The 1550s is one of the richest periods for satire in English literary history; not perhaps in terms of quality, but in terms of the sheer inventiveness, energy and courage of the satirists who worked in that dangerous decade, when the reigning monarch changed twice and the religion with her. If the prevalence of satire at the time isn’t widely known, this is perhaps because of the diversity of forms it assumed. Verse satire, for instance, included many imitations of the great medieval poem Piers Plowman, first published in 1550: most notably Thomas Churchyard’s controversial prophecy Davy Diker’s Dream (1552), which sparked off a flurry of aggressive ‘flytings’ from Churchyard’s fellow pamphleteers and was still remembered in the 1560s. Later came William Baldwin’s elegiac satire The Funerals of King Edward the Sixth (1553); John Heywood’s ambitious animal fable The Spider and the Fly (1556); and the celebrated Horatian satires of Thomas Wyatt, printed for the first time in Tottel’s Miscellany (1557). Satirical drama included two outstanding interludes sometimes attributed to Nicholas Udall: the proto history play Respublica (1553) and the mock-classical comedy Jack Juggler (c. 1555). Most remarkably of all, a vein of satirical prose fiction emerged, inspired by the first English translations of Erasmus’s Praise of Folly (1549) and More’s Utopia (1551): William Baldwin’s translation of the scurrilous anti-Catholic diatribe Wonderful News of the Death of Paul III (c. 1552), and his masterpiece, the Menippean satire Beware the Cat (1553; not published till 1570). How many of the writings I’ve listed would now be called satires it’s hard to say; but every one of them exploits laughter to make a serious political point, and given the accepted derivation of the word ‘satire’ at the time from the Latin term for a mixed dish, a stew made up of many ingredients, it would seem wholly appropriate to apply the term to this eclectic diversity of forms and styles.
Various though they are, all these satires share a common theme. Every one of them addresses social and economic problems and their solutions; and in most cases the imagination or ‘phantasy’ is taken to be the faculty responsible for social and economic abuse. It’s the imagination that enables the vice Avarice and his cronies to adopt new, misleading names in Nicholas Udall’s interlude Respublica, and so to beguile the Lady Commonwealth into letting them take control of her affairs. It’s the imagination that, in Baldwin’s Funerals of King Edward the Sixth, gives the rich such inflated self-esteem that Death has difficulty in distinguishing King Edward’s palace from the palatial residences of his subjects as he seeks out the boy-king to punish him for the sins of his people. At one point in Heywood’s The Spider and the Fly a fly caught in a spider’s web swaps places with the spider in an attempt to understand his point of view as an aristocratic predator. They agree ‘to change places (each for the time) to imagine and set forth other’s part the best they can […] Wherein the fly anon is so allured to pride and ambition in occupying (for the while) the spider’s stately place, that he at last with an oath affirmeth that spiders are owners of all windows’ – that is, that the aristocracy has a God-given right to the possession of all the land in a commonwealth. In the interlude Jack Juggler (c. mid-1550s), based on Plautus’s Amphitryon, the eponymous trickster uses violence to persuade a young page that he is not himself but some anonymous imposter, which prompts the epilogue to assert that powerful figures are capable of imposing their imaginations on the powerless. ‘Force, strength, power, and colorable subtlete,’ the epilogue tells us, ‘Dothe oppresse, debare, overcum, and defeate ryght,’ until the ‘poor semple innocent’ is forced to affirm that ‘the moune is made of a grene chese’, that ‘the croue is whight’, and that ‘he him selfe is into a nother body chaunged’. Power in all these texts is a mind-altering drug, inducing in its possessor the condition of imaginative ‘vainglory’ or conceited self-delusion, which can be imposed on others by force, and which Marian writers take to be the presiding sin of the time.
Among the most sophisticated investigations of the power of the imagination, and the dominance of ‘vainglory’ or self-delusion, is a work of prose fiction first published in 1556, the anonymous Image of Idleness. That this brilliant epistolary novel remains almost unknown can be ascribed to three causes. First there’s its anonymity, which remains one of the main reasons why fine literature gets forgotten. Secondly there’s its uniqueness, since readers tend to assume a text can’t exist in a time and place where it has few analogues; with the notable exception of Beware the Cat, no other original works of prose fiction survive from the 1550s, and this means The Image of Idleness can’t easily be identified as part of a literary trend or movement. Finally, there’s the fact that it has only ever been edited once, in a journal, and that the edition in question badly needs updating. The book also suffers from the fact that it can’t be easily categorized. The contents consist of a letter purportedly written by a man called Bawdin Bachelor to his married friend Walter Wedlock, in which Bawdin’s gives his views on the ‘art’ of marriage (as he calls it) undeterred by the fact that he has never had a wife. This long letter encloses several more letters written by Bachelor, mostly to the various women he could not persuade to marry him, though one letter gives an extended and very funny account of his failed attempt to seduce a widow on the road to Cornwall, and the last gives some bad advice to would-be adulterers. All these letters have been translated, we are told, from the Cornish language (there’s even a line of Cornish in the text) by a man called Oliver Oldwanton, and dedicated to his patron, Lady Lust. These alliterative names, with the alliterative title, seem to indicate the text’s affiliation with the satirical tradition of Piers Plowman. But The Image of Idleness has more in common with humanist Menippean satire than with the medieval variety. The letters form what’s in effect a Lucianic dialogue – they are full of casual allusions to the pagan gods – and the rich vein of irony that runs through them is very much like Lucian’s. It’s a mixed dish, containing elements of a philosophical treatise, a set of familiar epistles, and fabliau or scurrilous anecdote. So far so uncontentious; Flachmann too calls it a satire. But what’s it satirizing?
Flachmann’s introduction locates the text firmly in the misogynistic tradition of the querelle des femmes: a series of attacks on women (and a few defences of them) which began to circulate in the fifteenth century and continued unabated into the seventeenth. The Image of Idleness, though, can hardly be accused of misogyny, despite the many harsh words Bawdin has for women, because Bawdin himself, the marriage expert who’s never been married, is so patently an idiot. A more likely target for its satire is Catholicism; and this alone makes it a remarkable document, as the only surviving anti-Catholic satire to have been openly published in England in the reign of Mary I. There are many clues to this aspect of its agenda, such as the title, with its veiled allusion to the fondness for images which Protestants thought of as idolatry, and to the idleness of which Protestants accused the Catholic religious orders; and the dedication, which gives Lady Lust a confessor or ‘Penitencer’ called Friar Floisterer (a portmanteau term combining ‘cloisterer’ and ‘foist’ or cheat) (p. 21, lines 33-4), who answers to a devilish-sounding superior called the ‘Black Provincial’ (p. 21, line 36). In one of Bawdin’s anecdotes, a Princess goes on pilgrimage to Pygmalion’s ‘image of alabaster’ (p. 35, line 17), which has been restored to the state of a ‘blessed image’ after Pygmalion’s death (p. 35, line 25). This is a clear allusion to the cult of the blessed Virgin, which is also invoked by Bawdin’s repeated references to St Mary. And in the last part of his letter to Walter Wedlock, Bawdin abandons his marital ambitions and dedicates himself to chastity, a vocation scorned by Protestants which is evidently degraded by Bawdin’s supposed commitment to it.
Bawdin’s devotion to chastity is in any case a fiction. Much of the final section is given over to advising ‘Cupidian Knights’ (p. 64, line 39) on how best to get access to other men’s wives; and this advice includes perhaps the most direct reference to Catholicism in the book. The adulterous chivalric tradition, so often ascribed by Protestants to the lascivious imaginations of ‘idle’ monks, is here described as one of the ‘old rites and customs’ which should perhaps be abandoned in view of the coming of Christ: ‘New lords, new laws’, Bawdin tells his readers in a passing moment of self-doubt (p. 65, lines 33-34). Protestants referred to the Catholic confession as ‘Old Custom’ and Protestantism as ‘New Custom’; New Custom was, for example, the name of a play published in 1573 which makes specific reference to the persecution of Protestants under Queen Mary. Not only, then, is the book an anti-Catholic satire, but it ends with what’s in effect a call for conversion (‘New lords, new laws’), which if it had not been couched in such unexceptionable terms – that is, as a call for repentance from the vice of adulterous lust – would surely have got the printer, William Seres, in serious trouble. After all, he’d already been jailed for his religious views at the beginning of Mary’s reign.
But The Image of Idleness is not merely, or even chiefly, anti-Catholic. It’s a reformist text, in the sense that all the satires of the 1550s, Protestant or Catholic, can be called reformist. It describes a society in disarray, one whose belief systems are in chaos, a situation of which the confessional split is only one symptom. We might expect satirists of the period to attack people of the opposite confession, but the briefest of glances shows that they’re just as likely to attack their own. Davy Diker’s prophecy, for instance, proved controversial because of its exposure, from a Protestant perspective, of corruption at the highest level of the Edwardian Protestant government. Baldwin’s Funerals of King Edward VI ascribes the young king’s death to the unscrupulous self-promotion of his subjects. And the central character in Baldwin’s novel Beware the Cat, the scholar-priest Gregory Streamer, thinks of himself as Protestant but keeps letting slip his continued commitment to what Baldwin represents as the values of Catholicism: above all superstition and rampant self-interest, especially in matters of the flesh. So, too, in The Image of Idleness Bawdin Bachelor keeps exposing his confessional commitment to the ‘Old Custom’ of Catholicism, which he amusingly conflates with classical paganism. But his professed beliefs are less important than his ability to manipulate them to his own advantage; to convince himself, against his own better judgement, that what he wishes to be the case is in fact the case – to beguile himself, in fact, through a series of exercises in imaginative self-delusion. Bawdin is one of a series of figures in the satire of the 1550s who choose to believe whatever suits them, and who self-consciously, in all knowledge of what they are doing, work to justify their false beliefs by whatever devious rhetoric or sophistry lies to hand. This, then, is the central drive of the anonymous proto-novel: to expose the willingness of Tudor subjects to imagine themselves into new beliefs. The idle image of the title is a state of mind, and every character in the book is willing to confess that such imaginative idleness is a dangerous form of self-indulgence.
Oliver Oldwanton, for instance, who claims in the dedication to have translated Bawdin’s letters from the Cornish, confesses that he knew the job was not worth doing. Nevertheless, he went ahead with it, on the basis that ‘commonly most men be not soon persuaded to give over the thing that they are affectionated unto upon any surmise or report that the doing thereof should stand against the rule of good order’ (p. 18, lines 28-30). With some difficulty, then, the translator has ‘wrested common reason’ to persuade himself that the letters will be useful to powerful men as a needful break from serious affairs (pp. 18-19). And Bawdin too is adept at persuading himself of what he knows to be false. He is constantly weaving elaborate explanations for his repeated rejections at the hands of women: ‘For doubtless,’ he points out at one point, ‘this transitory life is entangled with so many kinds of misery, that unless a man will flatter himself with some kind of vain glory or, contrary to the lively eye of his reason, delight or rejoice in some one trifle or other, the calamity and unquietness thereof will so fret nature that none shall be able to live out half their natural course’ (p. 39, lines 5-11). So when Bawdin’s face is scorched bright red by an attack of the sweating sickness he takes it as a sign that he should return with new energy to his amorous adventures, as if his redness were a sign of renewed youth rather than disease. Accordingly he sets about courting several women at once, so that each time he is rejected he can ‘feed his fantasy with hope that the best is behind’ (p. 41, lines 7-8) – that is, that one of the women who has not yet spurned him may be a better catch. When a friend of his points out that the women don’t want him because he’s old and ugly, Bawdin retorts that such truthful utterances – however regularly identified in Renaissance texts as the badge of true friendship – are profoundly unfriendly, since ‘it should have been good policy for all men (in mine opinion) to dissemble and bear each one with the folly and faults of other’, and in addition for ‘every man […] to feed and flatter themselves with some kind of vanity or vainglory without having any respect for desert or not deserving’ (p. 44, lines 10-15). The term ‘vainglory’, in fact, recurs in letter after letter, along with deferential nods to the goddess Venus. And in each case men’s vainglory is achieved or sustained by some ‘crafty policy’, whereby they themselves or their prospective lovers are convinced of something that is ‘contrary to the lively eye of his reason’. As the final section of Bawdin’s letter points out, ‘Men are easily persuaded to believe the thing such as in their heart they covet it should be’ (p. 64, lines 37-8); and while Bawdin intends this to reassure adulterers that they can deceive any credulous husband, by this stage in the book the reader knows full well that the phrase is equally applicable to Bawdin Bachelor, who has exposed himself on every page as the ultimate fantasist.
He is not alone. The English Protestant statesman Thomas Wilson published his celebrated treatise The Arte of Rhetorique in 1553; and shortly afterwards he went into exile on Mary’s accession. Unwisely, perhaps, he chose to spend his exile in Rome, where he was imprisoned and tortured by the Inquisition. When Mary died he returned to England, and three years later published the second edition of his Arte of Rhetorique (1560); and in it he greatly expanded the section of the treatise devoted to the rhetorical function of laughter. Every one of the new anecdotes he added involved some anti-Catholic gibe; and by this means one hopes that he exorcised some of the damage he sustained on the continent.
But Wilson, like the author of The Image of Idleness, is not content to restrict himself to Catholicism as the object of his attack. For him as for the satirists the religious conflicts of the mid-sixteenth century are a symptom of a cultural condition; and his most detailed account of this condition occurs in his discussion of poetic fictions and their role in persuasive discourse. ‘The Poetes’, he writes, ‘were wisemen, and wished in hart the redresse of things, the which when for feare, they durst not openly rebuke, they did in colours painte them out, and tolde men by shadowes what they should doe in good sooth’. The problem was, he adds, that in ancient times some of their hearers perversely adopted these ‘shadowed’ tales for factual narratives, setting up their heroes as pagan gods. ‘Wee Christians’, he goes on, have similar fables such as the legends of the saints, which were invented as instructive allegories but later adopted as factual histories by the church, whose leaders set up images of their protagonists in their churches as ‘laymen’s books’. Needless to say, Wilson does not approve. ‘God forbad by expresse worde’, he tells us, ‘to make any graven Image, and shall wee bee so bold to breake Gods will for a good intent, and call these Idolles laie mens bookes?’ (p. 197). For Wilson, then, the works of the imagination have been repeatedly commandeered by unscrupulous authorities, transforming ‘shadowes’ into graven images in support of their own agendas. Generation after generation have found themselves the victims of the perverted imagination; but the imagination may also be used, he tells us elsewhere, to resist this process.
It’s the imaginative use of irony that for Wilson is the best weapon against tyrannous authorities like the ones he encountered in Rome. One example is the figure of dissimulatio or ‘close jesting’, which he describes as follows:
When we jest closely, and with dissembling meanes grig our fellowe, when in words we speake one thing, and meane in heart an other thing, declaring either by our countenaunce, or by utteraunce, or by some other way, what our whole meaning is. As when we see one boasting himselfe, and vaine glorious, to hold him up with ye and nay, and ever to add more to that which he saieth (p. 184).
Wilson gives several instances of such ‘close jesting’, but none is more apt than the writings of Bawdin Bachelor, whose vainglorious folly grows more extravagant with every page he writes, and who exposes himself for what he is the more openly the more devious he tries to be. The Image of Idleness is an extended exercise in dissimulatio, whereby the man who seeks to beguile himself and others is used as a means of beguiling the authorities; of tricking them, that is, into allowing (permitting to be printed) a text that criticizes the state religion. At a time when other satirical texts were being disallowed, or kept safely locked away until a change of government brought their perspective back into favour, the dissimulatio deployed by the author of The Image of Idleness stands out for its success as well as its courage. For this and other reasons, the book deserves to be better known.
 A fine account of the satire written in this period remains John N. King, English Reformation Literature: The Tudor Origins of the Protestant Tradition (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1982). See also Tom Betteridge, Literature and Politics in the English Reformation (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2004), chapters 2 and 3, and Mark Rankin, ‘Biblical Allusion and Argument in Luke Shepherd’s Verse Satires’, The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature 1485-1603, ed. Mike Pincombe and Cathy Shrank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), chapter 15.
 For Davy Diker’s Dream see my ‘William Baldwin and the Tudor Imagination’, The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature, 1485-1603, ed. Pincombe and Shrank, chapter 17.
 See my ‘The Cat Got your Tongue: Pseudo-Translation, Conversion and Control in William Baldwin’s Beware the Cat’, Translation and Literature, vol. 8, Part 1 (1999), pp. 3-27.
 For the early modern fantasy see Adrian Streete, Protestantism and Drama in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), chapter 4, ‘Perception and Fantasy in Early Modern Protestant Discourse’.
 John Heywood, The Spider and Fly, ed. John S. Farmer (London: Early English Drama Society, 1908), pp. 20-21.
 Marie Axton (ed.), Three Tudor Interludes: Thersites, Jacke Jugeler, Horestes (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1982), p. 91.
 See Mike Pincombe, ‘The Date of The Image of Idleness’, Notes and Queries 239 (n.s. vol. 41) (March 1994), p. 24.
 I discuss its authorship in ‘William Baldwin and the Politics of Pseudo-Philosophy in Tudor Prose Fiction’, Studies in Philology, vol. 97 no. 1 (Winter 2000), pp. 29-60.
 Michael Flachmann (ed.), ‘The First Epistolary Novel: The Image of Idleness. Text, Introduction and Notes’, Studies in Philology 87 (1990), pp. 1-74.
 Mike Pincombe has identified the line as Cornish, but not yet published his transcription of it. See The Image of Idleness, ed. Flachmann, p. 35, lines 26-30: ‘Marsoyse thees duan Guisca ancorne Rog hatre arta – being expounded by the priests of that temple to this effect in English: If to wear the horn thou find thyself aggrieved, give him back again and thou shalt soon be eased’.
 On Tudor Lucianic satire see my ‘Magical Journeys in Sixteenth-Century Prose Fiction’, Yearbook of English Studies, Vol. 41, no. 1 (2011), pp. 35-50.
[This is the second part of a paper I gave this week at the University of St Andrews. The first part considered some general approaches to the early modern fantastic. The second part considers Shakespeare’s The Tempest as an example of what might happen if we applied the modern concept of fantasy to an early modern work of art.]
The Tempest is set on a non-existent island like More’s Utopia, which combines characteristics of the East and West Indies with the epic resonances of the Mediterranean islands. It’s a secondary world, then, which can’t be placed by conventional means; we are given no help in locating it on the global map. Prospero, the exiled Duke of Milan, reached it in a boat without sail or oar, like a medieval saint. The men who banished him arrived there twelve years later in a more conventional vessel, steered in that direction by the agency of Christian Providence, or pagan Fortune, or Prospero’s magic, we never know exactly which. Our ignorance, even by the end of the play, of the precise mechanisms by which any of these people reached the island makes the story look like modern fantasy. Science fiction would invite us to speculate as to how it was done, while Shakespeare only asks that we consider the strangeness of the eventuality, and the equal strangeness of the nameless place where they come together.
On the island, the usual rules of the world as we know them no longer apply. The laws of nature don’t obtain: water doesn’t moisten clothing, salt doesn’t stain, dead men come back to life, old pagan myths and folkloric superstitions turn out to be true, in open defiance of the English sceptic Reginald Scot. Social rules, too, get flouted. Sailors dismiss the commands of their royal passengers, servants become kings, slaves liberate themselves, political and poetic thoughts keep surfacing at awkward moments, sometimes articulated by commoners in blank verse, sometimes expressed by slaves in song or story. All these things violate decorum, the theatrical convention whereby the social elite get to think, speak, act and even dream in a more exalted fashion than their inferiors. In these ways, too, the work plays out like modern fantasy fiction, which makes up new rules or revives old ones in the interests of representing alternative ways of living never encountered in the historical record, though often yearned for.
The play makes much, too, of the mechanics of storytelling. It begins, after the initial flurry of attention-grabbing special effects that evoke the tempest of the title, with an old man settling down to tell his daughter a story. Further stories get told in the course of it, or acted out by supernatural performers, and it ends with the promise of further stories still, told over several nights like the traditional winter’s tales of an English Yuletide. The stories are as full of wonders as any traveller’s lying narrative or old wives’ tale; yet some of them, at least, get supported by the empirical testimony of the listeners’ senses. Impossibilities become possible within the island’s limits, persuading even hardened cynics to keep an open mind about the extravagant anecdotes they may have heard in the past or may hear in future.
In its hospitality to wonders Shakespeare’s island recalls the Fairy Land of Spenser, Sidney’s Arcadia or More’s Utopia; but where it differs from those other non-existent places is in the extent to which its ownership and identity are contested, as if in mimicry of war-torn Europe or the lands and trade routes throughout the world over which the European powers were also squabbling. The island’s namelessness is a symptom of its contested ownership. A name would give it specific cultural and historical associations; instead it is firmly marginal, set beyond the borders of the known or spoken, the mapped or painted. Many of its occupants arrived there against their will, by compulsion or chance: the pregnant Sycorax, banished for witchcraft from Algiers; Duke Prospero, a political exile from Milan, with his infant daughter; a load of shipwrecked Neapolitans. As a result, the play that contains the island presents itself as an excursion to the periphery, an unplanned trip to a strange location something like Sidney’s journey of discovery into the world of poetry or fiction as he describes it in the Apology. Sidney claims in his essay that he never meant to be a poet, summing up his leisure-time literary activities as an ‘unelected vocation’, which suggests a certain transgressiveness about them, since they represent a time-consuming departure from the more serious work in the world for which he was divinely ‘elected’ by a Calvinist God (though of course the term ‘unelected’ could just as easily mean simply ‘unchosen’ or ‘inadvertent’). In the same way, Prospero became a scholar-magician by accident rather than design. As a young man he dedicated himself to his books at the expense of his dukedom, expecting the country to run itself – or rather, expecting his brother to run the country – and then thoroughly outraged when that same brother made himself popular enough to raise a ‘treacherous army’ strong enough to oust him from the throne (1.2.128). Prospero’s exile was an effect of clashing perspectives: the Duke’s assumption that he was the natural born ruler of Milan, and his brother’s that running the country gave him the right to rule it as well, a perspective the Milanese people seem to have shared.
Accordingly, the island too is a place where perspectives clash. For Prospero the place represents a sign that ‘Providence divine’ (1.2.159) shares his opinion as to how badly he has been treated, and that it will support him in regaining his inheritance – a perspective that seems to be confirmed by the arrival off its shores of his brother and the man who helped him seize the dukedom, the King of Naples. For the sole surviving native of the island, Caliban, on the other hand, Prospero is as much of a usurper as Prospero’s brother was for Prospero. And as the ship’s occupants land in scattered groups on the island’s shore, each group takes a different view of who should rule it and how it should be ruled. A single perspective on the appropriate government or governor for this particular patch of ground simply doesn’t exist; and this of course casts doubt on Prospero’s claim to have a unique arrangement with Providence that his hereditary rights will be restored to him.
For one thing, Providence is a Christian concept and there are competing religious affiliations on the island. Caliban worships Setebos, and is still worshipping that god in the final act when he swears to ‘be wise hereafter, / And sue for grace’ (what, I wonder, might the ‘grace of Setebos’ consist of?) (5.1.294-5). At one point Caliban takes Stephano for a god, but returns to his old faith when Stephano fails him. Prospero himself repeatedly links his magic art with varieties of paganism: ‘bountiful Fortune’ (1.2.178), who may or may not be the same as Providence; the Greek and Roman gods he invokes in the masque he puts on for Ferdinand and Miranda, deities whose blessings (and potential curses if the pair disobey his ‘hests’) he evidently expects will have a material effect on the young couple; rural English folkloric beliefs in the ‘elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves’ (5.1.33). Meanwhile other people on the island can imagine other theological arrangements. The spirit Ariel describes himself and his fellow spirits as ‘ministers of Fate’ (3.3.61), which he puts in the hands of what he calls the ‘powers’ (3.3.73) – perhaps again the classical gods, since he is disguised at this point as a classical Harpy, though their namelessness makes them a kind of placeholder for whatever deities you choose to put there. And Miranda sees her father Prospero as a deity. When she thinks he has sunk the ship and drowned its crew she tells him:
had I been any god of power, I would
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere
It should the good ship so have swallowed, and
The fraughting souls within her. (1.2.10-13)
Her implied recognition of her father as a ‘god of power’ here is importantly qualified by her ability to imagine herself in his position, with the same magical abilities; and this capacity of people to imagine themselves as other people, and in particular as other people of power, is precisely what led to the supplanting of Prospero by his brother as Duke of Milan, and what threatens to supplant him on his island.
The same capacity to imagine himself as someone else is shared by Prospero’s slave-spirit, Ariel. When he reports the impact of Prospero’s magic on the human castaways from the ship he tells his master that ‘Your charm so strongly works ’em / That if you now beheld them, your affections / Would become tender’; and when Prospero asks ‘Dost thou think so, spirit?’ Ariel replies ‘Mine would, sir, were I human’ (5.1.17-20). Ariel, then, here balances Miranda at the beginning of the play, who visualized herself as a godlike alternative Prospero; though the spirit whose power the magician exploits doesn’t see him as godlike. For Ariel, Prospero is human, and the question of who is human in the play – Caliban is variously referred to as beast, devil or man – opens up a range of other perspectives as to the possibilities available to the occupants of Shakespeare’s island. If Prospero is neither a god nor the darling of a Christian Providence then he can claim no divine sanction for what he is doing; his dream of avenging the perceived wrong done to him becomes a personal fantasy, a quirk or daydream, which would be on a par with everyone else’s daydreams if it weren’t for the power he wields – which is itself entirely dependent on the powers of the slave-spirit Ariel.
The capacity of characters to imagine themselves taking each other’s places becomes increasingly apparent as the play goes on. In many cases, as with Prospero’s brother Antonio and Caliban, their claim to have the right to take someone else’s place is pretty good. Caliban’s foiled attempt to rape Miranda is an example; it’s a bid to confirm his claim to the island by ‘peopling’ it with his offspring, begotten on the body of the only child of the colonial oppressor (1.2.352-3). In this it directly equates to Prospero’s plans to regain his power in Italy through his daughter’s marriage to Ferdinand, son and heir to the King of Naples. The difference, of course, is that Miranda is in love with Ferdinand (something Prospero may have engineered with his charms), whereas she never saw Caliban as a potential sexual partner. But what would have happened if she had not been in love with the Neapolitan prince? In that case she might have found herself in the position of Alonso’s daughter Claribel, who was married to the King of Tunis against her will (this is the traitor Sebastian’s assertion, but no one denies it). Forced marriage is rape, so Caliban’s intention to rape Miranda could well have been a behaviour he has imbibed from the values of his Italian tutors. He did it because he imagined himself in Prospero’s place as king of the island, with heirs enough to found a dynasty. The ‘darkness’ of Caliban’s nature, as Prospero calls it in the final act (5.1.275), reflects the darkness of Prospero’s – just as Miranda’s perception of Caliban may well have been based on her father’s view of him.
Other characters who legitimately imagine themselves in the positions of others include young Ferdinand, Alonso’s heir, who on arriving at the island believes his father to be dead and so assumes the title King of Naples. Ariel encourages this inadvertent usurpation by singing him a song about his father’s corpse – ‘Full fathom five thy father lies’ – which imagines the royal body being supplanted or replaced by submarine wildlife: ‘Nothing of him that doth fade / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange’ (5.2.399-404). Yet Prospero, who put Ariel up to this exercise in misdirection, pretends to believe that Ferdinand has committed an act of treason in claiming the Neapolitan crown. He enslaves him as he enslaved Caliban and Ariel, and in the process again casts doubt on the validity of his own claims to stand for justice, whether human or divine.
More surprisingly, Stephano the drunken butler has an excellent claim to imagine himself king of the island when we first meet him. Like Ferdinand he assumes that the rest of the crew were drowned in the tempest of the opening scene; and after drinking from his bottle – itself serving as a replacement for the Bible that confirms a subject’s oath of allegiance and a monarch’s obligation to serve the people (‘kiss the book’, 2.2.131) – the legitimate ruler of the island, Caliban, swears fealty to him. So Stephano’s statement at the end of his first scene in the play, ‘Trinculo, the King and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here’ (2.2.174-5), has a far stronger mandate than Prospero’s claim to be monarch of Caliban’s country. In addition, his rule is far more egalitarian. He begins by thinking of enslaving Caliban, just as Prospero did; but he quickly sets Caliban free and begins to elevate him in his commonwealth, first to the position of his ‘lieutenant’ (3.2.14), who will not be allowed to ‘suffer indignity’ (3.2.35), and then to his ‘viceroy’ (3.2.106), whose status equals that of Trinculo, and whose title puts him next in line to the king himself (a viceroy takes the king’s place at official functions, becoming him, so to speak, when he is unavailable). Ironically, it’s only Prospero’s belongings that break up this miniature utopia of liberated servants, and their quasi-egalitarian philosophy remains undamaged by their humiliation and capture. In Act III they sing a round declaring that ‘Thought is free’ (3.2.121) – whose ribald primary sense doesn’t mask its political application; while in the final act Stephano is still proclaiming his commitment to social equality: ‘Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man care for himself; for all is but fortune. Coragio, bully-monster, coragio!’ (5.1.256-8). Prospero’s repeated promises of freedom to his slave spirit Ariel – whose implementation gets deferred till after the play’s ending – sound profoundly unconvincing by comparison.
The most extended meditation on imaginative replacement of others occurs in Act 2 scene 1, where we first meet Prospero’s usurpers – Alonso, Antonio, Alonso’s brother Sebastian – along with his benefactor, Gonzalo. In this scene Gonzalo playfully imagines himself as the replacement king of the island, inadvertently deposing Caliban and Prospero from power in his mental exercise as well as his monarch, Alonso, and that monarch’s next of kin (Ferdinand, Claribel, Sebastian). Like Stephano’s, Gonzalo’s lighthearted act of treason enables a utopian alternative island to form temporarily in the mind’s eye of the audience, a place where ‘All things in common Nature should produce / Without sweat or endeavour […] To feed my innocent people’ (2.1.155-60). Sebastian and Antonio mock the inconsistency of Gonzalo’s fantastic commonwealth, since like Stephano he plans to be king of this egalitarian paradise, but their scorn may also stem from the fact that their own views on supplanting other rulers have no truck with equality. As Antonio seeks to persuade Sebastian to kill his brother in his sleep – imaginatively replacing the king’s sleeping body with a dead one – he points out how he himself has flourished since replacing his brother: ‘look how well my garments sit upon me, / Much feater than before. My brother’s servants / Were then my fellows; now they are my men’ (2.1.267-9). In this their views on governance are close to Prospero’s, who never seems to have thought to make his fellow human beings coequals with him in his new home; and like Prospero they take themselves to be the darlings of a Fortune who has given them the opportunity to make their imaginings real by putting Alonso and his lords to sleep, leaving them at the mercy of the would-be usurpers’ blades.
It’s in this scene, Act 2 scene 1, that the island seems first to be identified as a fantastic space, where the impossible is made real. Interestingly, its most fantastic property is that it can be seen in such radically different ways by different people; in other words it’s a contested imaginative location from the very beginning. For Gonzalo and the young courtier Adrian it’s a lush paradise ‘of subtle, tender and delicate temperance’ (2.1.41-2), where clothes miraculously dry shortly after immersion, while for Antonio and Sebastian it’s a marshy desert and their clothes remain soaked and salt-encrusted. Interestingly, there’s no way of knowing whether the two factions of courtiers are really having different experiences; it’s perfectly possible that Gonzalo and Adrian are only claiming the island is pleasant to cheer up the king, or that Antonio is exaggerating the wretched state of his clothes. But in describing the island as paradisal Gonzalo is exercising the prerogative of poets, as Sidney saw them: makers of fictions whose imaginings could bear substantial fruit in the conduct of those who listened to them. One such poet was the classical musician Amphion, who raised the walls of Thebes with the power of his music; and Gonzalo’s earlier imaginative transformation of Tunis, where Claribel’s recent marriage took place, into the legendary city of Carthage (he tells Adrian that the two places were the same) changes a disastrous liaison into the promise of future cultural glory (Carthage was both a great civilization in itself and a staging post on the road to the founding of Rome). In doing so, Antonio and Sebastian claim, he accomplishes miracles greater even than Amphion’s elevation of the walls of Thebes:
Antonio: His word is more than the miraculous harp.
Sebastian: He hath raised the walls, and houses too.
Antonio: What impossible matter will he make easy next?
Sebastian: I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple.
Antonio: And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands. (2.1.83-9)
The vision of further paradisal, temperate islands springing up all over the ocean reaffirms Sidney’s conviction that the poet could change the world by summoning up attractive impossibilities. This impression is only reinforced when Gonzalo goes on to imagine the island as a political utopia. For Protestants, the age of miracles is over; but for Sidney the best secular poets may have taken on the mantle of the Catholic miracle-workers, and Gonzalo’s view of Prospero’s atoll as a place where poetic wonders can be made real seems to be confirmed by subsequent events.
This happens in a number of ways. First, Miranda discovers in the castaway Ferdinand the ideal man she has always dreamed of:
I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you,
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. (3.1.54-7)
This is hardly surprising, as Prospero points out, given her lack of experience; but the more experienced Ferdinand shares her view that he has met an ideal human being: ‘you, O you, /So perfect and so peerless, are created / Of every creature’s best’ (3.1.46-8). Both Ferdinand and Miranda, in other words, each fulfil the function of poetry according to Sidney, in offering the reader an ideal by which to be stirred to emulation. Again, this exchange could be dismissed as the habitual hyperbole of all new lovers. Later, however, the island also confirms the more extravagant impossibilities of travellers’ tales, as strangely shaped spirits serve food to the courtiers and the sceptics Antonio and Sebastian find themselves converted to belief in the most ridiculous of reports:
Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne; one phoenix
At this hour reigning there. (3.3.21-4)
The spirits’ kindness beyond the customary practices of human beings extends the impossibilities they stand for to include Gonzalo’s utopian vision (and suitably enough, it’s Gonzalo who remarks on it). Meanwhile the island’s native, Caliban, who was capable of perceiving the island as a marshy wasteland when he was cursing his owner (‘All the infections that the sun sucks up / From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall’, 2.2.1-2), treats Stephano and Trinculo to a vision of its paradisal aspect: ‘the isle is full of noises, / Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not’ (3.2.133-4). Caliban associates these ‘sweet airs’ with the pleasure of dreaming – a state that makes him forget his enslaved condition and find himself a king once more – so we can’t be certain they’re anything more substantial than psychological projections. His account of these happy moments, though, reinforces our sense of the island as a place that generates Sidneian poetic fantasies in astonishing abundance; and it also indicates, as Gonzalo’s perspective did, that not all these fantasies are conjured up by its self-styled ruler, Prospero. It’s hard to imagine that the ‘sounds and sweet airs’ Caliban experiences were provided for his delectation by Prospero’s orders. Throughout the play, Ariel shows an independence of mind that allows him to improvise wonders when they occur to him – like Robin Goodfellow in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, as Frank Kermode has pointed out. Could the other spirits have done the same in blessing Caliban’s rest, by virtue of the inhuman kindness Gonzalo notes in them?
The greatest miracle the island produces is a radical change of heart in Prospero himself. The process of change begins after a feast of impossibilities he has himself served up – a masque performed by spirits, featuring non-existent classical deities. As the masque comes to a sudden close, Prospero suddenly seems to realize that he is not the only human being capable of conjuring up wonders; that they are, in fact, integral to human experience, since even the most extraordinary and seemingly permanent structures we encounter in our lives have the evanescent quality of dreamscapes:
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a wrack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. (4.1.152-8)
This new perspective is precipitated by an abrupt recollection of Prospero’s would-be usurpers, Stephano, Trinculo, and that master of dreamscapes Caliban – drunkards whose magic bottle has liberated their imaginations from submission to conventional hierarchies. Their challenge to his hierarchical point of view would seem to be what yields his famous vision of transience, which makes castles in the sky of substantial structures and associates them with dramatic performances (‘pageants’) as well as dreams. The magician remains unable to imagine things from Caliban’s point of view – he continues to typecast the islander as a ‘born devil’ till the end of the play – but not long afterwards he succeeds in seeing things from the perspective of another slave of his, Ariel. When the spirit tells him he would pity the distraught courtiers if he were capable of human pity, Prospero recalls his own capacity for the sympathy – the act of putting oneself in someone else’s place – that so many of the other characters have displayed in the course of the action:
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? (5.1.21-4)
In recognizing himself as of the courtier’s ‘kind’ or kin – no better, no worse – Prospero is especially moved by the presence among them of his saviour Gonzalo, the man whose kindness in stocking his boat with supplies enabled him to survive the voyage to the island so many years previously. As he studies the Neapolitans, Prospero finds himself ‘sociable’ to Gonzalo’s feelings (5.1.63), weeping the same tears of contrition and pity, occupying in effect the same emotional space. This sympathy makes it possible for Prospero to imagine himself as being legitimately supplanted or replaced by other human beings in time to come. His revelation to the exhausted courtiers of the long-lost Ferdinand playing at chess with Miranda displays them in Prospero’s own cell, a space which is in effect his ducal ‘court’ as well as his habitation (5.1.166). Their presence in that simultaneously private and public location predicts their eventual usurpation of Prospero’s place at the court of Milan, as well as of Alonso’s place in Naples. And this may explain the exiled Duke’s later observation that when he returns to his dukedom ‘every third thought will be my grave’ (5.1.311): once he is buried, after all, he will be replaced by the next generation, like every other mortal. Those third thoughts of his might well be about the interchangeability of human beings, and hence about their kinship and equal status, regardless of the greater or lesser titles they have been accidentally endowed with.
The revelation of the lovers in Prospero’s cell marks the culminating moment of two miraculous events: the discovery that the former Duke of Milan is still alive, against all odds, and the seeming resurrection of the King’s dead son. These are ‘wonders’, as Prospero points out, and as such typical of the contents of old wives’ tales, the winter’s tales that gave an earlier Shakespeare play its title – itself recalling the title of another work of the 1580s, George Peele’s extravagant comedy The Old Wives’ Tale (printed 1595), which contains many of the ingredients of The Tempest (an enchanter, a servant spirit, lost travellers, slaves, metamorphoses, musical interludes, etc. etc.). The final scene of The Tempest sees the play we have watched being gradually transformed into a traveller’s tale full of impossibilities, a ‘most strange story’, as Alonso puts it (5.1.117), which nevertheless has substance to it (Prospero calls it ‘the story of my life’, 5.1.304). And the play’s epilogue sees the whole imaginative shebang acknowledged as a collective exercise on the part of the spectators as well as the cast of Shakespeare’s company.
If Prospero could achieve wonders on the stage, it was with the help of the ‘good hands’ of his willing audience. The audience worked as crew on the imaginative ship of the production, helping to make the tempest happen in the opening scene, to accept that Miranda was a woman, not a cross-dressed boy, that the goddesses in Prospero’s masque were played by spirits rather than ordinary members of Shakespeare’s company, and that the surface of the stage was made of rocks and sand and mud, not the wooden planks of an early modern playhouse. The audience must therefore also assist with the final wonder, Prospero’s return to Naples. The sails of his ship must be filled by their ‘gentle breath’ in a benign inversion of the violent winds that sent Odysseus off on his ten-years’ journey round the Mediterranean in Homer’s epic. Their sympathy with him, their capacity for putting themselves in his place, must be activated for one last time to send him home, their applause signaling the willingness of their busy imaginations to do the work of crafting him a happy ending. Prospero’s epilogue, in other words, invites us to imagine ourselves as Prospero, endowing us all with ducal status, making us all the beneficiaries of a fairy tale conclusion we ourselves construct. It also invites us to imagine ourselves as Prospero’s spirits, those newly liberated slaves whose abscondment is what drove him to appeal for our assistance in the first place. The epilogue, then, identifies the stage as the space where for a strictly limited time the utopian egalitarianism of Gonzalo’s and Stephano’s visions is necessarily achieved every time a successful performance takes place.
The possibility of that final replacement – of hierarchy with utopian egalitarianism, of a dukedom with a theatrical collective – was made available in the final scene by Prospero’s own revelation of that ‘wonder’ Miranda in his cell, alongside that other wonder, the resurrected Ferdinand. Miranda’s name, of course, means ‘wonderful’ (from Latin miranda), and so suggests that she embodies the condition of wonder in the play: that is, the immediate emotional response to astonishing novelties, the state that preexists any effort to rationalize them – something close to the experience of ‘hesitation’ Tzvetan Todorov makes central to his understanding of the fantastic. The young couple’s bodies are one of the wonders of the island, as we’ve seen: both represent ideals of the male and female forms. And Miranda makes a yet more remarkable wonder happen on stage in the final act, when she briefly allows the audience to see all humankind as wonderful, despite – well, despite everything the audience knows about the species in general, and the characters on stage in particular. ‘O, wonder!’ she exclaims as she catches sight of the Neapolitan courtiers:
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in it! (5.1.181-4)
Prospero’s response to her reaction sounds cynical: ‘’Tis new to thee’; and Aldous Huxley’s use of one phrase of it for the title of his famous dystopia makes it hard to avoid reading both the response and the phrase itself as anything but ironic. But at that particular moment in the play the Neapolitan courtiers themselves seem to be as wonder-struck as young Miranda. Alonso briefly endows the girl with the divine status she imagined for herself in the second scene: ‘Is she the goddess that hath severed us / And brought us thus together?’ (5.1.187-8). And although Ferdinand at once claims Miranda as his possession (‘I chose her when I could not ask my father / For his advice’, 5.1.190-1), Gonzalo promptly steps in to make the couple equal again by endowing them both with royal status: ‘Look down, you gods, / And on this couple drop a blessed crown!’ (5.1.201-2). The old man’s timely reminder that the young couple will shortly replace both Alonso and Prospero makes possible the impossibility of some sort of genuine ‘brave new world’, free from the rivalries and acts of treason that characterized the older generation. The extent and nature of that possibility will depend on how cynical the collaborative audience is feeling (or has been made to feel by any given production) as the play draws to a close.
Which brings us back to the question of whether or not the play is a fantasy. Frank Kermode’s Arden edition of the play includes appendices that remind us of the early modern technologies that could make Prospero’s magic a practical possibility for the play’s Jacobean spectators. The play makes a distinction between the mendacious travellers’ tales, for which the island appears to offer material proof when in fact that proof is largely supplied by Prospero’s spirits, and the magic of Prospero, which is genuinely effective in the world of the play. Those spirits, as Kermode also demonstrates, have much in common with the fairies and elves that had been rendered non-existent by Protestant orthodoxy. Does this mean the fairies have been restored to the status of the possible, since they could simply be mischief-making devils? On the other hand, there’s no sign that Prospero’s supernatural slaves are damned, and Ariel’s relative humaneness compared to the usual habits of humanity distinctly suggests otherwise. For a strict Protestant the idea of blessed spirits being at work in the world was heretical; so we return to the notion of Shakespeare’s spirits as fantastic inventions, or of course to the possibility that strict Protestants were wrong in their perception of how the universe operates.
What Shakespeare’s play does do without any doubt at all is to set belief systems and notions of what is and is not possible at odds with one another, thus enacting on stage the ideological and religious conflicts that were being acted out all over the world at the time of writing. For different characters different things are deemed to be possible or impossible at different times. Gonzalo’s belief in Ferdinand’s survival, or in the beneficial properties of the island, are as absurd for Sebastian and Antonio as his evocation of an island utopia, though the former at least turns out to be true in the final act – ands the latter too, if my reading of the ambiguously utopian atmosphere of the play’s ending is a convincing one. Meanwhile Sebastian and Antonio begin the play not believing in traveller’s reports but become believers when faced with Prospero’s spirits – though we have no way of knowing if they retain this belief after they’ve learned who is pulling those spirits’ strings. Miranda’s belief that the courtiers of Naples are things of wonder is an extravagant fantasy of her own, which can hardly be shared by Shakespeare’s audience any more than by her father, given both what we’ve seen of Sebastian and Antonio and the general reputation of Italians in early modern England. The notion that Miranda is a wonder, in the sense of an ideal human being, is something even Prospero doesn’t seem sure of, given his anxiety over whether or not she is listening to his story in the opening act, and whether or not she will listen to his injunctions to stay chaste till marriage, as expressed in the masque scene and elsewhere. Ariel and his fellow spirits are perhaps the most conspicuous fantasies in the play, being benevolent supernatural beings of the sort unacknowledged by Protestant orthodoxy and having much in common with the diminutive fairies of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Ariel can lie in a cowslip’s bell, which makes him no bigger than Peaseblossom). Even they, however, are treated as possible beings by all in the play, and members of the audience might well have seen them as possible in their own world too: Ariel’s name is biblical, and Elizabeth I had a personal magician, John Dee, who claimed to have dealings with benevolent spirits – which he called angels – rather than damned ones.
Another term for what is possible is what Kathryn Hume refers to in Fantasy and Mimesis as ‘consensus reality’, and in The Tempest there’s no final consensus about the nature of what is and isn’t real. There is, however, a consensus invoked in the play’s epilogue, as we’ve seen, which makes real the possibility of collectively imagining a happy ending for Prospero, and perhaps even for Naples under the benevolent watch of a new generation who have shown themselves open to the condition of protracted wonderment. The question of how far the play is a fantasy, in other words – and how extravagant that fantasy might finally become – is left firmly in the hands of the spectators, whose multiple perspectives have been briefly combined to invoke the multiple perspectives of the play’s diverse characters. In the end, one might say, early modern fantasy lay in the eye of the early modern beholder. Which is precisely what makes it so interesting to consider early modern literature and drama in the light of the modern fantastic.
An Apology for Poetry, with Geoffrey Shepherd (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2002), p. 81, line 27.
The Tempest, ed. Frank Kermode, The Arden Shakespeare (London: Methuen, 1970). I have changed some punctuation slightly.
 For Shakespeare’s interest in replacing, substituting or supplanting people, as worked out in Measure for Measure, see R. W. Maslen, Shakespeare and Comedy, Arden Critical Companions (London: Thomson Learning, 2005), Afterword, pp. 213 ff.
 ‘Thought is free’ is often used mockingly in early modern English to suggest unvoiced suspicions about another person’s sexual activities…
 See The Tempest, ed. Frank Kermode, Appendix B: ‘Ariel as Daemon and Fairy’, pp. 142-5.
 On hesitation, see Tzvetan Todorov, The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1975), pp. 24-5.
 See The Tempest, ed.Frank Kermode, Appendix B.
 For the early modern English response to Italian culture see R. W. Maslen, Elizabethan Fictions: Espionage, Counter-espionage and the Duplicity of Fiction in Early Elizabethan Prose Narratives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), Introduction etc. Naples in particular gets a bad press in one of the most popular prose romances of Elizabethan times, John Lyly’s Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit (1578).
 See Kathryn Hume, Fantasy and Mimesis: Responses to Reality in Western Literature (New York and London: Methuen, 1984), p. xi etc.
[This is the first part of a paper I gave this week at the University of St Andrews. It considers some general approaches to the early modern fantastic. The second part considers Shakespeare’s The Tempest as an example of what might happen if we applied the modern concept of fantasy to an early modern work of art. My thanks to Professor Neil Rhodes for asking me to speak, and for getting me thinking along these lines!]
Fantasy has often been defined as the literature of the impossible; but deciding what that means isn’t always easy. The term ‘impossible’ raises historical as well as cultural questions; what can’t be done in one period is perfectly feasible in another, and the magical technologies available in the sixteenth century (for instance) far outstripped the pathetically limited technical resources of the twenty-first. In any case, how could anything be described as impossible at a time when spirits walked the earth and the atmosphere of every room was alive with trickster devils, as Thomas Nashe suggests in The Terrors of the Night (1594)? Or when the English countryside swarmed with elves and fairies, mermaids preened themselves on beaches, monsters lolloped in the ocean depths, and the wildest imaginings of Ariosto, Shakespeare or Spenser (animated brass men, bridges in the sky, humans morphing into beasts, the transformation of base metal into gold) could be accomplished by any reasonably adept witch or conjurer or alchemist? The question has led many historians of the fantastic to trace its rise to a time two centuries later when the world began to be viewed as a material entity, whose dimensions, composition and contents could be catalogued and recorded in encyclopaedias, those multi-volume compendiums that aspired to include all that could ever be known about the physical universe. Only when what is possible has been properly categorized can the impossible be clearly distinguished from it. Fantasy could be said to have originated, then, in the Enlightenment, which gave birth to its irrational or monstrous antitheses Romanticism and Gothic fiction, which in turn gave birth to the fantastic, as exemplified in the fairy tales of George MacDonald, the romances of William Morris or the children’s fiction of Edith Nesbit.
Except, of course, that this is not an accurate account of the rise of the genre. As Jamie Williamson (among others) has argued, fantasy did not really emerge as a recognized literary kind until the early 1960s, when the popularity of the paperback edition of The Lord of the Rings in the United States led to the foundation of the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series under the editorship of Lin Carter. The series served, among other things, to establish a genealogy for fantasy, reprinting a range of key texts from the nineteenth and twentieth centuries which had inspired Tolkien and his circle or were in some way analogous to their works. Like the printed books and pamphlets of the early Reformation which sought to trace a genealogy for Protestantism running from the days of the primitive Church to the Tudor present – a genealogy which included Chaucer and Langland as proto-Protestant satirists of the Catholic clergy – Carter’s project deftly located a golden thread of narratives of the impossible that extended throughout the century or so before The Lord of the Rings made its first appearance in the 1950s. He didn’t reprint much from before the 1850s, and for the most part histories of fantasy have tended to accept his model of the genre’s emergence, despite the fact that it describes (like the history of Protestantism) a literary lineage that didn’t exist until he invented it.
Lin Carter took as his source for the series the various references to modern texts (MacDonald, Morris, Dunsany, Chesterton, Lindsay, Eddison, Peake) which are touched on by Lewis and Tolkien in their prefaces and essays, along with a number of texts he himself identified as similar to these. What united most of these texts was the kind of passion for the medieval and early modern periods that manifests itself on every page of The Lord of the Rings and the Narnia books. George MacDonald’s Phantastes draws on Wolfram von Eschenbach and Edmund Spenser; William Morris’s The Well at the World’s End is deeply indebted to Malory; Lord Dunsany’s early fantasies use the style of the King James Bible, while two of his later novels are set in the Spanish Golden Age of Don Quixote; E. R. Eddison peppers his secondary world romances with quotations from Jacobean poets and playwrights; Hope Mirrlees evokes the Netherlands of the seventeenth century. For Carter, then, modern fantasy has its roots firmly embedded in English Literature of the late medieval and early modern periods – although some of them reach as far back as the early medieval period of Beowulf and the sagas, as represented by the works of Tolkien and the early romances of William Morris. What is it that links the hundred years between MacDonald’s first fairy tale and the publication of The Lord of the Rings with the turbulent world of the Wars of the Roses, the Tudor dynasty and the Jacobean succession? Can a case be made for the late medieval and early modern periods as having given birth to the fantasy genre – not just in the sense of having inspired it, but also perhaps of having invented an early form of fantastic discourse?
If such a case is to be made it needs to rest, I think, on whether or not it was possible for something to be impossible in the period. Or perhaps we should put it another way: for fantasy to exist in early modern times it must have been necessary for people to claim that certain things were impossible. The latter formulation gets to the heart of what was happening between 1450 and 1650, when major political forces in Europe found themselves ranged against each other, each cleaving to a different sense of how the material and spiritual worlds were organized, each convinced that their political rivals were peddling untruths to their credulous subjects – pushing monstrous impossibilities in the interests of seizing or retaining power. I’d like to suggest that the Reformation lent an intensity to the debate over what was true and what was false – and increasingly, over what was and was not possible – which laid the foundations of what would become the fantasy genre.
Lurid imaginings were of course thoroughly familiar in pre-Reformation England – as was the notion that they were lurid imaginings, making no claim to truth. These included the extravagant stories known as ‘winter’s tales’ or ‘old wives’ tales’ – narratives in which astonishing events occurred with unusual frequency, such as encounters with dragons, elves, goblins, giants, ghosts and enchanters; travellers’ tales, which acquired a reputation for hyperbolic mendacity; animal fables, in which beasts spoke with human voices – the most popular and elaborate of which was the so-called ‘beast epic’ Reynard the Fox; and more literary forms of extravagance, such as the dialogues of the late Greek satirist Lucian so beloved of Thomas More and his friend Erasmus.
With the advent of the Reformation in England, however, these over-the-top narratives got caught up in religious controversy. The Old Wives became proponents of the Old Faith, their willingness to tell extravagant tales an index to the superstition in their minds. The travellers with their lying anecdotes had become infected by continental Catholicism; the talking animals had been invented as a means of circumventing censorship, whether by the Catholic Church or the secular powers that worked hand in glove with the so-called ‘Bishop of Rome’; while the sceptic Lucian, who was a noted atheist in the days of the pagan gods, became a model for effective literary assault on all false religions. Polemical writers who brought together these forms of extravagant fiction in their work included William Baldwin, author of the brilliant Lucianic fable Beware the Cat (c. 1553), and William Bullein, whose Dialogue against the Fever Pestilence (1568) ascribed the rise of plague in Europe to the sins of Catholics and wavering reformers and featured a lying Catholic traveller called Mendax. Roger Ascham’s treatise, The Schoolmaster (1570), eloquently summarized the case against extravagant fictions, condemning chivalric romance as the invention of lewd monks who reveled in ‘open manslaughter and bold bawdry’ and dismissing the newly popular and erotically charged Italian novella as Catholic propaganda, unwelcome travellers’ tales come to infect the brains of the English with continental follies.
There came a time, though, when the extravagant stories associated with Catholicism began to lose their polemical punch and acquire instead an air of exoticism which links them, again, with modern fantasy. It’s tempting to suggest that this turning point came in 1570, when Elizabeth I was excommunicated by papal bull, thus confirming England’s opposition to Catholic culture and paradoxically liberating English writers to treat aspects of that culture as a form of extravagant fiction. Certainly it was in the 1570s that English writers began to write prose fiction in a pseudo-continental Catholic style – ornate in diction and syntax, packed with mythological references, wordplay, and formal experiment, peppered with references to Italy – as if in deliberate emulation of the Italianized English travellers condemned by Ascham. For Ascham these travellers underwent what he called a Circean metamorphosis, transformed into strange new shapes as though by the sorceress Circe in the Odyssey, who came to stand for continental Catholicism in general and Italian culture in particular. The papal bull could be said to have fictionalized the Catholic imaginary, opening it up to be treated with the same imaginative freedom as classical mythology, itself associated with Italy through its transmission by way of ancient Rome.
Meanwhile classical mythology underwent a modernization at these writers’ hands, becoming cross-contaminated with the Italian novella. The novella in turn picked up elements of the newly discovered ancient Greek and Roman prose romance, whose extravagance of incident furnished Elizabethan writers with the equivalent in plot of the elaborate prose styles (euphuism, Arcadianism and the rest) they delighted in. Kidnappings by pirates, followed by an enthusiastic embracing of the pirate’s life; visits to pagan shrines and oracles, whose powers proved highly dependable; coincidental encounters, confirming the operation in the pagan world of a decidedly pagan fate or fortune, in competition with the more solemn operations of Christian Providence – these ingredients militated against the moral purpose of literature as promulgated by Saint Paul and the humanist education system, promoting a new culture of rebellious youth which was being celebrated in many inventive variations on the Prodigal Son story. Classical myths, which had gained respectability through their use in Christianized versions in schools and universities, detached themselves from their contexts in the Metamorphoses and became excursions into bizarre alternative universes (Coleridge famously described Shakespeare’s mythical poem Venus and Adonis as having been written ‘as if he were of another planet’). Infested by the absurdities of Lucianic satire and seizing every opportunity to foreground the outrageous eroticism that had been sedulously glossed over by Elizabethan schoolteachers, the Ovidian epyllion or ‘minor epic’ reinvented itself as a fresh new form, like the novella, evading the familiar generic categories into which classical literature had traditionally segregated itself.
Northern European influences, too, fed into that highly spiced soup or gallimaufry, the literary melting pot of 1570s and 80s England. Chivalric romances took to the stage as well as the printed page, their association with the medieval church endowing them with a radical detachment from contemporary Protestant life that delighted audiences as greatly as it enraged religious hardliners. Supernatural biographies, such as the stories of Doctor Faustus and Friar Bacon, lost their polemical edge (although not always their anti-Catholic slant) and began to revel in the magic tricks of their protagonists, more concerned with the adventures and jokes made possible by the skills of their protagonists than with the damnable consequences of their necromantic dabblings. By the early 1590s, the jestbook describing the life of the medieval English magician Roger Bacon allowed him to evade any consequences at all by a timely repentance, while the condemned Doctor Faustus redeemed himself as a ghost in the Second Report of Doctor John Faustus (1593) by helping the combined armies of Christendom to lift the Turkish siege of Vienna. By the early 1590s, even Purgatory had made itself available for imaginative exploitation. If the spirits of the dead couldn’t exist in the Purgatorial fires, since Protestant doctrine holds that the spirit dies with the body and is only resurrected at the Day of Judgment, then fictions could be stored there instead, merry tales or romances that laid no claim to historical accuracy. A series of anthologies sent the goblin Robin Goodfellow down to Purgatory to collect these fictions and presented them to readers with prefatory comments by the elvish editor.
By the time Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night’s Dream (c. 1594), in fact, both Purgatory and fairies or goblins had become relatively acceptable material for literary or theatrical treatment – though Oberon still has to explain to Puck that they are ‘spirits of another sort’ than the damned beings who must return to Hell at cockcrow, like Old Hamlet’s ghost. Shakespeare’s miniaturization of his supernatural beings was a declaration of their detoxification: no one could believe in, or at least be afraid of, a little person who could be overwhelmed by the bursting of a honey bee’s bag full of pollen. Romeo and Juliet consigns the fairies to the realm of dreams, while Thomas Nashe in The Terrors of the Night identifies a whole category of the dream state as the product of a poor digestion, their extravagant contents attributable to eating cheese at bedtime. Meanwhile the association of a belief in fairies with the Old Religion was confirmed by William Warner in his epic poem Albion’s England (1586), where a half-forgotten Robin Goodfellow laments the loss of that universal faith in the existence of fairies which obtained in the reign of Elizabeth’s Catholic sister, Mary I. Reginald Scott’s Discovery of Witchcraft (1584) helped to spread the idea that the end of superstition should mean the end of other folk beliefs; and by the time William Corbet wrote the much-loved early seventeenth-century ballad ‘The Fairies’ Farewell’ – whose first line, ‘Farewell rewards and fairies’, furnished Rudyard Kipling with the title of his fantasy of 1910 – the loss of faith in both fairies and Catholicism could be spoken of in the regretful terms that set the tone of so much modern fantasy literature. The same nostalgic note suffuses the various near-contemporary accounts of the loss of the old classical myths, such as Milton’s ode ‘On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity’ (1629). This wistfulness is increasingly the tone of the religious moderate, as against the puritan or the militant Catholic, and their propensity for nostalgia is surely one of the chief reasons for the frequent invocation of early modern times in fantasies of the first half of the twentieth century.
The imaginative spaces made available by Purgatory and the dreams of incautious diners were lighthearted equivalents of the invented secondary worlds celebrated by Sir Philip Sidney in his Apology for Poetry (1595), which first appeared in print around the time when A Midsummer Night’s Dream and Romeo and Juliet were holding the stage. Sidney’s observations on the capacity for poetry to invent worlds anticipate Tolkien’s in his essay on Fairy Stories – especially his comments on the capacity of the storytelling imagination to activate ‘recovery’, the process of enabling its readers to see the world they live in with fresh, more-or-less unfallen vision. The passage in the Apology is deservedly celebrated:
Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up with the vigour of his own invention, doth grow in effect into another nature, in making things either better than Nature bringeth forth, or, quite anew, forms such as never were in Nature, as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies, and such like: so as he goeth hand in hand with Nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging only within the zodiac of his own wit.
Nature never set forth the earth in so rich tapestry as divers poets have done; neither with pleasant rivers, fruitful trees, sweet-smelling flowers, nor whatsoever else may make the too much loved earth more lovely. Her world is brazen, the poets only deliver a golden.
Sidney’s well-known association of poetry with fiction – things that have been made up or imagined, as against history or philosophy – here gets extended to suggest that the most exalted form of fiction is what we would now call fantasy, the invention of hybrid ‘forms such as never were in Nature’: impossibly gifted heroes, pagan divinities and chimeras, as well as non-existent ‘golden’ worlds fit to contain them. Like Tolkien he is convinced that the justification of such escapist dreamscapes lies in their capacity to materially change the people who read about them – they are not ‘wholly imaginative, as we are wont to say by them that build castles in the air’, but work ‘substantially’ by inspiring readers to emulate the impossible heroics and altruistic adventures they celebrate. Coming into print at the high point of the transition of the Catholic imaginary to fictional status, Sidney’s essay provided a theoretical basis for the widespread enjoyment of extravagant fictions over the preceding two-and-a-half decades.
Meanwhile his great work of prose fiction, the second draft of his Arcadia (1590), provided an example of the ‘golden’ secondary world he spoke of, stuffed as it is with evil enchantresses and high-minded cross-dressing heroes or heroines endowed with improbable eloquence, whose paths crisscross in a fictionalized Mediterranean which clearly bore little resemblance to the place itself. At the same time Spenser’s Faerie Queene (1590-6) provided readers with a fictionalized Britain where enchanters tangled with intelligent lions, book-spewing monsters, dragons, men made of brass, women made of flowers. I suggested at the beginning that none of these things were strictly impossible for an early modern readership, but the immeasurable distance between the golden world of Faerie and the squabbling, plague-ridden country it was based on, together with the sheer abundance of rare wonders with which it was stocked, precipitated Spenser’s inventions into the realm of impossibility described by Sidney. In the latter half of the 1590s, Richard Johnson’s Seven Champions of Christendom (1596) took Spenser’s appropriation of the Catholic saint’s life for fictional purposes (Saint George in the opening book of The Faerie Queene) several stages further, sending the patron saints of England, Scotland, Ireland and the rest in knightly form across a fantastical Europe whose geography bears no relation to the one you might find in contemporary maps.
In his essay, Sidney gives as a key example of the poet’s capacity to invent models for good conduct Thomas More’s Utopia (1516), which supplies its readers with the ideal rhetorical technique for describing a perfect commonwealth, even if Sidney has reservations about how that technique was used: ‘that way of patterning a commonwealth was most absolute’, he observes, ‘though he perchance hath not so absolutely performed it’. Sidney was a militant protestant, keen to see Elizabeth involve herself in the continental wars of religion in the 1580s, so his praise of More is striking; he puts the shortcomings of Utopia down to the failings of More the man (‘where Sir Thomas More erred, it was the fault of the man and not of the poet’), and this distinction between the writer with his erroneous convictions (More was of course a fierce defender of Catholic orthodoxy against the inroads of Lutheranism) and the secondary world he generated marks out the imagined island as a more-or-less neutral zone, tainted by its writer’s religious affiliations but by no means undermined by them in principle. The Apology itself declares its intention to steer clear from religious topics, ostensibly because these are too exalted to be brought into a discussion of imaginative literature, and so both theorizes and justifies the development of a field of fiction that embraces and expands upon the rich heritage of stories inherited from the pre-Protestant epoch.
In the 1590s Shakespeare was at the centre of the fictionalizing of Catholic culture – a process that remained tinged with an air of real danger, treading as it did on ideological ground that was being fought over with unprecedented savagery. His most fantastic inventions of that decade – Venus and Adonis (1593), A Midsummer Night’s Dream (c. 1594-5), the Queen Mab speech in Romeo and Juliet (c. 1595), the Herne the Hunter episode in The Merry Wives of Windsor (c. 1597-8), the god- and lion-infested forest of As You Like It (c. 1598-1600) – draw their energy from a passionate union of Catholic art and literature with the Protestant repudiation of Catholicism and other forms of superstition, including native folklore as well as classical mythology – producing a hybrid literary-theatrical child of a kind that hadn’t been seen before. I’d like to proceed, though, by skipping a decade and looking at the point when Shakespeare seems to have gone back to the white-hot period of literary fusion that helped to generate his early writings. The series of plays known as the late romances rode on a wave of Jacobean nostalgia for the Elizabethan period which may well have gained impetus from a certain discontent with the reign of James I. Shakespeare returned to the genre of Greek romance, of the kind popularized by Robert Greene in the 1580s, with Pericles (c. 1607-8),Cymbeline (c. 1609-10), and The Winter’s Tale (c. 1609-11), which introduced impossible wonders, astonishing coincidences and spectacular special effects into his oeuvre, while reminding audiences of the giddy time of Greene’s prolific fiction-writing heyday. The Tempest (c. 1610-11) seems to me (as to many others) most richly to reimagine the liberation of the imagination in which Shakespeare had participated; and in harking back as it does, the play also seems to me most vividly to anticipate fantasy fiction of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, summarized by Rosemary Jackson as a ‘literature of desire, which seeks that which is experienced as absence and loss’. What might happen, then, if we were to read it through the lens provided by modern fantasy? That’s the question I’ll try to answer in the second of these two posts.
 For fantasy as literature of the impossible, see Edward James and Farah Mendlesohn’s summary of the broad consensus among its theorists and commentators: ‘The major theorists in the field – Tzvetan Todorov, Rosemary Jackson, Kathryn Hume, W. R. Irwin and Colin Manlike – all agree that fantasy is about the construction of the impossible whereas science fiction ay be about the unlikely, but is grounded in the scientifically possible.’ The Cambridge Companion to Fantasy Literature, ed. Edward James and Farah Mendlesohn (Cambridge etc.: Cambridge University Press, 2012), p. 1.
 See Jamie Williamson, The Evolution of Modern Fantasy: From Antiquarianism to the Ballantine Adult Fantasy Series (New York: Palsgrave Macmillan, 2015), Introduction, and Edward James and Farah Mandlesohn, A Short History of Fantasy (Farringdon: Libri Publishing, 2012), p. 76.
 On early modern travellers’ tales and magical journeys see R. W. Maslen, ‘Magical Journeys in Sixteenth-Century Prose Fiction’, Yearbook of English Studies, Vol. 41, no. 1 (2011), pp. 35-50.
 For more on Baldwin and Bullein see R. W. Maslen, ‘The Cat Got your Tongue: Pseudo-Translation, Conversion and Control in William Baldwin’s Beware the Cat’, Translation and Literature, vol. 8, Part 1 (1999), 3-27, and ‘The Healing Dialogues of Dr Bullein’, Yearbook of English Studies, Vol. 38, nos. 1 and 2 (2008), ed. Andrew Hiscock, pp. 119-35.
 For Roger Ascham’s views on Italian fiction see R. W. Maslen, Elizabethan Fictions: Espionage, Counter-espionage and the Duplicity of Fiction in Early Elizabethan Prose Narratives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997),pp. 41-51.
 See Maslen, Elizabethan Fictions, Introduction.
 For the English imitation of Greek and Latin prose romance see Robert H. F. Carver, ‘English Fiction and the Ancient Novel’, in Thomas Keymer (ed.), Prose Fiction in English from the Origins of Print to 1750, The Oxford History of the Novel in English, Volume 1 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017, Chapter 8, pp. 123-45.
 The classic work on representations of the Prodigal Son in Elizabethan fiction is Richard Helgesson, The Elizabethan Prodigals (Berkeley, Ca.: University of California Press, 1976).
 For a detailed account of this little-known work of early modern prose fiction see R. W. Maslen, ‘Marlowe’s Ghost: The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus’, Airy Nothings: Imagining the Otherworld of Faerie from the Middle Ages to the Age of Reason: Essays in Honour of Alasdair A. MacDonald, eds. Karin E. Olsen and Jan R. Veenstra (Leiden: Brill, 2014), pp. 1-24.
 For Robin Goodfellow in the early 1590s see R. W. Maslen, ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’, Journal of the Northern Renaissance, Issue 1.1 (March 2009), pp. 129-44.
 See R. W. Maslen, Shakespeare and Comedy, Arden Critical Companions (London: International Thomson Publishing, 2005), pp. 141-54.
 See Maslen, ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’, 3.
 Sir Philip Sidney, An Apology for Poetry, with Geoffrey Shepherd (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 2002), p. 85, lines 17-27.
 See Richard Johnson, The Seven Champions of Christendom (1596/7), ed. Jennifer Fellowes, Non-canonical Early Modern Popular Texts (Aldershot and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2003).
 Rosemary Jackson, Fantasy: The Literature of Subversion (London and New York: Rutledge, 1981), p. 3.
[I gave a version of this piece as a lecture at the Shakespeare Institute, Stratford-upon-Avon, in 2009, at the invitation of John Jowett. It’s pretty closely in dialogue with my book Shakespeare and Comedy (Arden, 2005), especially Chapter 3, ‘Lightness, Love and Death’ and the Afterword, ‘Comedy for a New Reign’. I’m putting it here because All’s Well is in effect a Lost Book among Shakespeare’s plays.]
‘All’s well that ends well’ was already an old saying in early modern England; the only non-biblical proverb to be used as a title for one of Shakespeare’s plays. The story on which the play is based was also old by the time he adapted it. It derives from Boccaccio’s tale ‘Giletta of Narbonna’ in TheDecameron (c. 1350), as mediated through an English translation first published in Shakespeare’s infancy. The sense of going back to the past to gain a new perspective on the present is pervasive in the play. In itself, this idea is nothing new; but Shakespeare’s understanding of how the past manifests itself in the present and comes into conflict with it is subtly different here than in any of his other works – subtly different, too, from anything by his contemporaries. Above all, he’s concerned with the changes undergone by language in each generation, and with the forms of discourse – proverbs, old stories, riddles, prophecies, jokes – which may be used to maintain a sense of continuity between one generation and another.
To put it crudely: All’s Well That Ends Well – which is generally dated to the early days of the reign of James I, between 1603 and 1607 – dramatizes a conflict between two discourses or verbal attitudes. The attitude to language it presents as modern, and which it seeks to challenge, is an excessive reliance on what has come to be called the ‘cold light of reason’ – or simply ‘sense’; the notion that one can argue one’s way to the truth using the structures of formal logic, based on an understanding of the world that perceives it as always and everywhere the same, and that therefore fails to recognize its subjection to the transformative operations of time. The means by which the play mounts this challenge is by way of a variety of time-worn discourses which were branded by contemporary moralists folly or nonsense. The seriousness of this encounter between two conflicting philosophies of language is stressed by the quasi-legal structure of the play’s last act, in which an informal trial is staged at a point when one might expect a formal trial to have been set up. But the triumph of nonsense at the end of the play – its success in engineering a happy ending against all odds, in supplanting a legal sentence with what is in effect a punchline – makes it an endorsement of comedy, a genre that would seem to be directly at odds with the notion of trials, judgements or any other form of legislation. An ambiguous endorsement, to be sure; but then verbal comedy (as opposed to slapstick) has always thriven on ambiguity.
In a law-court, the proper and improper use of language may be a matter of life and death. And the fact that the quasi-trial in Act 5 of All’s Well does not take place in a law-court stresses the extent to which every verbal act is a risky business – the extent to which you take your life in your hands, put yourself on trial as it were, every time you open your mouth. I have argued elsewhere that Shakespeare’s comedies are pervaded by the notion that the word-play which is the medium of comedy is the riskiest business of all; and I would like to suggest here that the period of Shakespeare’s life when he’s most aware of the riskiness of the comic is just before and just after the accession of James I. Mock-trials occur with astonishing frequency in the plays of this period; trials in which men of power accuse, convict and sentence their inferiors – usually women – without giving them the benefit of a jury or a formal defence. The most extreme example of such a mock-trial is the final scene of Othello (c. 1603-4), in which Desdemona’s husband appoints himself her judge, jury and executioner. But Othello’s precursors include Claudio and Don Pedro in Much Ado About Nothing (c. 1598), who condemn Hero without listening to her plea of not guilty; Hamlet, who accepts as the only witness of Claudius’s guilt what might well be a ‘goblin damned’; Troilus, whose summary sentencing of Cressida has no interest in exonerating circumstances; and the Duke in Measure for Measure (c. 1604), who passes a series of arbitrary judgements on Isabella, Mariana, Angelo and Lucio in the play’s last scene. The implication of all these plays is that grammatical sentences may become quasi-legal sentences at a moment’s notice in the sophisticated discourse of the 1600s. And since the word ‘sentence’ could mean ‘proverb, saying, aphorism’ (from Latin sententia), the right use of proverbs as a means of swaying judgement – your own or other people’s – becomes a particularly urgent issue in this play ruled by a proverb.
Othello is the play of Shakespeare’s that most fully exploits the more sinister aspects of sententia, as well as of the quasi-legal sentence. Iago’s manipulation of Othello deploys well-known proverbs, which are supposed to articulate ancient wisdom, as a means to instigate prejudice – that is, pre-judgement, the bane of all efforts to set up an equitable trial. He persuades Othello to see Desdemona through the lens of the proverbial licentiousness of Venetian women, and tricks him into conforming with the proverbial stereotypes of ‘changeable’ Moor and jealous old husband, the commedia del arte Pantaloon with a murderous twist. And Iago does this by convincing Othello of Iago’s own simple honesty, as exemplified in a style of speech that’s liberally sprinkled with old sayings. As has been often pointed out, the success of Iago’s proverb-fuelled project would be comic if its consequences had not been so appalling.
All’s Well inverts Othello. The play’s protagonist Helen is honest, deriving her honesty from her father – whereas Iago, as a Spanish stranger in Venice, has no known forebears to guarantee his honesty. Helen’s parents were poor but honest; but finding herself in a world where honesty is despised, she resorts to tricks that might be construed as dishonest, allying herself through word and action with the professional fool Lavatch (whose brazen honesty in telling harsh truths to his mistress often gets him into trouble) and the foolish professional soldier Parolles (whose brazen dishonesty gets him into trouble till he learns to be honest about it by becoming a professional fool).
The proverb that emblazons All’s Well, however, furnishes it with a title as unsettlingly knotty as any scheme Iago could come up with – as knotty as the play it introduces. It carries with it, for example, the notion that meaning in discourse is always deferred – that is, contingent on the passing of time; a notion Shakespeare was to play with at length in his late romances. It implies, too, that this comedy is concerned with happy endings; though the phrase also incorporates the sense that all happiness has an ending. And it raises the question of what an ending is (many commentators have pointed out that the play’s conclusion, like that of Johnson’s Rasselas , is one ‘in which nothing is concluded’). The end of one epoch, after all – such as the reign of Elizabeth, which also signaled the end of the Tudor dynasty – is the beginning of another – such as the reign of James I, which inaugurated the age of the Stuarts; a single life can span both epochs without changing significantly; the structure of the realm may not change a great deal between the end of one historical period and the beginning of another; measurements are always contingent, even the measurement of a life, which may not end when the quietus comes, as Hamlet reminds us. Until we can ascertain that an ending really has taken place, and agreed both what has ended and what the significance of that ending is, the proverb of the play’s title cannot come into play; it remains always a promise or possibility rather than an assertion, an illustration of the crassness of proverbs rather than a trusted piece of familiar wisdom passed down from one generation to the next.
But the play is not solely concerned with endings; it’s equally concerned with beginnings that may or may not be happy – a topic of keen interest to a nation at the beginning of a new century and a new reign. And the play’s attitude to the new epoch is quite different from that of Shakespeare’s other theatrical salute to the Stuart dynasty, Measure for Measure. Where the latter begins with a set of characters who nurture unrealistic expectations of protecting their absolute principles in a degenerate world, All’s Well that Ends Well introduces us to a set of men and women who are acutely conscious that they must deal with a flawed world on its own terms, and that they will probably not be able to protect their most cherished principles from becoming compromised by these worldly dealings as one age or period or fashion gives way to another. This is another implication of the title: that happy endings may be held to justify the means used to reach them, and that not all of these means may be good ones. But the title also invites us to consider from the beginning the question of what it means to be ‘well’, either physically or morally speaking. There’s a sense, then, both of resignation and of doubt about the title – of the conditional mode, as it were, the big ‘if’ that governs its proceedings – that perfectly suits it to the play it emblazons.
Like Measure for Measure, the comedy has much to say about the difficulty of dialogue – and indeed it contains some of Shakespeare’s most complex and elusive poetic language. Verse is its medium, where prose was the dominant medium of Measure for Measure – especially in the second half of that play. And an astonishing proportion of the verse in All’s Well is rhymed. The play’s protagonist Helen uses rhyme repeatedly, and the formal closure rhyme gives to her lines imparts to many of them a proverbial feel, like that of the play’s title, as if she is quoting long-established, carefully formulated philosophical truths – drawing, perhaps, on the same store of ancient knowledge that formed the basis of her father’s reputation as a man of letters. ‘Who ever strove / To show her merit that did miss her love?’ she asks (1.1.212-3), and despite the uncertainty of the answer, the question becomes an assertion by virtue of the euphonic link it establishes between striving and desire. ‘He that of greatest works is finisher / Oft does them by the weakest minister’ (2.1.135-6), she tells the King of France as she undertakes to cure him of a terminal illness, and the rhyme lends an authority to her verbal empowering of the weak that both testifies to her confidence and gives confidence to her hearers. The other great users of rhyme in the play are Helen’s adoptive mother, the superannuated Countess of Roussillon, and the aged King of France himself, whose cure she effects using a drug invented by her father, and who becomes a replacement father-figure to her. Helen’s, the Countess’s and the King’s rhymed exchanges make them sound as though they are singing to the same tune, as it were. The King and Helen in particular establish a family resemblance in the scene where they first meet, as their speeches gradually get closer to each other in rhyme, in despite of reason – a contest between sound and sense, euphony and probability, which gets reignited by the King at the end of the play when he celebrates Helen’s return to his court with a tentative restatement of the play’s title: ‘All yet seems well; and if it end so meet, / The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet’ (5.3.326-7, my emphasis). There’s a mutual understanding between Helen and the King that unites genders and generations through the medium of melodic utterance. Here, then, is yet another meaning of the title: that a conversation goes well when each of its metrical units ends (meetly and sweetly, as the King might say) in a rhyme. There’s clearly something contrived about such a claim; it cannot be said to be true in any obvious sense. But its very contrivedness stresses the extent to which this play is preoccupied with the elaborate engineering of a happy ending, against all odds, by all means necessary, regardless of improbabilities – or even impossibilities. Helen and the King acknowledge that they live in a universe that resists happy endings. They are determined nevertheless to achieve one, and the way they talk articulates that determination.
As with the Duke and Isabella in Measure for Measure, their plan to engineer happiness flies in the teeth of the ferociously anti-romantic environment they inhabit. Both Helen and the King are old-fashioned in their belief that happiness is a condition worth having – or even possible to have. The play is full of elderly people who lament the passing of old-time excellence and the ascendancy of a self-centred new generation. The Countess of Rossillion, who cannot countenance her son Bertram’s treatment of Helen; the elderly courtier Lafeu, who is disgusted that the young aristocrats of his time cannot appreciate Helen’s beauty and wit; the King, who in the first act wishes that he, like Bertram’s father, had not lived ‘to be the snuff / Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses / All but new things disdain’ (1.2.59-60) – all note the course of the world’s decline, its gradual loss of affection with each succeeding age. Helen allies herself with these nostalgic old folk both by her deployment of old knowledge – her use of her father’s medicine to cure the King – and by their adoption of her as their imaginative offspring. The Countess adopts her as her daughter in the first act, the King effectively adopts her in the second, and she substitutes herself for Lafeu’s daughter in the final act, when she reclaims Bertram’s hand just after he has contracted it to the old man’s child. By the end of the play, the base-born Helen has effectively forged a new lineage for herself, an ancestry that extends into the mists of French antiquity, linking her to the past as strongly as the ancient wisdom she inherited from her father.
The nostalgic attachment to the past shared by Helen and her adoptive parents is not, then, a reactionary one. It seems to liberate them from reactionary class positions, making them prize a person’s words and actions more highly than her birth, in marked contrast to young men like Bertram, who do not understand that it’s necessary to inherit their ancestors’ ‘moral parts’ as well as their facial features (1.2.21). Early modern conduct manuals very often stress the notion that aristocracy was first bequeathed to certain families by common consent of the people, as a reward for their achievements. Perhaps the richest and most intriguing assertion of this view comes in Sir Thomas Elyot’s The Governor (1532) – a favourite book of Shakespeare’s. ‘In the beginning,’ Elyot tells us in his chapter on nobility,
when private possessions and dignity were given by the consent of the people, who then had all things in common, and equality in degree and condition, undoubtedly they gave the one and the other to him at whose virtue they marveled, and by whose labour and industry they received a common benefit, as of a common father that with equal affection loved them.
It’s therefore necessary, Elyot asserts, for each new generation of nobles to reassert their nobility in action if they wish to retain their hereditary privileges; and Shakespeare’s King of France concurs. ‘Honours thrive,’ the King tells Bertram, ‘When rather from our acts we them derive / Than our fore-goers’ (2.3.133-5). Those nobles who fail to act nobly not only forego their right to the title they inherit, but show symptoms of a more general sickness in the world they inhabit. Elyot puts it like this:
Where virtue joined with great possessions or dignity hath long continued in the blood or house of a gentleman, as it were an inheritance, there nobility is most shown, and these noble men be most to be honoured; forasmuch as continuance in all thing that is good hath ever pre-eminence in praise and comparison. But yet shall it be necessary to advertize those persons, that do think nobility may in no wise be but only where men can avaunt them of ancient lineage, an ancient robe, or great possessions, at this day very noble men do suppose to be much error and folly. Whereof there is a familiar example, which we bear ever with us, for the blood in our bodies being in youth warm, pure, and lusty, it is the occasion of beauty, which is everywhere commended and loved; but if in age it be putrefied, it loseth his praise. And the gouts, carbuncles, cankers, leprosy, and other like sores and sicknesses, which do proceed of blood corrupted, be to all men detestable. (p. 104)
What this passage reveals is the fact that the past is the location of radical thought and action. It was as a result of a communal decision, a revolutionary rethinking of the problem of how best to live together, that people first established the institution of nobility. Elyot’s identification of nobility as having been granted to certain men by democratic agreement implies that it can be taken away just as easily (notice that resonant phrase ‘as it were an inheritance’ – Elyot denies that inheritance is ever either essential or automatic). The political implications of this position were taken up much later in the century in the notorious French treatise Vindiciae contra tyrannos (1579), by Philippe du Plessis Mornay and Hubert Languet, which argued that kings as well as nobles were originally elected by the people, and might be deselected – deposed – should their merits become subject to ‘degeneration’. And Elyot’s comparison of successive generations of nobles to the ageing of the human body implies something more: that later generations are in a sense older than those that went before them, since they are further removed from the vigorous, innovatory convictions that motivated the institution of nobility. The younger generation is therefore more vulnerable to the ravages of disease – to what he calls putrefaction – than the old. Bertram is sicker than the King of France, his body less responsive to Helen’s loveliness, his concern for the public weal, as Elyot calls it – for the wealth and/or wellness of the state (Elyot was an amateur physician as well as a politician) – almost non-existent. The notion that he is to be healed in the second half of the play, as the King was in the first, is a structuring principle of the comedy. And the play implies too that the world Bertram represents – the world occupied by the theatre audience – is as sick as he is, and needs restoring to health by similar means if it’s not to fall apart under the burden of its own decrepitude.
Sir Thomas Elyot was a lexicographer like Samuel Johnson. He authored the first Latin-English dictionary, and his Book Named the Governor is also a kind of lexicon, passionately committed to the belief that the right use of words, the respect for their etymology and proper deployment, is essential to the wholesomeness of any early modern society. His chapter on nobility is more concerned with restoring that word to its proper signification in the here and now than it is with antiquarianism. All’s Well is similarly concerned with the use and misuse of words; and its title implies a similar reading of the world as having gone off track, as needing to return to where it started, to the common weal, which depends on a common or mutual understanding of what words mean – an understanding that has almost been lost, with disastrous political and social consequences.
The nostalgia of Helen and the old people of All’s Well is for a very distant past; perhaps even for the days before the nobility was founded, that golden age when the idea of nobleness mattered more than any social institution. They speak of the age when miracles occurred (as they do again in this play: the miracle of the King’s recovery, the miracle of Helen’s return from the dead to reclaim the hand of her husband); or when goddesses like Diana walked the earth (as she does in this play from Act Three, in the person of the mortal girl Diana). Above all, they speak of the days when words were inextricably linked with their simplest meanings, as Helen insists they are when she addresses people like Diana who share her integrity, or as the King says they were whenever Bertram’s father opened his mouth. ‘His honour,’ says the King of his dead friend, ‘Clock to itself, knew the true minute when / Exception bid him speak, and at this time / His tongue obeyed his hand’ (1.2.38-41). Words in those days were carefully weighed, sparingly spoken, sincerely meant; and once again, the King’s and Helen’s deployment of rhyme would seem to replicate the careful timing and placing of words that characterized this legendary epoch.
Of all the good qualities of the past, this exemplary use of language is the most difficult to recover in the present. The Countess’s desperate efforts to get Helen to confess her love for Bertram, the Countess’s son, are rendered necessary by the time they live in; a time when the tongue is hobbled by the knowledge that its owner’s best intentions may be wilfully misread, its most direct and honest utterances subject to misprision. ‘Only sin / And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,’ the Countess tells Helen, ‘That truth should be suspected’ (1.3.170-2); but she is wrong. Helen is merely concerned to defer her declaration of love until she knows she will be pardoned for it; that she will not be condemned out of hand for ambition in loving a man above her station, or brazenness in giving her desire expression. These days, Helen finds, well-meaning people must convey their thoughts in riddles if they wish to avoid instant misprision. She speaks ‘riddle-like’ to the Countess when she finally confesses her love for the Countess’s son (1.3.208); and in the final scene, her friend Diana speaks in riddles to the King in her efforts to explain the convoluted paths by which the play’s happy ending is being achieved. Riddling is the language of oracles, another of the ancient sources of knowledge that Helen resurrects. When she promises the King that she can cure him, she relies on the ‘help of heaven’ to substantiate her promise (2.1.151), just as the priestess did at the Delphic oracle when she begged Apollo for answers to his worshippers’ questions. The King is both amazed and impressed by Helen’s confidence: ‘Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak / His powerful sound within an organ weak,’ he tells her, ‘And what impossibility would slay / In common sense, sense saves another way’ (2.1.174-7). Her claims to occult knowledge, in other words, seem to him senseless, like the verses delivered by the Delphic oracle; yet in one way or another the ‘sense’ of the Delphic verses was always confirmed by the outcome of events, just as the sense of Helen’s riddles will assert itself before the play is done. The plot of All’s Well is an elaborate device to give substance to the latter-day oracular riddle spoken by Diana in the final scene: or to put it another way, to extract sense from a senseless world by uttering seeming nonsense.
In the modern age, words are wayward, treacherous, suspicious, and must be circumvented by discovering a new discourse composed (perhaps) of riddles and rhymes. Yet even words as used in the modern age can serve to bring people together if cleverly used – like the wheelings and dealings of a crafty pimp. This is confirmed in All’s Well by the words and actions of Parolles; a braggart soldier who helps to lead Helen’s husband Bertram astray, but who also helps to bring him back to the wife he abandons; a pimp who lends his services in an effort to help Bertram commit adultery, but who ends instead by introducing the wayward husband to the deferred delights of his wedding night. As his name suggests (it means ‘words’ in French), Parolles embodies the way words are used in the here and now, the duplicitous ambiguity of latter-day discourse. Words lead people away from truth, just as Parolles encourages Bertram to be untrue to Helen; yet they also inadvertently restore truth to those who have lost it, as Parolles restores Bertram to his lost spouse. This verbal double action is present in everything Parolles says. In the first act, for instance, he delivers an oration to the virgin Helen on the uselessness of virginity (‘Loss of virginity is rational increase; and there was never virgin got till virginity was first lost’, 1.1.117-9). Yet despite his obviously salacious motives in speaking thus (he wants to sleep with Helen himself), Helen is not insulted by Parolles’s oration. On the contrary, she finds it intriguing: it impels her to ask him what is (for her) the million dollar question: ‘How might one do, sir, to lose [virginity] to her own liking?’ (1.1.141). Yet the same speech serves Bertram’s turn as well; the young man later parrots it when attempting to seduce Diana: ‘When you are dead, you should be such a one / As you are now, for you are cold and stern; / And now you should be as your mother was / When your sweet self was got’ (4.2.7-10). Parolles, in other words, speaks both for the loyal Helen and for the disloyal Bertram. He gives voice to Helen’s desire, which she cannot easily voice herself without being condemned for it like her Homeric namesake; and he furnishes Bertram with the language of seduction, thus initiating the young man into the pleasures of sex – the first step on the way to reconciliation with his wife. This dual action of Parolles’s words is apparent, too, in the message he delivers to Helen from Bertram after their marriage, telling her that Bertram has left her for the theatre of war. For Parolles, this abandonment – which seems so disastrous to Helen’s adopted parents – is merely a deferral of the couple’s pleasure, an erotic technique (familiar to frequenters of brothels) for enhancing the ecstasy of their future love-making. Bertram’s departure, says Parolles, will ‘make the coming hour o’erflow with joy / And pleasure drown the brim’ (2.4.44-5). And despite the fact that Parolles doesn’t mean this – that at this point he doesn’t expect Bertram and Helen ever to meet again – this quasi-pornographic fantasy proves prophetic. The King’s last words before the play’s epilogue (‘The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet’, 5.3.327) effectively repeat Parolles’s sentiment. Parolles, then, is a vehicle for truthful utterance – a servant, like Helen, of the gods, or of whatever forces lend structure to chaos, bring sense out of nonsense. The difference is that Helen is conscious that she has this function, whereas Parolles is not.
If Parolles acts as a kind of inadvertent soothsayer or prophet, then Helen and the older generation to which she allies herself sometimes act as pimps. When the old courtier Lafeu first leaves Helen alone with the King he compares himself to the most famous of pimps: ‘I am Cressid’s uncle, / That dare leave two together’ (2.1.96-7). His pimping has a positive effect: the King is cured, and Lafeu alludes to the King’s restored health in sexual terms: he is ‘Lustig, as the Dutchman says… he’s able to lead her a coranto’ (2.3.38-40). The newly cured King then acts as a pimp with Helen as his client: first parading his courtiers before her like whores in a brothel, then using threats to make her chosen partner, Bertram, accept her advances. The comparison of King to pimp may seem a trifle strained; but it does not seem so to Lafeu, who is disgusted by the young courtiers’ failure to respond to Helen as compliant whores should do: ‘An they were sons of mine I’d have them whipt; or I would send them to th’Turk to make eunuchs of’ (2.3.84-6). And the comparison occurs, too, to Bertram, who is appalled by the role reversal whereby a woman becomes the client and himself the sexual partner she chooses: ‘In such a business’ he says, ‘give me leave to use / The help of mine own eyes’ (2.3.105-6, my emphasis). Later in the play, Diana’s widowed mother uses the same word, ‘business’, to refer to pimping: she tells Helen that she is well brought up and therefore ‘Nothing acquainted with these businesses’ (3.7.5), such as that of getting a strange woman into bed with a man. But at this point Helen is urging the widow to act as a legitimate pimp between herself and Bertram, just as Lafeu and the King acted as legitimate pimps in the play’s second act. Bertram has fled to Italy without consummating his marriage to Helen, and Helen prostitutes herself with the aim of producing lawful effects from Bertram’s unlawful desires. In Italy, Bertram is attracted to Diana, the widow’s daughter, and makes an arrangement through Parolles to sleep with her; but Helen substitutes herself for Bertram in Diana’s bed, thus creating the context for yet another redemptive riddle. Her plot to sleep with Bertram, she says, ‘Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed, / And lawful meaning in a lawful act; / Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact’ (3.7.45-7). In a world where men react with horror to lawful sex and instead seek pleasure with unlawful partners, pimping, prostitution and the playing of sexual practical jokes may be legitimate practices, and dealing in double meanings may be the only way to circumvent more damaging forms of duplicity.
Parolles is the presiding spirit of this decadent modern world, self-centred, dishonest, bombastic, morally hollow; and what happens to him demonstrates how this world can most effectively be dealt with. Parolles, like the duplicitous words invoked by his name, can be worked on to generate useful meanings. His particular brand of nonsense can be exploited to produce sense, just as the more elevated nonsense of prophecy can make sense when properly applied. In the fourth act Parolles is subjected to a terrifying practical joke that unleashes a torrent of verbiage from him. A band of his fellow soldiers, attached like him to the Florentine army, disguise themselves as members of the army with which Florence is at war. They capture Parolles, then interrogate him in a nonsensical made-up language cobbled together from fragments of European dialects ancient and modern. Under their interrogation and in terror of his life, Parolles regales them with a flood of truths and half-truths, treacherously telling them all he knows and more about the composition of the Florentine forces and the private lives of the Florentine generals. At the end of the dreadful interview the traitor’s eyes are unbound and he finds himself confronted with the men he has been betraying and traducing. And his exposure betrays not only Parolles but the man who took Parolles at his word, Bertram. The young man’s trust in the protestations of a fool who is so palpably untrustworthy suggests that he himself is not to be trusted. The interrogators find in Parolles’s pocket evidence of both his and Bertram’s unreliability: a letter from Parolles to Diana, urging her not to trust Bertram (‘After he scores, he never pays the score… He ne’er pays after-debts’, 4.3.208-210) and to transfer her favours to Parolles instead. Later, Parolles again betrays the truth about Bertram, inadvertently testifying to his attempted seduction of Diana at a crucial moment in the play’s last scene. Parolles, like Helen, makes sense out of nonsense if properly ‘found’.
The man who ‘finds’ Parolles’s dishonesty is old Lafeu (‘I have now found thee,’ he crows in Act Two, 2.3.203); and it’s Lafeu who employs him as a fool at the end of the play. The old courtier notes the danger of taking Parolles seriously – of lending excessive credence to the kinds of insubstantial words he represents. He tells Bertram that ‘there can be no kernel in this light nut’ and warns him to ‘trust him not in matter of heavy consequence’ (2.5.42-5). At the same time, Lafeu sees too that properly handled Parolles’s lightness can be wholesome. The Countess of Roussillon’s fool Lavatch urges him to find the fool in himself: ‘much fool may you find in you, even to the world’s pleasure and the increase of laughter’ (2.4.34-5); and it’s ‘to the increase of laughter’ that he is tricked into betraying what he knows about Bertram and the Florentine army, since the French lords who plan the prank do it ‘for the love of laughter’ (3.6.29). As a result of their exposure Parolles becomes an honest man – or rather, honestly dishonest, dedicating himself to a career in making people laugh with his blatant lies and petty treasons. From being a corrupting influence when given too much weight, he becomes an invigorating one when taken as what he is, the epitome of lightness. And this transformation of Parolles from heavy and corrupt to light and wholesome is masterminded by a man whose name allies him with light, an ennobled reincarnation of Measure for Measure’s Lucio, Parolles’s new master Lafeu.
Lafeu specializes in well-timed humour, distinguishing the serious from the frivolous with a tact and sensitivity that recalls the King’s description of Bertram’s dead father. When introducing Helen to the King he begins by associating her with a chain of sexual allusions. ‘I have seen a medicine’ he says, ‘That’s able to breathe life into a stone… whose simple touch / Is powerful to araise King Pepin’ – Pepin being a long-dead ancestor of the French King’s whose name comically distorts the word ‘penis’ (2.1.71-5). But Lafeu goes on to testify seriously to Helen’s apparent worth, ‘If seriously I may convey my thoughts / In this my light deliverance’ (2.1.80-1). He thus becomes the first to warn of the ease with which women may be taken too lightly, the substance of their ‘light’ – that is, their knowledge, wit and wisdom – left unrecognized, to the detriment of all. Bertram’s mother the Countess of Roussillon is the next to see it. Instructing her steward to write to Bertram about Helen’s departure from France she tells him, ‘Let every word weigh heavy of her worth / That he does weigh too light’ (3.4.31-2). And the King is the last; speaking of Helen’s supposed death he tells Bertram that ‘Our rash faults / Make trivial price of serious things we have, / Not knowing them until we know their grave’ (5.3.60-2). Lafeu has helped to teach his elderly contemporaries the distinction between different forms of lightness; and at the end of the play he proposes to go on using Parolles as a tool for illustrating the distinction.
Bertram, by contrast, goes on devaluing women till the last possible moment. When Diana accuses him of seducing her in the final scene he dismisses her as a plaything, a disposable toy: she is ‘a fond and desp’rate creature / Whom sometime I have laugh’d with’ (5.3.177-8). No wonder, then, if women have recourse to light strategies to get justice from men of his generation. Helen poses as a ‘light’ woman, a whore, to get him back when he deserts her; and Diana has recourse to the ‘light’ or frivolous language of riddles to explain Bertram’s actions to the King (‘So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick’, 5.3.297). Diana’s jokes almost kill her; exasperated by their seeming senselessness, the King orders her to prison and adds that he will put her to death ‘within this hour’ if she cannot give him a more satisfactory account of herself (5.3.278). Luckily, Diana is able to provide a visual clue to the ‘meaning’ of her riddle by presenting the King with the living body of Helen, who was thought to be dead; a body that is also ‘quick’ with child, that is, pregnant by Bertram. There is substance to her quibbles, sense to her senselessness, as there is not to Bertram’s lying protestations of honour and fidelity. It is Bertram, not Diana or Helen, who is light – as hollow as the drum with which Parolles is repeatedly linked. And at the end of the play one cannot help but wonder if he can ever acquire the substance to keep his promise to Helen and ‘love her dearly, ever, ever dearly’ (5.3.310).
In an earlier French play by Shakespeare, Love’s Labour’s Lost (c. 1594-5), words grew wings and flew away from meaning. The play’s repeated references to children and childishness reflected the immaturity of the witty courtiers who set its tone, and its unsatisfactory ending stressed the difficulty of reuniting what they had divided: sound and sense. All’s Well introduces us to another set of French courtiers many of whom are elderly, as if they have long ago completed the rigorous course of instruction imposed on Navarre and his companions by the youthful Queen of France. In All’s Well comedy comes of age, its destructiveness and its wholesomeness held in a delicate balance. Throughout the play, as has often been noted, there’s an emphasis on healing that reflects yet another meaning of the title: all’s well that ends in a state of health. And good comedy was said to be one of the most potent medicines of all, reviving and restoring its auditors through the healing influence of laughter. At the beginning of the play Helen wishes Bertram well as he leaves for the court of France, although she is uncertain that his departure will bring him wellness. ‘Tis pity,’ she tells Parolles,
That wishing well had not a body in’t
Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,
Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
Might with effects of them follow our friends
And show what we alone must think, which never
Returns us thanks. (1.1.166-74)
In the rest of the play Helen does indeed give a body to her wishes and follow Bertram, like an embodiment of the base-born comic playwright, who gives body to his thoughts for the benefit of the highest as well as of the lowest social classes. She plays an audacious comic trick on him to marry him, and a yet more audacious prank to consummate their marriage; and she contrives a comic ending to their adventures in defiance of hatred, infidelity and death. She is a mistress, then, of the related arts of medicine and comedy; and her early success in healing the King permits us to hope that she will finally succeed in healing Bertram, too, despite all appearances to the contrary. After all, less plausible things have happened, both on and off the comic stage.
 William Painter’s The Palace of Pleasure (1566-7), Volume 1.
 Sir Thomas Elyot, The Book Named the Governor, ed. S. E. Lehmberg (London and New York: Dent and Dutton, 1962), pp. 103-4.
 See my Elizabethan Fictions (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), chapter 1, for more on Elyot’s The Governor as lexicon.
[I’ve recently been working with Dermot Cavanagh on a special issue of theJournal of the Northern Renaissancein honour of our friend Alison Thorne, who was forced by illness into early retirement. While writing the introduction to the issue I spent some time thinking about Alison’s remarkable academic career, and in particular a major conference she co-organised with Jenny Richards, ‘Renaissance Rhetoric, Gender and Politics’, at the University of Strathclyde, 24-25 April 2003. I gave a keynote at the conference which was never published, although the opening paragraph found a place in my book Shakespeare and Comedy in 2005. On reflection I thought this would be a good moment to publish it here, even if neither play under discussion is precisely fantastic. John Lyly’s Campaspe, at least, is something of a lost book, or at least a lost play, andMarlowe’s Tamburlaine Part 1 celebrates (or warns against) the political potency of the imagination. That’s fantastic enough for me this afternoon. Here it is, for Alison.]
Comedy in the 1580s was a genre under siege. The assault on the theatre, galvanized into new life by the erection of the first purpose-built playhouse in 1576, was in large part an assault on comedy. For writers of the anti-theatrical movement, playhouses provided a solid foothold in English soil for potential foreign invaders, while the comedies performed in them imported sophisticated and seductive foreign values into a culture that had once prided itself on its simplicity. Comedy softened and feminized the stern minds and muscular bodies of Englishmen in readiness for the imminent return of their wily Catholic colonists from across the water. Comedy was a virus, a debilitating contagion capable of spreading like wildfire from the playhouses on the city’s margins into the heart of the metropolis. And it was also an addiction. As the cleverest of the anti-theatrical writers put it: ‘in Comedies delight being moved with varietie of shewes, of eventes, of musicke, the longer we gaze, the more we crave, yea so forcible they are, that afterwards being but thought upon, they make us seeke for the like an other time’. For this writer – Stephen Gosson – cross-dressing and other comic violations of decorum represent ‘rebellion raysed against reason’ and the ‘lawes of God’. And there is only the shortest of steps between rebellion against God’s laws and insurrection against the state.
Invective against comedy in the 1570s and 80s freely deploys the vocabulary of violence. If the genre is ‘forcible’, rebelling against law and logic, then it must be suppressed by force. Playhouses must be demolished, and the laughter-loving players arrested and aggressively punished for fostering idleness and dissidence among the citizens of London. Yet comedy’s chief offence is that of spreading effeminacy: bringing men closer to women through the twin agencies of desire and disguise, part of a larger theatrical agenda of unsettling gender and class distinctions which will result, the polemicists insist, in the collapse of the English social order. The fusion of the discourse of violence with that of seduction, of ‘male’ aggression with ‘female’ allurement, in the anti-theatrical polemics of the period, is profoundly unsettling for a modern reader. But I’d like to suggest that it was also unsettling for sixteenth-century theatre-goers – writers, players and audiences – and that it had a profound effect on the way comedies got written in the decade before Shakespeare got started as a playwright.
I’d like to suggest, in fact, that the anti-theatrical movement helped to consolidate a tendency already prevalent among English playwrights: that of mixing the comic and the tragic modes for dramatic and political purposes. There were very few ‘pure’ comedies written in English before the late 1590s: ‘pure’, that is, in the technical sense that they dealt exclusively with matters of moderate importance and persons of middling fortunes, having nothing to do with high politics or exalted estates. But the impurity of English comedy was part of what made it both ‘forcible’ and seductive. Comedy, I shall argue, was seen in Elizabethan times as a space where people of the middling sort – people of the class to which the players themselves belonged, who had only limited access to the machinery of power in the Elizabethan state – could engage with matters of moment. It was a platform from which they could address representatives from the whole range of social classes who jostled each other in the streets of the city, and who were forced into still more intimate contact in the crowded space of the playhouse. Comedy was a forum for free speech: and the playwrights of the 1580s were seriously interested in the question of when and how far the licence to speak freely could be made available in a monarchy.
I shall make my case by looking at two very different plays from the 1580s: John Lyly’s Campaspe and Christopher Marlowe’s TamburlainePart 1. Despite their obvious differences – one is a comedy, the other a tragedy, one in prose, the other in verse, one written for the court, the other for public performance in a London playhouse – these plays have a lot in common. Each was the first piece written by a major playwright, and each set out to establish that playwright’s dramatic agenda. Both were hugely influential, both played sophisticated games with contemporary theories of the comic, and both are preoccupied to a greater or lesser extent with violence – especially violence against women. Above all, both are concerned to draw attention to their own innovative discourse, parading their distinctive new rhetorical techniques as exceptional instances of the many forms of free speech available to be exploited by educated commoners in the late sixteenth century. These plays, then, are courageous and radical dramatic experiments, whose achievements made possible the astonishing sophistication of Shakespearean comedy in the following decade. As if in direct response to Stephen Gosson’s anti-theatrical polemics – which Lyly, at least, knew well – they both acknowledge and celebrate the danger of getting involved with the theatre; and it’s only by recapturing that sense of danger that we’ll be able to do them justice today.
As Michael Pincombe has pointed out in his seminal book on Lyly’s plays, Campaspe is not a court comedy, though it was published as one by Edmund Blount in the 1630s. Lyly’s plays were not exclusively shown to a courtly audience. Before being presented to the queen they were first staged for an audience of citizens at the ‘private’ indoor theatre known as the Blackfriars playhouse – a more expensive venue than the ‘public’ open-air playhouses – on the pretext that they needed to be thoroughly rehearsed if they were to reach the proper standard for a court performance. And after both sets of performances were over, they were published and read voraciously by a public eager to gain an insight into the current fashions in language and drama among the aristocracy. These plays, then, had a multiple audience, and Lyly’s self-consciousness about his audiences is embodied in Campaspe by the forthright philosopher Diogenes, who combines the roles of clown, entertainer and teacher in a manner that enables him to move freely between very different social levels.
Lyly’s Diogenes operates on two fronts. On the one hand he is a commoner who succeeds in criticizing a king without suffering for it – which is all the more remarkable since the monarch in question is Alexander the Great, famous both for his interest in philosophers and for his readiness to put them to death. On the other hand, Diogenes is a harsh critic of his fellow citizens in the Greek metropolis, Athens, whom he berates in the city market-place for their irresponsibility, moral turpitude, and willingness to encourage their king in his most damaging vices. The philosopher-clown’s unwavering determination to speak openly makes him the personification of libera vox, freedom of speech, as the rhetorician Thomas Wilson conceived it. ‘Freenesse of speache,’ Wilson writes, ‘is when we speake boldely, and without feare, even to the proudest of them, whatsoever we please, or have list to speake. Diogenes,’ he adds, ‘herein did excel, and feared no man when he sawe just cause to saie his mynde. This worlde wanteth suche as he was, and hath over many suche, as never honest man was, that is to say, flatterers, fawners, and southers of mennes saiynges’ (396-7). Far from being a fault, Diogenes’ refusal to honour persons, time or place is a sign of his integrity and courage, and his comic bluntness challenges Alexander to show equal integrity and courage by granting the philosopher a licence to speak as he pleases. The historical Alexander was thought by many to have been assassinated as a direct result of his efforts to silence his critics; as Sir Thomas Elyot put it in his Book Named The Governor, in the context of a detailed discussion of the Macedonian prince: ‘O what damage have ensued to princes and their realms where liberty of speech hath been restrained!’ (108). Lyly’s comedy offers his Elizabethan rulers the opportunity to redress a wrong committed by one of their most illustrious ancient predecessors.
Lyly may have created his Diogenes as a direct response to Stephen Gosson’s criticisms of the theatre, which he certainly knew. The fearless philosopher who stages instructive comic performances for all classes serves to demonstrate that a well-made, playful comedy can be as forthright in its denunciation of social corruption as any polemical pamphlet. But Lyly also incorporates into his play an artist who embodies everything Gosson decried in contemporary comedy: the painter Apelles, who is employed by Alexander to paint the woman he has fallen in love with, Campaspe, and who promptly falls in love with her himself. Gosson’s strictures on the obsession of early modern drama with erotic love would seem to be borne out both by Alexander’s love and by Apelles’: by Alexander’s because it distracts him from serious military endeavours, and by Apelles’ because it confirms Gosson’s suspicion that most art is exclusively preoccupied with gratifying the senses at the expense of reason. Indeed, one might argue that Lyly had no choice but to confirm Gosson’s suspicions if his play was to be read as a serious response to Gosson. If Diogenes’ role is to purge the comic space he inhabits from its vices, then in order for him to do this convincingly, Lyly must introduce these vices into his own dramatic production. The philosopher’s Gossonian hostility to erotic love would seem to be confirmed by a short scene in Act 5, where the prostitute Lais encourages the young men of Athens to ‘conquer worldes with great wordes: but stay at home, where in steede of Alarums you shall have daunces, for hot battelles with fierce menne, gentle Skirmishes with fayre womenne’. In response, Diogenes berates her as poisonous carrion; and in the next scene he communicates his misogyny to Alexander, thus preparing him for his eventual abandonment of his temporary role as lover and his return to the theatre of war.
But comedy itself is not corrupt in Campaspe as it is in Gosson’s polemic. On the contrary, it’s the king’s willingness to thrust himself ‘by head and shoulders’ into a comic milieu where he does not belong that is the chief cause of anxiety in Lyly’s comedy. Throughout the play, Alexander’s preoccupation with his base-born captive, Campaspe – a prize from his recent conquest of Thebes – is represented as a diversion from his proper business, which is the savage one of conquering other people’s kingdoms. The play represents a space of leisure time in the midst of frenetic military activity: as Alexander puts it in the third act, ‘recreation [is] necessary among so many assaults, bloudye wounds, intollerable troubles: give mee leave a litle, if not to sitte, yet to breath’. But the king’s intervention in the recreational world of comedy brings mortal terror to the practitioners of the arts of peace. He begins by planning to transform his court into a school of philosophy, like the King of Navarre in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost. But when interviewing the Athenian philosophers for admission to his school he starts by reminding them of a philosopher who was executed for treason – Callisthenes – and warns them that such a scholar’s ‘treasons againste his prince shall not bee borne out with the reasons of his Phylosophy’. As a result, the philosophers hasten to transform themselves into courtly sycophants, adapting their doctrines to Alexander’s wishes – with the honourable exception of the philosopher-clown Diogenes. Later Alexander tries his hand at painting, and his tutor and love-rival, the painter Apelles, has to use all his tact to criticize his work without giving offence. When the monarch asks ‘how have I done heere?’ the artist replies ‘Like a king’, and Alexander at once takes the real point of what sounds like a compliment: ‘I thinke so: but nothing more unlike a Painter’. Lyly’s point seems to be that governing is an art, but that it does not give governors either the skill or the right to intervene in other arts. And the appeal for artistic freedom in Lyly’s play comes into sharpest focus when Alexander seeks to initiate himself in the art of love.
The king’s decision to fancy himself in love with Campaspe is an unmitigated disaster. For one thing, he thinks – like the Pagan gods he seeks to emulate – that his royal status permits him to do anything to satisfy his desire, since he arrogantly presumes that kingly ‘passions and thoughts do as far exceede others in extremitie, as their callings doe in Majestie’. The fact is, however, that love is an arena in which royal status is more of a hindrance than a help. As his friend Hephestion warns him – after carefully seeking permission to speak openly – a king may command a reluctant subject ‘to yeelde to luste by force; but to consent to love by feare, you cannot’. Campaspe herself later confirms the incompatibility of monarchs with romance: ‘They place affection by times, by pollicie, by appointment; if they frowne, who dares cal them unconstant? if bewray secretes, who will tearme them untrue? if fall to other loves, who trembles not, if he call them unfaithfull?’ Campaspe’s observations are couched in the language of self-censorship that permeates the play: every character except Diogenes spends the entire action engaged in elaborate efforts to avoid giving verbal offence to the irascible conqueror. The soldiers Clitus and Parmenio, for instance, take the view that the king’s love affair has feminized his people, much as Gosson held that the theatre had feminized the English people. As Parmenio puts it, ‘youthes that were woont to carry devises of victory in their shieldes, engrave now posies of love in their ringes: they that were accustomed on trotting horses to charge the enimy with a launce, now in easie coches ride up and downe to court Ladies; in steede of sword and target to hazard their lives, use pen and paper to paint their loves’. But the two soldiers never dare to express these thoughts openly, for reasons Parmenio explains earlier: ‘kinges… have long eares and stretched armes, in whose heades suspition is a proofe, and to be accused is to be condemned’. In other words, Alexander’s misplaced love makes him a tyrant in that he becomes deaf to the voices of his subjects. And it also makes Apelles a traitor for exercising the faculty he is best qualified to practise: the judgement of beauty.
One of Lyly’s favourite authors, Baldassare Castiglione, argued in his Book of the Courtier that Apelles was a better judge of Campaspe’s beauty than Alexander could ever be, and suggested that it was ‘perhaps also for this respect’ that the king ‘determined to bestow her upon him, that (in his mind) could know her more perfectly than he did’ (82). Castiglione also suggested that Campaspe probably felt aggrieved at being forced to exchange ‘so great a king for a painter’. But in Lyly’s play she reciprocates Apelles’ feelings, conscious that a man of her own class is a safer match for her than royalty, and convinced that the painter’s love ‘commeth from the heart, but Alexanders from the mouth’. Lyly’s Apelles certainly appreciates beauty: when Alexander asks him in Act 2 if he has yet finished his famous painting of the goddess of beauty, Venus, he replies ‘Not yet: Bewty is not so soone shadowed, whose perfection commeth not within the compasse either of cunning or of colour’. Later he tells Alexander that he will never finish painting Campaspe, ‘for alwayes in absolute bewtie there is somwhat above arte’. But Apelles is being over-modest; he does in fact finish painting Campaspe to his satisfaction, and thinks her portrait superior to Pygmalion’s image. But he is also driven, both by his desire to see her again and by his fear of revealing this desire to the king, to damage his own painting so that she will sit for him a second time. Lyly agrees with Gosson, then, as well as with Castiglione, that it is the business of art to enhance our appreciation of bodily beauty. But unlike Gosson he implies that this only becomes dangerous when the powerful begin to make unreasonable claims on the artist and his materials: when they profess, for instance, absolute power over the minds, bodies and emotions of their subjects, or when they presume to dictate the way art should be practised. Art is a middle-class activity – just as Apelles and his model Campaspe are middle-class lovers – and the interference of rulers in its affairs makes it as deformed as Apelles’ damaged painting.
At the end of Lyly’s play Alexander comes at last to recognize these facts and to affirm his regal distance from, and mild disdain for, the emotional terrain which is part of the artist’s territory. From now on, he says, he will restrict himself to ‘using fancy as a foole to make him sport, or a minstrell to make him mery’. In saying so he claims to have achieved another conquest: as Hephestion admiringly tells him, ‘The conquering of Thebes was not so honourable as the subdueing of these thoughts’. But in fact Alexander has egregiously failed to master the various arts of peace at which he has tried his hand in the course of the action; and only a few lines earlier he has confessed that he ‘cannot subdue the affections of men, though he can conquer their countries’. Art and love, and above all the comedy or tragicomedy in which Lyly dealt with these topics, have been shown both to inhabit a space beyond the control of governors, and to be capable of probing the doings of the governing classes. To put it another way, in comedy the king, the player, and the acerbic social commentator are equals, as Alexander again confesses when he makes his famous remark about the philosopher-clown: ‘were I not Alexander, I wolde wishe to be Diogenes’.
This was a bold statement for Lyly to make in his first court comedy. Perhaps he felt impelled to make it because he was writing at the time when a court official had been given new powers over the censorship and regulation of the English stage. The official was the Master of the Revels, a post that Lyly seems at one time to have wanted for himself; and the Master appointed in 1581 was Edmund Tilney, who remained in charge of licensing plays for performance throughout most of Shakespeare’s career. If the new powers granted to Tilney represented the court’s attempt to impose its stamp on contemporary drama, then Lyly’s Campaspe might be seen as the dramatists’ defiant response: at once confirming and dismissing Gosson’s fears about contemporary comedy, defining the limits of Tilney’s censorial activities, and proclaiming the courage, independence and value of the voice of the middle-class dramatist as a restraining (but delightful) influence on both court and city.
It’s hardly surprising, then, that Campaspe was one of the most influential plays of the 1580s, and that its influence went well beyond the ‘private’ theatre of the court and the Blackfriars playhouse. Lyly’s wittily outspoken drama straddling court and city gave Shakespeare and his immediate predecessors a model for the production of dramatic texts that could successfully negotiate both spheres. But Lyly’s range as a playwright was relatively limited, curtailed, no doubt, by his sense of his social position – as a gentleman born, a descendant of eminent educators, and a man who hoped for a reward at the queen’s hands which in fact never came. His humbler characters are for the most part oddly static, signalling, by their willingness to let events take their course, that they pose no real threat to royal authority (indeed, in one of his most celebrated plays – Endimion – the protagonist spends most of the play fast asleep). At the other end of the social scale, kings and queens in his plays always decide for themselves what to do about the situations in which they find themselves, and make it clear that they will always disregard their counsellors when their advice proves unpalatable. As we’ve seen, Campaspe self-consciously inhabits a space that is not the main sphere of political action: if it defines a privileged platform for comic free speech at court, it’s one that is decorously segregated from serious acts of government such as law-giving, war, or political debate. Although one gets the sense that Diogenes could intervene in these areas should he choose to do so, it’s equally plain that in this play, at least, he does not.
The plays written for the new purpose-built public theatres, by contrast, insist on their political centrality. Although the playhouses themselves occupied only a limited and marginal geographical area – because of the hostility of the city authorities they had to be built in the suburbs of London – the plays performed in them cover a dizzying expanse of the world’s surface, as if to articulate the players’ triumphant sense of having finally colonized a plot of land in the name of drama. From the city of London itself, to which a number of plays in the 1580s presumptuously offer advice, to the vast fields of Europe, Africa and Asia, the fixed space of the stage showed itself able and willing imaginatively to take on the properties of the most powerful cities and states on earth at crucial moments in their history. From 1575, when the Theatre playhouse was erected in Shoreditch, Elizabethan drama increasingly declared its ambition to throw off the shackles of decorum and take the Globe as its subject. And this ambition was carried well beyond the walls of the theatre buildings by the touring versions of the plays that roamed the far-flung provinces of England and Europe.
Discarding restrictions of space inevitably also entailed discarding restrictions of time; and not just in the sense of flouting the dramatic unities favoured by followers of Aristotle. For the anti-theatrical lobby, the very existence of the playhouse buildings constituted a violation of the authorities’ bid to control urban space and time, whose regulation was always being disrupted by wayward servants and recalcitrant apprentices. The 1580s and 1590s witnessed a busy exchange of letters between the city authorities and the Privy Council of Elizabeth I, many of which are dominated by the topic of the players’ refusal to keep to the days of the week and times of the day for which they have been licensed. In this as in all things, complained the Mayor and Aldermen of the city, modern players run ‘Contrary to the rules and art prescribed for the makinge of Comedies eaven amonge the Heathen, who used them seldom and at certen sett tymes, and not all the year longe as our manner is’ (Chambers 322). Performances during working hours or on Sundays ‘draw apprentices and other servauntes from theire ordinary workes and all sortes of people from the resort unto sermons and other Christian exercises’; while performance ‘In the time of sicknes’ – during outbreaks of plague – helps to accelerate the spread of infection through the city streets. If Elizabethan comedies show something of an obsession with the notion of bad timing they are merely responding – on one level at least – to the stock prejudices of the anti-theatrical lobby concerning the flagrant disregard for proper time-keeping among players and their audiences.
Geographical expansiveness is of course the hallmark of the drama of Christopher Marlowe, whose career began with the irruption onto the public stage of a would-be global conquistador still more bloody, uninhibited and eloquent than Alexander, Tamburlaine – who is also, and perhaps not coincidentally, surnamed ‘the Great’ in the title of Marlowe’s play. Marlowe was the greatest dramatic poet of time misspent, whose Tragical History of Doctor Faustus boldly violates all temporal and spatial restrictions on drama, only to confront its own chronological limitations in Faustus’ last soliloquy, every line of which represents a minute of his last hour. But Marlowe was also one of the boldest innovators in the field of comedy: his skilful provocation of horrified laughter at moments of high emotional tension was one of the most important dramatic techniques he bequeathed to Shakespeare. Instances of such laughter abound, whether provoked by the impish Barabas in The Jew of Malta, who gleefully poisons convents full of nuns, strangles friars, and tricks amorous young men into assassinating one another (‘brave sport!’) before being killed by one of his own murderous practical jokes; or by the Guise’s jocular stabbings of Protestants in The Massacre at Paris. In Marlowe’s plays this horrified laughter is not only not segregated from royalty; it is omnipresent in royal courts, where the misplaced humour of monarchs often proves as fatal to them as to their subjects. King Henry of France in The Massacre at Paris, for instance, cracks an obscene joke that goads the Guise into assassinating one of his royal favourites – the first in a chain of assassinations that ends with Henry’s death; while in Edward II the king and his lover Gaveston arouse the deadly resentment of Mortimer by making fun of his dress sense. ‘Whiles other walk below,’ Mortimer complains, the two men ‘From out a window laugh at such as we, / And flout our train, and jest at our attire. Uncle, ’tis this makes me impatient.’
Laughter in Marlowe’s plays, in other words, is an invaluable tool both for those who wish to seize power and for those who wish to assert the power they already possess; but it’s above all a litmus test of a person’s hold on power. Those who laugh at their enemies with impunity have their authority resoundingly confirmed; but those whose ill-judged laughter stings their enemies into successful retaliation find their ascendancy irretrievably damaged. Laughter and the responses it provokes unerringly seeks out the cracks and fissures in any given hierarchy and helps to prize them open. Shakespeare took full advantage of this principle in his dramatic explorations of English history; but it was Marlowe who gave the principle its most provocative demonstration, in his first play for the public stage, Tamburlaine 1.
From one point of view, Tamburlaine 1 can be read as a stupendous revision of Campaspe. Marlowe’s Scythian shepherd turned warrior is an over-inflated pastiche of Lyly’s Alexander, and this is nowhere more obvious than in his treatment of his captives. Lyly’s play takes place in the aftermath of Alexander’s conquest of Thebes, and opens by stressing the merciful treatment of his prisoners by the Macedonian monarch: ‘Thebes is rased, the people not racked, towers throwne down, bodies not thrust aside, a conquest without conflict, and a cruell warre in a milde peace’. As Michael Pincombe has shown, this account is profoundly unhistorical – the real sack of Thebes was remarkable for its ruthlessness – and in Tamburlaine Marlowe’s base-born barbarian dedicates himself systematically to violating the chivalric code followed by Lyly’s more ‘civil’ protagonist, as if to underscore the true workings of power in history.
Tamburlaine’s treatment of women prisoners, in particular, is the reverse of Alexander’s. It’s true that both men profess to have fallen in love with one of their female captives, and that in both plays they are said to have refrained from exercising the ancient prerogative of the male victor, which is to rape as well as to pillage (though it should be added that Campaspe lives in perpetual fear of rape, and that Tamburlaine is at one point accused of having raped Zenocrate – a claim he denies and she does not). But where Alexander was merciful to the painter Apelles when he too fell in love with Campaspe, Tamburlaine shows no mercy to his rivals, killing both Zenocrate’s Arabian fiancé and the noble who seeks to remind her of their betrothal. Where Alexander spares all his women captives without exception, Tamburlaine expresses his sense of Zenocrate’s uniqueness by killing or driving to suicide every other female prisoner he takes in the course of the play. Where Alexander finally shows himself superior to love’s force by giving Campaspe away, Tamburlaine expresses his command over love by keeping Zenocrate for himself in defiance of kings and emperors. Alexander’s courtesy to Campaspe is an instance of noblesse oblige, and ends with the pair’s due restoration to their proper social positions. The Scythian shepherd’s courtesy to his captive princess, by contrast, is a token of his conviction that nobility consists not in birth but in action – a conviction that the play triumphantly vindicates. Zenocrate did not exist in any of Marlowe’s possible sources; she seems to have been invented for the sole purpose of inviting comparisons with Campaspe, the best play that had so far been written for the English stage. That a play written for the public playhouse should have shown itself so much fiercer and bolder than its courtly predecessor must have struck Marlowe’s first audiences as a testament to the young playwright’s impudence as well as to his skill.
For all its tragicomic elements, Campaspe keeps itself within the bounds of comedy by practising a moderation which is articulated in the balanced clauses of Lyly’s prose style. Tamburlaine, on the other hand, is bursting at the seams with the language and action of excess, yet wittily refrains from fulfilling the tragic expectations it builds up. If Campaspe is a bold generic experiment, Tamburlaine is an outrageous one, and its experimental nature seems to have been recognized by its first publisher, Richard Jones. Jones first entered the play in the Stationer’s Register as one of ‘The twooe commicall discourses of TOMBERLEIN the Cithian shepparde’, and although he later published these as ‘the two tragical discourses of the Scythian shepherd Tamburlaine’, he seems to have done some pruning to make Marlowe’s plays as generically pure as he wanted them to be. In his epistle to the Gentlemen Readers he explains that he has left out ‘some fond and frivolous gestures’ because for these comic scenes ‘to be mixtured in print with such matter of worth, it would prove a great disgrace to so honourable and stately a history’. Yet even with these scenes left out – and the ‘fond and frivolous’ middle scenes of Dr Faustus might give us some idea of what they were like – Tamburlaine 1 remains mixed enough, generically speaking, to be described as a ‘great disgrace’ to history’s claims to be ‘honourable and stately’.
The play’s tragicomic affiliations declare themselves on two levels: that of plot and that of language. On the level of plot, the play strays into comic territory because of its refusal to honour the tragic conventions it claims to respect (as the Prologue puts it, ‘View but his picture in this tragic glass / And then applaud his fortunes as you wish’). At each stage of the performance the Elizabethan audience, primed to expect the fall of great men as the proper subject of tragedy, would have been anticipating the sudden collapse of Tamburlaine’s inordinate enterprise: above all after the death of his principal prisoner Bajazeth, Emperor of the Turks, when Zenocrate reads Bajazeth’s corpse as a sign that his captor Tamburlaine is about to suffer the same atrocious fate. But Tamburlaine 1 confounds all these expectations as gleefully as it builds them up. The successive deaths of the virgins of Damascus, Bajazeth, Zabena, the King of Arabia and the rest are followed not by the death of their destroyer but by his marriage celebrations, which he defers with admirable comic timing from the first act until the play’s last scene. The play closes with the Scythian thief standing among the corpses of his enemies, surrounded by the happy family he has worked so strenuously to create: Zenocrate, her father, and his brothers in arms, now newly made kings and ready to assist at Tamburlaine’s wedding. Far from showing how men’s fate resides in the grip of fortune, as tragedies were supposed to do, the play’s tragic ‘mirror’ finally sets up its protagonist as the ultimate showman, who controls every aspect of the performance in which he takes part, and who uses his last few speeches to convert the play’s bloody pageant into a nuptial masque as splendid as anything seen in the Elizabethan court. It’s entertaining to imagine the shocked delight such an ending would have instilled in its first spectators, and the baffled applause that may have followed.
On the level of language, the Prologue to Part 1 offers a foretaste of the fiercely competitive form of humour that dominates the Tamburlaine plays. By comparison with the ‘high astounding terms’ of its protagonist, the Prologue boasts, the language of other plays is no better than that used in the crudest form of comedy, the song-and-dance numbers or ‘jigs’ improvised by clowns at the end of each performance:
From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits,
And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,
We’ll lead you to the stately tent of war,
Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine
Threat’ning the world with high astounding terms,
And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword.
Alongside his ‘high astounding terms’, Tamburlaine exploits laughter to put down his rivals – as the Prologue does – mocking them into submission and death. But in doing so he is merely the most successful player of a deadly game of mockery in which most of Marlowe’s characters participate; and the chief target for this cruel mirth is the class which is supposed to be wholly exempt from the indignities of comic treatment: royalty. Tamburlaine 1 opens with perhaps the most flagrant flouting of decorum in English stage history, the portrait of the clownish king Mycetes, who is openly derided by his subjects, then dethroned by them. According to the rules of rhetorical decorum, kings should speak more splendidly than anyone else, so that Mycetes’s opening lines – ‘Brother Cosroe, I find myself aggrieved, / Yet insufficient to express the same’ – would have struck a first-night audience as hilariously inappropriate. Mycetes’s brother Cosroe is the most derisory of his inferiors, undermining his authority at every opportunity with jokes at his expense – at one point he tells the king to ‘kiss’ his ‘royal seat’ – and contemptuously enlisting the common thief Tamburlaine to dethrone him and crown Cosroe in his place. But Tamburlaine knows vastly more than Cosroe about the power of laughter to reinforce and undermine authority, and applies this knowledge mercilessly at the expense of monarchs throughout his astonishing career.
Both Tamburlaine plays culminate in scenes where kings are reduced to the status of comic entertainers. In the first, Tamburlaine declares that he and his followers made Cosroe king ‘only to make us sport,’ and will snatch his newly-won crown from him in the interests of pulling off a ‘pretty jest’. Later, the Emperor of Turkey is paraded in an iron cage and ritually mocked at mealtimes like a licensed fool (‘How now, Zenocrate, doth not the Turk and his wife make a goodly show at a banquet?’). In Tamburlaine 2 the kings of Trebizond, Soria, Natolia and Jerusalem are absurdly transformed into ‘pampered jades of Asia’, pulling Tamburlaine’s chariot with tongues bridled to stifle their curses. The Asian kings had meant, we learn, to make Tamburlaine and his followers ‘jesting pageants’ for their concubines, and are now become comic displays themselves, while ‘common soldiers jest with all their trulls’. Thus Tamburlaine turns the tables on monarchy, deploying its own potent weapon of ‘jesting’ against it, caging those who once had a monopoly on the use of cages, binding the tongues of those who once claimed absolute control over the tongues of their subjects. And in doing so he bears out all the direst predictions of the anti-theatrical lobby.
As we have seen, sixteenth-century theorists declared comedy to be the special province of the lower social classes, a rhetorical tool that could be exercised anywhere and at any time without special training. In consequence, many of these theorists warned against mingling the classes in comic performances for fear of destabilizing the distinctions between them. Comedy was fenced in with rules to guard against the spread of its characteristic rulelessness; anarchic though it was, there were fixed times and places when the comic could be unleashed, and proper audiences before whom it could be performed. But the base-born Tamburlaine, with his dazzling skill in formal rhetoric and his cruel sense of humour, makes a mockery of the constraints placed on the eloquence of the humbly born. His violent strain of comedy, flouting all regulations of persons, time or place, effortlessly bridging the artificial gulf that separates the classes, demolishes the claims of teachers and their aristocratic pupils to have a monopoly on the language of power. In Tamburlaine’s rhetoric, incitements to laughter seamlessly merge with the most highly-charged incitements to emotion or political action. The old moral interludes tended to separate the two registers by embodying them in different characters: the comic Vice was not the same person as the king, although he might occasionally share the stage with him. Campaspe, too, has two distinct modes, separating Alexander’s dialogues with philosophers and artists from the cheerful banter of the boys who serve them. Tamburlaine, by contrast, switches between the comic and the tragic within a few lines, or mixes the modes in a single speech. In one moment he is condemning the Virgins of Damascus to execution with a callous pun, instructing his lieutenant Techelles to ‘charge’ his cavalry to ‘charge’ the virgins with their phallic spears, thus acquainting them simultaneously with sex and death; in the next he has embarked on one of the most eloquent celebrations of beauty in Renaissance literature. As with all tyrants, his mood dictates that of his environment, and we can never be sure what mood he will be in from one sentence to the next. And as the anti-theatrical lobby predicted, this emotional volatility declares a kind of war both on Elizabethan generic theory and on the system of hereditary monarchy which it is supposed to underpin.
Tamburlaine’s cheekiest interventions in the war over the theatres occur when he appears to take Gosson’s side against poetry and the performing arts. The Scythian justifies the killing of the Virgins of Damascus, for instance, in terms that recall Gosson’s attack on the theatre and its capacity to feminize its male spectators. After asking his lieutenant whether they have been satisfactorily despatched he observes:
I will not spare these proud Egyptians,
Nor change my martial observations
For all the wealth of Gihon’s golden waves,
Or for the love of Venus, would she leave
The angry god of arms and lie with me.
Tamburlaine, in other words, sets himself against the ‘feminizing’ effects of sex and excess as vigorously as Gosson could desire. But he also takes Gosson’s praise for the militarism of Britain’s past to an abominably logical conclusion: the indiscriminate butchering of young women in the name of peremptory military ‘customs’. And in the second part he goes still further, butchering his own son (‘this effeminate brat’) for manifesting the ‘folly, sloth, and damned idleness’ which Gosson said had been instilled in young Englishmen by contemporary theatrical spectacle. The son in question, Calyphas, is a devotee of the comic arts of peace – sex and games – as against the tragic or epic arts of war, and his death fulfils Gosson’s ambition to expunge the invidious influence of comedy from the body of the land. Marlowe could hardly have launched a more scathing attack on the perverse notion of masculinity that informed the Elizabethan anti-theatrical prejudice than he does in the two Tamburlaine plays.
But Tamburlaine also claims to have command over the comic, ‘feminine’ arts of peace as well as over the epic/tragic, ‘masculine’ arts of war. He makes this claim most clearly in the speech that follows the massacre of the Virgins of Damascus, where he claims to have created, in his capacity as director of the play’s action, the perfect conditions under which to appreciate the beauty of Zenocrate. It’s when weeping in distress for her country and her father, who are threatened by Tamburlaine, that she is at her most aesthetically pleasing – or in Tamburlaine’s terms, that she fights most fiercely with the Scythian’s ‘tempted thoughts’. This idea leads to a discussion of beauty which bears a close resemblance to Apelles’ meditations on the subject in Campaspe. The discussion begins with a direct quotation from Lyly’s second play, Sapho and Phao – ‘Fair is too foul an epithet for thee’ – and culminates with the statement that beauty is finally beyond representation by the verbal artistry of poets, since in it there is always ‘One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least, / Which into words no virtue can digest’. Lyly’s Apelles is in agreement concerning the limitations of art when copying beauty, since to do justice to Campaspe he must learn to paint ‘things unpossible for mine arte, but agreeable with my affections: deepe and hollowe sighes, sadde and melancholye thoughtes, wounds and slaughters of conceites, a life posting to death, a death galloping from life, a wavering constancie, an unsetled resolution, and what not, Apelles?’ As a warrior, however, Tamburlaine is able to realize Apelles’ metaphors of battle as a poet or painter is not. Half way through his speech, shocked by his own vulnerability to the ‘feminine’ emotions that he has hitherto abjured, he resorts for a moment to Gossonian misogyny:
But how unseemly is it for my sex,
My discipline of arms and chivalry,
My nature, and the terror of my name,
To harbour thoughts effeminate and faint!
But he at once changes his mind, and concludes that by admitting himself to be susceptible to desire while at the same time refusing to be distracted by it from his military purpose he shows himself superior to the ancient gods, whose appetite for sex was notorious. Desire brought the ancient gods down to earth ‘To feel the lovely warmth of shepherd’s flames’. Tamburlaine’s love, on the other hand, raises him from his lowly status as shepherd to a position high above the ancient gods, reversing the degrading effect of desire that Gosson had objected to so strongly throughout his polemical pamphlets. The Scythian’s ability to transcend his birth offers the ultimate proof that virtue, not heredity is the ‘sum of glory, / And fashions men with true nobility’. Lyly’s Alexander claimed to have conquered love but in fact left it to be enjoyed by the lower classes. Marlowe’s Tamburlaine, by contrast, is right to claim a triumph over love as one of his conquests, since his response to Zenocrate serves as an illustration of his ability to transcend both class and genre. By loving fame, victory and Zenocrate with equal passion he finally destroys the distinction between the comic and the epic which Lyly’s Alexander sought to reinstate at the end of the earlier tragicomedy. He confirms the potential of Marlowe’s class – Marlowe was the son of a cobbler from Canterbury – to emulate his achievements in word and action, at least within the space of the playhouse. And Gosson was not the only one of Marlowe’s contemporaries to assume that what was represented in the playhouse had a direct effect on what went on beyond it. Taken together, Campaspe and Tamburlaine 1 show just how sophisticated the theory and practice of comedy, and of the interplay between the comic and other modes, had become by the 1580s. By bringing comedy into close contact with other genres or modes, especially tragedy, Lyly and Marlowe helped to intensify the power of the comic voice, making it a more incisive tool for anatomizing contemporary politics and culture. Lyly’s Campaspe confirms comedy’s role as a major forum for free speech available to educated commoners, which could address both court and city on political and social issues with equal confidence. Marlowe’s Tamburlaine confirmed the conviction of the anti-theatrical lobby that the comic could be exploited even by the unschooled under-classes as an adjunct to political agitation. In fact, both writers fulfil the potential of comedy as a significant weapon in the class conflict of the late sixteenth century: a conflict that had become more ferocious as schools and universities made themselves available to a wider range of social groups. Lyly and Marlowe were young men who had attended university, been given a rhetorical training which was explicitly designed to prepare them for participation in government, and then found themselves in limbo, with no certain job prospects and no clear notion of how best to make use of their training. Tragical comedy – or in Marlowe’s case, comical tragedy – gave them a space in which to articulate their frustrations, to convert them into a kind of action. And who knew how far the action instigated in a private or public playhouse might spread?
For some time now I’ve been thinking about writing a book about English comic fiction and the Reformation – no doubt one of those many lost books that will never get finished. It’s an odd combination, certainly: a religious crisis that provoked violent conflict throughout Europe and a mode of writing that tends to get lost in literary history, largely because it’s thought of as light, a form of ‘popular’ and often crude entertainment that has nothing significant to tell us about the culture that produced it. James Simpson’s brilliant volume of the Oxford English Literary History, for instance (1350-1547: Reform and Cultural Revolution), has no comic fiction in it at all, and there has never been a monograph on early modern comic fiction in English. What has comic prose fiction to do with religious and political controversy? Very little, this neglect seems to say. But my view is that it has a great deal to tell us about reformation of one sort or another, and here I’m going to try to show this through a peculiarly rich case study.
The comic is about obliqueness: disrupting patterns of expectation, twisting familiar narratives, social customs and verbal conventions out of shape, taking people by surprise in such a way as to shock them into laughter. It depends for its effects on the assumption that there is a direction in which things usually go: a social or cultural pattern or norm that gets transgressed by the comic incident or comment, though in such a way as not to disturb the reader too radically. For this reason the comic, like satire, is sometimes taken to be a basically conservative medium; the status quo gets asserted rather than undermined by comic disruption. Even when the laughter it induces is uncomfortable or nervous, the fact that we laugh at all confirms that the object of our laughter is not serious – that in the end it has no power to alter things. If it did, we wouldn’t laugh at it; we would weep, gasp, rage, or shout. The medieval church’s ready accommodation of carnival periods into its religious cycle attests to laughter’s power of containing the emotions it releases, and to the inevitability of the return to sober normality after the period of laughter is over.
Not all laughter, though, is so easily contained by the authorities. All three of the writers I want to write about here share a tendency to cross the line between the comic and the unacceptably transgressive, the forbidden, even the treacherous. There’s a time and a place for laughter, the Bible tells us, and even if fools have a degree of licence or legal protection there are subjects even a fool doesn’t breach with impunity. One of the most famous fools in history, Scoggin – who became the hero of his own collection of comic stories which went on being published into the eighteenth century – got himself sentenced to death by the king he served, and only saved himself by asking to be allowed to choose the tree from which he would be hanged – a choice he of course never made. All three of my writers were famous for their humour; and all three fell foul of the authorities of church and state, two dying for the doctrinal positions they took up in the early years of the Lutheran controversy, while the third lived largely in exile, and had his works placed on the papal index of prohibited books after his death. These writers didn’t get into trouble specifically for their humour; but their comic writings do have something to tell us about how and why they crossed the nebulous borders between the permissible and the illicit, and perhaps also about why each of them ended up on different sides of the religious conflict. Their eventual differences are all the more remarkable because the three of them started out with such similar convictions. What, then, does their comic fiction tell us about the different directions in which these convictions took them?
From the early days of their friendship the Dutch scholar Desiderius Erasmus, the English lawyer Thomas More, and More’s brother-in-law, the printer John Rastell, shared a very humanist passion for social and ecclesiastical reform achieved through letters: above all, through the process of making words perspicuous; of clarifying their meanings with the help of translation, etymology (tracing the history of words) and exegesis or explanatory commentary. Erasmus sought a return to the first principles of Christianity through a return to correct texts – especially, of course, accurate texts of the Bible. For him, the accurate use of words and grammar, in translations of the scriptures but also in the secular scripture of classical literature, could lead to a reformation of society and the Church. His quest for perspicuous or lucid wisdom expressed itself in the successive editions of his Adagia: collections of proverbs or adages drawn from ancient Greek and Latin authors, which he saw as embedded in and indeed springing from a collective popular culture, since many have close affinities with old Dutch sayings he had known since childhood. His aim was to reintroduce the sort of lucid wisdom expressed in these proverbs into a church and secular government that had lost sight of the common people, and so of Christ’s original message, which embraced the powerless and disenfranchised.
Erasmus’ friends Thomas More and John Rastell shared his view of the redemptive power of words properly used in grammar, rhetoric and reasoning; but their focus at the beginning of their careers was on the secular letter of the law. More famously depicted in Utopia a land where the law is reduced to a few simple precepts understood by all citizens, in token of the common responsibility for government which is the founding principle of his invented society. John Rastell sought to realize this vision in his own country, England, by printing the first translations of English law into the English language, thus removing the mystique that had woven itself around legal processes by virtue of the erudite language in which they were couched. Rastell’s translations proved so popular that they went on being reprinted into the eighteenth century; and the global success of More’s Utopia is well known. But it’s also well known that the dreams of these humanists were just that: idealistic dreams, which never stood a chance of achieving a proper reformation of church and state in any country. We know this now, of course, with the advantage of hindsight; and it’s clear that all three writers knew it then, since they chose to convey their dreams, in part at least, through comic fiction. But I would suggest that they knew it in different degrees. Rastell really seems to have thought he could effect some sort of change in English society, since he converted to Protestantism in old age and set about furthering the cause with all his resources – in fact, he bankrupted himself in the end as he worked to establish radical Protestantism in England. Erasmus, too, truly believed that he could change the world with his words – or rather with God’s words freshly presented to readers alongside his commentaries – though he had few illusions about how radical the change must be or how hard to effect. More, on the other hand, knew full well that his utopianism was utopian; that however ‘good’ it was, it existed nowhere, and that there was little hope that any of its precepts would be accepted in Europe any time soon. As I said, with the advantage of hindsight it could be said that these writers’ comic fictions represent these positions with startling accuracy. It’s time, then, to turn to those fictions to see if they bear out this contention.
The theme of Erasmus’s Praise of Folly is inversion. The goddess Folly distinguishes a vast variety of foolishnesses as she argues for her own centrality to human experience, first by showing how she dominates each individual’s life from birth to death, then by schematically illustrating the foolishness of each estate or class in European society, with special emphasis on the people who regard themselves as least ridiculous, the ruling classes of church and state. But two special kinds of folly are pitted against each other throughout her discourse. The first is the folly of simplicity, which states openly and plainly in the most lucid words what is and what (in Christian terms) should be – and hence attracts derision from the powerful, who have a vested interest in keeping things obscure an incomprehensible. The second is the folly of sophistication, which aims to complicate the simple tenets of Christianity through verbal obfuscation in the interests of underpropping tyranny. As Folly’s mock sermon unfolds, we learn that the dominant folly of sophisticated people is the pretence of following Christ’s simple philosophy, as Erasmus calls it elsewhere, while actually following the fool-osophy of self-interest – which means that what’s called folly by the world is in God’s eyes wisdom, and vice versa. Folly’s constant switching between these two brands of folly produces a vertiginous effect on the reader, so that we find ourselves constantly wrong-footed, repeatedly enmeshed in one folly or another until the sermon’s final section, when the ecstatic foolishness of Christ’s followers emerges triumphant as the one stance worth cultivating. Erasmus’s constant comic violation of the reader’s expectations in this discourse leaves us without stability except in Christ, whose perspicuousness or simplicity of phrase and purpose is confirmed at last as the only certain ground in a world turned inside out by the Fall. The radically disturbing effect of the sermon preached by Erasmus’s Folly, with all its comic volatility, was confirmed by the condemnations to which it became subject; including, of course, the famous statement by More, at the height of the Lutheran controversy, that he would rather have it burnt with his own Utopia than add its fuel to the mounting flames of religious revolution.
It’s ironic that the celebration of simplicity should have been so central to a text that delights in its own complexity, its cunning play of one form of absurd behaviour against another. One might say the same for Erasmus’s Adagia, where simple proverbs open out like boxes to disclose the wealth of ideas they can accommodate. But in the Fallen world we have lived in since the exile of Adam and Eve from the first utopia, Eden, the relationship between simplicity and sophistication has been drastically reversed or inverted, so Erasmus believed. As a result, the simple playfulness of verbal punning (like the pun of his book’s title) has been transformed by unscrupulous authorities into self-serving trickery, lies and fraud. This is best illustrated by comparing two of the metaphors he uses in The Praise of Folly. The first is the ‘Silenus of Alcibiades’, a grotesque statue that opens up like a container to reveal the figure of a god concealed inside. Erasmus sees words themselves, when properly used, as such a container, and he repeatedly returns in his pedagogic writings to the idea of words and phrases as boxes that can be endlessly unpacked. The other metaphor, which is the reverse of the Silenus, is the theatre, where a resplendent show conceals the physical and moral turpitude or sickness of the actors. A prince resembles an actor, Folly tells us, when he seems ‘bothe riche, and a great lorde’ but has ‘no good qualitees of the mynde’; and she pursues this analogy by imagining ‘one at a solemne stage plaie’ who decides ‘to plucke of the plaiers garmentes, whiles they were saiyng of theyr partes, and so disciphre unto the lokers on, the true and native faces of the plaiers’. Under these conditions ‘who before plaied the woman, shoulde than appeare to be a man: who seemed a youth, should shew his hore heares: who countrefaited the kynge, shulde tourne to a rascall, and who plaied god almightie, shulde become a cobler as he was before’ (37-8). The person who removes the players’ costumes in mid-performance exposes the absurd illusion that allows the play to function, just as the analyst who exposes the disparity between a prince’s splendid appearance and his sordid personality reveals the absurd illusion that sustains monarchic authority in contemporary Europe.
At the same time, the costume remover exposes his own folly by his actions. Doesn’t such a man ‘marre all the mattier,’ Folly asks, ‘and well deserve for a madman to be pelted out of the place with stones’? Elsewhere she describes the pagan gods as looking down on the unruly ‘Theatre’ of the world and laughing at all mortals without exception. To see oneself as planted somehow outside this universal theatre – as spectator rather than actor – is delusional; so that the critic who strips the actors of their costumes discloses his own inability to see that he is one of them. Even those few men or women who glimpse the truth make themselves foolish by their efforts to describe it: ‘thei doo speake certaine thynges not hangyng one with an other, nor after any earthly facion, but rather dooe put foorth a voice they wote never what, much lesse to be understode of others’. In the process they too become actors: clowns or fools who entertain the rest of the world with their incoherent jabbering. The quest for the simplicity of truth, then, is as much a form of folly in the fallen world as the sophistication that seeks to conceal the true nature of things for personal advantage. No one is free from Folly’s influence; so it hardly seems surprising that Erasmus never took a hard line in the reformation struggles that broke out after his book was published. He was not arrogant enough to suppose he was exceptional; and The Praise of Folly illustrates this wittily self-conscious humility on every page. His book is utopian in that the ideal Christian exists nowhere – that is, he or she is an exile in a world that has dedicated itself to something very different from the Christian ideal. The hope Folly’s sermon offers us is that ideal Christianity nevertheless exists, not just in Heaven but hidden away in the nooks and crannies and strange containers of the human mind, and of the mind’s preferred mode of communication, the art of words.
More’s most celebrated work, Utopia, adopts a different perspective. If Erasmus is concerned with inversions and reversals, More dwells on separations, dividing his text into two parts as if to confirm the eternal division between the knotty complexities of Tudor England, as described in the first book, and the rationality of the communist state described in the second. The man who brings news of Utopia to Europe is Raphael Hythloday, the angelic messenger (as his Christian name suggests) who is also a purveyor of nonsense (as his surname indicates). Hythloday tells More that he lived in Utopia for several years, and that he would never have left it except to spread word of its achievements – to serve as a secular evangelist for the ideal society. Yet Hythloday refuses to offer his services to kings for fear of being contaminated by the corruption of courts. As a result, news of Utopia is confined to More’s comic fiction, which can be dismissed by kings and their advisors as a toy, a tissue of impossibilities fit only for leisure-time perusal by the small band of erudite readers who know Greek and Latin. This superior attitude of kings and the aristocracy towards Utopia exactly mirrors the superior attitude of the discoverer of Utopia, Raphael Hythloday, who sees himself as self-evidently more intelligent than any adviser currently serving a European prince. And More’s persona in the book seems to share this superior attitude, to judge, at least, by his use of the theatrical metaphor, which is so very different from the use of it made by Folly.
In an effort to persuade Hythloday that philosophers should serve as counsellors to kings, More makes a famous distinction between the philosopher who gives the same advice to every audience and the philosopher who adapts his words to the needs and whims of each recipient. The former, More contends, may be compared to the man who interrupts one theatrical performance with another, obtruding a solemn speech from a Senecan tragedy into the buzz and burley of a Plautine comedy so that he ‘must needs mar and pervert the play that is in hand, though the stuff that you bring be much better’. In the same way, when serving in a prince’s court one must not ‘labour to drive into their heads new and strange information which you know well shall be nothing regarded with them that be of clean contrary minds. But you must with a crafty wile and a subtle train study and endeavour yourself, as much as in you lieth, to handle the matter wittily and handsomely for the purpose; and that which you cannot turn to good, so to order it that it be not very bad’. Throughout this account More assumes, like Hythloday, that the philosopher – he himself – is wiser than the men he deals with, and guileful enough to insinuate part of his advice into ‘contrary minds’ through a clever performance. Hythloday points out that such a performance runs the risk of propping up corrupt regimes, since how can one persuade a monarch to do anything except by flattery? But even this objection continues to imply a sharp distinction between the principled humanist counselor and the ignorant men he seeks to influence. This distinction corresponds to the difference between the carefully rationalized order of Utopia, described in the second book, and the chaotic social and legal practices of Europe; and the narrative concludes with the acknowledgment that it is unlikely Europe will ever be influenced by even the best Utopian ideas: ‘so must I needs confess and grant that many things be in the Utopian weal public which in our cities I may rather wish for than hope for’. Hythloday and More cannot agree on the philosopher’s role in a modern state; but they do agree that in the end no modern state will accommodate any good principles he may put forward, however ingeniously. Utopia, then, anticipates More’s final performance at the court of Henry VIII, when he played out his own dissent from the king’s agenda by cracking jokes on his way to the tragic scaffold. The book’s ostensible topic is communism, but its effect is to reinforce the isolation of the tiny community of humanist thinkers from everyone else in Europe.
More was inclined to preserve this isolation as far as possible; an ambition that runs counter to his famous pleasure in taking part in stage performances and cracking jokes. In his works More often expresses particular anxiety about the new medium of print and its capacity for slipping out of the author’s control, putting sensitive political and religious ideas in the hands of the malicious or the uninformed. His persona Morus, for instance, tells Peter Gillis that he is unsure whether to print Utopia:
For the natures of men be so diverse, the phantasies of some so wayward, their minds so unkind, their judgments so corrupt, that they which lead a merry and jocund life, following their own sensual pleasures and carnal lusts, may seem to be in a much better state or case than they that vex and unquiet themselves with cares and study for the putting forth and publishing to others, which others will disdainfully, scornfully, and unkindly accept the same.
Where his brother-in-law the printer John Rastell tends to note with amazement the multitude of alternative points of view in the commonwealth, and the enthusiasm with which they’re being disseminated in print, More is concerned that many of these different points of view proceed from ‘corrupt judgments’ – a phrase that testifies to his lifelong concern with religious and political orthodoxy. Merriment, in this passage, is both a private affair and in this case a corrupt one, since the ‘merry and jocund life’ he represents as easier than a hard-working one dedicates itself exclusively to ‘sensual pleasures and carnal lusts’. At the same time, More has no time for people who don’t appreciate a good joke (and merriness and jocundity are both words associated with jokes and funny stories). The worst reader of his book, he insists, would be ‘One [who] is so sour, so crabbed, and so unpleasant, that he can away with no mirth or sport’, or ‘so narrow between the shoulders, that he can bear no jests or taunts’. The clash between these two positions – both in favour of and antagonistic to jokes and merry-making – is what makes More such a fascinating figure, despite his later propensity for torturing and burning people who didn’t agree with his religious position.
As I’ve mentioned already, More limited the number of hostile or perverse readings of Utopia by printing it in Latin, and in later life he famously expressed the view that it should be burned along with the Praise of Folly rather than set forth in English, for fear of corrupting the ‘wayward phantasies’ of its unlearned readers even further than they had been already. Merry-making became an increasingly serious matter as the religious controversies of the 1520s got under way. More’s most significant intervention in the Lutheran controversy, the Dialogue Concerning Heresies, places most of its ‘merry tales’ or funny stories in the mouth of a youthful ‘Messenger’ with whom More disputes concerning Luther’s doctrines. At one point, More warns the young man against the comic anti-clerical anecdotes that were so popular in the period – and to which More himself had contributed more than once – because they lay undue emphasis on laughable members of the clergy rather than on those who set good examples. The Dialogue Concerning Heresies also presents itself as a testament to the dangers of the printing press. More worries about printing it because it contains eloquent accounts of so many of the heresies he seeks to refute. He decides to do so, in the end, because of the fear that the Messenger may misrepresent More’s arguments, printing them in a version that gives greater weight to the young man’s own ‘corrupt judgment’ as a Lutheran sympathizer than to the authoritative judgment of the church as articulated by the older man. By the time of his Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation, which he wrote in prison under the shadow of execution, More was even more ambivalent about the value of wit at a time of religious controversy. The first book alludes to two biblical texts on the delicate problem of comic timing: ‘Woe may you be that laugh now, for you shall wail and weep’, ‘There is time of weeping and there is time of laughing’. More goes so far as to assert that in both passages Christ ‘setteth the weeping time before; for that is the time of this wretched world, and the laughing time shall come after in heaven’. By this reasoning, well-timed mirth can only occur after death. Fortunately in the second book of the Dialogue More chooses to ignore this perception and tells a string of funny stories designed to lift the reader’s mood. But there’s an indication in much of his work that the merry tales he tells, and the kind of merry-making in which he participates, is an essentially private affair that can only be safely enjoyed by the learned and their carefully vetted employees. Part of what makes the Messenger in the Dialogue Concerning Heresy susceptible to Lutheran influences is his impatience with learning, despite his evident intelligence; and More is inclined to put this position down to sheer laziness, asserting that the Lutheran insistence on an unmediated reading of the Bible arises from the fact that he is simply too lazy to read the commentaries of the Church Fathers. For More, both printing and laughter can get out of hand, and he circumscribes his enterprises in both areas with warnings and provisos.
Utopia itself is isolated from the rest of the world, both geographically and conceptually speaking. More tells Peter Giles in the letter at the beginning that he only managed to write it in snatches: ‘I therefore do win and get only that time which I steal from meat and sleep’. We eventually reach Raphael Hythloday’s account of Utopia through a thicket of debates about England: the effects of enclosure, the punishment of criminals, the value of advising monarchs, the operation of the law, all these things get in the way of the perfect commonwealth and no consensus is reached about them. Utopia, on the other hand, is one universal consensus. Nothing is hidden there, all thoughts and ideas are open, the laws are readily comprehensible to all citizens, there even seems to be general agreement about which books are most interesting – and the Utopian taste in books corresponds very closely with More’s (they love the Greek satirist Lucian, for instance, whose work More translated into Latin with his friend Erasmus). At the same time, the consensus is reached by a remorseless logic that protects itself with threats of violence; as Hythloday’s narrative goes on, in Ralph Robinson’s translation, the word ‘death’ gets repeated with alarming frequency, as the agreements among the Utopians are defended against those who might object to them with the ultimate sanction of capital punishment. If you don’t agree with our logic, the implication is, no matter how we talk and explain and reason, you must die. It would seem that reaching consensus is a costly business. Meanwhile, the lack of consensus between the Utopians and the rest of the world means that communication between them is not only difficult but more or less impossible. The famous story of the ambassadors from a neighbouring country who bedeck themselves in gold to impress the Utopians and instead find themselves to be objects of derision – Utopians only dress children and fools in gold, since it’s a useless metal for any practical purposes – suggests that the opposite values held by outsiders and Utopian insiders make dialogue profoundly problematic. A similar verbal impasse is suggested when Hythloday tells his listeners ironically that the Utopian logicians – scholars of logic or reason – are much inferior to European ones, since ‘they have not devised one of all those rules of restrictions, amplifications, and suppositions, very wittily invented in the small logicals (logical textbooks) which her our children in every place do learn’. Utopian logic is simple and readily comprehensible to all, and this makes it incomprehensible to non-Utopian specialists in logic. The basic values of this society in terms of gold – the staple content of European treasuries – and the use of reason are entirely different; which means that only a few eccentric Europeans who can appreciate their point of view are able to talk to the Utopians at all.
It’s not surprising, then, that while the Utopians have welcomed and absorbed a great deal of knowledge from the outside world, the rest of the world has learned nothing from Utopia. They inhabit different conceptual spheres, speak different languages, cleave to different values, which explains the shutting down of possibilities with which the second part concludes, when More speaks of the ‘many things […] in the Utopian weal-public which in our cities I may rather wish for than hope for’. Laughter separates the Utopians from ourselves – the derision of the Utopians for the foreign ambassadors, the derision of foreign logicians for Utopian logic. Perhaps More’s simultaneous approval and disapproval of jokes and humour springs from this: that there are different kinds of laughter, some of which draws people together, others of which drive a wedge between them, and the difficult business of knowing the difference between them is a matter of life and death.
John Rastell’s comic fiction is almost unknown in the twentieth century; it’s utopian in the sense that it’s nowhere now, but I also want to suggest that it’s utopian in the political sense, aiming to establish an egalitarian commonwealth in the land of its publication. It can be found in a small collection called A Hundred Merry Tales, which he published in 1526 and was still well enough known in Shakespeare’s time to earn a mention in Much Ado About Nothing. If More’s and Erasmus’s fictions crossed borders throughout Europe, Rastell’s collection is stubbornly English: it’s the first collection of comic fiction to locate itself firmly in England through the names and places it contains, and it doesn’t seem to have won fame outside its country of origin. Unlike the works of Erasmus and More it is anonymous; Rastell’s authorship can only be deduced from internal evidence, mainly its similarity to his excellent play The Four Elements. And it doesn’t claim any kind of authority, either through the humanist credentials of its author (since the writer is unnamed) or by the ease of scholarly reference that characterizes More’s and Erasmus’s writings. The men and women whose adventures Rastell relates come from all classes, trades and callings, so that the few critics who have written about his book tend to treat it as a sociological document, an anthology of popular anecdotes that were common currency in Rastell’s lifetime. The book stems, in fact, from an acceptance of popular or collective wisdom which is yet more radical, by implication, than Erasmus’s Adagia. And it also displays a determination to add a few grains to this collective wisdom. A couple of examples will give a flavour of its contents.
In tale 52, a ‘rude and unlerned’ young man is instructed by his priest to learn the Lord’s Prayer, and asks his friend to teach it to him in exchange for something more valuable: ‘a songe of Robyn Hode that shall be worth xx of it’. The humour here arises from the incompatible value systems held by the church and the ‘rude’ young man: in Tudor culture stories of Robin Hood were used as synonyms for worthlessness, because of their popularity, their simplicity, their self-conscious opposition to the ‘high’ matter of chivalric romance. But Rastell’s tale doesn’t pass judgment on the young man’s valuation of such songs and stories. In the course of getting to the punchline we are given a detailed ‘exposicyon’ of the ‘vii peticyons’ contained in the Lord’s Prayer; and the moral of the story merely makes mention of what we have learned while we were reading it: ‘By thys tale ye may lerne to knowe the effecte of the holy prayer of the Pater noster’. One could add that the tale instructs the clergy in their duty to their parishioners, since the young man has not reaped much benefit from clerical tuition. The worth of the Lord’s Prayer has been declared to the reader of this story by way of a reference to Robin Hood, and these two very different forms of discourse work together to a worthwhile end.
The same could be said, in fact, of all the ‘merry tales’ in Rastell’s collection. The story of the pater noster occurs in a part of the book that is given over to religious instruction. Embedded among the comic narratives, this sequence of four stories – from 52 to 55 – explain certain key texts of the Christian liturgy: the pater noster, the Ave Maria, the creed and the ten commandments. The sequence might remind us that many medieval collections of merry tales claim to have been assembled for the use of the clergy, who liked to inject comic anecdotes into their sermons. But it also confirms Rastell’s commitment to the project of making knowledge common. Tale 53, for instance, the story of a friar who preaches in rhyme, sets the good intentions of the preacher against the snobbery of the courtiers in his congregation. The friar explains the Ave Maria, the narrator tells us, ‘in suche fonde ryme, that dyvers and many gentlemen of the court that were there began to smyle and laughe’, whereupon the friar rebukes them for mocking a man who seeks to ‘preche to you the worde of God’. The tale ends with a moral that seems to side with the courtiers: ‘the most holyest matter that is, by fond pronuncyacion and otterauns, may be marryd nor shall not edyfye to the audyence’. But this conclusion is followed by a second moral or summary: ‘by thys tale they that be unlearnyd in the laten tonge may knowe the sentence of the Ave Maria’. For the courtiers, then, the sermon was marred by the manner of its ‘otterauns’ or delivery; but for the unlearned it was rendered more effective by being conveyed in memorable verse. The courtiers in the tale are clearly uninterested in the edification of the unlearned; and it seems that many priests share their indifference, since the friar’s lesson is only necessary to his non-courtly hearers because they have not been properly taught by previous preachers. A reformist perspective can be detected in this story, making it consistent with Rastell’s lifelong concern for making things common: from his translations of the English law for the use of all readers, to his publication of the first popular history of England, The Pastime of People, in 1530, to his conversion to reformed religion a year or so later, won over by its commitment to making the scriptures available to all Christians.
Rastell’s philosophy may again be best summed up by his attitude to theatre. Tale 54, on the ‘artycles of the Crede’, urges its readers to go to Coventry ‘for a more […] suffycyent auctoryte’ of its doctrines, where ‘ye shall se them all playe in Corpus Cristi playe’. Rastell was a member of the Coventry Gild of Corpus Christi, so it’s pleasing to hear him ascribe ‘auctoryte’ to his gild’s productions of the popular religious plays known as mysteries. Tale 3 tells the story of a man called John Adroyns who played the devil in a Suffolk mystery play; his failure to remove his costume after a performance leads to a succession of terrifying encounters, which culminate with a gentleman coming to the door of his house with a chaplain, armed with holy water, to prevent the supposed devil from collecting his immortal soul. In this tale, an illusion or fantasy begins in ‘feare’ and ends in ‘myrthe and dysporte’, as everyone finally disentangles the confusions that caused such chaos. So too in tale 16, a thieving miller and his accomplice get mistaken for a ghost and a devil, in the process becoming inadvertent actors like John Adroyns and spreading havoc throughout the community. Here, too, the moral or exegesis alludes to the defusing of tensions and the pointlessness of paranoia: ‘it is foly for any man to fere a thing to moche, tyll that he se some profe or cause’. In these last two cases, entire communities are deceived by accident, a situation that is resolved by a collective agreement as to the interpretation of events which restores ‘myrthe and dysporte’ without resort to clerical intervention. No social class or religious order is exempt from folly; and the ease with which a collective resolution is reached reflects the optimistic outlook that led the ageing Rastell to adopt the Lutheran confession, and to devote the remainder of his days – along with his printing press and the whole of his fortune – to the furtherance of the Lutheran cause in England.
Rastell was jailed in 1536 for arguing against the payment of tithes to the church, and died in prison without a trial; an ironic ending for a man who had devoted so much time to making the law accessible to ordinary people. He is not remembered as a martyr; but even this oblivion is not inappropriate for a man who repeatedly insisted that his objective was not self-promotion but to benefit the English commonwealth, working quietly behind the scenes for its reformation. All three of our writers claimed to serve the commonwealth, and did so in part through the common currency of laughter; but only Rastell chose to do so in the common language, which perhaps explains why he was so susceptible to conversion. The other texts we’ve discussed today – Erasmus’s Praise of Folly and More’s Utopia – were first translated into English in the radical religious climate of the reign of Edward VI. Protestant readers of these texts would have received them in a very different light from their early Catholic readers. And it’s this difference, I would contend – the variety of readings to which these texts have been subjected, so that they are very far from the restricted documents More wanted to them to be – that makes the story of English comic fiction and reformation so well worth telling.
[This essay was first published in Airy Nothings: Imagining the Otherworld of Faerie from the Middle Ages to the Age of Reason: Essays in Honour of Alasdair A. MacDonald, eds. Karin E. Olsen & Jan R. Veenstra (Leiden: Brill, 2014), 1-24. I’m republishing it here, with permission, because it’s about a lost book, because the book in question is clearly fantastic, and because… well, because Kit Marlowe.]
Afterlives in fact and fiction
Our story begins with two bad deaths. In September 1592 the poet, author and playwright Robert Greene succumbed to a sickness brought on by a surfeit of pickled herrings and Rhenish wine – or so his enemy Gabriel Harvey asserted. Eight months later, in May 1593, the poet and playwright Christopher Marlowe was murdered by Ingram Frizer at a boarding house in Deptford, stabbed through the eye in a quarrel over a bill or ‘reckoning’. Greene and Marlowe were hostile to each other; Greene, at least, did his best to make them so. But they had much in common, from their relatively humble origins to a university education and a life of mixing with, but never quite profiting by, some of the most powerful men and women in England. They shared, too, a fascination with magic, metamorphoses and desire, as well as a mutual obsession with bad death and the possibility of averting it or putting it off. And immediately after Marlowe’s death their fates became entwined to an extent that neither could have predicted. From tellers of stories they found themselves transformed into the stories’ protagonists, and their ghosts continued to haunt the stage, the bookstalls and the streets of late Elizabethan London as if linked in a diabolic pact. This essay concerns the ghost of Marlowe; but ghosts are notoriously difficult to see clearly, and Greene’s frequent and prominent posthumous appearances will help bring Marlowe’s more elusive spirit into better focus.
The details of Greene’s afterlife have long been familiar to us. Besides the posthumous, quasi-autobiographical pamphlets attributed to Greene himself, such as The Repentance of Robert Greene and Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit (both 1592), he returns from the grave in Greene’s News Both from Heaven and Hell (1593), by Barnaby Rich, which contains tales purportedly collected by Greene’s spirit on a trip to Purgatory; Henry Chettle’s Kind-Heart’s Dream (1593), where Greene’s ghost urges the satirist Thomas Nashe to avenge him on his detractor, Harvey; and John Dickenson’s Greene in Conceit, New Raised from His Grave to Write the Tragic History of Valeria (1598), whose title page shows him vigorously scribbling fiction in his grave-clothes. Until recently, by contrast, the afterlife of Marlowe has been confined to some passing allusions, such as Peele’s proto-Dickensian reference to him as ‘Marley, the Muses darling for thy verse, / Fit to write passions for the souls below, / If any wretched souls in passion speak’ in his poem The Honour of the Garter, published only a month after his death; William Webbe’s critical assessment of him in 1598 as ‘our best for Tragedie’; and Nashe’s eulogy in Lenten Stuff (1599), where he is a ‘rarer muse’ than the mythic poet Musaeus, whose tale of Hero and Leander he made his own. On the stage, of course, he lived on in his plays, and could be said to have gone on writing well into the seventeenth century, as new scenes for Doctor Faustus kept appearing as if by magic in new productions of the tragedy. In this essay, however, I shall suggest that Marlowe’s ghost also achieved a substantial presence (so to speak) on paper, in the form of an anonymous narrative printed less than a year after his murder, The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus (1594). The publication of this pamphlet coincided with a revival of his most popular plays on the London stage. It would seem that some of the details in it got mixed up with the theatrical legends surrounding his most scandalous play, Doctor Faustus, so that boundaries between truth and fiction, the theatre and the written page became blurred in a way that the author of the Second Report would no doubt have found deeply satisfying.
To return for a while, though, to the relationship between Greene and Marlowe, the story of their lifetime enmity comes to us largely through Greene’s references to it in print. Soon after the success of Marlowe’s first play for the public theatre, Tamburlaine the Great (1587), and the failure of Greene’s clumsy imitation of it, Alphonsus King of Aragon, Greene inaugurated what was to become a familiar rumour concerning Marlowe: that he shared his Scythian hero’s contempt for religion – that Tamburlaine was, in fact, an avatar of Marlowe himself. In the epistle to his romance Perimedes the Blacksmith (1588) Greene refers bitterly to two gentleman poets who had scoffed at Alphonsus because
I could not make my verses jet upon the stage in tragicall buskins […] daring God out of heaven with that Atheist Tamburlan, or blaspheming with the mad preest of the sonne [i.e. Giordano Bruno]: but let me rather openly pocket up the Asse at Diogenes hand [i.e. ignore the scholars’ insults] then wantonlye set out such impious instances of intolerable poetrie[.] Such mad and scoffing poets, that have propheticall spirits, as bred of Merlins race, if there be anye in England that set the end of scollarisme in an English blanck verse, I thinke either it is the humor of a novice that tickles them with self-love, or to much frequenting the hot house …
The reference to ‘Merlins race’ here alongside Tamburlaine identifies one of Greene’s targets as Marlowe, who was known in his Cambridge days as Marlen, a name that links him with the Arthurian prophet-magician – an apt connection for the playwright who dramatized the life of Faustus. Prophets had as bad a press as atheists in Tudor times – all the major insurrections in The Mirror for Magistrates, for instance, are supported by false prophesies – and the term ‘intolerable’ might well have been taken by Greene’s readers as a plea for the censorship of Marlowe’s ‘impious’ verse. After this Greene took to needling Marlowe whenever he had the chance, referring to him as ‘the cobbler’ who teaches actors to spout speeches like Julius Caesar, asserting that the ‘unsavorie papers’ of the first edition of Tamburlaine were used by pedlars to wrap their powders in, and most notoriously upbraiding him along with Shakespeare in his posthumously-published pamphlet Greene’s Groatsworth of Wit Bought With a Million of Repentance (1592):
Wonder not […] thou famous gracer of Tragedians, that Greene, who hath said with thee like the foole in his heart, There is no God, should now give glorie unto his greatnesse: for […] his hand lies heavie upon me […] and I have felt he is a God that can punish enimies. Why should thy excellent wit, his gift, be so blinded, that thou shouldst give no glory to the giver? […] Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie; for little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited.
Printed so shortly after Greene’s death, and followed so soon by the death of Marlowe, these words would no doubt have had a major impact on any reader who recalled them in the aftermath of Marlowe’s assassination. Scholars now largely agree that they were not written by Greene but by Henry Chettle, who had a habit of ascribing his work to other people. More interestingly, though, they tie Greene to Marlowe as an atheist, while separating him from his fellow playwright by stressing his repentance. In the process Marlowe becomes a second Faustus, just as Greene had identified him with his earlier protagonist Tamburlaine in the 1580s. Marlowe’s gift of ‘excellent wit’ is dangerously allied with the folly of religious blindness, and his fate is prophetically hinted at by the reference to an unexpected, and possibly ‘extreme’ end: ‘Defer not (with me) till this last point of extremitie; little knowest thou how in the end thou shalt be visited’. The process of fusing Marlowe with his characters was well advanced by the time this passage was composed, and anticipates the inventive fusion of allusions to his plays with some seeds of truth and much malicious gossip that constitutes the infamous Baines Note.
If Chettle did write Greene’s Groatsworth, he had a firm grasp of one of Greene’s most disarming characteristics: his tendency to put things off, which is referred to in the title of one of his ‘autobiographies’, Greene’s Never Too Late (1590). One of the texts whose publication Greene deferred till after his death was an entertaining pamphlet called Greene’s Vision, written in 1590 but not published till 1592. In it, the spirit of the biblical King Solomon finally persuades the prolific author to give up his practice of penning romances – though not before Geoffrey Chaucer has warmly congratulated him on their literary quality – and take up theology instead. Greene’s motive for putting off the publication of this Chaucerian retraction seems clear enough: he was not yet ready to take up religious studies full time. But when it did appear, the pamphlet included a wonderfully desperate piece of prose that brings Greene as close to Faustus as Marlowe seemed in the Groatsworth:
When with a strict insight, I […] take a straight accompt what the deedes of my youth have beene […] oh then what a fearefull terror dooth torture my minde, what a dungeon of dollours lyes open to swallow me? As the Scorpion stings deadly, and the Vipers bites [sic] mortally, so dooth the worme of my conscience grype without ceasing. And yet O Lord, a deeper miserie, for when with a foreseeing consideration I looke into the time to come, wherein the secret conjecture of my faults and offences, shall be manifested and laid to my charge, and that I know Stipendium peccati mors, Oh then whether shall I flie from thy presence? shall I take the wings of the morning and absent my selfe? can the hideous mountaines hide me, can wealth redeeme sinne, can beautie countervaile my faults, or the whole world counterpoyse the ballance of mine offences? oh no, and therefore am I at my wits end, wishing for death, and the end of my miserable dayes, and yet then the remembrance of hell, and the torments thereof drive me to wish the contrarie.
Here the first and last speeches of Marlowe’s protagonist – whose adventures may well have been staged a year or so before this passage was written, in 1589 – run together, as the curtailed reference to St Paul’s letter to the Romans from Doctor Faustus I.i.39 (‘Stipendium, etc. / The reward of sin is death’) collides with the wild desire for escape, metamorphosis or oblivion from V.ii.104-23. Greene does not identify himself here with Faustus/Marlowe’s supposed atheism – he is guilty only of ‘vanitie, and fond conceited fancies’ – and once again his repentance is implied at the end of the pamphlet. But his willingness to mimic Faustus indicates Greene’s keen perception that the drama of his own life might profitably (and indeed daringly) be made the subject of his fiction, just as Marlowe’s life had got mixed up with his dramatic fabrications. Greene worked out this perception in his cony-catching pamphlets as well as his autobiographies. In these pamphlets his bad behaviour in London – the reason for his need for repentance – supplies him with the raw material for an exposition of the seamier side of London life; while the very act of exposition puts him in danger of retaliation from the men and women whose crimes he exposes, so that each new cony-catching pamphlet becomes an instalment in an ongoing game of cat-and-mouse, played out (Greene would have us believe) between the London mafia and the intrepid pamphleteer. Paper becomes a kind of theatre, implicitly stirring up frantic action in the underworld each time it leaves the press, and whipping its audience into frenzied anticipation of the next instalment as each pamphlet ends. One wonders how far Greene’s brilliant staging of this drama in his final publications was inspired by his inclination to link Marlowe with his own quasi-historical overreachers, Tamburlaine and Faustus?
Characteristically, Greene deferred the last instalment of his cony-catching pamphlets – the Black Book, which he announced in two pamphlets published in 1592 – until it was too late, advertising it as forthcoming when he was already in the grip of his final illness. The Black Book was to have been the climax of his one-man war on the London underworld, naming and shaming all the principal criminals operating in the capital. Greene’s death cut short this climax; and when at last a Black Book came out in 1604, it was written by Thomas Middleton, and took the form of a sequel to Tom Nashe’s celebrated satire Pierce Penniless his Supplication to the Devil (1592) rather than to anything written by Greene – though the title clearly links it with Greene’s promised pamphlet. The book was printed in a black letter font that associated it with the early 1590s, when Nashe and Greene were active, and is full of references to the stage, including two to Marlowe. When the devil visits Pierce Penniless in the pamphlet he finds him in a bed surrounded by cobwebs, spun by ‘spindle-shank spiders’ which ‘went stalking over his head as if they had been conning of Tamburlaine’ (p. 213). And a pimp is described as having a head of hair ‘like one of my devils in Doctor Faustus when the old Theatre cracked and frighted the audience’ (p. 209). The Oxford Middleton glosses this line as an allusion to the supernatural events that were rumoured to attend productions of Marlowe’s tragedy, as performed, perhaps, in the old Theatre playhouse in Shoreditch before its demolition in 1597. But Eric Rasmussen sees it instead as a reference to an incident in the Second Report of Doctor Faustus, when Faustus’s tragedy is re-enacted by his ghost and a cast of devils in an ‘excellent faire Theator’ (sig. E2v) in the sky above Wittenberg. This supernatural spectacle ends when the stage collapses into the river ‘with a most monstrous thundering crack’ (sig. F1r), to the horror of the watching citizens. Rasmussen strengthens his case by pointing out that the chief actor-devil in the Second Report is remarkable for his haircut: he makes his subordinate devils tremble by stamping his foot and ‘shaking his great bushe of hair’ (sig. C3r), which helps explain the reference to the pimp’s ‘head of hair’ in Middleton’s Black Book. The difficulty with Rasmussen’s argument is the reference to the ‘old Theatre’, since ‘old’ seems an inappropriate epithet for a temporary aerial playhouse. Could it be, then, that the incident in the Second Report has been elided in Middleton’s mind with an actual incident that took place in the Shoreditch Theatre? As Rasmussen points out, the London stages were always creaking, cracking, even collapsing, and Middleton need not have had in mind the collapse of a stage during a performance of Doctor Faustus in particular; after all, for the theatre-haters all dramatic performances were devilish. In the Black Book, fact and fiction merge – rather as the appearance of the book itself, with its old-fashioned typeface, links it both physically and fictitiously, as it were, with the satiric fictions of the early 1590s.
Middleton’s Black Book poses as a kind of literary ghost, recalling its readers to a decade when the supernatural stalked the streets of London, both in the shape of pamphlets about Purgatory, dead writers and the devil, such as Pierce Penniless, and in the form of necromantic plays such as Doctor Faustus (performed in September 1594) and Greene’s Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (performed in February 1592 and April 1594). The two plays were also linked to successful works of prose fiction: The History of the Damned Life and Deserved Death of Doctor John Faustus, translated from the German Faustbuch in about 1588, and The Famous History of Friar Bacon, an English imitation of the former. The cross-fertilization of fact and fiction, prose and drama at this time coincided with a special interest among writers and their audiences or readers in the interaction between spirits and ordinary mortals; an interest testified to by the revival of the ghosts of Robert Greene and the clown Dick Tarleton in prose narratives written after their deaths (the latter featured in Tarleton’s News Out of Purgatory, 1590, and the popular jestbook Tarleton’s Jests).The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus shares many features with the other supernatural narratives of the early 1590s; but the games it plays with the relationship between fact and fiction, page and stage, and the living and the dead are very much more sophisticated than those of its rivals – a fact which, together with its anonymity, may have contributed to its relative obscurity in the annals of English fiction. The book may simply have been too clever to be readily assimilated into any of the categories by which scholars have sought to taxonomize Tudor prose fiction. The games begin in the preface or prologue of the first edition, and a close analysis of this prologue will give a good indication of the pamphlet’s unique relationship to the interwoven legends of Dr Faustus and Christopher Marlowe.
2. Authenticity and charlatanism in the prologue to the Second Report
The first game with ‘fact’ played in the prologue is the notion that the Second Report is a translation from the German. Although a German sequel to the original Faustbuch was in print by 1594 – the so-called Wagner Book – the Second Report has nothing to do with it, as Harold Jantz pointed out in the 1950s. Instead, it purports to be based on information translated from second-hand testimony by an English gentleman student in Faustus’s hometown of Wittenberg; and it boosts its claims to authenticity by questioning the accuracy of the English translation of the original Faustbuch. ‘I have talked with the man that first wrote [it]’, claims the student, ‘wherein he saith manie thinges are corrupted [in the translation], some added de novo, some canceld and taken awaie, and many were augmented’ (sig. A4r). In recent years John Henry Jones has demonstrated the extent to which these accusations would hold true of P.F., the Faustbuch’s translator, who inserted passages freely, enlarged the sections that interested him and omitted offensive material; and anyone who knew this would have been impressed by the Second Report’s apparent concern for textual accuracy. This pose of scholarly scrupulousness is reinforced by a meticulous description of three tourist sites in Wittenberg offering physical evidence that Faustus existed, ‘which is generally a thing not beleeved’ (sig. A4r). The ruins of Faustus’s house, says the student, can still be seen, as can the tree where he ‘used to reade Nigromancy to his Scholers’, and his tomb, marked by a stone on which his epitaph is roughly carved ‘by his owne hand’ (sig. A4v). The first two sites were seen by the traveller Fynes Morrison in 1591, which lends force to the student’s statement that ‘Germany [is not] so unknowen but that the trueth of these thinges… may be founde if any suspect’ (sig. A4r). Later, when the gentleman student reveals his view of the Germans as a nation of fantasizing drunkards, the ambiguity of this last sentence becomes apparent; but on first reading one could take it as a firm assurance that the remains give material proof of Faustus’s existence.
Having erected his imaginative stage, as it were, and implied the identity of one of his sources – a man who got his facts ‘from Wagner’s very friend’ (sig. A4r) – the student ends his prologue with some tantalizing snippets on Faustus from a well-known work of scholarship. Dr Johann Weyer, he tells us, gives an account of one of Faustus’s ‘knaveries’ in his book on witchcraft, De praestigiis daemonum (1563), whereby the magician promised to depilate a grown man permanently, but succeeded only in scorching off his victim’s skin ‘causing such inflammations in his face that it burned all over cruelly’ (sig. B1r). Dr Weyer gives a gruesome account, too, of Faustus’s end, in which he is found ‘by his bed side starke dead, and his face turnde backewards’ (sig. B1r). But if the painfully physical nature of both accounts seems to drive home their authenticity – who, after all, would invent such lurid details if they were not true? – they cast serious doubt on the credibility of the Faustbuch. Dr Weyer may support the notion that Faustus existed, but he also insists that he was a charlatan ‘who could doe nothing’ (sig. B1r). Indeed, Weyer’s chief fame rests on his scepticism concerning magic and witchcraft, which made him an invaluable source for the English sceptic Reginald Scot, whose refutation of the myths concerning witches, The Discovery of Witchcraft (1584), cites Weyer frequently, as the student points out (sig. B1v). Every detail Weyer gives of Faustus’s life, in fact, from the place of his birth to the manner of his death, contradicts a detail in the Faustbuch. Not only was the translation ‘meere lies’ (sig. A4r), then, but so was the original. The legend of Doctor Faustus is an artificial fog of rumour, gossip and brazen fabrication, and the book that follows proceeds to document the means by which that fog was generated.
If the prologue of the first edition of the Second Report presents the book as a kind of litmus test of its readers’ intelligence, the second (published in the same year) presents it as a playful intellectual exchange between young scholars in England and Germany. Two prefatory letters were added to this second edition: ‘To the Reader’ and ‘Unto the Christian Reader’. Both imply that the first edition had disturbed the ‘bitter natures’ of some of its less intelligent readers (sig. A3r) – in part because of its stylistic plainness (‘Here is wanting the great Chaos of Similes, which build themselves over a Booke like Colosses’, sig. A3r); and in part because it had been taken literally. ‘This is a Booke’, the writer insists, ‘and so take it, and if you take it otherwise you are to blame, and if you trie your worst, you can term it but wast paper’ (sig. A3r). It would seem, then, that some readers had taken it as more than a book – that is, as a report of actual devilish goings-on in early modern Germany, and as capable perhaps of stimulating similar incidents in its adoptive country. And when the writer goes on to state that ‘I have delivered it to you from them of whome I took it for truth’, and that ‘if you could be as credulous as some are newfangled, I know this might serve to be the recorded [recorde?] of Faustus’ (sig. A3r-A3v), the impression that some credulous readers have been taken in by the seeming ‘realism’ of the first edition is confirmed. The writer goes on to imply that the text was delivered to the press against his will by the Oxford friends to whom he sent it; that he penned the two new epistles to explain this; and that ‘my vaine in this booke, is nothing’, since it is ‘but a bare translation of as bare mater of the gestes and actes of one Faustus a great Magitian’, a subject of such ‘unworthynes’ that no-one should read it (sig. A3v). The first of the new epistles, then, presents the Second Report as a double prank played by two sets of scholars: the gentleman student, who sent the manuscript to his Oxford friends as a humanist jeu d’esprit; and the ‘injurious’ Oxford friends themselves, who gave it uncorrected to the printer, so that other men might ‘laugh at the rude phrase’ – that is, mock its crude style – and thus embarrass their Wittenberg correspondent (sig. A3v). Those who detract from the book for something more than its stylistic defects expose themselves as ‘fools’ like the common players, since they make themselves what they wish to make others: the butt of laughter.
This account of the book’s genesis is supported by the second epistle, ‘Unto the Christian Reader’. The letter purports to have been written by the friends of the gentleman student, and confirms the origins of this ‘novel’ or ‘news’ (think of the news Tarlton brought from Purgatory, which were ‘novels’ – literally ‘new things’ – or short stories) in a private game among the educated gentry. ‘These newes here raised out of auncient copies’, it declares, ‘a Gentleman friend of ours translated for our private intelligence amongest our selves, and sent them from Wittenberge to Oxenford’ (sig. A4r). The playfulness of the supposed translation is evident in the notion of something new being generated from ancient copies – a seemingly absurd proposition which is in any case undermined by the gentleman student’s statement that he ‘acquired these pages piecemeal from students at Wittenberg’ (Accepi ego has chartulas sparsim a studiosis Wittenbergensibus), a source that scarcely guarantees their antiquity. And the playfulness continues in the penultimate sentence of the second epistle. ‘The truth is’, it concludes, ‘that these [new stories or ancient copies] are commonly carried about for very certainty, yea and some are secretly laide up in grave men’s studyes for great reliques’ (sig. A4r). The balance here implied between ‘very certainty’ – incontrovertible truths – and ‘great reliques’, the hallmark of papist superstition, tells us exactly what we should think about the grave men who take such nonsense literally. The narrative to follow is no ‘truthe’ but a fiction, and should be read as nothing more. Those who accept it as fact and denounce it as dangerous are merely adding to its entertainment value by making a spectacle, for cleverer readers, of their own gullibility.
An intriguing aspect of the two new epistles is the dates appended to them. The first, from the gentleman student, is dated May 1590. The second incorporates a Latin letter from the same student, dated July 1589, in which he commends his ‘trivial’ translation of Wagner’s adventures to the attention of his Oxford colleagues. The implication is that the Second Report was first printed between these dates. There is no evidence of a first edition of the Second Report before 1594, though of course it could well have been lost, like the first edition of the Damnable History. But it is equally possible that the dates in the epistles were fabricated, for some special purpose of the writer or printer. The Second Report was entered in the Stationers’ Register for November 16, 1593; and the fact that the first known edition of 1594 does not contain the two epistles, while the second contains them, suggests that they were composed between the two editions as a means of defusing the controversy to which the first gave rise. In support of this hypothesis is the fact that the printer of both editions, Abel Jeffes, had been in trouble with the authorities in 1592 for printing books whose copyright belonged to another printer; and that he continued to court controversy till it ended his career (in 1595 he published Giovanni Cipriano’s ‘lewd’ book A Wonderful Prophecy upon this Troublesome World, which led to the destruction of his press and letters by the Stationers’ Company). He therefore had a motive both for reassuring the authorities that the Second Report was not another blot on his publishing record – that is, for adding the explanatory letters to the second edition when the first proved scandalous – and for continuing to excite the frisson in his readers that the Wonderful Prophecy later provided, in such unfortunate measure that it ruined him.
Further indications that the dates were fabricated might be cited. The German sequel to the Faustbuch, the Wagnerbuch – which may well have inspired the Second Report, despite the fact that the book is no translation – was not published until 1593. And Chapter Nine of the Second Report contains a few verses in ‘Ari[o]stos vein’ (sig. F2r) that form a prologue to the Ariosto-esque second half, a link with Orlando Furioso which could have been suggested by the success of Sir John Harington’s translation, first published in 1591. Neither piece of evidence is conclusive, of course, but they lend additional weight to my conjecture. Why, then, would the claim that the Second Report had been first published in 1589-90 make things easier for its printer and author than the admission that it was new in 1594? The answer may lie in the perceived connection between the text and that playful scholar Christopher Marlowe, whose death in 1593 may have prompted Jeffes to register the Second Report a few months later. The Second Report is a ghost story, like the posthumous adventures of Greene and Tarleton. In it, the most famous creation of the notorious ‘atheist’ Marlowe (as Greene called him) returns from the dead to lend his services to the Doctor’s former houseboy, Wagner; and we have already seen how Faustus had been linked with his creator by Greene. In this book, too, the houseboy Wagner (whose nickname here is the same as Marlowe’s, Kit – in the Famous History he is always Christopher), takes on his master’s mantle not just as conjurer but playwright: it is he who stages the production of Faustus’s trial in the sky above Wittenberg. And in it – unlike the Faustbuch – neither Faustus nor Wagner gets punished for meddling with magic. If this narrative had been taken on its first appearance as a half-blasphemous vindication of the notorious atheist playwright, and if this is what made it controversial, then both writer and printer may have deemed it prudent to claim that it originated several years before the playwright’s murder. It remains to be seen, then, how far the text can be read as I’ve suggested; how far, in fact, the Second Report of Doctor John Faustus might have given its early readers a second report on Marlowe, to set alongside the infamous calumnies of the Baines Note.
3. Fictions of fiction in the Second Report
The narrative of the Second Report is divided into two neat halves, each of which derives its tone and content from one of Marlowe’s plays. The first half takes place in Wittenberg, and tells the story of Faustus’s former houseboy Wagner as he takes on his master’s mantle as a great magician. This part culminates in the supernatural performance of the Tragedy of Doctor Faustus in the air above the town, which ends with the thunderous collapse of the stage into the river Elbe. The second half takes place at a fictionalized Siege of Vienna (1529), and derives its delight in spectacular conflict both from the Orlando Furioso and from Marlowe’s first stage triumph, Tamburlaine the Great. In this section Wagner uses magic to assist the Duke of Austria in his wars against the Turks, executing a series of practical jokes on the Great Turk himself designed to humiliate and baffle the unfortunate sultan. The jokes resemble the tricks Faustus plays both in the Faustbuch and in Marlowe’s play, but being directed against a monarch they also recall the humiliating practices of Tamburlaine, who liked to cage his royal captives and use them as entertainment at mealtimes, as well as forcing a team of kings to draw his chariot like ‘pampered jades’.
The amoral tone of the narrative, too, may owe something to Marlowe. P. F., the translator of the Faustbuch, toned down the moral comments of the German original, but retained enough didactic touches to soothe the consciences of his Christian readers. The conclusion, for example, exhorts them to ‘fear God and to be careful of their vocation and to be at defiance with all devilish works, as God hath most precisely forbidden’. The Second Report follows a quite different moral trajectory. The first half pays careful lip service to the qualms about pacts with the devil – even imagined ones – which get articulated both in the Damnable History and in DoctorFaustus. But the second half abandons these qualms altogether, and permits Wagner to enlist the help of the devil in the ongoing Christian struggle against the heathen. The first half takes care to establish the historical and geographical context of Wagner’s adventures in his hometown of Wittenberg. The second throws historical accuracy to the winds and represents the Siege of Vienna as an orientalist extravaganza, with giant horses and elephants. The narrative, then, journeys from a state of profound uncertainty regarding the relationship between the imagination and real life – implying the very real dangers of succumbing to the allure of imagined power – to an unabashed celebration of fiction, unalloyed by any fear about confusing the factual and the fantastic. The book looks like a conscious effort to move prose fiction forward from the old-fashioned view of it as a form of pedagogy, in tune with the agendas of religious reformers, to a proto-modern celebration of imaginative writing for its own sake. In this it shares its attitude with the books that narrate the afterlives of Greene and Tarleton, tracing the paths of the two celebrities through such controversial posthumous environments as Purgatory and the Shades of classical myth, and transforming these spaces in the process from sites of religious controversy into treasuries of narrative: inexhaustible repositories of gossip, tale, secret history and anecdote. Like Marlowe’s drama, these ghostly texts (Tarleton’s News out of Purgatory,Greene’s News Both from Heaven and Hell, Greene in Conceit) mark a major step on the road from post-medieval didactic literature to ‘pure’ literature as it is understood today; and the Second Report seems to be particularly frank about its ambition to take part in the contemporary reinvention of theatrical and literary fiction.
Within the two-part structure sketched out above, the Second Report is organized into a varied sequence of chapters, each of which constitutes a rhetorical tour de force, an exuberant experiment in some new style or generic convention. These include a philosophical-theological disquisition by Mephistopheles; the theatrical performance by devils in the sky; a disastrous incident involving some Wittenberg students, Faustus’ stolen books of magic, and a bunch of sadistic devils; and a spectacular single combat between the Duke of Austria, mounted on a giant horse, and the Great Turk, mounted on an elephant. Each set piece is treated in a quasi-theatrical manner, and repeatedly has recourse to the language of the theatre – a tendency that distinguishes the Second Report from the Damnable Life. Even the epistle ‘To the Reader’ in the second edition adopts this language, describing the gentleman student as going ‘personate’ (i.e. masked, anonymous) like a Roman actor and as fearful for his reputation ‘if my maske shall fall’ – that is, if his identity should be unveiled (sig. A3v). In response to these theatrical touches, one nineteenth-century critic went so far as to conjecture that the Second Report might be based on a German play about the life of Wagner. The book is a kind of comedy on paper, pervaded by the spirit of the experimental mid-Elizabethan drama of which Marlowe was the leading exponent.
The link with the theatre is established in the opening chapter. Wagner strays into the hall where ‘his Maisters latest Tragedy was perfourmed’ (sig. B2v) – that is, where he died – while thinking about the great magician’s ‘former meriments, sports and delights’ (all terms connected with plays in early modern England) and the various ‘comicall journeis’ he accomplished with the devil’s assistance (sig. B2r). This inspires the young man to think about calling up Faustus’s ghost to act as his familiar. At this point the doors fly open and a pageant enters, like a version of the pageant of the Seven Deadly Sins in Marlowe’s Faustus. First ‘entred as it were the prologue of a Comedy, a fellow so short and litle as if hee should be of one year, and yet not so briefe as ill favored’ (sig. B2v). He is followed by a boy with rusty metal wings ‘like an Angell of Hell’; a king dressed in rags; Lucifer ‘king of the Orient’; and Faustus himself, drawn in a cart by a pair of giant spaniels. The doctor is crowned by the spirits, accompanied by a ‘huge tumult and ecchoing of trumpets’ (sig. B3r). Then the performers vanish. Impressed by this ‘merry Enterlude’ (sig. B3r), Wagner decides that he merits crowning even more than Faustus; a reaction that would have confirmed the fears of any devout reader concerning the pernicious effects of Marlovian drama on the minds of its spectators. But such fears are undermined by the style of the narrative, which makes use of a quasi-Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt to emphasize the fictional status of the reported performance, and the correspondingly fictional status of Wagner’s reaction to it. The doors of the hall fly open ‘Sodainly’, we are told, because ‘alwaies such haps are sodain’ – a phrase that reduces the dramatic entrance to a well-worn cliché (sig. B2v). The winged boy holds in his hands a flaming torch like an extra in a play ‘to give light to the after-commers and beholders’; and one beholder, Wagner, is intensely conscious that the person he takes for Faustus is not the man himself, despite the impulse he has to greet him as his former master (‘so naturall was his semblaunce, so lively his countenaunce, as if it had eyther beene a new Faustus, or not the olde murthered Faustus’). Finally, after the pageant is over Wagner is quick to dismiss it as a baseless mirage: ‘an illusion[,] dream, or a temptation, or else some conceite proceeding from his moiste and melancholicke fantasie, overprest with too many vapors, raised up by continuall thought into his Pores’ (sig. B3r). He looks back on the ‘comicall jest’ as ‘meere fansie’ (sig. B3r), and tells it to his companions as ‘a matter of great truth and litle moment’ (i.e. small importance) (sig. B3v). In doing so he implicitly dismisses the fears of the student’s own readers as to the damaging effect on their minds of the devilish book they are perusing.
This section of the narrative, then, partakes of the playful interweaving of mimetic realism and reflexive fictionality that characterizes the prologue of the first edition and the two epistles of the second. And the rest of the narrative is filled with a similar blend of realism and self-conscious fictionality. The next chapter, for instance, tells of a similar ‘illusion’ involving a group of travelling merchants who come across a dance of ‘countrey maids servants, and other of the female sexe’, known as ‘Phogels’, in a place called the ‘Phogelwald’ not far from Wittenberg (sig. B3v-B4r). The dance assumes a supernatural dimension when they see Faustus’s ghost dancing cheerfully among the women. He greets them and leads them away to a Land of Cockaigne full of beer-mugs that grow like flowers, ‘wherin as they seemed they dwelt many daies with great mirth and pleasure’ (sig. B4r-B4v), till devils shatter their idyll and they wake to find themselves half-buried in mud by the river. Once again, however, the veracity of the story is undermined – not this time by the possible ‘melancholy’ of the witnesses, but by their habitual drunkenness, a condition that afflicts all Germans, the student tells us. The beer of Germany is so thick, he claims, that the vapour rising from it ‘clambering up and spreading it selfe so universally in the fantasie, maketh it to conceave no other impression, but that which the minde afore it came to be overpressed was conversant about’ (sig. B4v). The subject of the merchants’ conversation when they met the Phogels was ‘Faustus merriments’; so it is scarcely surprising when they started to drink that a brand new ‘merriment’ should have been the result. In this way the student suggests that every appearance of Faustus’s ghost since his tragic demise was engendered by the addled imaginations of a beer-swilling nation – though the inclusion of two English merchants in the Phogelwald episode suggests that the English, too, are quite capable of having lascivious visions of their own through excessive drinking.
The third chapter describes an encounter between Wagner and Faustus, which takes up the theme of Faustus’s posthumous existence from the pageant episode in Chapter One. Faustus appears to Wagner (‘sodainely like as all such chaunces happe’) in a secluded grove, suspended (as the ensuing conversation reveals) in mid-air, yet seemingly flesh and blood like Wagner himself (sig. C1r). There ensues a lengthy dispute between master and student concerning the possibility or otherwise of a material body hovering above the earth without succumbing to the force of gravity. The dispute culminates in Faustus filling a cup with his own hot blood to prove his body substantial. He invites Wagner to inspect the cup, then grabs the youth by the hand and beats him ‘miserably’ to clinch his point, leaving him ‘halfe dead’ on the ground, with the final injunction ‘hereafter… either to be more wary or lesse mistrustfull’ (sig. C3r). Once again the episode is intensely self-reflexive. In addition to the comment on the cliché of Faustus’s ‘sodaine’ appearance, the translator notes the long-windedness of Wagner’s part in the disputation (‘I wondred when I read this discourse, with what patience the Doctor could endure so long an argument’, sig. C2r), and concludes with a brusque dismissal of the chapter’s quality as fiction. It is typical, he observes, of the gross ‘lies’ that the Germans like to ‘father’ on Faustus, ‘new children’ (in the form of stories) who ‘cost very litle nursing and bringing uppe’ (sig. C3r). In this chapter, then, a discussion between Wagner and Faustus concerning substance and insubstantiality is identified as a thing of no substance – which is no surprise, the narrator adds, when you ‘consider from whose braines [it] proceede[s]’, since ‘witte for the most part [the Germans] have very little’ (sig. C3v). By this stage in the narrative, the relationship between substance and the insubstantial, nature and the supernatural, has been identified as a matter of psychology. The brain conceives as real what it wishes to conceive as real, and lends it substance through the force of its own credulity. Magic is a product of the imagination, and can do no harm to those who recognize its fanciful nature. And the point is underlined by the role played in the disputation by a cup full of blood.
Presented to Wagner by Faustus as proof of his corporeality, the blood in the cup undergoes a perverse transubstantiation after the doctor’s disappearance: it changes into a ‘Cap full of pisse’, a filthy item from his own wardrobe. This is only the first of a series of gibes linking magic to papist superstition throughout the text. In Chapter Ten, for instance, ‘A lamentable history of the death of sundry students of Wittenberg’, the students’ doom is sealed when they seek to protect themselves while working magic with the useless clutter of Catholicism: ‘the surplesses, the stoles, pall, miters, holy water pots broken, their periapts, seats, signes of the Angels of the seaven daies, with infinite like trash and damnable rogg[u]ery, the fruites of the Divels rancke fansie’ (sig. F4v). The inefficacy of these Catholic symbols, like the revolting transformation of a cup to a piss-filled cap, reminds the readers of the Second Report that they inhabit a world where ‘fansie’ has long run rampant in the form of mistaken or perverse religions. But it also affirms the readers’ capacity, as responsible and intelligent adults, to appreciate the obvious differences between reality and illusion, substance and shadow, true faith and false; a skill that permits them to see fictions like the Second Report for what they are, harmless ‘merriments’ of the sort that made Marlowe famous.
The third episode that concerns itself with illusory posthumous presences occurs in Chapter Six, which contains ‘A long discourse betwixt the Divell and Wagner’ on the question of whether the spirits of the damned may return to life in corporeal form. Resurrection of this kind is regularly practised by writers and actors, of course, so that mimetically speaking, at least, it is perfectly possible; and although the discussion that follows engages with the theology of resurrection – in particular, the controversy over Purgatory which had been humorously taken up in the ‘posthumous’ prose fiction of the early 1590s (think of Tarleton’s News Out of Purgatory) – it is equally preoccupied with the question of fictional representations both of resurrection and of theology. The discussion begins uneasily, with Wagner drawing attention to a problematic aspect of the Faustbuch and Marlowe’s Faustus. Both these narratives affirm that the devils became enraged when the doctor tried to ask them questions about theology; and Wagner begs Mephistopheles to have patience if he does the same, ‘for what hurt can redound to you’, he asks reasonably, ‘by aunswering of a question?’ The point could also apply, of course, to those severe Elizabethans who objected to the presence of theological questions in light fiction; and the reasonable response to Wagner’s inquiry – that engaging with such questions, in itself, can do no harm – is pointed up by the self-evidently fantastic context of the disputation that follows.
Mephistopheles reacts to Wagner’s cautious inquiry by flying into a rage, rushing in and out of the room and striking the table (in another anti-Catholic touch, the mark he leaves in the wood is later made into a relic). After that ‘he takes me one booke and hurls it against a Cupboorde, and then he takes the Cupboord and hurls it against the wall, and then he takes the wall and throwes it against the house, and the house out at the Window’ (sig. D1r). Only then does he calm down, at which point he ‘sate down further off, and thus quietly spake with a lowde voice’ (sig. D1r). This sequence of impossible reactions, culminating in a house being flung out of its own window and a loud voice speaking quietly, confirms the ironic spirit in which the ensuing disputation should be received. Mephistopheles lends his support to orthodox Calvinist doctrine, insisting that there are only two states following death, salvation and damnation, with ‘no place left for a third’ – that is, for Purgatory (sig. D2v); but the gentleman student clearly anticipates Protestant as well as Catholic objections to this section of the narrative. He observes that Puritans or ‘precisians’ – ‘they that have their consciences of the more precise cut’ – will be horrified by Mephistopheles’s intervention in a matter of divinity, but that ‘they which have right mindes’ will remain immune to the devil’s influence, or, by extension, to anything written about him (sig. D3r). On the contrary, he insists, it is the ‘precise’ Puritans who lead the more feeble-minded Christian astray with ‘vayn reasonings and questions’ (sig. D3r). Like Milton in Areopagitica, the student assumes that his readers are grown-up enough to distinguish between sense and nonsense, good and bad arguments – that is, until some Puritan succeeds in confusing them. The problem lies not in fiction but its recipients; it is a position thoroughly familiar from defences of poetry. Once again, stories and plays come across as a kind of intelligence test, and also as a measure of orthodoxy, distinguishing Catholic and Protestant extremists from the more moderate adherents of the Elizabethan religious settlement.
Mephistopheles reinforces this implicit defence of fiction by acknowledging the ultimate uselessness of his own rhetoric. ‘I can’, he admits, ‘largely discourse of al divine and humaine propositions, but as the unlearned Parrat who speaketh oft and much, and understandeth never any thing to profite himselfe’ (sig. D3v). In other words, his ability to talk theology has no effect on his own damned condition; and by extension, it should have no effect on those who hear it. Mephistopheles urges Wagner, too, to dismiss the devil’s discourse as empty noise: ‘Knowest thou not (quoth he) that all the Rhetorickes are the servaunts of my tongue, or that we can move pitty or hatred when we please[?] Foole as thou art forget these vaine conferences, perswade thy selfe that they are but the effect of speach’ (sig. D4r). Instead he encourages the boy to immerse himself in pleasures of the flesh; and the chapter closes with a passage of sheer self-indulgence. Mephistopheles summons an Italian lady into Wagner’s chamber; she is described in lascivious detail (though the description is ‘farre more copious in the Dutch Coppy’, the student informs us), and Wagner himself is given the appearance of ‘Armisverio the Ladies Lorde’ so that he can have his way with her (sig. D4v). The rest of the night, we are told, passed for Wagner ‘in such pleasure as I could find in my heart to enjoy or any man (unless an Euenuch) beside’ (sig. E1r). And this sentence marks the beginning of the end of moralising in this cheeky narrative. By encouraging the male reader to join him in imaginative complicity with his youthful protagonist, the student adds the final touch to his case for the relative harmlessness of taking pleasure in fiction. This is a book for men who acknowledge that they are no eunuchs, who can see no sin in indulging in imaginative pleasures, who know they have both souls and bodies, both hearts and minds (‘I could find it in my heart’, the student admits, to share Wagner’s enjoyment). The discussion of Faustus’s corporeality in Chapter Three takes on a new significance: precisians ask more of the flesh than it can very well deliver. Human bodies contain blood, and blood demands the satisfaction of its sexual as well as its nutritional requirements. The position seems far more compatible with Marlowe’s sympathetic treatment of Faustus than with the moralistic stance of the Faustbuch, or even the Damnable History.
Conventional morality continues to assert itself from time to time in the chapters that follow – without it, after all, where would be the frisson in composing a satanic narrative? – but it gets increasingly overshadowed by the delights experienced by Wagner, and vicariously by narrator and reader, as he plunges ever more exuberantly into the practice of necromancy. In Chapter Seven, for instance, the narrator praises Wagner’s good looks, and the moral note is sounded with seeming reluctance at the end of the eulogy: ‘ther was nothing wanting in the man but a godly minde’ (sig. E1v). In Chapter Eight, the ‘Tragedy of Doctor Faustus seene in the Ayre’ shows how the doctor’s overthrow is accomplished after he has rejected the assistance of a ‘Legion of bright Angels ridinge uppon milke white Chariots’ in his final fight against the forces of darkness – a clear statement of Faustus’s guilt in rejecting God’s aid (E3r). But the fictiveness of the narrative is again stressed when the student refuses to describe the devilish theatre in detail, since this would run contrary ‘to the nature of the whole History’, with its fast pace and impish tone (sig. E2v); and he goes on to quote from the ultimate Renaissance text on writing fiction, the first seven lines of the Art of Poetry by Horace (sig. E2r), in support of his decision to use a plain rhetorical style for a modest subject. The stress in this chapter, then, is on artistry, both in the devils’ production of ‘The Tragedy of Doctor Faustus’ and in the narrator’s skilful description of it. The moral lesson is decidedly secondary. And in case we haven’t got the point, the chapter soon veers away from the performance altogether, to describe a physician’s fantastic voyage to Arabia Felix on a winged horse in search of a cure for one of the performance’s traumatized spectators, a young girl. The digression has a similar tone to the satirical digression concerning Mercury and the maid in Marlowe’s Hero and Leander; and like that digression it serves to underline the philosophy that informs the work as a whole. The physician’s journey represents a wholly benign use of magic – deployed for the purpose of curing an innocent patient; and it ends by demonstrating the fictional nature of the performance in the air, and its consequent harmlessness. The parents of the traumatized girl healed by the physician decide to erase all traces of the satanic performance that induced her trauma. They ‘for ever after caused the place wherein their daughter was thus scared’ (that is, the meadow above which the tragedy of Faustus was performed) ‘to bee unaccessable for man or beast, compassing it in with a high wall, and overthrowing the banckes, so that now there is no mention of the medow nor of the wall’ (sig. E4v). In other words, not only has the location of the aerial tragedy been removed from public sight, but so has the means of its removal – the high wall that blocked it from view. It would be as easy to overlook this piece of chop-logic (how could a wall be the cause of its own disappearance from the historical record?) as to miss the illogicality of the earlier statement that Mephistopheles ‘quietly spake with a lowde voice’. But to do so would be to confirm that one is not sophisticated enough to read comic prose in the proper spirit; that one is, in fact, an incompetent reader, incapable of appreciating the ironic, slippery tone of contemporary fiction.
The mockery of didacticism, and of Elizabethan paranoia concerning the ill effects of fiction on its readers, reaches its climax in the story’s second half. Here Wagner is assisted by damned spirits, including the ghost of his former master, in the laudable business of playing a string of cruel tricks on the Sultan of Turkey, thus helping to foil his plot to overthrow Christendom. The notion of devils defending Christendom may be unexpected, but it builds on Mephistopheles’s staunch defence of Protestant orthodoxy in Chapter Six. And it could also be taken as a robust defence of the most celebrated English chronicler of Faustus’s adventures, the late Kit Marlowe, against charges of atheism based on his work. If Marlowe could conjure up devils this did not make him a devil; if he could imagine Tamburlaine this did not make him a heathen. As many have pointed out, nothing happens to Faustus – or Tamburlaine, Barabas, Edward II or the Guise – that contravenes Calvinist doctrine; all come to a sticky end (with the notable exception of Tamburlaine in Part One) which ought to satisfy the fiercest of moralists. And the point is driven home in the Report by Mephistopheles’s orthodoxy. His behaviour is in many ways impeccable, his theology sound, his defence of Christendom resolute; and the student author could have pointed this out to any would-be detractors. At the same time, his Mephistopheles, like Marlowe’s, is immensely sympathetic – in fact the Second Report elicits more sympathy for its damned characters, and grants them a happier ending, than any play by Marlowe. It is composed of the same explosive mixture of conformity and controversy, humour and horror, that made the dead man’s work so attractive.
Throughout the second half, for instance, the tone of the narrative continues to veer from solemnity to silliness, from the didactic to the daft, until it becomes effectively impossible to paint a coherent picture of the writer’s moral outlook. A portrayal of the Christian leader, Duke Alphonsus of Vienna, as the ideal prince and defender of the faith, is followed by the lurid account of an orgy thrown by Wagner before he sets off to fight on the Duke’s behalf. The tricks Wagner plays on the Great Turk end with the poor man’s death – swiftly followed by a magical resurrection, as if to underline the peculiar fusion of the comic and the serious that make this narrative so hard to pin down – after which he is soundly buffeted and plastered with mud, a treatment that might well have delighted the book’s more aggressive Christian readers. But the chivalrous Duke expresses his horror that so great a monarch should be treated so shamefully, thus rebuking any reader who took pleasure in the man’s humiliation. And Wagner’s response is to restore the Great Turk to his former condition, and to wipe from his mind all remembrance of his ordeal. Resurrection, restoration, the eradication of unhappy memories – all these imply that there is nothing to be feared from playing the devil in fiction. The temptation to see this as a justification of Marlowe’s treatment of the Turkish Emperor Bajazeth in Tamburlaine the Great is irresistible; Tamburlaine’s cruelty on stage, it implies, has no more serious consequences than Wagner’s cruelty to the Great Turk, and takes no more permanent purchase on the viewer’s brain. And Wagner’s obedience to the Christian Duke recalls Faustus’s service to the Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, in Doctor Faustus. Tamburlaine, Faustus, the Duke, Wagner, even Mephistopheles, are all made champions of the new mimesis in this narrative, which represents the strangeness of the human mind in all its complexity, liberated from the need to conform to the simplistic patterns of cause and effect laid down by the moralists. And the point would seem to be clinched in the final section, when Wagner and Faustus are made honorary Englishmen.
The last battle against the Great Turk sees the German magicians and their team of familiars take their places among the ‘English archers’ in the Christian army (sig. K1r). Here they show an expertise in the tactical uses of the ‘eughen bow’ (sig. K1v) – instrumental in the English victories at Crécy, Poitiers and Agincourt – to match their skills in necromancy. And in return for their patriotism, their inevitable fate as damned spirits is replaced by celebration, a triumphal party that embraces the whole of continental Europe. The concluding sentence of the book tells how the Duke and his fellow Christian princes ‘with great joy caused generall feasts and triumphs to be performed in all theyr kingdomes, provinces, and territories whatsoever’ (sig. K2r). And this lapse into the language of official proclamations seems to cast a retrospective benison on the man who brought Faustus to the English stage. If Faustus could be reinvented as an English hero, then Marlowe could be a hero too, and his ghost re-imagined as a vigorous participant in the retrospective celebration of his achievements that took place, on stage and in print, in the wake of his murder. Clearly The Second Report must be seen as among the wittiest and most inventive contributions to this celebration.
 See Park Honan, Christopher Marlowe: Poet and Spy (Oxford, 2005), and Lori Humphrey Newcomb, ‘Robert Greene’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/11418, accessed 2.8.2011).
 See e.g. Lori Humphrey Newcomb, ‘Ghosts’, Reading Popular Romance in Early Modern England (New York, 2002), pp. 70-76.
The Works of George Peele, ed. A. H. Bullen, 2 (London, 1888), p. 320.
 For literary responses to Marlowe’s death, see Honan, Christopher Marlowe (see above, n. 1), pp. 355-67.
 See David Bevington and Eric Rasmussen, eds., Doctor Faustus: A- and B-Texts, The Revels Plays (Manchester and New York, 1993), ‘The B-text’, pp. 72-77. All references to Doctor Faustus are to this edition.
 STC 10715; 2nd ed. STC 10715.3 (online available through EEBO).
 Greene explains his reference to Diogenes more fully in his Farewell to Folly (1591): ‘Diogenes hath taught me, that to kicke an asse when he strikes, were to smell of the asse for meddling with the asse’; Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. A. B. Grosart (London and Aylesbury, 1881-83), 9, p. 230.
Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart, 7, pp. 7-8.
 Honan, Christopher Marlowe (see above, n. 1), p. 184.
 For these attacks, see Honan, Christopher Marlowe (see above, n. 1), pp. 184-85.
Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart (see above, n. 8), 12, pp. 141-43.
 See John Jowett, ‘Notes on Henry Chettle [pt 1]’, Review of English Studies, n.s., 45 (1994), 384-88.
 On Greene’s habit of deferral, see R. W. Maslen, ‘Robert Greene and the Uses of Time’, Writing Robert Greene, ed. Kirk Melnikoff and Edward Gieskes (Aldershot and Burlington, VT, 2008), pp. 157-88.
Life and Works of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart (see above, n. 8), 12, p. 207.
 See ‘Faust in England: Dating the English Faust Book and Doctor Faustus’, The English Faust Book, ed. John Henry Jones (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 52-72.
 See The Black Book, ed. G. B. Shand, Thomas Middleton: The Collected Works, ed. Gary Taylor and John Lavagnino (Oxford, 2007), pp. 204-6. All references are to this edition.
 Eric Rasmussen, ‘The Black Book and the Date of Doctor Faustus’, Notes and Queries 235, n.s., 37 (1990), pp. 168-70.
 For the dates of both texts see The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), pp. 52-72.
 See R. W. Maslen, ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’, Journal of the Northern Renaissance, Issue 1.1 (March, 2009), pp. 129-44. (http://northernrenaissance.org/articles/Robin-GoodfellowbrRobert-Maslen/13, accessed 2.8.2011).
 Harold Jantz, ‘An Elizabethan Statement on the Origin of the German Faust Book’, Journal of English and German Philology, vol. 15, no. 2 (April, 1952), pp. 137-53.
 See The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), p. 10 ff. Interestingly, Jantz proposes that the translation referred to in the passage is the German translation (the Faustbuch) from a lost Latin original, whose existence was surmised by Robert Petsch in his edition of the Faustbuch, Das Volksbuch vom Doktor Faust (Halle, 1911). See Jantz, ‘An Elizabethan Statement’ (see above, n. 21).
 See Fynes Morison, An Itinerary Containing His Ten Years’ Travel (1617), 4 (Glasgow, 1907-8), p. 16.
 My thanks to Robert Cummings for furnishing me with a translation of the Latin in the second epistle.
 For a summary of Jeffes’s career, see The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), pp. 45-50.
The English Faust Book, ed. Jones (see above, n. 16), p. 181.
 This passage builds on arguments I developed (in relation to other texts) in Elizabethan Fictions (Oxford, 1997), and ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’ (see above, n. 20).
 Richard Stralik, ‘Doktor Faust und die erste Türkenbelagerung Wiens’, Zeitschrift für Allgemeine Geschichte, ed. Hans von Zwiedineck-Südenhorst, 1 (Stuttgart, 1884), pp. 401-6.
Shakespeare wrote Troilus and Cressida in 1602, after the execution for treason of Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, in the protracted final years of Elizabeth I. With the death of Essex a phase of Shakespeare’s life came to an end. When the Earl staged an abortive coup in 1601, one of his co-conspirators was Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, to whom Shakespeare dedicated his poems Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece. Another co-conspirator was Shakespeare himself, since his company had staged one of Shakespeare’s plays, Richard II, with its controversial deposition scene, two days before the rising at the behest of the Earl’s supporters. After that performance Shakespeare stopped writing English history plays for over a decade. It’s hardly surprising, then, if the Greek history play he wrote the following year has an air of bitter retrospection, inverting the triumphalist rhetoric of Henry V – the final play in the Second Tetralogy, which refers to Essex as the heroic ‘general of our gracious empress’ – in an amazingly tortuous and orotund prologue.
Troilus and Cressida is Shakespeare’s long farewell to English history, and to the particular history of England under Elizabeth. It concerns itself with the question of the ‘indirect, crook’d ways’ by which the past gets written, and with the function of history as theorized by the humanist education system that shaped Shakespeare’s mind. Its chief target is the humanist claim that you can draw general principles or rules from the disconnected fragments and wilful distortions of conflicting historical narratives. I’d like to suggest that this concern was already implicit in his choice of topic – Troilus, Cressida, the war over Helen – and that he and his audience would have approached it with a strong sense of their own complicity with the notoriously treacherous dispositions of the ancient Greeks.
In Tudor times the Trojan War was bound up with English history. The English traced their ancestry to Brutus, grandson of Aeneas, who founded a city as great as the city state of Aeneas’ birth: Troynovant or New Troy – later rebranded as London – in the land of Albion – later rebranded as Britain. It was easy, too, for Elizabethans to connect the Trojan War with recent history. Like the Essex rebellion, the Trojan war was an internecine conflict, with relatives on both sides taking arms against each other; the motive of the war was a woman; it involved a tangled web of betrayals; and one of its central figures was Achilles, who had been linked with Essex by the poet George Chapman in his 1598 translation of seven books from Homer’s Iliad. Chapman’s translation is dedicated to ‘the most honoured now living instance of the Achilleian virtues eternized by divine Homer’, the soldier-earl, and this sentence transforms Robert Devereux into an instructive example of the kind historians and poets seek to supply when penning their texts. At the same time, Chapman argues in his prefatory epistle that poets are more reliable than historians – or indeed their living subjects – in offering exemplary nourishment for the soul, that is, the moral and intellectual life of the mind. In the real world, Chapman contends, the soul is trapped in what he calls ‘the scum of the body’, that ‘wormeaten idol’ which invariably fails to manifest the soul’s ‘excellency’ – or worse still, contrives through its actions to ‘murder and bury her’. Great poems, on the other hand, like those of Homer, offer the perfect bodily vehicle for the soul, communicating its qualities as no human actions can, and resurrecting past heroes with a few well chosen syllables. As a result, ‘the lives of […] poets’ can be seen as the heroes’ ‘earthly Elysiums, wherein we walk with survival of all the deceased worthies we read of; every conceit, sentence, figure and word being a most beautiful lineament of their souls’ infinite bodies’. If this is so, then the Earl of Essex – who at the time of writing still occupied the ‘wormeaten idol’ of his living body – could never have represented Achilles as accurately as Homer’s verse does; and it was only one year later that the Earl’s Achillean virtues found themselves buried, so to speak, in the dismal failure of his campaign against the Irish (1599). Those who remembered Chapman’s dedication, then, would have seen the irony in Shakespeare’s portrayal of Achilles, whose body is verbally infested with so many diseases by the satirist Thersites. Once Achilles, always Achilles – so long as Achilles is merely a verbal rather than a corporeal construct, and hence not subject to old age, lack of fitness, or infectious diseases of body and mind.
Despite Chapman’s praise of poets, Homer’s account of the Trojan War was viewed with distrust in early modern England. The war, in fact, was the perfect example of the untrustworthy nature of history itself, since there were so many competing versions of what happened, each weighted in favour of one of the warring sides, each accusing the other camp of inventing lies to support their cause. The versions of Homer and Dictys of Crete were said to be biased towards the Greeks, while Virgil and Dares the Phrygian sided with the Trojans. There were even suggestions from serious historians, such as Polydore Virgil, that all accounts of the Trojan War had been fabricated, and that the ancient history of Britain was therefore entirely fanciful. The body of evidence, then, as well as the bodies of the people who took key roles in the ten-year siege, was subject to corruption, and the question of whether the exemplary function of history was damaged or enhanced by its fabricated elements was fiercely debated in the sixteenth century.
The proto-novelist Geoffrey Fenton gives one of the most detailed accounts of the uses of history in early modern England. In the preface to his story collection Certain Tragical Discourses (1567) he states that like all arts, narratives of the past contain embedded in their particular details ‘certain special principles and rules for the direction of such as search out their disposition’, and that the responsible reader’s task is to extricate these general ‘precepts’ from the specific examples scattered so liberally through their pages. In the process the reader makes use of the past to plan for the future, on the presumption that ‘the nature of man in all ages, although the singular persons be changed, remaineth still one’, so that consequences of the same action or situation will be always and everywhere the same.
The point of reading history, then, is not so much to know what happened as to anticipate what will happen, in the interest of constructing policies. The ‘chief gain derived of such travail,’ he writes, ‘is in that we shall see set forth good and wholesome lessons of all sorts, whereof we may take to ourselves and benefit of our country such as we like to follow; and which presents to us the true picture and report of such enterprises as had both sinister beginnings and much worse endings’. In a well-written history, ‘good and wholesome’ actions must be made alluring – we need to like to follow them – while ‘sinister’ actions must be made repellent; something which, as Philip Sidney points out, is not always the case in authentic records. Unlike Sidney, however, Fenton seems to believe that the archives always show virtue rewarded and viciousness punished – that’s one of the general ‘rules’ he’s extracted from history. He acknowledges that ‘description figurative’ as used by poets has been readily accepted by many thinkers as a fine substitute for true history, but asserts that we are far more inclined to emulate our ancestors than to mimic invented figures with no connection to us. Truth is always preferable to feigning, and truth always yields instruction, because it comes from God.
The problem with the Trojan War is that it’s neither wholly fictional nor wholly factual, so that the truth of it can’t easily be located. For some commentators its hybrid nature as part fact, part fiction is unproblematic. Writing in 1531, the humanist Sir Thomas Elyot defines history much as Fenton does, as a record of past events which can be used to supplement our personal experience, and he considers the question of whether it’s true to be largely irrelevant to this function. ‘Admit that some histories be interlaced with leasings [lies]’, he writes,
why should we therefore neglect them, since the affairs there reported nothing concerneth us, we being thereof no partners, nor thereby […] may receive any damage? But if by reading the sage counsel of Nestor, the subtle persuasions of Ulysses, the compendious gravity of Menelaus, the imperial majesty of Agamemnon, the prowess of Achilles, the valiant courage of Hector, we may apprehend anything whereby our wits may be amended and our personages be more apt to serve our public weal and our prince, what forceth us [what does it matter] though Homer wrote leasings?
Eliot here suggests that we need not bother about the accuracy of Homer’s account of the Trojan War because modern Englishmen have no stake in it – they are ‘thereof no partners’. As we’ve seen, he’s being disingenuous, since the myth of Britain’s Trojan origins meant that the Tudor regime, at least, might be said to have had a stake in whether or not the story of their forebears had been made up. In 1600 an expert in heraldry, William Segar, wrote a passage that neatly summarizes some of the difficulties with Eliot’s position:
True it is […] that many enterprises in times past attempted and achieved above the expectation of men, are now thought rather fabulous than faithfully reported: either because we that now live did not know, or see them, or that ignorant men cannot conceive how they might be done, or that want of courage doth disable them to take the like actions in hand. […] And who so shall well consider how difficult a thing it is to write an history of so great truth and perfection, as cannot be controlled, will easily excuse these writers that have taken in hand matter so far from our knowledge and understanding. For like unto all other men, moved with love, hate, profit, or other private passion, they are either willing or ignorantly induced to increase or extenuate the actions and merits of those men, of whom their histories have discoursed. Howsoever that be, I verily think the acts and enterprises of Ulysses, Aeneas, Hector, and other famous captains […] were indeed of notable men, and some of their doings such, as writers have made mention.
Segar here presents us with a historical record that is always subject to the vicissitudes of ‘love, hate, profit or private passion’, where historiography is always ‘controlled’ – a word that could mean either ‘censured, criticized’ or ‘censored, kept in check’ – and where writers are always exaggerating or excusing the behaviour of the men they favour. If some of the deeds of the Greek and Trojan heroes were authentic, which ones were they? It’s important to know the answer if we’re to use their actions and those actions’ consequences as a means of planning our future enterprises.
Another way in which the Trojan War is mixed is in the examples it contains. These are divided along gender lines: men represent ideals to be followed, women vices to be shunned. But surely a man’s particular qualities can’t be disengaged from the larger project in the interests of which he chooses to use them? It’s all very well to say that Agamemnon is the perfect example of an enlightened general, or that Ulysses is the model counselor, or Achilles the ultimate warrior – but each of these men has undertaken a ten-year war to retrieve a woman who is widely cited as the ultimate example of infidelity and its consequences. And what if the judgement of women recorded by history is itself profoundly unsafe? Throughout the sixteenth century there’s a tradition of defending women like Helen and Cressida – especially the latter – as having been traduced by the faithless historians mentioned by Segar. In the much-reprinted poetry collection A Paradise of Dainty Devices (1576), for instance, Troilus tells Cressida that she has become an example to all women of the effects of what he calls ‘caterwauling’ (sleeping around like a lustful cat), and Cressida replies with a counter-accusation of her own:
No gadding moods, but forcéd strife,
Compelléd me retire from Troy:
If Troilus would have vowed his wife,
We might have dwelt in former joy.
If Troilus had simply married Cressida, in other words, or fought to keep the woman he loved, she wouldn’t have been forced to seek the protection of his Greek enemy, Diomedes; and she adds that she has been misrepresented by tradition largely thanks to Troilus’s willingness to blacken her name. Shakespeare’s Lucrece (1594) is equally conscious of her dependence on the untrustworthy narratives of men for the example she will be deemed to have set for other women. Her urgent task after her rape by Tarquin is to pass on an accurate speaking picture of herself to future generations: she hates the idea of being fictionalized, transformed into a distorted image which is rendered convincing by the scraps of evidence from which it’s partly assembled. Her body is one such scrap of evidence, and she pleads with the personified Night to keep it concealed:
Make me not object to the tell-tale day.
The light will show, charáctered in my brow,
The story of sweet chastity’s decay,
The impious breach of holy wedlock vow;
Yea, the illiterate, that know not how
To cipher what is read in learned books,
Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks.
As she seeks some answer to the question of how to transmit the brutal facts of her rape to her husband and the world in general, she finds herself looking at a painting of the siege of Troy, where she instantly recognizes the exemplary heroes, Ulysses and Ajax – though both seem a little ambiguous as moral examples:
In Ajax and Ulysses, O what art
Of physiognomy might one behold!
The face of either ciphered either’s heart;
Their face their manners most expressly told:
In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled,
But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent
Showed deep regard and smiling government.
The most puzzling image in the picture, however, is the treacherous Sinon, the Greek whose pretended defection to the Trojan side helped convince Priam to bring the wooden horse within the city walls. Sinon seems to be the direct opposite of exemplary, in that his appearance completely obscures his disposition:
But, like a constant and confirméd devil,
He entertained a show so seeming just,
And therein so ensconced his secret evil,
That jealousy itself could not mistrust
False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust
Into so bright a day such black-faced storms,
Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms.
In this disconnect between his appearance and his treacherous behaviour Sinon confirms Lucrece’s experience of the rapist Tarquin, whose appearance disastrously misled her into trusting him. From now on, she declares, she will always assume that beautiful looks can only serve as the index of a vicious mind. At this early stage in Shakespeare’s career, in other words, Troy is already associated with the problem of assigning values to a man or woman on the basis of a reading of those ‘wormeaten idols’, their bodies. It’s also linked with the problem of extracting general ‘principles and rules’, in Fenton’s phrase, from particular examples: even after Lucrece has identified Sinon the general rule she derives from his looks is scarcely a credible one. Add to this that the best known account of Sinon’s treachery occurs in a version of Troy narrated by a biased poet, Virgil, and the relationship between the particular and the general, the example and the precept, is plunged into crisis by the ambiguities of Trojan history.
When Shakespeare opened his Trojan history play, then, with a prologue who wears full body armour because he has no confidence in ‘author’s pen or actor’s voice’, and when that prologue ends his speech with the couplet ‘Like or find fault, do as your pleasures are; / Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war’ – I suggest that the Elizabethan audience would have found itself in familiar territory. The competing versions of the Trojan War demonstrate exactly this: that the outcome of any particular conflict, and the factional bias of its poets and chroniclers, determines the general moral lessons it is deemed to impart. And the play that follows is given over to an extended analysis of the mechanics of making examples out of men and women in a time of crisis.
In the play, examples are made in different ways depending on your gender and the moral and political priorities of the side you’re on. At the centre of this version of the Trojan War are two women: Cressida, who is deemed exemplary by Troilus in particular, and Helen, who is theoretically deemed exemplary by both Greeks and Trojans but is also the topic of heated debate in Troy over the current status of her exemplarity. Both are valued, it seems, only for their beauty, so that their exemplary function is limited and questionable (is bodily beauty a value or merely a trigger for erotic desire?). In fact a third woman is fought over during the play, but it would be easy to forget her presence in it. In the second scene we hear that Hector is angry because he has been humiliated on the battlefield by Ajax, and his reaction to the humiliation is to lose his temper with his wife – and hence to jeopardize his own exemplary status: ‘He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer’, as Cressida’s servant tells her. In the following scene, however, he sends a challenge to the Trojan camp which proclaims Andromache to be the most exemplary woman of all, and urges the Greeks to fight him in single combat if they disagree. Aeneas, who brings the challenge to the Greeks, expresses it thus:
Hector, in view of Troyans and of Greeks,
Shall make it good or do his best to do it:
He hath a lady wiser, fairer, truer,
Than ever Greek did couple in his arms.
This kind of challenge is of course familiar from chivalric romance, but in the context of the matter of Troy it is problematic: if Andromache is so much better than any Greek lady, past or present – and if a Greek challenger is prepared to fight on the basis that his own lady is supreme – what precisely is the war about? Moreover, Andromache – who was rebuked by Hector before he issued the challenge – quickly disappears as a motive for the single combat; and when we see her again it’s once more as the target for her husband’s wrath. She tries to make him change his mind over fighting on a day of ill omen, and his response is to say: ‘Andromache, I am offended with you. / Upon the love you bear me, get you in’. Clearly Hector’s reputation as a man of war is always his first priority, and the women he fights for are always and only ever the excuse for combat, the context in which Hector’s own exemplarity can best be displayed.
Troilus, by contrast, consistently identifies Cressida as lying at the heart of his system of values – as the centre of his world. This too, however, is problematic, since his image of her is entirely imaginary. His description of her in the first scene makes this patently obvious:
O, that her hand
In whose comparison all whites are ink
Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure
The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense
Hard as the palm of ploughman!
If the whiteness of Cressida’s hand makes other whites seem black as ink, the term ‘white’ has lost all meaning – and the argument that black is white was the classic instance of chop-logic or sophistry as taught in Elizabethan schools. Again, if her skin is so soft it makes a cygnet’s down seem harsh then the term ‘softness’ no longer has a function; while if the ‘spirit of sense’, which is the faculty by which we convey sense impressions to the brain, has lost its sensitivity, then we can no longer distinguish one thing from another by touch. This view of Cressida, Troilus says to Pandarus, is not merely true – it falls short of truth; so that truth itself would seem to be both imaginary and inaccessible through the senses. There’s no chance at all, of course, that any woman could live up to this kind of hyperbole, and sure enough at the point when Troilus finally sleeps with Cressida his main concern is that she won’t match his expectations – the onanistic fantasies with which he has satisfied himself during their courtship. This, at least, is one interpretation of his speech before their union:
Th’imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense. What will it be
When that the wat’ry palate tastes indeed
Love’s thrice-repuréd nectar? Death, I fear me;
Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine,
Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers.
In other words, Troilus fears he will be unable to feel the delights of sex about which he has been fantasizing for so long. His private fantasies are the zenith of his sex life, and sexual action can only be a disappointment by comparison.
Cressida herself is fully aware that it’s the male imagination that makes women exemplary, and that women have no agency in the process (apart from Lucrece, of course, whose technique of doing so is hardly appealing). She holds Troilus off as long as she can, as she informs the audience:
Women are angels, wooing.
Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.
That she beloved knows nought that knows not this:
Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.
Helen, too, has good reason to know that she is a construct of the male imagination. Troilus points this out, unaware that his words ironically underscore the fantastic nature of his image of Cressida; ‘Helen must needs be fair,’ he tells his Trojan compatriots, ‘When with your blood you daily paint her thus’. The painting here is that of cosmetics, an art form that stood for deceit in Elizabethan culture; so Troilus is suggesting that Helen is not what the Greeks and Trojans make her out to be – that she is, in fact, made up in another sense. Troilus’ rival Diomedes has a similar view of her:
For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian’s life has sunk; for every scruple
Of her contaminated carrion weight
A Troyan hath been slain; since she could speak,
She hath not given so many good words breath
As for her Greeks and Troyans suffered death.
Here Helen’s painted body has become carrion – another ‘wormeaten idol’, in Chapman’s phrase – hideously overwhelmed by the male corpses who have fought to uphold the myth of her exemplarity. The association of her with cosmetics and rotting flesh suggests that she is ageing, like the late portraits of England’s queen, so that the one quality that’s been ascribed to her, bodily beauty, is fading fast. The Trojan debate over her value in the play’s second act therefore focuses on time: if she was deemed worth taking from her husband in the first place, she must of necessity be deemed worth keeping seven years later. Hector objects that her value cannot be determined by a ‘particular will’ – presumably that of Paris – but must instead be inherent in her if she’s to be kept; he’s therefore in favour of giving her back, since ‘doing wrong extenuates not wrong, / But makes it much more heavy’. Troilus and Paris, on the other hand, insist that the ‘will’ that imputed value to her was a general one. But the upshot of the debate is a rejection on Hector’s part of the philosophical principles for which he’s been arguing; he dismisses what he claims is ‘truth’, that Helen is worthless, and chooses to retain her because ‘’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence / Upon our joint and several dignities’. A general rule – that two wrongs don’t make a right – is supplanted by a different kind of generality: that the collective honour of the Trojans would be impugned by any belated admission they were wrong; and thus the myth of Helen’s exemplarity is prolonged for another three years. The scene makes it plain, if it wasn’t already, that the Trojan War is not about women but about men, and that the women who are its ostensible motive are essentially male inventions.
Men’s exemplarity, meanwhile, would seem to be yet more unstable than women’s. Distinguishing one man from another is a difficult matter; in the second scene, for instance, Pandarus fails to distinguish Troilus at a distance from his brother Deiphobus – a mistake Cressida takes great pleasure in mocking; and later Aeneas finds it hard to tell Agamemnon apart from his fellow Greeks, despite repeated heavy hints from the general himself. This difficulty explains the Greek insistence that the purpose of their continued siege of Troy is to establish the difference between heroes and ordinary men; it takes something as calamitous as a war to separate the masculine wheat from the effeminate chaff. Agamemnon’s anonymity also identifies the source of the problem he faces within his camp: that of insubordination. The general is simply not sufficiently distinguished to take his place at the head of a military hierarchy – and this is not just the fault of Achilles, who refuses to recognize Agamemnon as his general. The same attitude is spreading through the lower orders, with the result that Agamemnon can no longer be seen as generally representative of his people. His exemplary status as the ideal general is therefore at risk, and he responds – on the advice of Ulysses – by hatching a plot to undermine Achilles’ reputation, in turn, as the exemplary warrior. Agamemnon, then, agrees to undermine a hierarchy in a bid to restore a hierarchy, to discredit an example in a bid to restore his own exemplarity; a situation which, as Ulysses points out in his great speech on order, erases the distinction between right and wrong by erasing the basis on which such distinctions are made. The scene in which all this takes place, the third in the play, contains, I think, not a single mention of the woman who is ostensibly at the centre of the Trojan War; so in this way too the hierarchy of values has been undermined. The Greeks are clear, then, about their real motive in fighting the war: to achieve distinction; but they are also clear about the extreme difficulty of obtaining and retaining such distinction – and contribute to this extreme difficulty by their willingness to destroy each other’s reputations.
The Trojans make Helen central to their cause, though they betray their real priority as being their honour. The Greeks put their honour squarely at the centre of the conflict, while admitting that it’s badly tarnished. The Trojans look to the past for justification of their present commitment to retaining Helen. The Greeks look to the future to justify their long campaign, and take every chance they can get to bequeath a positive image of themselves to their descendants. The Trojans pride themselves on their consistency – what we valued once, Troilus insists, must always be valued. The Greeks don’t care about being consistent so long as they come out of it smelling of roses. But the Trojans are not consistent, whatever they claim. Troilus swiftly loses interest in Cressida after a single night of pleasure: ‘Sleep kill those pretty eyes’, he tells her next morning as he arms for battle, and Cressida sees at once that her prophesy has been fulfilled: ‘You men will never stay,’ she complains as she tries to dissuade him. Hector, who has a reputation for sparing unarmed men, forgets it completely when he sees a fine suit of armour on a fleeing enemy; and we’ve already seen how consistent he is when it comes to women. The Greeks and the Trojans, in other words, are indistinguishable, and it’s the duel between Hector and Ajax that points this up. The duel ends before it’s begun because it turns out that the ox-like Greek is partly Trojan. ‘Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so,’ Hector tells him,
That thou could’st say ‘This hand is Grecian all,
And this is Troyan; the sinews of this leg
All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood
Runs on the dexter cheek, and this siníster
Bounds in my father’s’; by Jove multipotent,
Thou should’st not bear from me a Greekish member
Wherein my sword had not impressure made
Of our rank feud.
But Ajax is neither one thing nor another, and neither are the warring armies between which he is so evenly divided. Cressida, too, is neither one thing or another, as Troilus finds; ‘This is and is not Cressid,’ he tells himself when he catches her with Diomedes; and even at this point he seems reluctant to let go his fantastic image of her as the touchstone by which the value of everything else is to be measured. Human beings, it seems – whether actual or fantastical – are not the best material to fashion simplistic examples out of. There is too much ‘commixtion’ in them, as Hector puts it. They are too subject to change, through time, through shifting moods, through illness, desire, the chance of war, and basic rottenness. Thersites nails it when he verbally spreads venereal disease throughout both factions: ‘Lechery, lechery! Still wars and lechery! […] A burning devil take them!’ The exemplary bodies Shakespeare has given us are already falling to pieces before this curse can take effect.
The process of making history, meanwhile, is best summed up by the death of Hector. Achilles finds himself too out of shape to defeat him man to man, and like Ulysses decides to deal with the problem by trickery. He orders his personal guard, the Myrmidons, first to isolate Hector on the battlefield, then to murder him. Having done so, the Myrmidons raise the cry ‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain’. A general murder becomes a particular triumph, and the two opposing versions of the Trojan War are brought into being: the version we’ve seen, in which Hector is murdered, and the version favoured by Homer, in which he’s killed by Achilles’ prowess. Neither history, nor the examples drawn from history, could ever look simple again after Shakespeare penned this episode. But then these things hadn’t looked simple for decades, thanks in part to the conflicting versions of the tale of Troy. The death of Essex may have brought this home to Shakespeare; and Shakespeare’s version of the death of Hector bequeathed his unease with the processes of making history to men and women in the twenty-first century. In the age of Donald Trump and Nigel Farage I suspect we share it.
This post begins and ends with two comedies in which Shakespeare unleashed the full force of his imagination on the space of the stage: A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest. Both of these plays have plots not directly derived from any known source; in this sense they are the fruits of his personal fancy. Both plays are richly stocked with supernatural beings, and as a result invoke a fear of the stage – and in particular theatrical comedy – which was a real and active force throughout Shakespeare’s lifetime. Both plays pit the self-centred imaginative visions of powerful men and women against what might be called the collective imagination of a community; the kind of collective imagination that makes theatre possible, as audiences accede to the players’ invitation to share their dreams, to help them populate the stage with beings from ancient history, or spirits, or the inhabitants of far-off countries, or of countries that don’t exist at all. I’d like to consider, in fact, Shakespeare’s preoccupation with the workings of the imagination in his comedies; and I’d suggest that the imagination itself is his topic in many of them, furnishing him with the material for their comic plots and drawing attention to the complex ways the imagination works in the actual communities of early modern England and Europe.
What was the imagination, then, for an English playwright of the sixteenth century? It was the part of the mind that formed images of things not actually present; a faculty located in the front part of the brain just behind the eyes, where information from the five senses was gathered in chaotic profusion before being sorted by the understanding and stored away in the carefully catalogued archives of the memory, which lay in the capacious area at the back of the head. The imaginative space was closely associated with the faculty called wit or natural intelligence, which is responsible for banter, improvisation, trickery and other functions that don’t involved the deployment of the meticulous and scholarly understanding. The most vivid Elizabethan representation of the imagination comes in Spenser’s epic poem The Faerie Queene, the first three books of which were printed in 1590, five years before the probable date of the first performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. In the second book the personification of the imaginative faculty is named as Phantastes, a gloomy young man with a ‘working Wit’, ‘bent hollow Beetle brows’ and ‘sharp staring eyes / That mad or foolish seem’d’, whose room is painted with bizarre and colourful images:
Some such as in the World were never yet,
Ne can devised be of mortal Wit:
Some daily seen, and knowen by their Names,
Such as in idle Fantasies do flit;
Infernal Hags, Centaurs, Fiends, Hippodames,
Apes, Lions, Eagles, Owls, Fools, Lovers, Children, Dames.
The air of this room is full of flies, which annoy visitors by buzzing in their eyes and ears. These insects, the poet informs us, are
[…] idle Thoughts and Fantasies,
Devices, Dreams, Opinions unsound,
Shews, Visions, Soothsayes, and Prophecies;
And all that feigned is, as Leasings, Tales, and Lyes.
The picture Spenser gives us here perfectly embodies the profoundly ambiguous attitude early modern people had to the imagination. On the one hand, Phantastes or the fancy is one of the three seminal functions of the brain, especially useful for conjuring up images of the future and enabling a person to prepare herself to face it. On the other hand, the fancy is dangerous. Far from being playful and pleasant, Spenser depicts the man with a ‘working Wit’ as tormented by the ‘agonies’ of what we would now call depression, and this is because the mass of images by which he is surrounded have a political impact on him; they generate idle thoughts which in turn give rise to ‘opinions unsound’, ‘soothsayes, and prophecies’. Prophecies were widely associated in the sixteenth century with plots and insurrections, which were sometimes referred to as imaginations – rebellious actions undertaken on the basis of irresponsible conjecture or non-existent grievances; while ‘opinions unsound’ invokes religious heresy, which for Spenser could encompass anything from Catholicism to radical Protestantism, either of which could spawn rebellion. Spenser’s Phantastes, then, is a political troublemaker rather than an entertainer; making things up invariably leads to making trouble; and Spenser himself seems to have been tormented by a kind of double standard, impelled by his own teeming fancy to imagine the longest and strangest poem in the English language while profoundly distrustful of the imagination itself as a breeding-ground for the flies of religious and political dissent.
The early modern period shares Spenser’s double standard. It’s the most imaginative era of English (and Scottish) history in terms of architecture, internal decoration and clothing fashions as much as of poetry and drama; yet it’s also a period that spawned the most virulent attacks on the products of the imagination. One influential theorist of poetry, George Puttenham, drew a clear distinction between two different kinds of imagination: euphantasy, which is the ability to represent ‘the best, most comely and beautiful images or appearances of things to the soul and according to their very truth’; and phantasy or the phantastic, which generates non-existent things in the mind and thus breeds ‘Chimeras and monsters in man’s imaginations, and not only in his imaginations, but also in all his ordinary actions and life which ensues’. In other words, for Puttenham the job of the poet is to represent only what is or what has been – to write not just realistically but historically; whereas representing non-existent subjects in poetry is a sure path to monstrous action (and as a passionate royalist Puttenham would have seen any form of social dissent as more or less monstrous). The poet Sir Philip Sidney, by contrast, whose Apology for Poetry came into print around the time A Midsummer Night’s Dream was first performed (1595), identifies making things up as the defining function of poetry, which for him is a term that means fiction and can refer equally to verse, drama or prose. This means that the poet has a licence, in Sidney’s view, to be utopian (and More’s Utopia is one of the few texts by English writers he writes of with approval):
Only the poet, disdaining to be tied to any such subjection, lifted up with the vigour of his own invention, doth grow in effect into another nature, in making things either better than Nature bringeth forth, or quite anew, forms such as never were in Nature, as the Heroes, Demigods, Cyclops, Chimeras, Furies, and such like: so as he goeth hand in hand with Nature, not enclosed within the narrow warrant of her gifts, but freely ranging only within the zodiac of his own wit.
For Sidney the liberation of the inventive wit from the chains of what exists, of crude hard fact, is to be celebrated rather than condemned, as is the poet’s capacity to act as a prophet, anticipating better modes of life than the ones that currently obtain on earth. The fiction maker’s free ‘ranging […] within the zodiac of his own wit’ – his refusal to be constrained within the limits of the real – makes him the ultimate resistance fighter against the forces of tyranny. Sidney and Puttenham stand at opposite political poles, although they view the capacity of the imagination to affect the world and its politics in very similar terms.
As you would expect, the early modern controversy over the imagination had a direct impact on the early modern theatre. For its opponents the stage was capable of awakening rebellious thoughts in the minds of spectators – especially the young; and such thoughts could range from sexual adventurousness to religious heresy to the seeds of political insurrection. The best of Elizabethan writers against the theatre, Stephen Gosson – who may well have been employed to write his polemics by the Lord Mayor of London – was particularly critical of actors for forsaking their true callings as trained craftsmen or tradesmen, as most of them were, to pursue an idle occupation: a shift from productive to non-productive labour which he saw as damaging to the society of which they were part:
in a common weal, if private men be suffered to forsake their calling because they desire to walk gentlemanlike in satin and velvet, with a buckler at their heels, proportion is so broken, unity dissolved, harmony confounded, that the whole body must be dismembered and the prince or the head cannot choose but sicken.
For Gosson, ‘Plays are the inventions of the devil, the offerings of idolatry, the pomp of worldlings, the blossoms of vanity, the root of apostasy, the food of iniquity, riot and adultery’; and there were many Elizabethans who agreed with him, forming a vocal anti-theatrical lobby whose actions eventually brought about the closure of all playhouses in 1642. The players of course hit back at their detractors, mocking them on stage in plays and in the satirical song-and-dance routines known as jigs. It was partly in response to this controversy that the court office of the Master of the Revels – originally just the man who organised entertainments for the Queen, like Philostrate in the Dream – was in 1582 extended to include the censorship of plays. In fact, the Master of the Revels in Shakespeare’s time, Edmund Tilney, seems to have been responsible for preventing the performance of a play in which Shakespeare had a hand, Sir Thomas More, whose topic, ironically, was the writer of Utopia – the man held up by Sidney as the best English example of the freedom of the poet to oppose tyranny and imagine a better world. Many of Shakespeare’s contemporaries were imprisoned for falling foul of the regulations governing plays in the period, though Shakespeare wasn’t one of them. All the same, he remained interested throughout his life in the way the authorities seek to control their subjects’ imaginations, while imposing their own particular imaginative visions on the state and its inhabitants with all the tools at their disposal. A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Tempest in particular foreground this competition between the authoritarian and the communal imagination, and in the process evolve into manifestos for the playwright’s theory of the theatre at the beginning and end of his extraordinary career.
Both plays are comedies – most simply defined as plays that have a happy ending, and whose happy ending is never seriously in doubt on account of their prevailing tone, often described metaphorically (and punningly) as light. It’s no accident that Shakespeare’s two most vividly imaginative plays should have been comic. It’s comedies that drew the most vehement opposition from the anti-theatrical lobby; Stephen Gosson saw laughter as both infectious and addictive, leading those who experience it to seek more of the same and thus increasingly to relinquish control over their bodily functions and their moral and social responsibilities. For the early modern period comedy had two faces, just as the imagination did. On the one hand it was associated with physical and mental lightness, improvisation, trickery, disguise, wordplay, desire, laughter and youth – all things that can bring harmless pleasure to those who experience or witness them; they can even serve as medical therapy, as the comedy of The Taming of the Shrew is supposed to do for the ‘brainsick’ tinker Christopher Sly. On the other hand comedy evoked transgression, devilry, thievery, falsehood, sex, mental disorder and the corruption of the young. The association of the comic with devils and evil spirits, in particular, was actively encouraged by the players themselves. In the interludes or allegorical plays that dominated the stage in Shakespeare’s youth the devil figures, known as vices, were the main source of humour, being played by famous clowns and becoming so popular with audiences that some interludes were entirely populated by vices, the virtues having been evicted as intolerable bores. The presence of spirits in Dream and Tempest, then, could be seen both as a reference to this old theatrical tradition and as a deliberate and open provocation of the theatre haters. The very fact that these spirits are not represented as particularly devilish (although the idea of devilry is directly invoked in both plays) – that they are in fact attractive and sometimes funny – would have enraged the more morally rigid among Shakespeare’s enemies, an example of the playing with hellfire that theatrical comedy reveled in.
The Dream and The Tempest have spirits in them, then, but they also contain monsters: a man with an ass’s head and a native islander who is constantly referred to as deformed and monstrous. As we heard, for George Puttenham the imagination could conjure up monsters of all kinds if used to visualize things that don’t exist, made-up things. In both these plays, though, Shakespeare suggests that the real monsters are human beings: the tyrants who treat their subjects as slaves or playthings; the male lovers who treat their women as objects to be discarded at will; the parents who impose their will on their children regardless of the child’s desires or needs. And the imagination, fantasy or fancy, that faculty that conjures up images of things not actually present, is an integral part of all of us – a seminal function of the brain, which is always at work in everything we do, painting the world and the people around us in strange, vivid colours, making monsters out of ordinary beings, driving us to acts of astonishing kindness or dreadful atrocities. To frown on or dismiss the imagination, Shakespeare suggests, is to turn our backs on an integral part of ourselves – and such ill-considered negligence will always result in the imagination taking its revenge, as the clown Feste takes his revenge on the fun-hating steward Malvolio.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream embodies the ambiguous Elizabethan attitude to both comedy and the imagination in its title. It’s a self-consciously light piece of work (small objects and beings, for instance, are everywhere in it), which opens with an exchange between two besotted lovers who are planning their wedding. The lovers also happen to be a King and Queen; so we learn at the start that even monarchs can choose to be not-so-serious or even irresponsible, especially at midsummer, which was a time set aside for pleasure and play in the early modern calendar (it’s widely assumed that the Dream was first performed at Midsummer, just as Twelfth Night was first performed on the final evening of the Christmas holiday). Yet the play’s also set at night, when spirits and misdirections abound, and on a particular night associated with festivities and quasi-pagan rituals which were roundly condemned by the more serious-minded of the church authorities. The dream of the title was an ambiguous thing, too. For Elizabethans a dream could be comforting, something sent by God to soothe tormented minds, or it could delude and terrorize the people it visits, making them imagine scenarios of a sexually, politically, or psychologically disturbing nature. In dreams, Thomas Nashe reminds us in his pamphlet The Terrors of the Night (1594), the devils of hell do their most effective work in tempting mortals. And this ambiguity extends itself to the love between the two monarchs we meet in the play’s first scene. Theseus and Hippolyta have very different attitudes to their prospective marriage. I said they were besotted with each other, but it’s only Theseus who shows true signs of infatuation; for him the four days until their marriage at the new moon seems like a lifetime, whereas for Hippolyta the days will pass very quickly, which implies she’s not half so eager for the impending ceremony as her fiancé.
Hippolyta has good reason for not being eager. The wedding has been set for the first day of the new moon, and the moon reminds her of her days as an independent Queen of the Amazon warrior women, before Theseus came into her life. She compares the new moon of their wedding day to ‘a silver bow / New bent in heaven’, which resembles her own Amazonian bow (the Amazons were famous archers), or the bow of the goddess Diana to whom the warrior women committed their lives. Diana is the goddess of chastity, not erotic desire, so the reminder may well be a painful one; Hippolyta is giving up her culture by marrying a man, on the very day when the moon is at its smallest and least potent. Moreover, she’s engaged to Theseus because she is a prisoner of war, as Theseus reminds her. ‘Hippolyta,’ he says,
I wooed thee with my sword,
And won thy love doing thee injuries;
But I will wed thee in another key,
With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling.
Actually, the terms pomp, triumph and revelling – especially triumph – were linked in Elizabethan times with the celebration of military victories; and one might conjecture that Theseus’s marriage will double as a public display of the spoils of war, with Hippolyta the most splendid and valuable of these spoils. Marriage, then, in this first exchange of the play, is an unequal partnership between men and women, tainted by violence. And it’s notable that this has an effect on the imagination; the man and the woman involved imagine the next few nights (or predict the future, which for Spenser was a function of fancy) in starkly different terms, suggesting that their view of the world has been coloured, so to speak, by their different gender and experiences.
Theseus seeks to impose his view of the world on Hippolyta through the festivities he promises her – to make her feel good about her defeat and forced engagement. The same association of marriage with the forcible imposition of a man’s view of the world on a woman is made in the second part of this first scene, when old Egeus bursts in with his ‘complaint, / Against my child, my daughter Hermia’. In Egeus’s view, his daughter is guilty of having had her imagination captivated by a man he did not choose for her; Lysander stole her heart with the lightest of trifles, including poetry (‘verses of feigning love’) and useless objects (‘bracelets of thy hair, rings, gauds, conceits, / Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats’) – in the process ironically using these light things to make the deepest ‘impression of her fantasy’, as he puts it, indenting or shaping it in his own image. For Egeus, Hermia’s crime is that she refuses to recognize herself as his possession: ‘she is mine’, he insists, to be used as he sees fit, and above all to have her mind impressed with the images he chooses to put there – in particular the image of the young man he favours as her husband, Demetrius. And Theseus agrees with him. Hermia’s father, he tells her, is the one who effectively created her, like a god, and as a result she should consider herself as ‘a form in wax / By him imprinted, and within his power / To leave the figure, or disfigure it’ [my emphasis]. She has no rights over the images she entertains in her fancy – no right to acquire them for herself or let them shape her as she wishes; they are to be supplied by her father, and the punishment for taking back her fancy for her own purposes is to be subjected to violence – refusal to obey her father will result in death or imprisonment in a nunnery. Hippolyta would recognize the choice between unwanted ‘love’ and violence immediately; it’s notable that she doesn’t say a word throughout this exchange between the men and the recalcitrant daughter.
Soon after the exchange, the ‘dream’ of the play’s title acquires a new set of associations. Hermia’s lover Lysander connects it with what he calls ‘true love’: reciprocal desire between two young adults, as against the arranged matches for economic or political purposes that were the norm for upper-class families in Shakespeare’s time. Speaking of their seemingly doomed attraction to each other, Lysander tells Hermia that mutual desire is made as evanescent and insubstantial as a dream by the culture that forbids it: ‘Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, / Brief as the lightning in the collied night’. The reference to lightning here also associates desire with lightness – both the brief flare of light in the dark and the notion of moral lightness which was attached to unauthorized erotic adventures in the period. The same notion is conjured up in Lysander’s lovely line ‘So quick bright things come to confusion’, where the word quick accommodates both the word’s modern meaning of swiftness (swift as lightning) and its older meaning of alive; true love is associated with death, the ultimate confusion of the living. It’s been argued by scholars that the Dream was written at around the same time as Romeo and Juliet, where the love between quick bright things ends in death and the darkness of a crypt. The Dream entertains the possibility of this ending for its lovers throughout its length, and although I think it’s never a serious possibility – the language and tone of the play are too consistently playful for this – Shakespeare makes sure we are always aware of it as the flip side of the kind of comedy to which he treats us.
The first scene of the play, then, sets up the plot that follows, which is a struggle for control of the fancy or imagination. Throughout the play it’s the imagination of the men that proves both most fickle and most forceful. Men seem able to change the object of their affection – the woman by whom their imaginations have been impressed or printed – with unnerving ease; and they also seem prepared to back up their perceived claim to that beloved object with brute force, no matter how fresh their attraction to her may be, no matter how radically their new claim contradicts the claims to other women they’ve staked in the past. This theme is anticipated in the first scene, too, in the changed affections of Demetrius, who ‘won the soul’ of Helena but has now transferred his fancy to her best friend Hermia. Later, when they enter the forest, Demetrius threatens Helena with violence if she continues to follow him, and tells her she now repels him – appears, in other words, as an entirely different being in his imagination, although she has of course not changed physically at all. In this he follows the example of his monarch. Theseus was a byword in Elizabethan times for male infidelity thanks to his long catalogue of abandoned lovers, from Helen of Troy to Ariadne of Crete. Shakespeare’s Athens is a man’s world, and the women have good reason to know it. Men shape and reshape real, living women in their imaginations according to whim, and women have no control at all over how men perceive them.
In this play the forest, too, is a man’s world, despite its traditional association with female power. Diana is a forest goddess, the goddess of the chase as well as of chastity, and the fairy queen Titania is named after Diana; but Diana’s worshipper Hippolyta was entrapped by male force, and the same thing happens to her supernatural counterpart. Her husband Oberon acquires a love-potion that takes control of her imagination, and uses it not only to shape her female fancy but also to underline the shiftiness of the male fancy, by making both Demetrius and Lysander transfer their affections from one woman to another – the magic of the potion merely serving to reassert men’s tendency to reimagine women. Oberon’s potion is dropped not into his victim’s food or drink but into her eyes, altering the impression those organs convey to the common sense – that part of the brain where the imagination operates – so that
The next thing then she waking looks upon
Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
On meddling monkey, or on busy ape)
She shall pursue it with the soul of love.
The fact that the potion always takes effect while its victim is asleep, implying that it realizes in the waking world the fanciful absurdities of dreams, confirms that its operation is on the imagination or fancy – as does Oberon’s statement that its operation will fill Titania ‘full of hateful fantasies’ (2.2). The flower love-in-idleness is a weapon aimed at the fancy, and Oberon’s willingness to use it suggests how far he wishes to take control of the imaginative world with which the audience is presented on the playhouse stage.
Titania’s enforced change of fancy enables Oberon to gratify his own propensity for switching his loyalties. He uses the potion to ‘make her render up her page to me’ – forcing her to give him a ‘little Indian boy’ in her care for whom he has conceived a fancy, and for whose sake he has been willing for months to sacrifice his relationship with his wife. Without the intervention of any potion, then, Oberon is like Theseus the embodiment of fickleness – something Titania reminds him of when they first meet in the play; and though he says the same of her (she fancies Theseus, he claims, though she denies it), it’s clear that he is keen to shape those around him to conform with his changing fancies to a degree that no woman in the play is ever accused of.
Meanwhile, the attempts of women to avoid being shaped or trapped by the violent imaginations of men – especially powerful men – are conveyed through the background story of the flower whose juice yields the potion. Oberon first became aware of the plant’s properties when he saw Cupid shooting one of his arrows at a virgin queen – Elizabeth I, who may well have been in the audience when the play was first performed. Elizabeth’s Diana-like chastity was so great that Cupid’s arrow glanced aside from her impervious body and struck the flower instead, giving it the arrow’s own power to change people’s affections. Meanwhile Elizabeth walked on ‘In maiden meditation, fancy-free’. This could either mean that she was free from fancy altogether, or more probably (given Spenser’s assumption that fancy is an integral part of the human mind) that her fancy remained unimpressed and unimprisoned, ‘freely ranging only within the zodiac of [her] own wit’, as Sidney puts it, unbeholden to any more tyrannous male authority.
Other women in the play protect themselves from male efforts to impose their imaginative visions on them by restricting themselves to female society. Once again, this is embodied in the story of Oberon and Titania. Titania cherishes the little Indian boy because he is the son of one of her ladies, a ‘votress of my order’ – which makes her sound like a member of a formal all-female community – with whom she shared jokes and imaginative games (they enjoyed comparing the woman’s pregnant belly to the sails of passing ships). The woman died in childbirth, and Titania loves the child for her sake. It’s in the same scene that Elizabeth is referred to as a ‘fair vestal’ – a priestess of Vesta, Roman goddess of the household, whose servants were all women – and thus effectively enlisted in another all-female community. A third all-female community – a very small one – was formed by Hermia and Helena before men’s love set them at odds. The two girls, bound together by ‘sisters’ vows’, shared a mutual imaginative vision as well as a mutual affection: both ‘chid the hasty-footed time / For parting us’ (and remember here that Theseus did not share his view of time with his supposed lover Hippolyta); and both worked together on their embroidery ‘like two artificial gods’, deities of craftsmanship such as Arachne the weaver, to create ‘one flower’ while singing ‘one song’ in ‘one key’, each of these (pictures and songs) being images, in their own way, of something not actually present. Women’s communities in this play share a mutual imaginative vision, whereas men seek to impress their imaginative visions by force on other people.
If women share a collective imaginative space, so too do the Athenian men of the lower orders: the craftsmen or mechanicals, who are of the same social class as the Elizabethan actors who played them. Bottom and his fellows are of course comic in their conviction that the imaginative space they create on stage will deeply impress their courtly audience – that the spectators will run the danger, in fact, of confusing stage illusion with reality. In this, the craftsman-players share the anxieties of the Elizabethan theatre-haters about the potentially deleterious effect of their stagecraft, and they seek to circumvent the problem by drawing up a kind of imaginative contract with their auditors: they will introduce themselves by their own names and explain the fact that they are only representing lions, lovers, moons, walls and so on. In doing so, of course, they shatter the illusion altogether; but they also enlist the support of their courtly audience, who recognize their good will and consent to participate in it. The play in the final act involves the active imaginative participation of both craftsmen and nobility; and it’s Theseus, of all people, who recognizes this. ‘The best in this kind are but shadows,’ he tells Hippolyta as she laments the actors’ incompetence, ‘and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them’; to which she replies, ‘It must be your imagination then, and not theirs’. But for the courtiers’ imaginations to work with the craftsmen, the craftsmen must first offer them material to work with. What we witness in the final act is the forging of a mutual imaginative space which stands in direct contrast to the colonizing male imagination of the play’s first half.
The craftsmen-players, then, offer a splendid defence of the comic theatrical imagination. For one thing, their performance breaks down the hard-and-fast distinctions between men and women that obtain elsewhere in the play. Bottom is as eager to play the female lead in their tragical comedy as he is to play the male protagonist or the lion, and Francis Flute wows the audience with his female death scene. For another, the lovers in it are utterly besotted with one another, as the lovers in the rest of the play are not. For a third, Bottom himself may well have won the theatre audience’s respect by the time he appears as Pyramus in Act Five. Transformed by Puck into the ‘hateful fantasy’ demanded by Theseus as a tool for tormenting Titania, Bottom with this donkey’s head behaves quite unlike a conventional monster. No Minotaur to be killed by some passing Theseus, he treats Titania and her followers with a courtesy Oberon has not so far shown her, and shares her dreams as her husband does not, falling asleep in her arms after willingly accepting her distorted view of him as true (not so distorted, perhaps, if it’s based on his qualities rather than his appearance). Even after waking he retains the impression of his night with the fairy queen, describing it as a ‘most rare vision’ and describing it – albeit in muddled terms – in a sentence that echoes the New Testament: ‘The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was’. The confusion of the senses here might remind us that the impressions of all the senses are what the fancy works on, while the echo of St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians reminds us that God’s kingdom, too, which is what Paul describes in that famous passage, is a place not actually present. Our only access to that perfect place is through the imagination, and it’s the mechanicals, and chiefly Bottom, who give the best indication of how the imagination can be used to anticipate the kind of collective experience a believer might hope to have in the world to come.
If the women and craftsmen in the play offer us glimpses of a collective or mutual imaginative space, as against the controlled imaginative space imposed on others by powerful men, we are also treated to glimpses of the delights and dangers of the wholly uncontrolled imagination through the tricks and errors of Robin Goodfellow. Robin is the spirit of wandering and hence of error (literally, erring or wandering), as we learn as soon as we meet him. When he meets a nameless fairy he asks her ‘whither wander you’, and she later points out that one of his traits is to ‘Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm’ – an accusation Robin confirms while identifying himself as yet another wanderer: ‘Thou speak’st aright, / I am that merry wanderer of the night’. Robin is also associated with laughter and hence with comedy; he’s a comedy of errors in himself, and his errors are what lead to the clash between the Athenian lovers in the central scene of the play, as he accidentally squeezes Oberon’s juice into the wrong man’s eyes. He embodies, in fact, all the properties of comedy: he’s associated with laughter, with lightness (flitting round the earth at impossible speeds), with improvisation, trickery, disguise, wordplay, and desire (he plays most of his tricks, it seems, on maidens and lovers); also with transgression, devilry, thievery, falsehood, sex, mental disorder and the corruption of the young. Misleading people and disseminating error are what devils do, of course, and at one point Puck even seems to think of himself as a devil, as he warns Oberon that the dawn is approaching and suggests that they retreat from the light along with the other ‘Damned spirits’ who fear cockcrow. The theatre haters would have agreed with the implication here that any supernatural being, even when depicted comically on stage, could only be a devil; but Oberon contradicts both Robin and them, insisting that ‘We are spirits of another sort’ and adding, ‘I with the morning’s love have oft made sport’. The implication here that Oberon might have had an affair with the goddess of the morning, Aurora, would be nicely enraging to the players’ enemies; but his insistence on the good intentions of these particular spirits – of himself and his fairy companions – is borne out by the final effects of Robin’s wandering. Puck may lead the young lovers astray in the woods; he may confuse their senses, so that branches and bushes become groping claws and hungry bears; but he also leads them out of the maze again, ensuring that ‘all this derision / Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision’. His interference with the imagination is neither wholly controlled by his master Oberon, nor are its effects permanent – except in one case, since Demetrius’s eyes are never disabused of the impression, imparted by the flower’s juice, that Helena is an earthly goddess. This detail, too, could almost have been slipped into the play as a defence of the comic imagination; Demetrius’s continued enchantment is necessary if the play is to have a happy ending, and its good effects imply that any lingering imaginative impression left by comic theatre will be therapeutic rather than damaging to its spectators.
Robin is also associated with the community drama of the craftsmen, taking part in their performance both as auditor and actor (his main action, of course, is the spell that imposes an ass’s head on Bottom). In addition he’s a much more sympathetic Master of the Revels than Philostrate is. Philostrate is deeply reluctant to let the craftsmen entertain Theseus, but Robin enlists them at once as the main event in the entertainment he is staging for his own master, the King of Fairies. He is given the play’s epilogue too, which asks the audience to mend the play – to participate in shaping it, or reshaping what is wrong with it, like expert craftsmen – with their applause, the work of their hands (remember that Francis Flute is a bellows mender). It’s thanks to Puck, then, that the comedy ends by including Shakespeare’s spectators as an integral part of the collective imaginative space that has been forged or cobbled together in the final act. And it’s thanks to his interference that the lovers who were at first to have been impressed into the roles intended for them by Egeus and Theseus find themselves instead participating in the craftsmen’s show, along with Theseus and Hippolyta. Puck’s errors and improvisation, then, far from damaging anybody, save a woman’s life, and help to remind Theseus himself of the sheer attractiveness of an uncontrolled fancy.
The most famous speech about the imagination in the play – the most famous passage Shakespeare ever wrote about it – comes after the lovers have been found asleep in the forest, exhausted by their Puck-induced wanderings. When they wake from their sleep their dreams prove to have been therapeutic – to have healed them from damage and aggression; and it’s the spontaneous change of heart on Demetrius’s part, along with the strange story of the night’s proceedings, that prompts Theseus’s reflection on the nature of the fancy. ‘I never may believe / These antique fables, nor these fairy toys’, he tells Hippolyta, serenely unconscious of the fact that for the Elizabethan audience he himself is an ‘antique fable’. He goes on to set three kinds of people against the ‘cool reason’ he claims to champion – ‘The lunatic, the lover and the poet’ – and again seems serenely unconscious of the fact that he himself is supposed to be a lover, and therefore one of the unreasonable people he has just listed. ‘The lunatic, the lover and the poet,’ he tells his new wife,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold;
This is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,
Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.
The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to hell, from hell to heaven;
And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
That if it would but apprehend some joy,
It comprehends some bringer of that joy:
Or, in the night, imagining some fear,
How easy is a bush supposed a bear!
For Theseus, then, the man who sees devils – ‘more devils than vast hell can hold’ – is a lunatic; that is, someone affected by the moon, whose constant changes were supposed in the sixteenth century to have a direct influence on the size and shape of the human brain. There are no devils in Shakespeare’s play, but the theatre haters would have seen them everywhere. Fairies, spirits, men with ass’s heads, Puck, even the pagan Theseus – all of these would have seemed devilish to the anti-theatrical lobby, who by seeing them in this way brand themselves as brainsick according to Theseus’s speech. They also identify themselves as close relatives of the ‘frantic’ lovers and playhouse poets they disapproved of, and just as deceived in their impressions of what they see; except that where lovers make something lovely out of something conventionally seen as ugly (‘Helen’s beauty’ from ‘a brow of Egypt’), the theatre haters make something monstrous out of nothing at all. The poet, too, employs his imagination in a positive way, giving a ‘local habitation and a name’ – substance, in other words, like the substantial bodies of the actors who speak the poet’s words – to a kind of ‘joy’ that didn’t exist before he thought of it (apprehending some joy he at once ‘comprehends some bringer of that joy’). Fear, on the other hand – such as the fear of bears or playhouses – is as insubstantial as the ‘joy’ given substance by the poets, and far less pleasant. Theseus, then, is well aware that the imagination can work in two ways, bringing fear or joy to its possessor; but both the joy and fear it generates are for him equally light and unbelievable – ‘fairy toys’, in other words. He articulates the ambivalent view of the imagination shared by many Elizabethans, but articulates it in such a way as to show that everyone shares this deceptive faculty, including himself, and that it’s both attractive and more or less harmless.
For Hippolyta, however, the imagination becomes something far more powerful than a ‘fairy toy’ when it is shared. Replying to her husband, she points out that the astonishing things told by the Athenian lovers about their night in their forest are strangely consistent, and that
[…] all their minds transfigur’d so together
More witnesseth than fancy’s images,
And grows to something of great constancy;
But howsoever, strange and admirable.
Something significant, in other words, is generated when many people imagine the same, non-existent thing together. That thing becomes what Hippolyta calls a wonder – admirable means to be wondered at – and its strangeness, its newness, promises to reshape the world by shaping a group or community’s view of the world. The theatre haters claimed that plays, and particularly comedies, made things happen, and Hippolyta concurs. The difference is that for her they make things better – mend them, in the term Robin Goodfellow uses in his epilogue.
I said at the beginning that the imagination furnished Shakespeare with both the central topic and the plot of most of his comedies. It seems to me that the Dream is typical of Shakespeare’s comic process in the way it pits the controlling imaginations of powerful men against the collective imaginations of the rest of the cast; and the same conflict dominates the major comedies that followed this seminal play. Much Ado about Nothing, for instance, tells the story of how Don Pedro, Prince of Aragon, conspires with his friends to shape the imagination of Benedick and Beatrice, making them see one another anew by making them believe each is secretly in love with the other. Don Pedro’s malevolent brother Don John then performs a similar trick on the prince himself, making him believe the innocent Hero has been unfaithful to her fiancé, his best friend Claudio. Don Pedro then teams up with Claudio to impress or impose their vision of Hero’s infidelity on everyone else, regardless of due process of law; and it’s only by another, positive counter-plot, whereby a group of Hero’s male and female friends team up to work collectively on Claudio’s imagination, that the situation is resolved. The high point of the counter-plot is Friar Francis’s description of how Claudio’s mind will be affected when he thinks Hero has died of grief as a result of his accusations against her:
When he shall hear she died upon his words,
Th’idea of her life shall sweetly creep
Into his study of imagination,
And every lovely organ of her life
Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit,
More moving, delicate, and full of life,
Into the eye and prospect of his soul
Than when she liv’d indeed. Then shall he mourn […]
And wish he had not so accused her –
No, though he thought his accusation true.
Notice the wonderful way the word ‘life’ weaves through this passage – ‘Th’idea of her life’ – ‘every lovely organ of her life’ – ‘full of life’ – ‘she liv’d indeed’; the imagination is a vitalizing instrument, bringing dead people back into the world in a better, lovelier form than when they left it, and healing the mourner in the process. Of course, Hero is not really dead, but it’s the collective conspiracy of her friends that first makes her seem so and then seems to bring her back to life, thus quasi-magically restoring life to the love affair that was broken by Don Pedro’s authoritarian imposition of his imagination on others.
The same combat between the authoritarian and the collective imaginations is present in a later play that brings a person back to life, The Winter’s Tale. At the beginning of the play Leontes finds himself imagining that Hermione’s verbal and physical playfulness is a sign of sexual misbehaviour; ‘Go play, boy, play,’ he tells their young son; ‘thy mother plays, and I / Play too, but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue / Will hiss me to my grave’. Convinced that what he has imagined is true and that she has slept with his friend Polixenes, he orders Polixenes’s death, Hermione’s trial, and his baby daughter’s exposure at sea, while forbidding his subjects to speak out on her behalf, and even overriding the unambiguous affirmation of her innocence by a divine oracle. Every aspect of communal life is in this way overthrown by his obsessive need to impress his vision on those around him. His rigid reimagining of his wife’s harmless playfulness puts an end to playfulness itself for sixteen years; and it’s only the return of laughter, unabashed desire, trickery and playfulness with the next generation that allows him and his kingdom to become a community once again. The signal of the return of the collective imagination is a wonder, of the kind Hippolyta noted in the strangely consistent tale told by the newly woken lovers. A statue of Hermione, the product of an artist’s imagination, comes to life in view of the whole cast, thus giving substance to an absurd ‘old tale’ (one of Theseus’s ‘antique fables’) in spite of either rigid law (which would forbid the magic that animates sculpture) or reason (which would deny the possibility of such a restoration). Leontes’s willingness to participate in this wonder, to believe in this old tale despite its apparent impossibility, marks his willingness to return to the collective life of which such tales are the ultimate symbol.
Finally, the last of Shakespeare’s magical comedies, The Tempest, begins with a banished Duke impressing his imaginative vision on a ship and its crew, and ends with his acceptance that he is part of a collective imaginative life which cannot be governed by any human authority. In the course of the play the imagination spawns both utopias (think of Gonzalo’s dream of an ideal island) and conspiracies (Antonio urges Sebastian to murder his brother and take his place on the throne of Naples by saying: ‘My strong imagination sees a crown / Dropping upon thy head’). The play might take as its epigram the words of the catch sung by the intoxicated commoners Stephano and Trinculo, ‘Thought is free’. And Prospero himself begins to acknowledge the complexity of the relationship between the real and the imagined when he concludes that we are all, without exception, ‘such stuff / As dreams are made on’, and that ‘our little life / Is rounded with a sleep’. This famous speech is the first indication in the play that he sees himself as allied with the rest of humanity. And given that he is indeed human, his hope of orchestrating on the playhouse stage or the imaginary island a happy ending to the story of his life, composed by himself and obediently acted out by others, at this point seems an absurd one. If everything is the stuff of dreams, including Prospero, then the Duke cannot have a hope of keeping all the different imaginative threads of the world under his control, not even by magic. The final scene does indeed provide a happy ending, as Prospero’s daughter Miranda expresses her delight in the ‘brave new world’ of human wonders with which she finds herself surrounded – her new young husband chief among them. But in this final scene, too, the conspirators Sebastian and Antonio show no sign of repentance, and even Miranda’s naïve enthusiasm suggests her future life at Naples may be full of danger. The wild unpredictability of Robin Goodfellow’s imagination is present at the close of the play, as well as the collective imagination that knits together communities.
The play’s epilogue, however, reinforces the notion that the whole performance has been a collaborative effort. Prospero asks the audience to work their magic by clapping, thus releasing him from the imaginative spell that binds him to the island by announcing the close of the theatrical festivities. Authority is here set aside and collective fancy takes its place; a fancy that includes the hope for a better future, in heaven perhaps, or in an earthly state that favours mercy over retribution: ‘As you from crimes would pardon’d be, / Let your indulgence set me free’. Spenser tells us in The Faerie Queene that Phantastes, the imaginative faculty, is about foreseeing possible futures. Shakespeare’s comic imagination foresees a range of social and emotional states which we might well wish to share – and which he invites us, in this epilogue, to help bring into being.
For lightness as a crucial element of Shakespearean comedy see R W Maslen, Shakespeare and Comedy, Arden Critical Companions (London etc: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2005). For Puck as a kind of devil see R W Maslen, ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech, and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’, Journal of the Northern Renaissance, Issue 1.1 (March 2009), pp. 129-44 (http://northernrenaissance.org/articles/Robin-GoodfellowbrRobert-Maslen/13). For the Utopian element in Shakespeare’s comedies see Kiernan Ryan, Shakespeare’s Comedies (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).
Venus and Adonis (1593) is Shakespeare’s cheeky and disturbing contribution to the fierce contemporary debate over the function of poetry. The poem was his first published non-dramatic work, an opportunity for the young author to drop clues about his poetic agenda. Fourteen years previously, The Shepheards Calender (1579) had trumpeted Spenser’s pretensions to becoming the official Elizabethan poet laureate, with its echoes of Virgil carefully annotated in E.K.’s obsequious gloss. Shakespeare, by contrast, offered his patron a poem which couldn’t be placed in any of the traditional generic categories, and which incorporated its own sardonic commentary. He chose a topic that allied him, not with Virgil, the celebrant of Roman nationalism, but with a poet who was banished from Rome, Ovid. And in doing so, he announced his intention to participate in some of the hottest poetic controversies of the 1590s.
Just as Ovid wove together the stories of the Metamorphoses into a complex web, so Shakespeare weaves together several metamorphic fables to construct his own imaginative labyrinth. The most obvious subsidiary fables he makes use of are the stories of Narcissus and Hermaphroditus.1 But another narrative can be detected more subtly woven into the fabric of the poem: the story of Orpheus.
In Ovid’s poem, it’s Orpheus who sings the tragedy of Venus and Adonis, before being torn apart by the Thracian women. But Shakespeare’s treatment of the story goes back to an earlier stage of Orpheus’s history, before his marriage to Eurydice. Shakespeare could have found an account of Orpheus’s early career in a number of places; but the place where the story cropped up most frequently was in contemporary defences of poetry. Apologists repeatedly used the Orpheus myth to argue that poets were responsible for the foundation of civilization itself. Perhaps the most elaborate account of the civilizing powers of poetry available to Shakespeare could be found in the third chapter of George Puttenham’s Arte of English Poesie (1589). Here Puttenham describes the state of anarchy that obtained ‘before any civil society was among men’, when humanity subsisted in a violent state of nature:
vagarant and di[s]persed like the wild beasts, lawlesse and naked, or verie ill clad, and of all good and necessarie provision for harbour or sustenance utterly unfurnished: so as they litle diffred for their maner of life, from the very brute beasts of the field.2
It was the poets who rescued mankind from this bestial state, drawing people together into the first communities with their intoxicating utterances, and supplying these communities with the first politicians, the first lawgivers, the first official historians. Both Orpheus and Amphion are allegories of the early poets’ powers of speech. Amphion, who brought stones to life to build the walls of Thebes, represents the poet’s gift of ‘mollifying … hard and stonie hearts by his sweete and eloquent perswasion’; while Orpheus, who tamed wild beasts with his singing, represents the poetic orator who ‘by his discreete and wholsome lessons uttered in harmonie … brought the rude and savage people to a more ciuill and orderly life’.3 For apologists like Puttenham, eager to show that poetry could be subjected to the discipline of rules like any other social activity, Orpheus as the first administrator provided eloquent testimony to the fundamentally ‘civill and orderly’ functioning of the poetic art – to its qualifications as a supplement to other kinds of state policing.
Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis inhabit a landscape that closely resembles the wilderness colonized by Puttenham’s Amphion and Orpheus. Coleridge, the poem’s most sympathetic commentator, said that Shakespeare wrote his text ‘as if he were of another planet’.4 But it might equally be said that Shakespeare’s narrator writes the poem as if he were peering through the web of Elizabethan culture at another age, an age immeasurably distant from the sixteenth century but intimately bound up with it. Venus and Adonis live at a time before history has been subjected to what Puttenham calls the rules of art, before the ‘rude and savage’ condition of humanity has been rendered ‘civill and orderly’. A favourite Elizabethan metaphor for history was that of a mirror, in which the contours of present-day events could be traced, often with disturbing implications, in events of the past. Shakespeare’s narrative dissolves the glass that separates the violent pre-Orphic state of nature from the ‘civill’ world of Elizabethan social custom. In doing so it exposes the rudeness and savagery that Elizabethan culture strove to conceal under layers of allegory and rich brocade.
From one point of view, Venus and Adonis are completely Elizabethan. Adonis wears an Elizabethan bonnet, and his horse sports the rich trappings suitable for the mount of a young Elizabethan aristocrat. More importantly, Shakespeare’s narrator is a detached and worldly Elizabethan spectator who likes to flaunt his familiarity with the social and economic conditions of London life. He knows the legal scene, offering his opinions on the fee Venus’s ‘heart’s attorney’ ought to charge for its eloquent pleading (335).5 He knows the points of a good horse by the book, quoting almost verbatim from a contemporary riding manual when he describes Adonis’s palfrey.6 He knows the drama scene, at one point describing Venus’s actions as a dumbshow to which her tears act as an ineffectual chorus (359-60).
Above all, he is a cynic. Like other spectators in Shakespeare’s work, the narrator of Venus and Adonis finds his greatest delight in spectacles that involve cruelty, frustration, and especially violence. He’s the kind of spectator who takes pleasure in blood-sports like bear-baiting and hunting, and who can produce sophisticated commentaries on the pain these activities cause their participants, as Jacques comments on the wounded stag in As You Like It; who would rush with Rosalind to watch a wrestler breaking the necks of his challengers, or enthuse with Puck over the murderous violence he has stirred up between the lovers in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Venus and Adonis is the poetic equivalent of a blood sport, with the same indifference to the agony of its victims that Venus attributes to the hunters of the hare. The narrator is not interested in the feelings of his actors; he’s aroused only by the intellectual games he can play with those feelings, as when at the emotional climax of the poem, as Venus approaches the dead Adonis, he contemplates the effect of her eyes and tears ‘lending and borrowing’ from each other as if in an Elizabethan money-market (961). At times a note of overt sadism creeps into his text:
O what a sight it was, wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy! (343-6, my emphasis)
To this jaded narrator, who confesses that conventional love language bores him (841-6), the only interesting relationship is a mutually destructive one. He may be sophisticated in the ways of court and city, but he is hardly ‘civill’.
And his readers are implicated in his cynicism. When Venus tells Adonis he need not be ashamed to kiss her because nobody can see them (121-6), we, the invisible spectators, become voyeurs, sharing the narrator’s jokes as we ogle the couple. The narrator keeps reminding us of our complicity, with cries of ‘Look’ and ‘Lo’; and if at first this voyeurism seems no more than a harmless game, it soon becomes less comfortable, more openly an act of aggression committed on the actors.
Shakespeare’s text can be broadly divided into two halves. In the first half, Venus tries with increasing desperation to entice Adonis into sex. The language she uses is a giddyingly inventive display of familiar Petrarchan tropes. She bombards him with oxymorons involving hot ice, showers him with floral metaphors, launches into an extended variation on the old carpe diem theme, cracks the familiar puns about harts and deer, and interpolates a parodic passage where she inscribes herself as a Petrarchan mistress, the Laura of an inverted sonnet-sequence composed by Laura herself (139-50). Venus seems to have imaginative control over her own body, putting it through whatever changes she pleases, making it heavy enough to need trees to support it, then giving the violets she lies on the strength of trees (152). For all its desperation, the first half is energetic and hopeful, emphasising Adonis’s youth, Venus’s constantly self-renewing flesh, and the sexual pride of the courting horses, who inject new life into Venus’s own courtship just as she’s running out of ideas.
But at the centre of the poem comes a change of mood. Adonis announces that he intends to hunt the boar tomorrow. Venus collapses with the boy on top of her, and there follows what ought to be the sexual climax of Venus’s wooing. But all Venus gets from the encounter is frustration: ‘all is imaginary she doth prove’, the narrator tells us (597), and compares her frustration to that of the birds who tried to peck at Zeuxis’s temptingly painted grapes and found them to have no substance (601-4). After this the poem is wrapped in gathering gloom, a kind of post-coital lassitude rendered the gloomier because there has been no coitus. In the second half of the poem Venus speaks of fear, the fear of the boar and the terror of the hunted hare. Death, which has been a shadowy presence throughout the first half, becomes the tyrant of the second. Instead of urging Adonis to beget, Venus warns him that he will be murdering his own posterity if he fails to make love (757-60). The youthfulness which had been described in such vital terms in the first half, able to ‘drive infection from the dangerous year’ (508), suddenly finds itself subjected to more infections than it can hope to cure:
As burning fevers, agues pale and faint,
Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood,
The marrow-eating sickness whose attaint
Disorder breeds by heating of the blood (739-42).
If, as scholars have argued, the poem was written while the London theatres were closed because of plague, Shakespeare could hardly have given contemporary readers a more shocking reminder of the powerlessness of poetic discourse.
At the same time Venus loses control over her body. As she hurries through the woods after the sound of Adonis’s horn, her body is subjected to the intrusive gropings of bushes: ‘Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, / Some twine about her thigh to make her stay’ (872-3). The elaborate mythical structure she wove in the first half of the poem is abruptly unwoven. The second half is full of metaphors of unweaving; terrifying expansions of the oxymorons beloved of the Petrarchans. The hare ‘turns, and returns’ in the ‘labyrinth’ of its flight (704, 684). Later, Venus re-enacts the flight of the hare as she searches for Adonis (‘She treads the path that she untreads again’ ). Later still, in her efforts to persuade herself that Adonis is alive and well, she tells herself story after story, each one less convincing than the last: ‘Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought’ (991). By this stage, the mysterious power of poetic eloquence and imagination as it was celebrated by the Elizabethan apologists has been laughed out of court. The process of telling stories has become no more than a trick to procrastinate the inevitable confirmation of misery, a meaningless incantation to keep off the encroaching dark.
In Venus and Adonis Shakespeare weaves and unweaves the poetic fantasies of his contemporaries. The best known English treatment of the Adonis myth before Shakespeare’s was the episode of the garden of Adonis in the Faerie Queene, the first three books of which were published in 1590. Expanding on a false etymology of Adonis’s name, Spenser depicts the garden as a pagan Eden, a ‘joyous Paradise’ constructed on the pattern of a female body, whose inexhaustible fertility nurtures flowers, throngs of babies and an unmutilated Adonis.7 In the first half of Shakespeare’s poem Venus struggles to create just such a poetic Eden out of the substance of Adonis’s body and her own. She tells him that he is the ‘field’s chief flower’ (8), and urges him to join her on a bank of flowers, an enchanted circle from which serpents and other vermin are banned. She then proceeds to transform her own flesh into a metaphorical Paradise. Her cheeks become gardens (65), she assures him that ‘My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow’ (141), and offers herself to him as a protective enclosure where he can shelter from the savage environment: ‘I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:/ Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale’ (231-2). But, as the central stanzas of the poem warn us, ‘all is imaginary she doth prove’. The landscape of the poem only ever becomes Edenic in the rhetoric of Venus. As the poem moves on, her rhetoric loses its persuasiveness, and a very different landscape emerges, a landscape which has more in common with Puttenham’s pre-Orphic wilderness than with Spenser’s idyll. Always present alongside Venus’s imaginary Eden, always encroaching on its borders, is a savage environment where the sun scorches exposed flesh, and where forests seethe with wild beasts. As this wilderness emerges, its climate gets less Edenic. In the first half, Venus compares Adonis’s breath to ‘heavenly moisture’, a dew like the one God used to water the plants before he invented rain (62-6).8 But the alternating weather conditions generated by the lovers’ bodies grow steadily less moderate, passing from rain to parching heat and back again to rain in a bewildering flurry of changes. In the second half of the poem these changes become wholly violent, hurrying through the ‘wild waves’ of the night (819) towards the tempest signalled by the ‘red morn’ of Adonis’s open mouth (453-6). The storm breaks during Venus’s search for the boy (‘Like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, / Sighs dry her tears, wind makes them wet again’ [965-6]), and her discovery of his body unleashes a climactic earthquake: ‘As when the wind imprison’d in the ground, / Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes’ (1046-7). Where Puttenham’s Amphion brought stones to life with his poetry and used them to found a city, by the end of Shakespeare’s poem the earth itself has been shaken to the foundation. And Venus’s final prophecy bequeaths the same turbulent climate to future societies, whose sexual alliances will ‘bud, and be blasted in a breathing while’ (1141).
In the same way, the text reverses Orpheus’s transformation of ‘brute beasts’ into civilised human beings. Shakespeare’s works are full of animals, but not even King Lear has such a high proportion of beasts to humans as Venus and Adonis. The animals range from horse and hare to lions, tigers, bears and boars; and these beasts repeatedly swap characteristics with people. Adonis becomes a deer, a ‘dive-dapper’, a snarling wolf, while Venus changes into a vulture, a pregnant doe, a snail, a boar, a falcon, until the dividing line between humans and ‘beasts of the field’ becomes as imprecise as it was in Puttenham’s state of nature. Even as she promises to protect the boy from serpents, Venus transforms herself into the most terrifyingly voracious eagle the Elizabethans had ever read about, who ‘Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone’ (56). This eagle either has not yet assumed its emblematic function as a royal bird, or else must act as emblem for a very violent and barbaric sort of royalty. Ascham, Gosson and others warned that erotic poetry subjected its readers to a Circean metamorphosis from humanity to bestiality. Shakespeare’s poem makes explicit what Ascham and Gosson imply: that the human body trembles on the borderline between beast and rational being.
At the same time, the closer one looks into the text, the more disruptively it seems to parody the posturings of contemporary apologists. Even the Latin motto Shakespeare prefixes to the poem is ironized by the narrative that follows it. In Marlowe’s translation the lines read:
Let base-conceited wits admire vile things:
Fair Phoebus lead me to the Muse’s springs.9
Outside their context in Ovid’s Amores these lines sound like an arrogant repudiation of ‘inferior’ art (although in Ovid’s elegy they form part of a witty demolition of poetic hierarchies). But in Shakespeare’s poem Phoebus is only one of the aggressive inhabitants of the pre-Orphic wilderness. The first we see of him, he is blushing violently and breaking away from a weeping woman:
Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn. (1-2).
This sounds suspiciously like the aftermath of a rape, the same kind of sexual violence that leads the boar to gore Adonis at the end of the poem, or which generates Venus’s mutation into the eagle. When Apollo reappears a few stanzas later he’s as randy as ever, this time lusting after Venus, and prepared, without any of the misgivings that afflicted Phoebus in the Metamorphoses, to let Adonis guide his chariot like a second Phaethon, while he takes his pleasure for the second time that day (177-80). In this poem the classical patron of the poetic art is an irresponsible lecher.
The other gods are equally savage. The god of war spends his time in violent conquest, before being reduced to slavery in his turn by Venus (97-102). The moon goddess, who had so often stood in for Queen Elizabeth, proves as unstable as any of the others; in her jealousy of Adonis she bribes the destinies to make beauty ‘subject to the tyranny / Of mad mischances and much misery’ (737-8). No more gods are mentioned. There is no overruling authority, no Jove or Nature to make up for the demotion of the lesser gods; and Shakespeare’s ‘tyranny / Of mad mischances’ has none of the compensatory ‘eternity in mutability’ Spenser placed at the heart of the garden of Adonis.10 In place of the dignified Olympian structure implied by the poem’s Latin motto, the mocking narrator presides over a text that disintegrates into an unruly brawl. And his interpolations keep drawing unnerving parallels between this brawl and conditions in his own culture; a culture that constructed an elaborate mythology of its own stability, which Shakespeare’s alternative mythology systematically demolishes.
Shakespeare’s poem has no context. Few characters apart from Venus and Adonis themselves are given names. The genealogy of the protagonists is never mentioned, and the land they find themselves in is nameless, in marked contrast to Spenser’s Faerie land, or Lodge’s Isis, or Marlowe’s Sestos.11 The struggles in the text take place in a topographical and historical vacuum, outside the orderly records of Elizabethan classicists and chroniclers. Venus and Adonis are dislocated, in fact, from all the verbal conventions that give a semblance of structure to Elizabethan affairs. Even their conversations are incoherent, not so much acts of communication as a kind of verbal autoeroticism, ornate variations on guttural moans. They never really talk to one another. The only form of speech Venus is really interested in is her own minute register of the changes that take place in Adonis’s body, as it responds to arousal, to embarrassment, to violence; and the narrator with his rhapsodies over Venus’s body shares her limited interests. Venus hardly listens to Adonis; she shuts him up with kisses (48) or with wordplay (‘Speak, fair, but speak fair words, or else be mute’ ). When he does manage to get a word in edgeways, she first waxes eloquent about the sound of his voice, then faints dead away as he opens his mouth to speak again. In the second half of the poem the language of Venus loses all pretence of conveying meaning, as she quibbles with echoes which respond like ‘shrill-tongu’d tapsters’ (849), or stops to talk with one of Adonis’s dogs which ‘replies with howling’ (918).
Running through this dissonant wilderness is a series of ‘speaking pictures’, the verbal evocations of the visual which Horace and Sidney identified as the poet’s chief source of persuasive power. Shakespeare’s recalcitrant speaking pictures rebel against the functions they performed in contemporary theory. At the centre of his narrative he sets a picture whose power is solely that of stressing its own uselessness: the trompe l’oeil painting of grapes, that at once arouses and frustrates the appetites of birds. Earlier in the poem, Venus accuses Adonis of being another such useless artefact, a ‘lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, / Well-painted idol, image dull and dead’ (211-2). These two empty works of art mockingly enact the repressive uses poetry was put to in Elizabethan apologetics. The policing of sexual desire was one of these functions; Sidney’s exemplary speaking picture was a verbal portrait of Lucretia killing herself.12 Yet at the same time Sidney himself maintained that the advantage ‘speaking pictures’ had over other forms of discourse was that they stimulated emotions in their readers: whether appetite, like the painting of the grapes, or battle-lust, like the old song of Percy and Douglas in Sidney’s Apology, or sexual desire, like Venus’s statuesque Adonis. For the moralists, poetry was designed to regiment and frustrate the feelings it played on: to arouse emotion only to crush emotion.
In contrast to these useless and frustrating speaking pictures, Shakespeare intersperses his text with very different verbal paintings. The extended descriptions of Adonis’s horse (259-324), the boar (615-72) and the hare (673-708) all refuse to perform the functions the apologists would have demanded of them. The description of the horse comes just at the point when Venus’s eloquence has failed her: ‘Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say?’ (253). At this moment of creative crisis Adonis’s horse snaps its reins and so lends a new energy to Venus’s poetic improvisations. The narrator invites us to compare the animal to an equestrian painting, an idealized re-presentation that possesses all the points an artist would choose ‘when a painter would surpass the life / In limning out a well-proportion’d steed’ (289-90). But this is no conventional Renaissance painting, gracefully instructive; it is the picture of something out of control, a beast that defies its master, crushes its bit, and gallops off in mad pursuit of a mare. Unlike Sidney’s speaking pictures, it forms no part of any pedagogic or political agenda: and the ‘moral’ Venus derives from it stresses the horse’s exuberant resistance to the constraints of morality.13
The same is true of the boar. Commentators have repeatedly tried to read the boar as an allegory, whether of winter, of war, or of homosexual desire, but it resists moral or generic classifications. Venus recreates the boar verbally in order to scare Adonis from hunting it; but she succeeds only in scaring herself, with
The picture of an angry chafing boar,
Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie
An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore (662-4).
This vatic prediction is vouchsafed her, not by the Muses appealed to in the poem’s motto, but by fear and ‘dissentious jealousy’ (657), a form of imagination that cannot be trusted, since it ‘sometime true news, sometime false doth bring’ (658). And like Venus’s other speaking pictures, it has no effect on its audience whatever.
In fact, the deeper we plunge into the second half the more undisciplined and ineffectual Venus’s imagination becomes. Her inventiveness comes more and more to resemble the hapless cunning she ascribes to the hare, which designs a random ‘labyrinth’ in a vain attempt to elude its enemies. What Venus says of the hare is equally true of herself: ‘Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear’ (690). The creative intelligence that Venus shares with the hare, the wit that ‘waits on fear’, has little in common with the semi-divine ‘erected wit’ that governs Sidney’s aristocratic poet.14 It is the wit of the poor, generating the same fantasies that inhabit the streets and taverns of Elizabethan London, as the similes in the text increasingly remind us. After Adonis has left her, Venus begins a conversation with Echo. The poet who converses with Echo was a favourite device used by courtly poets like Sidney; but Venus’s Echo is no courtier but a barman, who is well used to soothing the imaginative humours of ‘fantastic wits’ (850). Later, Venus’s fearful imaginings about Adonis’s fate are nothing nobler than a child’s nightmares – she describes them as ‘causeless fantasy, / And childish error’ (897-8). The predictions she makes when she sees Adonis’s hounds resemble the superstitious predictions made by ‘the world’s poor people’ when they see a comet (925-6). Venus started the poem as a strong-armed poet-queen rather like Puttenham’s Queen Elizabeth; but by mid-way through the second half she has lost all her mythical and cultural potency and become as helpless as the poorest of her subjects.
She herself stresses her own helplessness when she imaginatively evokes the ruler of this wilderness, as she approaches Adonis’s body. Where Spenser’s April eclogue concluded with a hymn to Eliza, the queen of the shepherds, safely inscribing the Shepheards Calender as a royalist tract, the highest authority in Shakespeare’s poem is a vague and menacing shadow, a force that has no identity at all: Death. Venus describes it twice over as she hurries towards Adonis’s corpse. At first, when she has convinced herself that the boy is dead, Death is a ‘Hard-favour’d tyrant’ who drinks the tears of his victims (931). Later, thinking Adonis might still be alive, she abruptly changes her tune; in an outburst of renewed hope and gratitude she ‘clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, / Imperious supreme of all mortal things’ (995-6). Venus’s two contradictory versions of Death mimic the sycophantic carollings of court poets, whose celebrations of the sovereign waxed more lyrical as their hopes of preferment grew stronger. But like his treatments of the traditional royal emblems, the eagle, the sun, and Cynthia, Shakespeare’s treatment of the myth of monarchy itself has been drained of all glamour, all civility, reduced instead to the savagery of arbitrary power: a power that cannot create, only destroy.
In fact, Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis enacts a process which is the precise obverse of the civilizing influence ascribed to poetry in Puttenham’s myth of Orpheus. If Venus and the narrator are Shakespeare’s poets, their words and actions expose the barbarity that lurks beneath the elegant surface of Elizabethan court culture. And the poem’s commentator recognizes this fact. As Venus composes her seductive poetry, Adonis acts as her surly critic, a disgruntled version of Spenser’s E.K., who fails miserably to respond to the force of poetic discourse. He tells her that her fictions are hackneyed and unprofitable (‘this idle theme, this bootless chat’ ). He informs her, as Ascham or Gosson might have done, that her eroticism is unwholesome for adolescents (524-8)); tries to cut short her endless story-telling (716); and finally launches into an extended attack on her ideological stance, made up of phrases that might have been culled from the works of the ‘poet-haters’. Her discourse is the song of a mermaid or siren, which incites its hearers to lust rather than rational love; her poetry is made up of ‘forged lies’ (804) and offensive to chaste ears. However redundant Adonis’s distinction between lust and love may be, it incorporates one insight which the poem bears out: that Venus’s poetry represents just one more effort to gain power, and that her wit fails to hide the fact that she serves a ‘hot tyrant’ who is potentially as destructive as Death (797). From the beginning of the poem, Venus was at her most savage when she came closest to getting what she wanted:
Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil,
And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage,
Planting oblivion, beating reason back,
Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack (555-8).
Where Orpheus tamed the bestial hearts of wild men, Venus urges a return to bestial action; where Puttenham’s early poets planted the artificial memory of history, Venus plants ‘oblivion’.
Venus is no Orpheus; but then, neither is the frigid Adonis. Standing over his corpse, Venus finds herself quite incapable of giving an accurate account of his death; far less of his life, which is much less verifiable. Like distorted glasses, her tears make his wounds look twice as bad as they are; she therefore seeks to console herself by mythologizing his biography. As she narrates her own version of his history she transforms him into a voiceless Orpheus, taming wild animals wherever he went. ‘To see his face the lion walked along / Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him’, she croons (1093-4), and we might be inclined to believe her, if we didn’t remember her terror when she found he was hunting ‘the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud’ (884). In Shakespeare’s text, myth is no allegory of actual events but a falsification of history, a consoling lie designed to conceal the ‘black Chaos’ that underlies the veneer of historical order.
The implications of this go far beyond a critique of Elizabethan poetic theory. After all, Queen Elizabeth herself was to a great extent a construct of poetic mythmaking. It’s always tempting when confronted with a powerful queen in Elizabethan poetry to transform her into one of the many aspects of Elizabeth. The problem with Shakespeare’s Venus is that she seems to present the queen and sexual politics at court in such a darkly satirical light. Yet the more one looks at the poetry of the 1590s, with its blossoming of satire in verse and prose, the less unlikely such a reading looks. Two years before Shakespeare published his poem, the patriotic Spenser produced his most satirical collection of verse, the Complaints (1591). One of the poems in the collection, The Teares of the Muses, recounts a reversal of the civilizing process very like the descent into savagery enacted in Venus and Adonis. One after another the Muses complain that their verses have lost their potency and that the social structure is collapsing as a result. The one hope they have of reversing the process of degeneration is a queen called Pandora. Of course, officially speaking, the name Pandora as applied to Elizabeth could only invoke its most complimentary etymological derivation. But Spenser’s View of the Present State of Ireland shows that he knew the myth of Epimetheus very well, and was fully aware that Pandora did not bring civilization to early mankind, but ‘black Chaos’ (he doesn’t mention hope).15 Might he be insinuating that Elizabeth/Pandora is the cause of, as well as the potential solution to, the collapse of Elizabethan court culture?
By the 1590s, the rich poetic mythology that had been woven into Elizabethan culture, and which had looked so alluring at the time Spenser wrote the Shepheards Calender, seems to have begun to fray and fall apart. Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis wittily charts that disintegration. And it ends with an echo of the myth that had been most closely identified with the reign of Elizabeth: that of Astraea. The English queen was said to be the reincarnation of Astraea, dedicated to restoring the Golden Age on Earth.16 But Shakespeare’s poem ends like the beginning of Juvenal’s sixth satire, with a disappointed and bitter goddess – no longer the goddess of justice, nor even effectively the goddess of love – retiring in disgust from a wilderness in which she no longer has a place.
1 For Shakespeare’s use of the fable of Hermaphroditus, see the Arden Edition of The Poems, ed. F.T. Prince (London: Methuen, 1960), Introduction and Appendix I. All references to Venus and Adonis are taken from this edition. For allusions to the fable of Narcissus, see Prince, p. 12, l. 157-62, and pp. 47-8, l. 829-52.
2The Arte of English Poesie (London: Richard Field, 1589) fols. 3-4.
3 Puttenham, fol. 4.
4The Literary Remains of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ed. Henry Nelson Coleridge (London: William Pickering, 1836), vol 2, p. 59.
5 ‘Her pleading hath deserv’d a better fee’. l. 609.
6 See Prince, p. 19, l. 295-8, fn.
7The Faerie Queene, ed. A.C. Hamilton (New York and London: Longman, 1977), III vi 29-50; ‘joyous Paradize’, III vi 29.
8Genesis, 2, 6.
9The Complete Poems and Translations, ed. Stephen Orgel (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1971), p. 135, l. 35-6.
10 Spenser’s Adonis is said to be ‘eterne in mutabilitie’. III vi 47.
11 A bank of the river Isis is the setting for Lodge’s Glaucus and Scilla (1589); Sestos is the setting for Marlowe’s Hero and Leander (1598). Both poems can be found in Elizabethan Minor Epics, ed. Elizabeth Story Donno (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1963).
12 See An Apology for Poetry, ed. Geoffrey Shepherd (London: Nelson, 1965), p. 102, l. 21-37.
13 ‘The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none;
Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone.’ l. 389-90.
14 See Shepherd, p. 101, l. 14-24.
15 See A View of the Present State of Ireland, ed. W. L. Renwick (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1970), p. 2.
16 For an account of Elizabeth as Astraea and of Juvenal’s treatment of Astraea in his sixth satire, see Lisa Jardine, Still Harping on Daughters (Sussex: Harvester, 1983), Chapter 6.