with others. The formulation of her statement (‘‘that you slipp’d not / With any but with us’’) could be interpreted to mean that it would be all right for Polixenes to have had sexual relations with her, although this is clearly not her intention. But she is playing around with an erotic theme, the difficulty of taming men’s desires. It is not certain that Leontes hears these remarks. He has evidently been walking at some distance in order to allow his wife to persuade Polixenes to stay. He enters the conversation again at the end of this colloquy. When Hermione tells him that Polixenes will stay, he responds that she has never spoken to better purpose. She then plays a coquettish game with him, asking, ‘‘Never?’’ She talks about the nature of women and how they may be ridden more effectively with soft kisses than with spurs. She insists that he repeat what she said at the end of his long and hard courtship, ‘‘I am yours for ever.’’ She thus links her persuasion of Polixenes to her giving herself to Leontes. Her first good speech

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‘‘earn’d a royal husband,’’ the second, a friend. With that, she grasps Polixenes’ hand. And then it happens. Suddenly Leontes lives in a world of temptations and betrayal. Every deed and gesture has an explicit sexual meaning. Lust is everywhere, and it cannot be controlled by the rules of morality. The doubts about sexual attraction, which are always legitimate because thought and the movements of the sexual organs are not simply subject to will, become certitudes, and the whole world must be corrected. The first thoughts are about the legitimacy of one’s children, then the ridicule attracted by a cuckold, a ridicule earned by the prejudice that a real man must be attractive to his wife always and exclusive of all others. Then there are thoughts of revenge, dignified as claims of simple justice. There is the fear that the whole world gives witness to the adultery, but there is also the certainty that those who do not see what he sees must be guilty of blindness and faithlessness. Everything is in the belief of the king, and all the subjects must support the king’s belief or be subjected to the most terrible punishments. What we see is sexual doubt turning gentle and legitimate kingship into a tyranny that resembles the demands of a jealous god, rather than those of natural human attachment. As is always the case with love suspected of betrayal, the principle of noncontradiction is called into question. The belief that something can come from nothing seems to be required. Othello suffers this delusion, as does Troilus. Nothing else can account for such transformations from virtue to sin. Reason no longer rules the world; tyranny is the only way to forestall chaos. There is no solid center, opposites ‘‘co-act,’’ and saint and sinner emerge from the same source. These are the mad affections of the man whose life is founded upon the necessity of another person’s being always attracted to him. The jealousy of Leontes follows its course. He orders his minister Camillo to poison Polixenes. Camillo suffers the conflict of the man who owes loyalty to a tyrant and is commanded to do something immoral. He leaves Leontes to follow Polixenes. When Leontes’ tyrannical passion is deprived of the satisfaction of killing Polixenes, it turns on Hermione, whom he imprisons, and then on the daughter born to Hermione in prison, whom he orders to be abandoned to the elements in a remote spot outside his kingdom. He stages an inquisition


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accusing Hermione not only of adultery, but of conspiracy with Polixenes and Camillo to overthrow him. She has only her own testimony to defend herself against unfeeling and unhearing tyranny. Her sole supporter is the fierce Paulina, who will be her apostle and avenging spirit. Suspicions and unknowable intentions are more important than any deeds. A premise that all human beings, and especially women, are hot and unreliable has been established. This awareness makes trust impossible for those who care. Trials and prisons are the only remedy. Sexual desire, like heresy, an unknowable disposition of the mind, becomes the central object of justice. When, in the midst of Hermione’s trial, Leontes’ ambassadors interrupt the proceedings to announce that the Delphic oracle proclaims her chaste and everyone else innocent, he simply dismisses the news. He has a new source of certitude that replaces his belief in the Delphic god. Immediately he is punished by the announcement of the death of his young prince, Mamillius, the only one of whom he is sure. Hermione faints. The death of the innocent boy causes the extinction of the tyrant’s jealousy as quickly as it came into being. But it is too late. Hermione also dies, and the baby daughter, abandoned at his command, is lost. Now the atmosphere of Sicily is guild and repentance, and Paulina becomes the minister of a cult devoted to the dead queen and her son. Leontes’ tears at their chapel will be his recreation and his exercise. Antigonus, charged by Leontes to get rid of the baby, deposited her on the Bohemian coast, and was himself immediately eaten by a bear. But here in Bohemia in a rustic setting that defies time and the distinctions between ancients and moderns, Shakespeare prepares the healing of the Sicilian wounds with the salubrious aid of nature. The characters here are beyond or beneath the changes of regimes and religions, and the necessary customs of the courts that differentiate them. We have a shepherd and his clownish son and a singing thief who has the same name and habits as Odysseus’ grandfather. Here, innocence and the spirit of comedy provide the seedbed for an overcoming of the tragic darkness of both the Sicilian and the Bohemian courts. Source: Allan Bloom, ‘‘The Winter’s Tale,’’ in Shakespeare on Love and Friendship, University of Chicago Press, 2000, pp. 109–13.

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Silas Marner was published in 1861 by George Eliot. This short novel follows many conventions of the romance: its two sections are divided by a gap of some dozen years, the setting is pastoral, forces of good win out over forces of evil and chaos, and a beautiful, virtuous maiden’s marriage to her handsome young, virtuous suitor ensures the other aspects of the happy ending.

Othello is one of Shakespeare’s great tragedies. Like Othello, The Winter’s Tale is the story of a man destroyed by jealousy. Unlike Othello, The Winter’s Tale does not make that jealousy the result of a scheming malignant person, and The Winter’s Tale presents natural and supernatural interventions that turn tragic loss into melancholy joy. Pericles is the penultimate play Shakespeare wrote before The Winter’s Tale. It is not the masterpiece that The Winter’s Tale is, nor is it thought to have been entirely written by Shakespeare. However, the two works do share certain elements, such as a lost and recovered daughter and a father set adrift in his own despair over a span of years. The Ballad of Jack and Rose (2005) is a film about a father and his daughter who live in a rural setting in which both have a special and intimate relationship with nature and flowers. Through magical naturalism, Rose finds her way into the greater world and Jack finds peace within his own idealism. The film was written and directed by Rebecca Miller, the daughter of Arthur

Myles Hurd In this essay, Hurd assesses Paulina’s pivotal role in The Winter’s Tale. In participating in the play’s action and commenting on major events, Paulina helps to shape the audience’s response to other characters and to important scenes in the play, Hurd argues. Hurd observes Paulina’s association

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Miller, the American playwright, and the photographer, Inge Morath.

Charles Chaplin’s classic City Lights (1931) is a film about a blind flower girl and the Little Man, who secretly helps her regain her sight through his own dedication and suffering. He is rewarded by her final sublime recognition of his humanity and her debt.

‘‘The Tale of Ill-advised Curiosity,’’ (Chapters 33, 34, and 35 of Miguel de Cervantes’s novel Don Quixote, 1605), is the story of two good friends. After Anselmo marries Camilla, he persuades his virtuous friend Lothario to attempt to seduce her in order to confirm Anselmo’s faith that she will not yield and is firm in her love and fidelity. Of course, he is looking for trouble, and he finds it.

The essay, ‘‘Of Friendship,’’ (c.1572) from Book, I, Chapter 28, of Michele de Montaigne’s Essays is a graceful discussion of the nature and refinements of friendship. Montaigne defines friendship as a relation in which ‘‘each . . . seek[s] above all things to benefit the other,’’ and that the one who needs something of his friend is the true giver by giving his friend the opportunity to give to him.

The Story of Pygmalion and Galetea, in Book 10 of Metamorphosis, by the Roman poet Ovid, 43 B . C . E .–17 C . E ., is the story of a sculptor who falls in love with a statue he sculpts and causes it to live.

with the stock comic character of the shrew, but maintains that Paulina nevertheless remains a credible character. Although an abundance of scholarly commentary on The Winter’s Tale focuses on characterization, the significance of Shakespeare’s inclusion of Paulina in the drama has elicited

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PAULINA AND LEONTES APPROXIMATE THE ROLES OF STOCK CHARACTERS IN A FAMILIAR SETTING—THAT OF THE HENPECKED HUSBAND WHO MUST ENDURE HIS WIFE’S SEEMINGLY ENDLESS BERATINGS.’’

surprisingly little critical response. Her role, however, is crucially important. Her powerful speeches and prominence on stage remind us that she actually ‘‘carries a great deal of the action of the play on her shoulders and directs its course.’’ A participant in the action as well as a shrewd commentator on major events in the plot, she helps control our responses to other characters and key scenes. In this respect, she functions theatrically as an internal stage director, whose presence sets up scenes of dramatic intensity. Moreover, in this play, which emphasizes the ‘‘divisions created in love and friendship by the passage of time and by the action of ‘blood,’ and the healing of these divisions through penitence and renewed personal devotion,’’ Paulina, the ‘‘voice of moral justice,’’ stands out as an admirable agent of reconciliations. Because Shakespeare offers us through her characterization an important perspective through which we gain major insights into the play, one profitable way of teaching first-year college students to appreciate his craftsmanship is by pointing out the centrality of her role. At the conclusion of their study of The Winter’s Tale these students should recognize that Shakespeare uses Paulina to his full advantage in terms of stagecraft without sacrificing any of her credibility as a character. In addition, they should see that Paulina is the character who, even more than the oracle, makes things work in this play. Paulina makes her initial appearance in Act II, Scene ii. In this scene she visits the jail where Leontes, the king, has banished Hermione, his wife. Paulina speaks with one of the ladies-inwaiting after the Jailer denies her permission to talk with the Queen. The Jailer’s acknowledgement that he knows Paulina to be a ‘‘worthy lady / And one whom I much honor’’ (II.ii.5–6) [The


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Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1974)] is noteworthy because it establishes a bond of trust between her and the reader. The Jailer’s recognition of her worthiness encourages us to accept her statements as truthful judgements on others. She becomes our ‘‘inside man’’ in the drama, a raisonneur whose opinions we learn to hold highly. Yet, in this scene what she says is just as important as what others say about her. In telling Emilia that she plans to assume the role of Hermione’s ‘‘advocate to th’ loud’st’’ (II.ii.38), Paulina senses the dangerous repercussions of Leontes’ extreme jealousy; she vows to wield her tongue as a powerful instrument to make him aware of his unsupportable assertions: I dare be sworn. These dangerous, unsafe lunes i’ th’ King, beshrew them! He must be told on’t, and he shall; the office Becomes a woman best. I’ll take’t upon me. If I prove honey-mouthed, let my tongue blister, And never to my red-looked anger be The trumpet any more. (II.ii.28–34) Even though the Lord, Camillo, and Antigonus had attempted unsuccessfully to deter Leontes from his dangerous course of action in Act I, we feel that Paulina’s efforts will be triumphant, especially if she does in fact ‘‘use that tongue [she has]’’ (II.ii.51). That she is a skilled disputant is knowledge we learn from the last few lines in the scene, in which she convinces the Jailer that no harm will come to him if he releases Hermione’s newborn daughter to her charge. She makes us eager to gauge the effectiveness of a woman’s tactics to restore order in a chaotic man’s world of power and authority. Students should note that in this brief scene Paulina’s speeches set up an obligatory confrontation with Leontes. Because he has declared the baby the illegitimate child of Polixenes, we are also eager to see what his reaction will be when he examines his daughter for the first time, and we want to find out what punishment he will inflict on Paulina for her good-natured meddlesomeness. When Paulina finally does confront Leontes in Act II, Scene iii, she does so after breaking past the Lord and Antigonus in a spirit of militant defiance. Significantly, she tells the Servant that she offers ‘‘words as medicinal as true’’ (II.iii.36) to cure Leontes of his insomnia and

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to shield Leontes from unpardonable condemnation. Shakespeare must have realized at this stage of composing the play that unless he could mitigate his audience’s dislike for the king, Leontes’ emergence as a changed figure at the conclusion of the work would impress us as being unearned. The playwright’s problem lay in finding a way to control our responses to the jealous king.

A room in Leontes’ palace, with Leontes, Antigonus, Paulina, and the infant Perdita, Act II, scene iii (Ó Shakespeare Collection, Special Collections Library, University of Michigan)

to rid him of his jealousy. Because the imagery of disease predominates throughout the first act, her statement of her mission in terms of curative powers both highlights the extremity of Leontes’ condition and signals to us that she, more than any other character, is capable of making him see the error of his ways. Leontes’ first lines upon seeing her in court indicate that he has already prepared himself for the inevitability of their meeting: Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charged thee that she should not come about me; I knew she would. (II.iii.41–43) In his ‘‘I knew she would’’ we detect an unexpected tone of ironic impatience rather than regal outrage. The subsequent remarks he addresses to Antigonus—questions concerning the secondary character’s ability to bridle his wife—also make us aware of the lightened tone. Here Paulina becomes a vehicle of comic displacement to buffer a serious and potentially violent situation. This displacement is necessary

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Through his presentation of Paulina as a benevolently officious tongue-wagging wife, Shakespeare discovered an effective way of softening our reaction to Leontes. Paulina and Leontes approximate the roles of stock characters in a familiar setting—that of the henpecked husband who must endure his wife’s seemingly endless beratings. The scene works because Shakespeare has invested virtue in a virago [shrew]. When Paulina fires off charges at the king to remind him of the damage he does in falsely accusing Hermione of infidelity, he answers not to her but to Antigonus, whom he accuses of being a weak man unable to take the head of his own household. Paulina sets her tongue loose to castigate Leontes for being an unwise, fault-finding husband; Leontes reacts by castigating Antigonus for not silencing a shrewish wife. We enjoy the scene because we ‘‘see’’ her standing in the middle of a stage and wielding power over the circle of men around her. We are confident that Paulina will outwit Leontes in their verbal battle. In addition, two things about the exchanges catch our attention: (1) the way in which Shakespeare holds a delicate balance in maintaining a serio-comical tone through his presentation of Paulina as a childish speaker of truths; and (2) the way in which she clearly dominates the scene to the extent that all of the other characters play to her strong lead. The following dialogue illustrates both of these points: Leontes: A callat of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, And now baits me! This brat is none of mine; It is the issue of Polixenes. Hence with it, and together with the dam, Commit them to the fire. Paulina: It is yours: And might we lay th’ old proverb to your charge, So like you, ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords,

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Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of’s frown, his forehead, nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles; The very mold and frame of hand, nail, finger. And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colors No yellow in’t, lest she suspect, as he does Her children not her husband’s. Leontes: A gross hag! And lozel, thou art worthy to be hanged, That wilt not stay her tongue. Antigonus: Hang all the husbands That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject. (II.iii.89–109) Paulina’s shrewdness in identifying points of similarity between Hermione’s baby and Leontes is a disarming tactic that exposes him to the ridiculousness of his jealousy and causes him to remember that at two earlier points in the drama (I.ii.22 and I.ii.208–09) he takes comfort in acknowledging Mamillius as his look-alike child. Paulina assuredly ‘‘beats’’ and ‘‘baits’’ Leontes in the above passage by out-reasoning him while taking advantage of her license as a bold, honest woman to upbraid a bristling, foolish man. Not lost in the comedy of the situation, however, is the impact of her speech. After she leaves the court, Leontes decides to abandon the child rather than have it killed; he yields to Antigonus’ intercession on the child’s behalf and informs us that Paulina has pleaded with her husband to spare the infant’s life. Throughout this scene students should have no trouble identifying Paulina with a familiar character type in fiction—the good-natured servant who oversteps her authority to restore order in her employer’s household. Students should also be aware that in this scene Shakespeare reverses the master/servant (king/subject) relationship so that Paulina ‘‘masters’’ her king by dictating to him an appropriate mode of behavior to adopt. The important point is that whether she plays the role of a shrew to Leontes’ role as a


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tyrant, or an outspoken servant opposite his role of a corrected master, she remains a completely credible character. At the beginning of Act III, Scene i, Shakespeare temporarily silences Paulina during Hermione’s trial. Along with us she hears a formal accusation against the Queen, listens to Hermione’s defense, and welcomes the oracle’s confirmations of Hermione’s innocence, the child’s parentage, Camillo’s loyalty, and Polixenes’ blamelessness. After she watches the calamitous chain of events that follow Leontes’ rejection of the oracle, she lists all the crimes that have grown out of his jealousy before she falsely reports Hermione’s death. The speech itself is filled with intensity because Paulina deliberately delays the report of this catastrophe. Moreover, the speech hints to us that throughout the remainder of the drama, Shakespeare will assign her the role of reminding Leontes of his sins until he becomes truly penitent. After he admits in this scene that he is to blame for his own remorse, she mentions the deaths of Hermione and Mamillius only seconds after promising him that she would not again burden him with painful memories. Moreover, she extracts from him a promise to visit daily the chapel where his wife and son are to be entombed. Because Shakespeare depicts Paulina as the most truthful character thus far in the play, we have no reason to doubt her when she gives an untruthful report of Hermione’s death. In this scene she tells a noble lie, and her action and motives are similar to those of the good Friar in Much Ado About Nothing. At this point in the play, students who are giving The Winter’s Tale a close reading should detect from the final exchanges between Paulina and Leontes that Shakespeare is preparing us to accept her later role as a confessor for a changed, repentant king. Although Paulina does not appear in Act IV, she is, nevertheless, linked to Perdita, whose life she had been responsible for saving. In addition, Shakespeare associates Paulina thematically with the well-known argument between Perdita and Polixenes over the extent to which man should collaborate art with nature. In the final scene of the play Paulina, in one sense, answers this question by having nature emerge out of art in her chapel. In Act V, Scene i, Paulina appears as a moral historian who, after a gap of sixteen years, still tests Leontes on the sincerity of his repentance.

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Until Florizel and Perdita appear in the court, she clearly dominates the scene. Over the objections of Dion and Cleomenes she makes Leontes promise that he will not remarry—and this despite his kingdom’s anxiety for him to beget an heir. Her justifications for exacting the promise come in a speech that reveals her special interpretation of the oracular decree: There is none worthy, Respecting her that’s gone; besides, the gods Will have fulfilled their secret purposes; For has not the divine Apollo said— Is’t not the tenor of his oracle— That King Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall, Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave, And come again to me; who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. (V.i. 34–44) Her reference to the abandoned baby prepares us for the return of Perdita to Leontes. After concluding the play we recall the speech and note that it actually points out Paulina’s unwillingness to give up all hope that the baby has survived. For Paulina, the oracular decree coincides with her own deepest desires. Hope becomes truth for Paulina in Act V, Scene ii, the scene that reconciles Leontes to his long-lost daughter. Her steward reports to us that she embraces Perdita when the young girl’s identity is confirmed. We assess her concern for Hermione’s child as a significant virtue when we acknowledge that her being told of the circumstances surrounding Antigonus’ death could easily have canceled her happiness. The steward’s recollection that Paulina had ‘‘one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled’’ (V.ii.79–81) shows us that she has the capacity for reconciling joy and sorrow in her own life—just as Shakespeare reconciles seemingly discordant elements in this tragicomedy. The final scene reveals Paulina as an agent of reconciliation in other important ways. To dismiss her cleverness in bringing the statue of Hermione to life as a cheap theatrical trick on Shakespeare’s part is to miss the significance of not only the scene itself but the play as a whole. She brings nature out of art in having the statue of Hermione move and creates life out of death in revivifying a wife, believed dead, and returning

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her to a joyful husband. Paulina’s union with Camillo at the conclusion of the play pairs two benevolent middle-aged characters who, with the passage of time, have witnessed summers of joy and winters of discontent in the lives of others. The announcement of forth-coming weddings in her chapel, a place earlier in the play associated with death, alerts us to prospects for new cycles of birth and regeneration. Her centrality in this scene in The Winter’s Tale, a play about the richness and variety of human life experiences, will cause most students to agree that she is the most admirable character in this, one of Shakespeare’s most beautiful plays. For those impercipient students who either fail to recognize its merits or find fault with its theatricality, Shakespeare provides Paulina with lines to inspire appreciation: It is required You do awake your faith. (V.iii.94–95) Once that faith is awakened, students should note that despite the presence of supernatural elements in this drama, it is Paulina who works the real magic, and she does so on a recognizable human level. Healing time does in fact triumph in this play—but not without the help of Paulina. Source: Myles Hurd, ‘‘Shakespeare’s Paulina: Characterization and Craftsmanship in ‘The Winter’s Tale,’’’ in CLA Journal, Vol. XXVI, No. 3, March, 1983, pp. 303–10.

Edward William Tayler In the following essay, Tayler contends that the symbols and patterns used in The Winter’s Tale emphasize Shakespeare’s interest in the philosophical problem of the apparent opposition between nature and art. Tayler demonstrates the way in which the movement of the play flows through cycles of ‘‘harmony and alienation,’’ and ‘‘integration and disruption.’’ As the play progresses, Tayler states, the view that nature is superior to art seems to dominate. Tayler concludes, however, that through the character of Perdita, and scenes such as Perdita’s exchange with Polixenes and the statue scene in which Hermione is ‘‘resurrected,’’ Shakespeare’s emphasis seems to be that ‘‘art itself is nature.’’ . . . [T]he ‘‘symbolic’’ pattern of The Winter’s Tale, turning on images of the seasons, of birth and death, of the sea as destroyer and savior, works together with the conceptual pattern of Nature and Art.

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THIS IS NOT ALLEGORY, OF COURSE, NOR IS THE WINTER’S TALE A COVERT RECAPITULATION OF THE FALL OF MAN.’’

The division between Nature and Art occupied Shakespeare throughout his career. It is implicit in the pastoral episodes of As You Like It, and even as early as Venus and Adonis he is toying with the conventional notion of strife between Nature and Art in painting: Look, when a painter would surpass the life In limning out a well-proportioned steed, His art with nature’s workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed. (ll. 289–92) And in reference to a painting of the siege of Troy in The Rape of Lucrece: A thousand lamentable objects there, In scorn of nature, art gave liveless life. (ll. 1373–74) The association of ‘‘art’’ with death and ‘‘nature’’ with life persists even so far as the ‘‘dead likeness’’ of Hermione in The Winter’s Tale; and the commonplace pairing of Nature and Art is alluded to in play after play, reappearing at some length in Timon of Athens, shortly before the writing of the last romances. In the opening scene that advertises the main concerns of that play, the Poet and the Painter are discussing an example of the Painter’s work, and the Poet is amiably self-important in traditional terms: I will say of it, It tutors nature. Artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than life. (I.i.36–38) Such statements are commonplace, and despite some attempt at variation the similarity of wording implies that Shakespeare produced such literary detritus from his memory on demand, without thought and without effort, as the appropriate occasion presented itself. Although Shakespeare’s use of the division in his allusions to the fine arts is entirely traditional, Nature and Art represented a vital and


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living problem for him in the ethical speculations of the last plays. In Cymbeline the beginnings of what is to be an intense preoccupation may be glimpsed in one of the major ethical contrasts of the play—between the King’s stepson, Cloten, and his real sons, Guiderius and Arviragus. Cloten is the product of the ‘‘art o’ th’ court’’ that Belarius, the guardian of the real sons, continually disparages. Guiderius and Arviragus, having been brought up in savage surroundings apart from the court, represent the triumph of Nature untutored by Art. As Belarius explains it: O thou goddess, Thou divine Nature, how thyself thou blazon’st In these two princely boys! They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet head; and yet as rough, (Their royal blood enchaf’d) as the rud’st wind That by the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th’ vale. ’Tis wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn’d, honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in them but yields a crop As if it had been sow’d. (IV.ii.169–81) The opposition between Nature and Art is not absolute for Shakespeare—he allows the Princes to express an awareness that courts may be in many respects superior to caves—but throughout the terms have been manipulated in such a way as to provide a main theme of the romance. As far as the Princes are concerned, Shakespeare agrees with Spenser and the courtesy books in making Nature more powerful than nature; and thus it is appropriate that Nature unaided by Art should figure in the reconciliation scene at the end of the play. Granted the thematic value of the terms, remarks like those of Belarius’ attain in context a force beyond that which may be assigned to a commonplace. In Cymbeline statements about Nature and Art have become part of the dramatic design, so that they function, perhaps a little creakily, as part of the plot and not merely as isolated allusions. By the time of The Tempest the process has been developed and intensified, passing from the relatively derivative use of the division to a more subtle and skillfully articulated study of the

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traditional opposition of Nature to Art. Frank Kermode’s elegant Introduction to The Tempest takes full account of Nature and Art and there is no need to rehearse his arguments here; although one may grow restive at his identification of Caliban as the central figure of the play, against which all the other characters are measured, it nevertheless seems clear that Kermode is right in contending that the ‘‘main opposition is between the worlds of Prospero’s Art, and Caliban’s Nature.’’ Hence there is little to be gained by pursuing this survey: enough has been said to establish Shakespeare’s interest, early and late, in Nature and Art and to provide a context for detailed consideration of The Winter’s Tale, the play that exploits most fully the relationship between the philosophical division and the pastoral genre. Beneath the romance trappings of The Winter’s Tale the critics have seen a pattern that, reduced to its essentials and stated in relatively neutral language, is based on cycles or alternations of harmony and alienation, of integration and disruption. Harmony, symbolized in the friendship of Leontes and Polixenes, receives initial emphasis in the first scene as Camillo remarks, perhaps a little ambiguously: ‘‘They were train’d together in their childhoods; and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now.’’ In the next scene Polixenes sounds the same note as he recalls for Hermione what it was like to be ‘‘boy eternal’’ with her husband, Leontes. We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun And bleat the one at th’ other. What we chang’d Was innocence for innocence; we knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d That any did. Had we pursu’d that life, And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven Boldly, ‘‘Not guilty,’’ the imposition clear’d Hereditary ours. (I.ii.67–75) The idea of carefree harmony and the connotations of spring and birth are in this particular passage subordinated to the theological terms. The harmony recalled by Polixenes is a vision of the integrity of man in Eden, free of the

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taint of original sin—an association reinforced by the wit of the following lines as he and Hermione joke about the boys having ‘‘first sinn’d with’’ the queens, the implication being that the innocence of former days was lost because of woman. This is not allegory, of course, nor is The Winter’s Tale a covert recapitulation of the Fall of Man. But the web of allusion in these lines provides a frame of reference within which the main events of the play can receive meaning: the speech introduces the vision of the green world, the ideal of past harmony, and associates it with birth, innocence, spring, even with the Garden of Eden. To speak technically, this is the ‘‘integrity’’ of Nature before the Fall. The vision of the Garden, however, is brief and not easily sustained. As Shakespeare’s audience was well aware, the harmony of Eden had been lost to man so that his ‘‘stronger blood’’ was no longer free of the hereditary ‘‘imposition.’’ Consequently the Elizabethan audience was better prepared than Shakespeare’s modern critics for Leontes’ sudden and unmotivated jealousy, the towering excess of passion that, appearing in the same scene with Polixenes’ speech of remembered bliss, obliterates the initial mood of harmony and introduces the chaos and death for which Leontes is finally to do penance. Leontes is a man, his Nature impaired by the Fall, so that he is non posse non peccare, not able not to err. The terrible consequences of Leontes’ passion—alienation from Polixenes and Camillo, the death of his son, the death of Antigonus, the apparent deaths of his daughter and wife—form the main burden of the play until the Chorus of Time that introduces Act IV. Meanwhile the members of Shakespeare’s audience have seen the result of an excess of passion and have been able to judge the action in the terms, moral and theological, most meaningful to them. The first phase of the cycle is complete; harmony and integration have been replaced by alienation and disruption. The pivotal point of the play lies where it should, toward the end of Act III; as in Pericles and The Tempest it involves a storm at sea, the archetypal image of birth and death. The young shepherd (the clown) witnesses the destruction of the ship and the death of Antigonus, but at the same time the old shepherd comes across the living babe whose restoration figures in the

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fulfillment of the oracle. The scene thus recalls the disruption and chaos of the earlier action and at the same time anticipates the restoration of harmony in the last act. As the old shepherd puts it, saying more than he understands: ‘‘Now bless thyself! thou met’st with things dying, I with things new-born’’ (III.iii.116–18). Act IV includes the pastoral interlude and, as we have come to expect, the main references to the controversy over Nature and Art. Florizel, the son of Polixenes, has fallen in love with the shepherdess Perdita whom we know to be the daughter of Leontes, marooned by his order during a transport of jealousy. The child has grown up without benefit of Art, and yet her demeanor, like that of the Princes in Cymbeline, reflects the irrefragable excellence of royal blood. Throughout the word ‘‘queen’’ is applied to her, for as Florizel says: Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deed, That all your acts are queens. (IV.iv.143–46) Both royal children are for the moment disguised as shepherds, the difference being that Florizel knows his true birth whereas Perdita does not. And while they masquerade as pastoral figures, Shakespeare takes care to have us associate the children with more than purity of blood. Florizel’s name—it does not appear in Shakespeare’s source—is clearly allegorical, and the association with Flora receives further emphasis in the Prince’s description of Perdita in her role as queen of the sheepshearing: These your unusual weeds to each part of you Do give a life—no shepherdess, but Flora Peering in April’s front! This your sheepshearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you the queen on’t. (IV.iv.1–5) Despite the wide difference in (apparent) birth, Shakespeare makes it clear that there is no intention of exercising droit du seigneur; Florizel’s ‘‘youth’’ and ‘‘blood’’ are as idyllic and pure as his pastoral surroundings, as Perdita herself recognizes even when his praise of her is so extravagant as to seem suspicious:


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Your praises are too large. But that your youth, And the true blood which peeps so fairly through’t, Do plainly give you out an unstain’d shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles [i.e., Florizel], You woo’d me the false way. (IV.iv.147–51) Florizel makes it explicit: my desires Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts Burn hotter than my faith. (IV.iv.33–35) In short, Shakespeare has taken care to lend Florizel and Perdita the qualities that his audience associated with pastoral figures—idyllic innocence and artless Nature. The value of Perdita’s artlessness is particularly emphasized. Her intellectual simplicity cleaves directly to the heart of a problem, a quality that leads Camillo to acknowledge that he cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach. (IV.iv.592–94) And her modest demeanor does not prevent her from making the pastoral comparison between country and court explicit in referring to Polixenes’ rage at discovering his son in love with a ‘‘shepherdess’’: I was not much afeard; for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. (IV.iv.453–57) Even this satiric cut—it is in no sense ‘‘democratic’’—is of the kind common in pastoral. So far in Shakespeare there is no more than what may be expected from the bucolic tradition: spring, youth, innocence, idyllic love, and the assumption that Nature is superior to Art. But when we have understood the exact function of the pastoral episode in relation to the play as a whole, in relation to its dramatic structure and to its underlying alternation of harmony and disintegration, we will be in a better position to see the individual uses to which Shakespeare has put the traditional materials of Nature and Art.

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Alexandra Gilbreath as Hermione and Antony Sher as Leontes in Act II, scene i at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, 1999 (Ó Donald Cooper/Photostage. Reproduced by permission)

The pastoral episode immediately precedes the last act, the time of reconciliation and reintegration. The court of Sicily—where the action of the play began—is now the scene of an elaborate series of discoveries in which poetic and other justice is rendered all around. A number of exchanges between Paulina and Leontes have assured the audience that the king is truly repentant; the theological note, sounded so persistently and quietly throughout the play, once more assumes a prominent function, as in the words of Cleomenes: Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d A saint like sorrow. No fault could you make Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass. At the last, Do as the heavens have done: forget your evil; With them, forgive yourself. (V.i.1–6) Redemption is indeed at hand.

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Florizel and Perdita, fleeing Bohemia and the anger of Polixenes, appear at the Sicilian court; and Leontes, in words that recall the pastoral interlude, welcomes the lovers as a change from the winter of his discontent: ‘‘Welcome hither / As is the spring to th’ earth’’ (V.i.151–52). The ‘‘unstain’d’’ youth of Florizel and Perdita, their ‘‘true blood,’’ symbolizes the restoration of harmony, the coming of spring to the wasteland, and the purification of the ‘‘stronger blood’’ of their fathers that is impaired by the stain of original sin. Perdita, she who was lost, is found, and discovered to be the daughter of the King; Leontes and Polixenes are once more united in friendship; the way is cleared for the young lovers; Hermione is restored to Leontes during the famous (or notorious) statue scene; and the extraordinary network of repeated words and phrases—youth and age, spring and winter, Nature and Art, birth and death, innocence and sin, Nature and Grace, blood and infection, and so on—is resolved in a series of brilliant puns, in the paradoxical wit of the last scenes. The second phase of the cycle of alienation and harmony, of disruption and reintegration, has been completed.

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Enough has been said so that the function of the pastoral scenes in this cycle of—to put it theologically—Fall and Redemption is perhaps obvious. Without these scenes the play would be structurally and symbolically defective, for they reflect, at the appropriate point in the action, the harmony with which the play began: the qualities that Leontes and Polixenes were said to have had as boys are those which Shakespeare gives in turn to Perdita and Florizel. And even the imagery of ‘‘twinn’d lambs,’’ together with the assumption of innocence unimpaired by original sin, that Shakespeare uses in describing the young princes accurately reflects pastoral conventions; Shakespeare chose appropriately if not ‘‘originally’’ in this respect. The imaginative force of the paradisiacal intimacy that once existed between Polixenes and Leontes is therefore essentially similar to the pastoral harmony that is now associated with Perdita and Florizel, and it is therefore proper that the two moments in the Garden balance each other structurally, the one preceding disruption and the other preceding integration. Moreover, the two moments serve a similar moral function in the play. In the cycle of disruption and integration the moments of childhood innocence and pastoral integrity provide the audience, in essentially similar ways, with visions of ideal order in terms of which the rest of the action may be meaningfully understood. The pastoral episode is consequently not merely a decorative interlude but the structural and symbolic prelude to the restoration of harmony in the last act. Shakespeare’s use of pastoral as the expression of an ethical ideal, of a simple world by which the more complex one might be judged, is strictly traditional, and yet it is a little more complicated than my statements so far might imply. Shakespeare’s idealization of shepherd life, for example, does not extend much beyond Perdita who is, like Pastorella in The Faerie Queene, of shepherd nurture but not of shepherd nature. And while the old shepherd, that ‘‘weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns’’ (V.ii.61–62), is allowed to display a certain amount of rude dignity, the Mopsas and Dorcases of Shakespeare’s pastoral world are bumpkins, foils for that snapper-up of unconsidered trifles, Autolycus. Perdita’s royal blood manifests itself despite her surroundings and not because of them. For Shakespeare, then, shepherds may serve as exemplars of virtue if they


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are royal shepherds, and Nature may do without the civilizing influence of Art if it is royal Nature. Toward ordinary shepherds Shakespeare’s attitude is realistic and gently satirical; his tolerant humor recalls Theocritus but is a long way from Vergil’s delicate enthusiasms. Shakespeare’s attitude toward the division between Nature and Art is at least as complicated, but analysis begins most conveniently with his knowledge of traditional materials. Certainly he was aware of the long-standing association of pastoral with Nature and Art, for his pastoral episode includes a fairly thorough debate on the subject. Camillo and Polixenes, disguised, appear at the sheepshearing to investigate the truth of the rumored liaison between Florizel and some humble shepherdess. Polixenes and Perdita discuss flowers, but matters of cultural propriety are always near the surface of what is ostensibly a horticultural argument. These speeches are worth quoting at length because of their explicit relevance to my thesis, their complex character, and their importance as conceptual statements of the ethical concerns of the play. Perdita begins by apologizing for presenting these men of ‘‘middle age’’ with winter flowers; she has no fall flowers because she will not grow ‘‘nature’s bastards,’’ and the discussion immediately turns into a highly technical debate on Nature and Art. Per. Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer’s death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flow’rs o’ th’ season Are our carnations and streak’d gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards. Of that kind Our rustic garden’s barren, and I care not To get slips of them. Pol. Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them? Per. For I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature. Pol. Say there be. Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean. So, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock And make conceive a bark of baser kind

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By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature—change it rather; but The art itself is nature. Per. So it is. Pol. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards. Per. I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth should say ’twere well, and only therefore Desire to breed by me. (IV.iv.79–103) The speeches are obviously meant to be significant in relation to the entire action of the play; they are not merely decorative commonplaces, but their function has never been fully explained. There is a possibility that Shakespeare intended the actor portraying Polixenes to speak his lines in such a way that the audience will take the horticultural reasoning as a trap, as a device by which Polixenes hopes to expose Perdita as a scheming wench who is after that ‘‘bud of nobler race,’’ Florizel. But it is Perdita who first commits herself against ‘‘nature’s bastards,’’ and Polixenes’ tone, now deliberative, now authoritative, does not appear to support such an interpretation. The King seems pretty clearly to be reasoning in earnest. Admittedly, the contention that an Art that changes Nature is in fact Nature may seem at first blush sophistical, calculated to make a young girl betray her desires for the ‘‘gentler scion.’’ Yet Polixenes’ stand is perhaps the most dignified and carefully argued in the whole history of possible opposition between Nature and Art. Like Aristotle and Plato, Polixenes points out that the ‘‘art itself is nature.’’ Aristotle had argued in the Physics that when we claim that Art perfects Nature we do in fact mean in the last analysis that Nature perfects herself: ‘‘The best illustration is a doctor doctoring himself: nature is like that.’’ And Plato in the tenth book of the Laws had maintained that the good legislator ‘‘ought to support the law and also art, and acknowledge that both alike exist by nature, and no less than nature.’’ Although Polixenes’ argument may appear sophistical, it is in fact an orthodox statement of the ‘‘real’’ significance of the ancient opposition.

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There is of course nothing new in the mixture of horticultural and social vocabularies either, but the implications of the mixture in Polixenes’ argument are shockingly unorthodox: You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. Translated into purely social terms— Shakespeare’s equivocal vocabulary forces the audience to consider the social implications— the argument of Polixenes seems to call for a program of egalitarian eugenics [improvement in the type of offspring produced], a program equally shocking, one suspects, to Polixenes and to the Elizabethan audience. Especially in the given dramatic situation, for the King is at this moment disguised as a shepherd expressly to prevent his ‘‘gentler scion’’ from marrying a ‘‘bark of baser kind.’’ Perdita has throughout revealed a Spenserian appreciation of ‘‘degree,’’ and now her reply to Polixenes rejects his (implied) social radicalism along with his horticultural orthodoxy: I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth [Florizel] should say ’twere well, and only therefore Desire to breed by me. Perdita’s uneasiness in her ‘‘borrowed flaunts’’ (IV.iv.23), her modest conviction that she is, ‘‘poor lowly maid, / Most goddess-like prank’d up’’ (IV.iv.9–10), has culminated in her final identification of Art with deceit, with false imitation, with ‘‘painted’’ womanhood—a kind of Art morally and otherwise inferior to Nature. Her position is, indeed, as venerable as that of Polixenes, appearing in such diverse places as Plato’s concept of imitation in the fine arts, in Castiglione’s view of cosmetics, and in virtually the whole of the pastoral tradition. Yet neither Polixenes nor Perdita may be taken to represent Shakespeare’s final word on the division between Nature and Art. The two traditions are both philosophically ‘‘respectable’’; dramatic propriety alone requires that Polixenes maintain the court position and Perdita hold to the pastoral belief in the absolute dichotomy between the two terms. If Shakespeare’s ‘‘own’’ position must remain for the moment conjectural, it is at least possible to understand what he is doing with the

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ancient division between Nature and Art. Clearly he is using it dramatically, as an oblique commentary on the action of the play. Less obvious is his use of the conceptual terms of the division to reflect the major ethical concerns of the play, using them to sum up with dramatic irony the ethical and social questions of The Winter’s Tale. With Perdita, for example, the debate becomes a comment on the way Shakespeare has characterized her. She is given to us as the creation of Nature who, despite her lack of Art, is ‘‘mistress / To most that teach’’; she is completely incapable of deceit, and her charming sensuousness is tempered by a clear perception of decorum, of her proper place in the order of things. At the same time her role in the sheepshearing is the creation of Art; her ‘‘unusual weeds’’ make her a ‘‘goddess,’’ a ‘‘queen,’’ but since these ‘‘borrowed flaunts’’ are deceitful, she resolves finally to ‘‘queen it no inch farther’’ (IV.iv.460). Thus Perdita’s stand on the ancient debate accurately reflects her character; it is perfectly consistent with the manner in which she is dramatized. It is this and more. In addition it anticipates ironically the discoveries of the last act, for although Perdita at this point appears to be arguing (in horticultural terms) against a marriage with Florizel, her words describe unwittingly but exactly the final situation of the two lovers: in the last act it will be revealed that Perdita is a ‘‘queen’’ by Nature rather than by Art, that her ‘‘borrowed flaunts’’ are hers by right. At the time when she takes her stand on the question of Nature versus Art, she is by Nature what she conceives herself to be by Art. Her speech to Polixenes is therefore effective in two main ways: on the one hand it accents her pastoral status as a figure of Nature, free of the corruption and taint of Art, suggesting the Nature of Eden; on the other hand the speech anticipates obliquely the last act of the play in which she and the other characters (the spectator is of course already aware of the dramatic irony of her speech) will understand that Florizel’s metaphorical praise—‘‘all your acts are queens’’—represents truth on the literal as well as the figurative level. Polixenes’ argument similarly sets up reverberations far beyond the limits of his speech and the immediate context. Polixenes, like Perdita, seemingly argues against his own best interests, for his resolution of the opposition between


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Nature and Art apparently sanctions the marriage of a noble to a commoner, the ‘‘bud of nobler race’’ to a ‘‘bark of baser kind.’’ Thus, as far as Shakespeare and the audience are concerned, it is still another opportunity for dramatic irony; again the spectator is aware of more in a character’s words than the character himself. Polixenes appears conscious only of the horticultural application of his words while the spectator is in a position to see that, in the case of Perdita, the ‘‘art itself is nature.’’ Thus, Polixenes is also ‘‘right,’’ even in the social sense of his words, though he cannot yet see that the queenliness of Perdita’s ‘‘nature is made better by no mean / But nature makes that mean.’’ It is only in the last act that the disagreement between Perdita and Polixenes is transcended and resolved in the general restoration of harmony. The last act is worth looking at in connection with Nature and Art because Shakespeare returns to the subject, this time in the sphere of the fine arts, in an attempt to resolve the paradoxical contrarieties generated out of the debate between Perdita and Polixenes. That which was lost has been found in the person of Perdita, and the two kings are reunited. All that remains is for the dead to rise as in Pericles: the ‘‘dead’’ Hermione is still lost to Leontes. Her improbable restoration in the statue scene has been condemned as a vulgar concession to popular taste and cited as an example of the triviality of the romance form. Such criticism quite misses the point, for it ignores the ground swell of harmony and alienation that informs the play and, even more pertinently, it neglects Shakespeare’s preoccupation with Nature and Art. Properly assessed, the ‘‘unrealistic’’ quality of the statue scene is beside the point. Here as elsewhere in the last romances Shakespeare’s respect for ‘‘truth’’ lies in the intensity of his verse and in the underlying pattern of the plays. If the statue scene is improbable, it nevertheless conforms with fidelity to the cycle of alienation and harmony, and the verse of this scene possesses a rare imaginative integrity. All the crucial words of the play—summer and winter, ‘‘infancy and grace,’’ Nature and Art, life and death— come together in the last scenes in a series of reckless paradoxes. Paulina speaks to the statue: Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. (V.iii.102–3)

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The time of Hermione’s ‘‘better grace’’ has arrived; her stepping down from the pedestal means harmony, forgiveness, restoration, redemption.

between Perdita and Polixenes, for the opposition between Nature and Art dissolves in the pageantry of the statue’s descent.

The role played by Nature and Art in this larger resolution is perhaps obvious. Clearly a statue represents Art, and in this case the statue represents living Art, or Nature. Such distinctions were equally clear to Shakespeare, and his language shows that he also expected his audience to have in mind the traditional opposition between the terms. We first hear of the statue from the Third Gentleman, whose description is marked by the ancient division and avails itself of the ancient analogy:

The traditional division lies at the center of The Winter’s Tale. It is used conceptually and as an instrument of dramatic irony in the pastoral episode, and it appears symbolically as part of the total resolution of Act V. Nevertheless, Shakespeare does not seem to be as far committed to the division as Spenser. Although both poets take full advantage of the association of the literary genre with the philosophical division and although both use the pastoral as ‘‘an element in the harmonious solution of a longer story’’ about the court, in Shakespeare the division lacks much of the didactic immediacy it possesses in Spenser. The virtue of courtesy must be placed properly in the order of nature, and Spenser uses Nature and Art to achieve this didactic end; he is thinking with the established terms more than he is about them. Perhaps because The Winter’s Tale is less obtrusively didactic, Shakespeare thinks about the terms more than he does with them, finding in Nature and Art opportunities for witty debate and verbal paradox; perhaps because of his lack of absolute commitment he can afford to extract from various and conflicting interpretations the full dramatic value of the philosophical division. In The Winter’s Tale the traditional terms represent, through dramatic irony, a conceptual summation of the ethical and social interests of the play, and in the last act they form a main part of the elaborate series of paradoxes culminating in the statue scene—the pun made flesh.

. . . a piece many years in doing, and now newly perform’d, by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself eternity and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape. (V.ii.103–8)

The artist is the ape of Nature, his imitation practiced so perfectly that he almost outdoes Nature, his final aim being naturam vincere. We have already seen the same notion in Venus and Adonis, the Rape of Lucrece, and Timon; it is the cliche´ of iconic poetry of the period, summed up in Cardinal Bembo’s epitaph on Raphael: ‘‘Nature feared that she would be conquered while he lived, and would die when he died.’’ It is in this tradition of friendly contest between Art and Nature that Paulina invites praise of her ‘‘statue’’: Prepare To see the life as lively mock’d as ever Still sleep mock’d death, (V.iii.18–20) and it is in this tradition that Leontes praises it: The fixure of her eye has motion in’t, As we are mock’d with art. (V.iii.67–68) Art has successfully imitated Nature, or so it seems to those who do not know that Paulina has preserved Hermione alive. The symbolic value of the scene is clear: as with Perdita, the imitation or ‘‘mock’’ of Nature turns out finally to be Nature after all. What seems to be Art is in fact Nature, fulfilling Polixenes’ assertion that the ‘‘art itself is nature’’ and confirming Perdita’s belief in the supremacy of ‘‘great creating nature.’’ The statue scene is with all its improbability a dramatic embodiment of Shakespeare’s preoccupation with Nature and Art; it transcends the earlier disagreement

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Source: Edward William Tayler, ‘‘Shakespeare’s ‘The Winter’s Tale,’’’ in Nature and Art in Renaissance Literature, Columbia University Press, 1964, pp. 124–41.

SOURCES Battenhouse, Roy, ed., ‘‘The Winter’s Tale: Comment,’’ in Shakespeare’s Christian Dimension, Indiana University Press, 1994, pp. 233. Bruce, Susan, ‘‘Mamillius and Leontes: Their Final Exchange,’’ ANQ: A Quarterly Journal of Short Articles, Notes, and Reviews, Vol. 16, No. 3, Summer 2003, pp. 9–12. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, ‘‘Notes on The Winter’s Tale and Othello, in Four Centuries of Shakespearean Criticism, edited by J. Frank Kermode, Discuss Books, 1965, pp. 290–91.

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Evans, Bertrand, ‘‘A Lasting Storm: The Planetary Romances,’’ in Shakespeare’s Comedies, Clarendon Press, 1960, pp. 296. Fortier, Mark, ‘‘Married with Children: The Winter’s Tale and Social History; or Infanticide in Earlier Seventeenth-Century England,’’ Modern Language Quarterly: A Journal of Literary History, Vol. 57, No. 4, Dec. 1996, pp. 579–603. Goodman, Paul, The Structure of Literature, University of Chicago Press, 1962, p. 41. Hazlitt, William, The Winter’s Tale, in Characters in Shakespeare’s Plays, 1817, http://www.library.utoronto. ca/utel/criticism/hazlittw_charsp/charsp_ch24.html Hunt, Maurice, ‘‘‘Bearing Hence’ Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale’’ in SEL: Studies in English Literature, 1500–1900, Vol. 44, No. 2, Spring 2004, pp. 333–46. Jameson, Anna Brownell, Characteristics Of Women, 1832, http://www.geocities.com/litpageplus/shakmoulwinterstale.html. Leavis, F. R., ‘‘The Criticism of Shakespeare’s Late Plays,’’ in Shakespeare Criticism, edited by Anne Ridler, Oxford University Press, 1970, p. 139. Montaigne, Michel de, The Complete Essays of Montaigne, translated by Donald M. Frame, Stanford University Press, 1982, p. 141. Pafford, J. H. P., The Winter’s Tale, in The Arden Shakespeare, Methuen & Co., Ltd., 1963. Shakespeare, William, King Lear, 3rd Series, edited by R. A. Foakes, Arden Shakespeare, 1997. ———, The Winter’s Tale, edited by Frank Kermode, Signet Classic, 1963. Van Elk, Martine, ‘‘‘Our Praises Are Our Wages’: Courtly Exchange, Social Mobility, and Female Speech in The Winter’s Tale,’’ in Philological Quarterly, Vol. 79, No. 4, Fall 2000, pp. 429–57.


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FURTHER READING Frye, Northrop, ‘‘The Triumph of Time,’’ in A Natural Perspective, A Harbinger Book/Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc.: NY, 1965. In arguing that The Winter’s Tale is the literary representation of a ritual whose aim is to ‘‘unite the human and the natural worlds,’’ and to provide ‘‘an imaginative model of desire,’’ Frye outlines ‘‘the three elements of comic structure, the grim beginning, the middle period of confusion, carnival, and sexual license, and the final period of festive reordering.’’ Greenblatt, Stephen, Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare, W. W. Norton, 2004. This comprehensive biography of Shakespeare provides insight into the bard’s life and work. Greenblatt also offers readers a detailed view of life in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century England. Heims, Neil, ‘‘Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale,’’ in The Explicator, Vol. 46, No. 4, Summer 1988. Heims suggests various similarities between the two sections of The Winter’s Tale which reinforce the structural and thematic unity of the play. McFarland, Thomas, ‘‘We Must Be Gentle: Disintegration and Reunion in The Winter’s Tale,’’ in Shakespeare’s Pastoral Comedy, The University of North Carolina Press: Chapel Hill, 1972. McFarland traces the movement from what he calls the ‘‘anti-comic’’ to the final resolution of the play, achieved through reunion, which results in what he terms ‘‘social happiness.’’

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Glossary Note to the reader: This glossary includes terms commonly encountered in the study of Shakespeare’s work. It is not intended to be comprehensive.

A allegory: an extended metaphor or analogy in which characters in a drama or story and the characters’ actions are equated with religious, historical, moral, political, or satiric meanings outside of the drama or story being told. aside: a dramatic device by which an actor directly addresses the audience but is not heard by the other actors on the stage.

B burlesque: a form of comedy characterized by mockery or exaggeration.

E early modern literature: in England, literature from the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.

F farce: a humorous play marked by broad satirical comedy and an improbable plot. foil: in literature, a character who, through contrast with another character, highlights or enhances the second character’s distinctive qualities. folio: a piece of paper folded in half or a volume made up of folio sheets. In 1623, Shakespeare’s plays were assembled into a folio edition. The term folio is also used to designate any early collection of Shakespeare’s works.

C comedy: a form of drama in which the primary purpose is to amuse and which ends happily.

D denouement: the final explanation or outcome of the plot. dramatic irony: achieved when the audience understands the real significance of a character’s words or actions but the character or those around him or her do not.

G gender role: behavior that a society expects or accepts from a man or a woman because of his or her sex.

H history play: a drama in which the time setting is in a period earlier than that during which the play was written.

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the character’s thoughts or feelings or to provide information about other characters in the play.

I induction: introductory scene or scenes that precede the main action of a play.

stock character: a conventional character type that belongs to a particular form of literature.

M Machiavellianism: the theory, based on the work and beliefs of Italian political philosopher Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527), that the attainment of political power is justified by any means. masque: in medieval England and Europe, a game or party in which participants wore masks. morality play: a medieval drama in which abstract vices and virtues are presented in human form. mystery play: a medieval drama depicting a story from the Bible.

P parody: a composition or work which imitates another, usually a serious, work. pun: a play on words.

S satire: a piece of literature that presents human vices or foolishness in a way that invites ridicule or scorn. soliloquy: a character’s speech within a play delivered while the character is alone. The speech is intended to inform the audience of

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subplot: a plot that is secondary to the main plot of the drama.

T theme: a central idea in a work of literature. tragedy: a drama that recounts the significant events or actions, which, taken together, bring about catastrophe.

U unities: a term referring to the dramatic structures of action, time, and place. Each unity is defined by several characteristics. The unity of action requires that the action of the play have a beginning, a middle, and an end. The unity of time requires that the action of a play take place in one day. The unity of place limits the action of the play to one place. Many plays violate all three unities. In The Tempest, Shakespeare observes all three unities.

V vice or vice figure: a stock character in the morality play, who, as a tempter, possesses both evil and comic qualities.

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Cumulative Index to Major Themes and Characters A Accession to the throne Henry VI, 1: 307–308 Acting and staging Measure for Measure, 2: 484–488 As You Like It, 1: 90–91 Active v. contemplative life Hamlet, 1: 206–207 Actor, ultimate Richard III, 3: 740 Allegiance Henry VI, 1: 308–310 Allegory The Comedy of Errors, 1: 131–132 Alliteration Julius Caesar, 2: 346 Ambiguity Measure for Measure, 2: 484–488 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 525 Ambition Julius Caesar, 2: 339, 344 Macbeth, 2: 442 Richard II, 3: 713–717 Animal imagery Coriolanus, 1: 167 King Lear, 2: 399–402 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 597–599 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 627 Othello, 2: 661–662 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 839–840 Venus and Adonis, 3: 929, 951–952 The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967–968 Animals, symbolic The Comedy of Errors, 1: 135–137

Anti-Semitism The Merchant of Venice, 2: 516 Aphorism All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 15–16 Appearance v. reality Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 623–624; 637–638 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 836–838 Argument Julius Caesar, 2: 351 Arrogance Henry V, 1: 275 Art, magic and illusion The Tempest, 3: 872 Art and nature The Winter’s Tale, 3: 965, 978–986 Asides Hamlet, 1: 208 Othello, 2: 662 Audiences, mixed A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 590 Authority Coriolanus, 1: 171 Measure for Measure, 2: 500–501 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 588 Autobiographical content The Sonnets, 3: 807, 810, 811, 815–816 The Tempest, 3: 873 Awareness The Comedy of Errors, 1: 131 Awareness, manipulation of The Winter’s Tale, 3: 968

B Babies and breast feeding Macbeth, 2: 456–458 Battle of the sexes Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 623 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 836, 852–854 See also Gender roles Battle wounds Coriolanus, 1: 181–183 Beauty The Sonnets, 3: 824–826 Bed-trick All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 13, 19, 23–28 Measure for Measure, 2: 505 Bestiality A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 597–599 Betrayal King Lear, 2: 381 Black heroes Othello, 2: 669–674 Blank verse Hamlet, 1: 208 Henry V, 1: 283 Julius Caesar, 2: 345 King Lear, 2: 382–383 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 554 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 628 The Tempest, 3: 873–874 Blindness King Lear, 2: 382 Blood Macbeth, 2: 459–460

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Boars Venus and Adonis, 3: 929 Body imagery Coriolanus, 1: 167, 180–181 Bondage The Merchant of Venice, 2: 529–533 Buffoonery The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 570–577 Business The Comedy of Errors, 1: 140–142 Richard III, 3: 752–754

C Cabala A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 604–605 Castration The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 566–570 Celebration and festivity Twelfth Night, 3: 890, 905 Chance A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 588 Chaos King Lear, 2: 394–399; 399–402 Character and imagery Othello, 2: 674–681 Characters and characterization Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 639–640 The Winter’s Tale, 3: 974–978 Chastity The Tempest, 3: 872 Chastity and lewdness Measure for Measure, 2: 480 Choice The Merchant of Venice, 2: 531–533 Chorus Henry V, 1: 278, 283–284, 286 Christ, allusions to Richard II, 3: 700–701 Christian pessimism King Lear, 2: 386–387 Citizen comedies The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 542, 554, 571 Clothing imagery Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 637–638 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 845, 860–861 Clowning The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 570–577 Coercion Macbeth, 2: 441, 450 Colors King Lear, 2: 417 Venus and Adonis, 3: 931–932

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Combat and sexuality Coriolanus, 1: 180, 181–183 Comedy All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 20–22 The Comedy of Errors, 1: 130–131, 135, 137–147 Henry IV, Part One, 1: 260 Measure for Measure, 2: 499–506 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 558 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 632–634 Richard III, 3: 739–740 Twelfth Night, 3: 904–906 See also Dark comedy; Farce Comedy v. tragedy The Merchant of Venice, 2: 520–521 Comic relief Romeo and Juliet, 3: 778–779 Competition v. cooperation As You Like It, 1: 104–108 Conflict Coriolanus, 1: 165–166; 171–174 Othello, 2: 663 Consonance Julius Caesar, 2: 346 Contemplative life Hamlet, 1: 206–207 Contrast Macbeth, 2: 458–461 Othello, 2: 658 Control As You Like It, 1: 107–108 Corruption Hamlet, 1: 216–217 Couplets The Sonnets, 3: 811–817 Crowds Coriolanus, 1: 167–168; 174–179 Julius Caesar, 2: 362–366 Cuckolds The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 551 Cultural stereotypes Henry V, 1: 276–277 Curses and prophesies Richard III, 3: 741

D Dark comedy All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 1–2 Richard III, 3: 739–740 Death Henry VI, 1: 328–331 Julius Caesar, 2: 344–345 Richard III, 3: 744–745 Death and metamorphosis Venus and Adonis, 3: 941–942


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Death imagery Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 48–49 Deception Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 623–624 Othello, 2: 660–661 Desire Venus and Adonis, 3: 930, 935–943 Dialogue, witty Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 626–627 Dining The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 859–860 Disease imagery Hamlet, 1: 214–216 Disguises All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 24–25 Measure for Measure, 2: 489–490 Twelfth Night, 3: 890–901, 905 As You Like It, 1: 87, 105–108 Disorderly world Henry IV, Part One, 1: 248–251 Disproportion Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 68–69 Divided nature The Sonnets, 3: 817–821 Divine intervention Henry V, 1: 275 Divine right Richard II, 3: 700–702 Double entendre All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 15 Double plot King Lear, 2: 383

E Economics The Merchant of Venice, 2: 517, 536–539 Egoism King Lear, 2: 381 Elizabeth I The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 563–565 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 604–605 Embedded author Measure for Measure, 2: 481 Empire and love Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 60–66 Endings All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 14 King Lear, 2: 391, 427–433 Venus and Adonis, 3: 943–948 Environmentalism As You Like It, 1: 85 Epic elements Henry V, 1: 278

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F Fables The Merchant of Venice, 2: 521 Fact v. fiction Henry IV, Part One, 1: 257–259 Henry V, 1: 282–283 Henry VI, 1: 310, 322–328 Fairies and fairy world A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 599–613 Farce The Comedy of Errors, 1: 130–131, 135, 137–147 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 572, 574 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 839, 844 Fate Romeo and Juliet, 3: 776–777 Father-daughter relationships The Merchant of Venice, 2: 519–520 The Tempest, 3: 877–880 Father figures Coriolanus, 1: 184–187 As You Like It, 1: 86 Fathers and sons Henry IV, Part One, 1: 238, 251–257 Fickleness Julius Caesar, 2: 343 Flower imagery The Winter’s Tale, 3: 977 Folk tales All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 2, 19 Fools As You Like It, 1: 87 Foreshadowing Julius Caesar, 2: 347 Forest A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 597–604 Form The Sonnets, 3: 822–826 Fortune v. nature As You Like It, 1: 88–89; 99–104 Freudian perspective The Comedy of Errors, 1: 147–151 Coriolanus, 1: 179–187 Hamlet, 1: 211–214


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G Games and role playing The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 838–839 Garter ceremony The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 563–565 Gender roles All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 2, 12–13, 23–28 Macbeth, 2: 445, 451–456 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 836, 837–838, 842–844 As You Like It, 1: 94–95 See also Battle of the sexes Gentleness The Merchant of Venice, 2: 534–535 The gods King Lear, 2: 381, 386–390 Good v. evil Macbeth, 2: 458–459 Grief Richard III, 3: 757–758 Guilt King Lear, 2: 415 The Tempest, 3: 879–883

H Harmony and alienation The Winter’s Tale, 3: 980–982 Hate Romeo and Juliet, 3: 774–775 Heavenly bodies Henry IV, Part One, 1: 240 Heroic action in a post-heroic world Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 61–62 History, sense of Henry V, 1: 274–275 History plays Henry VI, 1: 310, 315–316 Richard III, 3: 754–762 Home life The Comedy of Errors, 1: 132–133 Homosexuality The Sonnets, 3: 798–799, 810 Honor Henry IV, Part One, 1: 237–238; 248–251 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 625, 641 Honor v. loyalty Coriolanus, 1: 165 Horses Venus and Adonis, 3: 929 Hubris A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 588–589 Human depravity King Lear, 2: 391 Human spirit, destruction of Macbeth, 2: 461–467

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Humanity v. brutality The Tempest, 3: 872–873 Humor Henry V, 1: 296 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 605–613 Hyperbole Twelfth Night, 3: 902–903

I Iambic pentameter Julius Caesar, 2: 345 Identity Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 66–76 The Comedy of Errors, 1: 127–128 Twelfth Night, 3: 900–901, 905 Ideology Measure for Measure, 2: 501 Illusion v. reality Twelfth Night, 3: 906–909 Imagery Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 48–49; 66–76 Hamlet, 1: 214–219 King Lear, 2: 399–402 Macbeth, 2: 446, 456–461 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 637–638 Othello, 2: 661–662; 674–681 Richard II, 3: 703–704; 719–723 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 780 The Sonnets, 3: 802–803; 822–824 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 839–840, 845, 857–861 Venus and Adonis, 3: 931–932 The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967–968 Imagination Macbeth, 2: 440 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 603 The Tempest, 3: 876 Impotence The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 566–570 Incest The Tempest, 3: 878 Incompetence Richard II, 3: 717–719 Infidelity The Sonnets, 3: 799–800 Innocence and guilt The Winter’s Tale, 3: 965–967 Insanity King Lear, 2: 402–407 Interpretation, actors’ Measure for Measure, 2: 484–488 Interpretations, modern The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 827–829; 850–852 Irony Richard III, 3: 739–740 Twelfth Night, 3: 901

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Epicureanism Julius Caesar, 2: 351–355 Epilogue The Tempest, 3: 874 Eroticism, ambiguous The Sonnets, 3: 798–799; 809–810 Evil Macbeth, 2: 443, 445, 464–467 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 646

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Italy, as setting Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 628

J Jealousy The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 550–551; 559–562 Othello, 2: 658–659 The Winter’s Tale, 3: 966, 970–973 Judgement Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 635–637 The Tempest, 3: 880–884 Justice King Lear, 2: 392–394 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 534–536 Richard III, 3: 738–739 Justice and mercy Measure for Measure, 2: 480, 492–499

K Kingship Henry V, 1: 274, 286–292 Henry VI, 1: 307–308; 316–319 Macbeth, 2: 442–443 Richard II, 3: 698–702; 708–719 Knight-errant All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 12–13

L Language, descriptive Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 48–49; 66–76 Language, Shakespearian Henry VI, 1: 311 Julius Caesar, 2: 346 Language, use of The Comedy of Errors, 1: 143–144 Coriolanus, 1: 191 Henry V, 1: 277–278; 293–294 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 645 Othello, 2: 667 The Sonnets, 3: 801–802 Twelfth Night, 3: 901, 905, 913–919 Venus and Adonis, 3: 935–943 Language and character Othello, 2: 674–675 Language of business Richard III, 3: 752–754 Law Measure for Measure, 2: 500–501 Layering and unlayering As You Like It, 1: 104–108 Leadership Julius Caesar, 2: 343–344 Liberty v. restraint Measure for Measure, 2: 480

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Lightness v. darkness Macbeth, 2: 458–459 Lord of Misrule Henry IV, Part One, 1: 245–246 Love Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 53–57 The Sonnets, 3: 797–798; 809–813 Twelfth Night, 3: 909–913 Love, denial of Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 641–644 Love, inconstancy in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 594–597 Love, true A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 587–588 Love, varieties of King Lear, 2: 381, 394–399 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 517–518 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 551–552 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 773–774 Venus and Adonis, 3: 947–953 Love and language Venus and Adonis, 3: 935–943 Love and marriage The Comedy of Errors, 1: 128–130 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 624–625 Love and war Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 57–60; 60–66 Lovers A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 610–613 Loyalty King Lear, 2: 381 Lyrical interludes As You Like It, 1: 92–93

M Madness King Lear, 2: 381 Magic The Tempest, 3: 872 Magical thinking Henry VI, 1: 319–322 Male-female relationships The Comedy of Errors, 1: 145–147 Man and history Julius Caesar, 2: 356–362 Manhood Coriolanus, 1: 166 Manipulation Othello, 2: 659 Richard II, 3: 696 Marriage All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 12–13 16–17; 20–22


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The Comedy of Errors, 1: 128–130 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 551–552 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 854–859 Mars and Venus Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 57–60 Masques The Tempest, 3: 874 Maternal love Venus and Adonis, 3: 948–953 Mental disorders Hamlet, 1: 212–214 Mercy and hypocrisy The Merchant of Venice, 2: 519 Metamorphosis Venus and Adonis, 3: 941–942; 945–948 Metaphor Julius Caesar, 2: 346 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 780 Military spectacle Coriolanus, 1: 167–168 Miracles All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 23–24 Mirroring The Tempest, 3: 874 The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967 Misanthropy As You Like It, 1: 85 Misreport Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 635–637 Mistrust Othello, 2: 658–659 Mixed genre Measure for Measure, 2: 481 Money The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 552 Monologue Henry V, 1: 278 Moon A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 600–602 Moral enigma King Lear, 2: 427–433 Moral growth Twelfth Night, 3: 909–913 Morality and transcendence Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 47–48 Morality plays Henry IV, Part One, 1: 241 Mortality The Sonnets, 3: 814–815 Mother-son relationships Coriolanus, 1: 171–174; 179–187 See also Oedipus complex Multiple storylines The Merchant of Venice, 2: 521–522

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N Narcissism The Sonnets, 3: 800, 821–822 Narcissus Twelfth Night, 3: 906–909 Narration The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967 Narrative, absence of The Sonnets, 3: 801 Nationalism Henry V, 1: 274–275 Henry VI, 1: 310 Nature King Lear, 2: 381 See also Pastoral life Nature and art The Winter’s Tale, 3: 965, 978–986 New comedy All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 14–15 Nihilism King Lear, 2: 391–394 Nurture v. hunger Coriolanus, 1: 165–166

O Oaths Henry IV, Part One, 1: 240–241 Oedipus complex Coriolanus, 1: 179–187 Hamlet, 1: 211–214 Omens Julius Caesar, 2: 346–347 Opposites, conflict between Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 45–47; 57–62 Oppositional thinking Henry VI, 1: 320–321 Oratory Julius Caesar, 2: 351 Order v. chaos King Lear, 2: 394–399 Macbeth, 2: 461 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 576


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The other Othello, 2: 659–660 Oxymoron Macbeth, 2: 445–446 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 779

P Parody Richard III, 3: 739–740 The Sonnets, 3: 803–804, 816 Passion Romeo and Juliet, 3: 775 Passive v. active behavior Twelfth Night, 3: 919–922 Pastoral life As You Like It, 1: 78–79, 88, 91, 100–104, 107–115 Pastoral (poem) As You Like It, 1: 92 Patriarchy King Lear, 2: 415–416 Patriotism Henry V, 1: 264–265, 274, 294 Perceptions Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 635–637 Percy Rebellion Henry IV, Part One, 1: 252–257 Persuasion, power of Julius Caesar, 2: 341–343 Philomela King Lear, 2: 418 Pilgrimages All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 26 Play within a play A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 603–604; 612–613 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 839 Plot and subplot King Lear, 2: 383 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 521–522 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 627–628, 637 As You Like It, 1: 93, 97–98 Plutarch Julius Caesar, 2: 362–366 Poetry The Sonnets, 3: 803 Political facades Richard II, 3: 702–703 Political order Henry IV, Part One, 1: 251–257 Political themes Coriolanus, 1: 170–171; 187–191 Julius Caesar, 2: 334, 341, 351 King Lear, 2: 421–427 Possession The Tempest, 3: 880 Power As You Like It, 1: 99–100

S t u d e n t s ,

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E d i t i o n ,

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C h a r a c t e r s

Power of report Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 635–637 Prejudice The Merchant of Venice, 2: 518–519 Othello, 2: 659–660 The present The Tempest, 3: 885–889 Private v. public personae Julius Caesar, 2: 343, 356–362 Problem plays All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 1–2; 14–15; 18–20 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 521, 539 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 614 Prodigal son Henry IV, Part One, 1: 252 Prophesies Richard III, 3: 741 Prose v. poetry Henry IV, Part One, 1: 240, 259–262 Henry V, 1: 283–286 Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 628, 637 Othello, 2: 663–664 Punishment The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 570–577 Puns Hamlet, 1: 208–209 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 554 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 778–779


Music A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 602 The Sonnets, 3: 814 The Tempest, 3: 874 Music imagery The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 861 Mythology King Lear, 2: 418 A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 601–602 Twelfth Night, 3: 906–909 Venus and Adonis, 3: 931, 943–948 As You Like It, 1: 98–99

I n d e x

Q Quest-romance All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 12–13

R Race and racism Othello, 2: 659–660, 667, 669–674 Rape King Lear, 2: 414–415; 421–427 Reading v. acting Measure for Measure, 2: 484–488 Real v. ideal The Merchant of Venice, 2: 518 Reality, levels of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 590 Reconciliation The Winter’s Tale, 3: 974–978 Red and white Venus and Adonis, 3: 931–932 Religious prejudice The Merchant of Venice, 2: 518–519

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t o

Repentence The Tempest, 3: 882–884 Responsibility Henry V, 1: 276 Retributive justice Richard III, 3: 738–739 Revenge Hamlet, 1: 209 Measure for Measure, 2: 492–499 The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 553 The Tempest, 3: 872 Rhetoric King Lear, 2: 417 Rhetoric, use of Henry VI, 1: 310–311 Ritual Julius Caesar, 2: 343 Rivalry Henry VI, 1: 310 As You Like It, 1: 104–105 Role playing Henry IV, Part One, 1: 238–239 The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 839 Role reversal Macbeth, 2: 451–456 Romance The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967 Rome and Egypt Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 45–47, 53, 69–72 Rumor Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 638–639

S Seasons A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 599 Seeing and blindness King Lear, 2: 382 Self control v. passion Henry V, 1: 286–292 Setting The Comedy of Errors, 1: 135–137 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 521 Sexual aggression Venus and Adonis, 3: 929–930 Sexual jealousy Othello, 2: 681–686 Sexual mores Measure for Measure, 2: 488–492 Sexual reluctance Venus and Adonis, 3: 928–929 Sexual revulsion King Lear, 2: 382 Sexuality All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 2 Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 60–66

x x v i i i

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T h e m e s

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Sexuality and punishment The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 570–577 Sheep and shepherding The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967–968 Sickness and medicine Macbeth, 2: 458 Similes As You Like It, 1: 93–94 Sin Macbeth, 2: 440 Slander Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 632–634 Sleep Macbeth, 2: 460 Small-town life The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 558–559 Social class All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 13, 28–32 Coriolanus, 1: 174–179 Soliloquy Hamlet, 1: 209 Henry IV, Part One, 1: 255 Henry V, 1: 278, 284 King Lear, 2: 383 Songs Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 626, 646–647 Sonnets Romeo and Juliet, 3: 778 The Sonnets, 3: 805–806; 811–817 Sources King Lear, 2: 390–394; 416–417 Venus and Adonis, 3: 943–948 Spectacle King Lear, 2: 383 Spying Hamlet, 1: 207 Stages of life As You Like It, 1: 90–91 Stoicism Julius Caesar, 2: 352–355 Styles, varied A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 593–594 Subplot, lack of Othello, 2: 662 Succession Richard III, 3: 737–738 Sudden change The Winter’s Tale, 3: 967 Symbols and symbolism Hamlet, 1: 214–219 Macbeth, 2: 445 Othello, 2: 662–663 Venus and Adonis, 3: 929 Symphonic imagery Richard II, 3: 703–704


F o r

S t u d e n t s ,

T Temptation and sin Macbeth, 2: 440 Tetralogy, anticipation of Richard II, 3: 704–705 Time Macbeth, 2: 446, 450, 460 Othello, 2: 681–686 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 777, 783 The Tempest, 3: 874 The Winter’s Tale, 3: 966 As You Like It, 1: 89–90; 111–115 Tragedy Othello, 2: 649–650 Richard III, 3: 754–762 Romeo and Juliet, 3: 778, 782–783 Tragic heroes Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 41–42 Hamlet, 1: 219–224 Macbeth, 2: 449, 461–467 Richard II, 3: 704 Tragicomedy Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 627 Transformation Antony and Cleopatra, 1: 53–57 The Comedy of Errors, 1: 135–137 Macbeth, 2: 451–456 Tricksters Measure for Measure, 2: 504–505

U The unities The Tempest, 3: 874, 885–889 Unity Richard II, 3: 719–723 Unity, lack of Henry V, 1: 292–296 Unrealistic idealism, antidote to Henry IV, Part One, 1: 246–247

V Valediction The Tempest, 3: 873 Vengeance Hamlet, 1: 207–208 Vice Henry IV, Part One, 1: 245 Villainy Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 625–626 Othello, 2: 657 Virginity Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 625

W War and violence Hamlet, 1: 217–218 Henry V, 1: 274, 285 Henry VI, 1: 307, 322–331

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F o r

t o

M a j o r

Wittiness Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 626–628 Women, powerlessness of Richard III, 3: 745–752 Women, role of All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 23–28 The Comedy of Errors, 1: 145–147 Henry VI, 1: 308 The Merchant of Venice, 2: 526–528 Othello, 2: 660

S t u d e n t s ,

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The Taming of the Shrew, 3: 828–829; 844–852 See also Gender roles Wordplay Much Ado About Nothing, 2: 628, 631 Twelfth Night, 3: 901, 913–919


Wedding night Coriolanus, 1: 181–183 Wedding plays A Midsummer Night’s Dream, 2: 589–590 Wife beating The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 567 Witches and witchcraft The Merry Wives of Windsor, 2: 566–570

I n d e x

Y Youth v. experience All’s Well That Ends Well, 1: 13

V o l u m e

3

x x i x

Shakespeare for Students, Volumes 1-3 (gnv64).pdf

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