Patterning in Shakespearean Drama: Essays in Criticism [Reprint 2018 ed.] 9783110889857, 9789027924728

Table of contents :
Preface
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Introduction: Shakespearean Patterns
1. Titus Andronicus: From the Beginning
2. The Two Gentlemen of Verona: The Structure of Early Shakespearean Romance
3. Pattern and Balance in Love's Labour's Lost
4. The Insubstantial World of Richard II: Patterns of Dissolution and Identity
5. The Merchant of Venice: Bond or Free?
6. As You Like It: A Comedy of Patterns
7. Macbeth: The Round of Sovereignty
8. Measure for Measure: Freedom and Restraint
9. The Unstable World of Antony and Cleopatra
10. The Tempest: The Perennial Problem
To Conclude
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

DE PROPRIETATIBUS

LITTERARUM

edenda curat C. H. V A N S C H O O N E V E L D Indiana University

Series Practica,

69

PATTERNING IN SHAKESPEAREAN DRAMA Essays in Criticism

by

WILLIAM LEIGH

GODSHALK

University of Cincinnati

1973 MOUTON THE H A G U E · PARIS

© Copyright 1973 in The Netherlands Mouton & Co. N.V., Publishers, The Hague No part of this book may be translated or reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publishers

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER: 73-78114

Printed in The Netherlands by Zuid-Nederlandsche Drukkerij N.V., 's-Hertogenbosch

Dedication To all those who made this book possible, and especially for my father, my mother, and my wife.

PREFACE

The following study of Shakespeare's dramatic career from Titus Andronicus to The Tempest grew out of a course on Shakespeare which I taught at the College of William and Mary and continue to teach at the University of Cincinnati. Not a few of the patterns which will be examined hereafter, I am forced to admit, were first brought to my attention by my perceptive students. I owe them a debt of gratitude, and I can only hope that our discussions were as profitable to them as they were to me. The study is composed of an introduction and ten chapters. The introduction contains a description of 'patterning' as the concept is here used. This description is followed by an illustrative survey of Shakespeare's use of polar patterning. The third part of the introduction is a brief defense of the method. Originally I had thought that such a defense was unnecessary; but in the past year, two distinguished American scholars have indicated that some apologia is necessary. The first asked me whether I really saw all those patterns of which I spoke — implying, of course, that he did not. The second, an even more distinguished scholar, wrote me that my method demands too much of any theater audience. I do not think that it does, and in my defense I explain why. The following ten chapters are studies of individual plays, written to explore the ideas about Shakespearean patterning propounded in the introduction. Rather than impose preconceived patterns from without, I have tried to approach each play as a separate entity, with the idea that the play itself would, upon patient consideration, yield its dominant patterns. Nevertheless, several of the studies resemble each other, for certain plays seem to demand similar treatment. As my work continued, one major motif emerged from the plays — the idea of the social bond. It became more and more apparent to me that Shakespeare was recurrently interested in man's relationship to society and in what his duties within that society consisted. At least the plays manifest such interests, and in consequence, so do the following ten studies. There

10

PREFACE

is also an 'after word' in which I briefly sum up my conclusions. In preparing these studies, I have used as far as was possible the volumes in the Arden Edition of Shakespeare's works edited by divers hands. For The Two Gentlemen of Verona and As You Like It I have used the Penguin Edition which is generally available and textually accurate. In quoting plays not directly considered, I have used Hardin Craig's edition of the complete plays (Chicago, 1961). Here and there some liberties have been taken with the initial capitalization and final punctuation of quoted material in order to integrate these passages into the critical commentary. Although I have tried to take into account the main trends of modern criticism, it has proven impossible to consider everything. Several chapters begin with comments on contemporary criticism; others have footnotes which direct the reader's attention to pertinent critical studies. The reader who requires a larger bibliography may turn to Gordon Ross Smith's A Classified Shakespeare Bibliography, 1936-1958 (University Park, 1963) and to the continuing bibliographies in Shakespeare Quarterly and Publications of the Modern Language Association. Ronald Berman's A Reader's Guide to Shakespeare's Plays: A Discursive Bibliography (Chicago, 1965), should also prove helpful. I would like to thank the following people for reading various portions of my manuscript (under varying degrees of constraint) and for making criticism against which I might struggle: Cecil McCulley, Jerry L. Mills, Charles O. McDonald, Thomas Stroup, G. Blakemore Evans, Philip Clayton, Lauri Brown, and Barbara Langheim. Of course, in this list I neglect my most pertinacious critic, my wife, who has suffered with me through long hours of typing only to be rewarded with an essay to read and to discuss. I also wish to acknowledge the several grants from the Charles Phelps Taft Memorial Fund which made the research for and the publication of this book possible. Chapters 2,3, and 8 first appeared, in periodical form, in Stijdies in Philology, Renaissance Papers 1968, and Shakespeare Studies, respectively. I wish to thank the editors and publishers of these journals for giving me permission to use the material here.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Preface Introduction: Shakespearean Patterns

9 13

1: Titus Andronicus: From the Beginning

23

2: The Two Gentlemen of Verona: The Structure of Early Shakespearean Romance

42

3: Pattern and Balance in Love's Labour's Lost

55

4: The Insubstantial World of Richard II: Patterns of Dissolution and Identity

68

5: The Merchant of Venice: Bond or Free?

87

6: As You Like It: A Comedy of Patterns

101

7: Macbeth: The Round of Sovereignty

116

8: Measure for Measure: Freedom and Restraint

134

9: The Unstable World of Antony and Cleopatra

150

10: The Tempest: The Perennial Problem

164

To Conclude

179

Bibliography

181

Index

191

INTRODUCTION SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

Although Shakespeare's early characterization has been challenged and adversely criticized with some degree of justice, even from the beginning of his career as playwright his sense of structure and his ability to unite the diverse elements of a play into a well-knit whole is unique. This idea of Shakespeare's initial and continuing structural competence is the central proposition of the present study, which thus stands in contrast to the prevailing developmental or evolutionary bias of most recent critical interpretations of his work. In the following pages, it should become evident that, even in his earliest extant plays, Shakespeare uses the methods of structural recurrence to underline continuity of action. Through similarity and contrast, he builds a scheme of dramatic irony, and suggests the total dramatic significance of the individual incident. Each incident is thus firmly linked with the rest of the play. The principle is simple to state, but difficult to use with the ease and the finesse that Shakespeare exhibits even in his first plays. In sum, the emphasis here will be on this constant factor of Shakespeare's dramatic patterning, rather than on the changes which may be seen in his artistic technique. The word 'pattern' will recur throughout the following chapters, 1 and its use is not completely arbitrary, but aimed at underscoring a particular method of structural analysis. Patterns are inclusive rather than exclusive; for as we are using the word, a pattern may include image and theme and action; it may be part of the characterization and the scenic layout. In theory, there is no limitation to the elements which may be included in an identifiable pattern, for the pattern is an intellectual construct. It may, for example, be introduced as an image and in the course of the play become a reality in the play's action. In turn, patterned 1

'Pattern' is not used here as it is in Irving Ribner's Patterns in Shakespearian Tragedy (London, 1960), nor as in Walter Clyde Curry's Shakespeare's Philosophical Patterns (Baton Rouge, 1937). Cf. Reuben A. Brower's use of 'design' in The Fields of Light: An Experiment in Critical Reading (New York, 1951), 3-92.

14

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

action may be supported by a discernible pattern in the play's scenes. A rapid succession of scenes, as in Antony and Cleopatra, may suggest instability, a quality which is also apparent in the protagonists. Pattern may suggest theme, and theme itself be subsumed under the general pattern. Although these observations suggest the ideal way of examining a play's complex patterning, the illustrative studies which follow rarely attain this ideal. Often it seems most convenient as well as instructive to isolate certain facets of a pattern for critical examination. To extract patterns from a play causes, of course, an inevitable distortion, but a necessary one if the critical process is to go on. In the play, patterns unite to form an organic whole. One might use the comparison of an oriental rug, where recurring patterns — sometimes with significant variations on the basic design — are joined into symmetrical unity. Thus united, dramatic patterns tend to qualify each other, and a process of modification is continually in progress. Patterns may work together to establish a dominant tone or feeling; a pattern may be ambivalent, suggesting one thing but actually yielding another; or patterns may assume polar functions, one pattern in ideological struggle with another. The synthesis which evolves gives the play both intellectual meaning and artistic unity. The intensification provided by patterned repetition plays a vital part in the drama's emotional output. Since a pattern as a whole is eclectic, the problem of isolating it in its various aspects must be faced. And here it seems best to be as little dogmatic as possible, for there is no foolproof method of finding and describing a play's dominant patterns. Unfortunately, what seems of the utmost significance to one critic is of only minor importance to another. As Gordon Ross Smith very sensibly writes, "Two interpretations may be mutually exclusive in that they could not both be represented simultaneously on a stage, but both may nevertheless be plausible, reasonable, and good theater." He goes on to explain the limitations of correctness in literary criticism as well as suggesting some criteria for determining what criticism is acceptable: the range of reasonable interpretations should be accepted as the only possible goal, and interpretations should be labeled "reasonable" only when they have been tied closely to the text, supported at each point from the text, and justified by consideration of the whole range of contemporaneous opinion, not merely by consideration of the apparently dominant and official opinions.2 2 Gordon Ross Smith, "Isabella and Elbow in Varying Contexts of Interpretation", JGE: Journal of General Education, XVII (1965-1966), 64, 65.

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

15

Following Smith's rationale, we may conclude that patterns also must be textually supported and critically tested. It is hoped that the reader will find the following chapters firmly based on a close reading of the text. Contemporary criticism has been taken into account, if only in the footnotes. However, the locating of patterns in a play is an act of the critic-as-playgoer, who sees and experiences, describes and explains. Though what the critic sees may be tested against contrary opinion and what he says must issue from a close familiarity with the play's verbal texture, the critical procedure is, at very bottom, subjective. However, for criticism to have validity it must have some relation to objective facts, and thus these generalizations about dramatic patterning must receive some immediate support from Shakespeare's plays. To illustrate the function of Shakespearean patterning, it may be best to examine a general pattern which Shakespeare uses throughout his career and which does not receive a great deal of attention in the following chapters: the polarity of place. Polarity in general is an important aspect of Shakespearean drama, and several of the plays with which we will later deal demand that the concept, in its essentials, be understood. As it is used here, polarity means that two locales in a play take to themselves contrasting images, ideals, modes, actions, which together create ideological opposites. The poles may be seen as emblematic or symbolic, much like the two angels in Marlowe's Faustus, and possibly the polarity of Shakespearean drama does have origins in the morality play. The complete background and all the modifications of polar patterning, however, cannot be gone into here; and our purpose will be only to survey some leading examples in Shakespeare. Like Athena, his use of polarity seems to have emerged from his teeming brain fully grown and in full dress. Alan Sommers finds the basic elements apparent in Titus Andronicus: The essential conflict ... is the struggle between Rome, and all that this signifies in the European tradition ..., and the barbarism of primitive, original nature. It is this opposition which realises itself in the play's striking events and startling atmospheric contrasts. ... The conflict in some respects resembles that of Antony and Cleopatra, though there is no intertwining and sublimation as in the later play, and one side is strongly antipathetic. The opposition is stark.3

The poles are the city of Rome and the forest outside where Lavinia is raped and mutilated; one pole suggests order and continuity, the other 3 Alan Sommers, " ' Wilderness of Tigers': Structure and Symbolism in Titus Andronicus", Essays in Criticism, X (1960), 276.

16

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

disorder and chaos. The polarity in Titus is not as strongly emphasized, however, as it is in Love's Labour's Lost. In the latter, the differentiation between the court of the king and the tent of the princess is deliberately maintained, even in the arrangement of the scenes. The court becomes the center of illusion, folly, and artificiality. The movement of the play is away from the court and the figure of the king and toward the tent of the princess who represents reality, wisdom, and naturalness. Even though the "wooing doth not end like an old play; / Jack hath not Jill" (V.ii.864865), the polar tension is resolved in favor of the princess. In the end, the king and his men have accepted her standards. A Midsummer Night's Dream sets up a functional polarity, but does not seem to resolve the resulting tension in quite the same way as Love's Labour's Lost. Again there is a contrast established between the court and the world of nature which surrounds it, but this time the pole of the court stands for reason and restraint. The play opens in the court with Theseus and Hippolyta speaking of their oncoming marriage. Though Theseus bemoans the fact that they must wait four days until they can enjoy the marital state, Hippolyta soothes him: "Four days will quickly steep themselves in night" (I.i.7). There is a natural conflict between human desire and social custom, but Theseus and his future duchess resolve to act according to the dictates of reason and order. In contrast are the woods outside Athens, where Oberon, the King of Fairies, and his estranged queen, Titania, present a different picture of aristocratic behavior. Oberon is "passing fell and wrath" that Titania will not give him one of her attendants, a "lovely boy" (II.i.20,22). Their continuing quarrel has led to disruptions in nature: Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea Contagious fogs; which falling in the land Have every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. (II.i.88-92) The crops have been ruined; people are starving, and all stems from this royal quarrel in fairyland. Thus the pole of the forest is associated with passion, unreason, unrestraint, destruction, and, as the play goes on, with fantasy. The resolution is accomplished by the court, represented by Theseus and Hippolyta, visiting the forest. Immediately before the visit, Oberon takes Titania's hand, saying: Now thou and I are new in amity And will to-morrow midnight solemnly

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

17

D a n c e in D u k e Theseus' house triumphantly A n d bless it to all fair prosperity. (IV.i.91-94)

Led by Oberon and Titania, the return visit paid to the court by the denizens of the forest suggests the complete union of the opposing poles. Passion and reason have been united, and the mutual coming together is symbolized by marriage. In As You Like It, Shakespeare returns again, at least in part, to the polarity suggested in the contrast between court and country. The court of the new Duke Frederick is set against the forest retreat of the dispossessed Duke Senior. Jay Halio has defined one part of the contrast in terms of time-consciousness. 4 In general, he sees Arden as a timeless world which is linked with the mythic Golden Age. It stands against the life of court and city which is extremely aware of time's passage. A complex tension develops between natural and unnatural, human and animal. There are other differences in action and theme which support the contrast, but the polarity between court and forest is not as distinct as in A Midsummer Night's Dream; for at the beginning of the third act, Duke Frederick exits for the last time, thus removing one of the poles. In Troilus and Cressida, we find the kind of polarity which informs the early comedies we have looked at, but with more tragic overtones. Outside the walls of Troy, the Greek camp forms the pole of reason and reality. Within, the Trojans have been blinded by passion and false appearances. G. Wilson Knight, however, sees an entirely different polarity at work in the play: The love of Troilus, the heroism o f Hector, the symbolic romance which burns in the figure of Helen — these are placed beside the "scurril jests" and lazy pride o f Achilles, the block-headed stupidity o f Ajax, the mockery o f Thersites. The Trojan party stands for human beauty and worth, the Greek party for the bestial and stupid elements of m a n . 5

Nevertheless, a comparison of the two councils, the first in the Greek camp (I.iii), the second in the Trojan citadel (Il.ii), should quickly tell the playgoer that Knight has missed the point. The Greeks are attempting to reassert order, while the Trojans, even though Hector sees the necessity of order (Il.ii. 180), are given to destructive passion. Later, Troilus finds that his Trojan lover was both passionate and deceptive, while his experience in the Greek camp enables him to see reality. The polarities, 4

Jay L. Halio, " 'No Clock in the Forest': Time in As You Like It", Studies in English Literature, II (1962), 197-207. 5 George Wilson Knight, The Wheel of Fire: Interpretations of Shakespearean Tragedy (New York, 1957), 47.

18

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

nevertheless, remain in tension, and even the death of Hector seems to provide no full-scale resolution. The poles of Egypt and Rome provide a similar situation in Antony and Cleopatra. The harsh, military Rome is set against Egypt, a country of pleasure and love. In Egypt, the ruler is a woman, and the country is a woman's world where Mars is led by Venus. In Rome, the dominant roles are played by men, and docile Octavia is merely a political pawn in the struggle for power. Cleopatra's world emphasizes the warm, the sensuous, the fruitful; it is a country of feasting and luxury. Caesar's Rome is the exact opposite: cold, dispassionate, unfruitful. Caesar decries the over-eating and drinking at Pompey's feast, and praises Antony's ability to consume the most unwholesome foods on a military campaign. The contrast between Rome and Egypt pervades the play, and, as in Troilus and Cressida, there is no resolution of the tension. Caesar may come to Egypt, but he is in arms. One may choose a pole to which one may give one's allegiance; but the poles can never find a common ground — even though Cleopatra may desire, in her final act, to unite Roman valor and Egyptian passion. The pattern of contrasting loci is also found in the romances as is most readily seen in The Winter's Tale. Mythologically, Sicily, the island kingdom of Leontes, is the place where Proserpine was raped by gloomy Dis, a rape which caused all the miseries of winter. It is a land of sorrow, death, and the separation of parent from child, of husband from wife. Standing in contrast, Bohemia, where Polixenes reigns, is the kingdom of springtime. In the form of Perdita, Flora returns to grace the declining year. Sicily is torn apart by the irrational jealousy of Perdita's father, while Bohemia becomes the land of youthful, redeeming love. In some ways, the two poles are representative of reality and fantasy, both brought to their quintessential purity. If the jealous Leontes is the embodiment of unreasonable brutality, then Bohemia is the never-never land of romance. An inland country without seacoasts, Bohemia is the place where Perdita is brought by ship as a baby. Here some sixteen years or so pass while a Chorus speaks thirty-two lines, and the heir apparent of the kingdom has fallen in love with a shepherd girl, who is actually a disinherited princess. But in The Winter's Tale, the poles of the play must come together: Polixenes must return to visit Leontes in Sicily; the pastoral world of Bohemia must come to mitigate the harshness of the winter kingdom. And so they do, and with the reunion of Sicily and Bohemia comes the reunion of love and friendship; and life returns to a barren land.

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

19

In rapidly surveying Shakespeare's use of polar patterning, we have noticed that certain of the poles find embodiment in leading characters. Theseus is the reasonable ruler of Athens, while Oberon is the unreasonable ruler of the forest darkness. Cleopatra and Caesar are contrasting emblems in the life of Antony. Such a list might easily be extended, and one might argue that the polarity of place is irrevocably linked with a polarity of character. On the other hand, the polarity of character is not necessarily symbolized in spatial terms. In Richard II, for example, though Richard and Bolingbroke are polar figures, the polarity is distinctly not seen in terms of place, for England is the common ground. But here we are dangerously close to simple dramatic antagonism, which must be embodied in character. Perhaps by finding polarity in Richard and Bolingbroke, we are merely saying that they are dramatic figures in conflict. But a further disclaimer must be entered here: the polarities in a Shakespearean play are not absolutes. They behave something like a halfdiscernible design, now apparent, now gone. The two major locales of a play may appear to be, seen from one viewpoint, only parts of a unified dramatic world. Certain patterns in a play seem to disregard any polarity. And yet, though muted, the polarities are present, and some recognition of Shakespearean polarity is necessary in understanding his plays. However, that a play is an intellectual form which must be approached intellectually has been implicitly and explicitly questioned by certain critics. Though the twentieth century has generally accepted the merits of structural criticism, its applicability to the drama as a performing art has been less widely accepted. 6 Thus it seems appropriate to end this introduction by considering possible objections to the present method. In his discussion of Shakespearean tragedy, John Holloway provides the basis for such objections by his insistence on the emotive quality of literature. 7 He claims that, for the truly appreciative auditor or reader, the response to a work of art is varied and intense emotion, and that these emotions are chiefly anxiety, empathy, tension, relief, admiration, and 6

Elmer Edgar Stoll has led the attack; see, e.g., his Shakespeare and Other Masters (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1940), 3-58. Arnold Kettle, "Some Tendencies in Shakespearian Criticism", Shakespeare-Jahrbuch, CH (1966), 23-36, feels that the type of criticism used in the present study is now under attack from many quarters. Perhaps one attacking critic is Alfred Harbage, who, in "Innocent Barabas", Tulane Drama Review, VIII, iv (1963-1964), 53, says that Marlowe's interest in Barabas is that of a "popular entertainer", not an artist. 7 John Holloway, The Story of the Night: Studies in Shakespeare's Major Tragedies (London, 1961), 17.

20

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

delight. He feels that before literature is a source of knowledge or insight, it is a source of emotional power. The distinction which Holloway draws between knowledge and power is, of course, adumbrated in Thomas De Quincey's review of Pope. "All the literature of knowledge builds only ground-nests, that are swept away by floods, or confounded by the plough; but the literature of power builds nests in aërial altitudes of temples sacred from violation, or of forests inaccessible to fraud." 8 The literature of power is the literature of emotion, and it therefore follows in De Quincey's discussion that literature is to be read for the emotions which the reader acquires. In this tradition of literary criticism, an emotional approach is of prime value, while an intellectual reading is patently absurd, for it defeats the basic purpose of art. Of course, other critics modify this view, but there often remains the assumption that art is first and foremost emotive, that intellectual satisfaction, if there is any, is only of secondary importance. But we must be aware that this is only an assumption, no matter how well it is grounded in twentieth-century philosophy. Before noticing the effects of this assumption on dramatic criticism, we must glance at the progress of another assumption which was once a dominant critical force. In the 1580's Sir Philip Sidney reacted strongly against what he considered the inartistic construction of the Elizabethan play. He assumed that the basis of the well-built play was a strict adherence to the classical unities, which had been elaborated by the Renaissance interpreters of Aristotle. Although the unities were never very highly regarded by English playwrights, during the eighteenth century the critics began to discard the doctrine. Writing of the Faerie Queene, Richard Hurd argued that, though the poem lacks "the classic Unity", it has "an Unity of another sort, an unity resulting from the respect which a number of related actions have to one common purpose. In other words, it is unity of design, and not of action." He likens this kind of artistic design to the "Gothic method of design in Gardening" in which "the whole was brought together and considered under one view by the relation which these various openings had ... to their common and concurrent center." 9 And Dr. Johnson himself commented that

From Thomas De Quincey's "The Poetry of Pope" in the North British Review (August 1848), reprinted in The Collected Writings of Thomas De Quincey, ed. David Masson (London, 1897), XI, 59. 9 Richard Hurd, Letters on Chivalry and Romance (1762), ed. Hoyt Trowbridge (Los Angeles, 1963), 66-67. 8

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

21

"nothing is essential to the fable but unity of action". 1 0 The final step in this process of ridding English criticism of the bugbear of the 'unities' came with Coleridge's concept of the willing suspension of disbelief. 11 When one enters the theater, to enjoy the performance one must accept the conventions upon which the drama depends. One is not viewing reality, but art. The unities, on the other hand, were based on the postulate that the playgoer could only accept the drama if it conformed quite closely to reality, especially in its use of time and space. We now feel that this postulate is untrue and that a play depends largely on art for its effect. Nevertheless, though we have accepted Coleridge's dictum and its consequences, in some quarters of twentieth-century criticism there lurks the suspicion that Elizabethan drama is an unsophisticated art form. Having a complex background in unities criticism, this suspicion seems closely linked with the perennial misconception of the uneducated Shakespeare, and both are part of the group of ideas which gather around the assumption that literature and especially drama is emotive and not intellectual. Further, as part of this related group of ideas, it is assumed that the Elizabethan or Jacobean audience was not quick enough to apprehend subtilities of dramatic form, and thus such subtilities should not be sought in Renaissance English drama. 1 2 The chief problem seen in a closely-argued intellectual interpretation, however, is that the play is performed. It depends, according to this position, on rapid action and instant effects. A Renaissance audience may have been able to realize and understand the extremely complicated patterning of Sidney's Arcadia, but the romance might be read several times and pondered at length. The Shakespearean play, on the other hand, was not intended to be read, at least not until it was exhausted as a box-office investment. The play primarily depends on the actors to give it life; it is presented scene by scene to the beholder, and since there is no chance to re-read or to turn backward and forward in the book of the play, the play must not be scrutinized too closely. In consequence, and this is the point toward which the argument tends, an Elizabethan

10 Samuel Johnson on Shakespeare, ed. W. K. Wimsatt, Jr. (New York, 1960), 40. Johnson observes that the audience always realizes "that the stage is only a stage" (38), never reality. 11 See Coleridge's Writings on Shakespeare, ed. Terence Hawkes ( N e w York, 1959), 44-54. Coleridge amplifies and popularizes Johnson. 12 In contrast, see Alfred Harbage's evaluation in Shakespeare's Audience (New York, 1961), 9 0 , 1 6 7 .

22

INTRODUCTION: SHAKESPEAREAN PATTERNS

play is not susceptible to the methods of modern formalistic criticism. This attitude toward the complexity of the drama, especially the Renaissance drama, may be called, as Clifford Lyons, an eminent exponent of the position suggests, "the theatrical fallacy". 13 It is, I believe, fallacious at two points. First, this approach seems to hold that the dramatic artist is not the same kind of verbal creator as the lyric or epic poet, or the novelist, or the creator of any fable. It would seem to indicate that the playwright does not create coherent, organic works of art, but mere patchworks of scenes and scenic effects; that either the play falls apart when inspected too closely, or yields results which the writer could never have intended. Second, this approach seems to postulate that the audience has only dormant powers of remembering, questioning, or thinking. The playgoer becomes a kind of inert receiving system, who quite passively notices little and thinks less. The present study, however, is based on different assumptions. Here it is assumed that Shakespeare is a creative artist of integrity, who might well refuse, even under economic stress, to put a slip-shod piece of work on the boards. It is taken for granted that he thought about his work and that he expected his audience to do the same. The best playgoer is a person with the widest and most sympathetic perception, a person who audits the play carefully, enters into its mood and its meaning, and who enjoys discussing the play hours and even days after the actors have ceased to speak. This ideal playgoer not only experiences (both intellectually and emotionally) the play as it is performed, but also carries away from the theater, in his mind's eye, a picture of the play as a whole. And, should he find the play much to his liking, he may return to the theater to see and hear it many times. Obviously through this process, the play becomes apprehended less and less emotively. The intellect comes into full play, and here the most mature criticism of the play begins.

13 The phrase is taken from Clifford Lyons's "Shakespeare's Plays: devis'd and play'd to take spectators': Some Critical Implications", Renaissance Papers 1968 (Southeastern Renaissance Conference, 1969), 56, where it is used in jest about his own criticism. See also his essays, " 'It appears so by the story': Notes on NarrativeThematic Emphasis in Shakespeare", Shakespeare Quarterly, IX (1958), 287-294, and "Stage Imagery in Shakespeare's Plays", Essays on Shakespeare and Elizabethan Drama in Honor of Hardin Craig, ed. Richard Hosley (Columbia, Missouri, 1962), 261-274.

1 TITUS

ANDRONICUS:

FROM THE

BEGINNING

O n January 23, 1594, Philip H e n s l o w e recorded that he had a n e w play, "titus & o n d r o n i c u s " . T a k i n g into a c c o u n t H e n s l o w e ' s spelling deficiencies, deficiencies notable e v e n in an age o f unstandardized usage, scholars have decided that he w a s p r o b a b l y referring t o Shakespeare's Andronicus.1

Titus

Nevertheless, m a n y have felt, w h e n reading the play, closer

to the beginnings o f Shakespeare's dramatic career than t o the mid1590's; f o r if w e date Titus

Andronicus

believe that Shakespeare wrote Romeo

in 1593-1594, it is difficult t o and Juliet

the f o l l o w i n g year.

J. C. M a x w e l l , the A r d e n editor, w o u l d like t o accept "a date a b o u t 1589", 2 and Peter A l e x a n d e r cites evidence which suggests that the play w a s "already a w e l l - k n o w n piece" by 10 June 1592 and n o t e s that J o n s o n links it with The Spanish

Tragedy

w h i c h is traditionally dated in the

1 5 8 0 ' s . 3 Alfred H a r b a g e theorizes that H e n s l o w e ' s designation " n e " (i.e. 1

See Henslowe's Diary, edited with Supplementary Material, Introduction and Notes by Reginald A. Foakes and R. T. Rickert (Cambridge, England, 1961), 21: "ne — Rd at titus & ondronicus the 23 of Jene wary". For comment, see Walter W. Greg's edition (London, 1904-1908), II, 159-162. 2 James Coutts Maxwell, ed., Titus Andronicus (London, 1963), xxxvi. Maxwell notes "there does not seem to be anything that flatly contradicts a date of about 1589-90" (xxv). See also R. F. Hill, "The Composition of Titus Andronicus", Shakespeare Survey, X (1957), 60-70, who suggests that Titus is "either Shakespeare's first play ... or else the work of more than one author" (60). Joseph S. G. Bolton, "Titus Andronicus: Shakespeare at Thirty", Studies in Philology, XXX (1933), 208-224, reviews the theories of authorship and suggests that Shakespeare was thoroughly and carefully revising another's work. It has been suggested that Peele wrote scene one (see Maxwell's edition, xxvi-xxvii). Maxwell, "Peele and Shakespeare: A Stylometric Test", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, XLIX (1950), 557-561, notes a unique grammatical construction apparent only in Peele's poems, his one well-preserved late play, and the first act of Titus, as another piece of evidence for Peele's authorship of scene one. However, it does not preclude the possibility that Shakespeare wrote the scene under the influence of Peele's style. The lack of scholarly agreement notwithstanding, the present study accepts an early dating of the play and Shakespearean authorship throughout. The text used for quotation is Maxwell's Arden edition. 3

Peter Alexander, Shakespeare (London, 1964), 209. Cf. Edmund Kerchever Cham-

24

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

' n e w ' ) m e a n s ' n e w l y revised', a n d t h a t t h e p l a y w e n o w h a v e " r e p r e s e n t s merely the hasty salvaging of a piece written in the

fifteen-eighties

t h e a u t h o r c o u l d write c o m e d y b u t c o u l d n o t yet w r i t e t r a g e d y " .

4

when Indeed,

o n e m a y feel t h a t t h e r e v i s i o n s m u s t h a v e b e e n f e w , or t h a t t h e e x t a n t p l a y is t h e earlier, u n r e v i s e d v e r s i o n . C o n s e q u e n t l y , m o s t critics h a v e b e e n u n h a p p y w i t h S h a k e s p e a r e ' s first tragedy, h o p i n g t h a t it w a s m e a n t t o b e a b u r l e s q u e o f t h e " t r a g e d y o f b l o o d " , 5 or s i m p l y d i s m i s s i n g it w i t h a w i t t i c i s m o f their o w n . J o h n M a s e f i e l d , f o r e x a m p l e , w h o c a n o f t e n write q u i t e s e n s i b l y o f t h e p l a y s c o m m e n t s : " T h e r e c a n b e n o d o u b t t h a t S h a k e s p e a r e w r o t e a little o f this t r a g e d y ; it is n o t k n o w n w h e n ; n o r w h y . " 6 W i t h o u t d e a l i n g either i n w i t t i c i s m or in a b s o l u t e e s t h e t i c j u d g m e n t s , w e m a y l o o k a t t h e p l a y a s a n artistic c o n s t r u c t i o n a n d e x a m i n e h o w S h a k e s p e a r e built w h a t a p p e a r s o n t h e s u r f a c e t o b e his m o s t p r i m i t i v e d r a m a t i c structure. 7 In a n a l y z i n g t h e f o r m o f t h e p l a y , it is p e r h a p s b e s t bers, William Shakespeare: A Study of Facts and Problems (Oxford, 1930), I, 320-321. Paul E. Bennett, "An Apparent Allusion to Titus Andronicus", Notes and Queries, II (1955), 422-424, feels that the lines in A Knack to Know a Knave, "As Titus was vnto the Roman Senators, / When he had made a conquest on the Goths:" are probably corrupt, and that the 1594 quarto of the play is a bad quarto, i.e., a memorial reconstruction by several of the Strange-Derby men in December 1593 or January 1594. He thus suggests that the allusion is to Titus Vespasianus and that " G o t h s " is a corruption of "Jews". Though interesting, Bennett's case is not conclusive and is marred by overstatement. 4 Alfred Harbage, William Shakespeare: A Reader's Guide (New York, 1963), 104. 5 See, e.g., Mark Van Doren, Shakespeare (Garden City, New York, 1953), 29, who is followed by John Dover Wilson, ed., Titus Andronicus (Cambridge, England, 1948), Iii. 6 John Masefield, William Shakespeare (New York, 1912), 50. 7 Comparatively little solid criticism of Titus has appeared, and perhaps the most helpful study is Alan Sommers, " ''Wilderness of Tigers': Structure and Symbolism in Titus Andronicus", Essays in Criticism, X (1960), 275-289. A. C. Hamilton's essay on the play, first appearing in Shakespeare Quarterly, XIV (1963), 201-213, was rewritten for his The Early Shakespeare (San Marino, 1967), 63-89. Hereward T. Price has three essays on various aspects of the play: "The Language of Titus Andronicus", Papers of the Michigan Academy of Science, Arts, and Letters, XXI (1935), 501-507; "The Authorship of Titus Andronicus", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, XLII (1943), 55-81, which argues for Shakespeare's authorship and contains valuable criticism ; and "The First Quarto of Titus Andronicus [sic]", English Institute Essays, 1947 (New York, 1948), 137-168, which investigates the importance of the spelling. Eugene Waith, "The Metamorphosis of Violence in Titus Andronicus", Shakespeare Survey, X (1957), 39-49, argues that the play has a special tragic mode and that it owes more, in both characterization and style, to Ovid than to Seneca. Muriel Bradbrook, Shakespeare and Elizabethan Poetry (London, 1951), feels that the play is a kind of dramatic lament (104), reminding one of a pageant rather than a play. She sees a "moral heraldry" throughout the play (107). On the other hand, Gerald Weales, "Titus Andronicus, Private Eye", Southwest Review, XLIV (1959), 255-259, compares Titus to its modern counterpart, the private-eye film, e.g., The Big Sleep. For the background of contemporary Renaissance ideas about classical Romans, see T. J. B. Spencer, "Shakespeare and the Elizabethan Romans", Shakespeare Survey, X (1957), 27-38.

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

25

to begin with the first long scene 8 and trace the growth of the unified whole from this microcosm. The method may be that of the pedestrian commentator, but the resulting insights into the growth of dramatic patterns in the play should justify the means. Throughout his career, Shakespeare seems to have planned the first scene of each play as an overture to the patterns which form the framework of the play as a whole. The first scene of Titus is structured around a tripartite conflict between six brothers: Bassianus and Saturninus; Titus and Marcus; Demetrius and Chiron. The tensions engendered by these 'quarrels' motivate the following action. The play opens on the conflict between Saturninus and Bassianus, a struggle for the "empery" of Rome. Their struggle, however, quickly becomes symbolic of greater issues, and a close analysis of the opening, antiphonal speeches of Saturninus and Bassianus suggests the poles in this ideological opposition. Saturninus directs his first words to the "Noble patricians, patrons of my right" (I.i.l), and immediately calls for violent action: "Defend the justice of my cause with a r m s " (2). Since one of the major themes of the play is justice and its perversions, his introduction of the concept here is significant and surely ironic in the context of the following action. He addresses his followers next, commanding them to "Plead my successive title with your swords" (4). Although the monarchy seems to be elective, Saturninus bases his right to the throne on primogeniture — a plea to authority. In his eight line speech, he characterizes himself clearly as a violent authoritarian. His brother, Bassianus, on the contrary, makes a more general appeal to the R o m a n populace, asking them to Keep then this passage to the Capitol, And suffer not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, To justice, continence, and nobility; But let desert in pure election shine, And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. (12-17) The violence called for here is defensive, protective. Bassianus contrasts the "dishonour" of his brother, which is only hinted, not described, with the virtues inherent in the imperial office: justice, continence, nobility. The word "continence" means 'self-restraint', especially sexual self-

8 See Maxwell's edition, note on I.i.495. In the First Folio the last third of the first scene is placed in the second act by a false act-scene division, and thus the basic form of scene one is distorted and remains distorted in many modern editions.

26

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

restraint, and the ensuing action of scene one may indicate why Bassianus chooses this particular virtue. His emphasis on free election according to just desert underlines his essential opposition to his brother's insistence on authority. This initial conflict between the two brothers is resolved by Titus upon his triumphant return to Rome. He is presented with their contrasting attitudes, as Saturnine shouts: "Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not / Till Saturninus be Rome's emperor" (204-205), and Bassianus says: Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, But honour thee, and will do till I die: My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. (212-216)

And possibly the old soldier's choice could have been predicted. Having dedicated his life to violence and to authority, he asks the tribunes to create our emperor's eldest son, Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal. (224-227)

Titus chooses according to rule, to primogeniture, and sees nothing ominous in the violence of Saturnine's character. To consolidate his position, Saturninus asks Titus to give him Lavinia, Titus's daughter, as wife. Titus agrees, apparently either forgetting or overlooking that Lavinia is already betrothed to Bassianus. The struggle for the throne is now transferred to the struggle for Lavinia, and the conflict is temporarily resolved when Bassianus, supported by all the Andronici except Titus, carries her off. Marcus Andronicus states the principle involved: "Suum cuique is our Roman justice: / This prince in justice seizeth but his own" (280-281). Nevertheless, Titus refuses to acknowledge that he himself is wrong, and thus, the two older Andronici come into conflict, Titus blindly backing Saturninus, Marcus supporting the solid claims of Bassianus. In his attempt to preserve Lavinia for Saturninus, Titus willingly sacrifices the life of his son Mutius. His killing of Mutius emphasizes that the family rift is genuine, even though short in duration. Titus and Marcus join together in the burial of Mutius, and their temporary conflict over which way justice lies is quickly resolved in mutual understanding and forgiveness. The relationship of their quarrel and its resolution to the

'TITUS ANDRONICUS' : FROM THE BEGINNING

27

more deep-seated and serious conflict between Saturninus and Bassianus underlines the contrast between the two pairs of brothers. In the world of the play, Saturninus and Bassianus remain at odds, and their symbolic reentry at different doors (s.d., line 398) with the new brides, Tamora and Lavinia, prepares the playgoer for their continued antipathy. The verbal sallies which follow are important in adumbrating the action of the play. Saturnine tells Bassianus that, "if Rome have law or we have power" (403), he will "repent this rape" of Lavinia (404). Bassianus's reply defends the justice of his position: Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own, My true-betrothed love, and now my wife? But let the laws of Rome determine all; Meanwhile am I possess'd of that is mine. (405-408) The important word is "rape". Bassianus, of course, has not 'raped' Lavinia since she seems to go with him happily; yet, as often in the play, the metaphoric will become the actual. The sons of Tamora will ravish Lavinia in the forest, and when they do, the laws of Rome will not be invoked against them. The present incident stands as a contrast to the actual rape which follows. Indeed much of the conflict in the play centers about Lavinia. Although the sacrifice of Alarbus is the overt motivation of Tamora and her sons, the desirable Lavinia is the immediate cause of the ensuing action, and the effects of her violation and mutilation reverberate throughout the play, only to be silenced by the death of all involved. The struggle between Demetrius and Chiron which ends the first scene ironically mirrors the struggle between Saturninus and Bassianus for Lavinia. The opening speeches of the Goth brothers as they reenter sound almost like a parody of the opening speeches of the late emperor's quarreling sons. Demetrius begins: Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wits wants edge, And manners, to intrude where I am grae'd, And may, for aught thou knowest, affected be. (II.i.26-28) Just as Saturninus had based his claim to the throne on primogeniture, Demetrius reminds Chiron who is the older brother. Chiron, of course, rejects the idea that the elder must inevitably overbear the younger in all things: 'Tis not the difference of a year or two Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate: I am as able and as fit as thou To serve, and to deserve my mistress' grace;

28

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

And that my sword upon thee shall approve, And plead my passions for Lavinia's love. (31-36) Again the quarrel is over Lavinia; but this time, neither contestant can claim that justice is on his side, for both are bent on illicit love. As Aaron indecently puts it, any "snatch or so / Would serve your turns" (95-96). The M o o r resolves their struggle with the suggestion that they both enjoy Lavinia during the hunt which Titus has proposed: The forest walks are wide and spacious, And many unfrequented plots there are Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. (114-116) The brothers agree to unite in the rape of Lavinia, an act which drives the play ultimately to its tragic conclusion. The Goths — the Elizabethans pronounced it "goats", a traditionally lecherous animal — bring an aggressive sexuality into the play, and this sexual evil is here the prime destructive force. If the first long scene, a scene reminiscent of Marlowe's long opening scene in Edward II, is unified by the contrasting quarrels between the three sets of brothers, it is also unified by two other series of actions: on the verbal level by pleas, on the visual by kneeling. 9 Although Judith Karr has suggested that the pattern of pleas is visually reinforced by that of kneeling, this juxtaposition is not always evident. Each kneeling does not coincide with a verbal plea, and a plea is not always made with the appropriate gesture of humility. Nevertheless, the two do come together at important junctures in the play, and it is interesting as well as instructive to mark their use in the first scene. We must, therefore, partially retrace our steps and return to the beginning of scene one. The scene opens, as we have noticed, with the pleas of Saturnine and Bassianus, in which Saturnine calls on his followers to " P l e a d " his "successive title with" their "swords" (4). On the other hand, Marcus asks both contestants to "Plead" their "deserts in peace and humbleness" (45). The brothers here plead for what they may justly feel is their own, and thus the pattern of pleas is initially connected with the theme of justice. Mercy should temper justice, and the third plea is for the salvation of Alarbus. Tamora kneels, as she later says, and calls on her " R o m a n brethren" not to sacrifice her son: 9

See Judith M. Karr, "The Pleas of Titus Andronicus", (1963), 278-279.

Shakespeare

Quarterly,

XIV

'TITUS ANDRONICUS' : FROM THE BEGINNING

29

Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood: Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful; Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge: Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. (116-120) Titus replies, "Patient yourself, madam" (121), and explains that his surviving sons "Religiously ... ask a sacrifice" (124). There is no doubt in his mind that mercy must wait on justice. The dismemberment of Alarbus which follows introduces another unifying pattern. To the imperceptive playgoer, the dismemberment may seem a piece of gratuitous cruelty and horror, or perhaps, at best, a motivational necessity which is soon forgotten. However, its function is more nearly symbolic; it suggests the fragmentation of society in the Roman world. After the sons of Andronicus inform the audience that "Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd" (143), Marcus tells Titus that he must "help to set a head on headless Rome" (186). The close union of action and metaphor indicates that we are to view the dismembering throughout the play as symbolic of the state of Rome. The body politic itself is dismembered. 10 But a point to underscore before continuing is that the dismemberment results from Titus's lack of mercy. Also juxtaposed closely with Tamora's kneeling for mercy is Lavinia's kneeling for Titus's paternal blessing. Lavinia welcomes her father "with tears of joy" (161), asking him to "bless me here with thy victorious hand, / Whose fortunes Rome's best citizens applaud" (163-164). In the light of what follows, his blessing rings with terrible irony: Lavinia, live; outlive thy father's days, And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise. (167-168) The hand that has conquered and silenced Tamora, now blesses Lavinia. The hand gives, as the hand has taken away. The similar actions of the two women so closely juxtaposed force the playgoer from the first scene to compare and contrast Tamora and Lavinia. 11 As the play progresses, the points of contrast increase. 10

Christopher Ricks, "Sejanus and Dismemberment", Modern Language Notes, LXXVI (1961), 301-308, notices a similar use of dismemberment in Jonson's play. The actual dismemberment of Sejanus serves as a symbol for the dislocation of Roman life, i.e., the dismemberment of the body politic. It is possible that Jonson got his idea from Shakespeare's Titus, a play with which Jonson was (contemptuously) familiar. 11 Lavinia may be seen as symbol of Rome. As the play opens, she is single. She asks her father's blessing as the state has sought his blessing and protection. The struggle for the state is reenacted in Bassianus's and Saturninus's fight for Lavinia. As Bassianus

30

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

After Titus has killed his son for opposing him, an action that balances his sacrifice of Alarbus, the other Andronici, led by Marcus, plead that Mutius be buried in the family monument. Titus, however, feels that Mutius has disgraced him and his family, and does not deserve to be honorably buried. Marcus begins a series of antiphonal pleas, "Brother, for in that name doth nature plead, — " (370), and Titus is finally brought to relent, "Rise, Marcus, rise" (383), and to participate in the burial. Having interred Mutius, the Andronici, including Titus, kneel at his grave, saying: " N o man shed tears for noble Mutius; / He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause" (389-390). For the first time, Titus kneels; until this point in the action, the others have knelt to him. His kneeling at Mutius's tomb will be recalled later in the play, for this is merely the first in a series of reversals which Titus must undergo. As Saturninus and Bassianus reenter, Bassianus pleads to his brother for the restoration of Titus to imperial favor, this man who "With his own hand did slay his youngest son, / In zeal to you" (418-419). Blind to his own good, Titus snarls: Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds: 'Tis thou, and those, that have dishonoured me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge How I have lov'd and honoured Saturnine. (424-427) At this point, Tamora falsely pleads to her new husband, asking him to declare a general amnesty. In an aside she explains to him, "I'll find a day to massacre them all, ... ¡ And make them know what 'tis to let a queen / Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain" (450, 454-455). During Tamora's plea, Titus kneels before the imperial couple, and Saturnine, having been convinced to dissemble, says, echoing Titus himself: "Rise, Titus, rise" (459). But Tamora is not content; and she forces the other Andronici, "humbled on" their "knees", to "ask pardon of his majesty" (472-473). With some reluctance, Saturnine finally says, "Stand up" (485). by merit should have had the leadership of Rome, so he should have Lavinia, and he temporarily takes her. But the Goths, who are slowly, along with Saturninus, undermining the foundations of the state, see Lavinia as the rightful prey of their lusts. Lavinia's rape and mutilation, and Bassianus's murder reflect the situation in Rome. The state has been ravished, and Rome's proper leader has miscarried. As Lavinia is the child of Titus, so, in a metaphoric sense, is Rome, which has been protected by his strength (symbolized by the image of his hand). By giving power to Saturninus, he allows both his country and his daughter to be torn asunder, mutilated. Lavinia's death at Titus's hand in the final scene can be viewed as a symbolic action, Titus putting an end to the dismembered Rome which he himself has created. This symbolic reading of Lavinia's function in the play may seem a bit schematic, but the analogy between Lavinia and Rome is surely apparent.

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

31

The point is visually made that, during the course of the scene, the power of Rome has changed hands completely. From the returning hero who holds the fate of Rome in his conquering hands, Titus along with his entire family is forced to kneel abjectly for mercy in the streets, while Tamora who pleaded in vain for her son now pleads with seeming sincerity and success for royal mercy on the Andronici. After the general exeunt and the soliloquy of Aaron, the final suggestion of a plea by Chiron — "my sword upon thee shall ... / ... plead my passions" (Il.i.35-36) — carries us full circle, back to Saturninus's initial "Plead my successive title with your swords" (I.i.4). The first scene is thus tightly constructed, knit together with three major integrating patterns: the quarrels between the brothers, the pleas, and the kneelings. However, the first scene is only one part of a wellbuilt whole, and the patterns established here are carried on and developed throughout the play. Not everything is introduced in the first scene, of course; and as the action develops so do other integrating patterns. Nevertheless, the initial scene is a fitting overture; it prepares for Tamora's revenge, the first movement of the play, which results in the death of Bassianus, the rape and dismemberment of Lavinia, the deaths of Martius and Quintus, the banishment of Lucius, and finally the loss of Titus's hand. Before the first scene ends, Titus offers Saturninus a hunting party; Demetrius and Chiron reveal their lust for Lavinia; Aaron plots her rape in the forest; all indicate the course of future action. The three hunting scenes (II.ii,iii,iv) follow. Described by Tamora, 1 2 the forest setting is the perfect locale for the rape of Lavinia and the murder of her husband: A barren detested vale y o u see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with m o s s and baleful mistletoe: Here never shines the sun: here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven. (Il.iii.93-97)

Rome itself, however, takes on the aspects of the forest; it is a "wilderness of tigers" (III.i.54), and "Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey" (55) except the Andronici. Lavinia is the dainty doe hunted by Demetrius 12

Tamora's earlier description (Il.iii.12-29) is quite different: "The birds chant melody on every bush, / The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun", etc. The function of the speech is to arouse Aaron from his melancholy, as well as to illustrate Tamora's lust ("each wreathed in the other's arms"). Aaron replies, "Madam, though Venus govern your desires, / Saturn is dominator over mine" (30-31). "Saturn" may be a partial pun on "Saturninus" and thus suggest that Aaron is melancholy because he is jealous.

32

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

and Chiron. Her plea to Tamora, a plea for honorable death rather than violation, is a link with the first scene and Tamora's plea for Alarbus. As Tamora pleaded in the name of human brotherhood, Lavinia appeals to Tamora's common womanhood — "show a woman's pity" (Il.iii. 147). But Tamora is adamant, and Lavinia continues: O, let me teach thee! for my father's sake, That gave thee life when well he might have slain thee, Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. (158-160)

Her mistake is palpable. Tamora replies: Even for his sake am I pitiless. Remember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain To save your brother from the sacrifice, But fierce Andronicus would not relent. (162-165)

The situations mirror each other, but with important differences. Lavinia does not plead for life, but for her chastity, for her Roman honor. Alarbus is sacrificed; Lavinia raped. That Lavinia is also dismembered, losing her hands and her tongue, ties in with the dismembering of Alarbus. The words of Marcus as he finds her in the forest, Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Hath lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare Of her two branches? (II.iv.16-18)

are reminiscent of Lucius's words "hew" and "lopp'd" describing the sacrifice of Alarbus. Here the continuing disintegration of Roman society is suggested. The contrast between Lavinia and Tamora is heightened by Lavinia's overriding concern for her chastity. The preceding confrontation of Tamora and Aaron suggests that the Queen of Goths is indeed lascivious, for it is she who is the sexual aggressor. As Tamora is purposefully unfaithful to Saturninus, Lavinia would remain faithful to Bassianus even until death. She is raped, while Tamora seduces. Murdered by Chiron and Demetrius, the dead Bassianus is tossed into a pit, which later acts as a trap for Martius and Quintus. As one of the focal points of the scene, the pit may remind the playgoer of the Andronici monument of the first scene. 13 But the pit serves to introduce a new pattern. Martius describes its "ragged entrails" (II.iii.230), calling it a "devouring receptacle" (235) and comparing it to "Cocytus' misty 13

See Hamilton, Early Shakespeare,

82.

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

33

mouth" (236). By force of imagery, the pit becomes a gigantic mouth and stomach which symbolically eat Martius and Quintus alive. The metaphoric devouring introduced here is clearly linked with the idea that the Andronici are the prey of the animalistic Goths, and the pattern culminates in the actual cannibalism of the play's last scene. Tamora will learn that those who would prey on others must finally come to prey on themselves. As Martius and Quintus are dragged "from the pit unto the prison" (II.iii.283), accused of Bassianus's murder, Titus pleads to Saturninus: High emperor, upon my feeble knee I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed sons, Accursed, if the fault be prov'd in them, — (288-291)

But he is cut off before he can finish. Their guilt is taken for granted. Titus's plea is reminiscent of Tamora's for Alarbus, and is no more successful. And just as Tamora had deceived Titus in scene one, so now she promises, "I will entreat the king: / Fear not thy sons, they shall do well enough" (304-305). For, she might have added, they will be happy in heaven. Here, they have no chance of a fair trial. Structurally linked with the opening scene, the central scene of the play (Ill.i) in which Titus grovels before the Judges and the Senators caps the forest sequence. It is the obvious nadir of the Andronici fortunes, and Titus is forced at last to plead his deserts. The proud warrior is humbled: For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars, whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watch'd, And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons. (III.i.2-8)

He pleads for the tempering of justice with mercy. Before, when the lives of Alarbus and Mutius were in his hands, he considered justice to be of the first importance. Now, though his attitude has changed, his plea receives the same reward as had Tamora's. The innocent Martius and Quintus are carried to their unjust deaths, while their father is ignored by the judges. And the series of pleas for mercy and justice reaches a climax with Titus's tragic outburst, for if both justice and mercy have gone from Rome, then only revenge — that wild kind of justice — can take their place.

34

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

Interwoven with the elements of pleading and kneeling in this scene are the themes of dismemberment and eating. As Titus finishes telling Lucius that he should be happy to be banished from these Roman "devourers" (III.i.57) for trying to rescue his brothers, Marcus enters with the mutilated Lavinia. The juxtaposition of the two ideas of eating and dismembering highlights the inherent cannibalism, while Titus's speech to Lavinia foreshadows the action immediately to follow: Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's sight? Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too; 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome service is but vain. (66-67, 72, 79-80)

Emphasizing the image of hands, Titus points out that in Rome to be dismembered is, ironically, to be most happy. Titus's image, For now I stand as one upon a rock Environ'd with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him, (93-97)

though memorable in itself, imaginatively suggests the isolation and insecurity of the Andronici. They are surrounded by an enemy who, like the sea, seems waiting to swallow them into "brinish bowels". Aaron's announcement that Martius and Quintus will be pardoned by the emperor if "Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, / Or any one of you, chop off your hand / And send it to the king" (152-154), fits perfectly into the established pattern. The argument among the three Andronici about who shall send the hand reverberates with the fraternal arguments of scene one, though here all is self-sacrifice; both Lucius and Marcus strive to save the hand of Titus, that "noble hand ... ¡ That hath thrown down so many enemies" (162-163). They do not question the integrity of Aaron, who, of course, is lying. His lie stands in contrast to Titus's deception of Marcus and Lucius. Using a falsehood so that he may sacrifice his hand for his sons, he sends Marcus and Lucius for an axe while he has Aaron cut off his hand on stage. The mutilated Lavinia stands and watches as the hand that "warded" Saturninus from a "thousand dangers" (194-195) is removed. The dismemberment pattern becomes more elaborate.

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

35

Having given his hand, Titus kneels with Lavinia, praying for divine mercy: O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth: If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call. (206-209) His plea is answered — or seems to be, ironically — by the entrance of a messenger with "two heads and a hand". Titus's sacrifice has been denied, but the denial has given him some insight into his situation. He sees that he cannot rely upon Saturninus for justice: "Then which way shall I find Revenge's cave?" (270). The Cambridge Edition suggests that Titus kneels with his family to vow revenge: Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. (275-279) Visually recapitulating the pattern of dismemberment, Titus, Marcus, and Lavinia form their gruesome cavalcade, each carrying a head or hand. The grotesque procession drives home the point of Rome's political disintegration. Patently, the removal of Titus's hand is symbolic, for Rome is, in a sense, defenseless. His hand had saved the city from the Goths, and now as the scene ends, Titus sends Lucius "to the Goths" in order to "raise an army there" (285). And Lucius sets forth: Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow'r, To be reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. (299-300) The people whom Titus brought yoked to Rome in the first scene will be brought in arms to Rome by his son. Obviously a complex reversal has resulted, symbolized by the amputation of Titus's hand. The Romans must now seek help from the very source of their troubles. Nevertheless, the last Andronici has been dismembered. The fantasy sequence of the second part of the play suggests the theme of reason in madness, which contrasts with the earlier madness of Titus's reason. Titus travels from reasonable blindness (e.g., his inability to see the hatred of Saturninus and Tamora) to insight in madness, and the 'realism' of the forest sequence in which the Goths murder, rape, and mutilate stands in contrast to the symbolic world in which a black fly becomes Aaron the Moor and arrows with petitions to the gods are shot into the heavens. Marcus's comment, " H e takes false shadows for true

36

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

substances" (III.ii.80), seemingly true, is strangely ironic. Even if his sight is distorted, Titus is finally seeing the truth. His vision is, in the end, justified when Tamora does actually appear to him dressed as Revenge with her sons as Murder and Rape. The reality becomes metaphor, and the real characters assume their symbolic equivalents. The fantasy world of Titus is introduced by his strange banquet after the departure of Lucius to the Goths. His opening remarks against eating too much, So, so; now sit; and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. (III.ii. 1-3) are possibly to be looked on as an injunction against corpulence in a world of cannibals. To be too large of body is a danger; for Titus translates the moral maxims concerning human power and glory to the physical size of man. Humility becomes thinness. The killing of the fly "That comes in likeness of a coal-black M o o r " (78) with an eating knife at the banquet table carries on the pattern. Convinced the fly is Aaron, Titus begs the knife of Marcus: "I will insult on him" (71), mutilating the dead fly. Eating, murder, mutilation: symbolically and ironically the main patterns of the rising action are recapitulated at Titus's mad feast. In the following scene, with the help of Ovid's Metamorphoses, Lavinia confirms the conjectures of Marcus when he met her bleeding and mutilated in the forest: But, sure, some Tereus hath deflow'red thee, And, lest thou should'st detect him, cut thy tongue. (II.iv.26-27) Ovid provides a larger context within which to see Lavinia's story, a mythic context of rape, mutilation, and finally cannibalism. For Tereus had raped Philomela, mutilated her, and for his sins was fed the body of his son Itylus. The play sets up conscious reverberations with the Ovidian story. 1 4 At the revelation of Demetrius and Chiron as the assailants, Marcus brings the Andronici to their knees for the final time: My lord [Titus], kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope; 14 For discussions of the sources, see Horst Oppel's Titus Andronicus: Studien zur dramengeschichtlichen Stellung von Shakespeares früher Tragödie (Heidelberg, 1961), 48-52; James A. K. Thomson's Shakespeare and the Classics (London, 1952), 54-55; and Robert Adger Law's "The Roman Background of Titus Andronicus", Studies in Philology, X L (1943), 145-153.

'TITUS ANDRONICUS' : FROM THE BEGINNING

37

And swear with me, as with the woeful fere And father of that chaste dishonoured dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape, That we will prosecute by good advice Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this reproach. (IV.i.87-94)

Palpably, the kneeling is no longer associated with pleading and with mercy; the Andronici kneel in an oath of revenge — a united renewal of Titus's earlier vow (III.i.275ff.). When Young Lucius promises to put his "dagger" in the "bosoms" of Demetrius and Chiron (IV.i. 118), Titus says that he will teach him "another course" (119). Titus's presents, carried by Young Lucius to the two rapists, are part of this other course, and form an ironic parallel to Tamora's gift of mercy to the Andronici after her marriage to Saturninus. Both Chiron and Demetrius are blind to Titus's true intentions — to let them know that he knows — but Aaron has insight enough to note: the old man hath found their guilt, And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines [of poetry], That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. (IV.ii.26-28)

The suggestion is that moral blindness has been transferred to the Goths, a blindness which leads to their fall as it has led to Titus's. The ironic parallel continues with the birth of Aaron's son to Tamora. Having seen their dalliance in the forest, the playgoer is not surprised to hear that they have had a child, though the resulting change in Aaron may be unexpected. Part of the patterning of the play, of course, is the relationship of parent to child; and when the nurse tells Aaron, "The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, / And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point" (IV.ii.69-70), he reacts with paternal solicitude, albeit violently. Backed with a drawn sword, his rather strong plea for his son's life is completely successful. He reminds Chiron and Demetrius, "He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed / Of that self blood that first gave life to you" (122-123). And the audience is reminded of the pleas of both Tamora and Titus for their children. "This my self", Aaron asserts, "The vigour and the picture of my youth" (107-108). Tacitly, the playgoer is asked to recall that Titus gave his hand to save his sons; presumably Aaron would now risk as much, and perhaps more. Again a father pleads and is willing to sacrifice himself for his son. But the playgoer may also be expected to remember that Titus in scene one was willing to sacrifice his son for the higher ideal of justice. Although we may feel that Titus

38

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

was wrong in his evaluation of the ideal, we must grant that he was endeavouring to act unselfishly. In contrast, Aaron is motivated to save his son because he sees his own image in the child. The following sequence of scenes is given to the theme of justice. "Terras Astraea reliquit" (IV.iii.4), says Titus, "She's gone, she's fled" (5). After the reign of Saturn, she left the earth, and Titus sends Publius and Sempronius to "dig with mattock and with spade, / And pierce the inmost centre of the earth" (11-12) and seek justice from Pluto. Publius returns the message that "Pluto sends you word, / If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall" (37-38), but Justice is employed elsewhere. Not finding Justice on earth, Titus decides to "solicit heaven and move the gods / To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs" (50-51), and he thereupon gives his kinsmen arrows to shoot up into the heavens. Pleas are attached to the arrows, and at Marcus's direction are shot into Saturninus's court. The clown whom Titus sends to the court to seek "justice at" the emperor's "hands" (IV.iii.103), while kneeling at Saturninus's feet (110), provides a notable example of royal justice in Rome. Although Saturninus enters protesting his adherence to law and justice (IV.iv), as soon as he reads the petition delivered by the clown, he gives orders: "Go, take him away, and hang him presently" (IV.iv.45). The kind ofjustice administered by Saturninus is evident and contrasts nicely with the moderation of Lucius in the following scene, as well as with his own pretensions as a lawgiver. The present scene ends with Tamora's assurance that she "will enchant the old Andronicus / With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, / Than baits to fish, or honey-stalks to sheep" (89-91) — with deadly food. She will fill his aged ears With golden promises, that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. (96-99) Saturnine is content that she "plead" with Titus (113). Ironically, Tamora is now as blind as Titus when he was so sure that she would "nobly him remunerate" "That brought her for this high good turn" to Rome (I.i.398, 397). Taking on his former blindness, she must undergo his vengeance. In the next scene, Lucius serves as a contrast to Saturninus. Although he threatens to hang the captured Aaron, knowing him "the incarnate devil / That robb'd Andronicus of his good hand" (V.i.40-41), he does not. At the insistence of Aaron, he swears to save Aaron's child, "to nourish and bring him up" (84). It is noteworthy that Lucius's vow is emphasized and that it is not a vow of revenge, but of mercy — the

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

39

nurturing of an enemy's child. By his mercy, however limited in spirit, Lucius proves himself of a different kind from the people in Rome; for even his father is quite prepared to sacrifice the children of his enemy. Thus Titus introduces the final horror which ends his own life as well as the play. Concluding the fantasy sequence, Tamora and her sons appear to old Titus as Revenge and her companions, Murder and Rapine. They rely upon his madness to carry out their own fantastic plans, not realizing that he has gained insight through madness. For Titus it seems perfectly logical that the real and the metaphorical should be interchangeable, that the queen and her sons should become symbolic manifestations of their crimes. Having deluded the queen, he informs her captured sons: You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad. Hark, villains, I will grind your bones to dust, And with your blood and it I'll make a paste, And of the paste a coffin I will rear, And make two pasties of your shameful heads, And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, Like to the earth swallow her own increase. For worse than Philomel you us'd my daughter, And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd. (V.ii.184-191, 194-195) The metaphoric devouring of the Andronici leads to the actual cannibalistic feast for Tamora. The partial dismemberment and mutilation of Lavinia and Titus will be revenged by the total dismemberment of her sons; their two heads will pay the price for the heads of Martius and Quintus. Disregarding the horror of the situation, we can see that the logic of the pattern is perfect. The recurring allusion to Philomela serves to underline the order of cause and effect. In the final scene the confrontation of the emperor and Lucius echoes the initial confrontation of Saturninus and Bassianus in scene one. The parallels between the two scenes, however, are even more fully developed. The "victorious hand" which blessed Lavinia and wished her long life now slays her. Titus's words from the past, "Lavinia, live; outlive thy father's days, / And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise" (I.i. 167-168), echo ironically at her death. Ravished and mutilated, she is killed by her father to save her from further shame. 15 The playgoer should remember 15

"Was it well done of rash Virginius / T o slay his daughter with his own right hand, / Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and deflow'r'd?" (V.iii.36-38). This crux is explained by Holger N0rgaard, "Never Wrong But With Just Cause", English Studies, X L V (1964), 137-141, w h o refers to Lodowicke Lloid's The Pilgrimage of Princes (1573),

40

'TITUS ANDRONICUS': FROM THE BEGINNING

that Titus had once before lifted his paternal hand against one of his children to save the family honor; trying to keep Lavinia from Bassianus, he killed Mutius. The play begins and ends with Titus killing one of his children. Asked by Saturninus who ravished his daughter, Titus ironically answers: "Will't please you eat? will't please your highness feed?" (54). The cannibalistic feast is, of course, the culmination of the united patterns of dismemberment and eating. And with the deaths of Lavinia, Tamora, Titus, and Saturninus which garnish the feast, the way is clear for the reconstruction of Roman society. At the beginning of the play, Marcus wished to "set a head on headless Rome" (I.i.186), and at the end, he believes that he may finally teach the Romans "how to knit again / This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf, / These broken limbs again into one body" (V.iii.70-72). Lucius and Marcus tell their story to the assembled crowd, asking for judgment: Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge These wrongs unspeakable, past patience, Or more than any living man could bear. Now have you heard the truth: what say you, Romans? Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us pleading, The poor remainder of Andronici Will hand in hand all headlong hurl ourselves, And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls, And make a mutual closure of our house. (V.iii.125-134) The judgment is favorable, for mercy at last fully tempers judgment, and justice may now be revived. The mutilation and the dismemberment are over. The last of the Andronici will not be smashed on the rocks, and the play ends with Lucius as emperor, justly distributing rewards and punishments. The reintegration of the body politic and the culmination of the dismemberment pattern are two faces of the same coin. The initial conflicts of the play are resolved. Possibly the one jarring note in the final scene is Lucius's command to set Aaron "breast-deep in earth, and famish him; / There let him stand and rave and cry for food" (179-180). On the surface, it may appear that Lucius is hardly less animalistic and vengeful than Tamora, "that ravenous tiger", whom he has cast away with no burial. It may seem momentarily that Lucius is, indeed, beginning once more the cycle of f. 79 v , in which Virginia is slain after being ravished, instead of before. N0rgaard traces the growth of this alternative version of the story.

'TITUS ANDRONICUS' : FROM THE BEGINNING

41

crime and revenge. However, like so m a n y of the horrors in the play, A a r o n ' s punishment is symbolic. In the forest, his plot to m u r d e r Bassianus, rape Lavinia, and implicate the sons of Andronicus centered a r o u n d the devouring pit. A f t e r engineering these horrors, he himself cuts off Titus's hand. Having metaphorically feasted on the Andronici, A a r o n is inevitably punished in kind: devoured by the earth, starving. Titus's simile of " t h e e a r t h " swallowing " h e r own increase" (V.ii.191) becomes a reality. A a r o n ' s promised death catches reverberations f r o m t h r o u g h o u t the play, and Titus Andronicus ends with its patterns tied carefully together. Nevertheless, E. K . Chambers feels that there is an essential "absence of greatness" in Titus, that "there is nothing to claim the tragic analysis in so raw a tale of blood and revenge", and f u r t h e r that " t h e situations ... would be wholly sickening, were they not at the same time so remote f r o m reality as to become merely g r o t e s q u e " . 1 6 It is a ringing indictment. However, Chambers has missed the point. Titus does not belong in a catalogue of realistic tragedies. Using symbolic methods, the play substitutes fantasy for realism. It is not King Lear, nor was it m e a n t to be. Should we need to draw parallels with later plays, one with J o n s o n ' s Sejanus will be more instructive. Like Sejanus, Titus is a political tragedy where the focus is not entirely on the e p o n y m o u s tragic figure, but on the R o m a n society in general. The play should not be compared with m a t u r e Shakespearean tragedy and d a m n e d f o r what it is not. At the same time, even in comparison with the later plays, Titus does not fail completely; in its patterning, in its f o r m and its structure, the play has the touch of Shakespearean greatness. With all its diversity, Titus has a singular integrity, and it is apparent that, even f r o m the beginning, Shakespeare was the master of dramatic patterning.

16

Edmund K. Chambers, Shakespeare: A Survey (New York, 1963), 31.

2 THE

TWO

GENTLEMEN

OF

VERONA·.

OF EARLY SHAKESPEAREAN

THE

STRUCTURE

ROMANCE

In all l i k e l i h o o d , Titus Andronicus

is Shakespeare's earliest a t t e m p t at

tragedy, while The Two Gentlemen

of Verona

a n d Love's

Labour's

Lost

are his earliest romances. A s w e have seen, Titus has been roundly a b u s e d b y the evaluative critics, f o r t o t h e m the play s e e m s to lack m o s t o f the qualities w h i c h m a k e Shakespeare a great dramatist; and, t h o u g h Labour's

Lost has been widely appreciated, The Two Gentlemen

Love's

has b e e n

treated with the s a m e kind o f disdain a c c o r d e d t o Titus. S o m e f e w critics h a v e a t t e m p t e d a reappraisal, 1 but m o s t have been willing t o dismiss the play with a f e w sentences. A g a i n , as with Titus, at least o n e critic has seen fit to d e f e n d Shakespeare's reputation by explaining that the play is a farce, a satire o n courtly vices — either this, or a c o m p a r a t i v e failure. 2 1

E.g., John F. Danby, "Shakespeare Criticism and Two Gentlemen of Verona [sic]", Critical Quarterly, II (1960), 309-321, believes that the play has a substantial moral background against which the characters define themselves and to which the audience is referred. The play has a special tension between frivolity and gravity (314). He also notes that the play has a patterned integration which is often ignored by critics (318-319). William E. Stephenson, "The Adolescent Dream-World of The Two Gentlemen of Verona", Shakespeare Quarterly, XVII (1966), 165-168, explains the actions which have been seen as 'improbabilities', not as a product of Shakespeare's inexperience, but as the natural behavior of two adolescent heroes who have not yet learned to distinguish between reality and their youthful dreams. Stanley Wells, "The Failure of The Two Gentlemen of Verona", Shakespeare-Jahrbuch, XCIX (1963), 161-173, is more charitable in his evaluation of the play than his title suggests, but feels that the plot has three kinds of faults: superficial, technical, and organic. Also he assumes (161) that the play is not susceptible to the techniques of modern literary criticism which have been used to examine carefully organized plays. The present essay sets out to test this assumption. See also Ralph M. Sargent, "Sir Thomas Elyot and the Integrity of The Two Gentlemen of Verona", Publications of the Modern Language Association, LXV (1950), 1166-1180; Ernest William Talbert, Elizabethan Drama and Shakespeare's Early Plays: An Essay in Historical Criticism (Chapel Hill, 1963), 149-156; and Peter G. Phialas, Shakespeare's Romantic Comedies: The Development of Their Form and Meaning (Chapel Hill, 1966), 44-64, with bibliographical notes, 285-287. The text used is The Two Gentlemen of Verona, ed. Berners A. W. Jackson (Baltimore, 1964). 2

Harold C. Goddard, The Meaning of Shakespeare (Chicago, 1967), I, 44, sees the play as either Shakespeare's earliest comedy or a parodie compendium of courtly

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

43

Of the few well-disposed essays on the play, perhaps the most stimulating explores the theme of identity. 3 This theme, of course, helps to unify the play's action, for, as the names suggest, Proteus is unable to find his true identity, and Valentine finds his in love. However, the recurring structural elements, with which the present chapter will be concerned, have been almost entirely neglected. In the essay on Titus, our procedure was to watch the growth of structural unity by following the course of the play from the first to the last scene; here, we will concentrate on three integrating patterns and their interrelation, on how they contribute individually and together to the total meaning of the play. The least obvious of these elements is the pattern of mythological allusion. 4 The allusions to classical myth are not plentiful, but their distribution is strategic, and especially prominent in the first scene of Act III, the turning point of the play. Throughout, the use of classical myth suggests or even implies a tragic outcome for the action, as the characters become partially or wholly identified with the mythological figures. In this subtle manner, Shakespeare builds an almost subliminal sense of crisis, suspense, and tension; he creates a scheme of tragic innuendo. The first allusion, to the myth of Hero and Leander, appears in the opening banter of Valentine and Proteus. Proteus promises Valentine that " U p o n some book I love I'll pray for thee" (I.i.20), and, in jest, Valentine replies: "That's on some shallow story of deep love, / How young Leander crossed the Hellespont" (21-22). In the myth, of course, both lovers die, Leander drowning, Hero committing suicide. Thus, even before the action of the play begins fully to develop, the allusion suggests that true love does not always run smoothly; and perhaps the use of the myth gains more point and cogency when we learn that Valentine is going by water to Milan. Nevertheless, the complete force of the tragic story is held in abeyance until Act III. Preparing to foil Valentine's intrigue with his daughter, the Duke requests his advice in wooing a fictitious lady of Verona. Valentine, blind to the Duke's true intentions, unhesitatingly explains how the Duke may climb to the lady's window: vices. Cf. Hereward T. Price, "Shakespeare as a Critic", Philological Quarterly, X X (1941), 390-399. 3 See William O. Scott, "Proteus in Spenser and Shakespeare: The Lover's Identity", Shakespeare Studies, I (1965), 283-293. 4 Cf. Paul K. Shultz, "The Merchant of Venice: A Study in Tragicomedy", William and Mary Review, IV, ii (1966), 59-64, who discovers a similar pattern in The Merchant. Robert Kilburn Root, Classical Mythology in Shakespeare (New York, 1903), indexes Shakespeare's use of myth, but seems to miss Ariadne and Theseus (TGV, IV.iv. 165-166).

44

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA:

a ladder, quaintly made of cords, To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero's tow'r, So bold Leander would adventure it. (III.i.117-120) Although overtly hinting that the D u k e may play Leander, Valentine obviously thinks of his own plans to take Silvia f r o m her window and thus identifies himself with the young lover of the myth. Consciously he alludes to success in love, but the playgoer, aware how close he is to apprehension, remembers the double tragedy which follows Leander's initial conquest. The tension inherent in the cat-and-mouse action is increased by the allusion. Having seized Valentine's ladder, cloak, and tell-tale letter, the D u k e shouts in indignation: Why, Phaethon — for thou art Merops' son — Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car And with thy daring folly burn the world? Wilt thou reach stars, because they shine on thee? (III.i.153-156) Phaeton, Apollo's son by Clymene, wife of the mortal Merops, had striven to drive the chariot of the sun across the sky and, losing control, was killed by a thunderbolt f r o m Jupiter. Parabolically, the m y t h may be interpreted as a warning to over-reachers, to those who a t t e m p t to climb beyond their appointed station in life, 5 and it is thus used by the Duke, alluding to Valentine's inferior birth. The tragic connotations of the myth are obvious; Valentine's presumption in wishing to wed the D u k e ' s daughter may very possibly lead to his destruction. F o r the present, however, Jupiter's thunderbolt is only the D u k e ' s edict of banishment. The next allusion to classical mythology is, on the surface, indicative of success in love, but the total effect is ambiguous. T h e perjured Proteus is explaining the uses of "heaven-bred poesy" to the n a m b y - p a m b y Thurio: Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity. For Orpheus' lute was strung with poets' sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. (III.ii.74-80) 5

See DeWitt T. Starnes and Ernest W. Talbert, Classical Myth and Legend in Renaissance Dictionaries (Chapel Hill, 1955), 118-120. Cf. Talbert, Elizabethan Drama, 367, note 56.

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

45

The situation is in itself openly ironic, and Proteus's emphasis on "integrity" after his betrayal of Valentine and Julia forces us to search out the complete irony of the lines. Orpheus's joy in love was singularly short-lived, his bride Eurydice having been killed by a snake immediately after their marriage. His scheme of retrieving her from Hades was a failure, and, though his music could soften rocks and tame beasts, it was not powerful enough to stop a frenzied group of Maenads from tearing him to pieces. The allusion to Orpheus may, on Proteus's part, be a conscious irony, suggesting that Thurio's fortune in love will be poor and his songs unable, in the end, to help him. Nevertheless, conscious irony is laced with unconscious irony, for Proteus's overtures to "holy, fair, and wise" Silvia will meet with as little success as Thurio's. Again, the ultimate suggestion is that love will end in defeat. Appropriately, Julia (disguised as Proteus's page Sebastian) informs Silvia that in a Pentecostal pageant she played "Ariadne passioning / For Theseus' perjury and unjust flight" (IV.iv.165-166): Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress [i.e., Julia], movèd therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead, If I in thought felt not her very sorrow! (167-170)

Ariadne, having given Theseus both the clue to the Cretan Labyrinth and her love, was abandoned by him on the island of Naxos, where, according to one version of the myth, she died. By her allusion and her complex identification with the mythic desertion, Julia underlines her own bleak outlook and suggests the possible resolution of the problem: death. The total implication of the pattern of classical myth, then, is that of tragic resolution. In part, this implication is reinforced by the next pattern we will consider, the pattern of love letters. 6 In the main plot there are five love letters, forming an intricate scheme of balance, contrast, and comparison; and they, in turn, are mirrored in the sub-plot by Launce's strange "love-letter". Unfortunately for the dramatis personae, however, the letters always miss their mark, are involved in some confusion, fail 6 Talbert, Elizabethan Drama, 154, notices part of this pattern, comparing scene Il.i. with I.i.70 ff. Bradbrook, Shakespeare and Elizabethan Poetry, 153, notices the recurrence of misdirected letters, but sees it as a product of Shakespeare's flagging imagination. John A. Guinn, "The Letter Device in the First Act of The Two Gentlemen of Verona", University of Texas, Studies in English, XX (1940), 72-81, traces the background for the use of letters and theorizes that Shakespeare was indebted to Montemayor and Aeneas Sylvius. His argument is inconclusive since he does not seem to observe how the letters function throughout the play.

46

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

in their communication. The final effect of this pattern of letters is to raise the question of the efficacy of verbal communication. The first letter is sent, via Speed, by Proteus to Julia, and after a long conversation with him about the letter's delivery, Proteus concludes: I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post. (I.i.144-145) With his usual aplomb, however, Speed has delivered the letter not to Julia, but to her maid Lucetta. Finally receiving the letter from her, Julia in maidenly modesty tears it and is kept from piecing the fragments together by Lucetta's reentry. Proteus's initial letter goes awry and fails in its total communication. Yet Julia realizes that she is loved, and her return letter seemingly reaches Proteus without hindrance: Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honor's pawn. (I.iii.46-47) And, for an instant, the letter appears to have successfully reached its goal. However, Proteus's father catches sight of it, forcing Proteus to lie that the letter is indeed from Valentine and that he has expressed the wish that Proteus join him in Milan. Antonio wholeheartedly concurs with Valentine's supposed wish and insists that Proteus travel to Milan as part of his education. Proteus himself underlines the point: I feared to show my father Julia's letter, Lest he should take exceptions to my love; And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. (I.iii.80-83) Designed to bring the lovers closer together, Julia's letter has succeeded only in forcing them further apart. In Milan where Valentine has fallen in love with Silvia, the exchange of love letters is structurally repeated; a similar pattern is evinced. Here, the initial love letter fails in its communication because, as Speed explains, "Love is blind" (II.i.66). With maidenly modesty, Silvia declines to write directly to Valentine, but, using a "figure", bids him write to some unnamed person whom she loves and asks him to take the letter for his labor. Speed comments: O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, (II.i.125-126) and tries to explain to Valentine that "Herself hath taught her love himself

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

47

to write unto her lover" (154). With the blindness of a lover, Valentine does not quite comprehend. He remains in a muse. Later, to Silvia he ironically insists that "Love hath twenty pair of eyes" (II.iv.92), although his own insensibility and the failure of the love letters up to this point in the action render that judgment extremely doubtful — and not a little humorous. Thurio has a much better right to believe "that Love hath not an eye at all" (93). The letter which structurally complements Julia's letter to Proteus is Valentine's to Silvia, announcing the intended elopement. Like Julia's, it is meant to bring the lovers together, and also like Julia's, it succeeds in accomplishing the opposite. Having been informed by Valentine of the planned elopement, Proteus — under the guise of duty — informs the Duke, who in turn waits to expose the young kidnapper. As we have already seen, the ensuing cat-and-mouse game ends with the Duke's finding the rope ladder and the incriminating letter under Valentine's cloak. Proteus's letter from Julia leads to his being sent from Verona; Valentine's, to his banishment from Milan. The structural parallels and contrasts between the four letters form an instructive pattern, which by now should be fully evident. Ironically, the love letters should reveal the lover's deepest emotions, but have resulted in noncommunication and ultimately in the isolation of the lovers one from the other. Thus far the letters have propelled the action of the play toward a very possible tragic outcome. The final letter in the main plot emphasizes the pathos of lost love. Disguised as Sebastian, Julia is charged by Proteus to deliver his love letter to Silvia. Her situation is inherently pathetic, and the pathos is multiplied when she inadvertently gives Silvia one of her own love letters from Proteus — or so the playgoer surmises: Madam, please you peruse this letter — Pardon me, madam, I have unadvised Delivered you a paper that I should not. This is the letter to your ladyship. (IV.iv.119-122) Perhaps one even catches tragic overtones. But Silvia refuses to read the letter and tears it, ironically recapitulating Julia's own procedure with Proteus's first letter, while Julia herself must play the part of Lucetta the maid. Only the externals, however, are the same; internally the emotions are completely different. In the former scene, both Julia and Lucetta wish the letter to be read; Julia's modesty stands in the way. Here, neither wants the letter to communicate its sentiments of love. The letter fails because the writer is false. Silvia underlines Proteus's perfidy,

48

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

pointing out that his deeds do not accord with his words. Between the word and the action falls a shadow. Thematically, this pattern in the main plot is reinforced 7 by Launce's so-called "love-letter", which seems rather to be a parody of the literary blazon, possibly with an ironic glance back at Valentine's excessive praise of Silvia to Proteus. Speed and Launce read the letter at the end of the same scene in which Valentine's letter falls into the Duke's hands; and, in a sense, Launce's comic letter falls into Speed's hands. Speed reads aloud, while Launce supplies a running commentary, a commentary which is at once upon the letter itself and obliquely on the artificial love conventions in which Valentine and Proteus labor. The conventional praise of conventional beauty is replaced by a down-to-earth realism. " ' I t e m : She is slow in words'", reads Speed. " O villain", says Launce, "that set this down among her vices! To be slow in words is a woman's only virtue" (III.i. 322-324). Indirectly the earthy letter and comments question the validity of the courtly language of love, standing out against meaningless verbiage. Perhaps in the end, actions will speak much more to the point than words; and though love letters may fail in their communication and purpose, deeds of love will not. It is a point which Shakespeare explores even more thoroughly in Love's Labour's Lost. In the action of the present play, the failure of words leads directly to the success of Valentine's acts in the final scene. By his magnanimity and self-sacrifice in giving up his claim to Silvia in favor of his friend Proteus, he consequently brings about the complete regeneration of Proteus and his return to Julia. As a realistic character, Valentine has been widely criticized for his magnanimity in relinquishing Silvia: " Q " comments that there are "no gentlemen in Verona". 8 But two facts should be considered in assessing the situation: (1) Valentine is still a banished outlaw and has no prospects of marrying Silvia; (2) he has not yet been told that Silvia fled the court and came to the forest only to be with him. He has no way of knowing her purpose. Thus, Valentine is willing to sacrifice himself for the love of a friend, but the proposed sacrifice is, in a way, merely a selfless yielding to reality. In the world of hard facts, an outlaw can hardly marry the Duke's daughter. 7

Harold F. Brooks, "Two Clowns in a Comedy (to say nothing of the Dog): Speed, Launce (and Crab) in The Two Gentlemen of Verona", Essays and Studies, XVI (1963), 91-100, examines the parallels between main and secondary actions. 8 See Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, "Introduction", The Two Gentlemen of Verona (Cambridge, England, 1921), xiv.

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

49

When the Duke arrives, Valentine immediately and generously frees him from the captivity of his outlaw band. When Thurio claims Silvia, he valiantly replies: Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death. Come not within the measure of my wrath. Do not name Silvia thine; (V.iv. 127-129) offering to fight him. Thurio quickly backs down; his earlier words of courtly love remain unimplemented by deeds. He serves as a significant contrast to Valentine, whose friendship for Proteus, duty to the ruler, and love of Silvia have been confirmed by his noble acts, which, in the end, reap their reward. The pattern of letters with its attendant theme of the failure of verbal communication and its tragic overtone of human isolation is resolved by right action. The final unity is emphasized in Valentine's last line: "One feast, one house, one mutual happiness" (174). Although the resolution of the play is comic unity, the victory is not an easy one, and the major implications of the patterns we have so far examined have been tragic. However, the last recurring element to be considered, the pattern of journeys, viewed out of context immediately suggests a 'happy ending'. The journey or quest has long been one of the stock situations of romance and epic, and more lately of Jungian psychology and mythic criticism. 9 In quest of some precious object or person, the hero, with the proper traits of character, makes a journey into the unknown. Having passed a series of tests and overcome the guardians of the object or person, he either obtains the precious object, or rescues the captive person and finally marries the fair princess. In pastoral romances, such as Sidney's Arcadia or Spenser's Legend of Courtesy, the basic quest story is somewhat modified. 10 The pastoral hero does not

9

For a convenient summary of the journey pattern, see W. H. Auden, "The Quest Hero", Texas Quarterly, IV, iv (1961), 83-85. See also Carl G. Jung, Psychology and Alchemy, trans. R. F. C. Hull, Collected Works, 12 (London, 1953), 317-322, and Albert J. Guerard, "The Journey Within", Conrad, the Novelist (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), 1-59. 10 See Walter R. Davis, "A Map of Arcadia: Sidney's Romance in Its Tradition", Sidney's Arcadia (New Haven, 1965), 38-39, who describes "pastoral action" as a process of "Disintegration", "Education", and "Reintegration". Cf. Bruce W. Wardropper, "The Diana of Montemayor: Revaluation and Interpretation", Studies in Philology, XLVIII (1951), 126-144, esp. 127-131. For Shakespeare's use of the journey, see Richard G. Moulton, The Moral System of Shakespeare (New York, 1903), 222-228, 341, and Blaze Bonazza, Shakespeare's Early Comedies: A Structural Analysis (The Hague, 1966), 88-91. Denton Snider, System of Shakespeare's Dramas (St. Louis, 1877), II, 35, observes that the pastoral journey is a recurring factor in Shakespearean drama.

50

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

travel in search of an external object or person as in the romance or epic, but journeys to the pastoral world because of certain unresolved conflicts in the urban world. In the pastoral world, the conflicts are, after an educative process, resolved, and the hero returns to the outer world. The pastoral journey, which Shakespeare later uses more extensively in As You Like It, here provides the basic situation for the denouement. But fully to understand the playwright's use of journeys, we must look at the pattern in context. Valentine sees the purpose of his initial journey as mainly educative: "Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits" (I.i.2), and were not Proteus bound to Verona by the chains of love, he says, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. (5-8) Valentine points out that Proteus, the shapeless man, needs the shaping, the character formation, if you will, of educational travel. 11 After Valentine's departure, in his first soliloquy Proteus explains the difference between them: He after honor hunts, I after love. He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. (63-65) He provides an excellent key to his character; his future actions are only an extension of his self-concept: all for love, no matter how misplaced, no matter how dishonorable. Immediately one feels that Valentine's analysis of Proteus's need to travel is correct; Proteus has a distorted vision of reality which requires readjustment through education. The first complicating action of the play is Antonio's decision to force his son Proteus on a journey to Milan. Panthino tells Antonio that other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars to try their fortune there, Some to discover islands far away, Some to the studious universities. (I.iii.6-10) But Antonio has already considered his son's loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, II

Cf. and contrast Thomas Perry's essay, "Proteus, Wry-Transformed Traveller", Shakespeare Quarterly, V (1954), 33-40, which emphasizes education and travel, but only in relation to the English Renaissance commonplace of the "Italianate youth".

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

51

Not being tried and tutored in the world. Experience is by industry achieved, And perfected by the swift course of time. (19-23) Again the main purpose of the journey is education. As we have seen in our consideration of the pattern of love letters, this journey is analogous to Valentine's banishment from Milan; it is accomplished by an authoritative injunction; and its function in the plot is to isolate Julia from Proteus. Although the guiding purpose and the ultimate outcome may be noble, the initial effect of the journey is not. In the meantime, Valentine's journey becomes an education in romantic love. Speed, who has the clear sight which seems to be a trait of the menials in the play, tells Valentine what he has learned: "you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent, to relish a love-song like a robin-redbreast, to walk alone like one that had the pestilence" (ll.i. 17-20), and so on. Like Chaucer's Troilus, Valentine has been a mocker of love. In the first scene, he rather bitingly tells Proteus: Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yokèd by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. (I.i.39-41) And now, again like Troilus, the mocker has been caught in the toils of love: the mocker mocked. Valentine finds himself in love. The end of his journey is Silvia: "she is mine own", he says, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, And water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. (II.iv.165-168) She has become his alter ego: "Silvia is myself" (III.i.172). Through his journey and his education in love, Valentine is able to establish a stable identity in his love for Silvia. Not so with Proteus. Ironically, his journey undermines his stability. From faithful friend and lover, he loses his initial firmness "like a waxen image 'gainst a fire" (II.iv.198). Reason bows to passion, and Proteus immediately, perhaps too quickly for verisimilitude, falls in love with Silvia. He completely misinterprets the situation; for he believes that by remaining faithful to Valentine and Julia, and thus losing Silvia, he "needs must lose" himself (II.vi.20). His observation is ironically significant; for the outcome of his travels, ostensibly in quest of wisdom, has resulted in the complete loss of his true self. However, as we have noticed,

52

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

even from the opening scene, he has but slenderly known himself. On his journey he must ultimately come to learn that love is not a disembodied spirit, but a truly unselfish relationship between two people. For the present, his arrival at the court of Milan without this knowledge leads to the central crisis of the play, the banishment of Valentine. As Proteus entreats love to lend him wings to make his "purpose swift" (II.vi.42) and intrigues to have Valentine banished, Julia plans her journey of love to Proteus, thinking to fly to him on "Love's wings" (II.vii. 11). She asks Lucetta to tell her How, with my honor, I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. (II.vii.6-7) For her, at least, honor is not to be forsaken in the search after love. Unblinded by passion, Lucetta questions the wisdom of this pilgrimage to love's shrine, counseling forbearance until Proteus returns to Verona. She attempts to hold Julia's passion in check: I do not seek to quench your love's hot fire, But qualify the fire's extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. (Il.vii.21-23) She fears that Proteus "will scarce be pleased" (67) with Julia's appearance in Milan. Nonetheless, Julia, the passionate pilgrim, must needs go on her journey in search of love. Before Julia's arrival in Milan, Valentine, because of certain unresolved conflicts in the urban world, is forced to journey into the pastoral forest, where he is quickly accepted as the leader of a band of outlaws. He tells them what seems on the surface a palpable lie, "I killed a man, whose death I much repent" (IV.i.27), until we realize that he means himself. His separation from Silvia has left him in a state of nothingness. Asked who he is, he replies, "Nothing" (III.i.198); and with a significant malapropism, Launce tells him, "There is a proclamation that you are vanished" (III.i.216). In pastoral accents, Valentine, apostrophizing Silvia, descants on the theme: O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall And leave no memory of what it was. Repair me with thy presence, Silvia. Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain. (V.iv.7-12) He fears that his absence from his beloved may prove to be the end of

'THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA'

53

love, afraid, rather ironically, that this journey from Milan may have the same outcome as Proteus's enforced journey from Verona. Completing her simultaneous journey, ostensibly toward love rather than away from it, Julia pathetically listens to Proteus declaim his love for Silvia, who stands at the very window from which Valentine was to have taken her in his planned elopement. 12 Julia's journey, like all the journeys so far, goes awry. In despair and disguised as Sebastian, she becomes Proteus's page and is commissioned to be the go-between in his love relations with Silvia. The irony of the situation is multiple, and twicecompounded when Julia and Silvia become friends, replacing the lost friendship of Valentine and Proteus. 13 After her traumatic conference with Silvia, Julia calls herself a mere "shadow". By her traveling, she has, in effect, lost her "self". She has become Sebastian, no more than Proteus's page; and, as Proteus tells Silvia, "she is dead" (IV.ii.106). The near-tragedy of the plot is romantically resolved by Silvia's quest in search of Valentine. Paralleling Julia's journey to Milan, Silvia's quest leads, she believes, to Mantua, but actually ends in the pastoral world. Her guide, Sir Eglamour, is less a character than a symbol of undying love (IV.iii. 18-21); and, when he has brought her to the forest, he conveniently disappears — exit, comically chased by Valentine's band. As we have seen, through Valentine's deeds of friendship and love, Silvia's quest is successful. Of course, her name suggests that the forest will be the place of her good fortune. However, she is followed to the pastoral world by both Proteus and Julia, whose several journeys also must reach their culmination there. Proteus finally understands that love is not an abstraction to be sought in every beautiful woman, but only to be found in a permanent commitment to one: O heaven, were m a n But constant, he were perfect! That one error Fills him with faults, makes him run through all th' sins; Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. (V.iv.l 11-114)

With this basic truth, his educative journey ends, and Julia's quest in 12

That Silvia stands at the same window is assumption rather than stated fact, but the inference seems valid, and the playgoer may be expected to make the association. See II.iv.178: "I must climb her window" (Valentine); III.ii.82: "Visit by night your lady's chamberwindow" (Proteus to Thurio); and IV.ii.83, s.d.: "[Enter, at her window above,] Silvia". 13 Moulton, 225, and Bonazza, 90.

54

'the two gentlemen of verona'

search of love is consequently successful. The Duke's arrival on the scene merely confirms the arrangements decided on by the lovers. Only the dastardly Thurio, the true "chameleon" and symbolic opposite of Eglamour, leaves the stage in disappointment. Thus Shakespeare unifies the action of the play. The Hero and Leander of the drama, Valentine and Silvia, of course, do not suffer a double tragedy. Theseus-Proteus returns to his Ariadne; and only ThurioOrpheus loses his Eurydice. The tragic undertones of the classical myths are silenced by the promised wedding-song. In their parallel educative journeys, both Valentine and Proteus learn the basic pieces of knowledge which concern them most: Valentine to love; Proteus to be faithful in love. With wisdom attained, their original friendship is restored; and with this restoration, the parallel quests of Julia and Silvia in search of love are successful. The love letters which have caused so much misunderstanding, isolation, and heart-ache are forgotten, pushed into the background by the true deeds of love and the unity of the oncoming double marriages. "One feast, one house, one mutual happiness." In The Two Gentlemen of Verona, the problems and ideas which provide unifying patterns are those which will occupy Shakespeare's thought for years after. The play is in many ways seminal. The problems of communication and language, of the ways in which men make themselves understood or misunderstood, are of continuing concern in his drama. Proteus's education in the difference between his own fantasies and the realities of human love is a particular manifestation of the playwright's recurrent use of the discrepancy between appearance and reality. His mixture of the two modes of comedy and tragedy, a mixture of which Sidney had in general disapproved, is already a developed technique. These ideas and techniques are the common currency of Shakespearean drama; and they are used in the next play we will examine, Love's Labour's Lost.

3 PATTERN A N D BALANCE IN LOVE'S

LABOUR'S

LOST

In discussing the possibility of an early date for Love's Labour's Lost, Alfred Harbage briefly describes the play's general structure, which, he believes, is radically different from that of typical Shakespearean comedy, and the difference is in the direction of Chapel and Paul's drama of the eighties — in the grouping and balancing of characters, the at-least-perfunctory deference to the 'unities', the fairly equitable distribution of lines among the characters, the emphasis upon words at the expense of action, the use of scenes as set pieces rather than as links in an integrated plot.1 Although one may not fully agree with Professor Harbage's feeling that the structure is so completely different from that of the usual Shakespearean comedy, his observations on the use of characters, scene, and language deserve elaboration and further commentary. To begin with the most obvious, the characters in Love's Labour's Lost form an intricate pattern of balance and contrast. The king and his three courtiers are perfectly matched by the princess and her three ladies-inwaiting. Though the king and the princess have not met before the play begins, each of the ladies has met one of the king's men and can give a concise sketch of his basic character. Upon meeting the ladies of France outside the gates of their hermitage, each of the king's men falls in love with the lady he has met before — Berowne with Rosaline, Dumain with Katharine, Longaville with Maria — and the king appropriately falls in love with the princess at first sight. The four men, vowed to chastity and a rigorous life of arcane studies, stand in contrast to the ladies who are dedicated to no such matters. 2 The court of the king and the court of the 1

Alfred Harbage, "Love's Labor's Lost and the Early Shakespeare", Philological Quarterly, XLI (1962), 29. Cf. Bradbrook, Shakespeare and Elizabethan Poetry, 218. The formal qualities of the play have been emphasized by many critics. 2 Frances A. Yates, A Study of "Love's Labour's Lost" (Cambridge, England, 1936), calls this a contrast between "artists" and "villanists" (see, e.g., 167-168). She feels

56

PATTERN AND BALANCE IN 'LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST'

princess form the initial polarities, while the movement of the play is provided by the successive breaking of the vows, the reintegration of the king's men, and the elaborate courting of the ladies — a progress from the court of the king to the court of the princess. On the level of the subplot, the balance is preserved. Armado, Holofernes, and Nathaniel, with their love of words and learning are in contrast with Costard, Moth, and Dull, who are interested in less bookish things. The tone of this contrast is set in the second scene of the play in which Moth wittily pokes fun at his master and his taffeta phrases without, however, Armado's quite understanding that he is the butt of the jest. In the first part of the subplot, the emphasis is on Armado, Moth, and Costard; in the second, on Holofernes, Nathaniel, and Dull; and as the play moves to its conclusion, the six characters unite to perform their pageant of the Nine Worthies before the king and princess and their now united groups. Perhaps the one anomaly in the almost perfectly balanced pattern of dramatic personae is Boyet. He seems to have no contrasting double, no one with whom the playgoer may compare him. It may be that he is a Lord of Misrule guiding the ladies in their antics and later shockingly to be contrasted with Mercade, the man in black, who bears news of death. Possibly we may see him as balancing the whole group of secondary characters in the king's court, now opposing Costard with a pun, now Moth. He may be the princess's counterpart of Armado, or he may balance the courtiers of the king. All these suggestions may perhaps be answered with a partial affirmative; and yet, Boyet stands aloof from complete categorization. And it may be that he is meant to remain an anomaly in the pattern of characters, suggesting that the intricate balance of the play, even on this rather obvious level, is somehow perilous. Nevertheless, the intricate balance is carried on in the order of the individual scenes. For the sake of discussion and relative clarity, the act divisions may be disregarded, and we may look at the play as a series of distinct scenes of which there are nine. Scenes one, three, five, and seven — the odd scenes — are given in the main to the king, the princess, and their groups. Scenes two, four, six, and eight — the even — are given to that the play is intensely topical, glancing at current news from France, at the NasheHarvey debate, at Raleigh and his (supposed) group of scientifically minded friends, and at Florio and preciosity (see 19). She is followed by Richard David, ed., Love's Labour's Lost (London, 1963), xxxvii-1, whose text is used throughout the present study. Nevertheless, their case rests on very tenuous evidence and identifications, some of which are questionable (see David, 84, note on IV.ii.82-86).

PATTERN AND BALANCE IN 'LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST'

57

Armado, Holofernes, and the characters of the subplot. Scene nine, the final scene, with the Muscovites and the Worthies, brings all the groups together. Within this general pattern on the scenic level, however, exist more complex verbal patterns of contrast and linkage. The first scene of the play begins with the king's more than well-known speech on fame and its relationship to time and human aspirations: Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live register'd upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. (I.i.1-7)

The speech is followed by the oaths of Longaville, Dumain, and Berowne, who vow to observe the strict rules of the king's little "academe", not, however, without protest from Berowne. He points out that "these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, / Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep" (I.i.47-48), and that he and his fellows are too old for this kind of discipline: "to study now it is too late" (108). Nevertheless, if study is truly able to teach us "Things hid and barr'd ... from common sense" (57), Berowne promises ironically "to study so, / To know the thing I am forbid to know" (59-60): Or, having sworn too hard a keeping oath, Study to break it and not break my troth. (65-66)

He wishes to study not by poring over books, but by fixing his eye "upon a fairer eye" (81) of some young maid. "For every man", he reminds his fellows, "with his affects is born, / Not by might master'd, but by special grace" (150-151). Man's frailty is universal, and man is not to be redeemed by pulling on his own boot straps. Berowne's truisms are quickly confirmed, as Dull enters with the licentious Costard and a letter from Armado. 3 Costard has already broken the rules of the academe by consorting with Jaquenetta, and he assures the king that "Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh" (I.i.215). Though the king notes that "It was proclaimed a year's 3

This observation is a critical commonplace, but see Paul E. Memmo, Jr., "The

Poetry of the Stilnovisti

and Love's Labour's

(1966), 9, note 36, who puts it succinctly.

Lost",

Comparative

Literature,

XVIII

58

PATTERN AND BALANCE IN 'LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST'

imprisonment to be taken with a wench" (273-274), Costard is sentenced to "a week with bran and water" (285). This discrepancy suggests something about the king's idealistic project, and Berowne underlines the point: "I'll lay my head to any good man's hat, / These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn" (291-292). Comically lamenting his adverse fortune, Costard ends the scene: "sit thee down, sorrow!" (298). Structurally, this first scene is linked with scene five, the hunting scene (IV.i.), which is the central scene of the play. The princess has organized a deer hunt, and quite near the surface of the scene's verbal give-and-take is the traditional pun on "deer" the animal and "dear" the loved one. The related Elizabethan pun on "shooter" and "suitor" is used to point the direction of the ladies' thoughts. 4 Obviously the playgoer is to remember with irony the king's initial assurance that all men hunt after "fame". Apropos of her less metaphoric hunting, the princess expresses her own view: But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes, Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill. (IV.i.24-35) The princess's speech stands in contrast to the king's, questioning his smug self-assurance concerning man's ultimate aims. The pursuit of fame, surely an "outward part", has its hazards to which the king is, as yet, blind. Like the first scene, the princess's hunt is also interrupted by Costard and a letter by Don Armado, which Costard mistakenly delivers to Rosaline. Again, one of Armado's high-flown letters is read and appreciated. In the first scene, however, Armado's letter discloses the sexual indiscretions of Costard; here, his words proclaim his own passion. As before, there is some elaborate sexual punning, until Maria is forced to tell Costard, "Come, come, you talk greasily" (IV.i.136) — which may 4

Helge Kökeritz, Shakespeare's

Pronunciation

(New Haven, 1953), 145, 210, 317.

PATTERN AND BALANCE IN 'LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST'

59

also be a pun. 5 There is, however, a difference. In the opening scene, the sexual punning and joking were only Costard's; now the ladies and Boyet join him. The inclusiveness suggests that the girls of France have accepted the facts of sexual love which the king and his men are attempting to deny. The facile idealism of the king is balanced in this central scene by the realism of the princess and her entourage. The seventh scene, the eavesdropping scene, in which the king and his men reveal that they are lovers and amorous poets, is also linked to scene one, and is climactic. Berowne's opening remark, "The king he is hunting the deer" (IV.iii.l), ironically takes the playgoer back to the king's initial statement in scene one; and Berowne's lament, "set thee down, sorrow!" (4), echoes Costard's final line in that scene. There are a series of reminiscences of the first scene, and the playgoer is prepared for the present ironic situation in which the original oaths are broken and a series of new allegiances to love are proclaimed. For the third time, Costard, now with Jaquenetta, enters with a letter, this time incriminating Berowne. Berowne is consequently asked to reveal how they may all break their oaths without breaking troth — a thing he said he would study to do in scene one. The following tour de force uses and elaborates the arguments he had used against taking the oaths in the first place. "To fast, to study, and to see no woman", he says, is "Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth" (289-290). Women's eyes are "the ground, the books, the academes" from which springs "the true Promethean fire" (300-301). Formerly the king had declared war on "the huge army of the world's desires" (I.i.10); now he cries, "Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!" (363). Berowne replies with double-entendres: Advance your standards, and upon them, lords! Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advis'd, In conflict that you get the sun of them. (364-366) The martial imagery which pervades the play, 6 previously used against the passions, has now become openly sexual. The seventh scene also sets up reverberations with scenes three and four, and has affinities to scene eight. In scene three (II.i), the king and his courtiers visit the princess in the field upon her arrival at the king's gates. Although the courtiers enter in a group, they leave separately, after 5

See Eric Partridge, Shakespeare's Bawdy (London, 1947), 123, s.v. "grease" and "greasily; greasy". 6 Caroline F. E. Spurgeon, Shakespeare's Imagery and What It Tells Us (New York, 1935), 271-272, illustrates the dominance of "war and weapons" imagery.

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each has asked Boyet the name of the lady with whom he has fallen in love. The king's group has disintegrated under the pressure of sexual love, and the separate departures of the men here prepare for their separate entrances in scene seven. The manner of their union, however, is suggested by the riddle of Armado and Moth in scene four: The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. (III.i.93-96) In scene seven, the king, Dumain, and Longaville are at odds until they are joined by Berowne. 7 After the "goose" (a cant term for 'loose woman' and thus Jaquenetta) incriminates Berowne with his love letter to Rosaline, "the number is even" (IV.iii.208). With a new goal, the four men are reunited, promising to entertain their ladies with "some strange pastime" (IV.iii.374). The next scene, scene eight, celebrates the union of the minor characters, as Armado marshals them together in order to devise some amusement for the ladies. They decide to perform a pageant of the Nine Worthies. Throughout the play, the even numbered scenes serve to balance the odd: Armado and his group ironically foreshadowing or mirroring the loves and manners of their masters. Armado writes his letter to Jaquenetta while Berowne writes his to Rosaline; Holofernes and Nathaniel have their feast of words immediately before the courtiers have theirs in scene seven; Holofernes reads his verses on the princess before the king has a chance to read his; and so on. In this play, the actions of the subplot adumbrate the actions of the main, until scenes eight and nine, when the minor characters fall behind. In the last scene, the Worthies follow the Muscovites, " T o have one show worse than the king's and his company" (V.ii.509). Thus, the final scene caps the delicate balance of scene and character, drawing all together. In the final moments, all characters are on stage for the songs of the cuckoo and the owl, and the play comes to a neatly symmetrical conclusion. Reinforcing this scenic formality is the patterned structure of language and number. Set speeches are alternated with elaborate punning, witty dialogue, sonnets and songs. The language of the play has received its 7

This parallel is described by Stanley B. Greenfield, "Moth's L'Envoy and the Courtiers in Love's Labour's Lost", Review of English Studies, V (1954), 167-168.

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just share of critical attention, 8 but the point to be emphasized here is its formal quality. Each adjective seems to exist only in balance with others; no phrase seems to be left without a frill. The language is fully orchestrated. Perhaps more interesting because less widely noticed, is the pattern of numbers in the play. It is underlined again and again that the king and his men are to study three years. But further, they are to sleep only three hours a night. Dull says that Costard must fast three days a week. Moth and Armado play with the sum of one and two, which the gross multitude call three. At first glance, it appears that all things in the play come in threes, or numbers divisible by three. There are three courtiers and three ladies-in-waiting. That the six characters of the subplot are in two groups of three has already been suggested. These six characters decide to present the Pageant of the Nine Worthies and do so in the play's ninth and last scene. In fact, the play has eighteen named parts. Nevertheless, three does not completely dominate. As the riddle propounded by Armado and Moth indicates, four also recurs. The king's group is four in number, and they become metaphorically "four woodcocks in a dish" (IV.iii.80). Used for the visiting Muscovites, the word "mess" means four eating companions. "Pertaunt" (that long obscure word) 9 means four of a kind in the card game "post and pair". The play as a whole appears to be a complex pattern of odds and evens; and this pattern of number is linked to the rhetorical pattern by Rosaline's pun on "number" meaning both 'poetry' and 'counting' (V.ii.35-36). Concurrently, within the play's shimmering verbal structure, there are elements which point away from ordered symmetry. 10 More than one critic has felt the affinity of Love's Labour's Lost to Measure for Measure, and one reason for this feeling of similarity may be these competing structures of disruption and disorder beneath the surface balance of 8

See, e.g., James L. Calderwood, "Love's Labour's Lost: A Wantoning with Words", Studies in English Literature, V (1965), 317-332; Benjamin Ifor Evans, The Language of Shakespeare's Plays (London, 1959), 1-16; and Bradbrook, Shakespeare and Elizabethan Poetry, 213. 9 See Percy Simpson, "Pertaunt-Like", Times Literary Supplement, 24 February 1945, 91, who cites Randle Holme's The Academy of Armory (Roxburghe Club, 1905), 74: "Paire-Taunt, is foure cards of a sort". However, Weston Babcock, "Fools, Fowls, and Perttaunt-Like in Love's Labour's Lost", Shakespeare Quarterly, II (1951), 211-219, suggests that "pertaunt-like" should be emended to "Partlet-like", arguing his case through imagery. He does not take Simpson's discovery into account, and in the final analysis, Simpson seems to be correct. 10 Bobbyann Roesen, "Love's Labour's Lost", Shakespeare Quarterly, IV (1953), 411-426, and Cyrus Hoy, "Love's Labour's Lost and the Nature of Comedy", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIII (1962), 31-40, also notice the dissident elements in the play.

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scene, characters, and language. The most interesting of these structures is the pattern of forgetfulness, misunderstanding, and mental inability which runs throughout the play. In the first scene, for example, Berowne maintains that he "only swore to study" with the king and "stay here in your court for three years space" (I.i.51-52). Somehow the "other strict observances" (36) have either been overlooked or forgotten. It seems strange that he has missed what the others have so clearly in mind. After Berowne has subscribed his name to the oath, he mentions that the Princess of France is near at hand on an embassy to the king. "This", the king admits, "was quite forgot" (140). The playgoer may not be as puzzled as he should by this lapse, and perhaps he does not stop to weigh, as he listens, the possible consequences of Dull's verbal inability (182) later in the scene. Nonetheless, scene one introduces a world of mental frailty which might, to the reflective mind, prove disturbing. Simple arithmetic seems to be a large stumbling block. Though Banks's dancing horse may be able to count to three, 11 Armado can only venture that the "gross sum of deuce-ace" is "one more than two" (I.ii.43-45). The fantastical Spaniard, however, is not alone in his problem with numbers. When Berowne informs Costard that three times three is nine, Costard replies: "under correction, sir, I hope it is not so" (V.ii.489). The banter is prolonged, but Costard offers no solution for his arithmetical crux. He informs Berowne that there will be three actors in the pageant, each acting three parts. Later, the king counts over the five actors — Armado, Costard, Nathaniel, Moth, and Holofernes — and insists that these four "will change habits, and present the other five" (533). Though the king is not at all bothered by the fact that four actors will play five parts, Berowne is puzzled by his basic inability to count. "There is five in the first show" (534), he says. The king denies it: "You are deceived, 'tis not so" (535). Even the simplest form of mathematics seems to pose insuperable problems for this monarch who would be master of an academe. In the world of the play, he never acknowledges his mistake in elementary addition. Paralleling the mathematical confusion is the verbal. Costard firmly believes that "remuneration" is a synonym for "three farthings," and "guerdon" another name for "shilling" (Ill.i. 166-169). His inability to read, of course, leads to his confused delivery of the love letters. Dull 11 See David's note to I.ii.Sl. Banks's trained horse Morocco was apparently able to count by moving his hoof.

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believes that Nathaniel's "haud credo" is actually "old grey doe", 1 2 and, though Holofernes's Latin and Italian have been mended by modern scholars, in the original they are singularly corrupt. The cross talk, "in which each speaker by catching up one word in his partner's sally and giving it a new turn produces as it were a surprising modulation", 1 3 is typical of the play and is more than an enjoyable product of wit. It points to the whole problem of human noncommunication and misunderstanding inherent in the verbal confusion. But confusion and mistakes run rampant through the play. The king has no record of the money paid him by the King of France: " I do protest I never heard of it" (II.i.158). His forgetfulness forces the princess to await her receipts, which important documents are trailing the main party. Later, perhaps deluded by her own desires, the princess thinks she sees the king spur his horse "Against the steep-up rising of the hill" (IV.i.2); but Boyet thinks she is wrong. Finally, she misinterprets the intent of the king and his men: "They do it but in mockery merriment" (V.ii.139), mistaking love for scorn. This mistake leads, in turn, to the trick of the ladies; disguising themselves, they force the lovers to vow love to the wrong mistresses — another confusion. 1 4 After the discomfiture of the lords, their men, playing the Worthies, must undergo similar disconcerting banter, and they similarly depart in confusion. 1 5 Quite obviously the entire scheme of human frailty stands in direct contrast to the orderly and balanced structure of the play. However, as Berowne notes at the beginning, each man "with his affects is b o r n " (I.i. 150); and the unruffled surface of the play also conceals the disruptive element of sexuality. For his present purposes, Shakespeare seems to link sexual love with both disease and death — as he will later do in Measure

13 This confusion is suggested by A. L. Rowse, "Haud Credo: A Shakespearian Pun", Times Literary Supplement, 18 July 1952, 469: " 'awd grey doe". 13 See David's note on V.ii.423 (163). 14 For an interesting commentary on the masquing element in this play and Romeo and Juliet, see Philip Parsons, "Shakespeare and the Mask", Shakespeare Survey, XVI (1963), 121-131. 15 As may be apparent from this paragraph, the pattern of mental confusion is matched by a pattern of humiliation and shame, which can only be briefly sketched here. Almost all the male characters are at one point or another found in shameful or humiliating circumstances. Costard is found with Jaquenetta (possibly in flagrante delicto); Armado is ashamed of his passion for the same girl and marries her when she is found to be pregnant. The king and his men, including Berowne, are embarrassed by the discovery of their love poetry, and are equally discountenanced when masked as Muscovites. The Nine Worthies are humiliated. Human incompetence leads to human shame.

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for Measure. Boyet uses "infected" as a synonym for 'in love' (II.i.230), and Katharine, in a few haunting lines, tells us that love has killed her sister: " H e made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; / And so she died" (V.ii.14-15). Though we may separate these elements for analysis and discussion, it is perhaps best to think of them finally as a united threat to man's most fragile ideals, his illusions and his dreams. The pattern of disease is essentially that of the plague and suggests that all men are tainted. 1 6 The king appears to be the first infected (II.i.230), and Berowne calls his own sexual passion " a plague" imposed by Cupid for his neglect (IILi. 198-200). Later, the ladies themselves "may prove plagues to men forsworn" (IV.iii.382), and in the final scene, Berowne admits that he is "sick" (V.ii.417), and to the ladies, says: Write "Lord have mercy on us" on those three; They are infected, in their hearts it lies; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes: These lords are visited; you are not free, For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. (419-423) Punning on the love tokens the ladies have received from the king and his courtiers, Berowne emphasizes the universality of the "disease". None is exempt, and again the implication is that of human frailty. Nevertheless, the sickness motif is handled lightly, and neither the lords nor the ladies seem about to die from love. At the same time, the playgoer is torn (as so often in Shakespearean comedy) between the lightness of manner and the more serious undertones of matter. The pattern of death, both in language and action, seems to pose a more substantial threat to human aspirations in the play. In the opening lines, the king introduces "brazen tombs", "the disgrace of death", and "cormorant devouring Time" (I.i.2-4). It is against the onslaught of death that the king and his noble warriors are to fight. According to the king, their recreation will be Armado's stories about "many a knight / From tawny Spain, lost in the world's debate" (I.i.171-172). At the academe, Death is a constant reminder of human limitations, an ultimate reality which all must face. Significantly, the princess and her group bring the actuality of death into the king's retreat, for the merciful lady goes " t o spill / The poor deer's blood" (IV.i.34-35), an act which foreshadows Mercade's arrival with the news of her father's death. And, finally, it is this news that shatters the light pleasures of the declining afternoon. 16 Also the Princess of France comes from "her decrepit, sick, and bed-rid father" (I.i.137). This reference to sickness forms a link with the pattern of death.

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In the face of death, the king and his three friends must soberly declare their undying love. However, the most pervasive threat to the play's idealism is sexual passion. Almost as soon as the original vows are made, Costard is arraigned for his affair with Jaquenetta. In the second scene, Armado cries: "Adieu, valour! rust, rapier! be still, drum! for your manager is in love" (I.ii.171-172), in a kind of comic adumbration of Othello's famous farewell to his military profession. By the end of the third scene, the king's entire scheme has been forgotten in the heat of sexual desire. He and all his men are in love, and their solidarity, tenuous from the start, has disappeared. Although love seems to afflict all save four of the characters, Costard is the comic emblem of rampant sexuality. Except for the third scene, he is omnipresent, and where he comes, sex is sure to follow. The discovery of his affair with Jaquenetta is dealt with in the first two scenes, and in the fourth scene, Moth enters with Costard, saying, "here's a costard broken in a shin" (III.i.68). Although the jest may seem at first glance a trifle puerile, when we realize that "broken shin" was a cant term for "sexual disappointment or frustration", 1 7 we understand that Moth has interrupted Costard's love making. In the following scene, while attempting to deliver the love letters, he engages in some bawdy punning with Boyet and the ladies. Next he appears with Jaquenetta, who exposes Berowne's love, first to Holofernes and Nathaniel, and then to the king and his men. Berowne's question, "Will these turtles be gone?" (IV.iii.209), directed at Costard and Jaquenetta, suggests the kind of activity in which they are at the moment employed. In the eighth scene, Costard wishes that Moth were his bastard: "what a joyful father wouldst thou make me" (V.i.72-73). And, in the last scene, he indicates that Armado has Jaquenetta with child, though the facts of the play seem to suggest a different parentage altogether. From the very outset, Costard has been preoccupied with sexual love in general and with Jaquenetta in particular. The song of the cuckoo at the play's end must ring loudly in Armado's ears, and perhaps his marriage to Jaquenetta should be chronicled as one of the play's major mistakes. However, if love is in one aspect disruptive, perhaps in another it is redemptive, part of that "special grace" which Berowne sees as necessary for man to overcome his destructive passions. It is through love — though not sexuality — that the men are brought back from their cloistered 17

See David's note to III.i.68 (51).

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idealism to an acceptance of the realities of human life. "Silken terms" are finally exchanged for "russet yeas and honest kersey noes" (V.ii.406, 413), for "Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief" (743). To gain his love, the king must give up the superficiality of the little academe for "some forlorn and naked hermitage, / Remote from all the pleasures of the world" (785-786). Before Berowne can attain the fullness of love, he must (according to Rosaline), this twelve month term from day to day, Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit To enforce the pained impotent to smile. (840-844) He must confront the realities of sickness and death. Though the "words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo" (920), the final songs accord perfectly with the concluding mood of the play. The superficial beauties of the spring are mocked by the cuckoo, while the harsh winter hears the "merry note" of the "staring owl". As Bertrand Bronson so aptly puts it, "the age-old lesson of the imperfect and paradoxical condition of human felicity ... is resident in this antiphony". 1 8 Possibly man is truly happy only when confronted by the bitterness of reality. The play moves then, as Theodore Spencer clearly saw, from illusion to reality. 19 Through the intricate balance of character and scene reinforced by word and number, Shakespeare suggests the quality of delicately ordered existence. The metaphorically minded may imagine an elaborately 18

Bertrand Bronson, "Daisies Pied and Icicles", Modern Language Notes, LXIII (1948), 35-38, provides an excellent explanation of the final songs. The ominous bird of spring with its cry of "cuckold" and the happy bird of winter with its cheerful hoot make a surprising reversal of the traditional avian debate, like Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls. Following Bronson, we may feel that the play as a whole suggests the ironic contrast of the final songs. Tinsley Helton, "Shakespeare's Love's Labor's Lost, V, ii, 940-941", Explicator, XXII (1963), item 25, explains the allusion to Mercury (the messenger of the gods and god of roads, travelers, commerce, trade) and Apollo (the god of the arts). The lines mean that Mercade's news of the King of France's death (Mercury's message) is harsh because it brings to an end the "Apollonian festival" which constitutes the play. Also the audience will have to leave the Apollonian theatre for the Mercurial duties of trade. Joseph Westlund, "Fancy and Achievement in Love's Labour's Lost", Shakespeare Quarterly, XVIII (1967), 37-46, feels that the play is essentially about different kinds of imagination. Since the play is concerned with wooing as well as wit, he suggests a submerged pun in the owl's "tu-whit" "tu-who" (46). See also Catherine M. McLay, "The Dialogues of Spring and Winter: A Key to the Unity of Love's Labour's Lost", Shakespeare Quarterly, XVIII (1967), 119-127. 19

Theodore Spencer, Shakespeare 1961), 90.

and the Nature of Man, 2nd ed. (New York,

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patterned courtly dance, or perhaps a game of chess. On the surface, this stately world seems incapable of disruption. Nevertheless, we have noticed that Shakespeare establishes competing elements of dissonance and decay: the fallibility of the human intellect, man's lack of control over his passions, over disease and ultimately over death. The king's dream of brass impregnable perishes in the world of time and flux, where all are "betray'd" by the company they keep "With moon-like men, men of inconstancy" (IV.iii. 177-178). Possibly the acceptance of man's frailty, of his human fallibility, offers some consolation, and perhaps, indeed, "none offend where all alike do dote" (IV.iii. 124). Whatever conclusion one may wish to draw, the play celebrates no fugitive and cloistered virtue.

4 THE INSUBSTANTIAL WORLD O F RICHARD II: PATTERNS O F DISSOLUTION A N D IDENTITY

The three preceding essays on Titus Andronicus, The Two Gentlemen of Verona, and Love's Labour's Lost are concerned with Shakespeare's earliest uses of structural patterning. His beginnings as a dramatist are traditionally obscure, and any suggestion made about his early career is merest conjecture. 1 Perhaps one fact, however, has emerged from these three essays: that, even from the beginning of his career as a playwright, Shakespeare's sense of structure and his ability to unite the many elements of a play into an organic whole are extraordinary. The beginning may well have taken the form of one of the parts of Henry VI, a three-decker history; and it is with Richard II, one of his most interesting and well-developed history plays, that the present essay deals. It has become a commonplace that "Richard II takes an important step towards Shakespeare's tragic masterpieces", 2 and this essay will not be an attempt to question that well-documented assumption. As we examine the patterns of dissolution and identity in Richard II, perhaps we are indeed forced to think ahead to Hamlet's soliloquies, to Lear's tragic journey from Cornwall to Dover, and to Antony's disintegrating world. The analogies, which can only be tacitly implied here, may once again indicate that, in this play, Shakespeare began to experiment with the tragic mode, so prominent in his later career. For, in the major tragedies, the dissolution of the immediate scene confronts the tragic hero while, at the same time, he must define his own 1

For a recent discussion of the dates, see Marco Mincoff, "The Chronology of Shakespeare's Early Works", Zeitschrift für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, XII (1964), 173-182. 2 Peter G. Phialas, "Richard II and Shakespeare's Tragic Mode", Texas Studies in Literature and Language, V (1963-1964), 344. Cf. William L. Halstead, "Artifice and Artistry in Richard II and Othello", Sweet Smoke of Rhetoric, ed. Natalie Grimes Lawrence and J. A. Reynolds (Coral Gables, Florida, 1964), 21, and Donald Reiman, "Appearance, Reality, and Moral Order in Richard II", Modern Language Quarterly, XXV (1964), 45.

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selfhood in relation to his changing environment. Finding his family disrupted and his father murdered by his uncle, Hamlet seeks to identify the role he must play in the new court. Turned out by his daughters, Lear must learn what it means to be a poor forked animal. The major tragic heroes are doomed to seek their identity in a decaying, dissolving world — a kind of existential, surrealistic nightmare — which may or may not have been entirely of their own making. King Richard, it is our present purpose to show, lives in a similar world and is engaged in a similar quest. Richard's command, "throw away respect, / Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty" (III.ii.172-173), 3 strikes the keynote for the entire social and political collapse during Bolingbroke's rebellious invasion, but it also points to the pattern of ceremony which stands opposed to that of dissolution. This pattern has been widely noticed, 4 and we will therefore only touch upon it briefly here as an antithetical pattern which helps to define its opposite. Ceremony or ritual is a public action; in essentials, the various steps in the action are foreknown: it may be compared to a formal dance. Ritual action becomes part of the many social functions from marriages and funerals, arrivals and departures, to oaths and trials. 5 In its predictability and stability, ritual or ceremony contrasts with the collapse of Richard's England, a collapse indicated, in part, by the cessation or disruption of ceremony. One of Shakespeare's recurrent dramatic ideas is the concept of the social bond: the binding of men each to each within the social order. We shall see more of this idea in The Merchant of Venice and especially in 3 Peter Ure, ed., King Richard II (London, 1964), is used throughout. It has a thorough and useful introduction. 4 Eustace M. W. Tillyard, Shakespeare's History Plays (London, 1959), 251-254; Peter G. Phialas, "The Medieval in Richard //", Shakespeare Quarterly, XII (1961), 305-310, while disagreeing with Tillyard's full thesis, admits that the emphasis is taken out of the action and placed upon the ceremony of the situations. Phialas sees the ceremony as an element of the past against which the breakdown of the present is measured. Robert Hapgood, "Three Eras in Richard II", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIV (1963), 281-283, aptly extends Phialas's insight. Hapgood sees three distinguishable eras in the play: the reigns of Edward III, Richard II, Henry IV. Like Phialas, he sees Edward's reign as an "age of ceremony" providing a background for the action of the play. Dorothy Hockey, "A World of Rhetoric in Richard II", Shakespeare Quarterly, XV, iii (1964), 179, notes a pattern of "arrested motions". None of the expected armed conflicts take place. 5 See Rituals Critical Review,

William Frost's excellent definition of ceremony / ritual in "Shakespeare's and the Opening of King Lear", Shakespeare: The Tragedies: A Collection of Essays, ed., Clifford Leech (Chicago, 1965), 191-192, reprinted from Hudson X (1957-1958), 577-585.

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Macbeth; but Richard II also uses the bond in significant patterns. In Richard's world, the bonds holding society together are crumbling, and the dissolution of family and political ties forms the background of Richard's quest in search of himself. Politically, the dissolution of order in England is signaled by the breaking of the bond between king and subject. Salisbury's Welshmen, observing the portents of nature — "The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd" (II.iv.8) — have fled to their homes leaving their king defenceless. York's small, loyalist army has virtually joined with Bolingbroke, and when Bolingbroke and his followers are proclaimed traitors, Greene reports: the Earl of Worcester Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke. (II.ii.58-61) The bond between king and subject is broken, and Richard's royal authority is dissolved. There are indications in the play that Richard is personally responsible for the initial collapse of orderly connections. In scene two, Gaunt hints that Richard has murdered his uncle, the Duke of Gloucester. Metaphorically, the Duchess of Gloucester continues: One vial full of Edward's sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy's hand, and murder's bloody axe. (I.ii.17-21) The harsh verbs "crack'd" and " h a c k ' d " perfectly emphasize the idea that the family ties have been forcibly broken. For the present, however, Gaunt feels that he "may never lift / An angry arm against" the king, God's minister on earth (40-41). Old John of Gaunt, time-honored Lancaster, conservatively upholds those principles of order and continuity which make social life possible. It appears to be the duty of the old in this play to preserve the essential social duties; the young — Richard and Bolingbroke — seem bent, in their several ways, on breaking up the old order. After Gaunt's death, his brother York tries to carry on the conservative tradition. Richard immediately decides to confiscate the dead Gaunt's "plate, coin, revenues, and moveables" (II.i.161), thus violating Bolingbroke's right to claim his father's goods and title. York foresees the danger of this action and warns Richard:

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Take Herford's rights away, and take from time His charters, and his customary rights; Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day: Be not thyself. For how art thou a king But by fair sequence and succession? (Il.i. 195-199) The warning is apt, for to destroy another man's rights within the social order is, in effect, to question the permanence of one's own. If Bolingbroke at the death of Gaunt does not become Duke of Lancaster, then it is equally valid to question whether Richard became king at the death of Edward III. When the bonds of continuity are broken, no man's place and identity within the society are unquestionable. The vacuum left by Richard's fall from power is naturally enough filled by the aspiring Bolingbroke. As the latter kneels before him, Richard cries: " U p , cousin, up; your heart is up, I know, / Thus high at least, although your knee be low" (Ill.iii. 194-195). He obviously accompanies the words "Thus high" with the appropriate gesture, touching his crown. Ironically, by assuming the royal prerogatives, Bolingbroke is denying those same "customary rights" which Richard had denied in forbidding Bolingbroke's title to Lancaster. The cycle begins again; and again the conservative voice, this time embodied in the Bishop of Carlisle, points to the outcome: My Lord of Herford here, whom you call king, Is a foul traitor to proud Herford's king, And if you crown him, let me prophesy — Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, And, in this seat of peace, tumultuous wars Shall kin with kin, and kind with kind, confound. Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny, Shall here inhabit. ... (IV.i.134-136, 139-143) A denial of the social bonds can only lead to further dissolution and instability within the realm. As Richard had ignored York, so Henry now ignores Carlisle, and the good bishop, for his trouble, is arrested for capital treason. The parallel incidents lead to parallel results, and Carlisle's prophecy, like York's, is abundantly fulfilled. For even as the scene ends, the Abbot of Westminster draws Carlisle and Aumerle aside: Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but also to effect Whatever I shall happen to devise. (IV.i.327-330)

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His words in certain ways are reminiscent of Northumberland's to Ross and Willoughby before their defection to Bolingbroke, and Westminster ultimately produces a bond to destroy the new king. It is, ironically, a bond to dissolve a bond, and is, because of York's fidelity to Henry, unsuccessful. The last scene of the play recounts the burning of Cirencester and the death of the rebels. And though King Henry is still alive, he has not been able fully to re-establish political stability in his newly acquired kingdom. The progressive breakdown of stability in the play can be traced in the pattern of oaths. In the beginning, oaths are strong bonds. According to his "oath and band" (I.i.2), John of Gaunt brings his son to the king's court as the play opens. At the lists in Coventry, charged by the Marshal to "Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath" (I.iii.14),6 Mowbray expresses his belief in the inviolable nature of his given word: My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, Who hither come ingaged by my oath (Which God defend a knight should violate!) (16-18) Before Mowbray and Bolingbroke go into exile, Richard has them swear an oath by their duty to God, never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. (I.iii.188-190) Both men swear; the oath is accepted as binding; and whether or not Bolingbroke later breaks the spirit of this oath in returning to England at the head of an army is, possibly, a moot point. Nevertheless, from this scene onward, oaths become more ambivalent than binding. York's divided loyalties, for example, are indicative of the change. Speaking of Richard and Bolingbroke, he argues: Both are my kinsmen: Th'one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; th'other again Is my kinsman, whom the king hath wrong'd, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. (II.ii.111-115) Caught between his conscience and his oath, York is immobilized; and when Northumberland assures him that Bolingbroke "hath sworn" that he has come to England 6

Perhaps a hendiadys for "oath of knighthood".

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But for his own; and for the right of that We all have strongly sworn to give him aid. And let him ne'er see joy that breaks that oath! (Il.iii.148-150) York's opposition all but collapses. Of course, Northumberland's assurance is completely ironic in the light of later developments. In the world of political struggle, oaths are valid only when the consequences attendant upon their breaking are capable of being enforced. And Bolingbroke is in quest not of "joy", but of power. From the time of Richard's return to England from his Irish wars, the emphasis of the play is on the broken oath of allegiance. Richard asks: Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend; They break their faith to God as well as us. Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay — (III.ii. 100-102) In the next scene, Bolingbroke, almost as if he were denying Richard's words, says: Henry Bolingbroke On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand, And sends his allegiance and true faith of heart To his most royal person. (III.iii.35-38) Nevertheless, when next we see Bolingbroke, he has assumed the royal power. The irony is overt. Richard says to the new king: God pardon all oaths that are broke to me, God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee! (IV.i.214-215) At the same time, when Northumberland presses him publicly to read a list of his faults, Richard reminds him of his "cracking the strong warrant of an oath" (235). Bolingbroke's new world, unfortunately, is not the one in which oaths are held with religious awe and reverence. The deposition and the breaking of the oaths of fealty are mirrored, as Richard himself notes, in the separation of the deposed king from his queen. "Doubly divorc'd", he says, Bad men, you violate A two-fold marriage — 'twixt my crown and me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me; And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made. (V.i.71-75) The last words are obviously spoken to his queen. All oaths have been broken, and yet not this one. The Judas kiss will not undo the royal marriage. Nevertheless, as the political and social structure collapses,

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few men's words can be counted on. Aumerle, who takes the sacramental vow against Bolingbroke, later swears that his "heart is not confederate with" his "hand" (V.iii.51) in the signed bond. His oath is not binding. And perhaps the index to the change in attitude is Fitzwater's "bond of faith" which is sworn not "by God", but "As I intend to thrive in this new world" (IV.i.78). Given this background, the playgoer may take, with a grain of salt, Henry's final vow: I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. (V.vi.49-50) His words ring hollow, for, since the banishment of Mowbray, no one has been quite so religious about the keeping of his sacred oath. But the pattern of oaths is simply one method of plotting the successive breakup of the old order. The Biblical myths which form what may be called the mythic background also suggest the breaking of bonds. 7 The three major figures alluded to are Cain, Judas, and Pontius Pilate. In the first scene, Bolingbroke compares the blood of the murdered Duke of Gloucester to "sacrificing Abel's" (I.i.104), consciously calling to mind the disruption of the primal family by Cain. The allusion seems aimed at Richard, and, as we have seen, it is reinforced by the words of Gaunt and the Duchess of Gloucester in the next scene. At the play's conclusion, Bolingbroke revives the allusion, using it inappropriately for Exton: With Cain go wander thorough the shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. (V.vi.43-44) The words echo Mowbray's comment on his exile (I.iii. 176-177), and sound forced on King Henry's lips. Exton claims no kinship to Richard, and the allusion rightfully belongs to Henry himself, who, indeed, ends the play as the haunted figure of Cain. Poor Exton is merely the royal scapegoat. The central portions of the play, however, use the figures of Judas and Pontius Pilate. Judas, of course, is the archetype of the man who denies his bond to his master, while Pilate symbolizes the man who denies his allegiance to justice through political expedience. Richard first invokes the allusion to Judas against his former minions, Bushy, Bagot, and

7 For somewhat different discussions of the Biblical imagery, see J. A. Bryant, Jr., "The Linked Analogies of Richard //", Sewanee Review, LXV (1957), 420-433, and John P. Cutts, "Christian and Classical Imagery in Richard II", Universitas: A Journal of Religion and the University, II (1964), 70-76.

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8

Greene (III.ii.132), until he realizes that he is wrong. In the deposition scene, his allusion is more to the point. Looking at his former lords, he asks: 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. (IV.i. 169-171)

The breaking of the political bonds gains emotional cogency by the religious overtones, for the denial of one's bond to the king was the equivalent in Renaissance political thought to the denial of one's duty to Christ. As much as Christ, the king was God's vicegerent upon earth. But Richard goes on: Nay, all of you, that stand and look upon me Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, Showing an outward pity — yet you Pilâtes Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin. (IV.i.237-242)

The playgoer may remember Bolingbroke's anxiety to wash the blood of Bushy and Greene from his hands (III.i.5-6); and later when King Henry seems to desire so fervently to wash Richard's blood from his hands, we are surely to recall the present allusion to Pilate. And once again the political point is reinforced by the religious myth. One more pattern must be rapidly surveyed before we turn to the patterns of identity. The pattern of death, in allusion and in reality, permeates this play in much the way it does Love's Labour's Lost. And though the pattern may be more expected here, the effect is similar to that in the earlier play. Here, the first scene is concerned with the murder of Gloucester and ends with Mowbray and Bolingbroke vowing a fight to the death; in the fourth scene, Gaunt dies, and the Duchess of Gloucester soon follows; in scene nine, Bushy and Greene are executed; in the next scene, Richard evokes the image of death: within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court, and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp. (III.ii.160-163)

When Bolingbroke decides to recall the banished Mowbray, we learn that 8

Cutts (70) sees an intended contrast with the three actual Judases : Ross, Willoughby, and Northumberland. Cf. II.i.224-300, and II.ii.122-148.

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h e a l s o h a s d i e d ; K i n g H e n r y ' s a s s a s s i n a t i o n is p l a n n e d , t h o u g h n o t carried out; and, o f course, the play ends s o o n after Richard's passing — Mount, mount, m y soul! thy seat is up on high, Whilst m y gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. (V.v.111-112) H i s c o f f i n is b r o u g h t o n s t a g e b y E x t o n a n d f o l l o w e d o f f b y H e n r y . I m a g i n a t i v e l y , t h e entire p l a y c a n b e s e e n a s a v a s t D a n c e o f D e a t h , t h e m e d i e v a l s y m b o l o f h u m a n i m p e r m a n e n c e w h i c h h a s , e v e r since, int r i g u e d t h e m i n d o f w e s t e r n m a n . T h e final d i s s o l u t i o n is d e a t h ; a n d it is the ultimate s y m b o l

of Richard's environment

w h e r e all t h i n g s fall

asunder.9 I n this w e l t e r o f e v e n t s , b o t h R i c h a r d a n d B o l i n g b r o k e m u s t seek their identities, try t o a s c e r t a i n their r o l e s . 1 0 B e c a u s e o f t h e c o n s t a n t flux, t h e

9

See Katherine Vance MacMullan, " D e a t h Imagery in Antony and Cleopatra", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIV (1963), 399-410, and the citations found there. See also Theodore Spencer, Death and Elizabethan Tragedy: A Study of Convention and Opinion in the Elizabethan Drama (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1936). The pattern of dissolution is also apparent on the imagistic level in images of dissolving: III.ii.108: "the world were all dissolv'd to tears"; IV.i.262: " T o melt myself away in water-drops"; in images of general calamity: III.ii.102: "woe, destruction, ruin, and decay"; and in images of flux, e.g., seasonal imagery (III.iv.49) and sunrise / sunset imagery (passim). 10 That Shakespeare and his audience may have seen the two characters in this light (if not in these precise words) is suggested by Sir John Davies, Nosce Teipsum (London, 1599), STC 6355, written two or three years after the play. Davies writes: We that acquaint our selues with euery Zoane, And passe both Tropikes, and behold the Poles, When we come home, are to our selues vnknowne, And vnacquainted still with our owne Soules. (p. 5) Yet if Affliction once her warres begin, And thereat the feeble Sense with sword and fire, And Mind contracts herselfe, and shrinketh in, And to her selfe she gladly doth retire; If ought can teach vs ought, Afflictions lookes, (Making vs looke into our selues so neare) Teach vs to know our selues, beyond all bookes, Or all the learned Schooles that euer were. (p. 7) I know I am one of Natures litle kings, Yet to the least and vilest things am thrall. I know my life's a paine, and but a span, I know my Sense is mockt with euery thing; And to conclude, I know my selfe a Man, Which is a proud and yet a wretched thing, (p. 8) The progress to self-enlightenment plotted by Davies is similar to Richard's, though it seems unlikely that he was thinking of the play when he wrote. Robert B. Heilman,

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problem of self-knowledge becomes crucial. Externally nothing is what it seems; and what one man is very sure of, another denies with all his heart. To be certain of what one is in a constantly shifting background provides the most difficult of tasks. The quest for some kind of permanence, some kind of surety, is possibly the chief motivation of the play's action and one which lies behind the recurring motif of the trial. We may call this motif the pattern of justice, though with a touch of critical irony, since justice is never clearly achieved. The problem of "who is to be blamed?" or "who is to be believed?" always remains. And thus the pattern is related in a rather negative way to the establishment of identity: who is the judge and who is the villain? Unfortunately, these questions are never satisfactorily answered, though the attempt to answer them is a recurrent concern. The play begins in Richard's court, the seat of royal judgment, with Bolingbroke accusing Mowbray of sundry crimes: "That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death" (I.i.100); that he has detained royal funds; that "all the treasons for these eighteen years / Complotted and contrived in this land / Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring" (95-97). On the surface, the charges appear extreme, and Mowbray declares that they issue "from the rancour of a villain, / A recreant and most degenerate traitor" (143-144). Neither will retract his accusation, and they both demand a trial by combat. Nothing has been clarified. As we have noticed, Gaunt informs the Duchess of Gloucester (as well as the playgoer) that he suspects that the judge and the villain are one: King Richard. And before the trial by combat can decide the issue between Mowbray and Bolingbroke, Richard banishes them both. Nevertheless, Bolingbroke requests that Mowbray "Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm" (I.iii.198), and Mowbray's reply is significant: No, Bolingbroke, if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banish'd as from hence! But what thou art, God, thou, and I do know, And all too soon, I fear, the king shall rue. (201-205) Swearing by his own eternal identity in the book of life, he insists that Bolingbroke's identity is clear to him, and hints at dire consequences for

"To Know Himself: An Aspect of Tragic Structure", Review of English Literature, V, ii (1964), 36-57, sees Shakespeare's use of the self-knowing tragic hero developing later in Shakespeare's career (36), but seems to neglect Richard. Cf. Barbara Bürge, "Hamlet: The Search for Identity", Review of English Literature, V, ii (1964), 58-71.

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the king. At the same time, if Mowbray is innocent and Bolingbroke knows it, why does he ask him to confess? Possibly Bolingbroke expects him to incriminate the king. But Mowbray does not, and the reasons for Bolingbroke's request are not given in the play. Later we learn that Mowbray has dedicated the rest of his active life to the Christian cause — a point in his favor, no doubt — and it seems difficult to believe that he has assassinated the duke. Consequently, this first attempt at establishing identity through justice, which occupies the first three scenes of the play, ends in failure. The second attempt, though hardly an attempt at all, is Bolingbroke's mock trial of Bushy and Greene. Bolingbroke is prosecutor, judge, and jury, while Northumberland is his hangman. Beyond the open symbolism of this arrangement of duties, Bolingbroke's accusations should also be noticed. First, he claims that Bushy and Greene have misled the king; second, they have "Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him" (III.i. 12); and finally, they caused him to "misinterpret" Bolingbroke (18), while, he goes on, they "From my own windows" have "torn my household coat, / Rac'd out my imprese, leaving me no sign, / Save men's opinions and my living blood, / To show the world I am a gentleman" (24-27). In other words, they have tampered with the emblems of Bolingbroke's identity. Scrutinizing these accusations with the cold eye of reason, one is led to the conclusion that, as far as the playgoer can see, they are insubstantial. For, in the fourth scene (I.iv), the playgoer has seen Richard with his minions, and the king is there in complete control. Though he misbehaves, he is not led by his men. In the next scene, he appears with his queen, and their relationship seems adequate (II.i.223). In the sixth scene (Il.ii), Bushy, Bagot, and Greene appear with the queen, attempting to cheer her in the absence of her husband, not to stain "the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks / With tears" (III.i.14-15) as Bolingbroke charges. Of the third charge, there is no evidence beyond the words of Richard (II.i.160-162), which apply to Gaunt's property. In fact, Bolingbroke's accusations are merely the common currency of a rebel nobleman purging the country of the king's loyal servants. Certainly he has not been able to identify any true villain, and this, his first trial, is only a travesty of justice. But in order to appreciate the full irony of this mock-trial, the playgoer must notice that the charges apply more reasonably to Bolingbroke himself. Though the playgoer never witnesses Bushy or Greene flattering or misleading the king, Bolingbroke makes the attempt. In the opening scene, Richard observes to him and Mowbray:

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one but flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come, Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. (I.i.25-27) Bolingbroke replies that he comes appellant In the devotion of a subject's love, Tend'ring the precious safety of my prince, And free from other misbegotten hate. (31-33) Later, before the proposed trial by combat, Bolingbroke wishes to kiss his sovereign's hand and bow his knee before his king (I.iii.46-47). These words and deeds of love obviously do not accord with his later actions, and they can only be interpreted as flattery — rather saccharine flattery. In fact, pieces of information scattered throughout the play indicate to the impartial eye that Bolingbroke is given to flattery and in turn enjoys being flattered. One may instance the overstatement of Northumberland's speech to Bolingbroke as they ride through Gloucestershire, and which Bolingbroke seems to accept with pleasure (II.iii.3ff.). Moreover, it is Bolingbroke's acts that stain the queen's cheeks with tears, and if Bushy and Greene may be blamed for razing the outward symbols of Bolingbroke's identity, Bolingbroke is much more to blame for usurping the outward manifestations of the royal magistrate during their trial. Again, it seems, as in the first trial, that the judge and the villain are the same person. The third trial scene is an extension of the first, for the identity of the murderer of Gloucester is still in question. Now Bagot accuses Aumerle; and the former accusation of Mowbray is apparently forgotten. Bagot's charge is supported by Fitzwater backed by Percy and an unknown lord, and denied vigorously by Surrey: "As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true" (IV.i.64). After a muddle of cross-accusations, Bolingbroke decides that Mowbray is to be remanded home to give evidence, but Carlisle reports that he "at Venice gave / His body to that pleasant country's earth, / And his pure soul unto his captain Christ" (97-99). Once more there is no answer, no judgment, and the identity of the murderer is more obscure than before. In fact, the playgoer may feel that this trial is merely a political expedient to discredit Aumerle because he has remained loyal to Richard. However, the court scene continues, for the deposed King Richard is, in effect, to be judged. But before the trial can get under way, the Bishop of Carlisle points to the basic problem: "What subject can give sentence on his king" (121)? The identity of the judge is called in question, and the

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rest of the scene, which develops into the public trial of Richard, deals fully with the difficulties of self-knowledge. We will have to examine several details of this deposition scene a little later, for they are basic to an understanding of Richard's growing realizations about himself and the facts of human selfhood. Balancing Bolingbroke's trial of Bushy and Greene, the fourth trial places Bolingbroke, now King Henry, between the Duchess of York pleading for mercy and the Duke of York urging justice. Aumerle's membership in the group of conspirators plotting to take the life of the king has been revealed, and Henry is forced to decide between the justice of the duke and the mercy of his wife. Although the identity of the villain is here not in question, the identity of the judge is. Henry's words of pardon, "I pardon him, as God shall pardon me" (V.iii.129), suggest that he has come to see himself clearly. Indeed Aumerle's situation partially mirrors his own, for Aumerle has planned to do no more than Henry has done or will do to Richard. 11 Again the judge and the villain are one. Only in this trial, the judge understands the identification, and his judgment is sound. For to judge properly, the judge must know himself. 12 The well-known garden scene (Ill.iv) serves as a mirror for this pattern of justice. 13 The head gardener, in "old Adam's likeness", gives advice to his workers in politico-legal terms: Go thou, and like an executioner Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays, That look too lofty in our commonwealth: All must be even in our government. (33-36) The questioning garden-hand wonders why they must "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" (41-44). The gardener understands the analogy, and after upbraiding the worker for criticizing Richard, he continues: O, what pity is it That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land As we this garden! We at time of year 11 Also like Henry, Aumerle has been reft of his name (V.ii.41 : "Aumerle that was"). By his adherence to Richard's side, he has lost his title. After the trial with Bolingbroke, the Duchess of York says: "Come, my old son, I pray God make thee new" (V.iii.144). 12 Some critics see this trial as an effort on Henry's part to please the Duke and Duchess of York. See Hapgood, "Three Eras in Richard II", 282-283. 13 See Ure's introduction (li-lvii, section 4) for background. Along with most critics, Ure does not seem to sense any irony in the gardener's words.

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Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit-trees, Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself; Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live; Had he done so, himself had borne the crown, Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. (55-66) His own criticism of Richard is somewhat harsher than his man's, and the thoughtful playgoer may not take it at face value. We should not view the gardener as a kind of pre-Wordsworthian leech-gatherer whose homely wisdom is to be regarded as an absolute standard of judgment. The queen sees him as an image of fallen Adam, already attempted by "Eve" or "serpent" (75), a "little better thing than earth" (78). He judges his king — as Bolingbroke does — but, we must ask ourselves, whether he judges fairly. The vision of justice he offers is simply political expedience. The kind of cold-blooded, cynical violence which the gardener metaphorically advocates seems, in fact, to be precisely the kind used by Richard in eliminating Gloucester. In exiling Bolingbroke and Mowbray, Richard would seem to be following the gardener's criterion; for they are exiled expediently, not justly. To a thoughtful auditor, the gardener's words resound with irony, and add another dimension to our understanding of justice in the play. The attempt to use justice as a means, rather than as an end in itself, is never completely successful. The pattern of justice, as we have defined it, is principally built upon a series of balancing and contrasting trials. In each trial the identity of the judge or the defendant or both is in question, and in the majority of cases the question is inadequately answered, possibly because justice is being used as a political expedient. However, there is also a progression toward self-knowledge in the pattern. Both Richard and Bolingbroke begin in ignorance, judging falsely, and end with some kind of realization. Richard, as the accused, publicly deposed king, Bolingbroke, as the royal judge, come in their last trials to understand some basic things about their identity and their world. But the play as a whole explores the many-faceted problem of identity. 14 The Duchess of Gloucester introduces the idea that one may find one's 14 The pattern extends to minor issues: I.iii.ll: "In God's name and the king's, say who thou art"; II.iii.36: "Have you forgot the Duke of Herford, boy?"

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identity in someone else. Of the Duke of Gloucester's death, she tells Gaunt: "Yet art thou slain in him" (I.ii.25). And the idea is found throughout the play. Bolingbroke sees himself carrying on the identity of old Gaunt in his own "youthful spirit" (I.iii.70). Richard is identified with his father, the Black Prince: "His face thou hast, for even so look'd he" (II.i.176), if only in outward appearance. Of York, Bolingbroke says, "methinks in you / 1 see old Gaunt alive" (II.iii.116-117). Identity, then, is carried on through the family, and one may live and die in one's kindred. The continuity of personal identity is also suggested, and it is the point that Mowbray makes when Richard tells him "lions make leopards tame" (I.i.174). "Yea", he replies, "but not change his spots" (175). However, Mowbray's is a tentative assertion as far as the play is concerned, and in the course of action Richard is forced to face the possibility of personal disintegration in a world of flux. Possibly in such a world, identity is not continuous; for if the world changes, so may man. Bolingbroke is first confronted with the problem when Richard denies his letters patent which would allow him to assume the title of Lancaster from his dead father. He meets the problem aggressively. As he says, "I am come to seek that name [of Lancaster] in England" (II.iii.71). He goes on to ask: Wherefore was I born? If that my cousin king be King in England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. (121-123) And Bolingbroke fully understands the use of force in gaining the recognition of his identity. Of course, his quest for identity is here on the most superficial level, that of a title, and the question, "What's in a name?" is vital to the play. For there is always the possibility that the title and the reality are not the same. On his return from Ireland, which forms a contrasting parallel to Bolingbroke's return from exile, Richard is presented with the problem of his identity in both name and reality. Trying to bolster the despairing Richard after Salisbury's news that his troops have fled, Aumerle says, "Comfort, my liege, remember who you are" (III.ii.82). Richard's interpretation of the statement illustrates his superficial understanding: I had forgot myself, am I not king? Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest. Is not the king's name twenty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory. (83-87)

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Bolingbroke, however, strikes not at the glory of his name, but at the reality of his regal power. Richard sees his identity in terms of "name", only a symbol. He seems not to understand that the "name" must be clothed with the external manifestations of kingship, with royal control. Nor does he realize that identity is not embodied in a name, but is an inner reality of the self. 15 Richard ignores both the outer and the inner realities, confusing form and substance; and the greater part of his education will be learning to discriminate between them. In his present state of self-knowledge, and in the face of military disaster, he simply collapses: throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; For y o u have but mistook m e all this while. I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends — subjected thus, H o w can y o u say to me, I a m a king? (172-177)

When the power of his name proves insufficient, Richard feels that his royal identity is gone. The first confrontation with the rebel Bolingbroke is the inconclusive second stage in Richard's struggle for identity. York observes, "Yet looks he like a king. ... alack, alack for woe / That any harm should stain so fair a show!" (III.iii.68, 70-71). His words suggest that the appearance of kingship may not coincide with the royal power; and Richard's comment to Northumberland, "we thought ourself thy lawful king" (74), expresses that slight bit of doubt which indicates the collapse of political control. Richard's fall from power is symbolized perfectly by his descent from the walls of Flint Castle: D o w n , d o w n I come, like glist'ring Phaeton, 1 6 Wanting the manage of unruly jades. In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, T o c o m e at traitors' calls, and d o t h e m grace! In the base court? C o m e down? D o w n , court! down, king! (178-182)

15

There is a body / soul split in the identity pattern; for which, see: I.i.37-38; I.iii.195196; III.i.2-3; and V.v.111-112. Dictionaries, Starnes and Talbert, Classical Myth and Legend in Renaissance 118-120, give the background. Cf. Two Gentlemen of Verona, III.i.153-156. Here the myth fits the fall of Richard. For ascending / descending patterns in the play, see Paul A. Jorgensen, "Vertical Patterns in Richard II", Shakespeare Association Bulletin, XXIII (1948), 119-134, and Arthur Suzman, "Imagery and Symbolism in Richard II", Shakespeare Quarterly, VII (1956), 355-370. 16

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Richard simply gives way to Bolingbroke, offering no resistance: What you will have, I'll give, and willing too, For do we must what force will have us do. Set on towards London, cousin, is it so? (206-208)

Bolingbroke is given what he perhaps might not have taken. The reality of kingship is passed to new hands. The deposition scene, in which Richard loses completely the outward manifestations of his kingly identity, is the scene in which he finds himself. With an elaborate pun, "Ay, no; no, ay" — "I, no; no, I" — "I know no I " 1 7 — Richard proclaims that he sees only personal nullity in the loss of the crown: "I must nothing be" (201). But the suffering of the public trial gradually leads him to ponder the reality of outward appearances. The looking-glass shows him no "deeper wrinkles" on the suffering face and thus "dost beguile" him. He shatters the flattering glass, and the "hundred shivers" of the broken mirror symbolize the brittle glory of material things. Twisting Bolingbroke's quiet irony, "The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd / The shadow of your face" (292293), Richard looks inward: 'Tis very true, my grief lies all within, And these external manners of lament Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul. There lies the substance. (295-299)

If substance lies within, so does the reality of human identity. Richard has learned to distinguish between the symbolic and the actual. However, Richard's queen feels that his ordeal has left him a broken man. "What", she exclaims, "is my Richard both in shape and mind / Transform'd and weak'ned?" (V.i.26-27). To the playgoer who has followed Richard through his struggle with the problem of selfhood, the answer to the queen's question appears to be both "yes" and "no". Richard is enlightened and perhaps even transformed, but not weakened. His regal accoutrements are gone, but he has preserved something more valuable within. To his queen's assertion that he should die like a king of beasts, he aptly replies: "A king of beasts, indeed — if aught but beasts, / 1 had been still a happy king of men" (35-36). He elects to preserve his human identity even in a world which he sees as essentially animal. In Richard's final scene, the process of his growing awareness is com17

See Molly M. Mahood, Shakespeare's Wordplay (London, 1957), 87.

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pleted. He now understands that one's basic identity can be disguised by many superficial roles: "Thus play I in one person many people" (Y.v.31), or, as Jaques later says, one man in his time plays many parts. He may act the role of king or of beggar, But whate'er I be, Nor I, nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleas'd, till he be eas'd With being nothing. (V.v.38-41) Although these lines are a Shakespearean crux, 1 8 in terms of the identity pattern which we are tracing, the word "nothing" in line forty means 'non-entity', 'non-being'. Man must retain his identity until he dies, that is, becomes "nothing" (41), and until his death, he cannot look into the abyss of nihility. In his own unique way, Richard reasserts Mowbray's claim that the leopard does not change his spots. Identity is basically permanent. But further, Richard's last scene may be interpreted as a mirror of his life — a recapitulation. Richard's prison in Pomfret Castle is, like the pattern of ceremony, a background of stability. Imprisoned, Richard lacks complete freedom of action, as does a person performing a ritual. Into this stable world, Richard introduces " A generation of still-breeding thoughts" (8), "In humours like the people of this world; / For no thought is contented" (10-11); and with Richard's thoughts, enters the pattern of dissolution and change, which is also symbolized by discordant music: "how sour sweet music is / When time is broke and no proportion kept!" (42-43). The groom's story of roan Barbary causes the king to affirm once again his nature: I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burthen like an ass, Spurr'd, gall'd, and tir'd by jauncing Bolingbroke. (92-94) And he now stands ready to face the forces of disorder as they enter in the form of Exton and his men. King Richard's final acts of bravery confirm our feelings that he has attained self-knowledge. He can act with dispatch in protecting his newly found identity, and with his last words, he proclaims himself every inch a king: "Exton, thy fierce hand / Hath with the king's blood stain'd the king's own land" (109-110). In the dissolving world of Richard II, the king must learn a tragic 18

See Ure's note to V.v.39-40 (171,210).

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lesson concerning human selfhood. To belabor him for not knowing this lesson — or series of lessons — from the beginning is eminently ridiculous, though many critics are drawn into this kind of commentary. 19 Because of the focus on Richard, Bolingbroke has had to take a secondary place in this study, but he too learns the lessons of identity. 20 He may in truth come back to England only for his own, for Lancaster; but the reality of kingly power forces another role upon him: King Henry, fourth of that name. Bolingbroke seems more of an enigma than Richard, and the very mystery surrounding his character has possibly saved him from the critical abuse that has been Richard's portion. However, as his troubles increase, and when he is forced to judge Aumerle, Bolingbroke seems to come to some knowledge of himself. Richard's progress is harder, but more easily examined because it is verbalized. Confronting the question "What am I in relation to my society and my world?" Richard finds the answer so difficult, first, because of the rapid dissolution of his ordered world, and second, because of his position in society. He is the nominal leader of a dissolving political system. Shakespeare makes it hard for Richard, and Richard's final triumph in the face of adversity is an index, perhaps, to Shakespeare's view of the martyred king. Still doth the soul, from its lone fastness high, Upon our life a ruling effluence send. And when it fails, fight as we will, we die; And while it lasts, we cannot wholly end.

19

James A. S. McPeek, "Richard and His Shadow World", American Imago, XV (1958), 195-212), and Robert R. Reed, Jr., "Richard II: Portrait of a Psychotic", JGE: Journal of General Education, XVI (1964-1965), 55-67, find Richard partially insane, with ambulatory schizophrenia or a disabling psychosis. Michael Quinn, " 'The King Is Not Himself': The Personal Tragedy of Richard II", Studies in Philology, LVI (1959), 169-186, feels that Richard has destroyed his identity by refusing to fight Bolingbroke (183). See also Samuel Weingarten, "The Name of King in Richard II", College English, XXVII (1965-1966), 536-541, Foster Provost, "The Sorrows of Shakespeare's Richard II", Studies in English Renaissance Literature, ed. Waldo McNeir (Baton Rouge, 1962), 40-55, and "On Justice and the Music in Richard II and King Lear", Annuale Mediaevale (Duquesne Studies), II (1961), 55-71. The list of those who think poorly of Richard might be extended. 20 Brents Stirling, "Bolingbroke's 'Decision'", Shakespeare Quarterly, II (1951), 27-34, examines the three major steps in Bolingbroke's progress: Ill.iii, IV.i, and the Exton scenes at the end. Donald Reiman, 42, though he ably traces Richard's developing self-knowledge, feels that Bolingbroke forgets true humility and thus never reaches personal insight.

5 THE MERCHANT

OF VENICE:

BOND OR FREE?

The transition from Richard II to The Merchant of Venice is not as extreme as, perhaps, first appears. Both plays were written about the same period, and the links between the history and the romance should become apparent in the course of the present chapter. However, the problems in discussing The Merchant are many and varied, possibly kaleidoscopic. It is along with Hamlet one of Shakespeare's most popular plays; and thus the critic must despair of making any but the most tangential new observations about it. In his attempt to interpret afresh, " Q " turned the moral values of The Merchant topsy-turvy. For him, "every one of the Venetian dramatis personae is either a 'waster' or a 'rotter' or both, and cold-hearted at that". 1 Bassanio, the romantic lead, becomes a mere fortune hunter, willing to endanger a friend's life to gain an heiress. Trying another approach, Graham Midgley sees the scheme of the play as twin studies in the loneliness of Antonio and Shylock. Antonio is an unconscious homosexual, trapped in a blatantly heterosexual world. 2 Even the Renaissance doctrine of friendship, Midgley feels, cannot account for the Merchant's passion for Bassanio — a passion disappointed by the latter's marriage to Portia. The most startling general interpretation, however, is eclipsed by the controversy over Shylock. 3 Many critics 1

Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, "Introduction", The Merchant of Venice (Cambridge, England, 1926), xxiii. Eustace M. W. Tillyard, Shakespeare's Early Comedies (London, 1966), 187, replies by examining the text. 2 Graham Midgley, "The Merchant of Venice: A Reconsideration", Essays in Criticism, X (1960), 119-133. See the answers by M. G. Deshpande, " 'Loneliness' in The Merchant of Venice", Essays in Criticism, XI (1961), 368-369, and E. M. W. Tillyard, Essays in Criticism, XI (1961), 487-488. 3 See, e.g., Sir Israel Gollancz, Allegory and Mysticism in Shakespeare: A Medievalist on "The Merchant of Venice" (London, 1931), 34, who insists that Shylock has an immortal soul; Hermann Sinsheimer, Shylock: The History of a Character (New York, 1963); Abraham Morevski, Shylock and Shakespeare (St. Louis, 1967), 47, who sees Shylock as protagonist; Bernard Grebanier, The Truth About Shylock (New York, 1962); Paul N. Siegel, "Shylock the Puritan", Columbia University Forum, V, iv (1962),

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seem troubled by Shakespeare's personal feelings about Jews and Judaism: the playwright must either sympathize with the Jewish plight, or join in the popular prejudice against the alien Jew. Once the critic has ascertained Shakespeare's attitude, he must then adjust his view of Shylock accordingly. If sympathetic, then Shakespeare intended Shylock to be a tragic hero. If prejudiced, he intended Shylock to be either a comic villain or a diabolic hate monger. 4 Of course, not all critics argue with such absurd simplicity, but possibly at the very base of their reasoning, these easy formulas are at work. More sophisticated is the argument that Shylock is a character who got out of hand. Professor Alexander believes that "Shakespeare's mind became engrossed" in Shylock; "and round him there surged up in his mind a host of thoughts that can find no proper expression in such a plot as that of the Merchant of Venice, without disturbing the whole keeping of the piece." 5 And Professor Alexander does not stand alone in this opinion. However, not all critics have been concerned with problems of character. The themes of the play have also received their due share of critical attention and elaborate analysis. Nevill Coghill finds the thematic structure indebted to the medieval Processus Belial, and the play, in effect, becomes an allegory of "Justice and Mercy, of the Old Law and the New". 6 That the play is allegorical is also argued by Barbara Lewalski; the "patterns of Biblical allusion and imagery" clearly reveal "an important theological dimension" and point toward "allegorical meanings". 7 E. M. W. Tillyard, discussing the trial scene, believes that Portia "is Mercy clothed in the robes of Justice and can only stand for Justice and 14-19; and Warren D. Smith, "Shakespeare's Shylock", Shakespeare Quarterly, XV, iii (1964), 193-199, who sees Shylock as a hypocrite. This list, only a partial sampling, may indicate the diversity of critical literature about Shylock. 4 John Hazel Smith, "Shylock: 'Devil Incarnation' or 'Poor Man ... Wronged'?", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, LX (1961), 1, notes the same dominant approaches to Shylock's character, though he himself emphasizes Shylock's complexity and development. 5 Peter Alexander, Shakespeare's Life and Art (London, 1961), 112. 6 Nevill Coghill, "The Governing Idea", Shakespeare Quarterly (London), I (1948), 13, and "The Basis of Shakespearian Comedy", Essays and Studies, III (1950), 21, uses the idea of, but not the name, Processus Belial. John D. Rea, "Shylock and the Processus Belial", Philological Quarterly, VIII (1929), 311-313, seems to have been the first to suggest that Shakespeare was re-dramatizing the medieval Processus, with Shylock as Satan, Portia as the Virgin, and Antonio as Mankind. For background, see Hope Traver, "The Four Daughters of God: A Mirror of Changing Doctrine", Publications of the Modern Language Association, X L (1925), 44-92. 7 Barbara K. Lewalski, "Biblical Allusion and Allegory in The Merchant of Venice", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIII (1962), 327-343.

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Mercy reconciled". 8 For these critics, the play embodies the thematic conflict of the Spirit and the Law, Mercy and Justice, and the final triumph of Mercy. Nevertheless, John Palmer thinks that "the indifferent irony of the comic spirit" may lie behind "Portia, singing the praises of mercy when she is about to insist that the Jew shall have the full rigours of justice according to the strict letter of the law". 9 And even Tillyard qualifies his judgment, feeling that the Justice-Mercy dichotomy may not be as simple as some have thought. 1 0 Another, more complex dichotomy is suggested in the idea that the play is built around the contrast between Venice and Belmont. Except for a series of five scenes in Act II (II.ii.-II.vi), which deals with Shylock's household and the love of Jessica and Lorenzo, the scenic structure alternates symbolically between Venice and Belmont. And on both the conceptual and the verbal level this polarity is maintained. 11 However, even if this very attractive polarity is accepted as basic to the play, another problem presents itself to the inquiring critic. It is well stated by Graham Midgley: "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." 1 2 The two plots are, of course, the Pound of Flesh Story and the Story of the Three Caskets, 13 and the successful critic must account for Shakespeare's success in molding the two divergent stories into one

8

Eustace M. W. Tillyard, "The Trial Scene in The Merchant of Venice", Review of English Literature, II, iv (1961), 53. The essay is reprinted in Tillyard's Essays Literary and Educational (London, 1962), 30-38. 9 John Palmer, Comic Characters of Shakespeare (London, 1961), 87. 10 Tillyard, Essays in Criticism, XI, 488. 11 John Russell Brown, ed., The Merchant of Venice (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1959), whose text is used throughout this chapter, discusses this dichotomy (liii-lviii). Thomas H. Fujimura, "Mode and Structure in The Merchant of Venice", Publications of the Modern Language Association, LXXXI (1966), 499-511, suggests a triple division: the worlds of Shylock, Antonio, and Portia-Bassanio. However, the financial worlds of Antonio and Shylock, the world of commerce and the world of banking, seem to unite to form one pole of the play. 12 Midgley, 119. 13 The stories are translated and reprinted in Brown's edition, 140-153, 172-174. Geoffrey Bullough, Narrative and Dramatic Sources of Shakespeare (New York, 1957), I, 463-476, 511-514, reprints both II Pecorone by Ser Giovanni Fiorentino and the Gesta Romanorum selection as "probable" sources. Milton A. Levy, "Did Shakespeare Join the Casket and Bond Plots in The Merchant of Venice?" Shakespeare Quarterly, XI (1960), 388-391, feels that certain details indicate that Shakespeare did the joining.

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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. In the first minutes of his negotiations with Shylock, Bassanio says, "Antonio shall be bound" (I.iii.4). 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" (167). 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 II 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 pene-

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14

trates 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.23-25), but Nerissa is quick to remind her that her "father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations" (27-28). Later Portia's words, that her father "hedg'd" her "by his wit" (II.i.18), suggest that she acknowledges the protection implicit in 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.40-42) And they go "forward to the temple" (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", he replies: "An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven, — / Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?" (lV.i.223-225). 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 (Il.vi) and their arrival in Belmont with Salerio (Ill.ii). After choosing the right casket, Bassanio marries Portia. Speaking 14 The bond pattern has been noticed before. See M. C. Bradbrook, Shakespeare and Elizabethan Poetry, 177, Sigurd Burckhardt, "The Merchant of Venice: The Gentle Bond", ELH: Journal of English Literary History, XXIX (1962), 239-262, and Robert Hapgood, "Portia and The Merchant of Venice: The Gentle Bond", Modern Language Quarterly, XXVIII (1967), 19-32, who takes exception to Burckhardt. Cf. Robin Moffet, "Cymbeline and the Nativity", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIII (1962), 207-218, who treats Shakespeare's use of bondage (213-214).

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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" (Ill.ii. 163-165). "Go with me to church, and call me wife" (302), 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". 15 The principle 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, 1 6 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. For, Uerilly it is a blessed and stable cönexion of sundry wylles, makyng of two persones one, in hauyng and suffryng. And therfore a frend is proprely named of Philosophers, the other I. For that in theym is but one mynde and one possession: and that, whyche more is, a man more reioyseth at his frendes good fortune, than at his owne. 1 7

It is because of this spiritual bond of friends that Antonio is willing to 15 Cicero, De Officiis, I, 5, 7, ed. Moses Hadas, The Basic Works of Cicero (New York, 1951), 10-11. This social bondage may also be suggested by the links between characters in the play. In the first two scenes, Portia and Antonio are both melancholy. Antonio and Shylock are two older men in contrasting states of loneliness. There are three sets of lovers: Bassanio and Portia; Gratiano and Nerissa; Lorenzo and Jessica. To be fair, however, we must note that these character patterns are much less elaborate than the ones we have observed in Love's Labour's Lost. 16 Freud, "The Theme of the Caskets (1913)", Collected Papers (London, 1946), IV, 244-256, believes the caskets to be sexual symbols. His observation does not take us far into Shakespeare's play. 17 Sir Thomas Elyot, The Boke Named the Gouernour (London, 1544), Fols. 118r, 119r, 120v (STC 7637).

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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.70,104,105). Trying to gain the financial services of Shylock, Bassanio naturally asks him "to dine with us" (I.iii.28). Later, Gratiano promises Bassanio that his friends will be with him "at supper-time" (II.ii.197). 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.80). 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" (Il.ii. 193-194). On the social level, it is equivalent to the Communion Table. In contrast, Shylock denies the social bond implied in the convivial dinner. Although Launcelot may be teasing his blind father, he says that he is "famish'd in" Shylock's "service" (Il.ii. 101-102). Shylock himself later complains that Launcelot has gormandized (II.v.3), and it is difficult to decide who to believe. However, the two incidents suggest comically the Jew's attitude toward social communion. 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.29-33) 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.ll, 13-15)

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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.48). 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.52-60) 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. (In parenthesis, it may be suggested that the idea of the social bond is even apparent on the imagistic level. Perhaps the best example is Antonio's ships which are by simile "Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood" [I.i.10], They "overpeer the petty traffickers" who "cur'sy to them" [12-13]. In his image, Salerio projects the social order and bond onto the Venetian ships. The point in itself is a minor one, but the image serves to reinforce, subliminally perhaps, the idea of bondage, which in various forms permeates the play.) Discussing the bonds of human society, Cicero notes 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." 1 8 It may be suggested without straining the point unduly that the bonds in The Merchant follow the same dichotomy, 18

Nicholas Grimald's translation, Marcvs Tullius Ciceroes Three Bookes of Duties (London, 1596), Fol. 9V (STC 5286).

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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, "... is readily to be formulated as a conflict. It is a conflict in the moral order, between the opposing principles of Love and Hate." 1 9 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 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. 19

Edmund K. Chambers, Shakespeare: A Survey, 112.

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Portia introduces the idea rather forcefully, "O me the word 'choose'!" (I.ii.22), 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 (30-31). 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" (31). After Bassanio arrives, Portia tells him that she could teach him "How to choose right" (III.ii.ll). 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.167), 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.94-95) — 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. 2 0 Jessica, given a similar choice between father and lover, chooses Lorenzo. The problems and ambiguities of moral choice are mirrored, or perhaps foreshadowed, in the plight of Launcelot Gobbo. Launcelot's soliloquy 20

See Brown's note on III.ii.63, and "Introduction", xlvi-xlix. Cf. Peter J. Seng, "The Riddle Song in Merchant of Venice", Notes and Queries, V (1958), 191-193, and Brown's reply, Notes and Queries, VI (1959), 235.

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comes directly after Morocco has decided to take his chance at choosing a casket, and immediately before Jessica struggles — however briefly — with her choice. He imagines himself the battleground of his conscience and "the fiend" at his elbow: "Budge!" says the fiend, — "Budge not!" says my conscience. "Conscience" say I, "you counsel well, — Fiend" say I, "you counsel well," — to be rul'd by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil; and to run away from the Jew I should be ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself. (II.ii.18-25)21 The choice between running away from his master Shylock and remaining with him is fraught with difficulties. Launcelot's conscience, the correct mentor, advises him to stay with Shylock, who is, according to Launcelot, little better than a devil. Thus Launcelot is advised to serve an evil master. On the other hand, the fiend who would be expected to give morally reprehensible advice tells him not to serve the Jew, which is seemingly the proper answer. The solution to the quandary is, of course, comic, as Launcelot cries, "I will run fiend, my heels are at your commandment, I will r u n " (29-30), and runs headlong into his father. His choice is never implemented, but the problems of moral decision are raised, and the audience becomes aware of their potential force in the play. 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 (see II.vii.54-55). He is followed by Arragon whose choice is governed by his own price: " I will not j u m p with common spirits" (Il.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 21

Launcelot's struggle is a kind of Processus Belial which foreshadows the later trial scene (IV.i).

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"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 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.173-175) 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" (178). Mistaking the moral imperative for the physical Shylock asks, "On what compulsion must I?" (179), 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" (202). 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" 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

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scheme of values, he does not gain the object of his desires — which is, rather grotesquely, Antonio's heart. 22 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: M y Lord Bassanio, let him [i.e., Portia as Balthazar] have the ring, Let his deservings and m y love withal Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandement. (IV.i.445-447)

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. 177-178), 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 m y b o d y for his wealth, Which but for him that had your husband's ring H a d quite miscarried. I dare be b o u n d again, M y soul u p o n the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. (V.i.249-253)

22

Contrast Bassanio's winning of Portia's heart. Charles Mitchell, "The Conscience of Venice: Shakespeare's Merchant", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, LXIII (1964), 214-225, believes that Antonio becomes the embodiment of Shylock's conscience. Thus Shylock's wish to cut out Antonio's heart can be interpreted symbolically.

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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: Ί dare be bound again'.

6 AS YOU LIKE IT: A COMEDY OF PATTERNS

As You Like It is on one level a not very complicated play. It is simply the story of a disinherited younger brother who finally wins a fair but equally disinherited Princess, who is, through a deus ex machina, in the end returned to her father and her position, as well as married to her Prince Charming, the younger brother. Seen in this light, the plot has the simplicity of a fairy-tale — possibly Snow White. However, to the eye of the thoughtful beholder, complications are readily apparent; and though one critic speaks of the play's "flawless structure", 1 it is a structure compounded of many simples, which yield a very complex whole. The present essay does not propose to discuss each of the play's many facets — the task of a moderately long and as yet unwritten book — but to explore the patterns in the play which seem to relate it to the continuity of Shakespeare's career. In so doing, we will hopefully be able to see the play's debt to the past as well as its prophecy for the future. It has been the fashion in recent criticism to underline the play's pastoralism; for in As You Like It, Shakespeare builds a pattern of contrasting versions of the pastoral. 2 Touchstone and Audrey represent the lowly and comic pastourelle, while Silvius and Phebe are characters of the more sophisticated literary variety. The other characters hold various positions in the pastoral hierarchy, from the Robin Hood-like existence of Duke Senior and his lords to the lonely peregrinations of Jaques. Indeed, as the characters begin to interact in the Forest of Arden, it is almost as if Shakespeare were allowing one version of the pastoral to 1

Peter G. Phialas, Shakespeare's Romantic Comedies: The Development of Their Form and Meaning (Chapel Hill, 1966), xiii. The text for the present study is that edited by Ralph M. Sargent, ed., As You Like It (Baltimore, 1966). 2 See, e.g., Harold Jenkins, "As You Like It", Shakespeare Survey, VIII (1955), 40-51; R. P. Draper, "Shakespeare's Pastoral Comedy", Études Anglaises, XI (1958), 1-17; Helen Gardner, "As You Like It", More Talking of Shakespeare, ed., John Garrett (London, 1959), 17-32; and Kenneth Muir, Shakespeare's Sources: Comedies and Tragedies (London, 1957), 55-66.

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criticize another, and a complex pattern of contrast evolves. But it is a pattern which has received a great deal of attention. Other somewhat related patterns have also been discovered. John Shaw points out that the pattern of Fortune and Nature would be obvious to a Renaissance playgoer. 3 Jay Halio feels that there is a significant pattern of time: "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". 4 Further, suggests Richard Knowles, there is a pattern of classical myth which is balanced by a contrasting pattern of "Biblical references and religious language". 5 Whatever the individual playgoer may decide about the importance of these patterns, other playgoers have found them relevant to the play's meaning, and their presence cannot be ignored. And while being indebted to its predecessors, the present study, nevertheless, attempts to take a different approach. We may best begin by considering the more general and perhaps more obvious patterns in the play, the larger elements in which the more particular are contained. First, there is an interesting pattern of family relationships, and in its major action, the play, like King Lear, is a tale of two families. Orlando and his unnatural brother Oliver are mirrored by Duke Senior and his unnatural brother Frederick. As Duke Senior is forced from his dukedom by Frederick, so Orlando is denied his patrimony by a similarly greedy brother. These parallels are clearly set up in the first scene (see, e.g., I.i.40-45, 92-94). However, the reversal of ages is also of importance. Oliver is Orlando's oldest brother, while Frederick is Senior's younger; thus Oliver's stringent handling of Orlando may in part be motivated by what he has seen in the dukedom. Charles the Wrestler reminds him early in scene one: "the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke" (I.i.93-94). Consequently it is only good policy to restrain as far as possible an ambitious younger brother. Duke Senior had not learned this practical lesson, and he has lost his dukedom. On the other side, these antagonistic relationships are counterbalanced by the loving cousins, Rosalind and Celia. Their masquerade in the Forest of Arden as brother and sister is emblematic of the close 3

John Shaw, "Fortune and Nature in As You Like It", Shakespeare Quarterly, VI (1955), 45. 4 Jay L. Halio, " 'No Clock in the Forest': Time in As You Like It", Studies in English Literature, II (1962), 197. 5 Richard Knowles, "Myth and Type in As You Like It", ELH: Journal of English Literary History, XXXIII (1966), 10.

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relationship they actually enjoy. Celia, Duke Frederick's daughter, promises her cousin that when Frederick dies, "thou shalt be his heir; for what he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee again in affection" (I.ii.16-18). And later, when Oliver returns to his 'natural' affection for Orlando, he falls in love with Celia — a symbolic union — and is willing to give his brother all in order to remain in Arden with his supposed shepherdess. These ties of family are reinforced in the play's verbal structure by a pattern similar to one in Richard II. Adam calls Orlando a "memory / Of old Sir Rowland", his father (II.iii.3-4), and later Duke Senior sees Sir Rowland's "effigies ... Most truly limned and living" in Orlando's face (Il.vii.193-194). Hearing of Orlando's parentage, Duke Frederick reacts in contrast to his brother: The world esteemed thy father honorable, But I did find him still mine enemy. Thou shouldst have better pleased me ... Hadst thou descended from another house. (I.ii.206-209) After the Duke's exit, Orlando asserts: I am more proud to be Sir Rowland's son, His youngest son, and would not change that calling To be adopted heir to Frederick. (213-215) In the following scene, Duke Frederick seems to find reason in Rosalind's parentage to banish her from the court: "Thou art thy father's daughter, there's enough" (I.iii.54). Clearly 'blood' and 'lineage' are important in the play; and it may appear, on first glance, that ancestry has a direct relation to action, that good blood yields good deeds. But the problem becomes tangled when we consider that Orlando and Oliver, and Senior and Frederick are brothers. As Rosalind replies to her uncle, "Treason is not inherited" (I.iii.57), but then neither is faithfulness, nor any virtue. Talking about Oliver, Orlando calls him "a diverted blood and bloody brother" (II.iii.37), though Adam has insisted: Your brother, no, no brother, yet the son (Yet not the son, I will not call him son) Of him I was about to call his father. (II.iii.19-21) To the old man, family blood should be an index to the quality of spirit. But it is not, and he is confused. Le Beau makes a similar point when he tells Orlando that neither Celia nor Rosalind is Duke Frederick's

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daughter "if we judge by manners" (I.ii.252). The pattern of brothers and cousins strongly suggests that virtue is not hereditary. While Celia and Rosalind are inseparable, Senior and Frederick are poles apart — or at least as far apart as the court from the forest. If the first scenes of the play are concerned with family pairs, the later scenes, placed in the Forest of Arden, are concerned with pairs of lovers. The lovers have most often been seen in the light of their pastoral background, but they are also — as Peter Phialas notes — simply romantic lovers who have the same relation to the hierarchy of love as they have to the hierarchy of the pastoral. 6 Silvius and Phebe, Oliver and Celia, Rosalind and Orlando, Touchstone and Audrey — the list suggests a progress from ethereal to earthy. The action of the second part of the play is brought about by the interrelationship of these pairs of lovers. The false love triangle of Rosalind-as-Ganymede, Phebe, and Silvius is mirrored in the comic triangle of Touchstone, Audrey, and William. The comic episode of Sir Oliver Mar-Text attempting to marry Touchstone and Audrey is mirrored less comically when Celia 'marries' RosalindGanymede and Orlando. And the play ends symmetrically with the marriage of the four pairs. As we have noticed in our examination of Love's Labour's Lost, the formal patterning of characters may find its counterpart in the formal patterning of scenes. As You Like It, one may suggest, is built upon seven groups of three scenes each, with a final scene to knit them together. 7 Part of this scenic pattern may rapidly be sketched, but with the disclaimer that the patterning is much more elaborate than the present sketch will be 6 Phialas, Shakespeare's Romantic Comedies, 216-218, points the analogy between romantic love and pastoralism in the play. 7 This suggestion assumes that Shakespeare planned his plays as a series of interrelated scenes and that the scene is one of the basic elements in Shakespearean construction. It is too difficult here to offer a complete scenic diagram of the play, indicating all the relationships between scenes; but the scenic groups may be listed: (1) I.i, I.ii, I.iii; (2) Il.i, II.ii, Il.iii; (3) Il.iv, II.v, Il.vi; (4) Il.vii, Ill.i, Ill.ii; (5) Ill.iii, Ill.iv, III.v; (6) IV.i, IV.ii, IV.iii; (7) V.i, V.ii, V.iii. The capping scene is V.iv. Admittedly this is only one way to chart the play's scenic structure, and another analyst may find another scheme much more satisfactory. Nevertheless, this method of schematizing is derived from the method used in Elizabethan playhouses for charting entries. A line was drawn between each complete scene, the end of a scene being marked by an empty stage; and the entrances of characters within the scene were listed in order. Several of these playhouse charts (called "plots") have been preserved, and the arrangement of scenes on such a "plot" is suggestive for the modern critic. See Walter W. Greg, Dramatic Documents from the Elizabethan Playhouses: Stage Plots: Actors' Parts: Prompt Books (Oxford, 1931), 1. The commentary is accompanied by a portfolio of reproduced documents.

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able to indicate. In the main, we will look at the first eleven scenes of the play, numbering them consecutively. Scenes three and six are analogous. In scene three (I.iii), Rosalind is banished by her uncle, because, he finally explains to Celia, Her very silence and her patience, Speak to the people, and they pity her. Thou art a fool. She robs thee of thy name, And thou wilt show more bright and seem more virtuous When she is gone. (I.iii.74-78) She is sent away because of her virtue. In the comparable scene (Il.iii), Orlando, with whom Rosalind has fallen in love, is forced into exile by his brother. Adam has overheard Oliver's plans to burn Orlando's lodgings, and though his reasons are not given here, Oliver has indicated them earlier. Orlando is, according to him, gentle ... of all sorts enchantingly beloved; and indeed so much in the heart of the world, and especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am altogether misprised. (I.i.153-157) His reasons sound much like Duke Frederick's, and Orlando, like Rosalind, is forced into exile because of his goodness. " O " , exclaims Adam, "what a world is this, when what is comely / Envenoms him that bears i t ! " (Il.iii.14-15). But this world has its compensations. Rosalind's exile is shared by her cousin Celia; Orlando's, by his old servant Adam. Between the two exile scenes are scenes four and five (II.i,ii), the first with the banished Duke Senior, the second with the ruling Duke Frederick. The scenes are obviously juxtaposed to reveal a significant contrast, the kindness of the old duke, the harshness of the new. However, scene four is also an affirmation of Rosalind's comment at the end of scene three: " N o w go in we content / T o liberty, and notto banishment" (I.iii.133-134); for Duke Senior and his men celebrate the liberty o f the forest. The scene begins with the duke questioning his "brothers in exile": " A r e not these woods / More free from peril than the envious court?" (II.i.3-4). The duke's question is, in turn, answered by the following scene (II.ii) which is a picture of Frederick's envious court. Thus the scenes form an imaginative pattern of comment and illustration, of question and answer. But scenes four and five are also linked in another way; for the dukes are both searching for someone. Duke Senior is looking for Jaques, Duke Frederick for the "foolish runaways", Celia, Rosalind, and Touchstone, as well as Orlando and Oliver. The dukes' reasons are quite as different as their methods. Senior wishes to " c o p e " Jaques in his "sullen fits, / F o r

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then he's full of matter" (II.i.67-68). The objective is pleasure; the means, a simple search; and an unidentified lord says, "I'll bring you to him straight" (69). Duke Frederick's command to his men, "let not search and inquisition quail / To bring again these foolish runaways" (II.ii.20-21), is a brutal contrast. He institutes a full-scale man-hunt in his irrational wish to control freedom of action. The two scenes, then, set up contrasting searches. Scenes seven and eight (ΙΙ.ίν,ν) focus on the objects of the searches. In scene seven, the foolish runaways have come to the Forest of Arden and have assumed their disguises: Rosalind as Ganymede, Celia as Aliena his sister, and Touchstone as at last himself. 8 In the next scene, Jaques enters with Duke Senior's men, and when he is told that the duke has been searching for him, he replies: "And I have been all this day to avoid him" (II.v.29). Clearly the pursued are trying to avoid their pursuers. Nevertheless, the searches culminate, at least in part, in scenes ten and eleven (II.vii and Ill.i). For in scene ten, Duke Senior finds Jaques; and in scene eleven, Duke Frederick, not being able to locate his daughter and niece, brings Oliver to court. The two scenes are contrastingly juxtaposed in the manner of scenes four and five, but the contrast here is a bit more elaborate. In scene ten, the old duke shows himself truly humane and merciful, chiding Jaques for his too vigorous satirizing and freely giving food and shelter to Orlando and Adam. In the following scene, Duke Frederick begins by vaunting his mercy (III.i.2), but ends by having his men push Oliver "out of doors" (15) and confiscating his property. At the same time, the two scenes also set up a contrast between Orlando and Oliver. Orlando's overwhelming concern for Adam is juxtaposed to Oliver's comment: "I never loved my brother in my life" (III.i.14). And much as Duke Senior reprimands Jaques for his satire, Frederick reprimands Oliver, "More villain thou" (15), but with hardly the same cogency. The point to be made is that these scenes are purposefully linked together in patterns of exile, search, and apprehension. The scenes are juxtaposed, distanced, and contrasted; and obvious patterns of action emerge. However, these are but the first scenes of the play, and it is only fair to observe that the scenic arrangement becomes much more complex in the following acts. Relatively simple parallelism grows into complicated 8

Robert Hillis Goldsmith, "Touchstone: Critic in Motley", Publications of the Modern Language Association, LXVIII (1953), 885, notes that Touchstone changes when he enters Arden.

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mirror situations, and it is the figure of Jaques who provides a thread of simple continuity by the pattern of his appearances. He is introduced in a description by an anonymous lord (II.i) several scenes before he enters in scene five among Duke Senior's men, when he sings his song of "ducdame", calling "fools into a circle" (II.v.51-52). Next, the duke finds him, and Jaques makes his speech on the Seven Ages of Man (Il.vii.139-166), a depressing generalization on man's earthly existence, which is in part mitigated by the relationship of Orlando and Adam. Jaques next appears alone with Orlando, tempting him to "rail against our mistress the world and all our misery" (III.ii.265-266). Orlando answers, "I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults" (267-268). Their interview soon ends. Jaques then interrupts the marriage of Touchstone and Audrey. " G o thou with me", he says, "and let me counsel thee" (III.iii.82). Next he moves upon Rosalind : "I prithee, pretty youth, let me be better acquainted with thee" (IV.i.1-2), while Celia watches. But he is soon discouraged and leaves. As the play moves toward its conclusion, Jaques again appears with the duke's lords for a song (IV.ii); and he is present at the final scene, once again with his master the duke. To balance Jaques's speech on Man's Seven Ages, Touchstone delivers, at Jaques's instigation, a discourse on the Seven Degrees of the Lie. And it is interesting to notice that Jaques appears seven times in the play. He appears to the duke and his men, and to each of the lovers, except Silvius and Phebe (with the partial exception of Oliver). An encounter with Jaques is like a test of mettle, and Silvius and Phebe are perhaps too ethereal for his rough handling. The other lovers endure his caustic melancholy, and Touchstone's telling Jaques about Seven Degrees of the Lie is more, as we shall see, than just a time-consuming device to allow Rosalind to change her costume. Nevertheless, his appearances in the latter part of the play provide a unifying pattern. At the present point, we may best turn to a pattern-complex which reveals something more about the world of the play. The traditional reading of As You Like It suggests that actually there are two worlds, the court and the forest, and further that these worlds are polar, each with its own system of values. 9 As we have seen, such a dichotomy is perfectly Shakespearean, and certainly accounts for some of the leading facts of the play. Yet, at the same time, the world of the play has a certain coherence that cannot be completely denied, nor can it be accounted 9

See, e.g., Shaw, 48, and Halio, 197, 201-202.

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for by the polar theory. As so often in the romantic comedies, Shakespeare emphasizes that the play's unified world is one of flux, a rather confusing, irrational world of mutability. This unpredictable world is ruled over by the "bountiful blind w o m a n " , "the good housewife Fortune", whose "benefits are mightily misplaced" (I.ii.29-33). And Celia adds, "'Tis true, for those that she makes fair she scarce makes honest, and those that she makes honest she makes very ill-favoredly" (35-37). Rosalind immediately picks her u p on this point, arguing that Celia has gone beyond the "gifts of the world" (39) which alone are in the hands of Fortune. The "lineaments of N a t u r e " (40) are governed by Nature herself, not by Fortune. However, despite Rosalind's argument, the natural world is the domain of Fortune, and the world of the play seems to be under her direct sway. Rosalind tells Orlando that she is "one out of suits with f o r t u n e " (I.ii.227). Her father the duke, says Amiens, is happy that he "can translate the stubbornness of fortune / Into so quiet and so sweet a style" (II.i.19-20). Old A d a m feels himself subject to Fortune (II.iii.75), and Jaques first finds Touchstone railing " o n Lady Fortune in good terms" (II.vii.16). Rosalind suggests that " h o r n s " are a gift of Fortune (IV.i.51-52, 54-56), and her father hints that his restoration to the ducal power is the work of the same whimsical lady (V.iv.168). Thus, though Rosalind may defend the privileges and rights of Nature, the world of As You Like It is governed by the erratic wheel of D a m e Fortune. 1 0 Of course, the changes of fortune are, more often than not, "sudden". Though many of the rapid shifts in the play have been criticized as unrealistic, they fall into a pattern which suggests that they are intentional and not errors in realistic presentation. In the first scene, Charles tells Oliver that Rosalind is " n o less beloved of her uncle than his own daughter" (I.i. 103-104). By the end of the next scene, however, Duke Frederick " H a t h ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece" (I.ii.259), which, Le Beau predicts, "Will suddenly break f o r t h " (264). And in the following scene, it suddenly does: "Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste / And get you from our court" (I.iii.37-38). Both Celia and Rosalind seem shocked. Nevertheless, his sudden dislike is matched by the rapidity of Rosalind's falling in love with Orlando. "Is it possible", 10 For one aspect of Shakespeare's use of Fortune, see Raymond Chapman, "The Wheel of Fortune in Shakespeare's Historical Plays", Review of English Studies, I (1950), 1-7. By Shakespeare's time, Fortune was a commonplace motif, and its use is noticed in Chapters 7 and 9. See Howard R. Patch, The Goddess Fortuna in Mediaeval Literature (New York, 1967).

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says Celia, "on such a sudden you should fall into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?" (I.iii.25-27). Ironically, Celia's question is later echoed by Orlando to Oliver: "Is't possible that on so little acquaintance you should like her?" (V.ii.1-2), after the elder brother has immediately fallen in love with Celia, who found such behavior puzzling in her cousin. Oliver implores his brother not to question the "giddiness" of his sudden falling in love (5) but the playgoer may be inclined to do so. The swiftness of their falling in love is mirrored by Phebe's immediate love for Ganymede, though Phebe cites Marlowe for literary justification: "Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?" (III.V.81). And finally, the love of Touchstone for Audrey is just as surprising and sudden as the others. In scene twelve, he discusses the pastoral life with Corin (Ill.ii), and by the next scene, he has, without preparation, decided to marry Audrey (Ill.iii). If Duke Frederick's hate for Rosalind seems gratuitous and hasty, then so must all the love in the play, save perhaps Silvius's for Phebe. But then, this diaphanous couple appear anomalous throughout the play. Suddenness, then, is a recurrent pattern in the play. Silvius breaks "from company / Abruptly" (II.iv.37-38), and Corin promises to buy the pastoral lands for Celia "right suddenly" (II.iv.95). The rapid action, even in incidentals, conveys the feeling of unmotivated behavior, but it also suggests that the play is under Fortune's sway, where sudden changes are the rule and not the exception. With this pattern of sudden action in mind, we find that the final conversions of both Oliver and Frederick, 1 1 the wicked brothers, do not seem at all unusual. Their changes of heart become final examples in an elaborate pattern which indicates something about the play world which Shakespeare has built. On the other hand, if the world is one of sudden and erratic flux, it is also a world of process in which things ripen and rot, a world of constant, consistent, and irrevocable change. Jaques's speech on the Seven Ages of Man is central in this pattern. According to this now-famous description, man moves in a definite pattern from the stink of the dydee to the stench of the shroud, or in more Shakespearean fashion, from infancy to "second childishness and mere oblivion" (II.vii. 165). Life is an iron mold, and the world of due process is inescapable. Touchstone, in absentia, seconds him:

11

Clifford Leech, "Shakespeare's Comic Dukes", Review of English Literature, (1964), 108, notes the "suddenness" of Frederick.

V, ii

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"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." (Il.vii.22-28) Bawdy puns included, Touchstone describes a world of ever-moving and possibly meaningless change. It is a world where " M e n have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love" (IV.i.96-98). Causes have effects, but ideals, in this naturalistic world, have none at all. The process of change outlined by Jaques in his speech on Man's Seven Ages is, in a way, both parodied and questioned in the final scene by Touchstone's explanation of the Seven Degrees of the Lie. The process from Retort Courteous to Lie Direct is broken, as Touchstone underlines, by the word " i f " . " Y o u r I f is the only peacemaker. Much virtue in I f " (V.iv.96-97). The tightly closed system of natural continuity postulated by Jaques is subtly questioned here; for Touchstone's speech describes an open-ended system where man has some kind of control over his fortune. But it is precisely the element of time — as Touchstone indicates above in his speech on its passage — over which man has the least control. Though Orlando asserts that "There's no clock in the forest" (III.ii.287288), the audience knows that Touchstone's shepherd's dial is a good substitute, and Rosalind explains to Orlando that a "true lover ... sighing every minute and groaning every hour would detect the lazy foot of Time as well as a clock" (III.ii.289-291). She goes on to point out the psychological aspects o f time, how it seems to travel quickly for some, to go slowly for others. With acute realism, she tells Orlando that "men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives" (IV.i.134-136). The passage of time is inevitable. And, in one o f his songs, even Orlando writes: how brief the life of man Runs his erring pilgrimage, That the stretching of a span Buckles in his sum of age. (III.ii.123-126) The play offers no pastoral illusions about shepherd boys piping as if they should never grow old. Though Charles the Wrestler sees Duke Senior's life in the forest in mythic terms — the duke and his men fleeting "the time carelessly as they did in the golden world" (I.i.l 10-111)

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— upon his first appearance, Duke Senior describes the "seasons' difference" (II.i.6); the "golden world" is not to be found in the Forest of Arden. The play in its pattern of passing time does not draw distinctions between the court of Duke Senior and that of Frederick. All men are subject to time, and even the doting pastoral lover Orlando, visiting his substitute Rosalind, is almost an hour late for his appointment (IV.i.38-39). But the breaking of promises is no more unusual here than in Love's Labour's Lost or Richard II. The unfaithful brothers are a donné of the play. Before the action begins, Oliver has broken his promise to carry out the charge given him by old Sir Rowland to "breed" Orlando well (I.i.4). Frederick has broken his oath of fealty to his brother, and, as Rosalind suggests, he is a traitor (I.iii.59). Though Touchstone may joke about the forsworn knight (I.ii.59ff.), he himself wants to be married by Sir Oliver Mar-Text, For he is not like to marry me well; and not being well married, it will be a good excuse for me hereafter to leave my wife. (Ill.iii.79-81) And in the final scene, he says, "I press in here, sir, amongst the rest of the country copulatives, to swear and to forswear, according as marriage binds and blood breaks" (V.iv.52-55). Promises are made to be broken. The pattern is elaborated by the emphasis on "horns". As Touchstone points out, "Many a man has good horns and knows no end of them. Well, that is the dowry of his wife" (III.iii.47-48); and Rosalind backs him up. The snail "brings his destiny with him", she says, "horns; which such as you [Orlando] are fain to be beholding to your wives for; but he comes armed in his fortune and prevents the slander of his wife" (IV.i.51-52, 54-56). In the following scene, Jaques has the duke's foresters sing: Take thou no scorn to wear the horn, It was a crest ere thou wast born, Thy father's father wore it, And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty horn, Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. (IV.ii.13-18)12 And in the next scene, Phebe provides an example of the faithless woman 12 Peter Seng, "The Foresters' Song in As You Like It", Shakespeare Quarterly, X (1959), 246-249, suggests that Jaques speaks the line, "Then sing him home, the rest shall beare this burthen." He believes that "the rest" may mean everyone present, and "this burthen" may mean 'horns'. Thus each man is a cuckold, and the song reveals a deep sense of human fallibility.

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— though not to the extent of giving horns. However, in this world, any man, perhaps every man, may be a cuckold. Certainly the permanence of human faithfulness is called in question. The complex of patterns we have been surveying form an interrelated group of ideas and actions which define the sublunary world of the play. Ruled over by the goddess Fortuna, it is a world where time is dominant. All things change, rapidly or slowly, and man's dearest dreams may, in the end, come to nothing. One's brother may prove unnatural; one's wife, unfaithful. As we have noted, there are critics who would exempt the Forest of Arden from the miseries of change, but our investigation leads us to different conclusions. Duke Frederick and Duke Senior inhabit the same world; only their attitudes are different. And perhaps in this difference of vision lies a key to man's salvation, for this difference is a matter of education, of learning. One must not expect too much, however, and the ultimate question — why life is thus — is left quietly in abeyance. The fruits of education yield only a relative solution to the play's problems. The old duke, if we may judge from his initial speech, has learned what he needs to weather the storms of Fortune. He finds that the inclemencies of nature are "counsellors" who "persuade" him who he is: Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. (II.i.10-17) Adversity itself may not be sweet, but its uses are; for they help one to know one's self and consequently to know the world. The duke's speech is central to the pattern of education which runs throughout the play. Ironically, Touchstone pretends that he has learned from Le Beau: " T h u s men grow wiser every day". That "breaking of ribs was sport for ladies" is a new fact for the clown (I.ii. 123-125). Jaques evinces his interest in education. He tells Rosalind that he has gained his experience through travel (IV.i.23) and insists that Touchstone and Audrey must have a priest who can teach them "what marriage i s " (III.iii.74-75). At the play's end, Jaques follows Frederick into religious seclusion, for " O u t of these convertîtes / There is much matter to be heard and learned" (V.iv. 178-179). Speaking on the theme of education, Corin tells Touchstone that "he that hath learned no wit by nature nor art may complain of good breeding" (III.ii.27-28); and, with a touch of irony, Rosalind claims that she has

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gained magic powers through the teachings of an old religious uncle. Even in incidentals, the pattern of education appears throughout. The main education of the play, however, is that of Orlando, and the theme of education is introduced in his first scene with Adam. Although Oliver keeps their middle brother, Jaques, "at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit" (I.i.5-6), Orlando is kept "rustically at home" (6). Even the "horses are bred better", he believes, for they at least "are taught their manage" (9-11). Oliver, he continues, "lets me feed with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and, as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my education" (16-19). When Oliver enters, Orlando, in a quip, tells him: "I am not taught to make anything" (27). With this underlining of Orlando's desire for education in the opening lines of the play, the playgoer is alerted to a major emphasis of the play. Orlando's question, "What prodigal portion have I spent that I should come to such penury?" (I.i.35-36), is the one to which he must learn the answer. Not that he has been prodigal, but he must learn that penury and hardship are not necessarily punishments for ill deeds, that the ideal is not always the real. Oliver ends the first scene by asserting, ironically, that Orlando is "never schooled and yet learned" (153). However, Orlando has much to learn, and his journey to Arden will complete his education, teaching him to see the world as it is and consequently to understand himself. In sum, Orlando's meeting with Duke Senior in the forest teaches him the inadequacies of generalization, while his mock-wooing of Ganymede makes him see the folly of idealization. Although one must dwell in a world where both generalizations and ideals are valuable possessions, one must at the same time learn that they embody only partial truths. As he races into the duke's camp with sword drawn, he is opposed by Jaques with a pun (reason/raisin) and is invited by the duke to "Sit down and feed" (II.vii.105). Startled, Orlando replies, "I thought that all things had been savage here" (107). Of course, he quickly learns otherwise. Generalizing again from insufficient evidence, he asserts that the duke and his men "Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time" (112). If the playgoer may believe the duke's foregoing speech on the educational values of the forest, however, Orlando is wrong once more. Nevertheless, his hours with Ganymede will teach him about the vanity of dogmatizing. Confronted with idealized assertions about herself, Rosalind disguised as Ganymede attacks Orlando's romantic concepts of love and life. She assures her idealistic lover that women do break their vows of faith; that people do not actually die because of love; that time, unfortunately,

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does pass. Things in this sublunary world do change: this is an important lesson for the young idealist to learn. Orlando has been living in a young man's world of fantasy, and now, with Rosalind as his guide, he must come to understand the realities of life and love. In the play as a whole, the sojourn in the forest is educational for all the lovers; and through education, they are united in the end. Phebe learns not to disdain true love; Oliver to feel the natural emotions he has denied. The playgoer may well be reminded of the conclusion of The Two Gentlemen of Verona. The great, and ironic, lesson of the forest, however, is stated by Touchstone as he enters Arden: "as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly" (II.iv.50-51). The union at the play's end is the mortal unity of marriage; and it is at best a tentative solution — "marriage binds and blood breaks" — in a world which by its nature denies that absolute permanence is possible. As the play draws to a conclusion, the pattern of education points beyond the borders of Arden. For it is, in a way, education that keeps Frederick from murdering his brother and destroying the peace of the forest. With a "mighty power", Frederick came "to the skirts of this wild wood", Where, meeting with an old religious man, After some question with him, was converted Both from his enterprise and from the world. (V.iv.153-156) As we have seen, Jaques follows him to see what may be learned from a convert. The process of education must go on, and as it does, man may perhaps learn to control, and to live happily in, the natural world, a world which does not quite conform to his expectations and his ideals. As the humanists had suggested, man may possibly overcome the fallen world and his own fallen nature — at least in part — through learning and education. In As You Like It, Shakespeare pays comic tribute to that concept. Stepping away from the play, we may see that in broad perspective As You Like It has affinities to both Love's Labour's Lost and Richard II. The actions of the three plays take place in similar dramatic worlds where human frailty and instability are dominant motifs. Oaths are easily made and easily broken; permanence is only an illusion, while change is a stern reality. Within the three actions, there is a theme of education and a consequent progress from illusion to reality, from youthful idealism to mature acceptance of mutable existence. The present studies of the three plays have underlined these similar qualities, and it

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may, at first glance, appear that As You Like It is a play which looks backward to Shakespeare's early comedies and history plays rather than forward to the work of his later career. Nevertheless, the last three plays we have examined — As You Like It, The Merchant of Venice, and Richard II — in their various ways adumbrate the later tragedies, the problem comedies, and the final romances. Unanimously seen as Shakespeare's breakthrough into the high tragic mode, Richard II is interesting for the parallels it offers to the tragedies which follow it by some five or ten years. Like the problem comedies and especially Measure for Measure, The Merchant of Venice deals with the unsolvable dilemmas of human nature and social commitment and emphasizes the idea that the absolute claims of mercy and justice are irreconcilable. While the narrowly averted tragedy of The Merchant looks forward to Measure for Measure, the pastoralism of As You Like It clearly foreshadows the delicate rural scenes of the final romances. Even the contrasting undertone of unconquered evil in the romances is present in the earlier play. Duke Frederick retires to the background, just as Sebastian and Antonio are quiescent at the end of The Tempest. Taking As You Like It, The Merchant, and Richard II together as we have done, we see them as part of the basis upon which Shakespeare built the drama of the second part of his career — and to these later plays we now turn.

7

MACBETH:

THE R O U N D O F SOVEREIGNTY

Many students of Macbeth have paused, sometimes at length, to praise its symmetrical form, tight-knit muscularity, and speed of action; it is a lean play with no superfluous fat. 1 One action precipitates another, and words and deeds form an interlocked and intricate pattern, seen as a whole only when the final word has been spoken. The knocking at the gate begins as soon as Lady Macbeth grasps the bloody daggers. For the Macbeths, it is an intrusion of the moral world into their private hell; their porter is symbolically the porter of hell-gate. But it is also, by extension, the knocking of their consciences, under the stress of which, in the end, Macbeth is brutalized, his wife broken. The knocking carries over into the following scene, when Macduff enters to discover Duncan's corpse and, ultimately in the play, to punish the murderer, Macbeth. As the counteraction mounts at the close of Act IV, Malcolm comments: "The night is long that never finds the day" (IV.iii.240); and the next scene ironically begins with the sleep-walking of the mad Lady Macbeth, holding her candle, wrapped in the long night of the soul to which her evil has brought her. The scene links imaginatively with the murder of Duncan; for in murdering the king, "Glamis ... murther'd Sleep" (II.ii.41) and plunged Scotland into darkness: "by th' clock 'tis day, / And yet dark night strangles the travelling lamp" (II.iv.6-7). For her

1

See, e.g., Irving Ribner, Patterns in Shakespearian Tragedy (London, 1960), 153, and his "Macbeth: The Pattern of Idea and Action", Shakespeare Quarterly, X (1959), 147-159. The present chapter is indebted to many scholars and critics, chief among them, Richard G. Moulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist (Oxford, 1901), 125-143, 405; Alfred Harbage, William Shakespeare: A Reader's Guide (New York, 1963), 371-399, a scene by scene commentary; Roy Walker, The Time Is Free: A Study of "Macbeth" (London, 1949); and the observations of Professor Kenneth O. Myrick, who first pointed out to me the relevance of Cicero to the play. The text used is that of Kenneth Muir's Arden edition (London, 1965), which has an excellent introduction and what amounts to variorum notes.

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participation in this deed of darkness, Lady Macbeth must endure the sleep that is sleepless, the night that is endless. At her death, the hardened Macbeth merely says: "She should have died hereafter: / There would have been a time for such a word" (V.v. 17-18), and contemplates universal nihility. These carefully tied threads (a few must represent the many) suggest the complexity and the neatness of the whole; but they also suggest the circular structure of the play, for in her madness Lady Macbeth is reliving the murder of Duncan, and in his final brutality Macbeth sees the meaninglessness of his former actions. The past returns to haunt the present; time is curved and comes back upon itself. In form, the play simulates this circle of recurrent time. The sense of circularity is further suggested on the metaphoric level by the imagery of seasons, for imagistically the play follows the seasonal pattern, beginning in the spring, the seed-time. Addressing the witches, Banquo asks if they "can look into the seeds of time, / And say which grain will grow" (I.iii.58-59). Though the main allusion may be to the rationes seminales,2 there is a submerged image of spring planting; in the seeds planted, the witches may well be able to foresee the harvest. Later, when Duncan tells Macbeth and Banquo that he has "begun to plant" them "and will labour / To make" them "full of growing" (I.iv.28-29), Banquo replies, "There if I grow, / The harvest is your own" (32-33); both the imagery and the irony are obvious. As Duncan passes into Macbeth's castle, the allusion is to fruitful summer and the "temple-haunting martlet", "This guest of summer" (I.vi.3-4). Macbeth's power ripens with the season; and as the year moves in its perennial cycle, he rises to the height of his glorious summer. Having seen Banquo's ghost, however, he asks his wife: "Can such things be, / And overcome us like a summer's cloud, / Without our special wonder?" (IH.iv. 109-111). The clouded sun intimates the coming of autumn; and as the metaphoric year passes, Malcolm notes that "Macbeth / Is ripe for shaking" (IV.iii.237-238). Macbeth himself acknowledges the declining year, feeling that his "way of life / Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf" (V.iii.22-23). His autumn has arrived. With the death of Macbeth, Macduff proclaims that the "time is free" (V.ix.21), and Malcolm speaks of those things "Which would be planted newly with the time" (31), bringing the play back again

2 See Walter Clyde Curry, Shakespeare's Philosophical Patterns (Baton Rouge, 1937), 45-46. Cf. IV.i.59: "germens". For the pattern itself, cf. Norman N. Holland, The Shakespearean Imagination (Bloomington, 1968), 65-66.

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to the spring planting. The cyclical imagery of the seasons reflects the pattern of the play as a whole. 3 The play begins in battle, with the treacherous Thane of Cawdor captured and beheaded; it is reported that "Nothing in his life / Became him like the leaving it" (I.iv.7-8). The play ends where it began, in a battle for national freedom and with the beheading of another treacherous Thane of Cawdor, who again dies with more credit and honor than he has lived. As much as Lear, Macbeth is bound upon a wheel of fire; but for Macbeth, the wheel is one of earthly fortune. As national hero, he begins his ascent early in the play, looking forward to the crown. To gain the "golden round of sovereignty" he feels that he must first murder King Duncan and discredit Malcolm, the proclaimed Prince of Cumberland: "That is a step / On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap" (I.iv.48-49). At the top of fortune's wheel and his own power, he commissions Banquo's murder, a murder which begins his decline. Feeling the insecurity of his position, Macbeth pointlessly sends his men to murder the family of Macduff, thus assuring his fall. Each of the three murders, or murderous episodes, is followed by a choric scene, 4 each suggesting the public reaction to the murders and to Macbeth. Each murder marks a definite point on Macbeth's circle. The ascending action is recapitulated, though in an inverted order, in the descending. The initial appearance of the witches in Act I is balanced by their reappearance after the murder of Banquo in Acts III and IV. Their first prophecy is paralleled by the second. Macbeth's feast for Duncan and his vision of the bloody dagger find their analogue in the feast after Banquo's murder and the appearance of his ghost. Macbeth's rise is opposed, though silently, by Banquo; his fall is precipitated by Macduff. At the end of the play, Duncan's empty place and function are supplied by his son Malcolm. The parallels might be extended; but that the play is imbued with the sense of recurrence, of circularity, is apparent. The following diagram will illustrate this visually:

3

Shakespeare may have observed a similar use of seasonal imagery in Chaucer's Troilus. See Henry W. Sams, "The Dual Time-Scheme in Chaucer's Troilus", Modern Language Notes, LVI (1941), 94-100. 4 It should be noted that the last choric scene (V.ii) follows the murder at some distance; it is therefore rather irregular, and its function is more general than the two preceding choric scenes.

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'MACBETH': THE ROUND OF SOVEREIGNTY Banquo's murder (Ill.iii.) 2nd Banquet (Ill.iv.) Choric scene (Il.iv.)

Choric scene (III.vi.)

Banquo

Macduff

(opposed to Macbeth)

(opposed to Macbeth)

Duncan's murder (Il.ii.)

Witches y (III.v. and IV.i.) Macduff family murdered (IV.ii.)

Macbeth

\

\ 1st Banquet (I.vii.)

Duncan (as king)

\

Choric scene (V.ii.)

Witches (I.i. and iii.) Battle (I.ii and V.vi-viii.)

The diagram reveals that the main structural recurrences are three: the witches, the feasts, and the murders with their concomitant choric scenes. Since both the ascending and the descending actions are, in a sense, outlined and motivated by the witches, it is perhaps best to start with them. Most editors and critics find the opening scene of the utmost importance in establishing tone, foreshadowing action, and introducing themes. 5 Appearing amid thunder and lightning, the witches quickly build an atmosphere of gloom, which comes to pervade the entire play. That they intend to meet with Macbeth renders the eponymous hero immediately suspect; and their antithetical phrases, "lost and won", "fair is foul", "foul is fair", suggest the antitheses and equivocations that run through the play and find their first embodiment in these hags. They "should be women" and yet their beards forbid that interpretation. Metaphorically, they anticipate the unsexed Lady Macbeth, who advises her husband to "look like th' innocent flower, / But be the serpent under't" (I.v.64-65). In the rising action, the Macbeths who seem fair are foul. Thus the initial appearance of the witches sets the scene for the

5

See Muir's note on scene i. Several critics have found this witch scene to be spurious; for an early example, see Ε. H. Seymour, Remarks, Critical, Conjectural, and Explanatory upon the Plays of Shakspeare (London, 1805), I, 172. There has been some critical reluctance to accepting any witch as Shakespeare's. Perhaps this observation sheds some light on the rejection of the Hecate scene (III.v).

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first upward movement of the play; it is a fitting overture to Macbeth's imperial theme. Accompanied by a peal of thunder, the witches make their second appearance in scene three. Though they underline their malevolent natures, their inability to drown the sailor whose wife has refused a chestnut suggests that their power for evil is not absolute, that they cannot force evil on Macbeth. As the first witch pulls forth her treasure — "a pilot's thumb, / Wrack'd, as homeward he did come" (I.iii.28-29) Macbeth's drum is heard, and they break into a dance — three times three. Macbeth will be "wrack'd" as he travels back from battle, meeting in time and space the living personifications of his inner evil. He responds guiltily and completely: "Good Sir", says Banquo, "why do you start, and seem to fear / Things that do sound so fair?" (51-52). The first two greetings are hardly prophetic, though the second may seem so to Macbeth; he is already Thane of Glamis, and Rosse will soon enter to call him Thane of Cawdor (105). However, the third greeting, "All hail, Macbeth! that shalt be King hereafter", is prophetic and the major motivation for Macbeth's catching at fortune's wheel. Though Banquo warns him that "instruments of Darkness" tell half-truths in order to "betray's / In deepest consequence" (124-126), Macbeth is soon lost in imagination, troubled with a "horrid image" (135) which he does not wish to verbalize. In his mind's eye, he sees his first murder. But the witches also prepare for the central, climactic murder of the play, Banquo's. Their fourth statement that Banquo will be "greater", and "happier" than Macbeth, that he shall "get kings" though be none, immediately captures Macbeth's attention: "Your children shall be kings" (86). After hearing of his advancement to Cawdor, he turns to Banquo: " D o you not hope your children shall be kings?" (118). The idea rankles; and, in a sense, Banquo's doom is already sealed. Unsolicited as they are, the first prophecies find Macbeth's diseased mind entirely receptive. The second set of appearances, the third and fourth, parallels the first set. Though the third appearance (III.v) has been rather generally regarded as spurious, 6 structurally it is impeccable; and if Shakespeare 6

See Muir's edition, xxxiii-xxxvi. Kittredge / Ribner, Alfred Harbage, G. B. Harrison, and Hardin Craig, all express doubt concerning this scene in their editions of the play. The point has been argued by Richard Flatter, Shakespeare-Jahrbuch XCIII (1957), 196-210, XCV (1959), 225-237, XCVI (I960), 192-193, and John P. Cutts, ShakespeareJahrbuch, XCIV (1958), 200-202, XCVI (1960), 173-176. Flatter argues for Shakespearean authorship, while Cutts recommends extreme caution. Though neither achieves a

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did not plan the scene, he should have. It stands in the same position in the falling action as the first stands in the rising. Macbeth has exhausted the information given him in his first meeting with the witches, and he feels that he must return to them, soliciting knowledge of the future. The witches and Hecate prepare for the second meeting. The scene is linked to the preceding scene as many scenes in the play are. Though steeped in blood, Macbeth feels that he needs further education in the ways of evil: "We are yet but young in deed" (Ill.iv. 143), and Hecate picks up this reference to youth, calling him a "wayward son" (III.v.ll). The witches, initiating the fall of Macbeth, Shall raise such artificial sprites, As, by the strength of their illusion, Shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear. (27-31) As before, they plan a meeting with Macbeth, though this time "i' th' morning" (16); and, as in the first scene of the play, the function is to prepare for the ensuing action. The witches alert the audience to the way in which Macbeth will meet his fate, as before they suggested (in I.iii) how the Macbeths would rise to power. Even the meeting at morning is suggestive of the progress of the play from darkness to light — though here the morning reference may be seen as ironic. 7 The final appearance of the witches in the opening scene of Act IV is parallel to I.iii, the witches again appearing first, waiting for Macbeth. In I.i, they were called away by their familiars; now they are called together in the same way: 1 Witch. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. 2 Witch. Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin'd. 3 Witch. Harpier cries: — 'Tis time, 'tis time. (IV.i.1-3) The witches' brew, over which they labor, is analogous to the trouble they had earlier prepared for the sailor; now they brew for Macbeth. The ingredients are generally suggestive, and the refrain, "Double, double toil and trouble" (10, 20, 35), seems to allude to both the increased trouble they prepare for Macbeth and the dubiety of their prophecies. As before their first meeting with Macbeth, they dance:

clear victory, their critical quarrel is important in that it underlines the main areas of contention. 7 See the chart compiled by Roy Walker, 227-228.

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And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. (IV.i.41-43; see also line 132.) However, this time the returning Macbeth is not heralded by the triumphant drum of the military hero; the second witch says, "By the pricking of my thumbs, / Something wicked this way comes" (44-45). There is no suggestion here that Macbeth is in any way heroic, or, as Lady Macbeth had earlier accused him, too full of the milk of human kindness. The first prophecies to Macbeth had been gratuitous, in the form of greetings, and his request for further information had been ignored. Now Macbeth is the seeker after information, no longer starting guiltily, but demanding boldly. His invocation to the witches, and by extension to evil itself, is a sign of his change: I conjure you, by that which you profess, Howe'er you come to know it, answer me: Though you untie the winds, and let them fight Against the Churches ... ... though the treasure Of Nature's germens tumble all together, Even till destruction sicken, answer me. (IV.i.50-53, 58-60) He emphasizes his own destructive propensities. Asked if he would hear the answers from the mouths of the witches "Or from our masters", Macbeth says roughly: "Call 'em; let me see 'em" (63). The witches are mere baby's food to the seasoned palate. The second prophecies are in several ways comparable to the first, though they are infinitely more complex, demanding much of the audience. There are four in number: the first three deal with Macbeth, the last with Banquo. The last prophecy is, in effect, a visual recapitulation of the witches' initial promise to Banquo, that his children should be kings. And again, the prophecies motivate the following action. But more than the first, the second group of prophecies is equivocal. The First Apparition, the armed head, with the caption, "beware Macduff; / Beware the Thane of Fife" (71-72), seems straightforward enough — to Macbeth, at least. The armed head (a visual-verbal pun) suggests the resistance of Macduff to Macbeth's authority: "head" meaning as it often did in Elizabethan speech 'army' or 'armed force'. To Macbeth, the head is Macduff's and may suggest to him his ultimate victory over the rebel — Macduff beheaded. But to the playgoer, who recalls that the first Thane of Cawdor was beheaded, the lone head foreshadows the ensuing action: Macduff's beheading of Macbeth.

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The bloody child, the Second Apparition, with the prophecy, "laugh to scorn / The power of man, for none of woman born / Shall harm Macbeth" (79-81), is again suggestive of violence. To "make assurance double sure", Macbeth resolves to destroy Macduff's family, and the "bloody child", in one sense, stands for Macduff's murdered son. Macbeth is plagued by his own sterility, his lack of a royal heir, and throughout the play he seems forced by his obsession to displace and to attempt to exterminate the children of others. Malcolm, Donalbain, and Fleance escape; Macduff's son is the first killed and ironically it is he, the bloody child, who brings the one person who can kill Macbeth back to Scotland, seeking personal revenge: the child bloodied in Caesarian birth, Macduff himself. The Third Apparition must suggest something entirely different to Macbeth than to the audience, wise in retrospect. The prophecy tells Macbeth not to fear; for he shall never be conquered until "Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill" comes against him (93). The image of the child "crowned with a tree in his hand" must suggest to the troubled tyrant that he will at last be fruitful, and produce a child, "the issue of a king" (87), who will carry on the family tree: again the verbal-visual pun. This suggestion prompts his final question: "shall Banquo's issue ever / Reign in this kingdom?" (102-103), and his despair. The last apparition seems to deny utterly the implication of the preceding vision. Of course, what Macbeth sees in the Third Apparition is false: the crowned child is Malcolm come to take his rightful throne; the tree, not a symbol of the family line, is a sign of disinheritance, the uprooted tree. Carried by Malcolm's soldiers, the trees are both camouflage and symbolic emblem of advancing rebirth. In the end, the natural green overcomes the bloodred of tyranny. 8 The second two appearances of the witches, then, structurally balance the first two. Setting the tone for the ensuing actions, the witches also provide the motivating prophecies. Though the parallels are comparable, they are also contrasting, emphasizing change as well as structural continuity. The Macbeth who is sought out by the witches in Act I is not the same Macbeth who returns to them soliciting information in Act IV. 8

Red and green are opposed throughout the play, embodied in the redness of blood and the greenness of nature. On blood, see Holland, 58. Macbeth says: "this my [bloody] hand will rather / The multitudinous seas incarnadine, / Making the green one red" (II.ii.60-62). The play begins with the question, "What bloody man is that?" (I.ii.l), and ends with Dunsinane overcome by Birnam wood and with Malcolm's image of planting "newly" (V.ix.31). Cf. I. vii.37.

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The two feast scenes also point to change as well as recurrence. In the play, the feast or banquet is a complex symbol. 9 First, it is a microcosm of the society, suggestive of a miniature social order. Macbeth begins the second feast of the play with: "You know your own degrees, sit down: at first / And last, the hearty welcome" (III.iv.1-2). The implication is that the place at the banquet table, like the places in society at large, are a question of order, and further that the order, here, at least, is wellestablished. Perhaps this idea of the microcosmic feast also lies behind Lady Macbeth's "the sauce to meat is ceremony" (35). At such a state banquet, the ceremonious order of things means everything; and Ceremony, as Henry V recognizes, is naught but "place, degree and f o r m " (Henry V, IV.i.263). Nevertheless, the symbol of the feast suggests something more in the way of social obligations. It stands not only for the social order, but also for the duties within that order, duties which are preservative in nature. They form the bond that "knits together human society and cements our common interests". 1 0 This is the 'bond' which is dissolving in Richard II and which holds society together in The Merchant of Venice; it is the 'bond' of which Cordelia speaks in Lear, to which Desdemona alludes in Othello. The feast in honor of Duncan forces Macbeth to consider his social obligations: "He's here in double trust: / First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, I ... then, as his host, / Who should against his murtherer shut the d o o r " (I.vii.12-15). After the feast, Duncan sends "great largess" to Macbeth's "offices" (II.i.14), where "offices" may well preserve, at least in part, its Latin meaning of 'social duties'. 1 1 During the second feast, Macbeth says he "will mingle with society, / And play the humble host" (III.iv.3-4). At the well-ordered feast, the host performs his social duties. Not only social, but also religious implications are involved in the feast. As Roy Walker points out, Macbeth's opening words in the first banquet scene, "If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well / It were done quickly" (I.vii.1-2), are reminiscent of John 13:27: "And 9

J. Frank Kermode, "The Banquet of Sense", John Rylands Library Bulletin, XLIV (1961-1962), 68-99, investigates some of the meanings behind the image of the feast or banquet. See also J. P. Dyson, "The Structural Function of the Banquet Scene in Macbeth", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIV (1963), 369-371. 10 Cicero, De Officiis, I.vii, ed. Moses Hadas, The Basic Works of Cicero, 11. The passage may have been found by Shakespeare in Nicholas Grimald's translation. 11 Muir's note glosses "offices" as 'servants' quarters'. Harbage, ed., Macbeth (Baltimore, 1966), suggests: 'household departments'. However, I think it possible that Shakespeare is anglicizing officium. Even so, Macbeth would carry out most of his duties through his household servants.

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after the sop, Satâ entred into him [Judas]. Thè said Iesus vnto him, That thou doest, do quickly." 12 Though only briefly suggested, Duncan's last feast is a type of Last Supper seen from the point of view of a Judas, who fears that a "poison'd chalice" (11) may also be his lot if he carries out his murderous plans. Even with this ironic reversal of viewpoint, the feast in the play carries overtones of spiritual as well as social communion. 1 3 During his feast for Duncan, Macbeth forsakes the banquet chamber to contemplate the murder of his guest, who is also his kinsman and his king. Openly acknowledging the social duties, he thinks less of the sacredness of the social bonds than of the retribution which might follow from his acts: "we but teach / Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return / To plague th' inventor" (I.vii.8-10). Cicero, discussing the breakdown of social duties, provides a fitting commentary on Macbeth's situation: But the most part of men chiefelye bee brought to forget iustice, when they fall into the desier of rule, honour, or glorie. For that which is in Ennius. (In Empyre is no Godlye fellowship nor Fayth:) reacheth farther. For whatsoeuer is of such sort, wherein manye cannot bee chiefe, therein commonly happeneth so great contention, that very hard it is to keepe a godly socyetie. The storme of Caius Cesar declared that of late who tourned topsetturuie all the laws of GOD and man, for that soueraigntyes sake, which hee to himselfe, by the error of his owne conceit had imagined. And in this kind it is a griefeful case that desires of honour, rule, power, and glorie, bee commonlye in the greatest courages, & goodliest wits. Wherefore the more heede must bee taken, that we offend nothing in that beehalfe.14 When a kingdom is at stake men do not hesitate to break the order of society, to forget the social obligations. By leaving the banquet while his guest still sups, Macbeth symbolically separates himself from the society which the banquet in miniature represents, from its duties, from its communion both social and spiritual. The true servants, who may be 12 See Walker, 53-54. The Biblical passage is from The New Testament of Ovr Lord Iesvs, trans. Theodore Beza, Englished by L. Tomson (London, 1586), the Geneva version. 13 Cf. also the feast in Revelation, 19: 17-18: "And I sawe an Angel stände in the sunne, who cryed with a loude voyce, saying to all the soules that did flie by the middes of heauen, Come, and gather your selues together vnto * supper of the great God, That ye may eate the flesh of Kings, and the flesh of hie [high] Captaines, and the flesh of mightie men, and the flesh of horses, and of them that sitte on them, and the flesh of all free men, and bondmen, and of small & great." Cf. II.iii.79: "great doom's image!" and III.vi.22: "tyrant's feast". Macbeth is making his own doomsday. 14 Grimald's translation, Fols. 11 v -12 r .

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seen as types of loyal service, "pass over the stage" entering the banquet chamber; Macbeth comes out. Although in soliloquy Macbeth talks of his "vaulting ambition", he complains that he has "no spur / To prick the sides" of his intent (25-27). Upon the moment, his spur, Lady Macbeth, emerges also from the banquet chamber to say that Duncan has asked for him. Macbeth's non sequitur, "We will proceed no further in this business" (31), forces Lady Macbeth into the aggressive role, which she assumes for the rest of the scene, pushing Macbeth toward the murder. "When you durst do it, then you were a man" (49), she tells him, openly suggesting that perhaps Macbeth is not the man he seems. His final acknowledgement of her victory, "Bring forth men-children only! / For thy undaunted mettle should compose / Nothing but males" (73-75), underlines the obvious. Lady Macbeth has taken, in the early part of the play, the dominant, masculine role, outlining the total plan of the murder, working out the details. Macbeth meekly accepts her supremacy. The first feast of the play is never brought fully on stage; it forms the symbolic background for Macbeth's soliloquy and for his discussion with his wife. While the social order is celebrated within, the Macbeths plot its overthrow without. The reversal of masculine and feminine roles is indicative of their disordered relationship and of the disorder they plan, and further contrasts with the background feast in which each man knows his own degree. While Duncan celebrates his last supper, the Macbeths plan "The great doom's image" (II.iii.79), the great feast of death. The second feast begins as an almost completely inverted image of the first. Here the Macbeths are engaged in the festive activities; Macbeth no longer neglects his duties. Playing the jovial host, he says, "Be large in mirth; anon, we'll drink a measure" (III.iv.ll). During the earlier feast, Macbeth contemplates murdering Duncan; now he listens to the murderer tell him that Banquo's "throat is cut" (15). Outside the first banquet hall, Lady Macbeth convinced her husband to murder the king; at the second feast, "Our hostess keeps her state" (5). She stands aloof from the ordering of the day; she knows nothing of Banquo's murder. The first banquet fed the man who was to be sacrificed to ambition; the second has as its "chief guest" (III.i.11) the man who is murdered before he arrives. What was "to do" at the first, has already been done at the second, and Macbeth has reasserted his role as "man", the masculine role of leader. In a sense, the first banquet suggests the future, the golden promise of an earthly crown; the second looks backward on what has happened in the climb to power.

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But the second feast does not gain its full emotional impact as a contrast to the first, for as the scene proceeds, greater complexity develops. The theme of sexual reversal again comes to the fore. As Banquo's ghost intrudes, Macbeth is rapidly unmanned. Lady Macbeth, as before, tries to assert her dominant nature: "Are you a man?" (57), she asks. O! these flaws and starts (Impostors to true fear), would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire. (62-64) Having no success with these aspersions, she exclaims: "What! quite unmann'd in folly?" (72). Only after the ghost exits never to return, can Macbeth say, "I am a man again" (107). The struggle between husband and wife is part of both banquet scenes, but the second is not resolved in Lady Macbeth's victory over her husband's fears. The situation suggests two important things. First, that indeed Macbeth has completely lost his essential manhood. In the first banquet scene, he says that he dares "do all that may become a man; / Who dares do more, is none" (I.vii.46-47). Ironically, Macbeth pronounces his own doom. By murdering a sleeping kinsman, and by having his friend ambushed and murdered in the dark, he has done those things which are unbecoming to a man; consequently, he "is none". Second, the situation underlines the growing separation and estrangement of the Macbeths, the decline into isolation. No longer are they a unit, Lady Macbeth supplying the immoral spiritual strength for her husband, he performing the physical murder his wife cannot. The contrasting parallels with the first banquet scene point the changes. The Macbeths join the second feast, trying to establish their own, now corrupt, order. Macbeth begins the feast by insisting that his lords know their "own degrees", their places at the table. Observing that the table is symmetrically seated, he says, "Both sides are even", and proposes, as the king should, to "sit i' th' midst" (III.iv.10). The emphasis, as we have seen in part before, is on ceremony and symmetry, the elements of order. Unfortunately, the order of the Macbeths is in actuality disorder, and thus the feast degenerates into madness and confusion. As the nobles rise to drink, saying, "Our duties, and the pledge" (91), Macbeth screams, "Avaunt! and quit my sight! let the earth hide thee!" (92). The audience, of course, sees that he is shouting at Banquo's ghost, but the nobles can only assume that he is addressing himself to them, denying their pledged duties. Lady Macbeth tells him, "You have ... broke the good meeting / With most admir'd disorder" (108-109). To the nobles, she says, "Stand

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not upon the order of your going" (118). Thus, in a far more dramatic way than the first, the second banquet scene contrasts the social order with the personal disorder of the Macbeths. Because of their own inner corruption, they cannot participate in the ritual of orderly society; through them, the feast is contaminated. But perhaps the major phenomenon of the second feast is Banquo's ghost, which also sets up reverberations with the earlier part of the play. Critics have suggested that the ghost has some affinity to the ethereal dagger, perhaps because Lady Macbeth sees the parallel: "This is the very painting of your fear: / This is the air-drawn dagger, which, you said, / Led you to Duncan" (III.iv.60-62). Some critics have even agreed with Lady Macbeth's analysis, seeing the ghost as a vision. 15 Nevertheless, ethereal visions do not enter in propria persona, as does the ghost. Though the similarity leads us to draw the parallel, the difference forces us to examine the meaning and function of the contrast. S. J. Lec, the Polish epigrammatist and poet, writes, "The sequence of time is an illusion. ... We fear most the past that returns." The statement may serve as commentary on Macbeth's wild, almost frenzied assertion: the time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now, they rise again. ... ... This is more strange Than such a murther is. (III.iv.77-79, 81-82) In Macbeth's world, the past does come back to haunt the present; symbolically, the past returns to bar Macbeth's way, opposing his triumphant progress into the future. "The Ghost of ΒAN QU O enters, and sits in MACBETH's place" (s.d., line 40). But the ghost, which drives Macbeth from his place at the feast, is also the symbol of the spirit of Banquo that lives on in Fleance and his heirs. Banquo's progeny, the witches say, will in the future have Macbeth's crown; and Macbeth can only feel that he has murdered and sold his eternal jewel for Banquo's heirs, who, in turn, bar his own succession. At the feast and in the larger context, Banquo's spirit stands opposed to Macbeth, forcing him back. The air-drawn dagger appears to Macbeth directly after the first banquet. 15 See, e.g., A. C. Bradley, Shakespearean Tragedy (New York, 1957), 401-402, Appendix, Note FF, who thinks that the judicious will take the ghost for an hallucination and that the bulk of an audience will take it for reality. But he refuses to commit himself.

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Is this a dagger, which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee: — (II.i.33-34) Attempting to grasp it, Macbeth follows the dagger, inquiring if it is a "dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heatoppressed brain" (38-39). As it leads him on toward Duncan's room, suddenly, on the blade and handle appear "gouts of blood, / Which was not so before" (46-47). The dagger is a "fatal vision" in Macbeth's mind, the "bloody business" (48) of the future creating this hallucination in the present. The future beckons him on: the vision leads him toward the round of sovereignty. But the gouts of blood forecast much more than the murder of a king. The contrast between the dagger and the ghost, then, is the contrast between both vision and reality, the future and the past. Led onward by the vision of the future, Macbeth is stymmied by the reality from the past. The recurring opposition gives a sense of emotional intensification, of Macbeth's being trapped between past and future with no way out. "I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in" (III.iv.23), he says. He has volunteered to "jump the life to come" (I.vii.7); and thus the escape to eternity from the confinement of this world is cut off. For Macbeth, there is only "this bank and shoal of time" (I.vii.6), and he is forced in upon himself, growing more and more isolated. Indeed, the scope of the whole play narrows; beginning on the open heath, the play ends with Macbeth comparing himself to a bear tied in a pit, trapped in Dunsinane Castle. But further, in this opposition of dagger pointing forward and ghost forcing back, there is the obvious sense of recurrence. Encouraged to go on, Macbeth is again and again forced back, blocked. For him, all things happen again: two visits to the witches, two feasts, two visions, and murder after murder. Macbeth spins endlessly between hope and fear, vision and reality, the dagger and the ghost. Nevertheless, the murders symbolized by the dagger and the ghost carry Macbeth around the circle of his fortune. Each murder has its distinctive quality and is followed by a choric scene which suggests its results. Macbeth first murders Duncan and then the two grooms-of-thechamber to obscure the guilt. Plotted and set up by Lady Macbeth — she places the daggers in position for her husband — the actual murder is committed by Macbeth. Afterward, Lady Macbeth must go back to the chamber with the bloody daggers, smearing the grooms with blood to transfer blame. And it is the blood from this murder which returns from the past to haunt her in her dreams — "Yet who would have thought the

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old man to have had so much blood in him?" (V.i.38-39) — with a clear parallel in Macbeth and Banquo's ghost. In essence, the first murder is hers, and Macbeth seems to be little more than her instrument. In the choric scene which follows, Rosse and "an Old Man" point out the resultant disorder of the first murder. The Old Man can remember nothing so "dreadful" or "strange" in nature. Night itself is disturbed: "darkness does the face of earth entomb, / When living light should kiss it" (II.iv.9-10). "Turn'd wild in nature" (16), Duncan's horses refuse "obedience", as if "they would make / War with mankind" (17-18). By denying the social order, the Macbeths have disturbed all natural order of which the social is only a part. Macduff enters to Rosse and the Old Man, bringing the news that Macbeth is "already nam'd" king, and "gone to Scone / To be invested" (31-32). However, Macduff's laconic replies to Rosse's questions imply bitter irony; he merely mouths the official line of the Macbeth government. 16 His answers sound like those of a catechism. Who killed Duncan? "Those that Macbeth hath slain" (23). Apparently Macduff is already disaffected, and returns alone to Fife. Rosse, who represents the majority of nobles, goes to Scone for Macbeth's coronation. Macduff's parting words to him — Well, may you see things well done there: — adieu! — Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! (37-38) — leave us in no doubt about his feelings. The first murder, then, though it has ended in temporary success for Macbeth, leads to the disaffection of the Thane of Fife, an influential lord, and to disorder in nature, disorder which forebodes no good for the future prosperity of Scotland. Banquo's murder and the attempt on Fleance are plotted solely by Macbeth and carried out by three murderers, Macbeth assuming the role formerly played by his wife. His speeches to the two murderers (III.i.76ff.) are reminiscent of her speeches to him before the assassination of Duncan. He tells them that Banquo has kept them "under fortune" (77). Although they appear to be "men", Macbeth, as his lady has to him before, suggests that rather they may be beasts (cf. I.vii.46-49, and III.i.91-100). The execution of this "business" will rid them of an impediment, grappling them "to the heart and love" of Macbeth (105). The manner of the 16

See Harbage, William Shakespeare, 385, who observes a certain flat tone in his statements which mark them as an official version of the murder. The play moves from the isolation of the good, Macduff, who does not join the other nobles in attending the coronation, to the isolation of the evil, the Macbeths, who die alone and unmourned.

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murder, an ambush in the dark, may remind the audience of the sleeping Duncan's murder; but there is a difference: in the first Macbeth had committed his own crime. Here three hired assassins, deceived by Macbeth's lies, assault a man and a boy. The difference is a measure of Macbeth's degeneration. Though Banquo is successfully killed, Macbeth's scheme is foiled: Fleance escapes. This is the first setback Macbeth has experienced in the play; so far, all has gone according to plan. The following choric scene (Ill.vi) emphasizes the results of this central murder, results which are entirely contrary to Macbeth's expectation. 17 Lennox has taken Rosse's place as representative lord and assumes the former irony of Macduff. His mind travels back and forth over Macbeth's ill deeds; he repeats the official propaganda. "How monstrous / It was for Malcolm, and for Donalbain, / To kill their gracious father? damned fact!" (8-10). At line 21, however, Lennox drops the ironic tone, reporting that Macduff lives in disgrace because of his verbal opposition to Macbeth and his refusal to attend the "tyrant's feast". The anonymous lord has heard that Macduff has fled to England to seek aid from Malcolm, and both pray that "a swift blessing / May soon return to this our suffering country / Under a hand accurs'd" (47-49). The second murder has estranged all the nobles, even those who were before content to serve the time, to attend the feast; it is the turning point of the play. The third murder — of the Macduff family — underlines the absolute moral decline of Macbeth. Perhaps one should think of the raging Herod and the slaughter of the Holy Innocents. Only with a difference: Herod had some reason. Duncan was murdered to gain the crown; Banquo, to secure and preserve it; but the murder of Macduff's family appears to be gratuitous violence. Macbeth merely says: "From this moment, / The very firstlings of my heart shall be / The firstlings of my hand" (IV.i.146148). The castle of Macduff I will surprise; Seize upon Fife; give to th' edge o' th' sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. (150-153) Macbeth has been warned to beware the Thane of Fife, not his wife and children. Without argument, without thought, with only the passion to destroy, he sends his troops to slaughter them, and thus inadvertently, as it were, sets the limit of his life and reign. 17

See Mouton, Shakespeare

as a Dramatic Artist,

128-129.

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For the wanton murder brings back to Scotland the man not born of woman, with a special cause to revenge upon Macbeth. The final murder is, then, the rallying point of the opposition to Macbeth, motivating the counteraction. Malcolm tells Macduff to "Dispute" the murder "like a man" (IV.iii.220); to which, Macduff replies: "I shall do so; / But I must also feel it as a man" (220-221). The answer suggests that the man born to kill Macbeth is a man possessed of a much different concept of manliness, a man who would never murder a defenseless child. The choric scene following the third murder celebrates the reunion of the "scorch'd" snake (Ill.ii.13-14); the nobles have completely broken with Macbeth and unite to join their rightful lord, Malcolm. He comes with "His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. / Revenges burn in them" (V.ii.2-3). The composition of Malcolm's army is significant and perhaps symbolic: there is Siward's son, And many unrough youths, that even now Protest their first of manhood. (9-11) Macbeth "has no children", feels the curse of a line without issue, and consequently has been the scourge of children. 18 In some sense, the invading army represents the revenge of virile youth on the sterile Macbeth — almost a mythic opposition. Cathness gives the order to march, To give obedience where 'tis truly ow'd: Meet we the med'cine of the sickly weal; And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. (26-29) The sickness and sterility that the Macbeths have brought to Scotland will be purged. The wheel turns, and the play hastens onward to battle, where it began. The battle brings the play full circle; another treacherous Thane of Cawdor is defeated by two brave generals, one of whom is destined to be King of Scotland. Before, Macbeth had faced the "merciless Macdonwald", unseaming "him from the nave to th' chops" and fixing his "head upon our battlements" (I.ii.9, 22-23); now, Macduff shouts, "Behold, where stands / Th' usurper's cursed head" (V.ix.20-21). Again, the time is free; again Duncan's line is on the Scottish throne, ready to plant things anew. 18

See Cleanth Brooks' essay, "The Naked Babe and the Cloak of Manliness", The Well Wrought Urn (New York, 1947), 45, and Holland, 46-47, 63ff.

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Why Shakespeare imbues Macbeth with circularity must of necessity remain a matter of conjecture, and one might compare the elements of circularity in King Lear. Here, however, the circular structure fits neatly with the de casibus tragedy and its emphasis on fortune. The form of the play itself simulates the wheel of fortune, and in the course of the play, it makes one complete revolution. This sense of cyclical recurrence in Macbeth lends emotional intensity. The feeling that events turn back upon themselves amplifies the emotions of the immediate scene. And like the bear trapped in the pit, Macbeth cannot escape from the tragic, charmed circle. He had been seeking the golden round of sovereignty, but finds only the monotonous nihility of "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow".

8 MEASURE

FOR

Written a b o u t the Measure for Measure,

MEASURE:

same

time

Macbeth

FREEDOM A N D

RESTRAINT

or perhaps a year or t w o later than s h o u l d in strict c h r o n o l o g y be considered

after rather than before the present play. H o w e v e r , Measure

for

Measure

p r o v i d e s a n excellent transition f r o m the tragic quartet o f Hamlet,

Othello,

Lear,

a n d Macbeth

Cleopatra,

t o the morally a m b i g u o u s w o r l d o f Antony

and

where the satisfaction o f personal desire appears t o be m o r e

n o b l e t h a n d e v o t i o n t o the dictates o f strict duty. Measure

for

Measure

also is a play full o f h u m a n a m b i g u i t y . 1 A n d thus s o m e critical j u g g l i n g o f c h r o n o l o g i c a l p o s i t i o n s e e m s feasible, if n o t c o m p l e t e l y defensible. T h e title o f the play has received its just share o f e x p l i c a t i o n , 2 and o n e 1

The inherent ambiguity may be reflected in the diversity of critical opinion, which is surveyed by Gordon Ross Smith, "Isabella and Elbow in Varying Contexts of Interpretation", JGE: Journal of General Education, XVII (1965-1966), 69-74, by David L. Stevenson, "Design and Structure in Measure for Measure: A New Appraisal", ELH: Journal of English Literary History, XXIII (1956), 256-278, by Robert M. Smith, "Interpretations of Measure for Measure", Shakespeare Quarterly, I (1950), 208-218, and by J. C. Maxwell, "Measure for Measure: A Footnote to Recent Criticism", Downside Review, LXV (1947), 45-59. A full analysis of the varieties of criticism cannot be attempted here, for during the twentieth century, the play has been newly and fully appreciated. In the past two decades, three book-length studies have appeared: Mary Lascelles, Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure" (London, 1953), Josephine Waters Bennett, "Measure for Measure" as Royal Entertainment (New York, 1966), and David Lloyd Stevenson, The Achievement of Shakespeare's "Measure for Measure" (Ithaca, 1966). Four other books have appeared, placing the play in a Shakespearean category: William W. Lawrence, Shakespeare's Problem Comedies (New York, 1931), Eustace M. W. Tillyard, Shakespeare's Problem Plays (Toronto, 1951), Ernest Schanzer, The Problem Plays of Shakespeare (London, 1963), and William B. Toole, Shakespeare's Problem Plays (The Hague, 1966). The text used is Measure for Measure, ed., J. W. Lever (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1966), which has a thorough and valuable introduction. Ernst Leisi's Old-Spelling and Old-Meaning Edition (New York, 1964), and Rolf Soellner and Samuel Bertsche's Measure for Measure: Text, Source, and Criticism (Boston, 1966), have also been consulted. 2 See, e.g., Paul N. Siegel, "Measure for Measure: The Significance of the Title", Shakespeare Quarterly, IV (1953), 317-320, and Elizabeth Marie Pope, "The Renaissance Background of Measure for Measure", Shakespeare Survey, II (1949), 66-67.

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suspects that most of its meaning has indeed been measured by the interested scholars and critics. At first glance, it suggests the Hebrew injunction against excessive punishment: "An eye for an eye, & a tooth for a tooth" (Matthew 5:38).3 The revenge should not exceed the enormity of the original crime. Further, the title may also allude to Christ's comments on judgment: "IVdge not, that ye be not iudged. For with what iudgement ye iudge, ye shalbe iudged, and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you againe." 4 Read thus, "measure for measure" becomes a plea for merciful judgment and charity among men. Through exegesis, this reading suggests the doctrine of Original Sin, that all men by the very nature of their conception into the human condition are sinful. Man must consequently judge his fellow man with mercy, for all share the same original guilt. As Lear says, "None does offend, none, I say, none" (IV.vi.172). Proverbially, one may be reminded by the title of the command to "fight fire with fire". One deceit must be dealt with by another deceit, and so on. To change the idea slightly, one force must be opposed by an equal and opposite force. Measure must oppose measure. Although all of these aspects of the title have a relevance to the working out of the play's action, the present study will emphasize only two: the opposition of forces and their final resolution in the acceptance of Original Sin. The dramatic conflicts of the play are built around several opposing forces, mainly in the form of ideals or intellectual concepts. Mercy and justice, appearance and reality, chastity and sexual license, and the basic opposition of life and death, all are part of the general pattern of the play, and Shakespeare rings the changes on their various aspects. 5 However, 3

Cf. Exodus 21: 24; Leviticus 24: 20; Deuteronomie 19: 20. The text used here is The Bible (London, 1583), Geneva version (STC 2136). The Beza-Tomson New Testament (1586) gives a long note to Matthew 5: 38-39, citing the parallel passages listed above. 4 Matthew 7: 1-2, the Beza-Tomson New Testament (1586). In a marginal gloss to Matthew 7: 2, parallel passages are cited: Luke 6: 37-38; Romans 2: 1; Corinthians 4: 3; Mark 4: 24. The explanatory marginal gloss on Romans 2: 1 should be quoted because it provides an analogue to Angelo's actions: "He [i.e. Paul] conuinceth them which would seeme to be exempt out of the number of other men, because they reprehende other mens faultes, and sayeth, that they are least of all to be excused, for if they were well and narrowly searched (as God surely doeth) they themselues would be founde guiltie in those things which they reprehende, and punish in other; so that in condemning other, they pronounce sentence against themselues." 5 This proposition will not go unquestioned. See, e.g., Howard C. Cole, "The 'Christian' Context of Measure for Measure", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, LXIV (1965), 430, who sees the play as a satirically humorous examination of the duke's credentials.

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as L. C. Knights has indicated, 6 on the thematic level the basic conflict is between freedom and restraint; and certainly the other oppositions of the play may be subsumed under this one. Justice is a restraint imposed from without, by an external authority; it is a limitation on complete freedom of action. Its opposite, mercy, like grace, is a free gift; or, as Shakespeare says in another place, "The quality of mercy is not strain'd". Appearance may be seen as a restraint on truth, while reality is a freedom from falsehood. Chastity implies restraining one's sexual drives and their direction; it is sexual selectivity. On the other hand, complete freedom of sexuality quickly degenerates into mere sexual license. And, of course, life suggests freedom of movement, and death may be equated with final constraint, the end of all earthly freedom. As we can see from these simplified verbal equations, freedom cannot always have a plus value, nor can restraint always be regarded as a human evil. Restraint may be the result of human reason and inner virtue as well as something imposed arbitrarily from without; and freedom, with all its connotations of the ideal, may be a destructive force. It is this paradox embodied in the opposition of freedom and restraint that Shakespeare uses in Measure for Measure. The resolution of the conflict, toward which the play builds, is founded on both inner acceptance and social involvement. Realizing their place in the human community, the major characters reach a stasis in which freedom and restraint are equally balanced. In the play the locus classicus of the conflict between the forces of freedom and restraint is in the second scene. Lucio, catching sight of the officers carrying Claudio to jail, asks him: "Whence comes this restraint?" (I.ii.116). Claudio answers: 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. (117-120)

Claudio's point is that license, excessive liberty, leads inevitably to imprisonment, an excessive form of restraint, and further that this proposiβ

Lionel C. Knights, "The Ambiguity of Measure for Measure", Scrutiny, X (19411942), 222-233. His interpretation differs from the one offered here, and he concludes that the play has an inartistic ambiguity. He is answered by F. R. Leavis, 234-247. See also Holland, The Shakespearean Imagination, 219 (for idea), and Francis Fergusson, The Human Image in Dramatic Literature: Essays (Garden City, New York, 1957), 135 (for tone).

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tion is true in every case, that the amount of freedom is always balanced by the amount of restraint. Beneath this general proposition of moral law, however, lurks the question of whether the reverse is also true: does excessive restraint lead to excessive freedom? In any case, Claudio's present restraint is hardly attractive, for it is imposed harshly from without. It is restraint in its most overt form: captivity. The thematic problem of restraint is also present beneath the subtle texture of the first scene. The duke gives his final instructions to Angelo obliquely by assuming that Angelo already conforms to the tenets propounded: Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, N o t light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. (I.i.29-35)

By introducing the element of "heaven", the duke indicates a Biblical allusion in the lines, possibly to Luke 11:33 (or to similar passages in Mark 4:21, Matthew 5:15, and Luke 8:16): " N o man when he hath lighted a candle, putteth it in a priuie place, neither vnder a bushell: but on a candlesticke, that they which come in, may see the light." In explaining the significance of the Biblical passage, Alexander Cruden suggests that "candles" are symbolic of "the reasonable soul, which is as a light set up in man by God", or of "the gifts and graces which God bestows on men, which are not given them only for their own sakes, but for the good of others also".1 Cruden's commentary is applicable to the Shakespearean passage, where "torches" are substituted for "candles". But Duke Vincendo immediately turns from the imagery of light to that of banking. Nature becomes a "thrifty goddess" (38), who lends man her excellences only as a "creditor" demanding both "thanks and use" (39-40). Following the allusion to the parable of candles, the present passage suggests the similar parable of talents in Matthew 25:27: 7

Alexander Cruden, A Complete Concordance to the Old and New Testament (London, 1889), s.v. "candle". Cf. the Beza-Tomson marginal gloss on Luke 11: 33: "Our mindes are therefore lightned with the knowledge of God, that we should giue light vnto others, and therefore our chiefest labour ought to be to pray for that light." The gloss on Matthew 25: 1 uses the image of the torch: "We must desire strength at Gods hand, which may serue vs as a torche while we walke through this darkenes" (of the world?).

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"Thou oughtest therfore to haue put my money to the exchangers, and then at my comming should I haue receiued mine owne with vantage." The money should have been invested at a good rate of interest. It is important to note that the two parables deal rather strikingly with the problem of undue or unusual restraint: the hiding of a candle and the hoarding of money. Both practices are seen as bad, for the restraint renders the light and the money useless. The moral seems to be that gifts freely given by heaven should be freely used by man. Although the duke indicates that he is wasting his advice on the virtuous Angelo (40-41), the passage sounds as if it were an admonition to the deputy. Seen in this light, the duke's words raise a question in the playgoer's mind concerning the quality of Angelo's restraint. Speaking more candidly to Friar Thomas in the third scene, the duke confirms our suspicions: 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. (I.iii.50-53; cf. I.iv.57-58)

The duke's purpose is to see "what our seemers be" (54), to look behind the façade of respectable constraint. From the duke's point of view, Angelo's self-restraint is excessive and therefore questionable. Consequently, Angelo stands in partial contrast to Claudio: excessive restraint to excessive freedom. Of course, as we first meet them in the play, both are types of restraint: Claudio externally restrained, Angelo internally. Nevertheless, Claudio is restrained only because he has been excessively free. The varieties of restraint, however, have not yet been exhausted, and the playwright seems bent on presenting a wider spectrum. The duke himself is not free from a certain restraint, a certain reticence, which in some of its aspects leads to less than desirable results. In the first scene, the playgoer is given the first indication of this facet of the duke's character: I'll privily away. I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes: Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and Aves vehement; Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does affect it. (I.i.67-72)

From one point of view, the duke may be seen as contemning an unrestrained exhibitionism; but from another, he is indicating his own

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retiring nature. Of course, the duke is not under oath at this point, and we later learn that there is an unvoiced reason for his wanting to slip away "privily". Nevertheless, his conversation with Friar Thomas in scene three seems to confirm the truth of his earlier profession of reticence: My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever lov'd the life remov'd, And held in idle price to haunt assemblies, Where youth, and cost, witless bravery keeps. (I.iii.7-10) Unfortunately, the duke has not been able to involve himself in the common life of his people; instead, he has "ever loved the life removed". Although we are not given the full explanation for his restraint, we may surmise two things. First, the duke is "A shy fellow" (III.ii. 127), as Lucio says, one not socially oriented; and second, this lack of social involvement has led to his neglect of public duty. He confesses, using the ducal third person: We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds,8 Which for this fourteen years we have let slip. (I.iii.19-21) Through his own restraint, the duke has countenanced public license; and, for the moment at least, he seems to suggest that external restraints must be imposed to correct the situation. If we may generalize provisionally, it would appear that too much restraint in the ruling power leads invariably to too much liberty in the people: measure for measure. The duke's scene with Friar Thomas is balanced by Isabella's with the nun Francisca. If the duke has "ever loved the life removed", Isabel is prepared to espouse the same kind of life, but in the most strict of orders, "the votarists of Saint Clare", the female Franciscans. The scene opens with a discussion of liberty and restraint, Isabel asking, "And have you nuns no farther privileges?" (I.iv.l). To which Francisca asks in return: "Are not these large enough?" (2). Isabel assures her that indeed they are, and that she spoke "not as desiring more, / But rather wishing a more strict restraint / Upon the sisters stood" (3-5). It appears that Isabel is expressing an honest desire, and in her wish for external bondage, she is a central figure in the tension between liberty and restraint. As we have suggested at the beginning of this paragraph, Isabel resembles 8 Lever (I.iii.20) emends to "headstrong jades", following Theobald's "steeds". "Weeds" is inserted from the First Folio.

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the duke; but she also has affinities to the "precise" Angelo, who does not wish to confess that his blood flows, and further to her brother Claudio, who is under strict constraint from without. Isabel embodies certain aspects of each of the other three. Her desire for authoritative restraint, however, may indicate something about her character, and, subsequently, about all characters who wish for excessive restraint. Those who demand and seek the curbs of external force may simply be those who are most unsure of their ability to restrain themselves. Isabel's solicitude for greater restrictions may not be the words of a self-confident saint, one who has the makings of a Christian martyr, 9 but rather the words of a young girl who is yet untried in the sweat and dust of the arena, one who fears that she is not internally of the same mettle as the martyrs. She feels that she needs all the external support that the discipline of the Clares can give her. If we accept this interpretation, provisionally at least, of Isabel's words and actions, it follows that restraint need not be a sign of moral courage or of the dominance of reason. It may possibly be a sign of inner fear and uncertainty. The play begins, then, on this note of restraint: Claudio restrained by law; Angelo, by some inner motivation; the duke, by dislike of public applause and confrontation; Isabel, by overtly religious motives. And, we may note, each of these restraints leads to separation and to isolation. Claudio is separated from Juliet, and both are imprisoned; the duke has lost contact with his people; Isabel is cutting herself off from society in general; and finally and most completely Angelo is separated from common humanity. Lucio describes him as a man whose blood Is very snow-broth; one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense; But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge With profits of the mind, study and fast. (I.iv.57-61) Angelo is a kind of secular monk who has insulated himself from the natural urges of man. But the point, as we can see from the schematic picture we have drawn, is that each of the major characters exhibits a facet of restraint and that restraint leads to isolation. Apparently the movement of the play will be away from this initial isolation and toward some kind of freedom. 9

Raymond Wilson Chambers, Man's Unconquerable Mind: Studies of English Writers, from Bede to A. E. Housman and W. P. Ker (London, 1952), 277-310, contends that Isabel is saint-like. This influential essay was first delivered as a lecture to the British Academy.

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And yet, the type of freedom observable in the first act seems even less desirable than restraint. Sexual freedom has become license. It is most grossly pictured in the bawdy jesting of Lucio and his two gentlemen friends, and in Mistress Overdone and Pompey. The jokes and witticisms of Lucio and the young men about town are peculiar in that the element of healthy sexuality is completely absent. The emphasis is on disease. The First Gentleman suggests that Lucio is "pilled" with a pun on "peeled", that is, bald because of syphilis, and all "for a French velvet", a whore (I.ii.32-33). Lucio, in his turn, suggests that the First Gentleman has an oral infection (35-37). With a series of puns (e.g., dolours/dollars), the young men continue their diseased jesting. " H o w now", the First Gentleman asks Mistress Overdone, "which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?" (I.ii.54-55). 10 To be sure, young men tell bawdy jokes and jest with each other about sexual matters, but the content of their jesting is usually both lusty and healthy. After the young bloods withdraw, the sexual innuendo is kept going by Pompey with the assistance of Mistress Overdone, whose occupation and physical condition are indicated by her name. Pompey intricately puns on "done", "trout", "river", " m a i d " (the young of a fish), "seed", with sex as his dominant theme. Both he and his mistress are clearly professionals, and Mistress Overdone is concerned that Angelo's strictness will lead to her undoing: "What shall become of me?" (97). Pompey, however, tells her with a significant wink that, "though you change your place, you need not change your trade" (99-100). It is his professional opinion that the restraint of law will never extirpate the human capacity for sexual incontinence. At this point, Pompey and Overdone exeunt while Juliet and Claudio with their guards and Lucio enter. Discussing sexual liberty with Lucio, Claudio observes: Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil; and when we drink, we die. (120-122)

With a possible pun on "die" as sexual consummation, he seems to indicate by his simile that sexual freedom is our "proper bane", a poison most appropriately ours. The imagery of poison joins, as it does in Hamlet, quite easily with the imagery of disease. Nevertheless, in a shift of emotion, Claudio goes on to explain that Juliet "is fast my wife, / 10

I.e., as a result of syphilis. See the notes in Lever and in Leisi on this entire passage, and also Eric Partridge, Shakespeare's Bawdy, under the appropriate words.

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Save that we do the denunciation lack / Of outward order" (136-138). Their sexual relationship is, according to him, only by the slightest hair illegitimate. The function of this scene is threefold. First, using mainly lesser characters, it sets up a picture of freedom to contrast with the restraint of the major characters. Having set up this contrast, the scene further suggests that, just as in restraint, there are different types of freedom. There is the urbane licentiousness of the young gallants, which is immediately contrasted with the professional sexuality of the pimp and the whore, which in turn is juxtaposed to the comparative innocence of Claudio and Juliet. Though each group has abused its freedom of action, certainly Pompey and Mistress Overdone deserve much more than Claudio and Juliet to be stripped and whipt. That the comparatively innocent are the only ones to be punished perhaps indicates that the external restraining power, "the demi-god, Authority" (I.ii.112), can also be abusive. Neither restraint nor freedom is good in and of itself. Finally, the pervasive disease imagery, connected with the sexual flaw, is indicative of a universal taint. In part, man is always a creature of appetite, passion, and unreason; and, if we may use the Christian concept hinted at in the title of the play, man is plagued by the Original Sin of Adam. In effect, all men are guilty: in Adam's fall, we sinned all. And if in nothing else, mankind is bound together in common guilt. Shakespeare uses the sexual sin particularly because it is most in evidence. Many go through life without murdering or even stealing, but few manage to live without some touch of incontinence. It is toward the realization of this concept of universal guilt that the play progresses, and this realization carries with it certain lessons which the dramatis personae finally learn. The educator of the play is Duke Vincentio, who like most teachers learns a great deal from those he teaches; and the chief students are Isabel and Angelo, although Claudio too learns something about true freedom in life. 11 Our analysis of this educational process may begin with Angelo. The prenzie Angelo has cut himself off from the roots of society, as we have seen, by his inordinate restraint. When Escalus suggests that Angelo may also share the common flaw of men, he proclaims his superiority:

11

Warren D. Smith, "More Light on Measure for Measure", Modern Language Quarterly, XXIII (1962), 309-322, also emphasizes the dynamic quality of the principal characters, but goes on to contrast their dynamism with the static minor characters. His point seems well taken.

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'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall. ... When I that censure him do so offend, Let mine own judgement pattern out my death, And nothing come in partial. (II.i.17-18, 29-31) Although he recognizes the rule of "measure for measure" in the retaliatory sense, he denies the kinship of sin and hints, with obvious pride, that his own restraint will preserve his purity; he has no need for mercy or grace. Later, the duke informs Isabel that Angelo's restraint has not always been so admirable. After Mariana lost her dowry, Angelo "left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort: swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour: ... and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not" (III.i.225-230). Such restraint, such lack of human sympathy is hardly a virtue. It is Isabel who forces Angelo to the realization that he is like other men. As Isabel is brought to argue, 12 in all innocence, that mercy should be shown toward those who commit the "vice that most I do abhor" (II.ii.29), so Angelo is tempted and falls through "this virtuous maid": Never could the strumpet With all her double vigour, art and nature, Once stir my temper: but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Ever till now When men were fond, I smil'd, and wonder'd how. (183-187) His words echo those of Valentine, caught in the conventional Troilus situation, the mocker mocked; but the implications here are darker and deeper. Angelo has now come to understand the vulnerability of selfimposed sainthood and the susceptibility of all men to sin. By the time of his next meeting with Isabel (Il.iv), Angelo's restraint has vanished all together, and he has given himself to sensuality. Our earlier question, "does excessive restraint lead to excessive freedom?" seems to be answered, by his actions, in the affirmative. He ends the confrontation with Isabel by announcing, "And now I give my sensual race the rein: ¡ ... Redeem thy brother / By yielding up thy body to my will" (Il.iv. 159, 162-163). In a rather ironic, perverted manner, Angelo has joined the 12 Anthony Caputi, "Scenic Design in Measure for Measure", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, LX (1961), 423-434, in a very good discussion of scenic patterning in the play, underlines the pattern of informal debates (425). He feels that each of the debates is between a spokesman for civilization and a spokesman for the natural condition who has a strong sense of man's imperfections (426).

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community of man in its common sinfulness and shared sense of guilt. Nevertheless, though Angelo has the self-realization of his sinful nature, he decides to hide the reality beneath the mask of social respectability: O place, O form, How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood. Let's write good angel on the devil's horn — 'Tis not the devil's crest. (II.iv.12-17) The heraldic motto, "good angel", will serve to hide the reality of the "devil's crest", which Angelo is assuming. He becomes, in essence, a dramatic example of the parable of the whited sepulchre. As Angelo begins to feel the effects of Original Sin formerly unknown to him because he had remained untempted, Isabel is drawn in a parallel fashion from the seclusion of the convent to involvement in the human situation. The motivating factor is the public disclosure of her brother's sexual incontinence; her concern is to save him from execution. Initially she approaches Angelo with the disclaimer: There is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, (II.ii.29-31) admitting that she is "At war 'twixt will and will not" (33). It is a little more than apparent that Isabel feels herself above — or at least, isolated from — this common human failing. Her first plea for her brother's life is extremely brief: I have a brother is condemn'd to die; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. (Il.ii.34-36) When Angelo points out the illogic of condemning "the fault, and not the actor of it" (37), she immediately gives way. Only Lucio's pressure — "To him again, entreat him" (43) — causes her to renew her plea. Growing in intensity, her following plea is aimed more at human frailty, than, as one might expect it to be, at the virtue of the merciful judge: 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 judgement, should

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But judge you as you are? O, think on that, And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. (II.ii.73-79) Her reference to Original Sin in the first line is apparent; all men are sinful, and therefore, must rely on the mercy of God, granted through the mediation of Christ. She continues: 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. (137-142) Since we are all conceived in sin, judge not that you be not judged. Her arguments awake in Angelo a sense of sin, but unfortunately his mercy lies dormant. One of the functions of the scene, of course, is to bring Angelo to this awareness of guilt and of the common bond of human frailty. But by contrast the scene also reveals Isabel's lack of insight into her own situation; for her arguments concerning human faultiness may apply to her as well as to Angelo or Claudio. She too participates in the common weakness but in this scene, Angelo understands that much better than she. In the second conference with Angelo, however, she comes much closer to acknowledging her own weakness. From her initial statement, "There is a vice that most I do abhor", Isabel arrives at a different feeling. When Angelo tells her that fornication is equivalent to murder in the roll of sins, she replies: "'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth" (II.iv.50). She now seems to understand the import of her own maxims: that frail man cannot be justified by his own works, and that man, limited as he is, cannot make absolute distinctions. Later in the scene, she even seems to accept her own innate frailty: Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints. (127-129) Though Isabel has come a long way in self-realization, her education is not yet complete. Angelo's reaction to her arguments is antinomian: if man is weak and sinful, and God is merciful, then man can sin with impunity. Isabel's objection to his position is orthodoxly Christian: wilfully to sin is to deny divine mercy and to chance damnation. Still, Isabel is not completely self-assured, and she hurries to gain Claudio's

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support in her decision to sacrifice his life for her virginity and, according to her view, to save her soul. Although Claudio in principle agrees with her attitude, through fear he finally pleads: Sweet sister, let me live. What sin you do to save a brother's life, Nature dispenses with the deed so far That it becomes a virtue. (III.i.132-135) The lines are reminiscent of Isabel's own distinction between the realms of nature and grace, "'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth;" nevertheless, her reaction to her brother's plea is violent: "O, you beast! ... Die, perish!" (135, 143). She is herself unable to give her brother that mercy, that forgiveness of human weakness that she so strenuously begged from Angelo. 13 Her last words to Claudio here, "'Tis best that thou diest quickly" (150), underline her inability to understand his desire to live at all costs. Her insensitive reaction to his plea seems to reinforce the idea that her seeking the restraint of the convent was a sign of inner uncertainty. At this point in the play, her position is unenviable, since she has the security of neither the convent nor her own inner convictions; her unrestrained invective against her weak brother is hardly attractive. However, her involvement in the Mariana affair, at the direction of the disguised duke, enables Isabel to make a final adjustment. At last, she is freely able to participate in the necessities of human frailty; no longer does she feel so insecure that she must viciously attack any challenge to her preconceived moral or religious ideals. Variously seen as a fairy tale grafted on a realistic play or as an immoral story with its origins in folklore, 14 the Mariana affair is symbolically important. With the play's pattern of freedom and restraint, 13 Warren Smith, "More Light", 315, aptly comments that Isabel is willing to sell her brother's life for her chastity, while Claudio is just as willing to sell her chastity for his life. Both are extremely selfish; and the playgoer must find it very difficult, at this point, to judge between them. 14 Robert H. Wilson, "The Mariana Plot of Measure for Measure", Philological Quarterly, IX (1930), 341-350, suggests a revision, with the Mariana episode added in imitation of All's Well. R. W. Chambers, 279, compares the Joseph and Leah story (Genesis 29: 25). For the folk element, see, e.g., Stith Thompson, Motif-Index of Folk-Literature (Bloomington, 1955), IV, 450-451 (s.v. Impostures, K1900-K1999). The 'bed-trick' is discussed by G. K. Hunter, ed., All's Well That Ends Well (London, 1959), xliv-xlv, who notes that it was used throughout English Renaissance drama and that Shakespeare uses it with a difference. Although most recent critics judge the episode on esthetic rather than moral grounds, Hardin Craig, ed., The Complete Works of Shakespeare (Chicago, 1961), 834, finds the story "bad".

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the first three acts can hardly be classified as realistic in the modern, critical sense. And the bed-trick, as it is called, is the turning point in resolving the initial tension between freedom and restraint. That the Mariana affair is immoral, we may grant, but with the qualification that we change the adjective to 'sinful'. With the word 'sinful' in mind, the significance of the episode may be explored. Until this point in the play, the disguised duke has remained almost aloof, his only action being the spiritual care of Claudio. He has been the isolated duke of dark corners who disappeared at the beginning, and his decision to effect the bed-substitution is his breaking of this initial restraint. He has committed himself to action. That the action is, in a sense, 'sinful' is of the utmost importance, for it thus acknowledges the duke's community with his people, a community of human frailty. By planning the Mariana affair, the duke becomes in legal terminology an accessory before the fact; and he thus shares the guilt of his deputy, Angelo. By setting up the situation, by lying to Angelo, Isabel also becomes a partner in the sin. Although they remain physically pure, both the duke and Isabel symbolically share the sin of Angelo and Mariana in the elicit bed, as they recapitulate the act of Claudio and Juliet. But Angelo's vice is put to good use in two ways: to make him participate in the human condition he had despised and thought himself aloof from, and to bring about a marriage that should have taken place, marriage being the restraining bond which lies between the unnatural restraint of the former Angelo and the unrestrained sexuality so prominent in the city at large. In other words, the gateway to repentance and salvation seems to be the realization of temptation and sin. Self-knowledge is not gained in isolation. And thus in arranging the manner of Angelo's fall — o felix culpa — the duke is also arranging for his reintegration into communal life and all that that means. Of the three couples, all have taken part to some extent in the same act, and when all are equally guilty, who can assert his own righteousness? The question lies behind the duke's ironic speech to the Provost. Angelo's "life is parallel'd" Even with the stroke and line of his great justice. He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others: were he meal'd with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he's just. (IV.ii.77-83) The duke seems to expect that Angelo will not be tyrannous, that the

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lesson of his own weakness will teach him to deal mercifully with others. Unfortunately, it is the duke who must now learn a lesson. Though a man may privately acknowledge his own sinfulness, he may publicly act as if he were spotless; a man may be a hypocrite. The duke quickly realizes that Angelo's flaw must be made public, and further, that his own abstinence from publicity, his isolation from his people, has been a mistake. He now knows that the final resolution of his problem and the problems of the people involved must be open to view; the social and communal aspects of sin and repentance must be emphasized. All concerned must realize the common bond of humanity. The final scene with its public trial, where both Angelo and Isabel are tried, brings the lessons of the Mariana affair home to all the participants. By the open trial, of course, the duke implicitly acknowledges that his earlier attitude (I.i.68-72) is wrong; a monarch must 'stage' himself in the eyes of his people: the trial is as much a 'play', with the duke as director, as anything else. Through public shaming, Angelo is brought to his knees in repentance: I should be guiltier than my guiltiness To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your Grace, like power divine, Hath looked 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. (V.i.365-372) The phrase, "like power divine", does not need to suggest, as Mr. Coghill feels, that the duke is an allegorical figure representing God; 1 5 but it does indicate that the duke has acted like God in seeing into Angelo's sinful actions. By extension, the phrase also points to the idea that in the eyes of God all men are guilty, that no man may legitimately assert his own righteousness. Seeing his trespasses in the light of day, Angelo cannot bring himself to ask for mercy or grace. He seems to feel that measure must be met with measure, that he must die for his sin. This time encouraged by Mariana rather than Lucio, Isabel again begs for mercy from an apparently stern judge: Most bounteous sir: Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd 15 Nevill Coghill, "Comic Form in Measure for Measure", Shakespeare Survey, VIII (1955), 14-27, esp. 21. Coghill also notes a testing pattern in the play.

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As if my brother liv'd. I partly think A due sincerity govern'd his deeds Till he did look on me. Since it is so, Let him not die. (V.i.441-446) It is significant that here Isabel does not dissociate herself from the vice condemned and that she genuinely acknowledges her part in Angelo's licentiousness. Further, she begs mercy on the grounds of his intentions, not his actions; his strong points, not his weaknesses. Her inner certainty, gained in the course of the play, is now strong enough so that she is able to understand and to forgive human frailty. Therefore, she no longer requires the restraint of an external authority, such as a convent. She is able to accept the world as it is and to live in it. The tension between freedom and restraint, apparent at the beginning of the play, is resolved in the movement from restrained isolation to sense of community. Mercy, life, the realities of human weakness, are all emphasized. As a symbol of social involvement and commitment, marriage is the resolving state. Angelo and Mariana are wed; Claudio and Juliet are reunited; the duke commands Lucio to marry the wronged Kate, and he himself says to Isabel, "Give me your hand and say you will be mine" (V.i.490). In the freedom of married love, and in the restraints of marital chastity and continence, the characters realize an equipoise. Marriage is symbolic here, as it often is at the end of a Shakespearean play, and suggests perfectly the unity to which the play has grown. Nevertheless, in Measure for Measure, marriage is even more appropriate as a resolving state because of the linking throughout of freedom and restraint with sexuality. Within marriage, the characters of the play find the balanced state of life which they have, perhaps unconsciously, been seeking.

9 THE UNSTABLE WORLD O F ANTONY

AND

CLEOPATRA

Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch Of the rang'd empire fall! (I.i.33-34)

In Antony and Cleopatra the pattern of instability and insecurity is basic, and encompasses all elements of the play. 1 The action is based on this instability and on the struggle to attain some kind of permanence in a world which seems to deny its very existence. Most of the recurring images and themes are subsidiary to this overriding idea. Oscillation, time, fortune, war, dissolution, all unite in the tragic pattern of sublunary instability: tempus fugit; all this passes upon the moment. As does the entire action of the play, the grand pattern exists on two levels, the public and the private. It operates in the far-flung empire, forcing the Roman world into continual turmoil; no government is stable; no political agreement is lasting; no public official is secure. The very oath of eternal fidelity is balanced with the promise that the relationship must be destroyed. Nevertheless, the two levels are joined and interact, since the instability of the public, political world grows out of personal 1

This fact has been noted by various commentators. See, e.g., George Wilson Knight, The Imperial Theme: Further Interpretations of Shakespeare's Tragedies Including the Roman Plays (London, 1961), 236, and Sheila M. Smith, " 'This great Solemnity': A Study of the Presentation of Death in Antony and Cleopatra", English Studies, XLV (1964), 163. Lawrence Edward Bowling emphasizes the instability of character in "Duality in the Minor Characters in Antony and Cleopatra", College English, XVIII (1956-1957), 251-255, and "Antony's Internal Disunity", Studies in English Literature, IV (1964), 239-246. On various problems of background, see the series of articles by J. Leeds Barroll, "Antony and Pleasure", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, LVII (1958), 708-720, "Enobarbus' Description of Cleopatra", University of Texas, Studies in English, XXXVII (1958), 61-78, "Shakespeare and Roman History", Modern Language Review, LIII (1958), 327-343, and "The Chronology of Shakespeare's Jacobean Plays and the Dating of Antony and Cleopatra", Essays on Shakespeare, ed. Gordon Ross Smith (University Park, Pennsylvania, 1965), 115-162. The text used is Antony and Cleopatra, ed. M. R. Ridley (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1956).

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instability. The inner flux is mirrored in the outer world. Yet, at the same time, the insecure characters fated to populate this imperial world of constant change strive to achieve the goal of stability, to check the disintegration of their empires and their lives. The movement of the play is from initial flux to final stasis. Although the web of instability is tightly knit, the various threads must be traced through the pattern in order to appreciate the totality of the design. Perhaps the best place to begin is with the smallest elements of the pattern found in the verbal texture of the play. What we may call the imagery of instability runs throughout, tying the action together and emphasizing the overwhelming insecurity in which the characters dwell. The images of fortune, the sea, the moon, the images of disintegration, Assuring, falling, crumbling, and melting, all unite in the background design of instability and flux.2 In Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare uses the word "fortune" almost twice as often as he does in any other tragedy, supporting it with the related word "chance". 3 Fortune is proverbially unstable, spinning uncontrollably and incomprehensibly like a runaway wheel. As we saw in Macbeth, the ambitious man grasps the wheel, is elevated to the summit, and is then flung downward as the wheel wildly and erratically rotates. While Antony is curious whose "fortunes shall rise higher" (Il.iii. 15), Caesar's or his own, Pompey proclaims his inner impregnability to fortune's changes: 2

See Maurice Charney, Shakespeare's Roman Plays: The Function of Imagery in the Drama (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1961), 136; Kenneth Muir, "The Imagery of Antony and Cleopatra", Kwartalnik Neofilologiczny, VIII (1961), 249-264; and David Daiches, "Imagery and Meaning in Antony and Cleopatra", English Studies, XLIII (1962), 343-358. Katherine Vance MacMullan, "Death Imagery in Antony and Cleopatra", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIV (1963), 399-410, discusses the various uses of death imagery in the play. This imagery obviously yields a sense of physical insecurity. Cf. Alexander Barclay, trans., Stultifera Nauis ... The Ship of Fooles (London, 1570), STC 3546, Fol. 104r: "Death all thing draweth, fearefull is his presence, / It is last ende of euery thing mundayne, / Thus mans fortune of course is vncertayne." Nevertheless, there is an ambiguity, for death also yields a kind of permanence. 3 Muir, "The Imagery of Antony and Cleopatra", 259-261, finds 50 references to Fortune and believes that there is a certain irony in the frequency since Antony is largely responsible for his own fall. However, we may note that certain philosophers and theologians have felt determinism and responsibility to be compatible. Muir also points out that, in the end, Antony and Cleopatra free themselves from Fortune's wheel. See also Michael Lloyd, "Antony and the Game of Chance", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, LXI (1962), 548-554, who contrasts the Roman Fortune pictured by Plutarch with that pictured by Shakespeare. Plutarch's Fortune is constant; Shakespeare's resembles the sea in its fluctuation. Lloyd goes on to compare the contest between Antony and Caesar to a game of chance, e.g., cards, chess.

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I know not What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face, But in my bosom shall she never come, To make my heart her vassal. (II.vi.53-56) After his final break with Antony, Caesar knows that his "fortune lies / U p o n " his victory at the battle of Actium (III.viii.5-6), and Canidius sees that Antony's "fortune ... sinks" (III.x.25-26). But at the end of the play, Cleopatra realizes that Caesar is "but Fortune's knave" (V.ii.3), that he has committed himself wholly to an unstable materialism. Throughout, however, the characters tend to see their victories and their defeats as the quirks of Fortune. The peculiar use of the sea-imagery is remarked by Wolfgang Clemen: the sea constitutes an important element of the "scenery" of this tragedy. The sea lies between the two main scenes of action, Egypt and Rome; battles are fought on it, Antony and Caesar are continually crossing it. By allusions and references, the sea is therefore constantly present to the mind. 4 He also notes that sea imagery is used to express abstract ideas in the play and cites as example the metaphor of the "ebb'd m a n " (I.iv.43). Here and elsewhere, the sea is suggestive of instability, and the presence of water seems indicative of human impermanence. Related to the sea, of course, is the image of the constantly changing moon. The image is closely associated with Cleopatra, possibly in her role as Isis, since the cult was connected in various ways with the moon. 5 Referring to Cleopatra's change, Antony says: Alack, our terrene moon Is now eclips'd, and it portends alone The fall of Antony! (III.xiii.153-155) However, it is also significant that the turncoat Enobarbus addresses the moon in his final moments: Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon, When men revolted shall upon record Bear hateful memory: poor Enobarbus did Before thy face repent. (IV.ix.7-10) 4

Wolfgang Clemen, The Development of Shakespeare's Imagery (London, 1951), 159. On the connection of the Isis / Osiris cult with the moon (and the waters of the Nile), see Philemon Holland, trans., The Philosophie, commonlie called, The Morals by Plutarch (London, 1603), 1304, et passim (STC 20063). See also Michael Lloyd, "Cleopatra as Isis", Shakespeare Survey, XII (1959), 88-94, who does not seem to discuss the relationship of Isis to the moon. 5

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For the unstable man, surely the moon is the appropriate goddess. The images of disintegration which form the ground base of the play are almost too numerous to detail, though the task has been more than adequately performed by G. Wilson Knight. 6 Antony will let "Rome in Tiber melt" (I.i.33), while Cleopatra matches him with, "Melt Egypt into Nile!" (II.v.78). At Antony's death "The crown o' the earth doth melt" (IV.xv.63). Antony's friends at his defeat "do discandy, melt their sweets / On blossoming Caesar" (IV.xii.22-23). And Enobarbus, realizing the fault he has committed, feels that his heart "will break to powder" (IV.ix.17). Examples could be given more extensively, but even from these few, we may see the kind of thing Shakespeare is doing. The imagery of the play reinforces the patterns of constant change and insecurity in the play's action. 7 But, before turning to the larger patterns of instability, we may note in passing that the sense of insecurity is also a function of what Benjamin Spencer has called the "paradoxical metaphor" in the play. He notes that in Philo's first speech, Antony's heart is seen as "the bellows and the fan / To cool a gipsy's lust" (I.i.9-10), and points out that the playgoer might well have expected a verb like "inflame" rather than "cool". 8 For bellows are usually employed to make a fire hotter, not cooler. Spencer carefully shows that this kind of metaphor is used throughout, and he concludes that a feeling of paradox is fundamental to the play. 9 His observations add another dimension to our own, for the paradoxical metaphor causes a subliminal sense of uncertainty. What we expect is never what we get. When Cleopatra rushes from the battle of Actium "like a cow in June" (III.x.14), we expect Antony to follow her like a ramping bull, not "like a doting mallard" (20). The playgoer cannot but feel that even on the verbal level, the play is imbued with a sense of insecurity and instability. Traditional expectations are denied. 6

Knight, The Imperial Theme, 232-240. The same kind of melting and dissolving imagery is apparent in Richard II. There are other similarities between the plays. Both have important patterns of death which may be traced in inspiration to the medieval danse macabre. One of the central facts about both is that the social bonds are unstable and crumbling. A main concern in the two is the search for individual identity in a decaying social order, while the main actions are alike in that a pleasure-loving protagonist is overcome by a more reasonable political manipulator. Perhaps it is not unfair t o conclude that the methods and techniques explored in Richard II reach their culmination in Antony and Cleopatra. 7

8

Benjamin T. Spencer, "Antony and Cleopatra and the Paradoxical Metaphor", Shakespeare Quarterly, IX (1958), 373. 9 Benjamin Spencer, 376. Cf. the following images: I.iv. 10-15; II.ii.231-240; V.ii.87-88; V.ii.294-295.

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It seems best to begin our discussion of the play's action with the public realm, working inward toward the personal, even though such a distinction is arbitrary and difficult to sustain, so closely are the private and the public levels intertwined. 10 Following the lead of Plutarch's history of Antony, 1 1 Shakespeare pictures the empire as racked with the uncertainties of both internal and external war. The background wars are three: Fulvia's civil wars with Lucius and Caesar; Pompey's insurrection against the Triumvirate; and Ventidius's war against the Parthians. They form the backdrop for the central conflict of the play between Caesar and Antony. The war theme with all its connotations of political upheaval and human uncertainty is introduced in the first scene by Philo: those his [i.e., Antony's] goodly eyes, ... o'er the files and musters of the war Have glow'd like plated Mars ... ... his captain's heart, Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles of his breast, reneges all temper. (I.i.2-4, 6-8)

The idea of bursting and breaking is subordinate in Philo's opening speech, but it subtly suggests the political disintegration — the breaking of nations — attendant on war, an idea which gains prominence as the war theme proliferates. In I.ii, Antony learns that two parts of the empire are in military upheaval while he is at leisure in Alexandria. His wife Fulvia has fought against his brother Lucius, But soon that war had end, and the time's state Made friends of them, jointing their force 'gainst Caesar, Whose better issue in the war, from Italy, Upon the first encounter, drave them. (I.ii.88-91)

At the same time, Labienus "hath with his Parthian force" (97) conquered Asia from the Euphrates to Ionia. The efficacy of Roman political order has for the moment been successfully challenged in the East, and Italy is shaken. Caesar has with ease defended the empire against Fulvia and Lucius, but disaster has followed disorder: 10

Derek Traversi, Shakespeare: The Roman Plays (Stanford, 1963), 80, sees the complex interplay of the public and the private as a "glory of the play". 11 Terence J. B. Spencer, ed., Shakespeare's Plutarch (Baltimore, 1964), 174-295, is a convenient source of North's translation. See also Ridley's Appendix V (pp. 258-285) which prints extracts from North. Cynthia Kolb Whitney, "The War in Antony and Cleopatra", Literature and Psychology, XIII (1963), 63-66, emphasizes the self-conflict in the play rather than the actual wars.

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Sextus Pompeius Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands The empire of the sea. Our slippery people, Whose love is never link'd to the deserver Till his deserts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great, and all his dignities Upon his son. (I.ii.181-187) If Pompey's growth in power continues, the "sides o' the world" (190) may be endangered. Without Antony, Caesar and the weak Lepidus seem powerless to assert political order and maintain governmental stability. The Triumvirate must solidify internally before it can meet the threat of external disorder. Antony must return to Rome. From Rome, after the Triumvirate has been reunited, Antony sends Ventidius against the Parthians. The formerly victorious Parthians in the unaccountable fortunes of war are defeated, and Ventidius after his victory over them discourses instructively on the insecurity of his and every soldier's position. Even in winning, caution must be exercised: I have done enough. A lower place, note well, May make too great an act. For learn this, Silius; Better to leave undone, than by our deed Acquire too high a fame, when him we serve's away. and ambition, The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, Than gain which darkens him. I could do more to do Antonius good, But 'twould offend him. And in his offence Should my performance perish. (III.i.12-15, 22-27) The submerged image in Ventidius's speech seems to be that of Fortune's wheel, on which he would rather take a "lower place", than, rising " t o o high", be whirled down the other side. He has no desire to play the game of Macbeth and make a grab for imperial power. The middle course is most safe, and in this world of chance, one cannot be too careful. As Silius suggests, it is discretion that makes a soldier of more value than his sword. The union of the triumvirs easily forces Pompey to terms, but the bond which holds the Triumvirate together is weak, since it is based solely on fear. Disruption quickly follows, and the empire again bleeds with civil wounds. Seeing an opportunity to secure his position as the leading Roman, Caesar breaks the treaty, wages new "wars 'gainst Pompey", manipulating Lepidus as his pawn, and

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having made use of him in the wars ... presently denied him rivality, would not let him partake in the glory of the action, and not resting here, accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him; so the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine. (III.v.6-12) With Pompey and Lepidus liquidated, the imperial world is left with two centers of power, Rome and Alexandria: Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more, And throw between them all the food thou hast, They'll grind the one the other. (III.v.13-15) With political and social order gone, "appetite, an universal wolf, / So doubly seconded with will and power, / Must make perforce an universal prey, / And last eat up himself" (Troilus and Cressida, I.iii.121-124). The political arena has degenerated into the animal pit, and Antony is no more than an old lion dying. He is "hunted / Even to falling" (lV.i.7-8). With the kind old Lepidus gone, the two he had called "noble partners" become something far less. The war between Antony and Caesar, in which Cleopatra and her fleet play such a decisive and disastrous part, is the culmination of the war pattern. At Actium, Antony's decision to fight with Caesar by water, on the unstable element, is the beginning of the end. By electing to meet Caesar's fleet, he gives himself up "merely to chance and hazard, / From firm security" (III.vii.47-48) — the sea being a symbol of earthly change and mundane impermanence. In the land battle before Alexandria, Antony beats Caesar's soldiers back to their tents. But in the second sea battle, Antony's fortunes again fluctuate; the stability he has gained by land is again lost at sea. His military power is completely crushed, and for him, death appears to be the only way out. The general pattern of political instability, which is carried by the pattern of war, has its symbolic center in Il.vii, the banquet on board Pompey's galley. The powers of the imperial world, Antony, Caesar, Lepidus, and Pompey, meet at sea in a drunken orgy. The rocking of the galley and the lightness of the heads indicate a double instability. The first servant immediately underlines the scene's central idea: Some o' their plants are ill-rooted already, the least wind i' the world will blow them down. (Il.vii. 1-3) Ostensibly alluding to their drunken staggers, he also calls attention to the insecurity of their political positions. The playgoer who already knows the play or a modicum of classical history realizes that before the

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end of the action, three of the leaders will be overcome by the fourth. The drunkenness takes on symbolic overtones. The weakest politically, Lepidus is almost incapacitated by drinking. Antony warns him: "These quick-sands, Lepidus, / Keep off them, for you sink" (Il.vii.59-60). Nevertheless, Lepidus sinks, totally unable, and is carried off by a servant who "bears the third part of the world" (90). Only indifferently drunk, Antony and Pompey go off to continue their bout on shore (125-126). But Caesar feels that this kind of behavior is folly, and chides them: our graver business Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part, You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue Splits what it speaks: the wild disguise hath almost Antick'd us all. (119-124) Revealing his own penchant for solidity and sobriety, he contemns the self-imposed instability of drunkenness. The entire scene is filled with the figures of uncertainty, and a complete reading would take an essay in itself. Here we can only notice a few points. There is an allegorical war between Lepidus and "his discretion" (10) pointed out by the First Servant. Antony enters discussing the flooding of the Nile, the unstable level of the Egyptian river. 12 To the Tudors, flooding was often an emblem of civil insurrection. 13 Menas introduces the concept of Fortune into the scene (57, 82), and further wishes that the world "might go on wheels!" (92). Enobarbus replies, "Drink thou; increase the reels" (93), and has a servant boy sing a song to Bacchus, monarch of the vine, with the refrain: "Cup us till the world go round, / Cup us till the world go round!" (116-117). The triumvirs, however, hardly realize the full insecurity of their worldly position which is here

12 II.vii.17-22: "they take the flow o' the Nile / By certain scales i' the pyramid; they know, / By the height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth / Or foisson follow. The higher Nilus swells, / The more it promises: as it ebbs, the seedsman / Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain." 13 Cf., e.g., King John, V.iv.52-57:

We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd And calmly run on in obedience Even to our ocean, to our great King John. See also Tillyard, Shakespeare's History Plays, 221.

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symbolized. Only the irresolution of Pompey saves them from Menas's plan, the cutting of their throats. The connecting link between the imperial world of Rome and the private, inner world is the area of personal relationships. The Roman world of the play is still small, and the relationships which hold it together are intimate. The days of the impersonal diplomacy of the superstate are far in the future, and political ties are yet solidified by marriage. Family relations are politically important. Militarily, the general is no distant strategist, but closely bound to his men. Nevertheless, the playwright is at pains to show that the personal bonds which should hold the Roman state together are exceedingly weak. The central example of this insubstantiality of personal relations is possibly the marriage of Octavia to Antony, though other examples might with equal justice be adduced. In their first conference in the play, Caesar tells Antony that it cannot be We shall remain in friendship, our conditions So differing in their acts. Yet, if I knew What hoop should hold us staunch from edge to edge O' the world, I would pursue it. (II.ii.112-116) Caesar's doubt about the permanence of any relationship between him and Antony becomes a surety as their characters unfold. But for the present, Agrippa puts forward a plan to hold them "in perpetual amity" and "to knit" their hearts "With an unslipping knot" (125-127). Antony's marriage will supposedly solve the unsolvable problem of binding Antony to Caesar. The hope of any lasting tie, however, is questioned even as the reconciliation scene ends. Maecenas conjectures that Antony, promising himself to Octavia, must leave Cleopatra "utterly". From his knowledge of Antony and his Egyptian lover, Enobarbus answers: "Never; he will not: / Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale / Her infinite variety" (II.ii.234-236). Immediately following Enobarbus's prediction (Il.iii), Antony meets his bride-to-be for the first time, promising her his fidelity: "I have not kept my square, but that to come / Shall all be done by the rule" (II.iii.6-7). The submerged metaphor of building implied in "square" and "rule" suggests the image of a solidly made edifice, an uncrumbling structure. Ironically, the scene ends with Antony resolving to return to Cleopatra: I will to Egypt: And though I make this marriage for my peace, I' the east my pleasure lies. (37-39)

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Antony's initial promise to Octavia does not survive the scene's forty-one lines. The collapse of the marriage between Antony and Octavia is a symbol of the collapse of the triumvirate system and leads finally to the defeat of Antony at Alexandria. This instability of personal relations, which often amounts to little more than treachery, and which reminds one of the similar pattern in King John,1* may be seen throughout the play. In the first scene Antony is presented as a promise-breaker, unfaithful to his wife, Fulvia. Caesar imprisons his erstwhile friend, Lepidus, because he is too cruel; the meek, unwarlike, convivial Lepidus whom Shakespeare shows us could hardly be thus. To marry Octavia, Antony must desert Cleopatra; and Cleopatra, in her turn, deserts Antony in his greatest need at Actium. But then, she is always wavering in her affection. In this imperial world, one can hardly be too doubtful about one's friends. Menas and Enobarbus seem at once to strike up (or perhaps revive) a friendship (Il.vi), and together stand as twin symbols of the weakness of relationships. Neither seems to understand that personal ties can bear it out even to the edge of doom. Finding that Pompey's pride prohibits him from cutting the throats of the visiting triumvirs, Menas says: For this, I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more. Who seeks and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more. (II.vii.81-84) While Pompey is rising on Fortune's wheel, Menas will follow him; but to stay with him on the downward movement is folly. In the analogous situation before Alexandria, Enobarbus watches Antony prepare himself for his heroic end and comments: 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. (III.xiii.195-201) And Enobarbus follows Menas's example. To survive in an unstable world, one must learn to shift with the tide. Menas and Enobarbus are 14 See John Masefield, William Shakespeare, King John (London, 1965), lix-lx.

76-80, and E. A. J. Honigmann, ed.,

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types of the "slippery people" alluded to so caustically by Antony. Caesar calls them "This common body", which Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to, and back, lackeying the varying tide, To rot itself with motion. (I.iv.44-47) After Antony's defeat at Actium, Canidius easily and quickly changes sides: To Caesar will I render My legions and my horse, six kings already Show me the way of yielding. (III.x.33-35) And in the Alexandrian harbor, Cleopatra's fleet yields to Caesar's without fight. "They cast their caps up, and carouse together / Like friends long lost" (IV.xii.12-13). Alliances are lightly made, and lightly broken. Treachery and disloyalty are almost too common to be stigmatized. But the impermanence of personal relations on the various levels is merely a reflection of the turmoil within the protagonists. In a sense, the personal insecurity is the direct causation of the instability of the political world; and as the outer world disintegrates and fragments, the inner turmoil grows. Caught in this savage syndrome, the protagonists seem thwarted in any desire they may have for stability. As he nears the end of his wavering, Antony distinctly sees the nature of his character: 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. Thou hast seen these signs, They are black vesper's pageants. That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct As water is in water. ... now thy captain is Even such a body: here I am Antony, Yet cannot hold this visible shape. (IV.xiv.2-8, 9-11, 12-14)15 15 On this passage, John F. Danby, "The Shakespearean Dialectic: An Aspect of Antony & Cleopatra", Scrutiny, XVI (1949), 198, comments that Antony's self-recognition may be generalized to describe the whole play. He feels that there is a deliquescence in the play's reality. See also William Troy's "Antony and Cleopatra: The Poetic Vision", Antony and Cleopatra, ed. C. J. Sisson (New York, 1961), 25-27.

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Antony stands between two worlds, between Rome and Alexandria, between the ideals of passion and reason, between two ways of life; and he is unable to reconcile the two extremes, to achieve an entre-deux. He first enters proclaiming that to measure his love for Cleopatra he must find a "new heaven, new earth", that compared to Egypt and Cleopatra's love, "Kingdoms are clay" (I.i. 17,35). However, in the next scene, he insists, "These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, / Or lose myself in dotage" (I.ii.113-114). And we have seen that he repeats the same pattern of affirmation and denial with Octavia. The two women are symbols of the tension between passion and reason which tears him asunder. His instability continues throughout the play and is manifested in his flight from Actium, his whipping of Thidias, his alternating between hope and despair, and his affection for and rejection of Cleopatra. Antony is caught in the welter of the great sea which so dominates the play and which separates Rome from Egypt. This, much more than Hamlet, is the tragedy of a man who cannot make up his mind. Cleopatra is the fitting mate for this great but uncertain general. In a symbolic way, she is to Antony on the personal level as the Parthians are to him on the political. They are forces of disruption in the East. But if Cleopatra is a force of disorder, she is also unstable within herself. The queen we meet at the beginning of the play asks Antony to declare his love: "If it be love indeed, tell me how much" (I.i. 14). And hearing the ultimate hyperbole on his lips, she refuses to accept what she has asked for: "Excellent falsehood!" (40). Obviously, this woman will be little like the stolid Octavia. Of course, many of the external signs of instability are cultivated for Antony's sake: If you find him sad, Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report That I am sudden sick. (I.iii.3-5) Plagued by her jealousy for Fulvia, itself a sign of insecurity, Cleopatra aims to hold Antony with her "infinite variety", which seems to be little more than a perverse and protean ability to torment Antony by her unpredictable actions. However, this initial instability of coquetry seems to have a deeper significance. Her explosion over the message that Antony is married and her attempt to murder or maim the messenger suggests that inner control is actually lacking. To confirm the suggestion, we have only to recall her flight during the battle of Actium and her apparent willingness to negotiate with Thidias. Because of the striking ambiguity in most of her actions, Cleopatra appears perhaps more un-

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stable than even Antony. Again and again, the playgoer finds it impossible to ascertain what precisely her motives are, what she intends. The Seleucus episode is a case in point. If Seleucus is used to deceive Caesar, to make him think that Cleopatra is holding back wealth to use in Rome, the episode underlines Cleopatra's determination to die for Antony; she is covering up her projected suicide. If on the other hand Seleucus truly betrays his mistress by telling Caesar of her retaining wealth without his knowledge, Cleopatra must entertain the possibility, at least, of longer life. Of Cleopatra, one is never sure. 16 Like Antony, she is as "water is in water", constantly shifting, ever changing, never certain. In the triumvirate of main characters, Caesar represents the instability of calculation. He does not know the lack of inner control and firm commitment which causes the uncertainty of an Antony or a Cleopatra or even an Enobarbus. He forces the empire into turmoil only when he is sure that he can reassert his own control and thus advance his own political status. Aboard the galley of Pompey, Caesar fears the instability of drunkenness: it is not for him. If there is to be instability in his domain, he wishes to have it under his immediate control. Seeing his chance to gain Sicily, and to liquidate a rival power, he declares war on and conquers Pompey; then to lessen the distance between himself and ultimate authority, he imprisons Lepidus and risks the displeasure of Antony. Even the marriage of Antony and Octavia becomes suspect in the light of Plutarch's analysis that Caesar used the marriage "for that he might haue an honest culler [color] to make warre with Antonius if he did misuse her, and not esteeme of her as she ought to be". 1 7 After his realization that he and Antony cannot exist in the same world (II.ii.112114), Caesar's reasons for giving Octavia in marriage seem thoroughly dubious. His command to his followers after learning of Antony's suicide gives the true measure of the man: Go with me to my tent, where you shall see How hardly I was drawn into this war, How calm and gentle I proceeded still In all my writings. (V.i.73-76) If Antony may be identified with the constant flux of water, Caesar is surely to be equated with the coldness and stability of unmelting ice. 18

Brents Stirling, "Cleopatra's Scene with Seleucus: Plutarch, Daniel, and Shakespeare", Shakespeare Quarterly, XV, ii (1964), 299-311, emphasizes the complexity of Shakespeare's characterization. 17 Plutarch, The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romanes (London, 1579), STC 20066, (sig. 0000e r ) 995.

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And it is the cold-blooded Caesar who brings about the political stability with which the play ends. As Antony's army is slowly hemmed in, Caesar announces that "The time of universal peace is near" (IV.vi.5) and that once Antony is beaten, "the three-nook'd world / Shall bear the olive freely" (6-7). The promise is abundantly kept, for Antony's defeat is followed by Augustus Caesar's Pax Romanorum. The political conflict is resolved. Yet, Caesar's stability is only of secondary importance in the final scenes of the play, for the playgoer is more interested in the achievement of stability by Antony and Cleopatra. In final defeat, Cleopatra claims, "we have no friend / But resolution, and the briefest end" (IV.xv.90-91). Both she and her lover find the stasis which they have desired in suicide and death. "It is great", says Cleopatra, "To do that thing that ends all other deeds, / Which shackles accidents, and bolts up change" (V.ii.4-6). As the fatal basket approaches, she asserts: "now from head to foot / I am marble-constant: now the fleeting moon / No planet is of mine" (238-240). But death for Cleopatra is more than the oblivion which makes her senseless to change; it is spiritual marriage with Antony: "Husband, I come: / Now to that name, my courage prove my title!" (286-287). She suckles the asp at her breast like a baby, and goes to meet her curled Antony in a better world. The last element of impermanence is the "knot intrinsicate / Of life" (303-304) which must be untied before she can find the stability for which she so ardently seeks. If the marriage at the end of a Shakespearean comedy is an emblem of order, surely the spiritual marriage that completes Antony and Cleopatra is similar. The indissoluble union is finally achieved, and " N o grave upon the earth shall clip in it / A pair so famous."

10 THE

TEMPEST:

THE PERENNIAL

PROBLEM

Standing as it d o e s near the end o f Shakespeare's dramatic career, The Tempest

has b e e n the subject o f m u c h allegorical speculation. Perhaps

P r o s p e r o d o e s represent Shakespeare, a n d Prospero's farewell at the play's e n d m a y be Shakespeare's farewell t o the J a c o b e a n stage. A c cordingly, the other characters m a y be m a d e t o fit i n t o the s c h e m e in o n e w a y or another. Ariel, f o r example, m a y be the poetical spirit, while C a l i b a n is its direct o p p o s i t e . A l t h o u g h it has p r o v e n b o t h t e m p t i n g and c h a r m i n g t o read the play in this w a y , 1 a less allegorical a n d a m o r e m y t h i c interpretation has been m o s t p o p u l a r in recent years. T h e play, o f course, has p r o v e d a favorite o f N o r t h r o p F r y e ; 2 but even b e f o r e Frye, C o l i n Still in his Timeless

Theme argued that this play deals "with t h o s e

1

Anthony David Nuttall, Two Concepts of Allegory: A Study of Shakespeare's "The Tempest" and the Logic of Allegorical Expression (London, 1967), 1-14, surveys the growth of the allegorical interpretation of The Tempest in the nineteenth century. His last chapter (136-160) examines the play and some twentieth-century interpretations of it as metaphysical allegory. Nuttall believes Thomas Campbell, Remarks on the Life and Writings of William Shakespeare (1838), to have been the first to see Prospero as an allegorical figure representing Shakespeare. See also Campbell's Specimens of the British Poets (Philadelphia, 1854), 138: "Shakspeare himself is Prospero, or rather the superior genius who commands both Prospero and Ariel." Edward R. Russell, "The Religion of Shakespeare", Theological Review (London), XIII (1876), 483, writes: "Prospero ... is put, without profanity, almost in the place of Deity." James Russell Lowell, "Shakespeare Once More", Among My Books, First Series (Boston, 1893), 199, sees the play as an ideal allegory with Prospero as the Imagination, Ariel as Fancy, and Caliban as Brute Understanding. Edward Dowden, Shakspere: A Critical Study of His Mind and Art (New York, 1918), 376-380, suggests that the play may be seen in terms of Shakespeare's relation to his theater. For a later attempt to read personal allusion into the play, see Hugh Whitney Morrison, Shakespeare His Daughters & His Tempest (Arcadian Press, 1963). For a criticism of allegorical interpretation, see E. E. Stoll, "The Tempest", Publications of the Modern Language Association, XLVII (1932), 699-726. 2 Northrop Frye, ed., The Tempest (Baltimore, 1959), 26, sees in the play an emphasis on spiritual rebirth, suggesting rituals of initiation. A Natural Perspective: The Development of Shakespearean Comedy and Romance (New York, 1965), 150-159, also treats the play, with emphasis on the search for identity (151).

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permanent realities of spiritual experience" which were long ago embodied in the classical "myths and mysteries". 3 He divides the group from the ship arriving at Prospero's island into "three parties": Ferdinand; the king and his company; and Stephano and Trinculo. "The story of Stephano and Trinculo is a version of the myth of the Fall." 4 The king and his party, on the other hand, "make the passage through Purgatory which constitutes the Lesser Initiation", and Ferdinand "makes the ascent to the Celestial Paradise which constitutes the Greater Initiation". 5 In this scheme, the island itself must play several roles: Purgatory, Elysium, and Paradise. 6 Prospero "figures the Supreme Being"·, Caliban is "the Tempter who is Desire", while Ariel plays the same role as the Angel of God, or Hermes, or the Conscience. 7 Less obviously, Miranda is Persephone. 8 Through many pages of detailed interpretation, Still argues these identifications, and it is possibly unfair to set them forth so baldly here. On the surface, some of his points may appear illuminating, others ludicrous. In Still, the mythic interpretation approaches the allegorical in rigidity and elaboration, and it may be indicative of the modern temper that intelligent commentators and editors find his study useful. G. Wilson Knight and Derek Traversi, among others, are also in the tradition of mythic interpretation, and it is with them and their followers that we get closer to the play. 9 For them, the play becomes a myth of redemption, of the purgation of evil. Alonso and his group have committed a sin in the past, and they must be brought to self-realization and repentance. Prospero, who may be the active agent of divine Providence 1 0 or a Renaissance magus, 1 1 is their spiritual leader. The scheme is a less 3

Colin Still, The Timeless Theme: A Critical Theory Formulated and Applied (London, 1936), 134. Still's earlier treatment of this idea is Shakespeare's Mystery Play: A Study of "The Tempest" (London, 1921). The references below are to The Timeless Theme. 4 Still, 140. 5 Still, 140. 6 Still, 165. 7 Still, 217, 195, 222, 224. 8 Still, 230. 9 See George Wilson Knight, The Crown of Life: Essays in Interpretation of Shakespeare's Final Plays (London, 1952), 203-255, who cites Still (249), and Derek Traversi, "The Tempest", Scrutiny, XVI (1949), 127-157, and Shakespeare: The Last Phase (London, 1954), 193-272. See also Nuttall, 154, who distinguishes between their approaches. D. G. James's The Dream of Prospero (Oxford, 1967), appeared after the writing of this chapter. 10 Alfred Harbage, William Shakespeare, 465,464,480. 11 [John] Frank Kermode, ed., The Tempest (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1958), xlvii-Ii. This is an excellent edition, containing a brief review of Tempest criticism

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rigid adaptation of Still's interpretation. However, it must be admitted that this brief account can only hint at the direction of present critical thought; there are many exceptions. The present study will not be interested in either allegory or myth, and is generally indebted to the observations of Allan Gilbert, Lawrence Bowling, and Reuben Brower for its direction. In 1915, Gilbert noticed that in The Tempest there is a conspicuous "use of similar and yet contrasted situations and characters", and he went on to detail these similitudes. His essay thoroughly describes the patterns of action. 12 Instead of a glittering Platonic myth of human aspiration, Bowling saw the play as "one of Shakespeare's most significant commentaries upon the conduct of real human beings and practical government in a modern civilized state". 1 3 Thus one of the major problems with which the play deals is that of government. And finally Brower, while seeing the play as a myth of redemption, points out the essential image-themes upon which it is built: sea and storm, music and noise, strange and wondrous, sleep and dream, earth and air, freedom and slavery, sovereignty and usurpation, all of which are linked together by means of the recurring metaphor of "sea-change". The entire pattern is "a single metaphorical design expressive of metamorphosis, or magical transformation". 1 4 With these studies in the background, we will try to see The Tempest as patterned around ideas of governing, of the master-servant situation in its multiple aspects. 15 It is hoped that this view will help us to see the play, possibly Shakespeare's last, not as the culmination of a new myth-

(lxxxi-lxxxviii); it is used for citation and quotation throughout this chapter. On Prospero as magician, see also Curry, Shakespeare's Philosophical Patterns, 163-199, and C. J. Sisson, "The Magic of Prospero", Shakespeare Survey, XI (1958), 70-77. 12 Allan H. Gilbert, "The Tempest: Parallelism in Characters and Situations", Journal of English and Germanic Philology, XIV (1915) 63-74. 13 Lawrence E. Bowling, "The Theme of Natural Order in The Tempest", College English, XII (1950-1951), 203. Somewhat along the same line of thought is Dean Ebner's essay, "77ie Tempest: Rebellion and the Ideal State", Shakespeare Quarterly, XVI (1965), 161-173, which views the play as a refutation of Montaigne's idea of the noble savage (in "Of the Caniballes") and an affirmation of Christian virtue. See also Horst Oppel, "Die Gonzalo-Utopie in Shakespeares Sturm", Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte, XXVIII (1954), 194-220. 14 Reuben Brower, "The Heresy of Plot", English Institute Essays, 1951 (New York, 1952), 63, and slightly altered in The Fields of Light (New York, 1951), 97. 15 This view of the play is anticipated by John Ruskin, Muñera Pulveris (New York, 1872), 127: "Ariel and Caliban are respectively the spirits of faithful and imaginative labour, opposed to rebellious, hurtful, and slavish labour. Prospero ('for hope'), a true governor, is opposed to Sycorax, the mother of slavery, her name 'swine-raven', indicating at once brutality and deathfulness."

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making process which began and ended with the final romances, but as an integral part of the dramatist's total career in the poetic contrivance of dramatic pattern. In fact, such an analysis may help to remind us once again, that, in its essentials, Shakespeare's dramatic technique did not significantly change from Love's Labour's Lost to The Tempest. In form, the two plays resemble each other; the kind of patterning remains the same. That the relationship between master and servant will be a main concern of the play is suggested in the first scene. Amid the "tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning" of the stage directions, the Ship-Master and the Boatswain enter, the Master instructing the Boatswain to "speak to th' mariners ... yarely, or we run ourselves aground" (I.i.3-4). Without the proper management, the ship will undoubtedly be wrecked. In the Renaissance, the Ship of State, or at least the Ship of Society, was a common enough emblem or poetic device, 16 and we may legitimately feel that below the literal surface of action there is a comment on civil government — however submerged. The price of efficient, safe government is a constant vigilance; to be lax is to risk ruin. That the present incident does have some bearing on this theme is also suggested by the Boatswain's question to Gonzalo: "What cares these roarers for the name of King?" (I.i.16-17). 17 The elemental power of the storm will not be quieted by the façade of human authority: "if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the presence, we will not hand a rope more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long" (21-24). The Boatswain's ironic " i f " clause points to the folly of supposing that the name of the king is in any way sufficient in a struggle for life. The way to survive the disordered elements is through the use of actual human power — through work and sweat. It is a lesson which both Richard II and King Lear in various ways had to learn, and it is a lesson which Prospero has been taught before the opening of the play. For the present King Alonso is told to "keep below" in his cabin (11). He is of no use in the nautical crisis. 16

See, e.g., John Skelton, The Poetical Works of John Skelton, ed., Alexander Dyce (New York, 1965), I, 30-50, "The Bowge of Courte"; Alexander Barclay, trans., Stultifera Nauis ... The Ship of Fooles; and Puttenham, Art of English Poesy, as quoted by Graham Hough, A Preface to "The Faerie Queene" (London, 1962), 124. 17 W. T. Jewkes, " 'Excellent Dumb Discourse': The Limits of Language in The Tempest", Essays on Shakespeare, ed. Gordon Ross Smith (University Park, Pennsylvania, 1965), 196-210, points out that there is a pattern of verbal failure in the play. There is no magical power in a mere word. This pattern of failure is balanced by the success of such non-verbal communication as music and noise.

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' t h e tempest' : THE perennial problem

One of the functions of the play's second scene (I.ii) is to fill in the pre-play background. Miranda is now sixteen; the day of the second tempest is at hand; the first (I.ii. 149-150) had brought Prospero and Miranda to the island; the second brings those who had exiled Prospero and his daughter. With the arrival of their persecutors, it is time for Miranda to learn the history of their exile, a history of her father's political incompetence. "Thy father", he says, "was the Duke of Milan" (54). "The government I cast upon my brother", Antonio, And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle ... Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t'advance, and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang'd 'em, Or else new form'd 'em; having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i' th' state To what tune pleas'd his ear. (I.ii.75-77, 79-85) By "neglecting worldly ends" (89) of government, Prospero "Awak'd an evil nature" (93) in Antonio, who, "being thus lorded" (97), began to "believe / He was indeed the duke" (102-103). To remove the last impediment to his power, Antonio made a political deal with Alonso, King of Naples, who with the aid of the de facto Duke Antonio, "one midnight ... i' th' dead of darkness" sent his "ministers" to force Prospero into banishment (128, 130-131). On one level, of course, Antonio has played the role of Cain, but on another, so has Prospero. As Duke of Milan, Prospero, as much as Antonio, had denied his duties as his brother's keeper. Willing to be "Prospero the prime duke" (72), he was unwilling to assume the cares and burdens which such a position in consequence entails. Delegating his state functions to his brother, Prospero quite naturally awakened in Antonio the desire to hold the title for which he did so much of the labor. In the abstract, it seems difficult to charge Antonio with all the responsibility for the change in the official leaders of Milan. Of course, the playgoer should reserve his final judgment until he has a chance to see Antonio in action. 18 Prospero's history forces us to consider the duties of a ruler in society, 18

In some essentials, Prospero's story parallels Lear's. By political irresponsibility, both have left a vacuum which is filled by evil. See Eleanor N. Hutchens' interesting essay, "The Transfer of Power in King Lear and The Tempest", Review of English Literature, IV, ii (1963), 82-93.

'THE TEMPEST' : THE PERENNIAL PROBLEM

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if not in particular, at least in general. To maintain his power of ruling, the governor must have the ability and the desire to exercise authority. Should he delegate his power into inferior hands, he must carefully oversee the implementation of his wishes. If he allows his servants both to make decisions and to carry them out, he runs the risk of losing control of his government. These are old political maxims, as old as Sejanus and Tiberius, and they seem to have been as true in the Renaissance as they were in classical times. 19 A leader must be responsible, and, as Duke of Milan, Prospero had not been. For him, his "library / Was dukedom large enough" (109-110). But his exile constitutes a lesson learned, and the play opens upon a wiser Prospero who is able to exercise power. The tempest which apparently wrecks Alonso's ship is fully controlled by Prospero through his agent Ariel, and Ariel is completely under Prospero's supervision. At the least show of dissent on Ariel's part, Prospero reacts with a harshness which is perhaps unbecoming, until the playgoer realizes that it is a sign that the former duke is now in firm control of his servants. His severity is necessary. He tells Ariel: If thou more murmur'st, I will rend an oak, And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till Thou hast howl'd away twelve winters. (I.ii.294-296)

Certainly this is no longer the ruler who allows his ministers to govern in his stead. His treatment of Caliban makes the same point: If thou neglect'st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I'll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din. (370-373)

And if Caliban is to be trusted, Prospero's threats are not idle. In soliloquy, he says that "For every trifle" Prospero's spirits are set upon him: Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me, And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues D o hiss me into madness. (II.ii.8-14)

19

Cf. Ben Jonson's Sejanus (1605) in Ben Jonson, ed. C. H. Herford and Percy Simpson (Oxford, 1932), IV, 329-486.

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T h o u g h some critics may feel that Caliban's running into apes, hedgehogs, a n d snakes is due to his own lack of mother wit rather than to Prospero's punishment, it seems likely that the dramatist m e a n t us to take Caliban at his word. These are punishments for his misbehavior, and we must try to remember that Renaissance justice was, with all the contemporary emphasis on Christian mercy, much harsher t h a n our o w n . 2 0 Even Sir T h o m a s M o r e did not spare the whip in implementing his judicial duties. Prospero also is merely carrying out his normal duties as ruler of the island, and the modern playgoer may be t h a n k f u l that Shakespeare did not bother to show us the details. T h a t he did not, suggests that he wishes to emphasize Prospero's potential severity a n d his actual mercy. Perhaps a fitting comparison would be Hal as King Henry V banishing Falstaff but allowing him "competence of life ... / T h a t lack of means enforce you not to evil" (2 Henry IV, V.v.70-71). Nevertheless, Prospero's displays of power are real enough, and the characters who land on the island experience what it is to deal with a ruler who is in complete control of his government. T h e control is exemplified in m a n y ways, but several parallel instances may help to illustrate the point most cogently. W h e n Ferdinand enters alone, fearing that all the others have perished (I.ii), Prospero c o m m a n d s the young prince to attend him, saying: thou dost here usurp The name thou ow'st not; and has put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on't. (I.ii.456-459) Consequently Prospero says that he will manacle Ferdinand's neck a n d feet, but the youth replies that he will "resist such entertainment till / Mine enemy has more p o w ' r " (468-469), drawing his sword. Prospero immediately charms him, and his sword is useless. Later, when Alonso a n d his g r o u p draw their swords against Ariel and his ministers, their swords are likewise charmed: "If you could hurt, / Y o u r swords are now too massy for your strengths, / A n d will not be uplifted" (lII.iii.66-68). All normal means of armed resistance against this ruler and his servants seem inadequate. Prospero's use of music to control his subjects (that is, the people on his island) also creates parallel situations. Ferdinand is b r o u g h t to 20

See Kathleen Williams, Spenser's World of Glass: A Reading of "The Faerie Queene" (Berkeley, 1966), 161-166.

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Prospero and Miranda by following Ariel's song, " C o m e unto these yellow sands" (I.ii.377). Ferdinand is sure that the music he follows "waits upon / Some god o' th' island" (391-392). In the next scene (II.i), Ariel's solemn music puts Alonso and his friends asleep, while allowing Sebastian and Antonio to wake. As the two villains prepare to murder the king and Gonzalo, Ariel re-enters with music and song to save them. Later, when Stephano and Trinculo are convinced that they must murder Prospero, Ariel again enters with music. Stephano is ecstatic: "This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing" (Ill.ii. 142-143). Caliban replies, " W h e n Prospero is destroy'd" (144). While Prospero lives, the fiddler must be paid, though ironically the music will exist only as long as Prospero does. It is his music, one of his means of control, both a symbol and a tool. Prospero's factotum, Ariel, leads the three gentlemen of the subplot offstage, playing on tabor and pipe, and we are later told that he leaves "them / 1 ' th' filthy-mantled pool beyond [Prospero's] cell, / There dancing up to th' chins, that the foul lake / O'erstunk their feet" (IV.i.181-184). The cesspool, for so it is, forms the material symbol of "the ignorant fumes that mantle / Their clearer reason" (V.i.67-68) — words later used for the distracted mental states of Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio. Of course, the special use of music in The Tempest has become a commonplace since the explication of G. Wilson Knight, 2 1 and we need not dwell upon this aspect too long. However, from our point of view, the music is less a means of grace and redemption and more a sign of Prospero's power, a device used to reinstitute political order. Each of the three separate landing parties experiences the control of the island's music. The seventh and eighth scenes of the play (Ill.iii and IV.i) also reveal parallel manifestations of Prospero's ruling power. In the first of these scenes, Prospero oversees amid "solemn and strange music" the placing of a banquet before Alonso's group. Several "strange Shapes" bring in the banquet, dancing about the food "with gentle actions of salutations; and inviting the King, &c., to eat" (S.D., Ill.iii.17). However as the "three men of sin", Alonso, Sebastian, and Antonio, prepare to "stand t o " and eat, Ariel enters amid "Thunder and lightning ... like a Harpy; daps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes'''' (S.D., 52). Ariel reminds them that they are being punished because "you three / F r o m Milan did supplant good Prospero" (69-70). Ariel then 21 See George Wilson Knight, The Shakespearian Tempest (London, 1953), 247-266, and The Crown of Life, 204. See also Kermode's edition, 156-160.

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"vanishes in thunder", and "to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the table" (S.D., 82). Alonso, his brother, and Antonio run from the stage, while Gonzalo observes, "All three of them are desperate" (104). The bounty of the island seen in the banquet is denied to them because of their sin, and consequently "their great guilt, / Like poison given to work a great time after" (104-105) causes them to run mad. The next scene, scene eight, begins with Prospero's addressing Ferdinand and assuring him: "all thy vexations / Were but my trials of thy love, and thou / Hast strangely stood the test" (IV.i.5-7). And therefore Ferdinand, who is now betrothed to Miranda, is shown a different pageant from his father, and the vision is not withdrawn from him because of his "great guilt" as was the banquet from Alonso. Unlike his father, Ferdinand has proved himself impervious to temptation. Accompanied by " s o f t music", Iris enters and to her come Ceres and Juno. Iris tells Ceres that Venus Vulgaris and her son Cupid have been excluded from the celebration; that is, the sexual passions are not present. The main theme of the ensuing spirit masque is natural bounty: "marriageblessing" (106), "Earth's increase, foison plenty" (110), and it is concluded by a symbolic dance: Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof PROSPERO starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish. (S.D., IV.i. 138) Again, the vision is recalled because of evil. Beyond rewarding Ferdinand for his good behavior, Prospero has other, more urgent matters of government upon which to attend. Three men of sin, Stephano, Trinculo, and Caliban, are almost upon him to take away his island kingdom. Lawrence Bowling suggests that "the masque serves as a parallel to, or a re-enactment of, Prospero's original error, when he had become interested in secret studies of the spirit world". 2 2 However, the parallel is a contrasting one, for Prospero has learned the lesson of rule. He has learned that "secret studies" are not in themselves valuable, that they must be used as a method of governing, and thus when Stephano and his little band enter, Prospero is ready with "divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds" (S.D., IV.i.254). He exhibits once more the providence of the good ruler. 23 22

Bowling, "The Theme of Natural Order", 207. On one level, Prospero represents order which subdues disorder. See Rose Abdelnour Zimbardo, "Form and Disorder in The Tempest", Shakespeare Quarterly, XIV (1963), 49-56. 23

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Thus far in our discussion of Prospero as ruler, we have seen in passing certain problems of government as they pertain to him, but we have not stopped to examine how the problems fall into patterns. The patterning is complex; the interrelations are many, and it must be understood that our discussion here is a simplification, which will allow the reader to return to the play, it is hoped, with greater insight. First, there is a parallel between Prospero and Caliban's mother, Sycorax. Both have been banished from their homelands and exiled on this island; and for both, the question arises why they were not executed rather than banished. Of himself, Prospero claims, "they durst not, / So dear the love my people bore me" (I.ii.140-141), and of Sycorax, "for one thing she did / They would not take her life" (266-267). Even in this minor detail, the contrast as well as the parallel is established: Prospero is saved by the general love of his people; Sycorax, by her one mysterious deed. On coming to the island, both have Ariel as a serving spirit. Prospero reminds Ariel: Thou, my slave, As thou report'st thyself, was then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr'd commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison'd thou didst painfully remain A dozen years. (I.ii.270-279) The distinction is made between the good rule of Prospero and the evil rule of Sycorax. Though Ariel may desire his ultimate freedom and repine at Prospero's commands, he shows no sign of open rebellion against his present master. The control used by Prospero is legitimate, while the control used by Sycorax was not. Probably underlying the immediate contrast is the distinction between white and black magic — the natural use of the spirit world and the infernal league with the devil. Against the island kingdom under both Prospero and Sycorax must be set the ideal commonwealth outlined by "King" Gonzalo. In his mythical kingdom, Gonzalo would "Execute all things" (II.i.144) in a new way. There will be no rulers over the people, no trade, no letters. Land will be held in common, and there will be no money economy, and thus neither wealth nor poverty. Servants will be unknown: No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation; all men idle, all;

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And women too, but innocent and pure: No sovereignty; — All things in common Nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but Nature should bring forth, Of it [sic] own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people. I would with such perfection govern, sir, T'excel the Golden Age. (Il.i. 149-152, 155-160, 163-164) The scheme may come straight from Montaigne's essay on the cannibals, which had been translated by John Florio, but Gonzalo's last words suggest that his ideal government (communistic in nature, it may be noted) has affinities also to the Classical and Renaissance legends of the Golden Age; his sources are many and varied. 24 The important point, however, is to notice the function of this description as it contrasts with the government of both Prospero and Sycorax. Although Gonzalo will be king of his ideal state, he insists that there will be no "service" and no "sovereignty". Rather idealistically, he will rely, in governing, on man's innate goodness. Prospero and Sycorax, on the other hand, rely heavily on the prerogatives of rule, on enforced obedience and the "use of service". Their schemes seem founded on the idea of man's basic recalcitrance to command and rule. The antagonisms thus set up are not easily resolved, and the critical reactions to Gonzalo's ideal picture of human government have been various. Frank Kermode notices that "it has been argued ... that Shakespeare intends a satirical comment upon Montaigne's apparent acceptance of the primitivistic view that a natural society ... would be a happy one". Nevertheless Kermode himself feels that Shakespeare's use is more complex, and that the play "is concerned with the general contrast between natural and artificial societies and men". 2 5 Of course, the playgoer is still presented with alternatives, and he must judge how he is going to 24 For Florio's translation (1603), see Kermode's edition, 145-147. The "golden age" tradition had merged with the tradition of the Renaissance pastoral. For background both Renaissance and Classical, see Hallett Smith, Elizabethan Poetry (Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1952), 13-15, and Arthur O. Lovejoy and George Boas, Primitivism and Related Ideas in Antiquity (New York, 1965). 25 Kermode's edition, xxxiv-xxxv. Kermode cites Arthur Lovejoy, Essays in the History of Ideas (Baltimore, 1948), 238, and Margaret T. Hodgen, "Montaigne and Shakespeare Again", Huntington Library Quarterly, XVI (1952-1953), 23-42.

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relate them to the play's pattern of government. Gonzalo's kingdom may be, on the one hand, an ideal against which we are to measure the inadequacies of ordinary rule, or, on the other, a dreamer's vision which forces us to consider the dire necessity for a strong, alert ruler. Should we accept the second alternative, we align ourselves with Sebastian and Antonio who see this ideal as self-contradictory, conducive to the breeding of "whores and knaves" (II.i. 162). It is rather unsavory company, but perhaps these two villains realize within themselves the need for a strong ruling hand to keep them from falling into evil ways, and perhaps their very presence is an implied criticism of a system of government based on natural goodness. Yet, the first alternative still seems attractive, and it may well be that Gonzalo's portrait serves both functions in the play: to provide an ideal, and to emphasize political realities. Against this ideal, we may briefly glance at the short and unhappy reign of King Stephano, who actually tries to set up a kingdom on the island. If Prospero has Ariel to command, Stephano has his "servantmonster" Caliban. The contrast is openly indicative of the difference in their governments. Having received a drink of the "celestial liquor" which Stephano has saved from the supposed shipwreck, Caliban kneels and says, "I'll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true subject; for the liquor is not earthly" (II.ii. 126-127); "I'll kiss thy foot; I'll swear myself thy subject" (152). Even Trinculo the clown sees the precariousness of the new government: "They say there's but five upon this isle: we are three of them; if th' other two be brain'd like us, the state totters" (III.ii.4-6). However, at the same time, Stephano tries to enforce his rule and threatens Trinculo with hanging for his abuse of Caliban. "The poor monster's my subject", says Stephano, "and he shall not suffer indignity" (34-35). Misled by Ariel's voice, Stephano gives Trinculo a sound and unfair drubbing. Later, he is diverted from his purpose of taking control of the island by his desire to steal Prospero's clothes. The clothes are merely the empty shell of authority, but Stephano is deluded. He becomes a mock-serious emblem of the name — "King Stephano" — without the requisite power. 26 In the end, we may feel that Stephano's kingdom is the exact opposite of Gonzalo's ideal. In our discussion, we have noticed what may be called a natural resistance to rule and government, and this resistance is one of the main patterns of the play. It is manifested in two ways: in the demands of 26 Stephen was a proverbially weak English king. Cf. Othello, II.iii.92-99, a song which indicates Stephen's relationship to clothes.

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several characters for freedom and liberty, and in the several usurpations, plotted and accomplished. To gain freedom from another's power, one must at times assume the duties of ruler oneself. The usurpations begin before the play opens; Antonio's supplanting of Prospero forces him into banishment with Miranda; and, in turn, their exile on the island leads to the supplanting of Caliban. In the first scene, after Prospero has finished his account of Antonio's usurpation of the dukedom of Milan, Caliban enters to tell his story: This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak'st from me. When thou cam'st first, Thou strok'st me, and made much of me ... ... I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own King: and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o' th' island. (I.ii.333-335, 343-346) On the surface, it appears that Prospero, who deplores the usurpation of his brother, is quite capable of taking Caliban's island without qualm. Later to Stephano, Caliban makes the claim again: "I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island" (III.ii.40-42). After his first assertion, Caliban is called a liar by Prospero; after the second, he is called a liar by Ariel. Nevertheless, no one ever deigns to answer Caliban's charges directly or fully, and the closest reply that the playgoer receives is: I have us'd thee, Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodg'd thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child. (I.ii.347-350) Caliban does not deny the charge, and Miranda follows with the declaration that Caliban has not been susceptible to teaching, to nurture. It appears that Prospero and his daughter are setting up certain criteria for usurpation, which is only bad in some cases. In others, where the rulers are evil or incompetent, supplanting them is quite legitimate. There is an ambiguity involved, and we may wonder if this is an early statement of the 'white man's burden', or a subtle piece of irony, since Prospero was, by his own acknowledgement, an incompetent ruler. Of course, in the light of Prospero's later statement about Caliban — "this thing of darkness I / Acknowledge mine" (V.i.275-276) — we may feel that the usurpation should be interpreted symbolically as Prospero's conquest of his baser nature, embodied dramatically in Caliban. Nonetheless, an

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unresolved tension is set up between the two pre-play usurpations. Antonio, who filled the power vacuum created by Prospero's withdrawal into the ducal library, now urges Sebastian to murder his brother, Alonso, and thus become King of Naples. To Sebastian, he says: look how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before: my brother's servants Were then my fellows; now they are my men. (Il.i.267-269) He commends his example to Sebastian. After a question about conscience, which Antonio dismisses, Sebastian replies: Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent; as thou got'st Milan, I'll come by Naples. (285-287) The dialogue allows us to see the true nature of Antonio as well as indicating that usurpation breeds usurpation. On the level of the subplot, as we have just finished noticing, Stephano intends to supplant Prospero because Caliban has told him that Prospero is himself a usurper. King Stephano promises to right the wrong, telling Trinculo, "we will inherit here" (Il.ii. 175). Caliban sings his song, "Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!" (178), and exults in his freedom: "Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom, high-day, freedom!" (186187). Here Caliban and Antonio are comparable, for they both expect to be rid of their direct superiors by successful assassinations. Unfortunately for them, the attempts are foiled by Ariel acting as Prospero's agent. But Ariel also values his freedom, and to Prospero's question, "What is't thou canst demand?", shortly after his first entrance, Ariel replies, "My liberty" (I.ii.245). Throughout the play, Ariel is worried about the time of his release, when he shall be free; and as the play ends, he receives his final command and his release: "then to the elements / Be free" (V.i.317-318). In Ariel's relationship with Prospero, then, there is a constant tension between the commands of the master and the longings of the servant for liberty. Perhaps only Ferdinand in the play serves with complete happiness and obedience, for, as he explains: This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what's dead, And makes my labours pleasures. (III.i.4-7) Possibly, the truest freedom is the service of love, and the happiest rule,

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the government of a loving mistress. As in Measure for Measure, the relationship of love may be the only one which justly combines the requisite freedom and restraint. In the present view of the play, The Tempest relies for its central thrust much more heavily on the problems of human government and society than on the progress of the soul toward ultimate redemption and eternal bliss. Alonso's change of heart occupies only a small portion of the fable, while the pattern of government is of major importance. The central tension of the play is between the ruler and the ruled, between the bondage imposed by government and the freedom desired by the subjects. Restated in these terms, it may be seen as Shakespeare's perennial concern: man forever bound, forever desiring his freedom, and yet finding true happiness and fulfilment only in acknowledging the bondage which links him to other men.

TO CONCLUDE

This study set out to investigate the proposition that Shakespeare was, from the beginning of his career, a master of the well-built play. In other areas, which mainly have to do with verisimilitude, the illusion of reality, Shakespeare may have changed. His characters, for example, may seem more natural in Lear than they do in Titus Andronicus — although the world of Lear is hardly the everyday world with which we are familiar. In some way difficult to analyze and define, Shakespeare seems to have matured, and it would be almost impossible for a twentieth-century critic to argue that the Rome of Titus and the Rome of Antony and Caesar are the same. Nevertheless, we must preserve a certain degree of scepticism about the literary connoisseurship which allows us to see the plays, from first to last, as a series of data illustrating Shakespeare's artistic progress. To an age with a different set of assumptions about literary perfection and with fewer facts about the dating of the plays, some conclusions strange to the modern mind were quite possible. In 1792, James Hurdis published a volume of Cursory Remarks on the dating of Shakespeare's plays in which he concluded that there was a discernible progress from the irregularities of The Winter's Tale to the regularities of The Comedy of Errors. Although we may smile at this absurdity, it is possible to imagine a scholar two centuries in the future indulging in a witticism about our own assumptions concerning Shakespeare's development. Nevertheless, it has been argued here, with a due humility, that patterning is a constant factor in Shakespeare's art. We have traced Shakespeare's use of patterns from the pleas of Titus Andronicus, through the circularity of Macbeth, to the usurpations of The Tempest. Using a variety of approaches, we have examined the variety of Shakespeare's patterning. Though several recurrent ideas have emerged in the course of the study, each play has exhibited an individual complex of patterns, and in each, Shakespeare reveals his facility in dramatic architectonics.

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TO CONCLUDE

The recurrent ideas which have emerged are concerned with man and his relationship to his society and his world. Although it may be critically unacceptable to say that the playwright was himself preoccupied with these ideas, one may contend that they are abundantly evident in the plays. The fallibility of human nature and the imperfections of earthly existence are repeatedly suggested. The outcome of man's faultiness in a world of extreme flux may be either comic or tragic, but in Shakespearean drama the leading characters come to realize and in some cases to accept the limitations of humanity. This education in human limits leads, though not invariably, to the realization of the bond of humanity. We have found this bond to be a large element in Shakespeare's dramatic world, for here a man comes to self-knowledge only in relation to the society in which he lives. The denial of the bond leads to tragedy; the assertion of the bond leads to comedy. Of course, this dichotomy is too simple; and a comedy like Merchant of Venice may contain a Shylock who denies any social bond, while a tragedy like Macbeth may end with its dramatic affirmation. Perhaps we may conclude quite simply that Shakespearean drama is concerned with the perennial problems of social man dwelling in a sublunary world where all things change.

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INDEX

Aaron, 31-41 passim Abel, 74 Actium, 153, 159, 161 Adam, 103-15 passim Aeneas Sylvius, 45η Agrippa, 158 Alarbus, 27-41 passim Alexander, Peter, 23, 88 Alexandria, 154, 156, 159, 161 Aliena, 106 Allegory, in The Tempest, 165-6 see also Mythology Alonso, King, 165-78 passim Amiens, 108-15 passim Angelo, 135n Antonio, in The Merchant, 87-100 passim Antonio, in The Tempest, 168-78 passim Antonio, in The Two Gentlemen, 46-54 passim Antony, 19, 68, 150-63 passim Antony and Cleopatra, Chapter 9 ambiguity in, 134 and Titus Andronicus, 15 instability in, 14, 150-3, 157-8 personal relations in, 159-62 polarity in, 18 stability in, 162-3 Apollo, 66 Apparitions, in Macbeth, 122-3 Appearance and reality, in Measure for Measure, 135, 136 Arcadia, 21, 49 Arden, Forest of, 101, 102, 104, 106 Ariadne, 45, 54 Ariel, 164-78 passim Arithmetical difficulties, 62 Armado, 56-67 passim Arragon, Prince of, 91-100 passim Arrested motions, in Richard II, 69n Art versus reality, 21 As you like it, Chapter 6 education in, 113-4

family pattern, 102-4, 108-9 Fortune in, 108-9 interpretations, 101-2 journeys in, 50 pairs of lovers, 104 patterns of scenes, 104-7 polarity in, 17, 107 structure, 101 suddenness in, 108-9 Auden, W. Η., 49n Audrey, 101-15 passim Aumerle, Duke of, 71-86 passim Authority, see Government; Restraint Babcock, Weston, 61 η Bagot, 74-86 passim Balthazar, 99 Banking imagery, in Measure for Measure, 137 Banks's horse, 62 Banquets, in Antony and Cleopatra, 156-7 in Macbeth, 124-8 in The Merchant, 93-4 Banquo, 117-33 passim Banquo's ghost, 127, 128 Barclay, Alexander, 151n, 167n Barroll, J. Leeds, 150n Bassanio, 87-100 passim Bassianus, 25-41 passim Belmont, 89-100 passim Bennett, Josephine Waters, 134n Bennett, Paul Ε., 24n Berowne, 55-67 passim Bertsche, Samuel, 134n Beza, Theodore, 125n, 137n Bible myths, in Richard II, 74-5 Biblical allusion, in As you like it, 102 in The merchant, 88 Biron, see Berowne Blood, in Macbeth, 123, 129-30 Boas, George, 174n Boatswain, 167

192

INDEX

Bohemia, 18 Boke named the Governour, 92 Bolingbroke, Henry, duke of Herford, 19, 69-86 passim Bolton, Joseph S. G., 23n Bonazza, Blaze, 49n, 53n Bondage, in Macbeth, 124-6 in The Merchant, 90-5, 100 see also Freedom Bowling, Lawrence Edward, 150n, 166, 172 Boyet, 56-67 passim Bradbrook, Muriel C., 24n, 45n, 55n, 61n, 91n Bronson, Bertrand, quoted, 66 Brooks, Cleanth, 132n Brooks, Harold F., 48n Brower, Reuben Α., 13n, 166 Brown, John Russell, 89n, 96n Bryant, J. Α., jr., 74n Bullough, Geoffrey, 89n Burckhardt, Sigurd, 91n Bürge, Barbara, 77n Bushy, 74-86 passim Caesar, 18, 19, 152-63 passim Cain, allusion in Richard II, 74 allusion in The Tempest, 168 Caithness, 132 Calderwood, James L., 61 η Caliban, 164-78 passim Campbell, Thomas, 164n Canidius, 160 Cannibalism, in The Merchant, 93-4 in Titus Androrticus, 36, 39, 40-1 Caputi, Anthony, 143n Carlisle, Bishop of, 71-86 passim Caskets, 89-91, 92n, 95-6 Cathness, 132 Cawdor, 118 Celia, 102-15 passim Ceremony, in Macbeth, 124 in Richard II, 69 Ceres, 172 Chambers, Sir E. K., 23n-24n, 41, 95 Chambers, R. W., 140n, 146n Chance, see Fortune Change, see Fortune Chapman, Raymond, 108n Charles, the Wrestler, 102-15 passim Charney, Maurice, 151n Chastity, in Love's Labour's Lost, 55, 57 in Measure for Measure, 135, 136

Chaucer, Geoffrey, 66n, 118n Chiron, 25-41 passim Choice, in The Merchant, 90, 95-8 Christ, allusion to, 75 Cicero, 92, 116n, 124n quoted, 94, 125 Circularity, in Macbeth, 117-9, 132-3 Cirencester, 72 Clares, Order of, 139-40 Classical myths, see Mythology Claudio, 136-49 passim Clemen, Wolfgang, quoted 152 Cleopatra, 18, 19, 152-63 passim Clown, 38 Coghill, Nevill, 88, 148 Cole, Howard C., 135n Coleridge, S. T., 21 Comedy of Errors, The, 179 Confusion, in Love's labour's lost, 61-3 Contemporary criticism, 15 Cordelia, 124 Corin, 109-15, passim Corinthians, Epistle to the, 135n Corruption, see Disease Costard, 56-67 passim Couch, Sir A. Quiller, 48n, 87n Country, see Forest Court, in As you like it, 17, 105, 107-8 in Love's labour's lost, 16, 55-6 in Midsummer night's dream, 16-17 Courts, see Justice; Trials Craig, Hardin, 120n, 146n Criticism, validity in intellect in, 19-20 Criticism of Shakespeare's plays, contemporary, 15 Cruden, Alexander, 137 Cuckoo, 66 Cupid, 172 Curry, Walter Clyde, 13n, 117n, 166n Cutts, John P., 74n, 75n, 120n-121n Dagger, in Macbeth, 128-9 Daiches, David, 151 η Danby, John F., 42n, 160n Dance of Death, in Richard II, 76 Daniel, Samuel, 162n David, Richard, 56n, 63n, 65n Davies, Sir John, 76n-77n Davis, Walter R., 49n Death, in Antony and Cleopatra, 151n, 163 in Love's labour's lost, 64-5 in Measure for Measure, 135

INDEX in Richard II, 153η Death, Dance of, in Richard II, 76 Demetrius, 25-41 passim D e Quincey, Thomas, 20 Desdemona, 124 Deshpande, M. G., 87n Deuteronomy, 135n Disease, in Love's labour's lost, 63-4 in Measure for Measure, 141-2 Dishonour, in Titus Andronicus, 25-6 Disintegration, in Antony and Cleopatra, 153 Dismemberment, see Mutilation Disruption, in Love's labour's lost, 61-3 Doge of Venice, 99 Donalbain, 123, 131 Dowden, Edward, 164n Draper, R. P., 101η Drunkenness, in Antony and Cleopatra, 156-7 Duke (Senior), 17, 101-15 passim Duke of Milan, 43-54 passim Dull, 56-67 passim Dumain, 55-67 passim Duncan, 116-33 passim Dyson, J. P., 124n Eavesdropping scene, in Love's labour's lost, 59 Ebner, Dean, 166n Edmund of Langley, 70-86 passim Education, in As you like it, 113-4 Edward II, 28 Edward III, 71 Eglamour, Sir, 53 Egypt, 18; see also Cleopatra Elyot, Sir Thomas, 42n; quoted, 92 Elysium, in The Tempest, 165 Enobarbus, Domitius, 152-63 passim Escalus, 142-9 passim Eurydice, allusion to, 45, 54 Evans, B. Ifor, 61 Exodus, 135n Exton, Sir Pierce of, 74-86 passim Faerie Queene, 20, 170n Fall, The, allusion to, 165 Falstaff, 170 Fame, in Love's labour's lost, 57, 58 Family relationships, 102-4 Faustus, Doctor, 15 Feasts, see Banquets Ferdinand, King, 55-67 passim Ferdinand, in The Tempest, 165-78 passim

193

Fergusson, Francis, 136n Fitzwater, Lord, 74-86 passim Flatter, Richard, 120n-121n Fleance, 123, 130-1 Flooding, in Antony and Cleopatra, 157 Florio, John, 56n, 174 Flux, see Instability Food, see Banquets Forest, in As you like it, 17, 107-8 in Midsummer Night's Dream, 16-17 in Titus Andronicus, 15-16, 31-3 in Two gentlemen, 53-4 see also Arden, Forest of Forgetfulness, in Love's labour's lost, 62 Fortune, in Antony and Cleopatra, 150-63 passim in As you like it, 108-9, 112 in Macbeth, 118-9, 133 France, A Princess of, 63, 64 Francisca, 139-49, passim Frederick, Duke, 17, 102-15 passim Freedom, in The Tempest, 175-6, 177, 178 Freedom and restraint, in Measure for Measure, 136-41, 143, 149 Freud, Sigmund, 92 Frost, William, 69n Frye, Northrop, 164 Fujimura, Thomas Η., 89n Fulvia, 154-63 passim Ganymede, 104 Garden scene, in Richard II, 80-1 Gardner, Helen, 101 η Gaunt, John of, 70-86 passim Genesis, 146n Gesta Romanorum, 89η, 90 Ghosts, in Macbeth, 122-3 Gilbert, Allan, 166 Giovani Fiorentino, Ser, 89η, 90 Gloucester, Duchess of, 70-86 passim Gloucester, D u k e of, 70, 74, 75,77,79, 82 God figure, in The Tempest, 165 Goddard, Harold C., 42n-43n Golden Age, 17, 174 Goldsmith, Robert Hillis, 106n Gollancz, Sir Israel, 87n Gonzalo, 171-8 passim Goths, in Titus Andronicus, 28, 30n, 33, 35-6 Government, in The Tempest, 166, 167, 168-9, 172-3, 174-5, 178 see also Social order Gratiano, 92-100

194

INDEX

Grebanier, Bernard, 87n Greeks, in Troilus, 17-18 Green (colour), 123n Greene, 70-86 passim Greenfield, Stanley Β., 60n Greg, Sir Walter W., 23n, 104n Grimald, Nicholas, 94n, 125n Guerard, Albert J., 49n Guilt, in Measure for Measure, 135, 142, 143-5, 146, 147, 149 Guinn, John Α., 45n Halio, Jay, 17, 102, 107n Halstead, William L„ 68n Hamilton, A. C., 24n, 32n Hamlet, 68, 69 Hamlet, 77n Hapgood, Robert, 69n, 80n, 91n Harbage, Alfred, 19n, 21, 23-4, 55, 116n, 120n, 130n, 165n Harrison, G. Β., 120n Harvey, Gabriel, 56n Heaven, in The Tempest, 165 Hecate, 121-33 passim Hector, 17 Heilman, Robert B., 76n-77n Helton, Tinsley, 66n Henry IV, see Bolingbroke Henry IV, 170 Henry V, 124, 170 Henry VI, 68 Henslowe, Philip, 23 Her(e)ford, Duke of, see Bolingbroke Hermes figure, in The Tempest, 165 Hero, allusion to, 43-4, 54 Herod, 131 Hill, R. F., 23n Hippolyta, 16 Hockey, Dorothy, 69n Hodgen, Margaret T., 174n Holland, Norman N.„ 117n, 132n, 136n Holland, Philemon, 152n Holloway, John, 19-20; quoted, 20 Holme, Randle, 61n Holofernes, 56-67 passim Homosexuality, 87, 92 Honigmann, E. A. J., 159η Horns, 111-2 Hough, Graham, 167n Hoy, Cyrus, 61n Hunter, G. Κ., 146n Hunting, in Love's labour's lost, 58 in Titus Andronicus, 31-3

Hurd, Richard, 20 Hurdis, James, 179 Hutchens, Eleanor, 168n Identity, as theme of Richard II, 76-7, 81-6

as theme of Two gentlemen, 43, 51-2 Imagery, in The Tempest, 166 Insecurity, see Fortune Instability, in Antony and Cleopatra, 150-63 passim Intellect, value, in criticism, 19-20 Iris, 172 Isabel, Queen, 84-6 Isabella, 139-49 passim Isis, 152 Isolation, in The Merchant, 87, 92n Itylus, 36 Jackson, Berners A. W., 42n James, D. G., 165n Jaquenetta, 57-67 passim Jaques, 85, 105-15 passim Jenkins, Harold, 101η Jessica, 91-100 passim Jesus Christ, allusion, in Richard II, 75 Jewkes, W. T., 167n Jews, in The Merchant, 87-8 John, Saint, quoted, 124-5 John of Gaunt, 70-86 Johnson, Samuel, 20-1 Jonson, Ben, 23, 29n, 41, 169n Jorgensen, Paul Α., 83n Joseph and Leah, 146n Journeys, in As you like it, 50 in Two Gentlemen, 49-54 Judaism, in The Merchant, 87-8 Judas, 74-5, 125 Julia, 45-54 passim Juliet, 140-9 passim Jung, C. G., 49n Juno, 172 Justice, in Measure for Measure, 135, 136, 145 in The Merchant, 88-9, 94-5, 98-9 in Richard II, 77-81 in Titus Andronicus, 38-41 Karr, Judith M„ 28 Kate, 149 Katharine, 55-67 passim Kermode, Frank, 124n, 165n-166n, 171n, 174

INDEX Kettle, Arnold, 19η King John, quoted, 157n, 159 King Lear, 41, 102, 124, 179 Kittredge, G. L., 120n Knack to know a knave, A, 24n Kneeling, in Titus Andronicus, 28-31, 33-4 Knight, G. Wilson, 17, 150n, 153, 165, 171 Knights, L. C., 136 Knowles, Richard, 102 Kökeritz, Helge, 58η Kyd, Thomas, 23 Labienus, 154 Lancaster, John of Gaunt, duke of, 70-86 passim Lascelles, Mary, 134n Launce, 45-54 passim Launcelot Gobbo, 93-100 passim Lavinia, 15, 26-41 passim as Rome symbol, 29n-30n Law, Robert Adger, 36n Lawrence, Natalie Grimes, 68n Lawrence, William W., 134n Leah and Joseph, 146n Leander, allusion to, 43-4, 54 Lear, 68, 69, 168n; quoted, 135 Lear, King, 41, 102, 124, 179 Leavis, F. R., 136n Le Beau, 103-15 passim Lee, S. J., quoted, 128 Leech, Clifford, 109n Legend of courtesy, 49 Leisi, Ernst, 134n, 141n Lennox, 131 Leontes, 18 Lepidus, 155-63 passim Letters, see Love-letters Lever, J. W., 134n, 139n, 141n Leviticus, 135n Levy, Milton Α., 89n Lewalski, Barbara K., 88 Liberty, see Freedom Life and death, in Measure for Measure, 135 Light imagery, in Measure for Measure, 137 Lloid, Lodowicke, 39n Lloyd, Michael, 151n, 152n Loneliness, in The Merchant, 87, 92n Longaville, 55-67 passim Lorenzo, 91-100 passim Love, in Antony and Cleopatra, 161-2

195

in As you like it, 113-4 in Love's labour's lost, 65-6 in Measure for Measure, 178 in The Merchant, 95, 97-8 Love-letters, in Love's labour's lost, 62, 65 in Two gentlemen, 45-9, 54 Lovejoy, Arthur Ο., 174n Love's labour's lost, Chapter 3, 92n, 114 anti-symmetry, 61-3 balance of scenes, 56-60 comparison with Measure for Measure, 61

comparison with The Tempest, 167 forgetfulness in, 62 language structure in, 60-1 martial imagery, 59 misunderstandings in, 62-3 number structure in, 61, 62 pattern of characters, 55-6 polarity in, 16 structure of, 55, 66-7 Lowell, James Russell, 164n Lucetta, 46-54 passim Lucio, 136-49 passim Lucius, in Antony and Cleopatra, 154-63 passim Lucius, in Titus Andronicus, 34-41 passim Luke, Saint, 135n, quoted, 137 Lyons, Clifford, 22 Macbeth, Chapter 7, 179, 180 circularity in, 117-9, 132-3 structure of, 116-8 Macbeth, 116-33 passim Macbeth, Lady, 116-33 passim Macdonwald, 132 Macduff, 116-33 passim MacMullan, Katherine Vance, 76n, 151n McLay, Catherine Μ., 66n McPeek, James A. S., 86n Maecenas, 158 Mahood, Molly Μ., 84n Malcolm, 116-33 passim Mantua, 53 Marcus Andronicus, 25-41 passim Maria, 55-67 passim Mariana, 143, 146-7, 148 Mark, Saint, 135n, 137 Marlowe, Christopher, 15, 19n, 28, 109 Marriage, in Antony and Cleopatra, 158-9, 163 in Measure for Measure, 149 in The Merchant, 99-100

196

INDEX

Marshal, The, 72-86 passim Martius, 32-4 Masefield, John, 24, 159n Masque, in The Tempest, 172 Master and servant, 167 Matthew, Saint, 135, 137, 138 Maxwell, J. C., 23, 25n, 134n Measure for Measure, Chapter 8 ambiguity in, 134 compared with Love's labour's lost, 61 compared with The Merchant, 115 love in, 178 meaning of title, 134-5 structure, 135-6 Memmo, Paul E.,/>., 57n Menas, 158-63 passim Mercade, 56-67 passim Merchant of Venice, The, Chapter 5, 43n, 69, 180 bond of society, 124 compared with Measure for Measure, 115 interpretations, 87 Jewry, 87-8 justice, 88-9 Pound of flesh story, 89-90 Story of three caskets, 89-91, 92n, 95-6 Venice-Belmont contrasts, 89 Mercury, 66 Mercy, see Justice Mess: meaning, 61 Metamorphoses, 36 Midgley, Graham, 88; quoted, 89 Midsummer Night's Dream, A, 16-17 Milan, Chapter 2, passim Miranda, 165-78 passim Misunderstanding, in Love's labour's lost, 62 Mitchell, Charles, 99n Moffet, Robin, 91n Montaigne, Michel de, 166n, 174 Montemayor, 45n Moon, in Antony and Cleopatra, 152-3 Morality play and polarity, 15 More, Sir Thomas, 170 Morevski, Abraham, 87n Morocco, Prince of, 91-100 passim Morrison, Hugh Whitney, 164n Moth, 56-67 passim Moulton, Richard G., 49n, 53n, 116n, 131n Mowbray, Thomas, 72-86 passim Muir, Kenneth, 101η, 116n, 119n, 120n,

124n, 151η Muscovites, 57, 60, 61, 63 Music, in The Tempest, 170-1, 172 Mutilation, in Titus Andronicus, 27-36, 39^11 Mutius, 26-41 passim Myrick, Kenneth, Ο., 116n Mythological allusion, in As you like it, 102 in Two Gentlemen, 43-5, 54 Mythology, in The Tempest, 165 see also Allegory Nashe, Thomas, 56n Nathaniel, 56-67 passim Nature, in As you like it, 108 Navarre, King of, 55-67 passim Nerissa, 91-100 passim New Testament, 125n Nile, 157 Nine Worthies, 56, 57, 60, 61, 63 Norfolk, Thomas, duke of, 72-86 passim N0rgaard, Holger, 39n-40n North, Sir Thomas, 154n Northumberland, Earl of, 72-86 passim Nosce Teipsum, 76n-77n Numerical problems, in Love's labour's lost, 62 Nuttall, Anthony David, 164n, 165n Oaths, in The Merchant, 91 in Richard II, 72-4 Oberon, 16-17, 19 Octavia, 18, 158-63 passim Offices: meaning, in Macbeth, 124 Old Man, in Macbeth, 130-3 Oliver, 102-15, passim Oliver Mar-Text, Sir, 104 Oppel, Horst, 36n, 166n Original sin, 135, 142, 144, 145-6, 147 Orlando, 102-15, passim Orpheus, allusion to, 44-5, 54 Osiris, 152n Othello, 124 Othello, 175n Overdone, Mistress, 141-9 passim Ovid, 36 Palmer, John, 89 Panthino, 50-4, passim Paradise, in The Tempest, 165 Paradox, in Antony and Cleopatra, 153 Parliament of fowls, 66n

INDEX Parsons, Philip, 63η Parthians, 155, 161 Partridge, Eric, 59η, 141η Pastoral, in As you like it, 101-2, 104, 115 Pastoral journeys see Journeys Patch, Howard, 108n Pattern, defined, 13-14 as unification, 14 constant factor, 179-80 nature, 13-14 polarity not absolute, 19 problems of isolating, 14-15 validity, 15 Pecorone, II, 89η, 90 Peele, George, 23n Percy, Henry, 79 Perdita, 18 Perry, Thomas, 50n Persephone figure, in The Tempest, 165 Personal relations, instability in Antony and Cleopatra, 159-62 Pertaunt: meaning, 61 Phaeton, allusion in Two gentlemen, 44 Phebe, 101-15, passim Phialas, Peter G., 42η, 68η, 69η, 101η, 104 Philo, 153 Philomela, 36 Pilate, Pontius, allusion in Richard II, 74-5 Pilgrimage of princes, The, 39n Plague, see Disease Pleas, in Titus Andronicus, 28-31, 33-4 Plots: scene relationships, 104n Plutarch, 151n, 152n, 154, 162 Pluto, 38 Poison, in Measure for Measure, 141 Polarity, in Antony and Cleopatra, 18 in As you like it, 17, 107 in Love's labour's lost, 16 in Midsummer night's dream, 16-17 in Richard II, 19 in Troilus and Cressida, 17 Polarity of characters, 19 Polarity of place, 15-18 Political instability, in Antony and Cleopatra, 150-63 passim Polixenes, 18 Pompey, in Antony and Cleopatra, 151-63 passim Pompey, in Measure for Measure, 141-9 passim

Pontius Pilate, allusion in Richard 74-5 Pope, Alexander, 20 Pope, Elizabeth Marie, 134n Portia, 87, 89-100 passim Pound of flesh story, 89-90 Price, Herward T., 24η, 43η Processus Belial, 88, 97η Prophecies, in Macbeth, 122-3 Prospero, 164-78 passim Shakespeare as, 164 Proteus, 43-54 passim Provost, Foster, 86n Publius, 38 Purgatory, in The Tempest, 165 Puttenham, George, 167n

197 II,

Queen Isabel, 84-6 Quests, see Journeys; Search Quiller Couch, Sir Arthur, 48n, 87n Quinn, Michael, 86n Quintus, 32-4 Raleigh, Sir Walter, 56n Rape, in Titus Andronicus, 27-8, 31, 32, 35, 36, 39, 41 Rea, John D., 88n Reality and appearance, in Measure for Measure, 135, 136 Reality versus Art, 21 Recurrence, in Macbeth, 129 Red (colour), 123n Redemption myth, in The Tempest, 165-6 Reed, Robert R 8 6 n Reiman, Donald, 68n, 86n Resistance to government, 175-7 Revelation, quoted, 125n Revenge, in The Merchant, 97, 98 in Titus Andronicus, 36, 39 Reynolds, J. Α., 68n Ribner, Irving, 13n, 116n, 120n Richard II, 68-86 passim Richard II, Chapter 4, 103, 114, 115 justice in, 77-81 patterns of dissolution and identity, 68, 76-7, 81-6, 153n polarity in, 19 social order in, 69-77, 124 Ricks, Christopher, 29n Ridley, M. R., 150n, 154n Ritual, see Ceremony Roesen, Bobbyann, 61 η Romans, Epistle to the, 135n

198

INDEX

Rome, in Antony and Cleopatra, 18, 15063 passim, 179 in Titus Andronicus, 15-16, 25, 29, 29n3On, 31, 35, 40, 179 Borneo and Juliet, 63n Root, Robert Kilburn, 43n Rosalind, 102-15 passim Rosaline, 55-67 passim Ross, Lord, 72, 75 Rosse, 120-33 Rowland, Sir, 103, 111 Rowse, A. L., 63n Ruskin, John, 166n Russell, Edward R., 164n Salerio, 91-100 passim Salisbury, Earl of, 70-86 passim Sams, Henry W., 118n Sargent, Ralph Μ., 42η, 101η Satan figure, in Macbeth, 125 in The Tempest, 165 Saturninus, 25-41 passim Schanzer, Ernest, 134n Scott, William Ο., 43n Sea change, in The Tempest, 166 Sea imagery, in Antony and Cleopatra, 152, 156, 162 in The Tempest, 166, 167 Search, as theme, 106 Seasons, in Macbeth, 117-8 Sebastian, in The Tempest, 171 Sebastian, in Two Gentlemen, 45-54 passim Sejanus, 169 Sejanus, 29n, 41, 169n Seleucus, 162 Sempronius, 38 Seng, Peter J., 96n, 11 In Seven ages of man, 109-10 Sexual roles, in Macbeth, 126-7 Sexuality, in Love's labour's lost, 57, 58, 59, 63-4, 65 in Measure for Measure, 135, 136, 141-2, 147, 149 in The Merchant, 87, 92 Seymour, Ε. Η., 119n Shakespeare, William, as conscious artist, 22, 179 dates of plays, 68 Shaw, John, 102, 107n Ship offooles, The, 151n, 167n Ship-master, 167 Ship of state, 167

Shultz, Paul Κ., 43n Shylock, 87-8, 89-100 passim Sicily, in Antony and Cleopatra, 162 in The Winter's Tale, 18 Sidney, Sir Philip, 20, 21, 49 Siegel, Paul Ν., 87n-88n, 134n Silius, 155-63 passim Silvia, 44-54 passim Silvius, 101-15 passim Simpson, Percy, 61n Sin, see Guilt; Original sin Sinsheimer, Hermann, 87n Sisson, C. J., 166n Siward, 132 Skelton, John, 167n Smith, Hallett, 174n Smith, Gordon Ross, 14, 15, 134n, 150n Smith, John Hazel, 88n Smith, Robert Μ., 134n Smith, Sheila Μ., 150n Smith, Warren D., 88n, 142n, 146n Snider, Denton, 49n Social bond, 7, 69-70 Social order, in Macbeth, 124 in Richard II, 69-77, 124 see also Government Soellner, Rolf, 134n Sommers, Alan, 24n; quoted, 15 Spanish Tragedy, The, 23 Speed, 46-54 passim Spencer, Benjamin T., 153 Spencer, Terence J. Β., 24n, 154n Spencer, Theodore, 66, 76n Spenser, Edmund, 20, 49, 170n Spurgeon, Caroline F. Ε., 59n Stames, DeWitt T., 44η, 83η Stephano, 165-78 passim Stephen, King, 175n Stephenson, William Ε., 42n Stevenson, David Lloyd, 134n Still, Colin, 164-5 Stirling, Brents, 86n, 162n Stoll, Elmer Edgar, 19n, 164n Structural criticism, 19-20 Study, in Love's labour's lost, 57 Suddenness, in As you like it, 108-9 Surrey, Duke of, 79-86 passim Suzman, Arthur, 83n Sycorax, 166n, 173, 176 Syphilis, 141

Talbert, Ernest William, 42n, 44n, 45n, 83n

199

INDEX

Tamora, 27-41 passim Tempest, The, Chapter 10, 179 interpretations, 164-6 patterns in, 166 Tereus, 36 "Theatrical fallacy", 22 Theobald, Lewis, 139n Theseus, allusion to, 45, 54 Theseus, Duke, 16, 19 Thidias, 161 Thomas, Friar, 138-49 passim Thompson, Stith, 146n Thomson, James Α. Κ., 36n Three caskets story, 89-91, 92n, 95-6 Thurio, 44-54 passim Tiberius, 169 Tillyard, E. M. W., 69n, 87n, 88-9, 134n, 157n Time, in As you like it, 109-11 Titania, 16-17 Titus Andronicus, 25-41 passim Titus Andronicus, Chapter 1, 15-16, 179 as symbolic fantasy, 41 criticism, 41 construction, 24-5, 31 date, 23-4 Tomson, L., 125n, 137n Toole, William Β., 134n Touchstone, 101-15 passim Tragedy, 68-9 Traver, Hope, 88n Traversi, Derek, 154n, 165 Treason, in Richard II, Chapter 4 Trials, in The Merchant, 97, 98 in Richard II, 78-80 see also Justice Trinculo, 165-78 passim Triumvirate, 154, 155-6 Troilus and Cressida, quoted, 156 polarity in, 17 Troilus and Criseyde, 118n Trojans, in Troilus, 17-18 Troy, William, 160n Two Gentlemen of Verona, The, Chapter 2 dating, 42 journeys in, 49-54

letters in, 45-9 myths in, 43-5 opinions of, 42-3 patterns in, 43, 54 Unities, 20-1 Ure, Peter, 69n, 80n, 85n Usurpation, in The Tempest, 176-7 Valentine, 43-54 passim, 143 Van Doren, Mark, 24n Venice, 89 Venice, Duke of, 99 Ventidius, 154-63 passim Venus, 172 Verona, Chapter 2 Vincentio, Duke, 137-49 passim Waith, Eugene, 24n Walker, Roy, 116n, 121n, 124, 125n War, in Antony and Cleopatra, 154-6 in Macbeth, 118, 132 War imagery, in Love's labour's lost, 59 Wardropper, Bruce W., 49n Weales, Gerald, 24n Weingarten, Samuel, 86n Wells, Stanley, 42n Westland, Joseph, 66n Westminster, Abbot of, 71-86 passim Wheel of Fortune, see Fortune Whitney, Cynthia Kolb, 154n Williams, Kathleen, 170n Willoughby, Lord, 72, 75n Wilson, John Dover, 24n Wilson, Robert Η., 146n Winter's Tale, The, 179 Witches, 117-33 passim Worcester, Earl of, 70 Worthies, Nine, 56, 57, 60, 61, 63 Yates, Frances Α., 55n-56n York, Duchess of, 80-6 passim York, Duke of, 70-86 passim Zimbardo, Rose Abdelnour, 172n