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Paul Yachnin and the Contributors have asserted their right under the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as author of
this work.
Acknowledgements vii
Notes on Contributors viii
Introduction 1
Paul Yachnin
1 Well-Won Thrift 33
Michael Bristol and Sara Coodin
Bibliography 263
Index 279
Paul Yachnin
1
Arthur Murphy, The Grey’s-Inn Journal 4 (11 November 1752), 35–6
(Eighteenth Century Collections Online (ECCO) http://gdc.gale.com/products/
eighteenth-century-collections-online/, accessed 23 May 2014), italics in original.
2
Philip Sidney, Selected Poetry and Prose, ed. David Kalstone (New York:
Signet, 1970), 123.
3
Quoted in The Riverside Shakespeare, gen. ed. G. Blakemore Evans (2nd
edn, Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1997), 1962. All Shakespeare
citations and quotations are from this edition.
4
Quoted in Riverside, 1972. For a judicious account of Shakespeare’s
reputation as a ‘natural’ poet, see Jonathan Bate, The Genius of Shakespeare
(London: Picador, 1997), esp. Ch. 6, ‘The Original Genius.’
5
Thomas De Quincy, ‘On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth’, in
Shakespeare Criticism: A Selection, ed. D. Nichol Smith (London: Oxford
University Press, 1916), 378.
6
Michael Bristol, ‘Vernacular Criticism and the Scenes Shakespeare Never
Wrote’, Shakespeare Survey 53 (2000): 89–102, quotation on 92.
7
Bristol, ‘Vernacular Criticism’, 92–3.
8
Quoted in Shakespeare Criticism, 92.
9
M. M. Bakhtin, ‘Discourse in the Novel’, in The Dialogic Imagination: Four
Essays, trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of
Texas Press, 1981), 262–3.
10
Bakhtin, ‘Discourse’, 298.
of texts while reading them and then using those bits in one’s
own writing; the demands of writing for the new commercial
theatre, which encouraged someone like Shakespeare to listen
alertly to and put to use the multiple ways of speaking in early
modern London; and, lastly, the interrelationship between
speech and action in theatrical performance: for the actor and
playwright Shakespeare, language was always also gestural
and embodied as well as verbal.
Shakespeare’s language arts were fashioned first of all by
his education at the King’s New School in Stratford, where
he learned Latin grammar and the arts of rhetoric and where
he read Latin poetry and prose, always with attention to how
the writing was constructed, a focus inculcated by instruction
in grammar itself and by translation exercises from English
to Latin and from Latin to the vernacular. Among many
other classical writers to which he was introduced, there
were figures like Horace, Terrence, Sallust and, most notably,
Ovid, whose Metamorphoses informs a great deal of his work,
from the early Titus Andronicus, where a copy of the poem
serves as a stage prop and a key to the mystery of Lavinia’s
rape and mutilation (4.1), to the late play, The Tempest,
where Prospero’s ‘renunciation’ (5.1.33–57) is an adapted
translation of Medea’s speech in Metamorphoses, book 7. In
his early comedy, The Taming of the Shrew, he indicates just
how important and pleasurable and just how unbookish Ovid
could be when Lucentio’s servant Tranio praises his master’s
aspirations in philosophy but reminds him that Ovidian
poetry is the stuff of life: ‘Let’s be no Stoics nor no stocks,
I pray, / Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks / As Ovid be an
outcast quite abjur’d’ (1.1.31–3).
At the New School, Shakespeare also acquired the principles
of ‘copiousness’, famously advocated by Erasmus in his work
De Copia (1512) – the ability to produce rich, layered writing
made up of repetition and variation and the use of myriad
figures of speech, word play and modes of address.
The Sonnets provide wonderfully accomplished models of
the language arts Shakespeare began to cultivate in boyhood.
***
11
Odes [of] Horace, trans. David R. Slavitt (Madison: University of Wisconsin
Press, 2014), 151.
12
Erasmus, De ratione studii, quoted and translated in Ann Rose, Printed
Commonplace-Books and the Structuring of Renaissance Thought (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1996), 98.
Shakespeare also picked and culled from this and that book
the sentences that pleased him. We have already seen how
13
John Brinsley, Ludus Literarius; or, The Grammar Schoole (1612), quoted
in William Sherman, Used Books: Marking Readers in Renaissance England
(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009), 4.
14
Michel de Montaigne, The Essayes of Michael Lord of Montaigne, trans.
John Florio (1603), ed. N. John McArthur (NP: Kindle, 2012), loc. 2945.
15
Montaigne, Essayes, loc. 4435.
GONZALO
I’ th’ commonwealth I would, by contraries,
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession,
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation, all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty –
SEBASTIAN
Yet he would be king on’t.
ANTONIO
The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning.
GONZALO
All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavor: treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
SEBASTIAN
No marrying’mong his subjects?
ANTONIO
None, man, all idle – whores and knaves.
GONZALO
I would with such perfection govern, sir,
T’excel the golden age. (2.1.148–69)
***
16
These figures are from Stephen Greenblatt, ‘Introduction’, The Norton
Shakespeare, ed. Greenblatt et al. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1997), 63.
17
Thomas Adams, The Devills Banket Described in Foure Sermons (London,
1614), 76.
18
Bristol, ‘Vernacular Criticism’, 92–3.
***
19
See Ramie Targoff, ‘The Performance of Prayer: Sincerity and Theatricality
in Early Modern England’, Representations 60 (1997): 49–69, quote on 57–8.
20
See Kate Welch, ‘Making Mourning Show: Hamlet and Affective Public-
Making’, Performance Research 16 (2011): 74–82.
21
In fact, the arguments go back to Shakespeare’s time, appearing in the
numerous disparaging remarks about playhouse performance in the prologues
by dramatists like Marlowe and Jonson and in the playful but serious antithe-
atricalism of Shakespeare’s own drama. For more recent arguments, first for
the literary character of Shakespeare’s art, see Lukas Erne, Shakespeare as
Literary Dramatist (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) and Patrick
Cheney, Shakespeare’s Literary Authorship (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2008); for arguments on the other side, see J. L. Styan, The Shakespeare
Revolution: Criticism and Performance in the Twentieth Century (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1977) and W. B. Worthen, Shakespeare and the
Authority of Performance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997).
The word is from Troilus and Criseyde, in The Works of Geoffrey Chaucer,
22
ed. F. N. Robinson (2nd edn, Boston: Houghton Mifflin 1957), book 5, line
1774.
Mark Johnson, The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning,
23
24
The quote is from E. M. W. Tillyard, Shakespeare’s Problem Plays (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1950), 126.
25
2.1.8–9
Folger Shakespeare Library, Shakespeare FAQS, http://www.folger.edu/
26
27
There is a large theoretical literature on the relationship between authors
and writing, the latest phase of which begins with Roland Barthes’ and
Michel Foucault’s different but related critiques of how the idea of the author
has served to rationalize and rein in the intertexual field of writing. For a
brief critical survey, which redefines the author as ‘the chief witness and
ethical sponsor of the work’, see my ‘Rejoicing in the Law: The Performance
of Authorship in A View from the Bridge’, Zeitschrift für Anglistik und
Amerikanistik 60 (2012): 77–89.
28
Francis Meres, Palladis Tamia, Wits Treasury, in Riverside, 1970.
29
Quoted in Riverside, 95.
30
Quoted in Riverside, 90.
31
‘What Maya Angelou Means When She Says “Shakespeare Must Be a Black
Girl”’, The Atlantic, 30 January 2013, http://www.theatlantic.com/sexes/
archive/2013/01/what-maya-angelou-means-when-she-says-shakespeare-
must-be-a-black-girl/272667/ (accessed 6 January 2015).
32
Two major contributions to a political and materialist understanding of
literary canonicity are Barbara Herrnstein Smith, Contingencies of Value:
Alternative Perspectives for Critical Theory (Cambridge, MA: Harvard
University Press, 1988); and Margreta de Grazia, Shakespeare Verbatim: The
Reproduction of Authenticity and the 1790 Apparatus (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1991).
33
M. M. Bakhtin, ‘Response to a Question from the Novy Mir Editorial Staff’,
in Speech Genres and other Late Essays, trans. Vern W. McGee, ed. Caryl
Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1986), 4.
34
Ibid.
35
Bakhtin, ‘Response to a Question’, 5.
1
Ralph Waldo Emerson, Representative Men: Seven Lectures, in The Complete
Works of Ralph Waldo Emerson: Centenary Edition, 12 vols, vol. 7 (New
York: AMS Press, 1968), 210.
2
Stanley Cavell, ‘Skepticism as Iconoclasm: the Saturation of the Shakespearean
Text’, in Shakespeare and the Twentieth Century: The Selected Proceedings
of the International Shakespeare Association World Congress, Los Angeles,
1996, ed. Jonathan Bate, Jill Levenson and Dieter Mehl (Newark: University
of Delaware Press 1996), 241.
3
Barbara Lewalski, ‘Biblical Allusion and Allegory in The Merchant of
Venice’, Shakespeare Quarterly 13 (1962): 330.
SHYLOCK
He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,
Even there where merchants most do congregate,
4
James Siemon, Word Against Word: Shakespearean Utterance (Amherst:
University of Massachusetts Press, 2002), 36ff.
5
This and all following quotes from the play are from The Merchant of
Venice: Texts and Contexts, ed. M. Lindsey Kaplan (Boston: Bedford/St
Martin’s, 2002).
Shylock has his own view of the source and the meaning of his
wealth. ‘Each man … has to get by according to the abilities
God has given him. He is justified in this so long as he uses
what is his own and does nothing prohibited.’6 ‘Thrift’ is
mentioned three times in The Merchant of Venice, all in 1.3.
‘Wealth’ occurs seven times and ‘money’ roughly twice as
often. There are 12 mentions of ‘gold.’ Even more important
is the Venetian currency, ‘ducats’, which are referred to 25
times. Conspicuous by its absence is ‘happiness’, something
that money can’t buy.
The network of wealth-words radiates out from Shylock’s
notion of thrift in ways quite typical of Shakespeare’s dramatic
art, though there is nothing here that seems particularly
far-fetched. The more far-fetched possibility is that ‘well-won’
could be an adverb of location with the sense of thrift that is
won at a well. The sense of well as a spring may be a subtext if
Shylock, in thinking of his own well-won thrift, might at this
point be remembering the story of Jacob and the thrift he won
at the well at Haran according to Genesis 29.1-10:
1
Then Jacob went on his journey, and came into the land of
the people of the east.
2
And he looked, and behold a well in the field, and, lo,
there were three flocks of sheep lying by it; for out of that
well they watered the flocks: and a great stone was upon
the well’s mouth.
3
And thither were all the flocks gathered: and they
rolled the stone from the well’s mouth, and watered the
sheep, and put the stone again upon the well’s mouth in
his place.
6
Charles Spinosa, ‘The Transformation of Intentionality: Debt and Contract
in The Merchant of Venice’, English Literary Renaissance 24 (1994): 394.
4
And Jacob said unto them, My brethren, whence be ye?
And they said, Of Haran are we.
5
And he said unto them, Know ye Laban the son of Nahor?
And they said, We know him.
6
And he said unto them, Is he well? And they said, He is
well: and, behold, Rachel his daughter cometh with the
sheep.
7
And he said, Lo, it is yet high day, neither is it time that
the cattle should be gathered together: water ye the sheep,
and go and feed them.
8
And they said, We cannot, until all the flocks be gathered
together, and till they roll the stone from the well’s mouth;
then we water the sheep.
9
And while he yet spake with them, Rachel came with her
father’s sheep: for she kept them.
10
And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel the daughter
of Laban his mother’s brother, and the sheep of Laban his
mother’s brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone
from the well’s mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his
mother’s brother.7
The story as related in the King James Version has its own
wordplay with well, similar to what we’ve just seen in
Shylock’s opening speeches. Jacob asks the local shepherds if
his uncle Laban is well, and then he asks about a well covered
with a stone.
In his commentary on Genesis, Martin Luther suggests that
since water was scarce in the desert, wells would often be
protected by stones that would be too heavy for one person
to move. He then adds that ‘in the Jewish commentaries we
read that the holy spirit came upon Jacob so that he was
greatly strengthened and could roll away the stone when he
saw Rachel … and by exhibiting his manly strength, he also
7
The Bible, Authorized King James Version (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
1997). All following quotes from the Bible refer to this edition.
8
Martin Luther, Commentary on Genesis, trans. J. Theodore Mueller, 2 vols,
vol. 2 (Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Publishing House, 1958), 144–5.
9
Thomas Mann, Joseph and His Brothers: The Stories of Jacob, Young
Joseph, Joseph in Egypt, Joseph the Provider, trans. John E. Woods (New
York: Everyman Library, 2005), 130.
21
And Isaac intreated the LORD for his wife, because she
was barren: and the LORD was intreated of him, and
Rebekah his wife conceived.
22
And the children struggled together within her; and she
said, If it be so, why am I thus? And she went to enquire
of the LORD.
23
And the LORD said unto her, Two nations are in thy
womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from
thy bowels; and the one people shall be stronger than the
other people; and the elder shall serve the younger.
Anthology, trans. and ed. Harry Freedman, 9 vols, vol. 4 (New York:
American Biblical Encyclopedia Society, 1953), 108.
1
And he heard the words of Laban’s sons, saying, Jacob
hath taken away all that was our father’s; and of that which
was our father’s hath he gotten all this glory.
2
And Jacob beheld the countenance of Laban, and, behold,
it was not toward him as before. (31.1-2)
11
George Downame, Lectures on the XV Psalme (London, 1604), 300.
12
Leo Modena, The History of the Rites, Customs, and Manner of Life, of
the Present Jews, Throughout the World, trans. Edmund Chilmeade (London,
1650), 3–4.
13
David De Pomis, De Medico Hebraeo (Venice, 1587), in H. Friedenwald,
The Jews and Medicine, 2 vols (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press,
1944), 404, quoted in Kaplan, Texts and Contexts, 219.
14
The sixteenth century saw even more direct rabbinical arguments in favour
of charging interest as a matter of general practice. Both Isaac Abravanel’s
and Abraham Farrisol’s commentaries on the Torah elaborate on the idea
that economic actualities make lending at interest entirely sensible. See
Benjamin Ravid, ‘Moneylending in Seventeenth Century Jewish Vernacular
Apologia’, in Studies on the Jews of Venice (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2003),
279–80.
15
Shylock hints at this in 1.3.131–2 when he brings up a Dutch unit of
currency – the doit – in his appeal to Antonio: ‘I would … supply your present
wants and take no doit of usance for my moneys.’
16
Downame, Lectures, 188.
17
Henry Clay Folger, Jr, ‘Shylock’s Bond from the Merchant’s Standpoint’,
unpublished MS.
18
On this point, see Marc Shell, ‘The Wether and the Ewe: Verbal
Usury in The Merchant of Venice’, Kenyon Review 1, no. 4 (1979): 65–92,
esp. 68.
19
This principle was explicitly formulated by Maimonides and forms part
of his Thirteen Principles of Faith. See Moses Maimonides, Maimonides’
Introduction to the Talmud: A Translation of the Rambam’s Introduction to
His Commentary on the Mishna, trans. Zvi L. Lampel (New York: Judaica
Press, 1975).
20
Edward Andrew, Shylock’s Rights: A Grammar of Lockian Claims (Toronto:
University of Toronto Press, 1988), 36–8.
1
And Dinah the daughter of Leah, which she bare unto
Jacob, went out to see the daughters of the land.
2
And when Shechem the son of Hamor the Hivite, prince
of the country, saw her, he took her, and lay with her, and
defiled her.23
21
Kasher, Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation, 4:174–5.
22
Ibid., 4:175.
23
Genesis 34.1-2.
24
Kasher, Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation, 4:174–6.
25
Ibid., 4:179.
26
Ibid., 4:185.
27
Ibid., 4:176.
28
The Holy Scriptures: A Jewish Bible According to the Masoretic Texts (Tel
Aviv: Sinai Publishing, 1979).
29
Kasher, Encyclopedia of Biblical Interpretation, 4:176.
Folger served as CEO and later as chairman of the board of the Standard Oil
30
It is late in the day and Shylock is now a very long way from
the well – the source or the origin of the blessing enjoyed by
Isaac and by Jacob. Harold Bloom has famously declared that
an honest production of this play would be unbearable after
the Shoah. But even in Shakespeare’s day, something almost
as terrible had already happened.
The Jews were expelled from Spain in 1492. Some of
the families went north and west, eventually winding up in
places like Amsterdam and possibly even London. Others
went south and east to Bulgaria, Turkey, Greece and also
to Venice. Still others ended up in the hands of the Holy
Office. If they were lucky they would be able to save their
own lives by agreeing to convert to Christianity and to the
confiscation of their wealth. The proceeds of these confisca-
tions were originally taken by the Spanish Crown, but later
they went directly to the Holy Office itself, thus helping
to create a thriving heresy industry. As for the supposed
religious conversions, it is quite apparent that you can
force somebody to go to church, receive the sacraments
and outwardly profess the forms of Christian observance,
but you cannot be sure what they believe in their hearts.
The new Christians were always at considerable risk of
denunciation by their neighbours. Protestant England had its
own heresy industry that staged any number of impressive
spectacles, based in large part on the model of the Spanish
Inquisition.
There is an even more sinister reference to the Inquisition
in the play, however, and that is in the much applauded
‘judgment’ issued by Portia in the trial scene:
See Michael Bristol, ‘Henry Clay Folger, Jr.’, in Great Shakespeareans, ed.
Cary DiPietro (London: Bloomsbury, 2011).
PORTIA
Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh,
But in the cutting of it if thou dost shed
One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
Are by the laws of Venice confiscate
Unto the state of Venice. (4.1.303–7)
Press, 1964), 115ff. See also James Reston, Jr, Dogs of God: Columbus, the
Inquisition and the Defeat of the Moors (New York: Anchor Books, 2006), 74ff.
32
Amos Elon, The Founder (New York: HarperCollins, 1996).
33
Tzachi Zamir, Double Vision: Moral Philosophy and Shakesperean Drama
(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007), xi.
his wealth, even when this amounted to buying off his enemies.
Even the feckless Esau could appreciate the value of Jacob’s
generous peace offering when the brothers were eventually
reunited. Jacob’s success was the sign of God’s favour, but
Jacob enjoyed God’s favour because he knew what he had to
do in order to thrive. Shylock thought of himself as another
Jacob. He was at home in the narrative of what Jacob did and
what his mother wisely wrought on his behalf. His gloomy
fate at the hands of Christian Venice came about because he
let himself forget how to live the story of his own life.
David Schalkwyk
Complete Works, eds John Jowett, William Montgomery, Gary Taylor and
When Juliet reflects on the name of the rose and the name of
her love, in what Jacques Derrida calls ‘the most implacable
analysis of the name’,2 she fails to see that the names of roses
and the names of men work in disparate ways. The names
of men (and women) constitute webs of social relations that
cannot be reduced to the body or its parts. In an inverted
blazon of her love, Juliet wishes to reduce the distance
represented by Romeo’s name to immediate deixis, in which
there is no need for proper names. In her view, proper names
are improper adjuncts to common bodies. Neither ‘hand nor
foot / Nor arm nor face nor any other part / Belonging to a
man’, Romeo’s name is, as Derrida puts it, ‘inhuman.’3 Since it
is ‘no part of a man’ he should be able to put it aside, taking in
its stead that which his name resists: the body of Juliet, freed
from the impediment of her name and conjoined lovingly to
his.
This desire to strip the object of denomination of that which
does not belong to it is related to the reiterated (and conven-
tional) thought in the Sonnets that language corrupts nature: ‘I
never saw that you did painting need, / And therefore to your
faire no painting set’ (sonnet 83). The beloved’s body, uncor-
rupted by words, should be left to shine in its pure splendour.
But there is another movement in the Sonnets that takes a
different view of the relation between names and bodies. It is
most cogently expressed in sonnet 54:
4
Saul Kripke, Naming and Necessity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University
Press, 1972).
5
The name has to be able to pick out precisely the person of whom the set of
descriptions does turn out to be false. It does so, in Kripke’s view, not through
any sense that it may have (and which might match its bearer through the
latter’s contingent properties), but through an original act of baptism and a
series of reference-preserving, causal links in the subsequent use of the name.
6
In a subsequent essay, Kripke has tackled the problem of names in fiction,
in which there is no referent. He argues that names in fiction have referents,
not in a ghostly Meinongian sense, but rather as entities in works of fiction.
To say of Sherlock Holmes that he exists is simply to talk about him in the
world created by Conan Doyle. Kripke argues that statements that could
be said to be true or false of the character are similarly true or false in that
fictional world. He does not, as I do here, consider the possibility of a fictional
name (‘Cressida’) that operates in different fictions, each offering possible
worlds for the character that may diverge from or contradict each other. I see
no reason, given Kripke’s view of fictional names, why his historical theory
of reference – that the designation of the name is established by an original
baptism carried forward through causal links – cannot be applied to names in
fictional worlds. See Saul Kripke, ‘Vacuous Names and Fictional Entities’, in
Romeo and Juliet enacts the rigidity of the proper name that
Kripke spells out, even though Romeo is a name of a fictional
character.7 Juliet’s invocation of her love in his absence,
despite her urging him to abandon his name, demonstrates
that she has to do so in his name: ‘Romeo.’ This speaks of a
paradoxically simultaneous separability and inseparability of
bearer and name. One can call (to) Romeo (or anyone else) in
his absence only because the name is not part of him – it is
no part of his body. On the other hand, that one can call to
him is an indication of his inseparability from his name. This
‘inhumanity’ of the name paradoxically constitutes Romeo’s
very humanity, for it is what ties him to a family and social
world.8 Romeo is thus Romeo in all possible worlds, including
the world in which he has denied or renounced his name.
The common name of the rose is different from the proper
name Romeo. For ‘Romeo’ ties its bearer to a set of obliga-
tions, relations and values in a way that the word ‘rose’ does
not bind the flower. Romeo may try to set himself apart from
those ties, but the logic of his proper name means that it will
dog him forever, like his shadow. Romeo is at the very least
Shakespeare’s character who renounces his name: ‘Romeo
would not be what he is, a stranger to his name, without
his name,’ as Derrida puts it. If roses were called cankers,
9
See Ludwig Wittgenstein, On Certainty, trans. Denis Paul and G. E. M.
Anscombe, ed. G. E. M. Anscombe and G. H. Von Wright (Cambridge:
Blackwell, 1979), 81–8.
10
The Tragical History of Dr Faustus: A Critical Edition of the 1604 Version,
ed. Michael Keefer (Peterborough, ON: Broadview Press, 2008), 5.1.90.
the empirical, the ideal and the instance, the desire and the act,
the proper and the common. It is this oscillation that prompts
Troilus’s bewildered response to the figure who ‘is and is not
Cressid’, the ‘soul of beauty’ and ‘greasy relic.’
Shakespeare prepares for this moment of bewildering
duplicity earlier in Act Three, Scene Two, when he shows the
self-idealization of proper names in the common body of the
player:
TROILUS
True swains in love shall in the world to come
Approve their truth by Troilus. When their rhymes,
Full of protest, of oath and big compare,
Wants similes, truth tired with iteration –
‘As true as steel, as plantage to the moon,
As sun to day, as turtle to her mate,
As iron to adamant, as earth to th’ centre’ –
Yet, after all comparisons of truth,
As truth’s authentic author to be cited,
‘As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse
And sanctify the numbers.
CRESSIDA
Prophet may you be!
If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth,
When time is old and hath forgot itself,
When water drops have worn the stones of Troy
And blind oblivion swallowed cities up,
And mighty states characterless are grated
To dusty nothing, yet let memory
From false to false among false maids in love
Upbraid my falsehood. When they’ve said, ‘as false
As air, as water, wind or sandy earth,
As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer’s calf,
Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son’,
Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood,
‘As false as Cressid.’ (3.2.168–98)
11
Linda Charnes, Notorious Identity: Materializing the Subject in Shakespeare
(Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1993), 79.
12
. See Heather Dubrow, ‘“Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d”: The
Politics of Plotting Shakespeare’s Sonnets’, Shakespeare Quarterly 47 (1996):
291–305. In this essay, Dubrow subjects the critical and ideological assump-
tions underlying the reading of the Sonnets which regards them as a narrative
of mutual homo-social or homosexual love destroyed by the dark duplicity of
woman to devastating criticism. I am deeply indebted to her argument that
there is no evidence for the traditional ascription of addressees to the poems,
although the logical terms in which I analyse the issue here are very different
from hers.
‘Dark Lady’ and the ‘Fair Friend’ of the sonnets, who are
without proper names, and whose respective ‘fairness’ and
‘darkness’ are merely bundles of circularly derived proposi-
tions collected under ideological signs, the ‘truth’ that Troilus
appropriates to himself and the ‘falsehood’ that Cressida
entertains for herself may be qualified by different modalities
embodied by the play that bears their names, which is in effect
the play of common bodies.
Whatever Cressida may say about the meaning of her name
as a repository of historical significance, the rigid designation
of the proper name allows that name to be used in a different
possible world: a world in which Cressida does not have to
bear the ideological weight of her name. It is possible to write
a play in which the names ‘Troilus’ and ‘Cressida’ appear as
rigid designators of received characters, but in which they do
not act as the defining instances of (male) truth and (female)
infidelity. The theory of rigid designation explains how we can
entertain the possibility that Troilus was not faithful, Cressida
not faithless; or, for that matter, that Homer was not a single
poet but an oral collective, or that Shakespeare did not write
‘Shake-speare’s’ plays.13 The question that names in Troilus
and Cressida raise is not whether Cressida is false or not, but
whether her name is inevitably the epitome of falsehood, its
paradigm case or essence. The theatricality of Troilus and
Cressida can thus achieve what the Sonnets considered as mere
text on a page cannot: in ‘the two-hour traffic of our stage’ the
players’ medium can combine the embodiment of character
with the phenomenological fusion of change through time and
space, in order to present figures whose historical paths may
be charted differently. The theatre itself possesses a ‘bifold
authority’ (5.3.147) by which a character, especially a histori-
cally received one, both ‘is and is not’ him or herself.
ULYSSES
Fie, fie upon her!
There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip;
Nay, her foot speaks. Her wanton spirits look out
At every joint and motive of her body.
O these encounterers so glib of tongue,
That give accosting welcome ere it comes,
And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts
To every ticklish reader, set them down
names have to have reference but no sense, for any sense that a name bears
would confine it to the contingent properties of only one possible world.
Helen would be beautiful and Cressida faithless of necessity if Kripke were
wrong.
Lucy Munro
***
2
In order to preserve the interplay between ‘antic’ and ‘antique’, I have used
old-spelling versions of early modern texts. Unless noted otherwise, all refer-
ences to Shakespeare’s plays are taken from The Norton Facsimile: The First
Folio of Shakespeare, prepared by Charlton Hinman (2nd edn, New York:
W. W. Norton, 1996).
3
See, for instance, sonnets 17, 19, 59, 68 and 106.
Strong Enobarbe
Is weaker then the Wine, and mine owne tongue
Spleet’s what it speakes: the wilde disguise hath almost
Antickt vs all. (ll. 1476–9)
4
Shake-speares Sonnets Neuer Before Imprinted (London, 1609), B4v.
5
On the fencing terms, see Jill Levenson, ed., Romeo and Juliet (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2000), 228–9.
6
The phrase appears as ‘limping antique affecting fantasticoes’ in the first
quarto: An Excellent Conceited Tragedie of Romeo and Iuliet (London,
1597), sig. E1v.
7
John Dover Wilson and G. I. Duthie, eds, Romeo and Juliet, The New
Shakespeare (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955), 167.
8
OED fantasy/phantasy, n. 2.
9
For recent summaries of this debate, see Paula Blank, Broken English: The
Politics of Language in Renaissance Literature (London and New York:
Routledge, 1996), 40–52, 100–20; Charles Barber, Early Modern English
(2nd edn, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1997), 53–70; Manfred
Görlach, Introduction to Early Modern English (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 1991), 136–69. On the Elizabethan language debate as a
context for Love’s Labour’s Lost, see Blank, Broken English, 45–52; Lynne
Magnusson, ‘To “Gase So Much at the Fine Stranger”: Armado and the
Politics of English in Love’s Labour’s Lost’, in Shakespeare and the Cultures
of Performance, ed. Paul Yachnin and Patricia Badir (Aldershot: Ashgate,
2008), 53–68 (esp. 60–8).
10
Armado’s name periodically appears as ‘Armatho’ in both the quarto and
folio texts, which may suggest the intended use of a soft, faux-Spanish ‘d.’
11
OED congruent, adj. 1; epitheton, n. 2; nominate, v. 1.a.
12
This is the OED’s earliest use of the adverb ‘festinately’ (s.v. festinate).
‘Festination’ appears in texts dating from the 1540s, such as Thomas Elyot’s
The Image of Government (OED, festination), while the verb appears in
15
For more detailed discussion, see Lucy Munro, ‘Speaking History: Linguistic
Memory in the Late-Elizabethan History Play’, Huntington Library Quarterly
76, no. 4 (2013): 519–40.
16
For instance, Jonathan Hope argues that the pronoun choice – that is, the
overwhelming use of ‘you’ over ‘thou’ forms – in Fletcher and Shakespeare’s
Henry VIII suggests that ‘a consciousness of authenticity might manifest
itself in the language of the play, and specifically in the language of upper-
class court interchange: perhaps the language of the play is deliberately
modern, aping contemporary court usage, just as the events portrayed are
self-consciously related to the contemporary events of the Jacobean court’,
The Authorship of Shakespeare’s Plays: A Socio-Linguistic Study (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1994), 82–3.
17
The Second Part of Henrie the Fourth (London, 1600), sigs. D3v, D4r. All
citations are taken from this edition, which appears to be a more accurate text
than the folio for the scenes with which I am concerned here.
18
The OED’s earliest citation, and the earliest that I have been able to find,
is from Thomas Norton’s Orations of Arsanes Agaynst Philip the Trecherous
Kyng of Macedone (London, 1560 ?), sig. B4v; it is perhaps notable that
a 1546 proclamation regarding the use of hand-guns refers only to ‘hand
gounnes, hagbusshes, or other gunnes’ (A Proclamacion Divised by the Kynges
Highnes with Thadvise of his Most Honourable Counsaile, for the Restraynte
of Shootyng in Handgunnes [London, 1547]). As A. R. Humphreys notes,
Shakespeare’s character ‘is well named, the early pistol being erratic, stupen-
dously noisy, and less dangerous than it sounded.’ See Humphreys, ed., The
Second Part of King Henry IV (London: Methuen, 1977), 67–8. See also Paul
A. Jorgensen, ‘“My Name is Pistol Call’d”’, Shakespeare Quarterly 1 (1950):
73–5.
19
See the OED swagger v. 1; swaggerer, n.; swaggering, n.; swaggering, adj.
Ile see her damnd first, to Plutoes damnd lake by this hand
to th’infernal deep, with erebus & tortures vile also: holde,
hooke and line, say I: downe, downe, dogges, down faters
haue we not Hiren here? (sigs. D4v-E1r)
20
In ‘The Birth of Pistol’, Review of English Studies 10 (1959): 56–8 (57).
21
‘Shakespeare’s French Fruits’, Shakespeare Survey 6 (1953): 79–90.
22
A Chronicle at Large and Meere History of the Affayres of Englande and
Kinges of the Same (London, 1569), 2:598 (sig. 3F6v).
23
See The Battle of Alcazar, ed. W. W. Greg (Oxford: Malone Society,
1907), ll. 1230–54; E. K. Chambers, The Elizabethan Stage, 4 vols (Oxford:
Clarendon, 1923), 3:462.
24
See, for instance, Alison Thorne’s otherwise excellent essay, ‘There is
a History in All Men’s Lives: Reinventing History in 2 Henry IV’, in
Shakespeare’s Histories and Counter-Histories, ed. Dermot Cavanagh, Stuart
Hampton-Reeves and Stephen Longstaffe (Manchester: Manchester University
Press, 2006), 49–66 (64).
25
‘The Language of Tragedy’, in The Cambridge Companion to Shakespearean
Tragedy, ed. Claire McEachern (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2002), 23–49 (23).
Hall’s production falls into the trap of being just a bit too
mature for its own good. I’d have liked to have seen his
star turn, Peter Bowles, camping it up with a cod Spanish
accent as Don Adriano de Armado – instead he gave an
old-timer’s comic take with posh accent and rolled r’s and
accentuated t’s[.]27
26
Paul Menzer and Thadd McQuade, ‘Ink, Inc’, paper delivered at the
‘Shakespeare’s Globe Gesture Lab’, London, 5 November 2010.
27
‘New Labour’s, New Danger; … but Peter Hall’s Staging Lets Shakespeare’s
Comedy Speak for Itself’, Sunday Telegraph, 2 November 2008, 31.
28
‘Tennant’s Labours not Lost on Bard Lovers’, Independent, 9 October 2008,
12.
29
‘France Under Siege in Central Park’, Variety, 21–27 July 2003, 37.
30
Filming Shakespeare’s Plays: The Adaptations of Laurence Olivier, Orson
Welles, Peter Brook, Akira Kurosawa (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1988), 32.
31
Lingua: or The Combat of the Tongue, and the Fiue Senses for Superiority
(London, 1607), sig. H3r.
32
The Dramatic Censor; or, Critical Companion, 2 vols (London, 1770),
2:364.
33
Gary Taylor, ed., Henry V (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1982), 65.
34
‘Shakespeare in the San Francisco Bay Area’, Shakespeare Quarterly 29
(1978): 267–78 (271).
their first shew thriue, these foure will change habites, and
present the other fiue. (ll. 2477–82)
36
Gabriel Harvey’s Marginalia, collected and edited by G. C. Moore Smith
(Stratford-upon-Avon: Shakespeare Head Press, 1913), 170.
Conclusion
In a recent essay on Love’s Labour’s Lost, Lynne Magnusson
notes that Don Armado is ‘a surefire stimulus to theatrical
pleasure.’38 The title-pages of Love’s Labour’s Lost and 2
Henry IV suggest the ability of Armado and Pistol to provoke
pleasure in both playgoers and readers. Yet I have argued in
37
See the OED, conceited, 1c, 2a, 4a.
38
‘Armado and the Politics of English’, 53.
Miriam Jacobson
1
William Shakespeare, The Norton Shakespeare, vol. 2, Later Plays, ed.
Stephen Greenblatt, Walter Cohen, Jean Howard, Katherine Maus and
Andrew Gurr (New York: Norton, 2009), 153.
2
David Bevington, ed., The Necessary Shakespeare (3rd edn, New York:
Longman, 2008), 574.
3
Shakespeare, Hamlet, ed. Neil Taylor and Ann Thompson, Arden Shakespeare
(London: Thompson Learning, 2006), 283.
4
See Michel Pastoureau, Blue: The History of a Colour (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 2001), 23–5.
5
See Victoria Findlay, Colour: A Natural History of the Palette (London:
Ballantine Books, 2002), 228–9.
6
See Miriam Jacobson, Chapter 4, ‘On Chapman Crossing Marlowe’s
These merchants trading for the first time with the Ottomans
were urged to conceal their entire mercantile agendas, not only
from other merchants trading in the Mediterranean, but also
from the English public. In a private letter to the first members
of the Levant Company in 1581, Elizabeth’s secretary and
spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham urges merchants to conceal
their journey’s purposes and to let ‘lies be given out.’9
Walsingham’s advice to English traders is both not to reveal
any information about which commodities they are trading
with the Ottomans as well as to conceal the fact that they
are trading with the Ottomans at all. Though Elizabeth’s
Protestant England formed an alliance with Muslim Turkey
to confront a common European Catholic enemy, the general
English populace may still have felt politically and religiously
betrayed by their own government if they were to discover
the full scale of Anglo-Ottoman diplomatic trade relations.
Jonathan Burton’s analysis of early modern Anglo-Ottoman
trade goes further: ‘[F]rom its foundation, England’s policy
on trade with the Ottoman Empire depended upon saying one
thing and doing another.’10
If English trading privileges with the Ottoman Empire were
publicized, whether in print in England or by word of mouth
in the Mediterranean, such publicity would have threatened
the entire Anglo-Ottoman enterprise. The Bark Roe affair
serves as a good example of this. In the middle of one of his
diplomatic missions to Turkey, William Harborne’s merchants
the shopping lists Walsingham sent Levant Company officers departing for the
East: indigo, rubia, kermes, gum lac, sal ammoniacke and alum, all materials
used in the dyeing and paint-making processes appear of chief interest to
English importers. See ‘Lord Burghley’s notes on towns and commodities of
the Levant’, in S. A. Skillerter, William Harborne and the Trade with Turkey
1578–1582 (London: British Academy, 1977), Document 30, 177.
9
S. A. Skilleter, William Harborne and the Trade with Turkey (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 1970), Doc. 1A, 33.
10
Jonathan Burton, Traffic and Turning: Islam and English Drama, 1579–1624
(Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2005), 59.
11
See Skilleter, William Harborne, 154–8.
12
Ibid., 167.
13
See the OED, ‘colour’ v. and Alan Stewart, ‘“Come from Turkie”:
Mediterranean Trade in Late Elizabethan London’, in Remapping
the Mediterranean World in Early Modern English Writings, ed. Goran
Stanivukovic (New York: Palgrave, 2007), 157–77.
14
See George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (London, 1589), 150.
15
Ibid., 166.
16
Ibid.
17
See James J. Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages: A History of Rhetorical
Theory from Augustine to the Renaissance (Berkeley and Los Angeles:
University of California Press, 1974), 151–205.
18
Puttenham, Arte of English Poesie, 150.
19
In Chapter 4 of Barbarous Antiquity, I connect mercantile colouring and
diplomatic dissimulation to rhetorical and poetic colouring as well, but that
argument goes on to make larger claims about Anglo-Ottoman diplomacy
itself as poetic, and early modern poetry as diplomatic, whereas here I pursue
a different line of inquiry, investigating the role of rhetorical and theatrical
dissimulation and its connection to the materiality of writing in Hamlet.
21
Margreta de Grazia and George Walton Williams both point out the
connection Hamlet is making between himself and a long line of Brutuses
by adopting a disposition that is both antic (ludic) and antique (Roman).
See Margreta de Grazia, ‘Hamlet the Intellectual,’ in The Public Intellectual,
ed. Helen Small (Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2002), 89–109; George
Walton Williams, ‘Antique Romans and Modern Danes in Hamlet and
Julius Caesar’, in Literature and Nationalism, ed. Vincent Newey and Ann
Thompson (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1991), 41–55. See also my
Introduction to Barbarous Antiquity.
22
Robert Cawdrey, A Table Alphabeticall (London, 1604).
23
Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the
Materials of Memory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 248.
24
Michel Pastoureau, Black: The History of a Colour (Princeton, NJ:
Princeton University Press, 2009), 98; and The Devil’s Cloth: A History of
Stripes and Striped Fabric (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991).
25
John Cox, The Devil and the Sacred in English Drama, 1350–1642
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 5–6.
26
Patricia Fumerton has argued that early modern interiority is something that
resists signification, in Cultural Aesthetics: Renaissance Literature and the
Practice of Social Ornament (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992).
27
John Gage narrates this moment in the history of science from an art
historian’s perspective in Colour and Culture: Practice and Meaning from
Antiquity to Abstraction (New York: Little, Brown, 1993), 153–76.
28
Pastoureau, Black, 119. Pastoureau compares polychromatic images from
medieval illuminated manuscripts with black and white woodcuts and text
from early modern printed books.
29
Pastoureau, Black, 103.
30
Michael Bristol, ‘Shakespeare’s Sonnets and the Publication of Melancholy’,
in Making Publics in Early Modern Europe, eds Paul Yachnin and Bronwen
Wilson (London: Routledge, 2009), 193–211; Olga Valbuena, ‘“The Dyer’s
Hand”: The Reproduction of Coercion and Blot in Shakespeare’s Sonnets’,
in Shakespeare’s Sonnets: Critical Essays, ed. James Schiffer (New York:
Garland, 2000), 325–46.
31
Chameleons were emblems of the protean aspect of nature itself and were
frequently featured in cabinets of curiosities. See Paula Findlen, Possessing
Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Europe
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 298–303. Findlen cites the
Dutch naturalist Isaac Schookius (1671), who compared the chameleon’s
colour-changing to an actor’s role-playing, as well as Pico della Mirandola,
who saw human nature’s adaptive abilities illustrated in the metamorphic
nature of the chameleon. Findlen, Possessing Nature, 300.
32
Impressed by the gravedigger’s wit, Hamlet intimates that the classes
are mingling if a peasant is able to scratch a blister on his toe, or ‘gall his
kibe’ (5.1.130) on the heel of a courtier. This unsettling image of galling as
scratching, oozing and mingling reminds us not only of the wayward nature
of early modern ink and language but also of the early modern argument that
the printing press was common.
J. A. Shea
1
Henry Nicholson Ellacombe, Shakespeare as an Angler (London: Elliot
Stock, 1883), 14. I thank Sara Coodin for introducing me to this book.
2
Ibid., 15.
3
I am thinking here of what is perhaps the most famous English treatise
on angling, Izaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler (1653) and also of John
Dennys’s earlier work The Secrets of Angling (1613). Both texts present
angling as a Christian and contemplative art, one which demands patience
and wit and gives the angler the rare opportunity to experience the diversity
of God’s natural wonders. See Izaak Walton, The Compleat Angler or the
Contemplative Man’s Recreation (London, 1653). See also John Dennys, The
Secrets of Angling Teaching, the Choisest Tooles Baytes and Seasons (London,
1613).
4
Ellacombe says, ‘Yet I think there is little doubt that he [Shakespeare] was
a successful angler, and had probably enjoyed many a day’s fishing in the
Warwickshire and Gloucestershire streams, to which he looked back with
pleasant and refreshing memories while he lived and wrote in London’ (8–9).
5
Ibid., 5.
6
I revisit antitheatricalist discourse and especially cony-catching literature
later in this chapter. For the treatment of con artists in legislation, see England,
and Sovereign Wales, An Acte for Punishment of Rogues, Vagabonds and
Sturdie Beggers (1598). This act criminalized wandering players along with
masterless entertainers and con artists, classifying them together as rogues and
vagabonds.
7
According to the OED, definitions of ‘entertainment’ in the period included:
Def. 2a, ‘The action of maintaining persons in one’s service, or of taking
persons into service. Also, the state or fact of being maintained in or taken
into service; service, employment’; and also Def. 2b, meaning ‘wages’ or ‘pay.’
This and all subsequent entries are from OED Online (accessed 23 August
2013).
8
See Steven R. Mentz, ‘Wearing Greene: Autolycus, Robert Greene, and the
Structure of Romance in The Winter’s Tale’, Renaissance Drama 30 (1999):
73–92. See also Barbara Mowat, ‘Rogues, Shepherds and The Counterfeit
Distressed: Texts and Infracontexts of The Winter’s Tale 4.3’, Shakespeare
Studies 22 (1994): 58–76. Greene wrote six cony-catching texts between
1591 and 1592, and most critics suggest that it is Greene’s The Second Part of
Conny-catching that most influenced the Autolycan subplot (Mentz, ‘Wearing
Green’, 73n. 1; Mowat, ‘Rogues’, 61).
9
B. J. Sokol, Art and Illusion in The Winter’s Tale (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 1994).
HERMIONE
If you would seek us,
We are yours i’ th’ garden. Shall’s attend you there?
LEONTES
To your own bents dispose you; you’ll be found,
Be you beneath the sky. [Aside] I am angling now,
Though you perceive me not how I give line.
Go to, go to!
How she holds up the neb! the bill to him!
And arms her with the boldness of a wife
To her allowing husband! (1.2.178–84).10
10
Unless noted otherwise, citations from the play come from G. Blakemore
Evans, ed., The Riverside Shakespeare, with corrections and additions
(6th edn, Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1974).
11
See The Riverside Shakespeare; The Winter’s Tale, ed. John H. P. Pafford
(London: Methuen, 1963); The Winter’s Tale, ed. Stephen Orgel (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1995); The Winter’s Tale, ed. Susan Snyder and Deborah
T. Curren-Aquino (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). Leontes,
in the lines above, will rely on secrecy and cunning as did the early modern
fisherman. In one of the earliest extant manuals on fishing, Juliana Berners
suggests that ‘the fyrste and pryncypall poynt in anglynge’ is to ‘kepe ye euer
fro the water fro the sighte of the fysshe: other ferre on the londe: or ellys
behynde a busshe that the fysshe se you not’ (sig. H4v). See Juliana Berners,
The Booke of Hauking, Huntyng and Fysshyng (London, 1518). The idea
that the fisherman should disguise or hide himself must have persisted into
the sixteenth century, for Dennys advises wearing camouflage garments while
fishing (sig. B5v) and Walton suggests that the fisherman ‘get secretly behinde
the tree’ so that the fish don’t retreat in fear (p. 52). Leontes will also rely
on the fish’s own instinct to retreat. Giving line describes giving fish the free
play to tire themselves out – a technique used then and now, one facilitated
nowadays by the drag mechanism. As Dent noticed, giving line was also
proverbial for giving someone enough rope to hang himself (Orgel, Snyder).
12
See OED ‘angle’ Def. n.1.1–2: ‘fish hook,’ fishing ‘apparatus’, or 2. fig.
someone or something that ‘ensnares like a hook.’ Def. n.2 describes ‘angle’
as, among other things, a ‘corner’, ‘vertex’ or ‘projection.’ See ‘Etymology’
on the word’s relationship to ‘ancient Greek ‘ἀγκών bend of the arm, nook,
bend, angle, ἀγκύλος crooked, curved.’ While OED suggests that the English
word didn’t come to mean bend or curve until the eighteenth century (Def.
n.2.7), MED Def. n.2(c) demonstrates that ‘angle’ was used to describe curves
as early as the fourteenth century.
13
The metaphor of recasting, one which at once refers to fishing and acting,
seems particularly apt here as Leontes is baiting Hermione and Polixenes,
waiting for them to slip as he pretends to grant them a certain amount of
latitude.
14
I cite here the 1573 edition of Harman’s Caveat. When possible, I have
retained the original spelling, though for ease of reading I have modernized
certain letters, bracketed above. See Thomas Harman, A Caveat or Warening
for Common Cursetors Vulgarely Called Vagabones (London, 1573), sigs.
B4r–B4v.
15
Greene uses the term ‘angler’ throughout The Blacke Bookes Messenger
Laying Open the Life and Death of Ned Browne One of the Most Notable
Cutpurses, Crosbiters, and Conny-catchers, That Euer Liued in England
(London, 1592).
16
See Robert Greene, The Second Part of Conny-Catching Contayning the
Discouery of Certaine Wondrous Coosenages, Either Superficiallie Past Ouer,
or Vtterlie Vntoucht in the First (London, 1591).
17
Ibid., sigs. E3v–E4r.
18
Thomas Dekker, The Belman of London Bringing to Light the Most
Notorious Villanies that are Now Practised in the Kingdome (London, 1608),
sigs. G2v; G1r–G2v. Greene in Second Conny-Catching also mentions the
‘figging boy’ (sig. E4r).
19
In The Blacke Bookes Messenger see, for instance, ‘A merry [J]east how Ned
Brownes wife was crosse bitten in her owne Arte’, sigs. D2v–D3r.
20
In A Notable Discouery of Coosenage, Greene defines the ‘Cros-biting law.’
He says, it ‘is a publike profession of shameles cosnage, mired with incestuous
whoredomes’ where ‘base rogues … doth consent, nay constraine their wives
to yeeld the use of their bodies to other men, that taking them together, he
may cros-bite the partie of all the crownes he presently can make … that
the world may see their monstrous practises.’ See A Notable Discouery of
Coosenage (London, 1591), sig. D1r. See also the character Nan, a female
cony catcher, in Greene’s A Disputation, Betweene a Hee Conny-catcher, and
a Shee Conny-catcher (London, 1592). Nan says to a male cony catcher, ‘you
know Laurence that though you can foyst, nyp, prig, list courbe, and vse the
blacke Art, yet you cannot crosbite without the helpe of a woman, which
crosbiting now adaies is growne to a maruellous profitable exercise’ (sig.
C1r).
21
The Blacke Bookes Messenger, sigs. D2v–D3r.
22
Harman, Caveat, sig. B4v.
23
Dekker, The Belman of London, sig. G2v.
24
Ibid.; Harman, Caveat, sig. B4v; OED, ‘doxy’ Def. n.1.
25
For more on juggling and its relationship to angling, see J. A. Shea, ‘The
Juggler in Shakespeare: Con-artistry, Illusionism, and Popular Magic in Three
Plays’ (PhD diss., McGill University, 2011).
26
Dekker, The Belman of London, sig. G2r.
27
For musical definition, see Blakemore Evans, Riverside Shakespeare,
n.1.2.118. The term ‘mort’ is used to mean ‘harlot’ throughout cony catching
literature. See, for instance, Harman, Caveat, sigs. F1v–F4r.
28
Harman, Caveat, sig. B1v, C4r.
29
Greene, Second Conny-Catching, sigs. C3v–D2v. Greene suggests that foists
are like nips, but use their hand to lift pockets rather than a knife to cut purse
strings.
30
Harman, Caveat, sigs. B4v–C1r.
31
Greene says, ‘The Courber, which the common people call the Hooker, is he
that with a Curbe (as they tearme it) or hooke, do pull out of a windowe any
loose linnen cloth, apparel or other houshold stuffe what soeuer, wh[at] stolne
parcells, they in their Art call snappinges’ (sig. E3v); Dekker, The Belman of
London, sig. G2r-v.
32
Richard Meek, ‘Ekphrasis in The Rape of Lucrece and The Winter’s Tale’,
Studies in English Literature 46, no. 2 (2006): 389–414. See especially
396–401.
33
MED, 4.c. Such connotations were striking counterpoints to the crook’s
iconic status as a symbol of good guidance – Jesus is represented throughout
the Geneva New Testament as both a fisher of men and a shepherd of
lost souls, and our English words ‘pastor’ (Christian spiritual leader) and
‘pastoral’ (the genre to which play’s subplot belongs) come from the Latin
‘pāstor’, shepherd. See pastor, n and pastoral n. and adj. (OED).
34
The irony here is, of course, that Polixenes does the same thing.
1. GENTLEMAN
The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings
and princes, for by such it was acted.
3. GENTLEMAN
One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled
for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish)
was when, at the relation of the Queen’s death … she
[Perdita] did, (with an ‘Alas!’), I would fain say, bleed
35
Furness, however, suggests this may be a printer’s error. See Horace Howard
Furness, ed., A New Variorum Edition of Shakespeare: Volume 11, The
Winter’s Tale (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1898), 4.2.46–7.
36
See above, footnote 33.
37
He remarks, ‘Are we not baulked? In proportion as we have paid tribute to
the art of the story by letting our interest be intrigued, our emotion excited,
are we not cheated when Shakespeare lets us down with this reported
tale?’ (266). See Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Notes on Shakespeare’s
Workmanship (New York: Henry Holt, 1917).
38
See Meek, ‘Ekphrasis’, especially 393–5.
39
See both Reginald Scot’s (1584) and Nicholas Partridge’s (1538) account of
the discovery of the mechanics behind the Rood of Grace, a statue of Christ
that was said to have movable eyes and shed tears (Scot 137–8; Butterworth
124–5). See also Leo Koerner’s discussion of the Jetzler hoax at Bern, in
which two Dominican monks supposedly made a statue of the Pietà bleed
tears (146–7). Reginald Scot, The Discouerie of Witchcraft (London, 1584);
Letter by Partridge rept. in Philip Butterworth, Magic on the Early English
Stage (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005); Joseph Leo Koerner,
The Reformation of the Image (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004).
40
Stephen Gosson, Playes Confuted (London, 1582), sig. E7v.
41
Ibid., sig. C7r.
42
William Rankins, A Mirrour of Monsters (London, 1587), sig. B2v.
***
Lynne Magnusson
2
William Lily [and John Colet], A Shorte Introduction of Grammar (1567),
introd. Vincent J. Flynn (New York: Scholars’ Facsimiles and Reprints, 1945),
sig. B3v. For a complementary articulation of the importance of grammatical
mood in early Shakespeare, with examples from Titus Andronicus and
Richard III, see Lynne Magnusson, ‘A Play of Modals: Grammar and
Potential Action in Early Shakespeare,’ Shakespeare Survey 62 (2009): 69–80.
Also treating grammatical mood in ways relevant to the interpretation of
Renaissance drama or literature and influential on my approach are Alysia
Kolentsis, ‘‘Mark you/ His absolute shall?’ Multitudinous Tongues and
Contested Words in Coriolanus’, Shakespeare Survey 62 (2009): 141–50;
Hugh Craig, ‘Grammatical Modality in English Plays from the 1580s to
the 1640s’, English Literary Renaissance 30 (2000): 32–54; and Brian
Cummings, The Literary Culture of the Reformation: Grammar and Grace
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).
3
Sidney, Apology, 102.
4
See Gary Taylor, ‘Shakespeare and Others: The Authorship of Henry the Sixth,
Part One’, Medieval and Renaissance Drama in England 7 (1995): 145–205;
and Brian Vickers, ‘Incomplete Shakespeare: Or, Denying Coauthorship in
1 Henry VI’, Shakespeare Quarterly 58, no. 3 (Fall 2007): 311–52.
5
Taylor, ‘Shakespeare and Others’, esp. 168–9 and 196.
6
Compare the arguments based on cognitive theory in Mary Thomas Crane,
7
John Brinsley, Ludus Literarius, or The Grammar Schoole (London:
Thomas Man, 1612), 53–70. See also the repeated accounts of recitation
regimes in T. W. Baldwin, William Shakspere’s Small Latine & Lesse
Greeke, 2 vols (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1944), for example vol.
1, 426.
8
John Astington, Actors and Acting in Shakespeare’s Time: The Art of Stage
Playing (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 38–47.
9
Lynn Enterline’s book, Shakespeare’s Schoolroom: Rhetoric, Discipline,
Emotion (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), accents
regimes of punishment as a key part of the theatricality of the Elizabethan
classroom, a topic she brings to life in exciting new ways.
10
Gabriel Harvey, Pierces Supererogation, or a New Prayse of the Old Asse
(London: John Wolfe, 1593), 118.
11
Francis Bacon, ‘A Letter, to the Lord Chancellor, Touching the history, of
Britaine’, in Resuscitatio, Or, Bringing into Publick Light Severall Pieces of
the Works, ed. William Rawley (London: William Lee, 1657), sigs. Ddd3v–
Ddd4v (Ddd4r). The online Bacon Correspondence Catalogue (developed by
Alan Stewart and Jan Broadway and based at the Centre for Early Lives and
Letters, http://www.livesandletters.ac.uk/bacon/baconindex.html) dates this
letter to Thomas Egerton, Lord Ellesmere, 2 April 1605 (accessed 23 August
2012).
12
All quotations from Shakespeare’s plays are cited from The Norton
Shakespeare Based on the Oxford Edition, 2nd edn, gen. ed. Stephen
Greenblatt (New York and London: W. W. Norton, 2008). 1 Henry IV,
2.5.439; Richard III, 1.1.145; Twelfth Night, 3.1.133.
13
William Lily, A Shorte Introduction of Grammar, sigs. B4r–B4v.
14
Baldwin, William Shakspere’s Smalle Latine & Lesse Greeke, 1:557–80.
15
Thomas Nashe, A Pleasant Comedie, called Summers Last Will and
Testament (London: Water Burre, 1600), sig. G3v.
16
John Brinsley, The Posing of the Parts (London: Thomas Man, 1612), sigs.
E4r–v.
17
Lily, Shorte Introduction of Grammar, sig. B2v. I have modernized i/j and
u/v.
18
Ian Michael, English Grammatical Categories and the Tradition to 1800
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 114–15.
19
F. Th. Visser, ‘The Terms “Subjunctive” and “Indicative”’, English Studies
36 (1955): 205–8, esp. 205.
20
See Michael, English Grammatical Categories, 114, and Cummings, The
Literary Culture of the Reformation, 125–6.
21
Magnusson, ‘A Play of Modals’, esp. 79–80.
22
Lily, Shorte Introduction of Grammar, sig. B2v.
24
Thomas Nashe, Piers Penilesse his Supplication to the Diuell, in Works, ed.
Ronald B. McKerrow (London: A. H. Bullen, 1904), vol. 1, 149–245, esp. 212.
25
Ibid., 212.
26
There is some controversy about this definition. On Alleyn, see Michael
Taylor, ‘Introduction’, Henry VI, Part One (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2003), 4; on Richard Burbage as a candidate, see Anthony B. Dawson
and Paul Yachnin, The Culture of Playgoing in Shakespeare’s England: A
Collaborative Debate (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 14.
27
If Gary Taylor’s attribution of Act One to Nashe is valid, then (ironically)
Nashe himself is the one collaborator who does not contribute significantly to
the invention of history in the potential mood in this play that I am arguing for.
MESSENGER
All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train
Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts
So much applauded through the realm of France?
TALBOT
Here is the Talbot. Who would speak with him?
MESSENGER
The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne …
By me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe
To visit her poor castle where she lies,
That she may boast she hath beheld the man
COUNTESS
The plot is laid. If all things fall out right,
I shall as famous be by this exploit
As Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus’ death …
Fain would mine eyes be witness with mine ears,
To give their censure of these rare reports [of Talbot’s
feats]. (2.3.4–10, emphasis added)
See, for example, the identifications and misidentifications of Trojan
28
COUNTESS
What, is this the man?
MESSENGER
Madam, it is.
COUNTESS
Is this the scourge of France?
Is this the Talbot, so much feared abroad … ?
I see report is fabulous and false.
I thought I should have seen some Hercules,
A second Hector …
It cannot be this weak and writhled shrimp
Should strike such terror to his enemies. (2.3.13–23,
emphasis added)
TALBOT
No, no, I am but shadow of myself.
You are deceived; my substance is not here.
For what you see is but the smallest part
And least proportion of humanity.
I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here,
It is of such a spacious lofty pitch
Your roof were not sufficient to contain’t.
COUNTESS
This is a riddling merchant for the nonce.
He will be here, and yet he is not here.
How can these contrarieties agree? (2.3.50–9; emphasis
added)
29
Peter Saccio, Shakespeare’s English Kings: History, Chronicle, and Drama
(2nd edn, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 109.
MARGARET
And yet I would that you would answer me.
SUFFOLK
[aside] I’ll win this Lady Margaret. For whom?
Why, for my king – tush, that’s a wooden thing.
MARGARET
[aside] He talks of wood. It is some carpenter.
(5.5.43–6; emphasis added)
30
Michael Taylor, ‘Introduction’, 67.
Sarah Werner
1
All quotations from and references to Shakespeare’s plays are taken from The
Norton Shakespeare, ed. Stephen Greenblatt et al. (New York: W. W. Norton,
1997).
Despise me
If I do not. Three great ones of the city,
In personal suit to make me his lieutenant,
Off-capped to him; and by the faith of man
I know my price, I am worth no worse a place.
But he, as loving his own pride and purposes,
Evades them with a bombast circumstance
Horribly stuffed with epithets of war,
Nonsuits my mediators; for ‘Certes,’ says he,
‘I have already chose my officer.’
And what was he?
Forsooth, a great arithmetician,
One Michael Cassio, a Florentine,
A fellow almost damned in a fair wife,
That never set a squadron in the field
Nor the division of a battle knows
More than a spinster – unless the bookish theoric,
Wherein the togaed consuls can propose
As masterly as he. Mere prattle without practice
Is all his soldiership; but he, sir, had th’election,
And I – of whom his eyes had seen the proof
At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds
Christened and heathen – must be beleed and calmed
By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster,
He in good time must his lieutenant be,
And I – God bless the mark! – his Moorship’s ensign.
(1.1.7–32)
There are some odd details in this speech, even aside from the
fact that it has veered away from the question of what has
upset Roderigo. The first is that although Iago is very clear
that he hates him, who is the object of his hatred? To whom
were the great men making suit? While that question is left
dangling, we learn not only the name of Iago’s rival, but his
nationality and other specific details, including the tantalizing
description that Cassio is ‘a fellow almost damned in a fair
wife’, a phrase that scholars still puzzle over, given that Cassio
does not appear to be married in the play. The plethora of
detail lavished on Cassio’s characterization spills over so that
the pronouns referring to Cassio blur confusingly with those
referring to the as-yet-unnamed ‘he’ in lines 26 and 27: ‘he
[clearly Cassio, given the previous context and the phrase
immediately following] has th’election, / And I – of whom his
eyes [his eyes? Cassio’s eyes?] had seen the proof / At Rhodes,
Cyprus [and wait, these can’t be Cassio’s eyes, given Iago’s
insistence that Cassio knows only the theory of warfare and
has never ventured onto the battlefield; these eyes must belong
to the unnamed he].’ That usage of ‘he’ to refer to both Cassio
and the unnamed man comes again in the penultimate line of
the speech – ‘He in good time must his lieutenant be’ – and it
is not until Iago’s last line, and the last clause of the last line,
deferred by Iago’s interjection, ‘God bless the mark!’, that we
finally get a referent for the unnamed: ‘his Moorship’s ensign.’
If this blurring of pronouns seems confusing, the deictics
get even more muddled when Iago turns his attention to
waking Brabanzio. In response to Roderigo’s musing, ‘What
a full fortune does the thick-lips owe / If he can carry’t thus’
(remember: what is ‘it’ here?), Iago proclaims:
2
Othello, ed. Norman Sanders, New Cambridge Shakespeare (updated edn,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 1.1.69n.
3
Othello, ed. E. A. J. Honigmann, Arden Shakespeare, 3rd series (London:
Bloomsbury, 1997), 1.1.68n.
4
Othello, the Moor of Venice, ed. Michael Neill, Oxford Shakespeare
for, sir,
It is as sure as you are Roderigo,
Were I the Moor I would not be Iago.
In following him I follow but myself.
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so for my peculiar end.
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. I am not what I am. (1.1.55–65)
Here, even when the referents seem to be the most spelled out,
they circle back in on themselves. ‘Were I the Moor I would
not be Iago.’ ‘I am not what I am.’ What does an audience
learn from this, other than to not be sure about trusting Iago,
5
Honigmann’s introduction to his edition provides a concise overview of the
critical debates about the time scheme of the play’s action (68–72). Even
the play’s textual history and the differences between the quarto and folio
versions adds to the play’s instability.
6
John Bullokar, An English Expositor Teaching the Interpretation of
the Hardest Words Vsed in Our Language. With Sundry Explications,
Descriptions, and Discourses (London: Iohn Legatt, 1616), sig. L6v.
7
For a brief overview of the history of performance scholarship and
Shakespeare, see my introduction to New Directions in Renaissance Drama
and Performance Studies (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 1–11.
8
See Lukas Erne, Shakespeare as Literary Dramatist (Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2003); for a critique, see W. B. Worthen, ‘Intoxicating
Rhythms: Or, Shakespeare, Literary Drama, and Performance (Studies)’,
Shakespeare Quarterly 62 (2011): 309–39.
9
Andrew James Hartley, ‘Page and Stage Again: Rethinking Renaissance
Character Phenomenologically’, in New Directions in Renaissance Drama
and Performance Studies, 77–93.
10
Carolyn Sale, ‘Black Aeneas: Race, English Literary History, and the
“Barbarous” Poetics of Titus Andronicus’, Shakespeare Quarterly 62 (2011):
25–52.
11
There is a long history of thinking of theatre through semiotics; see, for
example, Keir Elam, The Semiotics of Theater and Drama (London; New
York: Methuen, 1980); and Erika Fischer-Lichte, The Semiotics of Theater,
trans. Jeremy Gaines and Doris L. Jones (Bloomington: Indiana University
Press, 1983). I am less interested in theatrical semiotics than I am in seeing
theatrical languages as relevant to literary study.
12
For more on their production of Hamlet, see Sarah Werner, ‘Two Hamlets:
Wooster Group and Synetic Theater’, Shakespeare Quarterly 59 (2008):
323–9; W. B. Worthen, ‘Hamlet at Ground Zero: The Wooster Group and
the Archive of Performance’, Shakespeare Quarterly 59 (2008): 303–22; and
William N. West, ‘Replaying Early Modern Performances’, in New Directions
in Renaissance Drama and Performance Studies, 30–50. For Troilus and
Cressida, see Thomas P. Cartelli, ‘“The Killing Stops Here”: Unmaking the
Myths of Troy in the Wooster Group / RSC Troilus & Cressida (2012)’,
Shakespeare Quarterly 64 (2013): 233–43.
13
See Christian M. Billing, ‘The Roman Tragedies’, Shakespeare Quarterly
61 (2010): 415–39; and Sarah Werner, ‘Audiences’, in Shakespeare and the
Making of Theatre, ed. Stuart Hampton-Reeves and Bridget Escolme (New
York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 165–79.
14
See, for example, W. B. Worthen, Drama: Between Poetry and Performance
(Chichester and Malden, MA: Wiley-Blackwell, 2010); and Barbara Hodgdon,
‘Introduction’, A Companion to Shakespeare and Performance (Oxford:
Blackwell, 2005), 1–9.
1
This and all following quotations from the play are from the edition by N. W.
Bawcutt (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994).
2
Oxford English Dictionary, ‘wilderness’ (accessed 27 June 2011).
3
Isabella’s initial response (1.4.45–9) to the news of Julietta’s pregnancy
sounds like happy surprise. The Provost and Escalus share her lack of moral
disapproval. See 2.1.4–16 and 2.2.3–6 respectively.
***
4
Mark Johnson, The Body in the Mind: The Bodily Basis of Meaning,
Imagination, and Reason (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 1,
xiv–xv. George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (1980;
rpt. with a new Afterword, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003).
See the foundational work by Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Phenomenology
of Perception, trans. Colin Smith (rpt. London and New York: Routledge,
2010), esp. 202–32.
5
All Shakespeare quotes other than those from Measure for Measure are from
the Riverside Shakespeare, ed. G. Blakemore Evans et al. (2nd edn, Boston:
Houghton Mifflin, 1997).
6
Lakoff and Johnson, Metaphors We Live By, 56.
7
George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied
Mind and its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999),
34.
***
8
Claudio enjoins Lucio to ‘Implore her in my voice’ (1.2.178).
Thomas how he hopes Angelo will restore the moral order that
he, the Duke himself, has allowed to break down:
9
Measure for Measure, ed. Bawcutt, pp. 231–2.
10
Iago develops an elaborated version of the ‘weed / garden / gardener’
metaphor in Othello, 1.3.320–2.
11
For a suggestion along these lines, see Measure for Measure, ed. Brian
Gibbons (updated edn, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006),
1.3.21n.
***
‘Slips’ are people and plants, and they also have a place in
the economic, political and social domains of the play-world.
It makes sense for Isabella to call her brother a slip, not
only because slips are moral faults, but also because slips
are counterfeit coins (just as Isabella suggests that Claudio
is a counterfeit son). ‘You gave us the counterfeit fairly last
12
The ‘fat weed’ is from Hamlet, 1.5.32–3.
night,’ Mercutio says to Romeo, ‘The slip, sir, the slip, can
you not conceive?’ (Romeo and Juliet, 2.4.45–8). The slip as
counterfeit coin was resonant for the McGill production. Act
Four is filled with counterfeits. Vincentio’s gnomic ‘When vice
makes mercy, mercy’s so extended / That for the fault’s love is
the offender friended’ puns on ‘faults’ and ‘false’ but glances
also at the idea of the counterfeit (4.2.112). The Provost
attempts to tame the incorrigible Barnardine: ‘We have very
oft awakened him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed
him a seeming warrant for it; it hath not moved him at all’
(4.2. 150–3). Claudio’s death is counterfeited and Ragozine’s
head is presented to Angelo as proof of the execution (4.2.99).
The Duke uses Marianna as a counterfeit Isabella and has her
slip into Angelo’s garden house for the bed-trick. Ironically,
Marianna is not a counterfeit at all; rather, she is Angelo’s
true wife.
The idea of the slip as counterfeit coin raises important
questions about political and social power – what is legit-
imate and what is not? How do some things and people
achieve legitimacy while others don’t? How are we to tell the
difference between the legitimate and the illegitimate? Ideally,
the image of the monarch impressed on the coin’s face confers
legitimacy and value on the coin. Angelo’s second speech in
the play is:
It were as good
To pardon him that hath from nature stolen
A man already made, as to remit
Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image
In stamps that are forbid. ’Tis all as easy
Falsely to take away a life true-made,
***
***
14
Johnson, Body in the Mind, 42.
15
Ibid., 45.
16
Ibid., 42.
***
17
Measure for Measure, 1.2.121n.
18
For Angelo’s coldness, see 1.4.57–9 and 3.1.370–2.
ANGELO
Yet give leave, my lord,
That we may bring you something on the way.
DUKE
My haste may not admit it.
…
Give me your hand;
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,
For the connections between Machiavelli and the play, see Steven Mullaney,
19
The Place of the Stage: License, Play, and Power in Renaissance England
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 88–92. For Machiavelli, see
The Prince, trans. George Bull (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1999), 79–82.
20
The speech, of course, is intended to be spoken to Vincentio. The produc-
tion’s decision to have Isabella speak to Mariana turned the speech into a
gesture of solidarity between the two women, as if the real forgiveness had to
come from Mariana rather than from the Duke. The shift changed the focus
of the scene from the political and legal to the psychological.
This is the most moving speech in the play. It is also the most
slippery. In law, of course, the intentions of the accused,
especially in a capital crime, must be ascertained in order
for judgement to be rendered. ‘Thoughts are no subjects’ is
true only if the thought in question is not connected to an
action. In this particular case, Angelo’s intentions are certainly
pertinent since the distinction between his use or abuse of
power is a matter of the thought-content of his act. It only
makes matters worse to claim, as Isabella does, that Angelo
was well intentioned until he looked on her. The judge cannot
be exonerated from wrongdoing because his wickedness was
occasioned by lust for the accused man’s sister. Isabella is
twisting logic and law and bracketing her first-hand experience
of Angelo’s brutality. Her speech is itself a ‘warpèd slip’, a
crooked utterance that comes from a former straight-talker.
But, like the other slips we have noted, it emerges as a form
of self-disclosure and, here but also elsewhere in the play, as
a means toward the achievement of a complex goal. Isabella’s
genuflection and crooked speaking are ways of moving under
pressure. She fulfils Mariana’s request, resists the authority
of the Duke, asserts her independence, and honours her own
espousal of the value of judicial mercy in a way that anticipates
and facilitates the mercy of the state that ends the play.
Meredith Evans
1
If it wouldn’t implicate my student in this chapter’s flaws, I would name John
Casey co-author. For helping me to develop an inchoate paper into something
more substantial, I am grateful to the members of the 2013 SAA seminar on
‘Sovereignty and Sexuality in Early Modern Drama’, especially Daniel Juan
Gil for facilitating the seminar, and Aaron Kunin for his characteristically
shrewd and generous feedback. Finally, I thank Paul Yachnin for his kind
patience and for some very timely words of encouragement.
All’s Well That Ends Well, ed. G. K. Hunter, Arden Shakespeare (London:
2
Routledge, 1994). Unless otherwise noted, quotations are from this edition.
3
Complete Works of William Shakespeare, ed. David Bevington (New York:
Longman, 2008), 1.3.240, differs from Sylvan Barnett’s 1965 Signet edition,
which, like Hunter’s 1994 Arden edition, prints ‘captious and inteemable’,
and gives basically the same gloss (1.3.240f.).
4
OED a.1, and Hunter (31n. 197).
out again)’; it is not only captious but retentive.5 Yet, the ‘still
common’6 use of ‘teem’ requires further definition. To pour
out, to drain, to empty – or else to be full of, swarming with
life: these are all at play in the metaphor Helena draws, just as
being drained or overflowing are not mighty opposites in All’s
Well, but recurrent, overlapping tropes for multiple actions or
states. For instance, the King’s fistula needs draining; Helena’s
‘too capable’ heart / memory threatens to undo her if it isn’t
lanced (1.1.93); virginity ‘breeds mites … consumes itself
to the very paring’ (1.1.139–40). Instead of allowing for a
multiplicity of meaning, Hunter’s paraphrase is disorienting.
Surely it matters whether the emphasis falls on love’s parthe-
nogenetic capacity to sustain and reproduce itself (to breed
mites, as it were) or constitutive deprivation (its cheesy self-
consumption). If what’s been ‘poured in’ cannot be ‘poured
out again’, is that because what passes through a sieve will
be a different and therefore, by definition, an irrecoverable
substance? Or is it that something designed to lose the
substance it momentarily holds (hope; love; desire; what have
you) is a kind of indemnity against loss?
Part of the difficultly of Helena’s speech derives from
the generous space it gives to impossibility: its capacity to
hold contradictory or incompatible properties and claims in
solution. Separated from Bertram by the impermeable bound-
aries of sex and class, not to mention by the contingent but
non-negotiable laws of nature and attraction, she is acutely
aware of the odds against her. Remarkably, though, this
awareness is not paralyzing, for she also invests her love with
an inexplicable capacity to transcend impossibility.
The fugitive tenor of her speech is given a suitably accom-
modating vehicle. The description of Helena’s desire as a
‘captious and inteemable sieve’, of infinite capacity and
law-defying retention, tells of a miraculous performance she
5
Ibid.
6
Ibid.
***
But it all starts with a dying king and a girl whose sole
possession is the ‘remedy’ to cure him (1.2.225). Despite
her willingness to give this possession away and against
7
This is a point to which I shall return.
8
The phrase would have been familiar from the Book of Common Prayer and
as a term of jurisprudence.
9
‘Sovereignty’ as ‘Supreme or pre-eminence in respect of excellence or efficacy’
(esp. the efficacy of treating or healing). Cf. OED, ‘sovereignty’ n. 1a., which
cites All’s Well, 1.3.219.
11
See Daniel Tiffany’s exquisite Infidel Poetics: Riddles, Nightlife (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2009), 40–2.
12
See the OED entry for ‘read’, v. 1(b), which links reading to the OE Riddle,
and describes it in terms of conjecture; discernment; linguistic comprehension
or study. See also Tiffany, Infidel Poetics, 40, n. 9.
The name for what Helena wants to have most, for which
cultural conventions and class distinctions have set well
beyond her reach, is ‘Bertram.’ I say ‘Bertram’ because the
object of her desire is a cipher. One of Shakespeare’s least
charismatic characters, he is also strikingly unsympathetic;
not in the way of an Iago, mind; rather more in the manner of
a tool. As Helena is well aware, this also makes her subjective
desire difficult to decipher. Further, it allows that ‘Bertram’
(i.e. the object of her desire) may refer to several things,
including the satisfaction of lust, naked ambition, the affect or
experience of loving, the ideal of ‘love’ itself, or – who knows?
– maybe even the man himself. Her attempt to explain just
how she loves Bertram gives rise to a series of related, equally
perplexing questions. Given the knowledge that one’s actions
will likely be fruitless, how and why might one proceed? If
one proceeds, what purchase does knowledge have on one’s
actions and decisions anyway?
At least the burden of these questions is broadly distributed.
The play is saturated by perplexity about what it means
to have something – and therefore, also, to let things slip,
fail to ‘get it’, or lose someone. Here, for instance, are the
play’s opening words, pronounced by the recently widowed
Countess as she sees her only son off to war: ‘In delivering
my son from me, / I bury a second husband’ (1.1.1–2). The
grieving Countess is promised she will ‘find of the king a
husband’ (1.1.6), a fit substitute for her husband’s substitute.
Likewise, while Bertram still ‘weeps o’er [his] father’s death’,
he is now devoted solely to the King’s authority. As it turns
out, then, part of what it means to have and have lost someone
is to receive someone else in their place.
***
According to Hunter, Helena ‘worships, and despises herself for it’ (8, nn.
13
14
See, for example, the entire exchange between Parolles and Lord Lafew at
2.3.11ff.
15
E. M. W. Tillyard, Shakespeare’s Problem Plays (Toronto: University of
Toronto Press, 1950), 126.
Harry Berger Jr, Making Trifles of Terrors (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
16
17
This is not to say that Helena intentionally or consciously assumes it, only
that the terms of wager dictate it.
18
Cf. also OED, ‘obscene’, adj and`n, which derives the word from the Latin
partes obscenae, and the genitals (Obs.).
threat, the King might just as well be asking (of both Bertram
and himself, since they have both been blown up by virgins
in one sense or another): is there no policy how men might
blow up virgins? What policy is there for men who have been
blown up by virgins? Once planted, has the destiny of his
honour, bound as it is to Bertram’s dubious honour, already
been determined?
For All’s Well to end well, the play must see its heroine
legitimately coupled with the guy she somewhat inexplicably
desires, and she must receive the King’s benediction. As
in other Shakespearean comedies, here one of the primary
functions of sovereignty is the legitimation of sex, whether
sex that’s been had or sex still to be won. Indisputably, it is
one of the primary means through which sovereign power
reveals and asserts itself. In All’s Well That Ends Well, the
final coupling is presented as a miracle of sorts, even though
we have been privy to the various contrivances that have in
fact brought it about: exchanging this head for that, say, or,
provided the lights are sufficiently dim, one willing body for
another. In effect, the King gives Helena Bertram’s hand in
exchange for his own life, but that life – what remains of the
King – depends on Bertram to take it.
Another way of putting this is to say that the ‘legitimate’
heterosexual couple amplifies sovereign power. With its worldly
and immediate legibility, and its implicit promise of continuity,
the couple also serves as a figure of this power. Whether this
figure is ultimately celebrated or whether some taint of moral
ambiguity and coercion still clings to it, will be contingent
on the specific literary, historical and cultural contexts in
which it is delivered and received. As the crowning figure
of Shakespearean comedy, however, it intimates the genre’s
deep and broad investment in sovereign power. Other generic
markers, like the havoc wrought by desire, or the frantic
pursuit of illicit sex, only strengthen this investment – and not
by virtue of any cycle of containment and release, either.
The function and proof of sovereign power as the legiti-
mation of sex is perhaps clearer in Measure for Measure,
21
Measure for Measure, ed. Jonathan Crewe (New York: Penguin Putnam,
2000), 5.1.358.
22
Including that announced by its title, however hedged by conditionals and
unfinished business (see 5.3.311–28).
***
23
‘I think not on my father / … / … What was he like? / I have forgot him; my
imagination / Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s’ (1.1.77–81).
24
The tale of Myrrha and Cinyras in Metamorphoses X: 297–511 is an uncannily
resonant but, to my knowledge, unremarked source-text. Like Helena, Myrrha
may choose from among ‘Young lords from every land’, but ‘there is one
who can’t belong / to those from whom [she chooses]’ (338): her father, the
one man with whom she longs to mate. Helena begs the Countess not to call
her ‘daughter’, since that would make Bertram her ‘brother’ (cf. 1.3.133ff.).
Similarly, for Myrrha ‘filial’ is a term of chastisement and prohibition; hearing
it, ‘she lowers her eyes: she knows she’s criminal’ (339). See The Metamorphoses
of Ovid, trans. Allen Mandelbaum (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1993).
the shadow of a wife you see; / The name and not the thing’
(5.3.301–2). But in fact she is both ‘name’ and ‘thing’; only
the King’s closing benediction remains. Such knowingness
prompts a re-reading of her earlier claim that, in worshiping
Bertram as she does, she is ‘religious in [her] error.’ Instead
of a forthright admission of the carnality or impurity of her
love, it is a clear-sighted recognition that such an ‘error’ might
consist precisely in its religiosity; that, for all its embodied
erotic force, it remains incorrigibly attached to the pathos
of distance, ideals of transcendent love, and an abiding faith
in miracles. Or, that for all its enduring faith in miracles,
religiosity cannot but comprehend – take note of, experience,
register – embodied force, be it erotic or political.
Through the mysterious transaction between 2.1 and 2.3,
All’s Well stages sovereignty’s need to recruit licit and illicit
forms of sexuality to its own ends. It might stipulate, further,
the fundamental irrelevance of the distinction between ‘licit’
and ‘illicit’ forms of sexuality: however obliquely; in spirit, if
not in word. Helena’s uneasy cohabitation of sexual assertion
and subjection argues the same point. This is not a simple
debunking, for to question the arbitrariness and materiality of
certain objects of worship (whether Helena’s miraculous cure,
Bertram’s erotic appeal, or the King’s potency) is, again, to
attest to their power.
To describe sovereign power in terms of one of its primary
functions – namely, the legitimation of sex – says only so much
about that power per se. Nevertheless, it would be reductive to
read this ending or resolution as dependent solely on the inter-
vention of sovereign power, just as it would be mistaken to see
the legitimation enacted on this particular stage as a process
aimed, more or less successfully, at correcting the defects of
human sexuality.25 In All’s Well That Ends Well, the quiddity
25
Or, in more traditional terms, to read it as the intervention of grace working
through divinely appointed deputies. Here again, Measure for Measure would
prove the better example.
***
Jennifer Roberts-Smith
now the clock strikes one’ (4.2.53), men are not ultimately
masterless in Ephesus. True to romance conventions, ‘there’s
a time for all things’ (2.2.65), as the play’s protagonists grope
blindly towards a resolution that is guaranteed by the play’s
structural and generic chronologies.
Perhaps surprisingly – in a play that has never been
considered a masterpiece of versification – Shakespeare puts
the ordering influence of time to work in The Comedy of
Errors at the metrical level as well.2 Of course, as George T.
Wright explains in his seminal book, Shakespeare’s Metrical
Art, Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter is not normally thought
of as literally timed. There are two categories of rhythm in
English poetry; one is timed and the other is not, and iambic
pentameter belongs to the latter:
2
The comments in the Oxford edition give a good indication of the play’s
metrical reputation. See Comedy of Errors, ed. Charles Walters Whitworth
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 6–7. See also Brennan O’Donnell,
‘The Errors of the Verse: Metrical Reading and Performance of The Comedy
of Errors’, in The Comedy of Errors: Critical Essays, ed. Roberts S. Miola
(London: Routledge, 1997), 403.
3
George T. Wright. Shakespeare’s Metrical Art (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1998), 3.
4
Thomas Campion, Obseruations in the Art of English Poesie (London,
1602), sig. B1v. See also Samuel Daniel, A panegyrike congratulatory … With
a defence of ryme, heeretofore written, and now published by the author
(London, 1603), sig. G1–I1.
5
George Gascoigne, Certayne Notes of Instruction Concerning the Making
of Verse or Ryme in English … The Posies of George Gascoigne Esquire
(London, 1575), sig. T2v.
6
The most sympathetic but still sceptical treatment of the so-called quanti-
tative movement in English verse theory and practice is Derek Attridge,
Well-Weighed Syllables: Elizabethan Verse in Classical Metres (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 1974).
7
Kristin Hanson, ‘Quantitative Meter in English: The Lesson of Sir Philip
Sidney’, English Language and Linguistics 5, no. 1 (2001): 41–91.
8
Jennifer Roberts-Smith, ‘Thomas Campion’s Iambic and Quantitative
Sapphic: Further Evidence for Phonological Weight in Elizabethan English
Quantitative and non-Quantitative Meters’, Language and Literature 21, no.
4 (2012): 381–401.
9
Kristin Hanson, ‘Shakespeare’s Lyric and Dramatic Metrical Styles’, in
Formal Approaches to Poetry: Recent Developments in Metrics, ed. B. Elan
Dresher and Nila Friedberg (Berlin and New York: M. de Gruyter, 2006),
105–27.
10
O’Donnell, ‘Errors of the Verse’, 403.
11
Samuel Rid, The Art of Iuggling or Legerdemaine (London, 1611), sig.
B3v.
12
Daniel, Defence of Ryme, sig. H4r.
For a discussion of Puttenham’s use of the term ‘tune’, see Jennifer
13
14
George Puttenham, The Arte of English Poesie (London, 1589), 55.
15
John Florio, ‘Numero’, in A Worlde of Wordes, or Most Copious, and Exact
Dictionarie in Italian and English (London, 1598).
16
This is a rough calculation, based on results returned by Internet Shakespeare
Editions’ search function. I have calculated occurrences in modern-spelling
editions where they are available; in the Folio where an alternate text is
available; in the Sonnets and narrative poems as well as the plays; and in
Edward III and Henry VIII as well.
17
Hanson, ‘Quantitative Meter’, 52. On changes to the English stress system
from old to early modern English, see P. Fikkert, Elan Dresher and Arunditi
Lahiri, ‘Prosodic Preferences: From Old English to Early Modern English’,
in A Handbook of the History of English, ed. A. Van Kemanade and B. Los
(London: Blackwell, 2006).
18
See Bruce Hayes, Metrical Stress Theory: Principles and Case Studies
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995).
19
See Morris Halley and Samuel Keyser, ‘Chaucer and the Study of Prosody’,
College English 29, no. 3 (1966): 187–219; Halle and Keyser, ‘Illustration and
W1 S1 W2 S2 W3 S3 W4 S4 W5 S5
W1 S1 W2 S2 W3 S3 W4 S4 W5 S5 W6 S6 W7 S7 W8 S8
In sixty-nine lines (or 65 per cent), the first half of the line
shows an identical pattern:
the time). Again, the pressure of the binary pattern and the
slight preference in the meter to fill position S4 mean that
S4 is experienced as essential to the structure of the line. The
speaker’s tendency, then, is to acknowledge it even when it is
empty by leaving a ‘rest.’ 21
Fourth, the same structural technique applies to position
S8. Although position S8 is never filled, by the end of the line,
the structural prediction that another secondary stress will
follow is so strong that we allow a rest after every line. The
rest operates like punctuation, reinforcing the line-ending (and
hence the rhyme) and also emphasizing the equality of each
half-line (S1–S2–S3–[rest]; S4–S5–S6–[rest]).
The meter’s treatment of weak positions, the fifth character-
istic creating the impression of temporal equality, reinforces this
impression. Weak positions at the beginning and end of the line
are often left empty: W1 in fifty-three lines (50 per cent) and
W8 in ninety-five lines (92 per cent). The extreme outer strong
positions – usually filled by syllables bearing primary stress –
hence supply more predictable line-boundaries than the outer
weak positions, especially since S1 and S7 are always filled; the
textual part of the line is generally perceived to begin at S1 and
end at S7. W7 is empty in only four lines (4 per cent), providing
an up-beat to S7, which, in combination with line-final rhyme,
draws further attention to the line-ending as a marker of time.
Line-internally, when two syllables fill a weak position,
there is a strong tendency to use syllables that can be elided
or whose vowels are reduced when they are not stressed. That
is, almost all can be encouraged to occupy the phonological
duration of a single long, or bi-moraic, syllable.22 In the
21
For other, helpful observations about the role of rhyme, alternating strong
and weak stresses, and mid-line caesura in accentual verse, see Derek
Attridge’s Chapter 4, ‘The four-beat rhythm’, in his Rhythms of English
Poetry (London and New York: Longman, 1982).
22
My description of the forms of syllable reduction employed in the accentual
verse of The Comedy of Errors may be consulted at http://www.arts.
uwaterloo.ca/~j33rober/rts-.html
23
I argue that Shakespeare intended both Dromios to be visible on stage for two
reasons: there is no specification in the stage directions that Syracusan Dromio
is ‘off’ when he speaks, and when Adriana joins the fray thirty lines later, she
gets a stage direction to ‘Enter’ (3.1.62). For more on the possible original
staging of this scene, see Kent Cartwright, ‘Staging the “Lock-Out” Scene in
the Folio Comedy of Errors’, Shakespeare Bulletin 24, no. 4 (2006): 1–12.
24
The Comedy of Errors, The Complete Arkangel Shakespeare, prod. Bill
Shepherd and Tom Treadwell, Arkangel Productions, 2003, Audio CD, Disc
1, track 5, 0:26 and 4:16.
Yet both Alan Cox and Jason O’Mara (who play the two
Dromios) prefer the accentual rhythm, pronouncing all
syllables, following the primary–secondary–primary stress
contour in each half-line, and resting at the mid-line caesura:
O’ MARA
MAUD, BRID-get, MAR-i-an [rest] CIC-ly,
GILL-i-an, GINN [rest]
COX
MOME, MALT-horse, CA-pon [rest] COX-comb,
I-di-ot, PATCH [rest] (Arkangel 2003, Disc 1, track 5,
1:18–1:20)
E. ANT.
GO GET thee GONE BANG GET me an I-ron
CROW (Arkangel 2003, Disc 1, track 5, 4:10–12)
Timed Iambics
There are obvious differences between the accentual and
the iambic meters in The Comedy of Errors: the line is
shorter, containing only five strong positions alternating with
a potential six weak positions; strong positions are never
left empty; and weak positions are empty only 5 per cent
of the time. However, the iambic pentameter also shows
certain surprising similarities to the stress-timed meter. The
most important of these similarities is the treatment of weak
positions. There is a slightly stronger tendency than in the
accentual verse to limit weak positions to one syllable (two
syllables fill each of positions W1, W3, W4 and W5 no more
than 8 per cent of the time). When two syllables do occur,
they are reduced to a total of two mora in duration as often
as and by a wider variety of means than analogous syllables
in the stress-timed meter. They are never irreducible in more
than 8 per cent of lines (position W4 allows 8 per cent); but
the pattern is most clearly illustrated in position W2, which
in forty-three lines (27 per cent) contains two syllables,
irreducible in only one case. The iambic pentameter, even
more strictly than the stress-timed meter, fixes the duration of
the interval separating strong positions at two mora.
The frequency with which two syllables occur in W2 is
matched exactly by the frequency with which W1 is left
empty. This can be explained by the familiar convention that
the first foot of a line of iambic pentameter may be reversed;
that is, the initial iamb is replaced with a trochee. However,
in combination with the tendency to reduce the syllables after
the first strong position, the effect of the so-called ‘trochaic
substitution’ in The Comedy of Errors is not a rearrangement,
but a reduction of the line. Since two of the ten syllables are
squeezed into the duration of one, the line seems shortened to
the duration of only nine syllables. It is probably also relevant,
as I noted above, that the stress-timed meter shows a similar,
though less marked, tendency to fill W2 with two syllables
Conclusion: Ambimetricality
Of course, in Act Five, theatrical – or Romance, or functional
– time does not entirely supersede measurable material time,
since five o’clock does finally arrive. Rather, as the gap
Table 1
W1 S1 W2 S2 W3 S3 W4 S4 W5 S5 W6 S6 W7 S7 W8
9 E. Anti. And that I DID de- NIE my WIFE and HOUSE;
10 Thou DRUN kard THOU, WHAT didst thou MEANE by THIS?
10 Thou DRUN- kard THOU, WHAT didst MEANE by THIS?
thou
11 E. Dro. SAY WHAT you WIL Sir, but I KNOW WHAT I KNOW
Table 2
W1 S1 W2 S2 W3 S3 W4 S4 W5 S5 W6 S6 W7 S7 W8
For a FISH wi- THOUT a FINNE, THER’S a FOWLE wi- THOUT a FE- ther,
84 [Ant] If a CROW HELP us IN SI- rra, PLUCKE a CROW to- GE- ther.
wee’ll
85 Ant. GO, GET thee GON, FETCH me-an I- ron CROW.
85 GO, GET thee GON, FETCH me-an I- ron CROW.
86 Balth HAVE PA- tience SIR, OH LET it NOT be SO,
86 HAVE PA- tience SIR, OH LET it NOT be SO,
87 Hee- RIN you WARRE a- GAINST your RE- pu- TA- tion,
17/04/2015 11:50
262 SHAKESPEARE’S WORLD OF WORDS