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Title: Shakespeare at the Globe, 1599-1609
Author: Bernard Beckerman
Release Date: October 14, 2021 [eBook #66536]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEARE AT THE GLOBE,
1599-1609 ***
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
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SHAKESPEARE AT THE GLOBE
Shakespeare
at the Globe
1599-1609
BERNARD BECKERMAN
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY. 1962
_New York_
© BERNARD BECKERMAN 1962
All rights reserved--no part of this book may be reproduced in any
form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a
reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a
review written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper.
_First Printing_
The Macmillan Company, New York
Brett-Macmillan Ltd., Galt, Ontario
_Printed in the United States of America_
Library of Congress catalog card number: 62-7159
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My debts of gratitude, which this acknowledgment can hardly hope
to pay, are especially due to Professors Oscar J. Campbell, S.
F. Johnson, and Dr. John Cranford Adams, President of Hofstra
College. To detail the extent of Professor Campbell’s assistance
would be futile. I merely count myself fortunate in having enjoyed
his guidance and encouragement. From Professor Johnson this study
received a careful and perceptive scrutiny, to the excellence
of which I trust these pages testify. In supporting my work as
Director of the Hofstra College Shakespeare Festival, Dr. Adams
provided me with the opportunity not only to explore the authentic
staging of Shakespeare’s plays but also to draw upon his knowledge
and advice. Although my present views of Shakespearean staging
differ from his, nonetheless they owe much to the initial stimulus
he gave and the rigorous scholarship he exemplified. In addition, I
have benefited from the indulgence of various friends and scholars.
Dr. Raymond W. Short read and criticized the original draft of
the chapter on dramaturgy. Dr. James G. McManaway and Irwin Smith
offered valuable suggestions for the entire manuscript, and Mr.
Smith, together with Dr. Robert De Maria, Howard Siegman, and my
wife, Gloria, has assisted me in the final preparation of the
book.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgments v
Introduction ix
One: THE REPERTORY 1
Two: THE DRAMATURGY 24
I. Premises for a Study of Shakespearean
Dramatic Form 27
II. Form and Function in the Finales of the
Globe Plays 35
III. The Nature and Form of the “Climax” in
the Globe Plays 40
IV. Structural Patterns in the Dramatic Narrative 45
V. Scene Structure in Shakespeare 54
VI. Dramatic Unity in the Globe Plays 57
Three: THE STAGE 63
I. Localization in Shakespeare’s Globe Plays 64
II. The Parts of the Stage 69
III. The Design of the Stage 101
Four: THE ACTING 109
I. The Relation of Tudor Rhetoric to
Elizabethan Acting 113
II. The Influence of Theatrical Traditions
upon Elizabethan Acting 121
III. The Effect of Playing Conditions upon
Elizabethan Acting 127
IV. Acting and the Elizabethan View of
Human Behavior 137
a) Decorum 139
b) Motivation 142
c) Passion 143
V. The Effect of the Globe Plays upon the
Acting 146
Five: THE STAGING 157
I. Stage Illusion at the Globe Playhouse 157
II. Stage Grouping at the Globe Playhouse 169
III. Actors’ Entrances upon the Globe Stage 176
IV. Recurrent Patterns of Staging 182
V. The Staging of the Finales 207
Six: THE STYLE 214
Appendix A 217
Appendix B 220
Appendix C 226
Notes 232
Index to the Globe Plays 245
General Index 248
INTRODUCTION
From 1599 to 1608 or 1609 the Globe playhouse was the home of the
Chamberlain-King’s company and the only theater where it publicly
presented its plays in London. The Globe was imitated by Henslowe,
the theater magnate, and lauded by Dekker, the playwright. Upon
its stage Shakespeare’s major tragedies enjoyed their first
performances. Located among the stews and marshes of the Bankside,
it drew across the Thames its audience, men and women, gentlemen
and journeymen, sightseeing foreigners and native playgoers.
Yet for us the playhouse signifies more than a physical structure
for the presentation of plays. It has become the symbol of an
entire art. Its construction initiated a glorious decade during
which the company achieved a level of stability and a quality of
productivity rarely matched in the history of the theater. So rich
was the achievement that virtually all interest in the Elizabethan
drama radiates from the work of these years.
Circumstances attendant on the building of the Globe playhouse were
instrumental in developing the distinctiveness of this endeavor.
The new playhouse itself was regarded as the last word in theaters.
Alleyn and Henslowe modeled the Fortune upon it. Dekker, in a
widely known paragraph from _The Gull’s Hornbook_, praised the
wonder of it. In the design of the Globe there were significant
changes from former playhouses. It was a theater built by actors
for actors. To subsidize it a new financial system was instituted
which more fully than heretofore interrelated theater and actors.
Furthermore, young men had recently taken over the entire
enterprise, playhouse and company. Until 1597 James Burbage had
maintained some connection with the Lord Chamberlain’s men. Builder
and owner of the Theatre, lessor of Blackfriars, he had exercised
a strong influence on the course the company took. In the midst
of the uncertainty marking the negotiation for a new lease on
the Theatre, James Burbage died, bequeathing to his sons and, by
association, to the actors an equivocal inheritance. From his
death in 1597 to the building of the Globe in 1599, the company
was adrift, playing mainly at the Curtain. How much responsibility
and authority the elder Burbage had relinquished to the young
men before 1597 is virtually impossible to determine, but the
records indicate that he played an active part in the management
of theatrical affairs until the end of his life.[1] After his
death the erection and success of the Globe devolved upon young,
presumably enthusiastic, but not green men of the theater.
At this time Shakespeare, even then the leading playwright of the
Lord Chamberlain’s men, was passing into a new phase of dramatic
activity. The major tragedies were soon to come from his pen. The
romantic comedies, in a style which he had developed earlier, were
shortly to reach their perfection in _Twelfth Night_. The histories
were to appear no longer. None of the plays written between 1600
and 1609 was considered a history by the editors of the First
Folio. Since _Henry V_, dated 1599, probably appeared before the
completion of the Globe, Shakespeare wrote no history play for
the Globe company. On the other hand, _Titus Andronicus_ and
_Romeo and Juliet_ are the only plays, written before the opening
of the Globe, which were labeled tragedies. Such categorization
is somewhat artificial, but it does accentuate the fact that the
settlement of the company at the Globe was followed shortly by a
shift of emphasis in Shakespeare’s work.
One more significant change occurred at this time. Either a dispute
with his fellows or an irrepressible wanderlust led the leading
clown, Will Kempe, to break with the company. Apparently before
the stage of the Globe was painted and the spectators admitted,
he severed his connection with the Lord Chamberlain’s men, though
he had been among the original five who had taken a moiety of
the lease on the projected playhouse. After his departure, there
followed a period of great stability in the acting company. In the
entire decade there were only two replacements, owing to the deaths
of actors, and three additions with an expansion from nine to
twelve members in 1603.
This nexus of events does not necessarily prove that there was a
stylistic or artistic change in 1599. Nor does it imply that little
in procedure, tradition, and equipment was carried over from the
Theatre and the Curtain to the Globe. But it does indicate that
circumstance and planning combined to modify the character of the
enterprise, to make it not merely a continuation of the past but
the start of a new theatrical endeavor. As such, the opening of the
Globe serves as an excellent point of departure for a special study
of the company sometimes dubbed “Shakespeare’s” but in this book
termed “the Globe.”
In 1608-1609 the King’s men, acquiring the private indoor theater
of Blackfriars, brought the distinctive period to a close, for with
the leasing of Blackfriars, according to Professor Gerald Bentley,
came a change of outlook.[2] He emphasizes two major factors which
led to this change. First, the audience at the private theater
differed markedly from that at the public playhouse: the former
audience was sophisticated and exclusive whereas the latter was
rude and representative. The contrast has been fully elaborated
by Alfred Harbage in _Shakespeare and the Rival Traditions_.
Secondly, the indoor theater, relatively intimate, lit by candles,
required an alteration in style of acting and provided a subtler
control of mood. To substantiate the theory that the King’s men
faced these differences squarely, Bentley cites the employment of
Jonson, skilled in writing for Blackfriars and the Children of
the Queen’s Revels; the appearance of a new type of play from the
leading playwright, now writing with Blackfriars in mind; and the
engagement of Beaumont and Fletcher, neither of whom had previously
written for this company. Altogether the events grouped around the
move to Blackfriars indicate that then too a new start was made,
and Bentley convincingly demonstrates that within a short time
Blackfriars became the leading playhouse for the King’s men in
point of prestige and profit.
Until now I have alluded rather generally to the building of the
Globe in 1599 and to the acquisition of Blackfriars in 1608-1609.
Since the assignment of several plays depends upon a more exact
dating, there is a need to arrive at more precise limits.
Shortly after the 26th of February, 1599, construction of the
Globe commenced under the supervision of Peter Streete, the man
with whom Philip Henslowe and Edward Alleyn contracted a year
later to erect the Fortune theater along the same lines. From
Streete’s building schedule for the Fortune, we can estimate that
the Globe took twenty-eight to thirty weeks to complete, and thus
the earliest opening date would have been in late August or early
September, 1599.[3]
At the Blackfriars playing by the King’s men began sometime between
June 24, 1608, when the company took a lease of the premises, and
the autumn of 1609, when the decline of a severe plague permitted
a resumption of playing. In January, 1609, the players received a
reward from His Majesty “for their private practise in the time of
infeccon.” Testimony by Richard Burbage and John Heminges in 1612
indicates that playing commenced some time during the winter of
1608-1609. A temporary reduction of plague deaths in February and
March, 1609, makes this the likely period during which Shakespeare
and his fellows first played at Blackfriars and so terminated the
Globe years.[4]
In the main the canon of Shakespeare’s plays produced between 1599
and 1609 is set. Several plays are in dispute, but on the whole,
considering the nature of much of the evidence, the degree of
unanimity among scholars is amazing.[5]
Of about nine of the plays sufficient external evidence exists to
verify their placement between 1599 and 1608. There is general
agreement that Platter is referring to Shakespeare’s _Julius
Caesar_ when he describes a performance on September 21, 1599.
Its absence from Meres’ list places it after September 7, 1598,
and Chambers dates the play 1599-1600. _Twelfth Night_, first
mentioned in connection with a performance at the Middle Temple,
February 2, 1602, is variously dated 1599 to 1601. Suggestions
of an initial performance at the Middle Temple by Wilson and at
Whitehall by Hotson do not affect the assignment of date and need
not be discussed here.[6] Despite several attempts to force back
the date of the first draft of _Hamlet_ to 1583, the year 1601 is
still the accepted date for the play as we know it. In an essay
in 1944 Chambers confirmed his dating which appeared in _William
Shakespeare_ (1930). Wilson supports this date, and Gray and
Kirschbaum have argued against the use of Harvey’s marginalia as
evidence of an earlier date.[7]
_Troilus and Cressida_ was written before February 7, 1603, when
it is listed in the Stationers’ Register “as yt is acted by my lo:
Chamblens men.” The implication is of a recent appearance, but
Hotson has made an attempt to set the date back before 1598. The
nub of his argument is that the enigmatic title “Love’s Labour’s
Won,” which appears under Shakespeare’s name in Meres’ list, really
means “Love’s Pains Are Gained,” thus fitting the subject of
_Troilus and Cressida_.[8] This line of reasoning has yet to win
support.
The upper limits of _Othello_, _Measure for Measure_, and _King
Lear_ are set by their performances at Court on November 1, 1604,
December 26, 1604, and December 26, 1606, respectively. The lower
limits are unknown, but no responsible authority has suggested
dating any of these plays before 1602.[9]
The limits for _Antony and Cleopatra_ are set at the upper end by
the listing in the Stationers’ Register of May 20, 1608, and at
the lower by Daniel’s corrections to his _Cleopatra_ in the new
edition of _Certain Small Workes_ (1607). On the same day on which
the entry for _Antony and Cleopatra_ was inserted, _Pericles_ was
registered. This play, however, had been witnessed by the Venetian
ambassador sometime between January 5, 1606, and November 23,
1608.[10]
Stylistic evidence or contemporary allusion serves to date four
plays in this period. _All’s Well That Ends Well_ is dated in
1602-1603 by Chambers, in 1602 by Kittredge and Harbage; all do so
on stylistic evidence. Allusions to the doctrine of equivocation
(II, iii, 9-13) place _Macbeth_ in 1606, and this date is widely
accepted.[11] Stylistic evidence leads most scholars to place
_Timon of Athens_ in 1607-1608, and this type of evidence,
combined with allusions of a tenuous nature, leads them to assign
_Coriolanus_ to 1608.
Several plays are on the borderline at either end of the period.
_As You Like It_, _Much Ado About Nothing_, and _Henry V_ were
“staid” from printing according to the Stationers’ Register entry
of August 4, 1600. Since none of them appears in Meres’ listing
in 1598, they all fall within the two-year intervening period. In
dating _As You Like It_ and _Much Ado About Nothing_ there is very
little evidence for narrowing the period. The appearance of Kemp’s
name in speech prefixes in _Much Ado_ (IV, ii) places it before the
opening of the Globe. O. J. Campbell points out that _As You Like
It_ must have been written after the edict against satire on July
1, 1599. These facts, together with the general consensus, lead
me to include _As You Like It_ in the 1599-1608 repertory and to
exclude _Much Ado_.
_Henry V_ is more narrowly limited by the allusions to Essex’s
campaign in Ireland (Chorus, V, 30-34). The commencement of the
campaign was on March 27, 1599, the sad conclusion on September 28,
1599. Since the Globe did not open until the end of August or early
September, the weight of the evidence excludes _Henry V_. It also
excludes _Cymbeline_ at the end of the decade. Mentioned first by
Simon Forman, who saw a performance between April 20th and 30th,
1611, the play is variously dated in 1609 or 1610. The earliest
date suggested by Chambers is the spring of 1609.
One play, _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, remains in dispute.
Despite the conflict with testimony from Meres, Hotson places
the first performance of _Merry Wives_ on April 23, 1597, when
it was supposedly performed for the Knights of the Garter at
Windsor. Alexander accepts this date.[12] Chambers, Kittredge,
and Harbage date the play in 1600-1601, and Chambers points out
the appearance of a line from _Hamlet_, “What is the reason that
you use me thus?” (V, i, 312) in scene xiii of the bad quarto of
_Merry Wives_ (1602). On this basis and in the absence of any
appropriate time when the play could have been performed before
the Queen at a Garter installation, Chambers dates the play in
1600-1601. McManaway admits that many questions about the play are
unanswerable at present, although he grants that there may have
been revisions over a period of years beginning as early as 1597.
Nevertheless, as he notes, its absence from Meres’ list still
remains a bar to an early dating. Consequently, we may treat it as
part of the list of new plays written for the Globe playhouse.[13]
For supplementary evidence about the staging of Shakespeare’s plays
at the Globe, we turn to the pieces of his less gifted colleagues
who supplied the Globe company with scripts. Twelve plays are
extant which we know or have reason to believe were performed
_only_ by the Chamberlain’s or King’s men between 1599 and 1609. Of
these, three were written by Jonson: _Every Man Out of His Humour_,
_Sejanus_, and _Volpone_. The first was written “in the yeere
1599” according to the 1616 Folio, and the revised epilogue refers
to presentation at the Globe. _Sejanus_, according to Jonson,
was “acted, in the yeere 1603. By the K. Maiesties Servants.”
_Volpone_, again according to Jonson, was acted “in the yeere 1605.
By the K. Maiesties Servants.”
Barnes, Wilkins, and possibly Tourneur each contributed one
play to the King’s men’s repertory now extant. Barnes provided
_The Devil’s Charter_, played before the King “by his Maiesties
Servants” on February 2, 1607.[14] Wilkins supplied _Miseries of
Enforced Marriage_. Q. 1607 contains the advertisement “As it is
now played by his Maiesties Servants.” _The Revenger’s Tragedy_,
uncertainly linked with Tourneur’s name, appeared in quarto with
the inscription: “As it hath beene sundry times Acted, by the Kings
Maiesties Servants.” Chambers dates the play 1606-1607.
The remaining six plays are all anonymous and all ascribe
production to the Chamberlain’s or King’s men on the title pages of
their quartos. _A Larum for London_ was registered on May 27, 1600,
and printed in 1602. _Thomas Lord Cromwell_ was registered August
11, 1602, “as it was lately acted.”[15] _Fair Maid of Bristow_,
entered in the Stationers’ Register February 8, 1605, is dated 1604
by Chambers. _The London Prodigal_ appeared in quarto in 1605 and
was probably produced in 1603-1605. _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_,
although registered on October 22, 1607, is mentioned in T. M.’s
_Black Book_ in 1604. Chambers dates the play about 1603. Lastly,
_A Yorkshire Tragedy_, entered May 2, 1608, may have been written a
year or two earlier.[16]
The final additions to the 1599-1608 repertory consist of two plays
which were presented by the Chamberlain-King’s men as well as by
another company. The first, Dekker’s _Satiromastix_, presented
between the production of _Poetaster_ in the spring of 1601 and its
entry in the Stationers’ Register on November 11th of that year,
contains on the Q. 1602 title page the information that it had been
“presented publikely by the ... Lord Chambelaine his Servants; and
privately, by the Children of Paules.” Certainly this was unusual
procedure and must be taken into consideration in applying the play
to Globe stage conditions. The second, Marston’s _The Malcontent_,
dated 1604, was “found” and played by the King’s men, presumably
in retaliation for the theft of one of their plays by the Children
of the Queen’s Revels. The title page and induction of Q. 1604
refer to additions by Marston and Webster in order to accommodate
the play to an adult company. About the status of _The First Part
of Jeronimo_, the stolen play, it is difficult to be exact. Boas
dates the play after 1600.[17] Since the extant Q. 1605 may reflect
the copy of the Revels’ production, _Jeronimo_ has been cited for
supplementary evidence only.
Thus, the final list of extant works first produced at the Globe
playhouse between 1599 and 1609--the Globe plays--consists of
fifteen Shakespearean and fourteen non-Shakespearean plays. Upon
the evidence of these scripts, the bulk of this study is based.
Chapter One
THE REPERTORY
The magnificent dramas of Shakespeare that assumed flesh and motion
upon the Globe stage in its golden decade shared the boards with
hack plays, near cousins to the present-day soap operas and grade-B
westerns. It is easy to forget that the company which produced
_Hamlet_ also presented _The London Prodigal_, and that the same
Burbage who shook the super-flux as Lear may well have portrayed
the ranting, melodramatic husband of _A Yorkshire Tragedy_, a model
indeed of a figure tearing a passion to tatters. Masterpieces and
minor pieces followed one another in rapid succession in the same
playhouse, and the customs of their production were the result of a
single repertory system.
Among the various contending works on Shakespearean stage
production the one subject that is invariably neglected is this
repertory system. And yet, an understanding of how a theatrical
company goes about the business of presenting its plays is a
necessary step in working out a theory of staging. Who sees the
show and who pays the bill more often determine the possibilities
of production than other high-minded considerations. To know what
the Elizabethan repertory system was and how it operated requires
the answers to certain basic questions: How many performances was
a play likely to receive? In what sequence were these performances
given? How long did a play remain in repertory? How long were the
rehearsal periods for new plays? How many roles did an actor have
to command at one time? Where were new plays first presented? In
essence, all these questions can be contained in one all-embracing
question: How did an acting company market its wares? for let
us remember that in the Elizabethan theater we find one of the
earliest examples of theater as a commercial enterprise.
The pattern of performing which I call the repertory system came
into being with the appearance of the first permanent playhouses.
Their erection in London was a sign that the actors had discovered
the means as well as the possibility of gaining the patronage of
the large city populace for long periods of time. No longer did
the players have to be nomads. No longer was it necessary for a
handful of sharers with their apprentices and hired men to trudge
from village to village in order to find paying audiences. After
1570 the nomadic troupes that played London for short engagements
matured into resident companies that toured occasionally. Though
even the most illustrious of the companies continued to travel in
the provinces when conditions demanded, their welfare and status
were tied to the fortunes of the public playhouses. Touring was an
act of desperation. That way lay poverty. Well-being depended upon
permanence and permanence depended upon the effective exploitation
of the potential audience.
Naturally not every Londoner was a playgoer. The average play might
have been witnessed by 30,000 people over a period of a year and a
half. The assumption here is that the play performed to a capacity
audience, each member of which saw the play once. More likely,
however, not more than 15,000 to 20,000 people saw the average
play. To calculate the size of the usual theater-going populace
in London is difficult. One conclusion is evident, however. Given
the capacity of the public playhouse, somewhat between two and
three thousand persons, the companies had to change their bills
frequently if they were to attract sufficient spectators. Their
practices in doing so are the bases of the repertory system.
By 1599, the year in which the Globe playhouse was constructed,
these practices were well established. A five-year period of growth
in the theater preceded the construction of the Globe. A decade of
relative stability in theatrical affairs followed. During those
years it may not have appeared to the professional players that the
time was settled, for a serious plague in 1603 severely curtailed
playing schedules and lively competition from the children’s
companies drew customers to the private theaters after 1600. But
a retrospective survey of the years from 1599 to 1609 makes it
evident that the decade was one of peak prosperity for the public
theaters.
From 1597 to 1602 the Lord Chamberlain’s men and the Lord Admiral’s
men shared a virtual monopoly of public stage presentation. In 1597
the production of _The Isle of Dogs_ by Pembroke’s men had aroused
the ire of the Privy Council, for what offense it is not now clear.
One of the authors, Nashe, fled; Ben Jonson, either as part-author
or as actor, together with two other actors, was imprisoned for
some months. On July 28 all plays were prohibited. Disastrous as
this event was for the Pembroke’s men, it served to strengthen the
Lord Admiral’s and Lord Chamberlain’s men, for in a minute of the
Privy Council, dated February 19, 1598, they alone of the men’s
companies were permitted to play in London. Not until 1602 was the
monopoly successfully challenged. In that year Worcester’s men
received permission to perform in London, and in actuality became
a party to a new tripartite monopoly. Final confirmation of their
privileges came in 1603-1604 when the Stuart family, drawing the
theater under its patronage, dispensed royal patents to each of
them.
A fourth company to receive a patent was the Children of the
Queen’s Revels. The patent is proof that the competition of the
private theaters was a serious matter. For several years between
1600 and 1605 the boys and their literary foster fathers had
achieved a fashionable popularity. But by 1606 the most successful
of these troupes, the Children of the Queen’s Revels, seems to have
forfeited the protection of Her Majesty. Whatever may have been the
reasons, the children’s companies never were able to maintain the
continuity of the men’s companies.
From time to time throughout the decade minor adult companies
drifted into London, played several performances, and departed. An
Earl of Derby’s company appeared at Court for three performances
in 1600 and 1601, thereafter passing into the provinces whence
they had come. Henslowe records two performances by Pembroke’s men
on October 28-30, 1600. No further word is heard of them. One
performance at Court, on January 6, 1603, is noted for Hertford’s
men, otherwise a provincial company. But no professional group
successfully challenged the supremacy of these three leading
companies which, in the course of the decade, became entrenched
in their grand playhouses: the Chamberlain-King’s men at the
Globe, the Admiral-Prince’s men at the Fortune in 1600, and the
Worcester-Queen’s men at the Red Bull about 1605.
Concerning two of these companies, the Lord Admiral’s and
Worcester’s, there is substantial evidence of the ways in which
they functioned. The evidence appears in the diary of Philip
Henslowe, wherein he noted dealings with both companies. The bulk
of the records pertains to the Admiral’s company, for which we
have performance lists from 1592 to 1597 and debit accounts from
1597 to 1603. Records of Worcester’s men appear for a shorter
time in Henslowe’s _Diary_, but the material, debit accounts from
1602-1603, reveals that both companies operated in essentially the
same ways.
For the third of these companies, the Lord Chamberlain’s men, no
similar body of evidence exists. The law cases involving Heminges
with Witter and Thomasina Ostler reveal the presence of a unique
financial arrangement in this company, yet one which continued
alongside the traditional theatrical organization. Like the other
public companies, the Lord Chamberlain’s men were organized into
a partnership of sharers who managed and maintained the group.
As sharers they purchased plays, bought costumes, hired actors,
tiremen, and bookkeepers, paid licensing fees, rented a theater,
shared profits and expenses, and carried on the manifold duties
of a theatrical enterprise. The novelty of the arrangement was
that the company rented the theater from some of its own members.
Richard Burbage, William Shakespeare, Augustine Phillips, John
Heminges, Thomas Pope, in varying proportions, owned profitable
shares in the Globe playhouse. This overlapping of proprietary
interests may tend to obscure the actual similarity of the
Chamberlain’s theatrical organization to that of its rivals, for
though the financing of the companies differed, the system of
management was the same.
Evidence pertaining to actual performances by the Lord
Chamberlain’s men is rare. What clues we have take the form partly
of letters or notes discovered among nontheatrical documents and
concerned only secondarily with the stage and partly of records of
Court performances or title pages of texts that provide us with
occasional information about what was appearing on the boards of
the Globe. Alone, these items bear little weight. Their principal
value lies in their agreement with the conditions reflected in
Henslowe’s _Diary_, and it is to this source that we must turn to
secure a picture of how plays were produced in the Elizabethan
age.[1]
The theatrical periods for which Henslowe kept records cannot be
considered seasons in the modern sense. During the severe plague
of 1592-1594, playing all but ceased. After the abatement of the
disease and a false start at Newington Butts, the Lord Admiral’s
men commenced regular performances at the Rose on June 17, 1594.
Playing continued without unusual interruption until the following
March 14, 1595. After the Lenten season, the company recommenced
playing on Easter Monday, April 21st, and played through June 26th.
During the summer season the tour in the provinces was brief,
for the company reopened on August 25th and again played without
exceptional interruption through February 28, 1596. Performances
resumed on April 12th, again after Lent, and continued through
July 18, 1596. Here occurred an unusually long summer break which
lasted until October 27th, during which time the company traveled
in the provinces. Save for a curious suspension from November 16th
through the 24th, the company played at the Rose from October
27th until February 12, 1597. A brief Lenten observance followed,
and performances began again on March 3rd and continued until
July 19th. The presentation of _The Isle of Dogs_ halted general
theatrical activity on July 20th,[2] and although the Rose opened
on July 27th and 28th, the Privy Council order of the latter date
suspended all playing until “Alhallontide next.”
In the preceding schedule we may discern a more or less regular
pattern of playing. A Lenten suspension is almost invariably
observed, though the duration of the observance varies. A less
regular summer break, usually from mid-July to October, intervenes,
the length of time depending upon the severity of the plague.
Finally, during the Christmas holidays performances are given about
half the days of the month. During each December from 1594 through
1596 this interruption occurs, and is presumably the result of the
company’s activity at and about the Court.
The day by day program of the Lord Admiral’s men follows the same
sort of irregularity, as a glance at two weeks of performances will
show.
Let us choose a time from an ordinary, uneventful season. On Monday
afternoon of November 10, 1595,[3] if we had crossed the Thames
to the Rose on the Bankside, we should have seen _Longshank_, a
reasonably new play. Already it had had four performances, having
opened for the first time on the previous August 28th. However,
we might have discovered that this was an old play newly revived,
Peele’s _Edward I_. On Tuesday, the 11th, the company presented
_The Disguises_, an even newer play, having opened on the previous
2nd of October. It had already been played five times and oddly
enough this day’s performance, the sixth, would be its last. On
Wednesday and Thursday, we could have seen the first and second
parts of _Tamberlaine_. Both plays had been doing brisk business,
Part I from the time of its revival on August 30th, 1594, and
Part II, from its revival on December 19, 1594. Typical of the
Elizabethan theater would be the performance of Part II of a play
the day after Part I. We should have been particularly fortunate
in seeing the _Tamberlaines_, for these performances were to be
the last in this revival. On Friday, November 14th, we could have
attended the premiere of _A Toy to Please Chaste Ladies_, which
proved to be a moderately successful piece. _The Seven Days of
the Week_, a very successful play, which had opened the previous
June, would receive its fourteenth performance on Saturday, and was
to continue to hold the stage until the following December 31st,
totaling twenty-two performances in all. There was to be no playing
on Sunday, which was usual, nor on Monday, which was unusual.
From Tuesday through Thursday, November 18th-20th, we should have
seen _Crack Me This Nutte_, _Barnardo and Fiametta_, and _Wonder of
a Woman_, all recent plays. The first had opened as a new play the
previous September 5th and enjoyed some success. In 1601 it would
be revived. The second play had had its premiere several weeks
earlier, on October 30th, and was not as successful as the first.
The third piece also had opened recently, on October 16th, and it
too had excited only a moderate response. On Friday, a week after
its premiere, we would have had the chance to hear _A Toy to Please
Chaste Ladies_ once again. It was to continue in the repertory
for another year, with a total of nine performances, making it an
average success. Finally, on Saturday, November 22nd, at the end
of our two-week visit, _Seleo and Olempo_ was on the bill, a play
which had opened initially the 5th of the previous March. This
performance, its eighth, would bring it near the end of its run of
ten performances. On February 19, 1596, a little less than a year
after its opening, the play would leave the boards, its prompt-book
lost in the dust of the Rose playhouse.
Thus, in two weeks we could have seen eleven performances of ten
different plays at _one_ playhouse. On no day would we have found
the theater repeating the play of the day before. Among the plays
the majority, six of the ten, would have been new works, produced
since the return of the company from its summer tour. Two others
were carry-overs from the previous spring and two were older
plays which had been revived. Nor would these plays have appeared
regularly in the succeeding weeks. If we had remained in London for
two additional weeks, we should have found some repetition of the
plays we had already seen as well as some plays that would be new
to us.
Again there would be eleven performances in two weeks.[4] Five
performances would repeat works of the previous fortnight’s bill.
The remaining six performances would have been divided among five
plays: a new play for two performances; another play which had
opened that autumn; two parts of a play from the previous spring,
whose performances, like those of _Tamberlaine_, would have been
arranged on successive days; and a play which would appear once and
disappear. Altogether, in four weeks we should have been able to
see fifteen different plays, only five of which would be repeated,
and one of which would attain three performances. Most of the
plays would be less than one season old, a few, holdovers from the
previous season, and only two or possibly three could be considered
“old” plays. Of the fifteen, two would have been completely new
plays, and, in fact, the only play to have had three performances
in four weeks would have been a recent addition to the repertoire,
_A Toy to Please Chaste Ladies_.
The alternation of the plays was irregular. The choice of play
from day to day must have followed the exigencies of the moment.
Over an extended period, on the other hand, a broad pattern may
be observed. A new play or revival usually opened to a good house
despite the doubling of admission prices. Several days or a week
later a second performance would be given, and then, depending on
the enthusiasm of the audience response, the play would be repeated
several times a month at first, then less frequently, the intervals
between performances becoming longer and longer until the play
would be presented once a month. Within a year or a year and a
half, it would fade from the theater. Such was the usual course.
Naturally, a popular work would continue longer and be revived more
often, whereas a “flop” would leave the boards almost immediately.
In the total winter season from August 25, 1595, through February
28, 1596, of which we have considered four weeks, the company gave
one hundred and fifty performances of thirty different plays.
Eighty-seven performances, or 58 per cent of the total, were of
the fourteen new plays produced that season. Five performances,
3.3 per cent, were of one play, _The Jew of Malta_, revived that
season. Forty-six performances, or 30.7 per cent, were given by the
eight plays from the previous season which were less than a year
old, counting from December 1, 1594. Only twelve performances, 8
per cent, were of the seven plays which were more than a year old.
This distribution, which is similar for all the seasons covered by
Henslowe’s records, emphasizes how dependent the company was on the
continuous addition of new plays to its stock in order to maintain
itself in London.
The sheer volume of production is staggering. How strenuous the
demands must have been upon the actors! Although we are familiar
with the extensive repertory which an opera singer must command,
at least it is a repertory which in large measure has assumed
classical limitations. The Elizabethan actor, on the contrary, had
to remember the old and learn the new at the same time. He had to
retain the lines of the older plays, for not only might he wait
weeks and months between performances of a particular play, but
occasionally he might be asked to give a single performance of a
long neglected play.[5] He also had to commit to memory an amazing
number of new plays each season. In the three-year period from June
5, 1594, to July 28, 1597, a leading actor of the Lord Admiral’s
company, such as Edward Alleyn or Thomas Downton, had to secure
and retain command of about seventy-one different roles, of which
number fifty-two or fifty-three were newly learned.
The manner in which the acting companies secured new plays has been
fully discussed by Greg and Chambers[6] so that a brief summary
will suffice. Sometimes the actors would buy a finished book, as
evidenced by the purchase of _Strange News Out of Poland_ for
£6 on May 17, 1600. However, the more usual way of dealing with
the impecunious poets who supplied them with scripts was for the
Admiral’s men to approve a plot outline of a play, upon which
approval they would pay the playwright or playwrights an advance.
As portions of the book were received, further advances were given
until the entire work was submitted and full payment, usually £6
in this period, was made. Although the names of a large number of
playwrights appear in Henslowe’s records, most of the new plays
performed by the Admiral’s men came from the pens of less than a
dozen men.[7]
Three different types of relationships seem to have existed between
actors and the playwrights. In one type Shakespeare and Heywood,
actors of their companies, presumably wrote for their own fellows
exclusively. In another Ben Jonson went free-wheeling in his
passage from one company to another and back again. Between these
extremes was a man like Dekker who generally confined his writing
to the Admiral’s men, at least at this time, although he did write
occasionally for other companies.
Upon receipt of the play from the author, the actors put it into
production without much delay. Of the eighty-eight new plays
presented during this period by the Admiral’s men, Henslowe
records data on the purchase of both the book and properties
for twenty-eight of them.[8] Only one, _Polyphemus_, shows a
substantial lapse between the final payment for the script on
February 27, 1599, and the purchase of “divers thinges” for
production on October 5, 1599. Since the purchase of these
“divers thinges” only totaled 8_s._, the play may very well have
been produced earlier, the later entry relating to properties or
costumes which were added to the production. Of the twenty-seven
other plays, the time between final purchase of the manuscript and
the first indication of production extends from three to fifty-one
days, the average duration being a little over twenty days. That
many of the payments were for costumes which had to be tailored
indicates that the time lapse was even less than the records show.
For example, the longest delay, fifty-one days, came between the
purchase of _Brute_ on October 22nd and the payment for “cottes of
gyantes” for the same play on December 12, 1598. Probably the order
for the coats had been placed considerably earlier.
Three special cases, those of _Two Angry Women of Abington_, Part
II, and _Thome Strowd_, Part II, of the Admiral’s men, and _A Woman
Killed with Kindness_ of Worcester’s men, demonstrate that in some
instances production was begun before the writing was completed.
The book of _Two Angry Women_ was paid for in full on February 12,
1599, although gowns had been paid for on January 31st and “divers
thinges” on February 12th. Payment in full is recorded for _Thome
Strowd_ on May 5, 1601, although suits had been bought on April
27th. Lastly, Heywood received £3 as final payment on _A Woman
Killed with Kindness_ on March 6, 1603, although costumes had been
paid for on February 5th and March 7th.
The entire conception of play producing reflected here is one
of continuous presentation. As soon as a poet turned over his
play to the actors, they would introduce it into the repertory
with very little delay. There is no indication that special
occasions provided the moment for unveiling a new play or that
long-range planning for a season was part of the Elizabethan
or Jacobean scheme. Immediate concerns, the nature of which we
know too little, probably dictated the day-to-day program of the
theatrical fraternity. Responsive to the vicissitudes of political,
hygienic, and economic conditions, the players within their
strictly traditional guild organization maintained an empirical,
nontheoretical, professional attitude.
Let us turn back to the winter season of 1595-1596 to trace the
introduction of new plays into the repertory. Four days after the
opening of the season, on August 29th, _Longshank_ was presented.
Six days later, on September 5th, it was followed by _Crack
Me This Nutte_, another play followed on September 17th (_The
New World’s Tragedy_), and still another on October 2nd (_The
Disguises_). For the rest of this season there were premieres
on October 16th (_Wonder of a Woman_), October 30th (_Barnardo
and Fiametta_), November 14th (_A Toy to Please Chaste Ladies_),
November 28th (_Henry V_), and in 1596 on January 3rd (_Chinon
of England_), January 16th (_Pythagoras_), January 23rd (_Seven
Days of the Week_, Part II), and February 12th (_Blind Beggar of
Alexandria_). The longest interval between the production of new
plays was thirty-five days, November 28th to January 3rd, though
the intervening performances numbered only twenty. The shortest
interval, of six days, occurred twice, at the beginning and near
the end of the season. Obviously the lack of regularity, apparent
in other aspects of production, also existed in the frequency with
which new plays were presented.
Nor does the study of the year-to-year pattern reflect any greater
regularity. For example, in December, 1594, three new plays were
presented, in December, 1595, none, in December, 1596, four. The
presentation of so many new plays in the latter year was owing
without doubt to the absence of any new plays in November, 1596.
Consequently, though we cannot determine a fixed number, we can
calculate the average number of new plays introduced into the
repertory in one year.
Over the three-year period 1594-1597 the actors of the Admiral’s
company had an average interval of 14.7 days or roughly two weeks
between the opening of new plays. While the interval ranged from
two days to fifty-seven, the mean interval was 13 days. Thus it
would be accurate enough to say that the company produced a new
play every two weeks during the playing season. For the years
1597-1603 we have evidence of the number of new plays produced each
year but not of the number of performances given. Consequently, to
correlate all the evidence it is necessary to calculate not only
the average intervals between premieres of new plays but also the
average number of plays produced from 1594 to 1597. The _Diary_
reports the lists of performances continuously from June 5, 1594,
to July 28, 1597, a total of three years and fifty-three days.
Since 1596 was a leap year, the entire period consisted of 1,149
days during which fifty-four new plays were produced, averaging
one play for every 21.3 days. Thus, about seventeen new plays were
presented each year by the Lord Admiral’s men.
Chambers, describing the repertory of the Admiral’s men from
1597 to 1603, estimates that they added seventeen new plays in
1597-1598, twenty-one in 1598-1599, twenty in 1599-1600, seven
in 1600-1601, fourteen in 1601-1602, and nine in 1602-1603. If
we exclude the figures for 1602-1603, a season shortened by the
death of Elizabeth, an average for the five years comes to 15.8
new plays each year. The unusually meager count of seven plays for
1600-1601 may reflect, as Chambers suggests, a reliance on the
older repertory after Edward Alleyn’s return to the company. Or it
might indicate that the company toured extensively that year.
Until now we have considered only one company. Fortunately Henslowe
served as banker for Lord Worcester’s men from August 17, 1602,
to March 16, 1603, a period of 212 days. During that time they
commissioned twelve new plays. A simple equation based on the
ratio of 12 plays to 212 days as x plays are to 365 days yields us
twenty plays as the total this company would have reached if they
had continued to produce new works at the same rate for the rest
of the year. However, since the period covered by the accounts
was the most active part of the theatrical year, it is likely
that the total would have been nearer to seventeen. Furthermore,
the average interval between the openings of new plays by the
Worcester’s men comes to 16.6 days. Allowing for the uncertainty
of the length of this particular season, calculated as it is on
expense payments, not actual performances, this average is in line
with the earlier figure of 14.7 days between openings. Thus two
of the three important public playhouses in London each presented
about seventeen new plays a year, grouping them in two seasons so
that a new play was presented every fourteen or fifteen days.
The evidence for the third of these companies, the Lord
Chamberlain’s men, is scanty; to determine whether or not it
followed the system of the other two companies is hazardous at
best. As Greg aptly noted more than half a century ago, “We
know practically nothing of the internal workings of the Lord
Chamberlain’s company.”[9] Yet, here and there, links between this
company and the others suggest that in general all of them followed
the same repertory practices.
Between June 5th and 15th, 1594, the Lord Admiral’s and Lord
Chamberlain’s men played together at Newington Butts. Henslowe’s
performance list does not clarify whether they functioned as one
company or two. In fact, only the excellent deduction of Greg, who
followed Fleay in this, made it clear that the combination ceased
after that date, for the list of subsequent performances proceeds
without a break. Of the ten performances, five were of plays now
generally ascribed to the Chamberlain’s men.
Fleay, extolling the virtues of the Chamberlain’s men at the
expense of the Admiral’s, asserts that he has been unable to trace
at any time “more than four new plays produced by [the former
company] in any one year.”[10] This conclusion might stem from
a recollection of a note by Malone: “It appears from Sir Henry
Herbert’s office-book that the King’s company between the years
1622 and 1641 produced either at Blackfriars or the Globe at
least four new plays every year.” He goes on: “ ... the King’s
company usually brought out two or three new plays at the Globe
every summer.”[11] Both statements indicate that no less than
four plays were produced annually. A study of Herbert’s list of
licenses supports them. From July, 1623, to July, 1624, licenses
for thirty-five plays are recorded. Four may be discarded for
our present purposes.[12] Of the remaining thirty-one, eleven
were licensed for the Palsgrave’s company, seven (six new and one
old) for the Prince’s men, eight (six new and two old) for the
King’s men, four (three new and one old) for the Lady Elizabeth’s
servants, and one for the Queen of Bohemia’s company. G. E. Bentley
very persuasively accounts for the greater number of plays licensed
for the Palsgrave’s men by pointing out that the fire at their
playhouse, the Fortune, on December 9, 1621, deprived them of their
prompt-books and that in 1623-1624 they were striving to repair the
damage to their repertory.
The discrepancy between the six new plays of 1623-1624 and the
estimated seventeen of 1594-1603 is not a mark of conflict in the
evidence. Times had changed. The King’s men needed only a third of
the new plays that they had produced in earlier years. The use of a
private theater largely accounts for this change, for the seats of
Blackfriars could be filled four or five times over by the audience
from a single performance at the Globe. What is really significant
is that the King’s men presented the same number of new plays as
the Prince’s men, and that the practices of Shakespeare’s fellows
were in harmony with those of other companies.
Only an idolatrous love of Shakespeare can lead us to conclude
that from 1599 to 1609 the Lord Chamberlain’s men produced
appreciably fewer plays than the other companies did. All were in
lively competition, in which, as Platter noted, “those which play
best obtain most spectators.” To maintain that the Globe company
produced only four or five new plays a year, we must prove that
Shakespeare’s plays were of such popularity that they could be
repeated again and again while other companies had to change their
bills daily. However, we have no evidence to show that this was
the case. Certainly, Falstaff was a perennial favorite, but so
was Barabas the Jew. A play such as _Richard II_ was old by 1601.
_Twelfth Night_, or _Malvolio_, held the stage, it seems, but so
did _The Spanish Tragedy_, or _Jeronimo_. Yet Henslowe’s schedule
reveals that the old war horses such as _Jeronimo_, _The Jew of
Malta_, _Faustus_, and _Tamberlaine_, altogether, provided no
more than 11 per cent of the performances of the Lord Admiral’s
company throughout the entire recorded period and no more than 6
per cent in any one year (see Appendix A, chart ii). We should like
to think that Shakespeare’s work had more commercial appeal than
Marlowe’s or Kyd’s. But can we suppose that it had a popularity,
let us say, five or six times greater? A sobering thought on the
enigma of popularity must strike us when we realize that _Pericles_
was, if its succession of quartos offers any evidence, more popular
than _Antony and Cleopatra_, and that _The Winter’s Tale_, if
Court performances are any measure, appealed to royalty more than
_King Lear_. Furthermore, once we eliminate the plays which in
all likelihood were given few performances, such as _Troilus and
Cressida_, _All’s Well_ and _Measure for Measure_, we are left with
too few Shakespearean plays to sustain a theatrical company in
the London of 1600. A reference to the list of Court performances
between 1603 and 1642 verifies the pattern reflected in Henslowe’s
records. Aside from their first appearances before James, when they
presented many old stand-bys, the King’s men usually offered the
latest plays to Their Majesties, and when Shakespeare died, the
works of other writers rapidly superseded his at Court.[13] Like
the commonalty, royalty expected to see the current “hit.”
The plays we now regard as great literary works were struck off
in the harassing atmosphere of a commercial enterprise. Most of
the plays were failures or temporary successes. Most of those
produced by the Admiral’s men played their few, in many cases
very few, performances and passed away without any further trace
but the notation by a shrewd businessman. Of the one hundred
and thirteen plays listed by Henslowe between 1592 and 1597,
sixty-seven would certainly be unknown without the _Diary_ and
another twelve would probably be unknown (see Appendix A, chart
i). However, among the thirty-four plays that would be otherwise
known, only twenty-seven are extant, or about 24 per cent of the
plays listed by Henslowe. By assuming that the twenty-nine extant
Globe texts represent a similar percentage of the Globe repertory,
we arrive at a conclusion that 116 plays were actually produced
by the company between 1599 and 1609. But during these years the
theater suffered closings of extraordinary duration because of
the plague.[14] In addition, the Globe period is calculated from
September, 1599, to March, 1609. Actual playing time, therefore,
amounted to about seven and a half years. This estimate divided
into the 116 new plays gives us a result of 15.6 plays as the
average number of new works offered by the Globe company each year.
Actually, in estimating these figures, some allowance must be made
for Shakespeare’s superiority. How much, however, is virtually
impossible to say. Nor is an actual figure necessary as long as
we realize that the repertory systems of all three companies were
fundamentally the same. In effect, the figures that we have for the
Lord Admiral’s and Worcester’s men are a far safer guide to actual
Globe practice than any other evidence.
As lovers of literature, we need be grieved little by the
disappearance of 75 per cent of the plays, at least judging from
contemporary response. Generally the plays that have come down
to us were the more popular pieces. Either they were printed, or
discussed, or alluded to. At the same time they were played more
frequently. The seventy-nine plays which we know only through
Henslowe provided 496 performances in five years. The other
thirty-four played 403 performances in the same period. On an
average we find the plays otherwise known to us played nearly twice
as many performances as those mentioned by Henslowe.
Those pieces that attained popularity and whose stage life
extended over a period of years run like strong threads through
the repertory of an Elizabethan company. But between the strands
there was much filler, plays which spoke their brief piece upon
the platform and departed within a few months. Seven to eight
performances were the average number for a play. Many did not
attain even this many representations. Three out of every ten
plays had no more than one or two performances. Less than one out
of ten went beyond twenty performances. An extensive and actually
wonderful process of winnowing out the chaff was at work. This
process was the repertory system. As a result of it, the plays that
could bring back an audience year after year survived to speak for
the age (see Appendix A, chart ii).
The process of winnowing out the ineffectual pieces was
supplemented by the custom of revivals. Periodically, plays of the
recent past would be brought back to the stage for another run.
Usually the pattern of performances for a revival would follow
that of a new play: close-packed performances at first and a
tapering off until representation ceased. _The Spanish Tragedy_,
or as Henslowe entitles it, _Jeronimo_, offers a clear example of
the process at work. In March, 1592, it was presented for three
performances, in April, again for three performances, in May it
reached its peak with five performances, and in June played twice.
The hiatus in the summer and fall of 1592 interrupted the normal
cycle. On resumption of playing in December, _Jeronimo_ appeared
again, was repeated twice in January for the last times. These
performances were by Strange’s men. Four years later, on January 7,
1597, the Lord Admiral’s men revived it as a “new” play, indicating
that it had been substantially revised. Subsequent performances
followed with diminishing frequency with intervals of 4, 6, 5, 9,
10, 28,[15] 14, 21, 26, 29 days. The play was further revived in
September or October of 1601, this time with additions by Jonson.
Twenty plays in Henslowe’s list show definite evidence of revival,
either during the 1593-1597 period or the 1599-1601 period. Only
_Doctor Faustus_ shows continual performance from 1594 to 1597.
Originally revived on October 2, 1594, it was performed from time
to time by the Lord Admiral’s company which did not allow more
than four months to elapse between performances. There was a later
revival toward the end of 1602.
Among the nineteen remaining plays the manner of revival varied
somewhat. Nine of them seem to have been altered or enlarged
considerably for the revival. Usually these plays had been off the
stage for several years. _Fortunatus_ was reworked by Dekker in
November, 1599, after it had lain idle for three and a half years.
_Jeronimo_, as we saw already, had not been offered for four years
when it was revived as “new” in January, 1597. _Tambercame_, Part
II, was three and a half years old when presented as “new” on
June 11, 1596. Two of the plays, _Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay_
and _Phaethon_, show evidence of alteration as do the rest, but
specifically for Court performances. Though there is no certainty
that revivals in the public playhouse occurred at the same time, it
is not unlikely, as we shall discover.
One advantage of the Elizabethan method of revivals--abetted by
the absence of copyright laws--was that it enabled a writer to
rework his own or someone else’s work. Through how many versions,
for example, did the narrative of _Hamlet_ pass to reach its final
stage? We know of three at least: the one played by the “Lord
Admeralle men & Lorde Chamberlen” at Newington Butts on June 11,
1594; the one contained in the 1603 Quarto; the one announced as
“newly imprinted and enlarged to almost as much againe as it was,
according to the true and perfect Coppie.” The constant sifting of
the repertory not only screened out hack pieces, it also provided
time for the refinement of masterworks.
In instances where no proof of literary revision exists, there is
evidence sometimes of theatrical revision. Four plays from four to
six and a half years old were revived after 1597. The purchase of
properties for them indicates that they received new productions.
Of the last six of the twenty plays revived, only the cessation of
playing and, after an extended lapse of time, the resumption of
performances tell us that they were revived.
Revived plays, for all practical purposes, were treated as new.
Instead of maintaining a play in continuous repertory over an
extended period of time during which performances of the work would
be given at regular intervals, the players permitted a work to
fade out of the repertory for a time, to be restored later with
or without changes for another cycle of performances. That this
was also the method of the Lord Chamberlain’s men is attested to
in a letter written by Sir Walter Cope to Sir Robert Cecil in
1604. Upon inquiring for a new play for the Queen, Sir Walter was
informed by Richard Burbage that Her Majesty had seen their new
plays, “but they have Revyved an olde one Cawled _Loved Labore_
lost.”[16] Whether or not this “olde play” had been presented
since its performance at Court in 1597-1598, we do not know. But
its description as an old play suggests that it had lain dormant
for some time before its revival in 1604.
In the same letter Sir Walter complains of difficulty in finding
“players Juglers & Such kinde of Creaturs” to perform for the
Queen. Yet, according to the formula which appears in the Privy
Council minute of February 19, 1598, the Lord Chamberlain’s men
were permitted to stage plays so that “they might be the better
enhabled and prepared to shew such plaies before her Majestie
as they shalbe required at tymes meete and accustomed, to which
ende they have bin cheefelie licensed.” Why were they not ready
then? Just what was the relationship between the public players
and the Court? To what extent did the players prepare their plays
specifically for the nobility? More than one scholar has been
tempted to demonstrate that particular plays were prepared for the
Court or courtly occasions. Usually the demonstration has had to
rely on allusions in a script, for external evidence indicates that
such a practice was extremely rare.
For example, we can trace the career of _Fortunatus_ with
minuteness. Its first performance is recorded in Henslowe’s _Diary_
on February 3, 1596; thereafter it runs through a normal cycle
of six performances until May 26th. Between November 9th and
November 30th, 1599, Dekker received £6 for rewriting the play.
We may presume that it underwent a complete revision since £6 is
the usual payment for a new work. On December 1st, he received an
additional £1 for altering the work, and on December 12th £2 for
“the eande of fortewnatus for the corte.” In addition, sometime
between December 6th and 12th £10 were laid out “ffor to by thinges
for ffortunatus.” The entries indicate clearly that a revival
for the public playhouse had been planned, for which Dekker was
commissioned to rewrite the play. The performance at Court could
not have been the initial reason for the revival; otherwise the
book would not have needed a new ending so soon. After the revision
was completed, perhaps even before the Court performance had been
spoken for, the play was publicly produced. Yet, when the company
was called upon by the Queen in holiday season, it hurriedly had
Dekker furbish up a graceful and complimentary conclusion for
performance before the Queen on December 27, 1599.
While it is true that the plays chosen for Court performance had
been proven _in_ public, it is equally true that the plays were
geared _to_ the public. Usually with slight alteration, though
occasionally with much, the essentially public play was readied
for Queen Elizabeth, and later for King James and his family. The
Admiral’s men paid Middleton 5_s._ for a prologue and epilogue for
_Friar Bacon_ “for the corte” on December 14, 1602, surely a small
sum to invest in pleasing a sovereign. Of course, for the holidays
of 1599-1600, the company had paid Dekker fully £2 for alterations
to _Phaethon_ for the Court. An additional pound was laid out for
“divers thinges” for the Court. Yet when the play was brought out
two years earlier £5 had been spent on its furnishings for public
presentation.[17]
Few plays produced by the professional players received their
first performances at the Court. Reference to the summary of court
performances (Appendix A, chart iii) will show that, of 144 plays
presented at Court between 1590 and 1642, only eight seem to have
been intended especially and initially for the Court. Two were
presented in 1620, five after 1629. Only one comes from the first
decade of the seventeenth century.[18]
During the holiday season of 1602-1603 the Lord Admiral’s men gave
three plays at Court. Presumably one of these was _As Merry As
May Be_, for on November 9, 1602, John Day was given 40_s._ “in
earneste of a Boocke called mery as may be for the corte” and on
November 17th, Day, Smith, and Hathway were paid £6 more. What
the occasion was for this extraordinary procedure we cannot now
discover. The Admiral’s men were at Court on December 27, 1602,
March 6, 1603, and possibly March 8th. On which of these nights
_As Merry As May Be_ was played, we do not know. Considering the
practice of the Admiral’s men, it is not impossible that, despite
the entry by Henslowe, the first performance of _As Merry As May
Be_ was at the Fortune.
All other plays, in one way or another, show the marks of public
performance. In many instances insufficient evidence prevents
us from concluding with any certainty whether or not a Court
performance was initially envisioned; so many plays exist only as
titles in the warrants. But where evidence appears, it supports
the contention that public performance preceded Court performance.
In eight cases we have the date of the licensing of a play by Sir
Henry Herbert as well as the date of its first Court performance.
Naturally, in each case the licensing came first. Herbert’s records
give substantial support for the assumption that the plays were
acted the day they were licensed.[19] For example, Malone notes
against the license for July 29, 1629: “_The Northern Lass_,
which was acted by the King’s Company on the 29th of July, 1629.”
Moreover, for _The Witts_ by Davenant we have confirmation of
public performance before Court performance. Licensed on January
19, 1634, the King having rejected some of the severities of
Herbert’s censoring on the 9th, Mildmay saw it acted at Blackfriars
only three days later, on January 22nd. On the 28th it was given at
Court.[20]
The type of theatrical presentation especially conceived and
executed for a courtly audience was different in tone and character
from that of the popular plays. Masques and entertainments, in
their symbolic spectacles, learned allusions, and elaborate
compliments delighted royalty through novelty and flattery.
Interspersed with debate, music, and dance, these forms bore but a
cousinly relationship to the drama. Professional writers such as
Jonson, who wrote masques, had to alter their methods, for works
commissioned for royal pleasure demanded that the poet practice his
art with a difference. Sixty years later we find the same dichotomy
occurring in the work of Molière.
Being commercial enterprises, the public theaters must have
directed their energies to satisfying the customer who paid best.
Some simple calculations will demonstrate that the players were
dependent far more upon their public than their Court receipts.
The involved estimates in determining the basis for the income of
the various companies have been undertaken elsewhere and need not
be repeated here. Briefly, we can adopt the results of various
scholars.[21] From 1594 through 1596 the average number of playing
days per year, according to Henslowe’s _Diary_, was 195⅔ (1594,
206; 1595, 211; 1596, 170). Consequently, about two hundred
playing days a year in London may be regarded as average. Baldwin
concluded that the return to the actors for a 300-performance year
was £1260. On this basis the income for the minimum of 200 playing
days a year would come to £840. Harbage concludes that the average
daily attendance at the Rose was 1,250 persons. Since he divides
the total capacity of 2,494 into 870 persons in the yard at one
penny, 1,408 persons in the penny-gallery, and 216 in the two-penny
gallery (at two- and three-penny admissions respectively), the
average daily attendance in each section yields 436, 705, and
108 persons each by a simple proportionate equation. The average
daily income would then be £9.0_s._10_d._, the actors’ share being
£7.2_s._5_d._ Consequently, by multiplying this figure by 200 we
have the average yearly income for the actors of £1,424.3_s._4_d._
A final estimate, employing Harbage’s attendance figures of 1250
and John Cranford Adams’ arrangement of the Globe playhouse, yields
an income to the actors of £8.12_s._5_d._ daily, exclusive of the
Lords’ rooms, or £1724.3_s._4_d._ for 200 days. The Lords’ rooms
brought them 37_s._6_d._ additional each day, or £375 a year. In
estimating income for the Globe company, we must remember that at
least five of the sharers of the Chamberlain-King’s men were also
housekeepers and derived income from the playhouse directly.
From Elizabeth, and later from James, the Chamberlain-King’s men
received £873 between 1599 and 1609, of which amount £70 was for
relief of the company during plague time, and £30 for reimbursement
for expenses incurred during unusually lengthy travel to and from
the Court. Thus the annual average for playing was £77.6_s._, with
the court payments in the later years substantially greater than
in the early ones. Grants from Elizabeth never totaled more than 5
per cent of the income the company earned at the Globe.[22] Under
James the percentage rose to a high of about fifteen by 1609. The
increase in Court support, evident in these figures, ultimately
led the Globe company to appeal increasingly to an aristocratic
audience. But throughout the decade we are considering, the actors
depended on the pence of a large, heterogeneous public more than
upon the bounty of their prince.
The players certainly tendered courtesy and respect to the Court,
which after all was their main defense against puritanical
suppression. No doubt, at the behest of the sovereign, each
company eagerly fulfilled the service required of it. The players’
well-being in and about London as well as their prestige depended
to a significant extent on their relationship with the prince. Yet
the historical, literary, and economic evidence does not support
the attempts to demonstrate that such plays as _Macbeth_, _The
Merry Wives of Windsor_, or _Twelfth Night_ were first presented
at Court. For example, Leslie Hotson’s thesis that _Twelfth
Night_ was a tribute to the ambassador, Virginio Orsino, Duke of
Bracciano, has been challenged by Frances Keen who has reexamined
the documents.[23] Except for _Troilus and Cressida_, it is not
likely that any Shakespearean play of the Globe decade was given
its premiere anywhere else than at the Globe.
I have dealt with the repertory system at length because
insufficient attention has been paid to it. In reconstructing the
staging of any company, the character of this system cannot be
ignored. For the Globe company as well as for the other companies,
the staging of plays was conditioned by the irregular alternation
of plays, the large number of plays that had to be ready for
performance at one time, the rapidity with which new ones were
added to the repertory, the probability of revivals, and the
reliance upon the public playhouse for theatrical well-being.
Allowance for these conditions must be made in any discussion of
the play, the stage, and the actor.
Chapter Two
THE DRAMATURGY
Shakespeare’s plays of the Globe years are the highest forms of
drama to result from a century of evolution. The long-fought battle
between popular and private taste was to go on, finally to the
defeat of popular taste in the rise of the private theaters. But
in the ten years of the Globe, before the King’s men saw their
theatrical future in appealing to a Blackfriars trade, the artistic
possibilities of the popular narrative drama were abundantly
realized.
As the poet created the play, the actors rehearsed it--or very
shortly thereafter. At the Globe playhouse the intimacy between
Shakespeare and his colleagues gave unparalleled opportunity for
artistic collaboration. Through changes in status and physical
surroundings, they maintained warm personal and professional
relations. From a common creative act arose the plays that
Shakespeare penned and the productions that his friends presented.
The record of this partnership is contained in the extant scripts,
not merely in stage directions or in dialogue, but in the very
substance of the dramatist’s craft, the structure of the incidents.
To know this structure of incidents is no simple matter. Little
contemporary Elizabethan theory of the dramatist’s craft exists.[1]
Of the few contemporary essays on poesy which treat the drama,
Sidney’s The _Defence of Poesie_ (c. 1583), is not only the best
known but also the most thorough. In measuring pre-Shakespearean
drama by neoclassic standards, Sidney concludes that the early
plays lack order. Yet the characteristic that Sidney so roundly
condemned is the very one which, as we shall see, was so
skillfully mastered by the turn of the century: the narration of
an extended history covering much time and many places. By then
classicism was no longer a fixed standard. This is nowhere more
evident than in the words of Ben Jonson. The most classical of
all the Elizabethan playwrights, with the possible exception of
Chapman, Jonson contains in his remarks on the drama contradictory
tendencies not fully reconciled in theory.
The chorus to _Every Man Out of His Humour_, a Globe play, provides
the clearest expression of his views on the drama. Citing the
precedent of the Greek poets, Jonson asserts, through the choral
figure of Cordatus, that he does not see why the English poets
should not enjoy “the same licence, or free power, to illustrate
and heighten our invention as [the Greeks] did; and not bee tyed to
those strict and regular formes, which the nicenesse of a few (who
are nothing but forme) would thrust upon us” (Chorus, 267-270).
Earlier, obliged to explain the absence of the traditional forms
of classical drama, Cordatus remarks that there is no necessity
to observe them. Yet, in setting the play in England, Cordatus
quibbles over the nature of unity of place. He finds it acceptable
for the author to have “a whole Iland to run through” but scorns
those authors who, in one play, by showing “so many seas,
countries, and kingdomes, past over with such admirable dexteritie
... out-run the apprehension of their auditorie” (Chorus, 279-286).
Later in the play, despite his previous deprecation of classical
authority, Jonson justifies the almost tragic scene of Sordido’s
attempted suicide (III, ii) by resorting to the authority of
Plautus (III, viii, 88 ff.). At another point he cites Cicero’s
definition of comedy to demolish the citadel of romantic comedy
(III, vi, 202-207). Throughout, Jonson maintains a double standard,
eluding adherence to classical prescription when it suits him to
do so, citing classical authority when it supports his practice,
but at all times aware that mere imitation is neither possible nor
desirable. For, it is significant to note, Jonson does not oppose
classical form to no form at all, but “strict and regular” form to
personal invention.
Dramatic theory of the Elizabethan period is particularly
deceptive because the little that exists is usually classical
in vocabulary and orientation. Baldwin has attempted to equate
the use of classical terms with the creation of the equivalent
form. He cites Jonson’s use of the critical terms _epitasis_ and
_catastrophe_ in _Every Man Out of His Humour_, together with
similar evidence from _The New Inn_, as proof that “Jonson knows
and observes ‘the Law of Comedy’ as it has been laid down by
the sixteenth century commentators on Terence.” The epitasis is
variously defined as “the intension or exaggeration of matters” or
“the most busy part of a comedy” or “the progress of the turbations
... the knot of error.”[2] However, these generalizations have
little to do with the way in which a play is shaped. For that
we must go back to actual models. At once we see that the terms
cannot be applied to both Terence and Jonson, and yet mean the
same things. The interplay between Simo and Davus in _The Woman of
Andros_, as they attempt to outwit each other, produces a tightly
drawn comedy of situation. The display of foolery which infuriates
Macilente results in an ambling satirical comedy. Comparison
discloses that not only in tone and content but also in function
and effect the epitasis or the “busie part of the subject” differs
in each case. Clearly, in no substantial way did the Elizabethans
derive their dramatic forms from classical tradition.
In the absence of such a tradition and with the lack of a generally
accepted alternative, the theory has persisted that Elizabethan
drama lacks structural form. “The events ... are produced without
any art of connection or care of disposition,” wrote Samuel Johnson
of _Antony and Cleopatra_. Substantially the same charge has been
leveled against Shakespeare’s plays in particular and Elizabethan
drama in general. The art of Elizabethan drama, it is said, must
be sought in the characterization, in the poetic expression, in
the myth-making patterns of ideas, but not in the structure of
events. In a currently fashionable form, this view is stated quite
straightforwardly by M. C. Bradbrook. “The essential structure of
Elizabethan drama lies not in the narrative or the characters but
in the words.... [The structure] was purely poetic.”[3]
It is true that Elizabethan dramatic structure appears to be
irregular in form and haphazard in progression. Conditions of
presentation, described in the previous chapter, indicate that any
conscious artistic purpose must have been difficult to pursue. The
speed of composition, the prevalence of collaboration, and the
absence of formal standards contributed to what might be called
pragmatic dramatization. However, pragmatic dramatization did
not necessarily prevent the appearance of distinctive dramatic
forms. In fact, the winnowing process of the repertory system was
evolutionary, ensuring the development of drama in response not to
abstract theory but to the deeply ingrained artistic practices of
the age.
I. PREMISES FOR A STUDY OF SHAKESPEAREAN DRAMATIC FORM
In her constantly stimulating book _Endeavors of Art_ Madeleine
Doran introduces a new and provocative approach to the examination
of Elizabethan dramatic structure. Adopting the thesis of Heinrich
Wölfflin, expounded in his _Principles of Art History_, Doran
extends it to apply to the literary artist. Wölfflin argues that
“the art of one age differs from that of another because the
artists have different modes of imaginative beholding ... [As a
result], any change in representational content from one period to
[another is] less important to the effect of difference than the
change in style arising from difference in decorative principle”
or way of beholding.[4] Thus, the intent of the art work is less
evident in the subject treated than in the arrangement effected.
In comparing the “modes of imaginative beholding” in Renaissance
and Baroque art, Wölfflin differentiates the two styles in terms of
five categories of visual opposites, one of which is diffusion of
effect (multiplicity) versus concentration of effect (unity). This
category is the one most relevant to a consideration of dramatic
literature. By demonstrating that Renaissance art “achieves its
unity by making the parts independent as free members [and by
relating them through a] coordination of the accents,” Wölfflin
reconciles the opposites of multiplicity and unity in a concept of
“multiple unity.”[5]
In the Elizabethan age the recurrent and popular expression of this
concept is found in the image of art as a “mirror.” Hamlet’s use
of this image need not be quoted. Substantially it was anticipated
by Jonson in _Every Man Out of His Humour_:
ASPER. Well I will scourge those apes;
And to these courteous eyes [of the audience] oppose a mirrour,
As large as is the stage, whereon we act:
Where they shall see the times deformitie
Anatomiz’d in every nerve, and sinnew,
With constant courage, and contempt of feare.
[Chorus, 117-122]
Both uses of the image reveal that the reflection is to be of
the times and to be directed at the spectator. That the mirror
is inherent in the thinking of the Elizabethan age not only as
the purpose but as the _method_ of poetry is expressed even
more clearly in Puttenham’s _The Arte of English Poesie_. In
objecting to the mingling of the qualities of lightheaded or
“phantasticall” men with poets, which “the pride of many Gentlemen
and others” insist on to the derision of poetry, Puttenham writes
that the poet’s brain “being well affected, [is] not onely
nothing disorderly or confused with any monstruous imaginations
or conceits, but very formall, and in his much multiformitie
_uniforme_, that is well proportioned, and so passing cleare, that
by [the mind], as by a glasse or mirrour, are represented unto the
soule all maner of bewtifull visions.” Later: “There be againe of
these glasses that shew thinges exceeding faire and comely; others
that shew figures monstruous & illfavored.”[6] Here the poet’s
mind, utilizing invention and imagination, is a mirror by which the
soul receives vision.
The “mirror” had two principal functions in the Elizabethan
period. One was to represent experience, in short, to achieve
verisimilitude. Miss Doran demonstrates that the Elizabethans did
not expect particular realism but universal truths. The other was
to bring together many kinds of experience. Jonson clearly means
to have the mirror turn this way and that in order to reflect a
multiple image of the times. Shakespeare implies that in showing
“virtue her own feature, scorn her own image,” the mirror held up
to nature reflects the allegorical figure Virtue, at the same time
as it reflects her evil sister, Scorn. The actual practices of the
plays illustrate that the poets sought to project multiple aspects
of a situation--Puttenham’s multiformitie--as it were by a mirror.
Consequently, they tended to give equal emphasis to the various
elements of the drama, that is, to produce a coordination rather
than a subordination of parts. What “coordination of parts” means
in dramaturgy may be seen by contrasting the relative dominance and
integration of character, plot, language, and theme in classical
and Renaissance drama.
In classical and modern “realistic” construction, plot, or the
structure of incidents, is dominant. It is an imitation of an
action to which character and language are subordinated. Although
Francis Fergusson rightly points out the difficulty of defining
the word “action,” nevertheless, he makes it clear that Aristotle
specifies that plot is the prime embodiment of the action.[7] In
this Aristotle describes the actual practice of ancient Greek
drama. The incidents embrace the total significance of a play,
for if plot, the structure of incidents, imitates the action
which is the soul of tragedy, it must also contain the meaning of
that action. Through plot the meaning radiates into character and
language. Such a pyramid of emphasis, in which certain dramatic
elements are subordinated, ensures genuine unity of action. If
Greek drama did not always realize such an ideal form, it aspired
toward such a realization.
In Renaissance construction, however, with its independent parts
and coordinated accents, unity of action is not really possible.
The structure of incidents does not implicitly contain the total
meaning of the play. Character and thought have degrees of
autonomy. They are not subordinate but coordinate with the plot.
Therefore, the plot is not the sole source of unity. Instead, unity
must arise from the dynamic interaction of the various parts of the
drama: story, character, and language. Our task is to discover how
this was accomplished.
Two habits of composition characterized the Elizabethan dramatists.
First, the poets turned to popular romance and history for the
sources of their plots. Baldwin saw one of the major problems
of the dramatists to be the shaping of narrative material to
dramatic ends, and this he believes was accomplished through the
Terentian five-act structure. Both Hardin Craig and Doran regard
the romantic story as the formative influence in English drama.[8]
Following Manly, Doran sees the miracle play as the main source
of the romantic story and, as such, a principal forerunner of the
Elizabethan drama. Secondly, in utilizing these materials, “English
dramatists almost without exception adopted the sequential method
of action, and all the weight of classic drama did not prevail to
change their minds about it.”[9] The importance of this factor
in the molding of drama is further emphasized in Miss Doran’s
suggestion that the source material, or the story, “is often the
chief determinant of whether or not a play is well organized.”[10]
A glance at the play list of the Globe’s company reveals that with
the possible exception of _Every Man Out of His Humour_ and _A
Larum for London_, story plays a decisive part in the flow of the
drama. But so was story or fable the groundwork of ancient Greek
drama. The differences arise from the ways in which the dramatists
of each age treated their stories.
To begin with, the English dramatists retained a very large portion
of a given story. They arranged but did not eliminate. In fact,
they frequently supplied additional events. In _A Larum for London_
we find scene after scene illustrating the awful fate that befell
the people of Antwerp at the hands of the Spanish. A copious
montage of horrors passes across the stage. This multiplicity of
events is a prime characteristic of this drama. To the Lear story
Shakespeare adds the tale of Gloucester, to that of Helena and
Bertram the story of Parolles.
Having taken a bustling story as his basis, the poet had to
arrange all the events in dramatic order. According to Doran he
had to find “a different method from the classical in two central
problems of form: how to get concentration, and how to achieve
organic structure, that is, how to achieve an action causally
connected from beginning to middle to end.”[11] However, Bradbrook
has rightly pointed out that in Elizabethan drama “consecutive
or causal succession of events is not of the first importance.”
With this observation, she dismisses narrative as not being one of
the first concerns of the dramatists.[12] Certainly Bradbrook is
right about the absence of Aristotelian causality, as the briefest
review of most Elizabethan plays will show. The events leading to
Cordelia’s death are without cause unless we choose chance as the
cause. It is by chance she is captured, it is by chance that Edmund
confesses too late.
The issue, however, is joined incorrectly. Organic structure,
in this type of drama, is not a product of “causally connected
events.” Nor can the absence of such connection minimize the
dependence of Elizabethan dramaturgy upon narrative progression. To
appreciate this point of view, we must comprehend the difference
between how we usually expect a play to be linked causally and how
the Elizabethans employed dramatic causation.
I believe that I follow most critics in deriving the concept of
dramatic causation from Aristotle’s admonition that “the plot ...
must imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union
of the parts being such that, if any one of them is displaced
or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed.” The
Aristotelian plot is compressive and retrospective. Its method
is to submit man to an intolerable pressure until there is a
single bursting point that shatters life. A single act, invariably
occurring before the play begins, initiates a series of events
which, linked together in a probable and necessary sequence,
produces the catastrophe, which once again casts back to the
original source of momentum. Such linear intensification is
promoted by the exertion of tremendous will on the part of the
leading characters. Antigone’s willful piety clashes with Creon’s
statism, Philoctetes’ desire for revenge and Ulysses’ desire for
victory at Troy combine within Neoptolemus in a conflict between
honor and duty. All incidents develop out of the wills of the
characters. Incident counteracts incident. For example, before
Oedipus can fully digest the charge of Tiresias, he accuses Creon
of treachery. Creon responds to the charge, but before their
conflict can be resolved, Jocasta tries to reconcile them, the
very act of which brings Oedipus closer to the awesome truth.
Focus is upon the drama mounting to the climax: the scenes leading
to Oedipus’ discovery, the struggle leading to Neoptolemus’
decision, or the near disaster leading to the ultimate revelation
of Ion’s origin. To sum up, a play linked causally dramatizes
all the crucial causes of major actions, maintaining due balance
between the force of the motive and the intensity of effect, the
action mounting from cause to effect to cause, so that at any
point we are aware of what circumstances led to one and only one
result. Suspense is a natural corollary of such organization, and
concentration of effect is its aim.
It is apparent that the Elizabethan dramatists did not address
themselves to the organization of that type of sequence. Very
few plays of theirs can be found where closely linked causation
produces the denouement. First, the causes for significant
changes are frequently assumed or implied and not dramatized. Why
Lear divides his kingdom, why Cleopatra flees the battle, why
Angelo repents remain unrevealed. Iago promises to show Roderigo
“such a necessity in his [Claudio’s] death that you shall think
yourself bound to put it on him” (IV, ii, 247-248), and later
Roderigo, waiting to assail Claudio, affirms that Iago “hath
given me satisfying reasons” (V, i, 9). Between the scenes some
justification, unknown to us, was given Roderigo by Iago. The
revelation of Lady Macbeth’s haunting nightmares actually serves
as a _peripeteia_ which, Aristotle warns, must be “subject always
to our rule of probability, or necessity.” But this reversal is
not the result of a succession of events leading to a necessary
end, unless we regard it as having taken place off-stage. Such an
end may be probable, of course, but we are given no insight into
the forces that make it probable. Nor apparently did Shakespeare
feel it incumbent upon him to show these forces. That we accept the
sleep-walking scene is not so much because it is either inevitable
or likely, but because of all things in the realm of possibility
that could have befallen the woman, her nightmares so perfectly
satisfy both our sense of justice and our inclination toward pity
at the same time.
Secondly, the causes for significant changes, when dramatized, are
not always commensurate with the effects. To make itself felt, a
dramatic cause, in the Aristotelian sense, must have sufficient
weight to produce the effect it does; a great cause must not
produce a puny effort, nor a puny effort a great result. Yet this
lack of proportion occurs often in Shakespeare. The ease with
which Iago secures Desdemona’s handkerchief from Emilia, though she
wonders at the purpose of his request, does not balance the awful
consequences. Brutus’ and Cassius’ meager dispute over whether or
not to allow Antony to speak at Caesar’s funeral is overshadowed by
the fatal results. Here, as elsewhere, the perfunctoriness of the
struggle between two antagonists is out of proportion to the effect
that follows. The appearance of such imbalance, however, is not the
result of ineptitude, but of artistic choice. Interest was not in
the conflict leading to a decision, but the effect of the decision
itself. The causes of action, therefore, tended to be taken for
granted or conveyed with minimum emphasis; in other words, they
were not regarded as being of first importance and so did not need
to be dramatized with particularity. This attitude contributed
largely to the looseness with which parts of a play are joined.
Causation, of course, was not completely abandoned, but it was
generalized. Largely it resided in the given circumstances of the
initial action, as Lear’s pride leading him to reject Cordelia
or Cleopatra’s womanhood causing her to flee. For, within the
Elizabethan scheme of man’s relation to his action, tightly linked
causation was incomprehensible.
Nor was the alternative to causal succession, episodic structure,
“a stringing together of events in mere temporal succession [where]
each complication is solved as it arises.”[13] For dramatic
causation of the parts, the Elizabethan substituted a rhythmic
framework for the whole. The dramatization of a complete story
employing many characters meant that within the scope of the
narrative lay many plausible events. This gave the poet a wide
choice of incidents with which to arrange his plot, the scope of
the narrative imparting a limit of its own. Concurrently, the
tendency for “mirroring” nature led him to choose scenes which
would contrast or echo others or which would illustrate various
facets of a single experience.
In such a drama the first scenes perform a vital function. They
establish the premises upon which the action will be built. Little
exposition is necessary, for not much has happened before the
play opens. It is curious to note that almost all the principal
characters are in a state of inertia at the beginning of the
action. Hamlet, sorely distressed by his mother’s marriage, is
not about to act. Rosalind, Cordelia, Lear, Antony, Cleopatra,
Brutus, Macbeth, Timon all are uncommitted to anything but the
state, happy or troubled, wherein we first see them. Usually some
force, either early in the first scenes or just before them, impels
the characters to act. This type of opening contributes to the
impression, first, that the play is a self-contained microcosm and,
second, that the first scenes are illustrations.
_Antony and Cleopatra_ offers a model for such an opening.
The comments of Demetrius and Philo provide the frame for the
illustration-premise of Antony’s love for Cleopatra and his
rejection of Rome. Though the messenger from Rome does propel the
action forward, calling Antony to Caesar, his arrival is handled in
a ritualistic manner. We might consider this demonstration of the
premise as analogous to the statement of a theme in music. Just as
a composer announces his musical idea, the Elizabethan dramatist
illustrates his dramatic idea, proceeding from it to the variations
which occupy the balance of the play.[14]
Stemming from these premises are two lines of progression,
one narrative, one dramatic. The first, which is essentially
concerned with what _happens_ to the characters, follows a line
of development to the very last scene. The second, which involves
what the characters _undergo_, reaches fullness somewhere near the
center of the play.
The narrative line, what happens, proceeds linearly to the finale.
In _Lear_, this is concerned with the story of two fathers deceived
by certain of their children; through deception they give these
children their trust and power; they suffer at their hands;
ultimately they are vindicated by their faithful children. All the
plots and intrigues are part of the narrative. Not until Edgar
fells Edmund are these plots unmasked.
The dramatic line, what the characters undergo, extends to heights
of passion at the center of the play and then contracts. This line
in _Lear_ is concerned with how a proud man endures curbs on his
nature and is reduced to humility. In the first half of the play
Lear, asserting his arrogance to the fullest, passes to the limits
of madness. In the second, he acquiesces to suffering, one might
say, becomes detached from it. Extension and contraction is the
pattern, extension of the potentialities of the premises of the
action, contraction of the effects after they have reached their
fulfillment.
Such parallel development of a play’s action produces contradictory
impulses in the drama. On one hand there existed the impulse to
complete the story, on the other there persisted the temptation
to dilate upon the effect of the action upon the individuals. One
reason why modern audiences suffer from “fourth act fatigue” in
witnessing a Shakespearean play stems from the fact that their
interest in the play is disproportionate. They have a greater
interest in the dramatic line than in the narrative. For the
Elizabethan audience the interest must have been more evenly
balanced. For them the finale, the completion of the narrative
line, had as much appeal as the “climax,” the height of the
dramatic line.
II. FORM AND FUNCTION IN THE FINALES OF THE GLOBE PLAYS
We find a surprising similarity in the finales. Almost every one
of the Globe plays contains a public resolution. Seldom is the
conclusion private. The final scene of _Every Man Out of His
Humour_ containing the last of Macilente’s purgations is one of
the exceptions, as are the conclusions of _A Larum for London_
and in some respects of _The Devil’s Charter_. In the latter
play a spectacular conclusion representing the damnation of Pope
Alexander is appended to a grand finale. All the other eleven
non-Shakespearean plays terminate in a finale that is ceremonious
and public. Of the fifteen Shakespearean plays produced between
1599 and 1609 only _Troilus and Cressida_ clearly dispenses with
this type of finale. Thus, of the twenty-nine plays presented by
the Globe company, twenty-five have a public accounting for the
preceding action.
The importance of ending a play with a public exhibition is
demonstrated by the amount of contrivance effected in some plays to
ensure a grand finale. In the _Fair Maid of Bristow_, King Richard
suddenly grants Anabell the right to produce a champion for
Vallenger. By doing so, however, he permits a last, grand discovery
and sacrifice scene to be played. Other examples can be found in
Shakespeare’s plays. One of the objections to _Measure for Measure_
has been the forced manner in which the Duke succeeds in bringing
the conclusion to public trial. This may equally well be the charge
against _All’s Well_. Yet, whether or not it evolves logically from
the preceding action, the great closing scene is a marked formal
characteristic of this drama.
Several things may happen in the finale, either separately or
jointly. In romance and comedy love triumphs. Any punishment that
deserves to be meted out is usually tempered. Angelo “perceives
he’s safe” in _Measure for Measure_ and Malvolio will be entreated
to a peace. In tragedy justice prevails, even though the hero may
die in the process. In comedy, the substance of the finale is the
working out of the complications or confusions which impede love,
in tragedy, the overcoming of evil forces that destroy a just
order. In some instances, notably _Measure for Measure_, both love
and justice triumph.
Common to all the Globe plays are:
(1) a means for bringing about justice or of winning love: the most
frequent means are discovery of the identity of disguised persons,
trial, execution, repentance, single combat, suicide;
(2) a judge-figure who pronounces judgment: he may either deliver
the verdict and/or grant mercy or, after the action has occurred,
declare the purport of the action; in finales of combat he may
serve as the avenging arm of justice;
(3) a ranking figure who reasserts order: invariably the person
of highest authority, in many plays he is identical with the
judge-figure. It is a convention of Elizabethan drama that the last
lines of a play, excluding epilogues and songs, be spoken by the
ranking figure.
In the non-Shakespearean plays, discovery, trial and/or execution,
and repentance appear most often. _Fair Maid of Bristow_ employs
both discovery and execution, _The London Prodigal_, discovery
and repentance. Excluding _Every Man Out of His Humour_, all the
non-Shakespearean plays have judge-figures. In the _Merry Devil_ it
is the father, in _Volpone_ the justices, in _Fair Maid of Bristow_
King Richard, in _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, Scarborrow
himself.[15]
This figure, sometimes central to the story, sometimes not,
usually referees the conflict and, at the conclusion, either
passes judgment or grants mercy. In two plays the formal agency
for bringing judgment about is indirect. In the brilliant reversal
scene in _Sejanus_ judgment is exercised through the absent figure
of the Emperor Tiberius. His letter read to the convocation of
senators provides the means. In turn, his judgment illustrates the
caprice of fortune and the descent of nemesis. The other play,
_Thomas Lord Cromwell_, likewise makes use of an indirect agency
as a substitute for the judge: King Henry’s delayed reprieve for
Cromwell.
Each of Shakespeare’s plays, excluding _Troilus and Cressida_,
also employs a final scene in which judgment is meted out and/or
love is won. The content of the finale may be one or a combination
of discovery, single combat, preparation for suicide, trial, and
siege.[16] In seven of his Globe plays discovery untangles the knot
of error which separated the lovers. Usually reserved for comedy,
it is employed to make Othello comprehend the horror of his act.
Discovery is also combined with repentance in _All’s Well_ and with
trial in _Measure for Measure_. In _Timon_ the framework of the
siege contains a trial.
In his use of formal agents Shakespeare is more subtle than his
fellow playwrights. Only six plays contain judge-figures central
to the action: the King in _All’s Well_, the “lords o’ the city”
in _Coriolanus_, Alcibiades in _Timon_ and, in an ingenious use
of this device, Hymen in _As You Like It_, and finally the Dukes
in _Measure for Measure_ and _Twelfth Night_. In describing
Shakespeare’s use of the Duke as a type figure, C. B. Watson points
out that “at the end of a play the role of the Duke is threefold:
he acts to resolve the conflict in the interests of justice; he
grants mercy to the offenders; and finally he plays the host at
the festivities which are presumably to follow on the successful
resolution of the dramatic conflict.”[17]
Into the other eight plays Shakespeare introduced more subtle
methods of passing judgment. Two of them show a common pattern.
Although a judge-figure is present, the true judgment is made
by the hero. Antony is the judge-figure in _Julius Caesar_, and
Octavius in _Antony and Cleopatra_, but in each case the hero by
committing suicide substitutes his or her own judgment for that of
other authority. Both Brutus and Cleopatra prepare for self-death
elaborately. It becomes a means of warding off ignominy and gaining
glory. In _Othello_ suicide serves the same purpose with only
this difference, that Othello’s own strong sense of justice makes
it unnecessary to have a judge-figure. The ranking figure, in
each of these plays, is handled differently. In _Julius Caesar_,
Octavius has this role, in _Othello_, Lodovico, and in _Antony and
Cleopatra_, Octavius is both judge and ranking figure.
In each of three other plays, _Lear_, _Macbeth_, and _Hamlet_, true
judgment is rendered through a fateful single combat in which one
combatant represents the forces of light, the other of darkness. In
_Merry Wives_ we find a double judgment. Mockery is the judgment
passed on Falstaff and forgiveness that awarded Fenton and Ann.
Like _Othello_, _Pericles_ lacks a judge-figure during the finale.
Instead, the goddess Diana (V, i) has played that role in the act
of directing Pericles to the discovery of Thaisa. Thus, in both the
Shakespearean and non-Shakespearean plays the same kind of formal
conclusion rounds out the story. This particular kind of conclusion
reflects the moral ideals of Elizabethan society, the achievement
of salvation or order or love through judgment.
Another characteristic of the concluding scene is that it is a
narrative conclusion in which the initial situation is brought
to a complete close rather than a thematic conclusion in which
the implications of the theme are ultimately dramatized. Several
elements of the narrative are introduced early in _As You Like
It_. They are Oliver’s alienation of Orlando’s heritage, Duke
Frederick’s usurpation of his brother’s throne, and the love of
Rosalind and Orlando. The thematic elements are indirectly related
to the plot. They make themselves felt obliquely. But they are not
embodied in the main action of the finale, nor, being contrasting
expressions of the quality of love rather than moral injunctions,
can they be so embodied. In fact, the thematic elements are absent
from the finale, which is concerned with the tying of many a
lover’s knot and the appropriate resignation of Duke Frederick. The
same holds true for _Hamlet_. The true issue, Hamlet’s inability
to “set things right,” is resolved when Hamlet comes to a tranquil
peace with his soul and accepts the guidance of providence in the
scene with Horatio immediately preceding the duel (V, ii). However,
the story has to be completed, and ironically Hamlet achieves by
chance what he could not gain by design. In only a few plays do
the thematic and narrative issues merge in the final moments of
the action. _Othello_ of all Shakespeare’s plays offers the finest
example of this concurrence, and perhaps because of this fact many
critics regard _Othello_ as Shakespeare’s finest piece of dramatic
construction. Such regard, however, is founded upon Aristotelian
premises. For an Elizabethan the concurrence was incidental.
Particularly vital to our understanding of the conclusion is the
place that climax or catastrophe occupies in the last scenes.
The finales of Shakespeare’s Globe plays often fail to produce a
climactic effect because the completion of the narrative does not
arise from the conflicting forces of the theme or action. Instead
ceremony frequently serves as a substitute for climax. By the time
the last scene began, the Elizabethan audience knew how the story
would end. But it satisfied the Elizabethan sense of ritual to see
the pageant of the conclusion acted out. The appeal of this pageant
is clearly illustrated in _Measure for Measure_, _Macbeth_, and
_As You Like It_. In these plays the rendition of judgment through
trial or combat or revelation respectively supplied the excitement
that a dramatic climax would have afforded. Nor should we
underestimate the interest such conclusions held for an Elizabethan
audience. Knight, in pointing out that the tragedies reach a climax
in Act III, suggests that the “military conflicts [at the end] were
probably far more important to an Elizabethan” than to us.[18]
But this statement has a wider applicability. Ceremony, such as
Orsino’s visit to Olivia or trial-by-combat in _Lear_ or a parley
in _Timon_, is often the frame for the finale. Because ceremony
played so vital a role in Elizabethan life, it had an unusually
strong appeal for the audience who saw it represented on the stage.
III. THE NATURE AND FORM OF THE “CLIMAX” IN THE GLOBE PLAYS
The impulse to complete the story is satisfied in the finale, as we
have seen. The impulse to dilate upon the story achieves maximum
expansion in the center of the play. The presence of scenes of
extreme complication and intense emotion at this point in the
Shakespearean plays has led to the development of the theory of a
third act climax. It has been expressed in various ways by various
scholars. Knight merely notes this grouping of intensifications.
Lawrence, anticipating Baldwin’s thesis of the five-act structure,
assumes a third act climax. Baldwin would call it the imitation
of the Terentian epitasis, and Moulton speaks of it as the center
piece at the point of a regular arch.[19]
Certainly there is marked emotional intensification at the center
of a Shakespearean play. However, if we are to call it a climax, we
must redefine our term, taking care that it not be confused with
the climax in classical or modern drama. There the climax is taken
to be a single point of extreme intensity where the conflicting
forces come to a final, irreconcilable opposition. At that point
a dramatic explosion, leading to the denouement, is the direct
outcome of the climactic release. Hedda Gabler has schemed to
accomplish the glorious ruination of Lövborg. At the very moment
when she expects to exult, she discovers that she has failed. The
climax occurs when she learns that instead of controlling others,
she herself is controlled. The denouement, her death, is a direct
consequence. Causally-linked drama, by its very nature, drives
to a “highest” point. In Greek drama it is usually a moment of
recognition and/or reversal. That is why we must be cautious of
speaking of a climax in Shakespearean drama.
If we endeavor to isolate such a climax in Elizabethan
tragedy, we run into many difficulties. For example, is the
play-within-the-play scene, the prayer scene, or the closet scene
the climax of _Hamlet_? All contain some reversal; all are highly
intense; we are emotionally swept along by them, caught up in
the melodrama of Hamlet’s device, in his mad exultation at its
effect upon Claudius, in the pathos of Claudius’ contrition, and
in the tortured uncertainty of Gertrude. But none of these scenes
alone reveals a point of climax. If there is either recognition or
reversal, it arises from accumulation of effect.
A more extended example of this diffusion of climax can be found
in _Lear_. Commencing with the famous “Blow, winds” speech, there
are four painfully intense scenes: three of Lear on the heath,
one of the blinding of Gloucester, interspersed by two brief
scenes leading to that cruel act. The Lear and Gloucester scenes
alternate. In some ways the emotional hysteria of Lear’s
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples,
drown’d the cocks!
[III, ii, 1-3]
is the most intense moment, and yet the dramatic intensification
brought about by weaving together the trials of Lear and those of
poor Tom has yet to occur. Moulton regards the meeting of those
two as the climax.[20] But in which scene? The first outside the
hovel, or the second in the shelter, where Lear arraigns his
false daughters? Granville-Barker selects an exact moment for the
climax, in the second of the storm scenes “when the proud old king
kneels humbly and alone in his wretchedness to pray. This is the
argument’s absolute height.”[21] Must, as Granville-Barker goes
on to suggest, the tension relax then during the two scenes Lear
plays with mad Tom? The reading of the storm scenes should make
it obvious that instead of a point of intensity with subsequent
slackening, we have a succession of states of intense emotional
experience: Lear’s self-identification with raging nature, Lear’s
pathetic lucidity and new-forged humility, Lear’s ultimate madness
during a fantastic trial. Each high point subsides before the next
bursts forth, not like a solitary cannon shot but like the ebb and
flow of the pounding sea. The truth seems to be that we find not
a climactic point in the center of a Shakespearean play, but a
climactic plateau, a “coordination of intense moments” sustained
for a surprisingly extended period.
_Othello_ alone of the tragedies does not have that complete
relaxation of intensity after the central “plateau.” But here it is
a matter of degree, for though the wringing of Othello’s heart by
Iago effects the maximum reversal of attitude, Othello continues
to oscillate between doubt of and belief in Desdemona’s guilt.
Thereafter, while intensity mounts to Desdemona’s death, the tone
changes. Instead of the struggle of the giant to break the bonds of
his strangling jealousy, we find a painful pathos arising from the
gap between Othello’s misconception and Desdemona’s innocence.
Those plays in which the climactic plateau is most easily
perceived, in addition to _Lear_ and _Hamlet_, are _Twelfth Night_,
III, i-iv; _Troilus and Cressida_, IV, iv, v; V, i;[22] _Macbeth_,
III, iv; IV, i; and _Antony and Cleopatra_, III, xi-xiii. Both
_Julius Caesar_ and _Coriolanus_ have intense centers of action in
the third act. In these plays, however, the crucial scenes seem
to take on the nature of a climax in the Greek sense. Antony’s
speech and the banishment of Coriolanus are points of reversal.
A closer examination, however, reveals that these peaks are
blunted. Antony does not seem to wish to let the mob depart. There
are several moments when he rouses them to action, only to pull
them back for further inspiration. The climax of _Coriolanus_ is
muted even more because Coriolanus and his friends struggle with
the tribunes over the same issues twice (III, i, iii). The final
banishment merely brings to an end a conclusion already foregone.
In each scene Coriolanus’ patrician pride causes him to defy both
friend and enemy. These last two plays contract the plateau only
in degree, _Julius Caesar_ moving furthest toward a single moment
of intensity. Generally in Shakespeare we will find the centers of
action dispersed rather than concentrated, sustained rather than
released.
As we might expect, a change in the duration and level of the
climax produces a change in its nature. Lines of action leading to
crisis are foreshortened, thereby throwing fuller emphasis on the
response of the character, often expressed in lyrical ecstasy.
The center of intensity in _Lear_ demonstrates this qualitative
change. The impellent occasion for the storm scenes occurs in Act
II, scene iv. Goneril and Regan’s determination to divest him of
his royal position is brought home to Lear. He rushes into the
raging storm after the words:
You think I’ll weep:
No, I’ll not weep.
I have full cause of weeping, but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!
[II, iv, 285-289]
His heart and mind have been shaken by rejection, but this is
only the prelude to madness. The succeeding scenes on the heath
(III, ii, iv, vi) are a prolonged reaction to the rejection.
_Lear_ does not mount steadily to another stage of madness, but
reveals multiple effects of this madness: rage, bewilderment,
fantasy, vengefulness, helplessness. Instead of self-realization
at the climax, we find passionate release. Lear exceeds the limit
of emotional endurance; he can go no further in anguish. That is
the reason why he disappears from the play for the succeeding six
scenes (III, vii; IV, i-v).[23] During this absence Gloucester
loses his sight, the disguised Edgar comes to nurse his father,
Goneril and Regan separately conspire to satisfy their passions for
Edmund, and the British and French armies prepare to do battle.
After the climactic plateau comes story progression.
The distinctness of this central climactic grouping is less clear
in the non-Shakespearean plays, but the elements are there, if only
in rudimentary form. Even where the “plateau” is not sustained, the
intensification of action and the change of direction in the middle
of a play are present. Perhaps the clearest and most consistent
evidence of this is the split structure of many plays, that is,
the progression of the story in one direction, followed by a full
or partial shift of direction after the first half. _A Larum for
London_, a not particularly well constructed play, is composed of
such interlocked halves. The first half deals with the Spanish
conquest of Antwerp through the improvidence and selfishness of
the city’s burghers (scenes i-vii). At this climactic point the
Spaniards revel in their triumph as the Duke d’Alva parcels the
town among the conquering leaders. The second half concerns the
hopeless, yet valiant struggle of a lame soldier to fight for the
town (scenes viii-xv). This same type of division is reflected in
_The London Prodigal_. Scenes i-viii relate the trick by which
Flowerdale gains the hand of Luce; scenes ix-xii depict his descent
into the depths of prodigality before he is finally redeemed.
Here, however, the climactic scene (scene viii) involves more
anticipation than response though there are three relatively equal
heights of intensity: the father’s rejection of the daughter who
remains faithful to her husband the prodigal, the daughter’s plea
for her husband’s freedom from arrest, and the prodigal’s abuse of
his wife. Among the other plays which display the split structure
are _Thomas Lord Cromwell_ and, in part, _The Revenger’s Tragedy_.
Of all the non-Shakespearean plays, Jonson’s _Sejanus_ comes
closest to duplicating Shakespeare’s use of the climactic plateau.
The rise of Sejanus is steady. He encompasses the death of Drusus,
he effects the destruction of his opponents, and finally he
attempts the conquest of Tiberius himself by seeking permission
to marry Livia of the imperial house. Blocked in this, he urges
Tiberius’ departure from Rome, and in a closing soliloquy, seeing
himself conqueror of those who hate him, exults:
For when they see me arbiter of all,
They must observe: or else, with Caesar fall.
[III, 621-622]
Sejanus shows excessive pride in his own power, a joyous release of
self-esteem. After this speech he disappears from the play until
the opening of the fifth act. Meanwhile, Tiberius secretly turns
to Marco as a supplementary and independent agent, thus effecting
a change of direction in the play. Just when Sejanus expects to
“draw all dispatches through my private hands,” Tiberius crosses
him. Jonson, following the classical models more closely than
Shakespeare, has his greatest climax fall during the last scene.
Nevertheless, clear traces of a “center of action” can be found.
The architectonic superiority of Shakespeare can be seen in the way
he raises his entire center of action to a markedly intensified
level. Potential climactic “plateaus” can be found in all the Globe
plays cited, but some are underdeveloped and do not reach the rich
florescence that makes the center of a Shakespearean play such an
overwhelming dramatic experience. Perhaps the absence of superior
poetic powers prevented the minor playwrights from realizing the
full possibilities of this form. Nevertheless, despite the gap
between the levels of their achievements, Shakespeare and his
fellow playwrights of the Globe generally built their plays along
the same structural lines.
IV. STRUCTURAL PATTERNS IN THE DRAMATIC NARRATIVE
The absence of linked causation naturally meant that the action
was not linear. Incidents leading to the finale or to the
climactic plateau did not follow one another in a succession of
tightly meshed events but in a series of alternating scenes. To
illustrate, between the first expression of Maria’s scheme against
Malvolio (II, iii) and the first working of the scheme (II, v)
intervenes the lyrical scene between Viola and Orsino (II, iv).
Such separation of parts of the story encouraged the independence
of one scene from another, the very thing complained of by some
scholars. Schücking suggests that Shakespeare shows “a tendency
to episodic intensification,” that is, the development of a scene
at the expense of the whole.[24] F. L. Lucas expresses the same
idea in his introduction to the works of Webster, asserting that
the Elizabethan audiences reacted to separate scenes rather than
to a whole play. The tendency to which they refer can be found
in the three Falstaff-Merry Wives scenes. In the first of the
scenes, Falstaff, caught in his love-game, hides in the buck
basket, only to be dumped into the Thames. Here we have a complete
action. Falstaff makes an advance, and he is repulsed. There is no
counteraction on his part. If he were in a Roman comedy, he would
have plotted how to punish his offenders or how to encompass
the women again, and thus the second scene would have resulted
from a counteraction on the part of Mistress Ford and Mistress
Page. Instead Falstaff is persuaded to repeat the same adventure
with similar results. The second scene is not more farcical or
more extravagant than the first; it is merely different. In place
of intensification we find fresh invention. The third scene
again does not grow out of the preceding scene, but out of the
husbands’ decision to shame the fat man publicly. All of the
Falstaff-Mistress Page-Mistress Ford scenes have a beginning, a
middle, and an end. They make themselves felt at the conclusion not
by intensification but by accumulation.
Though in other plays of Shakespeare the scenes may be more closely
joined, yet there is always a sense of their independence from
one another. As I have said, _Othello_, of all the tragedies, is
probably the most closely interwoven in plot. The deception scene
(III, iii) is an example of an extended scene tying together
several actions. But even in this play, we find an autonomous
scene, and that near the end of the play. Half mad, playing the
gruesome mockery of a visitor to a brothel, Othello questions
first Emilia, then Desdemona (IV, ii). Othello arrives convinced
of Desdemona’s guilt; he leaves with the same conviction. It is
neither augmented nor dispelled. That the scene does not advance
the action in no way detracts from its dramatic effectiveness, but
it does reflect on the handling of the story. In the advancement of
the classical drama, all scenes are integrated into a single line
of action. In the progression of the Shakespearean play, scenes may
be regarded as clustering about the story line. If this suggests
an image of a grapevine, perhaps it is apt, for the scenes often
appear to be hanging from a thread of narrative.
But a scene that may be semiautonomous insofar as the story line
is involved may be central insofar as the climactic plateau is
concerned. Such is the closet scene in _Hamlet_. Note how quickly
Shakespeare disposes of Polonius. The murder of the old man does
advance the plot, of course, for it causes Ophelia’s madness and
brings Laertes back from France. But the murder is a minor part of
the closet scene. Of its entire 217 lines, the action involving
Polonius occupies, both at the beginning and at the end, forty
lines (1-33, 211-217). Another eleven lines are occupied with
Hamlet’s recollection that he must go to England (199-210). The
remaining 166 lines are devoted to the relation of mother and son
and the visitation of the ghost. Certainly the scene is dramatic,
in fact, one of the most dramatic in all literature. Yet it does
not carry the action on to a new stage, but allows Hamlet to
express his disapproval and suspicion of his mother. In fact,
the central portion of the scene leaves no trace on the plot.
Though Gertrude is shaken by Hamlet’s accusations against his
uncle and herself, there is no indication that her attitude toward
Claudius changes as a result. Nor is Hamlet purged by the meeting.
Neither is the decision to send Hamlet to England brought about
by it, for the King had determined to send him there immediately
after the nunnery scene (III, i, 175-183). The closet scene
opens with Polonius’ murder and closes with a return to Hamlet’s
responsibility for the act. In between Hamlet relieves his soul of
the stifled passion against his mother.
Certainly a drama composed of these semiautonomous scenes loses
not unity necessarily, but compression. What it foregoes in that
direction it makes up for in extension. Instead of the story
eliminating incidents not strictly contributing to a final climax,
it serves as a point of departure. When Orestes meets his mother,
his behavior must follow the demands of the plot, and Aeschylus
allows him only one pitiful question to Pylades: Must he kill
his mother? The Elizabethan form permits the full relationship
of the mother and son to be explored. Like a mirror the scene
casts an additional reflection of the image that is Hamlet. For
this advantage of multiplicity of implication the Elizabethan
sacrificed concentration of effect. Unable to grasp this shift in
emphasis, many critics have treated the lack of concentration in
Shakespearean structure as evidence that the poet did not know
how to construct plays. As we saw, Dr. Johnson dismissed the
construction of _Antony and Cleopatra_ with the comment that the
events “are produced without any art of connection or care of
disposition.” Schücking, about a hundred and fifty years later,
dismisses Shakespeare’s structural practices as primitive. The
conclusion is the same though the reasons may differ. But until we
can meet Elizabethan structure on its own terms, we really do not
know what its failures were. When we deprecate the skill of the
playwrights, let us remember that the University Wits, men trained
in the Terentian, Plautine, and Senecan manner, were the ones who
developed the popular Elizabethan mode. The fate that awaited them
if they did not adhere to it is keenly illustrated by Kyd’s failure
as a classicist.
Within the general form of extension and contraction, extension
to a climactic plateau, contraction to a ceremonious finale,
appear variant structural patterns. To reduce the total structural
pattern of Elizabethan drama to a single form, or even to two or
three forms, is virtually impossible. The age was multiple in its
artistic means. Yet the inability to do this does not mean that
no structural form existed, but that many existed. Not only was
there structural variety in the works of different men, but there
were differences within the work of one man. Nevertheless, certain
dominant patterns emerge, and while the following descriptions are
not exhaustive, they include a large proportion of the Globe plays.
Three structural patterns recur frequently in the Globe plays:
the episodic, the “river,” and the “mirror” patterns. In a crude
form the episodic pattern can be found in the early Shakespearean
histories. There its basic nature can be anatomized. On the thread
either of a historical or of a biographical sequence a series of
events is arranged in succession. The most marked characteristic
of this form is that one event or incident is completed before
another one is begun. Among the Globe plays of our period _Thomas
Lord Cromwell_ is a typical example of this type. Cromwell passes
through a series of events complete in themselves: his kindness to
a distraught woman in Antwerp, his succor of an Italian merchant,
his success in freeing the Earl of Bedford from capture, his
service to Wolsey, and his downfall at the hands of Gardiner.
Although the Earl of Bedford reappears during Cromwell’s conflict
with Gardiner, and remembering his rescue, endeavors to help
Cromwell, the two sections of the play are not really joined. In
this play, despite the fact that Cromwell himself provides the
mechanical unity that binds the play, the dramatic unity, if there
is any, is multiple. The various scenes reflect Cromwell’s virtues
of honesty, humanity, and loyalty, thus giving a thematic wholeness
to the entire play.
Since Aristotle penned his notes called _Poetics_, the episodic
play has been in disrepute. Today it is difficult to imagine that
it could rise to dramatic heights. Yet if we closely examine the
structure of such a play as _Macbeth_, we shall realize that it is
episodic in form. Of course, there are vital alterations in that
form. Primarily, there is preparation for on-coming events. Instead
of one event being completed before another one is initiated, we
find that brief scenes are planted earlier to make the development
plausible. The potential danger of Banquo to Macbeth’s ambitions
is established by the witches. It is touched on before the murder
of Duncan, but it is not woven into the fabric of the action at
that time. At first, the overwhelming emphasis is upon the triangle
of Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, and the crown. Once Duncan is disposed
of, the Banquo action comes into prominence, and full attention is
devoted to it. Early hints of Macduff’s defection are introduced,
but not until Banquo is dead does the play really concentrate on
Macduff. For Macbeth’s second meeting with the witches there is
almost no preparation. Until the end of the banquet scene, we
do not even know he is aware of their abode. Until this moment,
although the play reveals an episodic structure, it is more tightly
knit than most of Shakespeare’s other works. After the visit of
Macbeth to the witches’ hovel, the episodic pattern becomes more
distinct. The conception of Macbeth as a character accents the
episodic quality. He struggles only to reach the immediate goal;
there is no ultimate point in the universe toward which he moves.
Sejanus, in comparison, reduces the episodic quality of his drama
because his eyes are always upon becoming Caesar, the symbol of
a god on earth. Immediate intrigues are but part of the larger
aim. For this concentration Jonson lost the opportunity for those
very magnificent scenes which make _Macbeth_ a great play. Among
other of Shakespeare’s plays of this period which employ the
episodic pattern are _Hamlet_, _Coriolanus_, and _Julius Caesar_.
What strikes many critics as a lack of unity in _Hamlet_ is its
particular pattern. Once the conditions imposed on Hamlet by the
Ghost are revealed, we witness the following sequence: the place
of love in Hamlet’s mind, the testing of Claudius at the play, the
relation of mother and son. Each event is prepared for, but each
in turn gains full emphasis. Nor does one event bear causative
relationship to another. Though Claudius is suspicious of Hamlet
at the conclusion of the nunnery scene, he indicates no unusual
watchfulness over Hamlet during the play-within-the-play scene. It
is as though the conflict of the previous scene has been resolved
with Claudius’ determination to send Hamlet to England. As a point
in the story this idea is established and comes into the play when
needed at the end of the closet scene. And, of course, the closet
scene is not a dramatic result of the play scene. The idea that
Hamlet be summoned to his mother is advanced by Polonius earlier,
and whether or not Hamlet had offended the King, the meeting would
have taken place. Here, then, is a skillful manipulation of the
structural characteristics of the episodic pattern.
The second pattern I have named the “river” pattern. I use the
term because its dramatic action resembles the flow of various
tributaries into a single stream. Perhaps the best example of
this type of structure can be found in _Twelfth Night_. Two
streams of action are of almost equal breadth and depth; the
third is merely a trickle until it joins the main flow. One main
stream we may call the Orsino-Olivia-Viola action. The other
is the Toby-Andrew-Malvolio action. The minor stream is the
Antonio-Sebastian sequence. The principal determinant of such a
structure is the length of time during which each action remains
independent of the others. The first two actions remain completely
independent through Acts I and II. A slight link is provided in
Act III, scene i, when Malvolio courts Olivia. The full merging of
the two actions takes place in Act III, scene iv. Meanwhile, the
Antonio-Sebastian thread was introduced into the story in Act II,
scene i, and in Act III, scene iii, and partly integrated with the
main action in Act III, scene iv. In the fourth act the development
of the two main threads remains suspended, Viola disappearing
from the stage to enable the Sebastian element to be more fully
integrated with the Olivia-Orsino-Viola triangle. Finally, in
the fifth act, every element is brought together, including the
Malvolio sequence, even though this necessitates the unprepared
revelation that Viola’s womanly garments are in the hands of a
captain who “upon some action/Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s
suit” (V, i, 282-283).
Although this form is not as prevalent as either the episodic or
the “mirror,” it can be found in a number of Globe plays, for
example, _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, _The Revenger’s Tragedy_,
and partly in _All’s Well_. _Twelfth Night_ remains, however, its
model.
Last of the three dominant forms and the most popular one is the
“mirror” pattern. Usually it consists of two stories, almost
equal in emphasis. Both are introduced independently and maintain
a large degree of independence throughout the play, sometimes
never fully coming into plot relation with each other. Their
fundamental connection derives from a similarity of theme and
story development. Through sharp comparison or contrast one story
casts reflections upon the other as though one were the image in
the mirror and one the reality. The distinctness of each story is
sometimes obscured by the fact that the same individual may appear
in both stories and yet maintain independence of action in each
case, at least early in the play. For example, through the first
two acts Gloucester functions independently in each of the two
stories in _Lear_.
_Fair Maid of Bristow_, among the works of the Globe repertory,
is an excellent example of this pattern. In fact, here we have
striking evidence of the structural care with which a minor play
could be organized, despite Bradbrook’s assertion that structure
is possible only through “literary means.” This play follows the
mirror pattern almost slavishly. In the first scene Challener shows
his beloved Anabell to Vallenger who falls in love with her. The
two men come to blows over the girl. Challener wounds Vallenger and
then flees while Vallenger is taken into Anabell’s house by her
father. In the second scene Harbart tries to persuade Sentloe not
to remain with the courtesan, Florence. But Sentloe, blind to her
fickleness and confident of her devotion, rejects Harbart. Harbart
vows to follow Sentloe in disguise. In the third scene Vallenger
gains the promise of Anabell’s hand. In the fourth scene Challener,
learning of the impending marriage, returns to Bristow in the
disguise of an Italian doctor. In the fifth scene Sentloe engages
Blunt alias Harbart as a servingman, and Sentloe and Florence are
invited to Anabell’s wedding. At this point in the play we can
identify two parallel centers of action. Each contains a “loving”
couple, and a friend in disguise. In one Challener hates Vallenger
and loves Anabell; in the other Harbart hates Florence and loves
Sentloe.
Scene vi (nearly the middle of the play, since there are fourteen
scenes in all) dramatizes the first blending of the two actions.
Immediately after his marriage, Vallenger falls in love with
Florence and suborns the doctor to poison Sentloe and Anabell.
Later, in scene vii, Florence seduces Blunt to slay Sentloe. In
each case the sworn protector is asked to commit the murder. In
scene vii we have a typical “digression,” a comic courting scene
of two servants. The theme, however, is faithfulness. Douse, the
maid, asks whether Frog, after their marriage, “will ... not prove
unkind?” Frog, in comic doggerel, vows, among other things, that
only “when Lawiers have no tongues at all” will he prove unkind.
The idea contrasts with the succeeding scenes in which Vallenger
proves unkind to Anabell, only to have Florence subsequently
prove unkind to him. The two stories are more tightly joined
when Blunt contrives to have Vallenger arrested for the “death”
of Sentloe. The rest of the play proceeds by contrasting action.
Anabell seeks to save the life of Vallenger and Blunt seeks to
have Florence held responsible for her part in Sentloe’s “death.”
The finale is brought about when King Richard, the judge-figure,
permits a champion to appear for the condemned Vallenger. The final
contrast comes when Anabell assumes a disguise to free Vallenger,
and Challener throws off his disguise for the same purpose. Only
when Florence is moved to contrition by the nobility of Anabell
and Challener, does Blunt unveil the still-living Sentloe, thus
assuring a happy conclusion. Throughout, one line of development
balances the other, and though the symmetry is not perfect, as it
is rarely perfect in any Elizabethan play, the basic situations
contrast with one another. Obviously the author had taken some care
in organizing the plot. The disguises are well worked out, as are
the balancing and interweaving of the two stories. Further evidence
of the care in plotting can be seen in the foreshadowing of King
Richard’s appearance in the plot when Harbart, in scene ii, urges
Sentloe to abandon Florence and join Richard in the Holy Land.
Richard’s first words are a blessing for being permitted by God to
return home. Both in the larger construction and in smaller details
the anonymous poet formed his work with care. What the play lacks
is not organization of the story but strength of characterization,
richness of poetic texture, and fresh outlook upon the prodigal son
theme.
Among Shakespeare’s plays of the Globe period this pattern
frequently appears. _As You Like It_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _King
Lear_, and, in some respects, _Antony and Cleopatra_ reveal such a
form. In _As You Like It_, _Lear_, and _Troilus and Cressida_, it
is particularly well defined. Although this type of organization
is best adapted to plays with double plots, it is only a little
less effective in other plots. _As You Like It_, while it possesses
rudimentary double plots in the Orlando-Oliver story and the Duke
Frederick-Rosalind story, relies principally upon the balance of
love relationships that grow in the Forest of Arden. _Lear_, on
the other hand, contains a full double plot. The parallel of the
two stories with the balance of cruelty of father-to-daughter
and son-to-father is too well known to need repetition here. It
is sufficient to point out that in situation after situation one
story highlights and reflects the other. The stories join in the
storm scenes, separate, join again when blind Gloucester meets mad
Lear, separate, and join again when Edgar’s defeat of Edmund leads
to the disclosure of the plot against Lear and Cordelia. If the
form does not appear to be as mechanical as I have described it
and if much of the cross-reflection is implicit in the poetry and
characterization, this is attributable to Shakespeare’s genius, not
to the absence of structural underpinning.
V. SCENE STRUCTURE IN SHAKESPEARE
In an earlier part of this chapter I emphasized the importance of
the separate scenes as distinct units. At this point I should like
to draw attention to certain characteristics of the scenes. Usually
a portion of one action or story is not followed by an advance or
counteraction, but by a new line of development, often containing
completely different characters. This we take for granted in
Elizabethan drama. The absence of liaison is emphasized by the way
in which scenes are arranged. Some scenes, such as the one which
Hamlet brings to a close with the cry
The play’s the thing
Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the King.
[II, ii, 632-633]
conclude with a strong emotional lift at the same time as they
thrust the interest forward. Some scenes, which I shall call
“leading” scenes, produce a forceful dramatic or theatrical
pointing. The brief scene in which Artimedorus prepares to give
Caesar a petition warning him of the conspirators is such a scene;
so is the one in which Duke Frederick thrusts Oliver out of doors
until he can produce Celia. These “leading” scenes are usually
brief and drive the story forward with great energy. But most
scenes in Shakespeare contain an anticlimactic conclusion: they
are rounded off, relaxed, brought to a subdued end. Here we must
distinguish between dramatic force and story development. It is the
dramatic force that is softened at the same time that the story
line is brought to the fore. Upon Viola’s first visit Olivia falls
in love with the “youth” (I, v). She sends a ring after “him”
through Malvolio, then closes the scene with four lines:
I do I know not what, and fear to find
Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind.
Fate, show thy force! Ourselves we do not owe.
What is decreed must be--and be this so!
[327-330]
Yet compare this with her feeling before she sends Malvolio off:
How now?
Even so quickly may one catch the plague?
Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections
With an invisible and subtle stealth
To creep in at mine eyes.
[313-317]
Clearly there is a diminution of intensity toward the end. The same
thing occurs in the center of the play (III, iv). Viola denies
knowing Antonio, but after his arrest she realizes that he has
confused her with Sebastian. The scene does not end on that uplift
of discovery. Viola goes off in delight; Toby sends Andrew after to
beat the page. Fabian and Toby remain for a moment:
FABIAN. Come, let’s see the event.
TOBY. I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.
[III, iv, 430-431]
The final remark is almost desultory. By gradual stages the
emotional pitch of the scene is lowered. Shakespeare could easily
have given Toby a final line that would have carried the play
forward with more vigor. But this was not the way of Shakespeare
or, for that matter, of his colleagues.
The falling off of intensity toward the end of a scene is even
more marked in the tragedies. In sequence the arrangement of the
subdued and pointed endings of scenes helps determine the rhythm
of the play. For example, the “plateau” in _Hamlet_ is unified by
the way in which the endings of the play-within-the-play scene and
the prayer scene point forward, not only in story but in emotional
level, each one concluding with Hamlet passionately wrought.
Another variation, vital to the rhythm of performance, occurs in
the “climactic plateau” of _Lear_. The first storm scene (III, ii)
with Lear ends subdued. It is followed by a “leading” scene of only
twenty-six lines in which Edmund decides to betray his father. The
next storm scene (III, iv) also ends subdued after Lear’s meeting
with poor Tom. Another leading scene, again of twenty-six lines,
drives forward with Edmund’s betrayal of Gloucester to Cornwall
who orders him to “seek out” his father. The last storm scene
(III, vi) concludes with Edgar’s realization of the similarity of
his plight to that of Lear. Though the end is keyed low, the note
struck is ominous. The very next scene rises to a pitch of frenzy
in the blinding of Gloucester. In the Folio it concludes abruptly
with Cornwall’s order to drive out Gloucester, but the Quarto has
a dialogue between two servants which, serving to round out the
action, seems more typical of Shakespeare.
Within the framework of an Elizabethan scene, perhaps the most
marked characteristic is the placement of emphasis not on the
growth of action but on the character’s response to crisis. This,
as we noted before, was a distinguishing feature of the climactic
plateau. Anticipation means little to the Elizabethan dramatist.
This is no more clearly seen than in the handling of the individual
scenes. Even where suspense is inevitable, it is muted. _The
Revenger’s Tragedy_ contains a scene (III, v) in which Vindice, at
long last, plans to take revenge upon the lascivious old Duke who
murdered his beloved. The trap is set, the Duke is near. Vindice
strains forward,
So, so; now nine years’ vengeance crowd into a minute.
[III, v, 124]
The Duke dismisses his train; the trap in the guise of a “lady,”
actually a poisoned manikin, is sprung; the Duke kisses “her” and
falls. All this occupies twenty-five lines. In this it reminds us
of the closet scene. Once the Duke is poisoned, Vindice and his
brother, Hippolito, triumph over the dying man; they reveal the
trap and then Vindice unmasks himself. To top these horrors Vindice
discloses to the Duke that his bastard son “rides a-hunting in
[his] brow,” and moreover that the son and the Duchess are about to
hold a rendezvous at the very spot:
[Your] eyes shall see the incest of their lips.
[III, v, 192]
They arrive. The father-husband watches their love-making, hears
their mockery of him, and, immediately after their departure, dies.
All this takes eighty-three lines. In the structure of the scene,
intensification comes from double response: the horror and pain
of the Duke and the diabolical delight of the revengers as they
witness his pain.
Elizabethan scenes are not unique merely because they give more
time to response to a situation rather than to its development.
Their uniqueness comes from the fact that the full intensity and
implication of the theme is realized not in the accomplishment
of the event but in the effects it produces. After Caesar is
assassinated, Antony comes to terms with the conspirators. Dramatic
though his meeting with them is, the most intense moments are not
where Antony composes his differences with Brutus and Cassius, but
where he views the body of Caesar. The most compelling section of
the scene is Antony’s soliloquy where he envisions the ravages
of war which will plague the earth as revenge for the foul deed.
A glance at the proportion of lines devoted to the various parts
of the scene indicates where Shakespeare placed his emphasis.
Seventy-seven lines are devoted to all the tension leading to the
assassination, 220 to the reactions and realignments that are its
results. Ultimately we find Shakespeare dispensing completely
with showing the act of murder and concentrating wholly on the
psychological and philosophical responses, as in _Macbeth_.
VI. DRAMATIC UNITY IN THE GLOBE PLAYS
The repetition of dramatic forms in the Globe plays shows that
there is a structural foundation for the concept of multiple
unity, that unity can be found not in compression of action but
in its extension. The story line links the experiences but is not
identical with them. Rather the events frequently are extensions
of the implications of the story exactly as the shattering of
glass may be the effect of an explosion. Consequently, as the
scenes seek to reach beyond the limits of the subject, it becomes
requisite that means be discovered to set limits to the extension
of story and theme. The Elizabethans were well aware that the
dimensions of the plays threatened to overwhelm the audience. This
is the essence of serious charges by Sir Philip Sidney and Ben
Jonson against the popular drama. In this they may well have been
following Aristotle who introduced into his definition of tragedy
the concept of “magnitude.” A work of art must be able to be
perceived as a totality by the audience. Here, of course, we have
the true determinant of unity. Training in witnessing the extended
sequences of miracle plays or in listening to Sunday sermons must
have contributed to a broadness of perception. Nevertheless, a
major problem of the Elizabethan playwright was to observe a
proper magnitude, to keep within the bounds that his plays always
threatened to break. To aid him in maintaining proper magnitude he
had several means at his disposal.
One of these means is the story itself; it is always brought to a
conclusion. Another means, and one I have not discussed, was the
concentration on character. The fact that the story is happening to
Hamlet or Vindice or Sejanus is in itself a unifying factor. But I
shall discuss the relevance of character to the play in the chapter
on Elizabethan acting. Three other means contributed to keeping the
play within perceptible bounds.
The first of these, unity through poetic diction, has been amply
treated by present-day critics. Both Stoll and G. Wilson Knight
have written of Shakespeare’s plays as metaphorical forms.[25]
Bradbrook sees the only unity as a poetic unity. Yet verbal
expression is but one element of structural multiple unity. There
is a close link between the dramatic form of the climactic plateau
and the poetic expression, for the second requires the first.
Where the playwright fails as a poet, the climactic extensions
result in rant and sentimentality. But it is this form that enables
the poetry to range freely, or perhaps we may consider that the
same compulsion which drove the Elizabethans to copious, lyrical
expression caused them to develop this particular dramatic form.
The second means relevant to multiple unity has been the subject
of this chapter, precisely the arrangement of scenes about the
story line. Some of the scenes that a playwright chooses to
dramatize are those primarily concerned with propelling the play,
such as the play-within-the-play scene in _Hamlet_. Some scenes
develop traits of a character, as in the scene of Portia’s plea
to Brutus for confidence. But a central, repeating element within
the rhythmic pattern of extension-contraction is the arrangement
of scenes or incidents in a combination of contrasting and
comparable circumstances. Whether the scenes used are central or
peripheral to the story, they repeatedly gain illumination through
mirroring similar situations. Hamlet unable to avenge his father
is contrasted with Laertes too ready to avenge his father, Hamlet
mad is contrasted with Ophelia mad, Rosalind’s mocking love-play
is heightened by comparison with Phebe and Silvius as well as with
the earthy affection of Touchstone and Audrey, while Touchstone’s
professional mockery of the pastoral life casts light upon Jaques’
melancholy. One could go on endlessly pointing out the contrast of
situation with situation. Frequently we encounter scenes whose only
relationship to the story is to provide dramatic contrast. I have
cited the scene in _Fair Maid of Bristow_ in which the servants
woo each other. The Porter’s scene in _Macbeth_, about which there
has been “much throwing about of brains,” is an example. Another
is the scene where Ventidius refuses to outshine Antony, another
the lynching of Cinna the poet or the valor of Lucilius (_Julius
Caesar_, V, iv). Great events produce many ripples. These ripples,
which found expression in the Greek choral odes, the Elizabethans
sought to dramatize.
Contrast in the Globe plays, it is essential to note, is a contrast
of situations, not a contrast of characters. It is true that Hamlet
is contrasted with Laertes as well as Fortinbras, but the character
contrast is effected by the participation of each in distinct
though related incidents. In _Fair Maid of Bristow_ Challener’s
conflict with Vallenger is contrasted with Harbart’s relationship
to Sentloe. Vallenger’s asking the disguised Challener to murder
Sentloe and Anabell parallels Florence’s attempt to seduce Blunt
alias Harbart to murder Sentloe. Modern drama like classic drama,
however, contrasts characters caught within a single situation.
Antigone and Ismene face the same dramatic circumstance; so do
Electra and Chrysothemis. Character contrast is achieved through
the different ways in which each person reacts to the same crisis.
Lövborg and Tesman are sharply differentiated: in their reactions
to the same appointment, their manner of loving, the kinds of
books they write. The same holds true for Stanley and Mitch in _A
Streetcar Named Desire_, or even for Stella and Blanche. But in
Shakespearean drama not only is light thrown on the comparison
of situations, but at times the characters are aware of this
inter-reflection. At the end of the last storm scene in _Lear_, Act
III, scene vi, Edgar has a speech which appears only in the Quarto.
After witnessing the sorrow of Lear, he soliloquizes:
When we our betters see bearing our woes,
We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
* * * * *
How light and portable my pain seems now,
When that which makes me bend makes the King bow,
He childed as I fathered!
[108-116]
Certainly the Elizabethans felt that one event mirrored another,
and probably that together they mirrored the common meaning of both
events. This interconnection of reflected incidents contributed
metaphorically to a unified impression.
The final means of achieving unity is the most difficult to
define, the method of handling theme. For that reason let us turn
to a play where the theme is clearly expounded. _A Larum for
London_ has a simple, obvious point to make: the English people
will be destroyed by external enemies (the Spanish) and internal
treachery unless they become aware of their dangers, forego their
desire for personal profit at the expense of the defense of the
commonwealth, and rally the faithful honest citizens and soldiers
to their support. The point is made through dramatizing the siege
of Antwerp. The scenes that are introduced arise from the initial
force that propels the story: the determination of the Spanish to
take advantage of the improvidence of the citizens of Antwerp.
Individual scenes, however, are not causally linked. Rather they
are chosen because they reflect and illustrate the basic theme. A
burgher, formerly unkind to the hero, is rescued by him. This is
the only scene in which the burgher appears. The play is episodic
in structure but unified in theme. But the unity is a multiple one.
Instead of employing the story of one family and one incident to
illustrate the ravages of war, as Gorki did in _Yegor Bulichev and
Others_, this play uses a multiple reflection of its theme in a
number of independent scenes, each having equal emphasis. Thus the
single theme is given multiple dramatization.
The weaker plays of the Globe reveal obvious ways of treating a
theme. Dramas of the prodigal son reiterate their morality _ad
infinitum_, providing multiple reflections of fall and redemption.
The otherwise haphazardly constructed play, _The Devil’s Charter_,
is bound together by the theme of Man’s soul sold to the devil
and the final retribution that befalls him. Jonson’s predilection
for purging mankind with a pill of satire imposes thematic unity
on disparate incidents in _Every Man Out of His Humour_. But in
his other plays as well as in the plays of Shakespeare there is
a more subtle interweaving of structure and theme. At the core
of each play there seems to be a point of reference of which the
individual scenes are reflections. Though a play moves temporally
toward a conclusion, each scene may like a glass be turned toward
a central referent. G. Wilson Knight has expressed fundamentally
the same idea.[26] Unfortunately, he divorces this concept from the
dramatic organism, with the result that his projected productions
of Shakespeare’s plays seem like academic and sophomoric, if not
fantastic, exercises. But Shakespeare seems to have avoided, at
least in his later plays, so schematic an illustration of theme
as in _Richard III_. Instead, he allows the theme to permeate the
characters, situations, and poetry. He concentrates on the dramatic
situations and on the characters, allowing the theme to be struck
off indirectly like spark from flint. That is perhaps the reason
that it is so difficult to reduce the theme of any Shakespearean
play to a concise statement. _Macbeth_ certainly deals with the
theme of the source and effects of evil, yet no single statement
of this idea is sufficient, because Shakespeare dramatizes various
aspects of this subject. Since, to the Elizabethan, the world was
a manifold manifestation of a God whom he was unable to compress
into one idea or image, in a similar way the Shakespearean play
was a manifold reflection of a theme irreducible and unseen. Yet
every element in a great Shakespearean play--character, structure,
speech--individually and collectively, is brought into an artistic
unity through a structural and poetic expression of an unseen
referent at its center.
Chapter Three
THE STAGE
Two boards and a passion! Perhaps these words sum up all that was
essential to the Shakespearean theater. Heightening of passion
coincided with the “climax,” and as for the Elizabethan stage, it
was, as G. F. Reynolds remarked, a platform “upon which the story
of the play was acted.”[1] And so it was, a flat expanse of boards,
somewhat exposed to the weather, roughly eleven hundred square feet.
The story that was acted may be best described as romantic, not
because it dealt with romance, although it often did, but because
it was centrifugal in impulse, ever threatening to veer from
its path. Whatever direct progression narrative possessed in
the medieval drama, whether moving from Adam’s sin to Christ’s
judgment or from Everyman’s ignorance to his salvation, such
progression no longer existed in the Elizabethan age. Instead,
the unfolding of the drama took place in a world half of man, and
therefore unpredictable, half of God, and therefore moral, and was
composed half of history, half of legend; half remote fantasy,
half immediate reality. Such a world was wide indeed, and the
poet-playwright, its creator, was shackled by neither time nor
place. What he demanded of a stage was space for the unimpeded
flow of scene after scene, for the instantaneous creation of any
place in this world or the next. Even when a ghost in mufti made
his way out the stage door in broad daylight, the poet insisted he
vanished--yes, even into thin air.
Between the poet’s insistence and the stage’s realization lies the
entire secret of Elizabethan staging. About the stage’s realization
there is some evidence and little knowledge. Stage directions,
a much-debated sketch of a playhouse, a tantalizing incomplete
building contract, other assorted fragments, invite the scholar to
tilt at theory. About the poet’s insistence there can be little
question. Texts of play after play document the demands that the
writers made upon the “unworthy scaffold.” Prudence suggests,
therefore, that we proceed from play to stage, discovering first
what those demands were and then, if we can, how they were
satisfied. To understand what the demands were in respect to the
environment of an action, it is necessary to consider the following
questions: how exactly was a scene located, how consistently was
the location maintained, and how relevant was the location to the
dramatic impact of the scene?
I. LOCALIZATION IN SHAKESPEARE’S GLOBE PLAYS
In Shakespeare’s Globe plays many scenes are given an exact
setting. By exact I wish to convey the notion that the action
is supposed to occur in or at a particular place, such as a
room, hall, gateway, garden, bridge, and that this place remains
consistent throughout the scene. For example, in the scene where
Martius, yet to win his name of Coriolanus, assaults the gates
of Corioles (I, iv), the location is specific, consistent, and
dramatically relevant. At one point in the same play Coriolanus
prepares to enter the house of his enemy, Aufidius. The scene (IV,
iv) takes place before Aufidius’ door. Here exactness of location
intensifies dramatic suspense because, as we watch Coriolanus pass
through the doorway, we know he is putting himself at the mercy of
his greatest antagonist. Many examples of such types of placement
come to mind: Brutus’ orchard, Gertrude’s closet, Timon’s cave,
etc. Such scenes have come to be called “localized.”
Usually the opposite of the “localized” setting is the
“unlocalized.” In this type of setting no impression of place is
projected. Location is irrelevant to the progression of the scenes.
Clear-cut instances of this occur in _Macbeth_, II, iv, and III,
vi. In the first of these scenes Ross and an old man comment on
the unnatural state of the world, then Macduff brings them news
of Duncan’s burial and Macbeth’s election to the throne. In the
second scene, Lennox and a gentleman comment upon the web of
tyranny and the hope that lies in England with Malcolm. Aside from
the section containing Macduff’s news, neither of these scenes
contributes to the flow of the narrative. Rather they are comments
upon the action and essentially perform a choral function.
That these two types of scenes are present in Elizabethan plays
has long been recognized. Some scholars, such as V. E. Albright,
E. K. Chambers, and J. C. Adams, have tended to divide all scenes
of a play into one or the other type, the localized, usually
interior and more or less realistic, the unlocalized, exterior,
neutral, and somewhat less realistic. This division, according to
Albright, derives from the _sedes_ and _platea_ of the medieval
stage.[2] What had been physically separate areas earlier became
united on one stage in the Tudor period. But, the argument runs,
the Elizabethan dramatists continued to juxtapose the two types of
scenes, stringing them in a more or less alternating order along
the thread of narrative.
To what extent can this dichotomy be supported by the evidence
from the Globe? Naturally there is no sharp distinction between
these two types of localization. The differentiation depends upon
the sequence a scene assumes in the narrative. Consequently, there
are scenes which clearly fit into one or the other category. But
even if all the localized and unlocalized scenes are counted,
the total amounts to only 136. Since there are 345 scenes in my
enumeration of the fifteen Shakespearean Globe plays, 209 remain to
be accounted for.[3]
Is it true, as William Archer, Harley Granville-Barker, and George
F. Reynolds have pointed out, that much localization was vague,
that place faded elusively like a mirage before a traveler, and
that often the Elizabethans treated the stage as stage? “Scene
after scene,” asserts Granville-Barker, “might pass with the actors
moving to all intents merely in the ambit of the play’s story and
of their own emotions: unless, the spell broken, they were suddenly
and incongruously seen to be upon a stage.”[4] Many a scene gives
just such an impression, and yet, in almost every scene that is not
unlocalized, the characters do not actually act in a dislocated
void but are known to be in some more or less specific region.
Even when attention is directly called to the stage-as-stage,
stage-as-fictional-world still remains. In such moments the
audience experiences a double image.
It is a commonplace that the public stages of the Elizabethan
period contained “Asia of the one side, and Affricke of the other.”
Though contemptuous in intent, in effect this phrase of Sidney’s
isolates one of the characteristics of Elizabethan scene setting.
Perhaps, as some scholars have thought, the Elizabethans utilized
place cards to inform the audience of the general location of a
scene. But whether they did or not, they were in the habit of
specifying a place at large but not a particular section of it.
In such cases the stage stands for rather than represents the
fictional locale, the confines of which cannot be reasonably
encompassed within the limits of the stage. In this type of locale,
placement is general rather than precise--for example, the city of
Troy in _Troilus and Cressida_, not a particular part of it. Rome
as a whole rather than some portion of it is often the setting in
_Coriolanus_ (I, i; IV, ii; IV, vi). Free movement within such a
locale occurs readily as in _Julius Caesar_ (III, i), where action
takes place first in the street and then in the Capitol. Sequences
of action which would be incongruous in a localized setting
assume dramatic power in a generalized setting. In the very same
place, Othello’s castle, occur the private conflict of Othello
and Desdemona and the public encounter of Cassio and Bianca (III,
iv). Actually, in this type of setting, dramatic impact proceeds
from the general rather than the specific nature of the locale.
Without a doubt we know when the scene is Rome and when Egypt in
_Antony and Cleopatra_. Dramatically that is all we need to know.
To endeavor to isolate the whereabouts of Octavius’ meeting with
Antony (II, ii) would reduce the stature of that meeting. All of
Rome is their stage just as in medieval practice all of paradise
might be the setting for Adam and Eve. Among the 345 scenes of
Shakespeare’s Globe plays, 142 are clearly of this sort and 67 tend
toward this sort, accounting together for fully 60 per cent of the
scenes.
A. H. Thorndike described three types of localization too:
the definitely localized, the vaguely localized, and the
unlocalized.[5] At first my analysis may seem to repeat his.
However, there is a fundamental difference. The generalized locale
is not vague; it is extensive, it is symbolic, and dramatically it
is concrete. The audience is not expected to identify the stage
with a particular location but to understand that it functions
as a token of Troy or the Danish palace or the Forest of Arden.
Regularly editors have been reducing the generalized location to
a localized setting congruent with realistic dimensions. This
practice merely betrays the scope of Elizabethan drama. The real
distinction between scene _loci_ was not, as others have assumed, a
separation of interior from exterior or realistic from conventional
but a gradation from the unlocalized through the generalized to the
localized setting.
Before investigating whether or not the Globe stage utilized stage
decor to set these scenes, it is advisable to consider to what
degree and by what methods location was conveyed by the playwright
himself. It might be well to state at the outset that in extremely
few cases is place projected through properties or other decor. Of
all the scenes in Shakespeare’s Globe plays I count only seventeen
in which this occurs, a mere 5 per cent. The most frequently
recurring methods used by Shakespeare to indicate location are
by announcement: a character tells us where he is (“This is the
forest of Arden,” _As You Like It_, II, iv); by foreshadowing a
location: a character in one scene tells us where he or others
will be next (“To the Monument,” _Antony and Cleopatra_, IV, xiv);
and by identifying a character with a place (early in _All’s
Well_, the Countess becomes identified with Rossillion; whenever
she appears thereafter, the scene, we know, is Rossillion). Some
of these methods are used in combination. For example, we learn
in the second scene of _Othello_ that the Duke is in council, to
whose presence Othello, Brabantio, and others are summoned. This is
foreshadowing. In the next scene when we see a meeting in progress
between the Duke and Senators, we can guess we are at the council,
and when Othello and Brabantio enter shortly, we are sure of it.
Of course, there are other methods employed to indicate place, but
these three are the principal ones. Announcements help to locate
129 of the scenes (37.3 per cent), presence of characters, 128 of
the scenes (37.1 per cent), and foreshadowing, 61 of the scenes
(17.7 per cent).
Though the chorus is used only occasionally to indicate place,
it tells us most about Elizabethan playwrights’ attitudes toward
setting the scenes. Fortunately, the Globe plays include two
examples of this technique, one from the beginning and one from
the end of the decade. In _Every Man Out of His Humour_ Ben Jonson
introduces three choral figures, Asper, Mitis, and Cordatus. At the
end of the induction Asper leaves the stage to assume the role of
Macilente; Mitis and Cordatus remain to comment upon the action.
Cordatus, who knows the play, is able to inform Mitis where the
action takes place. For some scenes he indicates a generalized
locale. “The Scene is the country still,” he remarks to Mitis
(Chorus to II, i) or “Onely transferre your thoughts to the city,
with the Scene; where, suppose they speake” (Chorus to II, iv).
Sometimes he is more specific. Upon the entrance of Cavaliere Shift
(III, i), Mitis asks,
What new _Mute_ is this, that walkes so suspiciously?
CORD. O, mary this is one, for whose better illustration;
we must desire you to presuppose the stage, the
middle isle in Paules; and that, the west end of it.
At one time, where the presence of characters identifies the
location, Cordatus queries Mitis, “You understand where the Scene
is?” (Chorus to IV, i). Jonson, desirous of specifying particular
London sites despite the fiction of Italian-named characters, is
experimenting along the lines of Shakespeare who shortly before
tried a similar method in _Henry V_. Shakespeare returned to this
device in _Pericles_. Gower, the chorus, relates portions of
Pericles’ adventures directly and in accompaniment to several dumb
shows. In passing he often sets the locale. The first scene, he
tells us, is “this Antioch ... this city” (17-18). Preparatory to
the commencement of III, i, Gower asks the audience,
In your imagination hold
This stage the ship, upon whose deck
The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak
Imagine! Suppose! Both Jonson and Shakespeare call upon the
audience to visualize the place of action. Clearly neither
conventional nor realistic setting is introduced. Only words, in
these instances delivered directly, in most instances conveyed
in the midst of dramatic action, are the means for informing the
audience where the scene takes place.
II. THE PARTS OF THE STAGE
What the Choruses make evident is that the stage was not altered
for individual scenes. As a consequence, the stage structure
itself, not scenery, served as the frame for the action. What this
structure was and how it was used has been debated for years,
and yet despite the lively and continuous debate, there actually
exists a broad band of agreement About the size of the stage, for
instance, there is little dispute. It is deduced from the Fortune
contract. Without a doubt the platform, one side of which was
attached to the stage wall or façade, was large, probably about
25 by 45 feet, and bare. Whether or not the supporting trestles
were seen by the audience, as Hodges claims, matters little in a
consideration of the use of the stage. What is important is that
the stage extended to the middle of the yard, that consequently a
large portion of the audience stood or sat on either side of the
actors, and that the actors had to master the techniques of playing
on this open stage. Some disagreement exists concerning the shape
of the stage which, according to John C. Adams, was not rectangular
but tapered inward toward the front. However, the weight of the
evidence is against this theory, and most scholars are inclined to
accept the rectangular shape.
Upon what other points is there general agreement? For one, that
there were two pillars, located halfway between the stage wall and
the front edge of the platform, which supported a shadow or cover
over part of the stage. For another, that at platform level the
stage wall contained two doors at least and probably a third entry
or enclosed space and on an upper level, some sort of acting area.
Where there are disputes, they arise over three matters: (1) what
details complete this generally accepted scheme, (2) how the parts
of the stage were employed, and (3) what temporary structures, if
any, supplemented the basic façade. To examine these issues, it
will be necessary to review each part of the stage in the light of
the Globe repertory.
The Globe plays confirm the presence of at least two entrance
doors at some distance from each other. On several occasions
there is need for two characters to enter simultaneously from
separate entrances and after some conversation come together.
For the existence of a third entry the Globe plays offer no
conclusive proof. No stage direction specifying an entry from a
middle door, such as can be found in non-Globe plays, appears.
However, certain scenes do suggest the use of a third entrance. In
_Macbeth_ (V, vii) Malcolm, who has presumably come through one
door (_A_), is invited into the castle of Dunsinane by Siward. At
his exit (through _B_ presumably) Macbeth enters. Either he can
come from the door (_A_) through which Malcolm entered, which is
dramatically unconvincing, or from the door (_B_) of Dunsinane,
which is awkward, or from a third entrance, evidence for which is
not conclusive. Still, another sort of evidence does occur, which
supports the idea of a third entry. In all cases, save one, where
simultaneous entrances take place, the stage direction either reads
“Enter _A_ at one door, and enter _B_ at another” or “at another
door” or “Enter _A_ and _B_ severally,” or “at several doors.” In
all the Globe plays, Shakespearean and non-Shakespearean, there
are twenty-two instances of such stage directions.[6] The only
exception is _Pericles_ (IV, iv), “Enter Pericles at one doore,
with all his trayne, Cleon and Dioniza at _the_ other. Cleon shewes
Pericles the tombe, whereat, Pericles makes lamentatton [_sic_].”
The explanation for the article, “the” other door, if a third
did exist, may be that the third entry was used to display the
tomb. The presence of a word such as “another” in all other stage
directions implies that when one door was used, more than one other
entrance remained, and that, therefore, a third mode of entry was
regularly employed on the Globe stage.
Regarding the position of the main entrance doors on either side
of the stage, the Globe plays are equally unhelpful. Authority
for oblique doors partly facing each other rests on three items
of evidence that have been set forth. (1) The phrase “Enter
_A_ and _B_ at opposite doors,” which appears in some of the
Jacobean plays, proves, according to W. J. Lawrence, that the
doors faced each other.[7] (2) Certain plays need facing doors in
the action.[8] (3) The historical development of the playhouses
explains the genesis of the oblique doors.[9] Concerning the first
item, I need only point out that in no stage direction in the
Globe plays does the phrase “at opposite doors” appear. Nor does
it appear in any pre-Globe Shakespearean play. The second item
invites subjective judgment. Lawrence insists that the last scene
of _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_, a Globe play, could not be played
unless the doors were oblique. However, cross-observation in that
scene concerns the exchange of signs over the doors to two inns in
Waltham.
SIR ARTHUR. Mine host, mine host, we lay all night at
the George in Waltham, but whether the
George be your fee-simple or no, tis a doubtfull
question, looke upon your signe.
HOST. Body of Saint George, this is mine overthwart
neighbour hath done this to seduce
my blind customers.
[Sig. F2^r]
Signs extending over a door would be readily seen from the opposite
end of the stage whether or not the doors were oblique. What this
interpretation comes down to is that insistence on opposite doors
reveals a realistic conception of staging. Out of oblique doors
characters emerge already facing each other or the action. They
can respond “naturally” and “realistically.” But, if the doors are
flush with the façade, an “unnatural” formal entrance results.
The last argument for oblique doors is historical. Lawrence
claims that they were introduced into the Globe from the second
Blackfriars theater (1598-1600). Adams argues that they were
developed when the Theatre’s frame was adapted for the Globe.
Neither offers sufficiently convincing proof to counter-balance
the evidence of the Swan drawing which clearly shows flush doors.
Therefore, though either oblique or flush doors could accommodate
the Globe plays, flush doors were more likely to have been employed.
We can also dismiss the notion occasionally put forth that
the doors consistently represented entrances from particular
places, such as Olivia’s house in _Twelfth Night_ or Page’s and
Ford’s houses in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. The difficulty of
maintaining a continuing identification of one place with one
entrance is obvious in the latter play. The comedy opens with the
entrance of Justice Shallow, Sir Hugh Evans, and Slender. Their
point of entry (marked _A_ for identification) is unspecified
and therefore might be in the center. Having been insulted by
Falstaff, whom he expects to find at Page’s house, Shallow calls
upon the Windsor worthy who emerges from his house (entry _B_).
The remaining entrances and exits in scene i and in the brief
scene ii maintain these associations. Scene iii occurs at the
Garter. It is possible to confine all in-goings and out-goings to
one door (entry _C_). But with scene iv all previous associations
are shattered. The place is Dr. Caius’ house. Entry _A_, _B_,
or _C_ must represent Caius’ house. The neutral entry A can be
selected. But in the course of the scene Simple is forced to hide
from Caius. He cannot exit at _A_, for Caius is about to enter at
that point. Thus he must choose _B_ (Page’s house) or _C_ (the
Garter). A continuation of this analysis would only confirm how
hopeless it is to expect any correlation between an entry and
a specific locality for more than one scene. Further evidence
exists in _Twelfth Night_ that the doors did not have locational
significance. At the conclusion of Act I, scene v, Olivia sends
Malvolio after Cesario to tell “him” that she’ll have none of “his”
ring. After an intervening scene, Malvolio encounters Cesario. His
first line is, “Were not you ev’n now with the Countess Olivia?”
Simple realism would demand that Malvolio, endeavoring to catch
Cesario, would follow “him” on stage. That is how the scene is
frequently staged. However, the stage direction specifies, “Enter
Viola and Malvolio at several doors” (II, ii). Professor Reynolds
has reconstructed the staging of _Troilus and Cressida_ so that one
stage door represents Troy, the other the Grecian camp.[10] An
enclosed recess, with the curtain drawn, becomes Cressida’s home
and with the curtain closed, Achilles’ tent. But, as Irwin Smith
has reminded me privately, this arrangement is “proved wrong by the
stage direction to Act IV, scene i, which specifies entrance at two
doors,” although the location of the scene is wholly within Troy.
The fact is that every other Globe play lacks that neat division
of place which enables us to assign one location to one door and
another to the other door. Too often there is a major shift in
location during the course of a play, such as, from the court to
the forest in _As You Like It_, from Venice to Cyprus in _Othello_,
from the castle to the field in _Lear_. Such a shift prevents the
localizing of the stage door for any appreciable period.
As good evidence as that of Reynolds can be offered for a theory
that actors almost always obeyed the convention of entering at one
door and leaving at the other, regardless of location. In _Hamlet_,
for instance, there are only three instances when such a convention
would be violated: when Polonius is sent for the ambassadors and
players in II, ii, and when the Prologue leaves to usher in the
players in III, ii. I offer this suggestion not as a theory but as
a warning against such reconstructed staging as Reynolds proposes.
The critical part of any study of an Elizabethan playhouse concerns
the “third entry,” “the place in the middle,” “the booth,” “the
inner stage,” “the discovery-space.” The abundance of terms
testifies to the uncertainty concerning this area. Every aspect of
it is open to controversy: function, dimensions in all directions,
the presence of curtains, and location. But that there is some
space between the stage doors, capable of being enclosed or
secluded, is granted by all scholars. Objection has been raised to
calling this area an “inner stage,” first because the term never
appeared in Elizabethan texts, and secondly because it suggests
a purpose that it did not have, namely, to house entire scenes.
Increasingly the term “discovery-space” has been utilized, notably
by Richard Hosley, but this has the disadvantage of suggesting too
limited a function for the space. Since the area we are concerned
with, whether recessed or not, had to be enclosed, almost
certainly by curtains, I have chosen to refer to the “enclosure” of
the Globe stage.
Any investigation of the enclosure is obliged to include an
investigation of Elizabethan stage properties. For a long time
it was suggested that a principal purpose of the enclosure was
to mask the placement of furniture and other properties. While
it is becoming increasingly evident that we must regard such a
presumption with skepticism, nevertheless, the presence of a
property has so often been cited as evidence for the use of an
enclosure that it is necessary to review the handling of stage
properties at the Globe before considering the enclosure directly.
Aside from their connection with the problem of the enclosure,
furthermore, stage properties deserve attention, for their
appearance in a play can be more readily ascertained than any other
element of production and as a result can provide clues to the
methods of staging.
Anyone who has had occasion to produce a Shakespearean play
realizes how few properties are needed for any single play. Yet
even when we are cautious, we tend to overproperty a play. Even
properties clearly alluded to may not exist on stage. Several
times in _Julius Caesar_ characters speak of Caesar having been
struck down at the base of Pompey’s statue (III, i, 115; III, ii,
193), even in the very scene where the action takes place. Yet the
description is merely a paraphrase of Plutarch.[11] The Romans
are beaten back to their trenches in their first assault against
Corioles (I, iv). Once more the trenches are not on-stage but in
Plutarch.
Consequently, in examining the Globe plays, I have tried to guard
against seeing a stage property where none exists. Only when
use is clearly demonstrable in action or stage direction can we
assume that a property was introduced. Some instances exist where
smaller properties were added to give verisimilitude to a scene, as
Fabell’s necromantic instruments in _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_,
prologue, and Horace’s papers in _Satiromastix_ (I, iii), but
larger properties which require placement or setting were charily
employed. It is to these set properties that I shall refer.
In the fifteen Globe plays written by Shakespeare I count
sixty-five uses of properties, in the twelve non-Shakespearean
plays, sixty-eight.[12] In the former plays the presence of fifteen
of these “props” is difficult to verify. Such a property would be
the “hedge-corner” around which the soldiers hide before pouncing
on Parolles (_All’s Well_, IV, i) or the “tree” upon which Orlando
hangs his verses (_As You Like It_, III, ii). Since the hedge and
the tree might very well be represented by the stage posts, I
must omit consideration of them. In the twelve non-Shakespearean
plays there are seventeen such properties. Consequently, in one
category we are left with fifty properties and in the other with
fifty-one, or one hundred and one altogether, an average of
almost four properties a play. That this is not a slim list for
a ten-year period is supported by the few properties inventoried
by Henslowe in 1598. The heading of the inventory claims that
_all_ the properties are listed. Of set properties there are only
twenty-one.[13] To these we may add chairs and tables which are
not included. Nor are curtains mentioned unless “the cloth of the
Sone & Mone” is a hanging of some sort rather than rudimentary
scenery, as Malone suggested. In any case the list substantiates
the conclusion that Elizabethan stage production employed few
properties and reinforces the warning that we should not insist
upon finding others where they do not appear.
How were the properties introduced onto the stage? Some were
discovered. When Lychorida bids Pericles look upon his dead bride,
she probably draws a curtain to reveal Thaisa on the bitter
“child-bed” of which Pericles speaks (III, i). Other properties
were brought on. For the fencing match between Hamlet and Laertes,
though the 1604 Quarto stage direction notes, “A table prepared
...,” the Folio specifies that following the King, Queen, and
others, there enter “other Attendants with Foyles, and Gauntlets,
a Table and Flagons of wine on it” (V, ii). But many instances are
not so clear, instances where at most we can assume that a property
was _probably_ brought on stage or _probably_ discovered. Another
small category exists. There are several instances where properties
are taken off stage, although there is no evidence to indicate
how they came to be on stage. Caesar, at the finale of _Antony
and Cleopatra_, commands his soldiers to “Take up [Cleopatra’s]
bed,/and bear her women from the monument” (V, ii, 359-360). To my
mind this suggests that the prop had been previously brought on.
I have carefully examined the one hundred and one properties for
evidence of method of introduction. The chart below summarizes my
analysis.
_How Props_ | _In_ | _In Non-_ |
_Are_ | _Shakespearean_ | _Shakespearean_ | _Total_
_Introduced_ | _Plays_ | _Plays_ |
--------------+-----------------+-----------------+-----------------
| _No._ | % | _No._ | % | _No._ | %
+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------
Brought on | 12 | 24. | 18 | 35.3 | 30 | 29.7
Probably | | | | | |
brought on | 11 | 22. | 8 | 15.7 | 19 | 18.8
Taken off | 2 | 4. | 2 | 3.9 | 4 | 4.
+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------
_Total_ | 25 | 50. | 28 | 54.9 | 53 | 52.5
+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------
Discovered | 2 | 4. | 8 | 15.7 | 10 | 9.9
Probably | | | | | |
discovered | 7 | 14. | 1 | 1.9 | 8 | 7.9
+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------
_Total_ | 9 | 18. | 9 | 17.6 | 18 | 17.8
Undetermined | 16 | 32. | 14 | 27.5 | 30 | 29.7
--------------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------+--------
_Grand Total_| 50 | | 51 | | 101 |
In both Shakespearean and non-Shakespearean plays the percentages
are about the same. Clearly the number of properties brought on
greatly outnumber those which are discovered. Yet enough properties
are discovered to make the presence of an enclosure certain.
Tables are usually brought out. In all the Globe plays tables are
used seventeen times. Ten of these are banquet tables, seven of
which are specifically directed to be brought out.[14] Of the rest
two are probably brought out, and one may or may not have been
brought out.[15] Since it was customary in Elizabethan life for
banquet tables to be portable, it has been objected that the use
of an enclosure is not disproved by such evidence. Instead we are
asked to regard the practice as a bit of realistic business. This
objection, however, does not explain why, as in _Macbeth_, III, iv,
a banquet is sometimes prepared in front of the audience before
the arrival of the principal characters. In any case the evidence
concerning the table as stage property shows that the introduction
of banquet tables does not depend upon an enclosure.
Of the other seven tables, four are definitely brought out, one
is probably brought out, the introduction of one is undetermined,
and one seems to have been discovered.[16] This last property is
referred to in the stage direction in _Othello_, I, iii, “Enter
Duke and Senators, set at a Table with lights and Attendants.” The
Quarto (1622) for this play is late, so that the discovery may
depict a later method. In contrast to all other cases in the Globe
plays, this is the sole instance where a table is discovered.
Tracing the introduction of seats is more difficult. There
are infrequent references to chairs in stage directions. Only
occasionally is a chair, or more usually a stool, named in the
dialogue. More often there is the invitation of one character to
another to sit down. Twenty-two instances of seating occur in
Shakespeare’s Globe plays, twenty-one in the non-Shakespearean
plays. One type of seat is always brought in, that is the chair
for an invalid. Two such chairs are definitely introduced by
Shakespeare, one for Lear, the other for Cassio when wounded. A
third might be intended for the King of France when he calls, “Give
me some help here, ho!” (_All’s Well_, II, i). One such chair
containing the Wife, is brought in in _A Yorkshire Tragedy_; a
similar type, a sedan chair apparently, is introduced in _Volpone_
(V, ii).
An entire category of seats is represented by the simple
joint-stool. It appears for Goneril in Lear’s arraignment of his
daughters (III, vi), it serves for Volumnia and Virgilia as they
sew (_Coriolanus_, I, iii), and it holds the Ghost of Banquo
(_Macbeth_, III, iv). These stools are elusive though. Seldom
are they specifically directed to be brought on. An illuminating
instance occurs in _The Devil’s Charter_. Lucretia Borgia is
plotting the death of her husband, Gismond. The stage direction at
the beginning of Act I, scene v, reads, “Enter Lucretia alone in
her nightgowne untired bringing in a chaire, which she planteth
upon the Stage.” She prepares the trap-chair for her husband, and
when he arrives “Gismond sitteth downe in a Chaire, Lucretia on a
stoole beside him.” But where did the “stoole” come from? If an
attendant had accompanied her, why did Lucretia have to carry the
chair? Obviously she must have entered alone. Therefore, unless one
suggests that she also carried on a stool, hitherto unmentioned,
the only possibility left is to suppose that the stool was already
on the stage. Once one grants that stools may have been left on
the stage, many scenes and directions become clear. When banquets
are brought on stage, no mention is made of accompanying seats.
Furthermore, when the type of seat at banquets is named, it turns
out to be a stool. In various plays the actors sit in places that
in reality would be devoid of seats, for example, on the watch in
_Hamlet_ (I, i), at the city gates in _Measure for Measure_ (V, i),
Antony somewhere after a defeat (_Antony and Cleopatra_, III, x).
It is not too far a leap to assume that it was regular practice at
the Globe playhouse to have stools distributed about the stage for
the use of the actors.
Two other types of seats appear in the Shakespearean plays: the
“chair” and the state. The chair is only mentioned once. It is the
one to which Gloucester is bound before he is blinded. There is no
indication whether it is brought on or discovered, one’s decision
in the matter being determined by where one places the scene on the
stage. The state too is mentioned specifically only once. After
the banquet is brought out, Macbeth tells the assembled guests,
“Our hostesse keeps her state, but in best time/ We will require
her welcome.” (III, iv). This implies that Lady Macbeth sits apart
from the company, perhaps in the enclosure. The state may have
been placed there when the banquet was prepared or it may have
been discovered. Significantly no action takes place at the state.
Several other scenes would permit the use of a state. In each case
there is evidence that the scenes proper take place on the stage
platform. Though a curtain could be utilized to reveal the state in
these cases, I incline to the theory that the state was brought or
thrust out.
Of all properties beds are most frequently discovered. There are
eleven instances in the Globe plays where beds or cushions for
sleeping are introduced. In three the bed is definitely and in
three others probably discovered, but in only two of these scenes
is action sustained around the beds. The other scenes merely
contain references to them or display someone reclining. Three
other instances afford insufficient evidence to judge whether the
beds are discovered or not and the remaining two provide curious
evidence. _The Devil’s Charter_ and _Antony and Cleopatra_ were
written about the same time. In both plays people die from the bite
of an asp; in the former play they are murdered (IV, v), in the
latter they commit suicide (V, ii), but in both cases the scenes
conclude with the order to take up the beds and bear in the bodies.
Extended action takes place about the beds, perhaps offering the
explanation for the beds being forward on the platform.[17]
The question of whether or not heavy properties were discovered is
answered by a type of property which keeps recurring in the Globe
plays. This may very well be the counterpart of “a payre of stayres
for Fayeton” in Henslowe’s inventory. In a well reasoned article
Warren Smith has demonstrated the likelihood that scaffolding of
some sort was introduced as a property on the Globe stage.[18]
Not the upper level of the stage façade, but such a scaffold, he
contends, was the pulpit in _Julius Caesar_ (III, ii), a place to
see the warriors in _Troilus and Cressida_ (I, ii), the monument
in _Antony and Cleopatra_ (IV, xvi), the platform in _Hamlet_ (I,
i). Though his argument does not fit _Hamlet_ or completely explain
_Antony and Cleopatra_, its basic premise is verified by two
non-Shakespearean Globe plays.
In the last scene of _Fair Maid of Bristow_, Vallenger, the
prodigal, is about to be executed for the supposed murder of
Sentloe. By this point in the play Vallenger has been spiritually
redeemed from sin. About to die, he delivers a brief speech,
Ere I ascend this stage where I must act,
The latest period of this life of mine,
First let me do my deuty to my prince.
Next unto you, to much by me offended,
Now step, by step, as I ascend this place,
Mount thou my soule into the throwne of grace.
[Sig. E4^r]
Presumably he reaches the top, as do his alleged accomplices, for
shortly thereafter the King calls, “Dispatch them executioner:
dispatch.” Clearly some scaffold has been revealed or brought
out for this scene. It is one which the actors can mount before
an audience. It also had to be large enough to accommodate four
people. From other evidence Smith suggests a platform of this sort
would be three or four steps high. Despite its size a subsequent
line indicates that it was moved about in front of the audience.
Before the execution can take place, Sentloe reveals that he is not
really dead, but has pretended to be in order to subject Vallenger
to a rigorous trial of soul and thus force him to purge his
offenses. Amidst the joyful reunion of Vallenger and his wife, the
King commands,
Away with that same tradgike monument.
[Sig. F2^v]
Presumably the scaffold is withdrawn from the stage. In all
likelihood a scaffold large enough to hold four people was too
large to fit through a doorway. Therefore, we must assume that it
was removed through the enclosure.
The forward placement of the scaffold is attested by another Globe
play. Enamored of Corvino’s wife, Volpone disguised as a mountebank
mounts his bank under the window where he might glimpse the lady
(II, ii). Dramatically and physically his bank could only be placed
on the platform. That he has actually gone up on some structure
which, however, is lower than window height, is proved, first,
when “Celia at the windo’ throwes downe her handkerchiefe,” and
secondly, when Corvino, the jealous husband, rushes out of his
door and shouts to Volpone to “Come downe” (II, iii). Here too
there is no stage direction for the setting up and taking down
of a scaffold, but the reiteration of Corvino’s “will you downe,
sir? downe?” establishes its existence. Perhaps, in this case too,
actors or attendants erected or thrust out some frame. Once it is
established that such a scaffold was brought out upon the Globe
stage, it becomes clear that it appears in some of the scenes cited
by Smith. How its use affected staging is properly reserved for a
later chapter.
Out of the total properties of one hundred and one, I have already
accounted for seventy-six. The remaining twenty-five are divided
amongst miscellaneous properties such as tombs, tents, greenery
of some sort, and others. Only two scenes require tombs, a dumb
show in _Pericles_ (IV, iv) and the discovery of Timon’s body
(V, iii). How the tombs were revealed to the audience is not
readily determined so that this subject had best be deferred to a
consideration of the enclosure.
Tents are even more difficult to treat. Even when the action calls
for a tent, it is uncertain whether a property or merely the
enclosure is being employed. Frequent allusions to tents can be
found in _Troilus and Cressida_, but there is no scene where more
than one tent must be used. But how was that represented? When
Ulysses says of Achilles, “We saw him at the opening of his tent”
(II, iii), did the audience see a property tent or the flap of the
enclosure curtain turned back? No interior is required in any of
these scenes so that we are not dealing with a discovery proper.
Some evidence for a property tent can be found in _The Devil’s
Charter_. Caesar Borgia leads an army against the town of Furly
whose defense is led by the Countess Katherine (IV, iv). Unless
she surrenders, Caesar will slay her two young boys, whom he has
captured; when she refuses, he orders the children to execution.
Then, after having scaled the walls and taken Katherine prisoner,
Caesar “discovereth his Tent where her two sonnes were at Cardes,”
and says, “Behold thy children living in my Tent.” But where is the
tent? In the enclosure? A difficulty arises, if we suppose so, for
it places the tent under the very walls which Caesar attempted and
finally overran. Moreover, since the dumb show which opens the play
requires two property tents, it is likely that Caesar’s tent was
brought in by his soldiers and set up on stage.
Similarly, it is difficult to distinguish when prop trees are
used and when stage posts. Although property trees were regularly
employed on the Elizabethan stage, no tree definitely appears
on the Globe stage. In _A Warning for Fair Women_, a Lord
Chamberlain’s play published in 1599, a tree springs up in the
midst of the stage (Sig. E3^v). But whether or not this was the
normal method for introducing the tree prop is uncertain. The
rest of the properties must be considered individually. Some are
discovered, most brought on. But the study of any one of these
properties, if necessary, can be more profitably undertaken in
connection with staging methods.
Two inferences can be drawn from this survey of properties on the
Globe stage. One is that more often than not properties, even heavy
ones, were carried onto the stage. As a consequence, it was not
one of the functions of the enclosure to permit the setting of
furniture or other properties.[19] The other is that the same class
of properties is often introduced in the same way. Beds are likely
to be discovered. Tables, scaffolds, and invalid chairs are brought
out. These habits may have stemmed from solid theatrical necessity.
On the other hand it is possible that they may have embodied a
symbolic significance.
Therefore, since the presence of stage properties cannot guide us
in deciding when the enclosure was used, some other means must be
discovered. References to an interior setting, Richard Hosley has
shown, are not reliable. Fortunately, however, several Globe plays
contain scenes in which stage directions or incontestable stage
business establishes the use of an enclosure. One of these, _The
Devil’s Charter_, supplies unusually valuable evidence.
Barnabe Barnes prepared his text of _The Devil’s Charter_ for the
printer with much care. He supplied full stage directions, which
show theatrical, not literary marks, and seems to have described an
actual production, for the epilogue directly addresses spectators,
albeit not of the public playhouse (Sig. M3^v). The enclosure, or
study, as he terms the area, is employed three times in his play.
It will pay to examine these scenes minutely. In two scenes a stage
direction opens the scene with the words, “Alexander in his study
(or studie) ...,” “with bookes, coffers, his triple Crown upon a
cushion before him” (I, iv); “beholding a Magicall glasse with
other observations” (IV, i). Alexander speaks a long soliloquy in
the first scene, then his two sons enter, later a servant. At the
most there are four characters in the scene. Whether Alexander
remains in the study throughout the first scene is not indicated.
In the second scene Alexander also delivers an extended soliloquy,
but here a direction specifies after his sixth line, “Alexander
commeth upon the Stage out of his study with a booke in his hand.”
He conjures forth a devil in order to discover who killed his son
Candie. He is shown a symbol of the murder: his other son, Caesar,
pursuing the ghost of Candie. The specters enter at one door
and “vanish in at another doore” (G2^r 19). On the heels of the
apparition of Caesar, Caesar himself arrives, outfaces his father,
and parts reconciled to him. The last direction is, “Exit Alexander
into the studie.” Clearly the study supplied a novel scene opening
and provided access to the platform or stage, but was not utilized
for extended presentation.
The third study scene, in this instance containing two disclosures,
occurs at the end of the play. Alexander is about to face the
consequences of his charter with the devil. The scene commences,
“Alexander unbraced betwixt two Cardinalls in his study looking
upon a booke, whilst a groome draweth the Curtaine” (V, vi).
Alexander speaks eight lines, then “They [the two Cardinals] place
him in a chayre upon the stage, a groome setteth a Table before
him.” After chastising himself, “Alexander draweth the Curtaine of
his studie [the one which the groom opened and presumably closed]
where hee discovereth the divill sitting in his pontificals.” He
disputes with the devil, and later “They sit together,” where is
not indicated, and finally Alexander’s soul is carried down. In two
of the scenes there is incontestable evidence that the action is
brought out of the enclosure early in the scene. Furthermore, these
three are the only study scenes in a play of twenty-two scenes.
Yet the study is mentioned at one other time. At one point
Alexander plots the death of two young men, with one of whom he has
had a homosexual affair. The murder scene (IV, v) begins with the
direction, “Enter Alexander out of his studie.” After he has his
servant Bernardo prepare a soporific for the young men, he departs
with the injunction that when the intended victims are asleep,
Bernardo give him notice “at [his] study doore.” The young men come
in from tennis, have a rubdown by barbers, call for refreshment.
The soporific takes effect, and they lie down to nap both upon one
bed. Bernardo “knocketh at the study,” at which Alexander comes
forth “upon the stage” with his asp to slay his paramour. After the
act is completed and the murderer has departed, Bernardo summons
two Cardinals to see the dead youths who, he asserts, expired from
drinking too much when overexerted. Bemoaning the fate of these two
hopes of “Phaenza,” the Cardinals bid Bernardo “Beare them in.”
Several characteristics should be noted. First, the enclosure or
study, when it is actually used, is revealed by the drawing of a
curtain. But if a curtain hangs before the enclosure, upon what
does Bernardo knock? Either upon the side wall, and then Alexander
enters from behind the curtain, or upon a door, and a new area
is presumed to represent the study. Hosley has suggested that
one of the two side doorways, with the doors fully opened, might
have served as the enclosure. This possibility must be excluded,
however, for Act IV, scene i requires two doors for the passage of
the specters of Caesar and Candie at a time when the enclosure or
study is in use.[20]
Second, the direction that Alexander “commeth upon the Stage out
of his study” indicates that the enclosure is recessed. With this
conclusion most of the scenes utilizing the enclosure would agree.
One complication is raised by _Volpone_, V, ii. Here Volpone must
be behind a curtain, yet be able to “peepe over.” There may be any
one of three explanations. Perhaps the curtains did not reach the
top of the recess. Richard Southern refers to such an arrangement
at a booth theater in Brussels in 1660.[21] Another possibility
is that the enclosure projected from the stage façade. Lastly,
the curtain, called a “traverse” in the Folio, may have been
hung especially for this scene and thus may not be the enclosure
curtain. Of all the choices the last seems to accord best with the
evidence.
Altogether thirteen or fourteen instances of discovery can be
found in the non-Shakespearean Globe plays. To what degree do they
substantiate Hosley’s contention that the enclosure was used to
disclose “a player or object invested with some special interest
or significance”?[22] So many persons and things of interest, not
so disclosed, appear in the Globe plays, that it is impossible
to use such a yardstick. True, of the total thirteen or fourteen
discoveries, six involve the sudden display of a figure or figures
or, in one instance, of a striking object, Volpone’s wealth. But
among the other discoveries are mundane representations of a person
reading, casting accounts, lying asleep. Yet, a certain pattern
becomes apparent. For the moment let us consider twelve instances,
excluding the two that occur in Jonson’s plays. In the twelve
instances of discovery, six reveal a person writing or studying or
reading; in four scenes the person is alone; in two, a subordinate
or two attends upon the central figure.[23] Three of the remaining
discoveries reveal a person or persons sleeping.[24] Two
discoveries reveal dead bodies.[25] There remains one discovery to
be accounted for, that already described in _The Devil’s Charter_,
where Alexander draws the curtain to find the devil sitting “in his
pontificals.” Just before revealing the devil, Alexander cries,
Once more I will with powrefull exorcismes,
Invoke those Angells of eternall darkenesse
To shew me now the manner of death.
[Sig. L3^v 18-20]
If one of the conventional uses of the enclosure was to discover
corpses, then the Globe audiences would have well appreciated the
irony of Alexander’s last line, for when he draws the curtain,
he does discover “the manner of death.” Thus, in all preceding
examples discovery reveals persons studying, sleeping, or dead. To
what extent does Shakespeare follow the same practice?
In determining which scenes in Shakespeare’s Globe plays employed
the enclosure, it is necessary to allow reasonable latitude. At
least three instances are fairly certain, _Pericles_, III, i; V, i,
and _Othello_, V, ii. I am inclined to believe that there may be
four others: _Pericles_, I, i; _Timon of Athens_, V, iii; _Lear_,
III, vi; _Othello_, I, iii. Let us examine the definite instances
of discovery.
The two which occur in _Pericles_ are similar in character. In the
first (III, i), Pericles is on a storm-tossed ship’s deck. His
newborn babe has just been placed in his arms. The sailors insist
that the body of his queen, who has but now died in child-birth, be
cast overboard. Pericles answers,
As you thinke meet; for she must over board straight:
Most wretched Queene.
LYCHORIDA. Heere she lyes sir.
PERICLES. A terrible Child-bed hast thou had my deare,
... nor have I time ... but straight,
Must cast thee scarcly Coffind.
[III, i, 54-61. Quarto copy]
At the end of the scene, Pericles sends one of the sailors out to
prepare the “caulkt and bittumed” chest for the body, which we do
not see removed, for the scene ends when Pericles says, “I’le bring
the body presently.”
In the second scene, again on the deck of a ship, Lysimachus is
told of Pericles’ trance out of which no one can stir him.
HELICANUS. hee will not speake to any
LYSIMACHUS. yet let me obtaine my wish [to see Pericles]
HELICANUS. Behold him, this was a goodly person.
[V, i, 34-36. Q.]
Presumably a curtain is drawn to reveal Pericles on a couch.
Subsequently, Marina is brought to rouse him, and little by little
the two discover they are father and daughter. The lines indicate
some shifting in and out of the enclosure during this scene.
Because of the stage direction in the Folio, “Enter Othello, and
Desdemona in her bed,” this last scene of _Othello_ probably
employs the enclosure. If it is continued in the enclosure
throughout, it is the only illustration that we have of extended
action in this space. Only one other instance occurs in the Globe
plays where “enter” precedes the discovery of a sleeping person
(_A Yorkshire Tragedy_, scene v). As yet no one has explained
convincingly the appearance of “enter” in such a context. In
contemporary diction and common usage “enter” is not a synonym
for “discover.” Yet such stage directions clearly intend “enter”
to bear a special significance. Therefore, until further light
can be thrown upon such usage, it is best for us to accept stage
directions reading “Enter _A_ in a bed” or “Enter _B_ asleep” as
evidence of discovery.
A similarity between the three Shakespearean scenes and the
non-Shakespearean scenes will be seen immediately. Two of the
Shakespearean scenes involve the display of sleepers, one of a
seeming corpse. When we return to the remaining possible uses
of the enclosure, we find that they include the discovery of a
conference (_Othello_, I, iii: “Enter Duke and Senators set at
a Table with lights and Attendants.” Q. 1622. The Folio s.d. is
“Enter Duke, Senators, and Officers”); concealment of a sleeper
(_Lear_, III, vi: “draw the curtains”); and the discovery of
dead bodies (_Timon_, V, iii: a soldier finds Timon’s body, and
_Pericles_, I, i). In _Pericles_, I, i, Antiochus seeks to dissuade
Pericles from endeavoring to win the hand of Antiochus’ daughter by
answering a fateful riddle. He points to the bodies of “sometimes
famous Princes” who failed to answer the riddle and were put to
death. These bodies may be discovered.
Once one puts all the evidence together, the degree of uniformity
is amazing. Considering all these discoveries, in Shakespearean
and non-Shakespearean plays, we find twenty-one examples, six of
which involve sleepers, seven of which involve study or conference,
five of which involve corpses. One, the devil as pope, is a slight
variant of the last category. The final two variants appear in
Jonson’s plays. In _Volpone_ gold is displayed, the only time an
object is the center of revelation. It is possible that a chest
rather than the enclosure contains the wealth. In _Every Man Out
of His Humour_, the evidence for the use of the enclosure is
slight.[26]
This theory, that the enclosure was reserved for certain kinds of
display, augments the present theory that the enclosure was used
infrequently and briefly. Both theories lead inevitably to the
question: was the enclosure a permanent part of the stage, and
if it was, why was it not used more frequently? Though I tend to
believe that the enclosure was permanent, it could very well have
been temporary, provided there were hidden access to it. To the
second half of the question, the answer is that the enclosure _was_
used more frequently, not to effect discovery, however, but to
permit concealment. Lear, as I suggested, may have utilized the
enclosure for that purpose, the enclosure which often served as a
study. In Q. 1603 of _Hamlet_, Corambis advises the King:
The Princes walke is here in the galery,
There let Ofelia, walke untill hee comes:
Your selfe and I will stand close in the study.
[Sig. D4^v]
At the corresponding point in the Folio version, Polonius says, “Be
you and I behinde an Arras then.” Naturally Corambis would think of
the place behind the arras as the study. It was the enclosure to
which he referred, the enclosure which served the double purpose,
to reveal and to conceal. Of the fifteen Shakespearean Globe plays
seven contain scenes of concealment and ten contain scenes of
discovery or concealment or both. If, in addition, the enclosure
was employed as the front of a tent in those instances where the
interior was not revealed, then twelve of the fifteen Shakespearean
plays made some use of the enclosure for other purposes than
entry.[27]
One word about chronology remains to be said. The plays in
which discovery takes place, _Pericles_, _The Devil’s Charter_,
_Othello_, tend to come late in the Globe period. The use of the
enclosure for concealment, however, occurs throughout the period.
Recognizing that discovery scenes can be found throughout the
Elizabethan period, I should still like to suggest that the use
of the enclosure for discovery was an extension of its use for
entrance, concealment, and possibly introduction of properties. In
popular plays of the pre-Globe period occur scenes where properties
are brought forth from what must be the enclosure. Although none of
the Globe plays contains evidence of similar practice, it is not
unlikely that scaffolds, states, and pulpits were introduced from
the enclosure.[28] If the origin of the Elizabethan stage truly
lies in the booth theater erected in an inn yard, then the hangings
of the booth first had to conceal the actors dressing, then permit
entrance of actors and properties, and lastly, when the stage
façade became permanent, allow discovery.
Among the parts of the Globe there was, all scholars concede,
an upper level attached to the stage façade. Variously termed a
“chamber” by Adams and a “gallery” by Hosley, it is referred to as
a “window,” “walls,” or “above,” in the Globe texts. To avoid any
preconceptions about its nature, we might best refer to the upper
level as it is usually called, “the above.”
The nature of evidence for the above is of two sorts. First and
surest is the category where a stage direction reads “Enter above”
or the action involves two levels. The second is where characters
refer to being above without actually performing actions which show
them to be above, for example, when Bardolph informs Falstaff that
“there’s a woman below” (_The Merry Wives of Windsor_, III, v).
Both categories of evidence occur in the Globe plays. The first
involves scenes where the above is related to the platform below;
the second involves scenes, if the lines can be taken literally,
which would continue at length independent of the lower stage.
To begin with the second kind of evidence first. Eight scenes
in the Globe plays contain references to people or action below
without directly relating to any action below.[29] Three of these
occur in one play, _A Yorkshire Tragedy_. All the other five take
place in taverns, and supposedly the characters are in upper rooms.
Since the scenes in _A Yorkshire Tragedy_ cast an interesting
light on these references, I shall examine them first. In scene
iii a servant announces to the Husband that “a gentleman from the
University staies below to speake with you.” For the moment, we
can imagine the scene is above. At the news the Husband leaves his
wife to greet the visitor. The wife remains alone to deliver a
soliloquy. In scene iv, after conversing with the gentleman, the
Master of the College, the Husband suggests that the guest “spend
but a fewe minuts in a walke/about my grounds below, my man heere
shall attend you.” Presumably the scene is still above. After the
departure of the guest, the Husband kills one of his children and,
crying that he will kill the other, he exits with the bloody child.
Scene v commences with the direction, already referred to, “Enter a
maide with a child in her armes, the mother by her a sleepe.” The
Husband rushes in and endeavors to snatch the babe from the maid’s
arms. When she resists, he assaults her.
Are you gossiping, prating sturdy queane, Ile breake
your clamor with your neck down staires:
Tumble, tumble, headlong.
Throws her down.
[Sig. C3^r]
Thus, three consecutive scenes purport to be upstairs though
certainly scenes iv and v must be in different parts of the
“house.” Adams places scene v in the “chamber.”[30] What then
becomes of the previous scene which, according to the dialogue,
also took place upstairs? Somewhere an allusion to “below” does
not reflect physical facts. Or is it that all the scenes fail to
reflect physical facts and merely reflect the convention that most
domestic and tavern rooms were situated in an upper story? None of
the other scenes mentioned demands the actual use of an above, and
in the tavern scene of _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_ the scene
concludes with one of the characters calling on all his friends
to follow him to another room in the tavern, an unnecessary exit
if a curtain in the above could close upon them. One is forced to
conclude, therefore, that though a scene may contain references to
being above, it was played below unless the action proves otherwise.
Of scenes upon the walls there are five.[31] Here the stage
directions are straightforward. Action takes place between those on
the walls and those below, in two cases involving sizable groups
and much interchange. In _The Devil’s Charter_ (IV, iv) a sustained
assault upon the walls, involving ladders, takes place.
All window scenes--there are four[32]--contain a reference to
“window” or “casement” in a stage direction. All of them involve
interchanges by one person with characters below. However, the
shape of the window, whether bay or otherwise, is not disclosed.
Only one scene, scene x in _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, is
continued for an extended time above. Complicated though the scene
is, the demands that it makes on the stage are somewhat uncommon
and well worth detailed consideration. Preceding the scene in
question, three sharpers, Ilford, Bartley, and Wentloe, have bilked
Butler’s master, Scarborrow. Consequently, Butler has devised a
way in which to turn the tables on them, in particular, Ilford. He
pretends, separately to Ilford and then to the other two, that he
has access to a rich heiress, and promises each of them to arrange
a match. In reality the “heiress” is the impoverished sister of
Scarborrow. Having appointed a place to meet the sharpers, he sends
them off. At that point, two of Scarborrow’s brothers, privy to the
plot, enter. Without a change of scene, the action shifts to the
“place appointed” previously. After being assured that the brothers
know how to handle their task, Butler exits. The brothers commend
him for his devotion. Then occurs a curious stage direction,
“Betwixt this Butler leads Ilford in.” The brothers finish their
eulogy when another direction is inserted, “Enter Butler and Ilford
above.” Butler pretends that the heiress’ uncles have arrived,
and he urges Ilford to overhear their conversation while he goes
below to the girl. It is interesting to note that Butler says,
“stay you heere in this upper chamber” to listen to the uncles,
not at the window. Butler leaves. Ilford listens to the brothers
who, pretending to be concerned about finding a suitable husband
for their niece, describe the vast wealth of the “heiress.” Butler
returns to an exultant Ilford. Light-headed with visions of playing
the courtier, Ilford swears to love and be true to the girl. She
comes in. Butler leaves them alone to swear their mutual faith. At
this point
Enter Wentloe, and Bartley beneath.
BART. Here about is the house sure.
WENTLOE. We cannot mistake it, for heres the signe of the
Wolfe and the Bay-window.
Enter Butler above.
BUT. [to the lovers] What so close? Tis well, I ha shifted
away your Vncles Mistris, but see the spight Sir
Francis, if yon same couple of Smel-smockes, Wentloe
and Bartley, ha not sented after us.
[Sig. G4]
Under the stimulus of competition, Ilford is willing to rush into
marriage without seeing the dowry of his wife-to-be. After sending
the couple “below,” Butler calls to Bartley and Wentloe to arrange
to meet them below, timing matters so that they will arrive after
the marriage ceremony is completed.
Location is here treated very loosely. In the course of the scene,
action shifts from one place to another. Sometimes the characters
seem to be at a window, sometimes in an upper chamber, but there
is no exact indication where they are at any one time. Indeed this
is a generalized setting, for we know that we are at Scarborrow’s
house. The scene clearly shows that an extended action could be
played above, but only when related to action below.
Altogether there are twelve scenes in ten Globe plays that utilize
the above. Ten have been cited. The other two, the monument scene
in _Antony and Cleopatra_ (IV, xiv) and the observation scene in
_Julius Caesar_ (V, iii) where Pindarus witnesses the distant
battle, are discussed in Appendix B, chart iii. To sum up the
evidence for the above, the limited study of the Globe plays
substantiates Richard Hosley’s broader studies of the plays of
Shakespeare, Kyd, Marlowe, and others as well as of the Red Bull
plays.[33] He shows that 46 per cent of all the plays examined do
not employ a raised production area. At the Globe 66 per cent do
not employ such an area. Wherever, in the remaining 34 per cent of
the plays, action is set above, invariably it is related to action
below, either through actual communication or through persons on
one level observing persons on the other.
Several stage facilities remain to be considered: the traps,
the heavens, and the pillars. Upon these subjects there is less
disagreement amongst scholars. Both J. C. Adams and George
Reynolds, opponents in many matters of Elizabethan staging, agree
that Elizabethan stages contained more than one trap.[34] In the
Globe plays traps are used seven times. From this list I exclude
the use of a trap for the Ghost in the first act in _Hamlet_.[35]
Of the seven instances four occur in one play, _The Devil’s
Charter_. Three of these can be definitely placed at a trap near
the front of the platform (prologue; IV, i; V, vi), for preceding
each use of the trap a stage direction specifies movement forward.
The other scene in _The Devil’s Charter_ (III, v) is similar to one
in _A Larum for London_ (sc. xii). In each case a figure peering
into a river or a vault respectively is pushed down into the void.
The two remaining instances of trap use occur in _Macbeth_ (the
cauldron scene, IV, i) and _Hamlet_ (the gravediggers scene, V,
i). In light of the character of the enclosure, these too must
have been played forward. Confirmation of this assumption can be
found in _Hamlet_. Stage productions often begin the gravediggers
scene with one or both of the diggers already in a half-dug grave.
However, a close reading of the first part of the text rules out
such a beginning. Early in the Folio text, the second gravedigger
advises the first to make the grave straight. But a little later
the first calls to the other, “Come, my Spade.” If he has been
digging all along, this remark is unnecessary. Only after the two
clowns come in, chat, and then the one calls to the other, “Come,
my Spade,” does the digging begin. This action occurs forward on
the platform. To summarize, it is certain that the Globe plays
require a trap, a trap of sufficient size to raise and lower a
cauldron or a man on a property dragon (_The Devil’s Charter_, IV,
i), but at no time do they demand more than one trap located on the
platform.
About the machinery in the heavens the Globe plays offer no
evidence whatsoever. No hint exists from which one can surmise that
either actors or properties were dropped from above. Nor is there
any evidence for such action from the pre-Globe plays of the Lord
Chamberlain’s company. This may be coincidental. Plays containing
flying scenes may have perished. But a suggestion that this finding
for the Globe may have a more general application comes from two
sources. Jonson’s contempt for the “creaking thrones” which come
down “the boys to please” is expressed in the prologue to the
Folio version of _Every Man In His Humour_ (1616). Although the
prologue does not appear in the Quarto of 1601, scholars have
assumed that the scornful attack refers to stage devices of that
period. But Jonson revised _Every Man In His Humour_ thoroughly,
recasting the entire setting of the play. The addition of the
prologue is certain, for it is in keeping with the Anglicized
setting. Furthermore, the first use of flying in the King’s men’s
repertory is recorded in the dream sequence in _Cymbeline_ (V,
iv), immediately after the company began to play at Blackfriars.
It is pertinent that a dream scene, very similar to the one in
_Cymbeline_, occurs in _Pericles_ (V, i), one of the last plays to
be produced before the King’s men took over Blackfriars. Instead
of Jupiter, Diana appears but does not descend. Nor did the god
Hymen in the last scene of _As You Like It_. Could it have been
that the company lacked means for flying actors until it moved to
Blackfriars? Actually the history of flying apparatuses in the
Elizabethan theater needs further study. For the Globe, at least so
far as the plays demonstrate, no machinery for flying existed.
It is generally conceded that the posts supporting the heavens
not only did exist, but were introduced into the action. Against
the evidence of the Fortune and Hope contracts and the DeWitt
drawing, there is no effective argument. Assuming, therefore, the
presence of the two pillars, a number of scenes do exist where one
was probably employed in the story, either as a post or a tree.
However, to suppose that a pillar is used, let us say, for the
tree upon which Orlando hangs his verse, reduces the likelihood
that property trees were placed on stage for incidental action.
Our old friend, the ubiquitous Butler, climbs a tree in _Miseries
of Enforced Marriage_. J. C. Adams suggests that what he climbed
was a stage pillar. Hodges doubts that an actor could climb a main
pillar, but he suggests that a decorative pillar might have been
used. So far as staging practice is concerned, it matters little
which pillar serves as a tree. The principle is the same. When the
actors could use a ready-to-hand stage post instead of a prop, they
did so. Inconclusive but provocative is a hint we have that prop
trees were introduced when they had symbolic meaning. The tree that
arises in _A Warning for Fair Women_ represents the life of Sanders
which has been hewn down. And the titles of the trees in Henslowe’s
inventory, such as “j tree of gowlden apelles,” and “Tantelouse
tre,” support this possibility.
Although we have covered all those structural parts of the stage
which are required by the Globe plays, we must deal with the theory
that in addition to or in place of the enclosure, mansions, that
is, free-standing wooden frames, curtained on one or more sides,
usually removable, were employed to suggest specific locations in
Elizabethan plays. Except for the tents in _The Devil’s Charter_,
no evidence exists for such units on the Globe stage. Even the
tents are in a special class, for they may be similar to a property
such as a scaffold rather than to stage scenery. Reynolds has found
instances for removable structures on the Red Bull stage and Hotson
would place mansions on all stages, but there is no warrant for
supposing that they were used at the Globe. Henslowe, who claims to
include _all_ the properties belonging to the Lord Admiral’s men
in his inventory of 1598, lists nothing that can be construed as
a mansion, and though evidence for the Lord Admiral’s men is not
necessarily evidence for the Lord Chamberlain’s men, nevertheless,
it indicates that one playhouse at least seems not to have used
temporary structures. For the Globe company not only the absence
of evidence but also the system of localization rules out such a
method of staging.
A unique theory combining the presence of mansions with the
rearrangement of the spectators has been devised by Leslie
Hotson. Not content to modify current thinking about Elizabethan
staging, he reveals, messiah-like, that after two hundred years
of bafflement, the world will be able “now for the first time to
understand and visualize the stage of the Globe” because of his
discoveries.[36] Citing a compote of evidence from the English
and Spanish theaters, he asserts that the essential relationship
between actor and audience maintained at Court, playhouse, and
college, was one in which the actor performed between two masses
of audience, with the privileged audience sitting on one side. In
the Globe this privileged audience sat in the gallery over the
stage and on the stage between the stage doors. The tiring house,
contrary to accepted thought, was below the stage. At either end of
the stage two-tiered wooden frames with transparent curtains served
as mansions. Actors entered through trap doors into these mansions
and from thence onto the stage. Masked attendants drew the curtains
as the action required.
By the extravagance of his assertions and the evangelical tone
of his arguments, Hotson has made a cause of what is a matter for
scholarly examination. His daring views and the insights they
afford usually deserve careful consideration. Here, however, it is
only necessary to evaluate those theories which directly affect
staging at the Globe.
Hotson’s early attempts to prove the existence of “Shakespeare’s
Arena Stage” at Whitehall Palace, contrary to what he chooses to
believe, have not met with general approbation. Alois Nagler,
for example, has shown that Hotson’s reading of _atorno atorno_,
a phrase which appears in a description of a Court performance
written by Virginio Orsino, Duke of Bracciano, does not mean, as
Hotson contends, “completely around on every side,” but on three
sides.[37] Nevertheless, extending his interpretation to the public
playhouse, Hotson announces that persons of quality “customarily
graced” the Globe’s stage. In fact, it was the outstanding
characteristic of Elizabethan staging to locate the best seats on
the stage and in the gallery over the stage. In establishing his
proof, Hotson unfortunately neglects to mention the Induction to
_The Malcontent_. This play, it will be remembered, was presented
by the Globe company presumably in retaliation for the theft of
one of their plays, _Jeronimo_, by the Children at Blackfriars. No
other piece of evidence so surely reflects conditions at the Globe
as this Induction, written by John Webster especially to justify
the appearance of Marston’s satire at this public playhouse. To
give the justification indisputable authority, Webster introduces
the leading actors of the company, Dick Burbage, Henry Condell, and
John Lowin, in their own persons, to explain the matter.
The Induction commences.
Enter W. Sly, a Tire-man following him with a stool.
TIRE-MAN. Sir, the gentlemen will be angry if you sit here.
SLY. [as a gallant]. Why, we may sit upon the stage at the
private house.
Immediately it is apparent that, contrary to Hotson’s fancy,
sitting on the stage was not the custom and its introduction was
not happily countenanced by the “gentlemen.” Since the tire-man
still holds the stool as he refers to the “gentlemen,” the word
“here” must mean the stage as a whole and therefore the “gentlemen”
are the actors. The one time Sly refers to any spectators, he
does it in such terms that he clearly intends the groundlings.
Otherwise, no mention is made of other spectators on the stage.
Toward the end of the Induction, Lowin succeeds in ushering Sly out
by offering to lead him to a “private room.”
Thomas Platter, who supposedly attended one of the opening
performances at the Globe, in his enumeration of possible seats
for the audience, makes no mention of seats on the stage. Dekker,
in the widely known passage from _The Gull’s Hornbook_, does
refer to sitting on the stage at the public playhouse, but Hotson
takes seriously what is patently a satiric description of a fool
intruding where he does not belong. Throughout the passage the
stage sitter is referred to in the most derogatory terms, and what
sharply contradicts Hotson’s contention is the injunction to the
gallant that “though the Scar-scrows in the yard, hoot at you,
hisse at you, spit at you, yea throw durt even in your teeth: tis
most Gentlemanlike patience to endure all this.”[38] Were all those
gentlemen who “customarily graced” the Globe stage treated in this
fashion? Obviously the thrust of Dekker’s wit, coming as it did
in 1609, was a vain endeavor to resist the press of gallants who
sought to impose upon the public playhouse the privileges they
enjoyed at the private.
Hotson also claims that the gentlemen sat “over the stage, i’ the
lords roome.” For this claim he enjoys considerably more support.
In and out of plays references to sitting “over the stage” suggest
the employment in some way of the area I have called the above. But
“over the stage” is not specific. Does “over” mean directly over,
or to one side? Does it include the entire length of the stage
wall, as Hosley asserts, so that actors in order to play their
scenes above were obliged to thrust themselves into the midst of
the auditors?[39]
However, the case for sitters in a gallery which runs the length of
the stage wall depends not merely upon words, but more effectively
upon graphic representation. Four interior views of Elizabethan
and Jacobean theaters are extant: the Swan drawing (1596), the
engraving on the _Roxana_ title page (1632), the drawing on the
_Messalina_ title page (1640), and the frontispiece to _The Wits_
(1672). Only one, the first and most important, is Elizabethan.
Three of the representations, the Swan, the _Roxana_, and _The
Wits_, depict figures in the gallery above the stage.
In each drawing the figures appear to be looking at the action
on the stage below, particularly in the _Roxana_ print. The
frontispiece to _The Wits_, obviously depicting an interior,
shows solemn-faced puritans in the gallery. Dressed as they are
like the figures grouped around the platform, they certainly seem
to be members of the audience. Less certain but of a similar
character is the evidence from the _Roxana_ title page. Both of
these representations come late, it is true. But because they
seem to echo the same conditions as those in the Swan playhouse
of 1596, they have been cited as authority. About the figures
in the Swan drawing it is difficult to tell. They appear to be
drawn in positions that connote listening and seeing a play. But
they are small and indistinct. Two or possibly three persons are
wearing hats. Quite clearly all are related in some way to the
action taking place below them. To a certain extent all these
representations verify the theory that spectators sat overlooking
the playing area.
The investigation is complicated as soon as we inquire about the
numbers and disposition of the spectators. Examining these prints
again, all four of them this time, we discover some significant
disparities. The Swan drawing shows a long gallery divided by
five posts into six sections. Each section is wide enough for two
people. No architectural treatment of the gallery is delineated.
The frontispiece of _The Wits_ has some things in common with the
Swan drawing. A gallery divided into six sections runs across the
back of the stage. Four of the sections apparently are cut in half,
but from the appearance of the other two, each section seems to be
able to accommodate two persons side by side. One difference does
exist. In the center of the upper level, there hangs a striped
curtain, somewhat like an awning. The flap is parted so that two
balusters may be seen, indicating some architectural structure
behind the curtain. It is possible, but not certain, that the
structure is cantilevered and thus protrudes. Some lines behind
the balusters may have been intended to represent an actor waiting
for his cue. The _Roxana_ title page shows an upper level divided
into two sections by a column. The framing about each section
conveys the impression of two windows. Two figures occupy each
section. Finally the _Messalina_ title page, showing a bare stage,
depicts a curtained window placed high in a brick wall. Thus, each
of the views presents a different physical arrangement. Aside
from the Swan drawing there is no support for a long, unadorned,
uncurtained gallery in theaters of this period.
Since its discovery in 1888, repeated attempts have been made
to prove that a particular occasion is represented by the Swan
drawing. Nagler, among the latest to repeat the attempt, believes
“that a rehearsal was in progress. DeWitt seems to have visited the
theater in the morning and sketched the interior while the actors
were rehearsing a scene.”[40] He asserts that the persons in the
gallery were actors or “at any rate, theater personnel.” Without
quarreling with the last comment, I believe that we must discount
the theory that a rehearsal was in progress or, in actuality,
that any specific moment is recorded in the sketch. One internal
contradiction has been noted often. Why are there people in the
gallery, but not in the auditorium? Because a rehearsal is in
progress, says Nagler. Because DeWitt did not trouble to sketch all
the details, says Hosley. But another contradiction exists in the
drawing. At the head of the sketch, flying from a staff at the top
of the huts, is the ensign of the playhouse, a flag emblazoned with
a Swan. The flag was a sign that a performance was in progress.
Below the flag is a figure who is blowing a trumpet. Either he is
summoning the audience or he is announcing the commencement of
the play. Customarily the play began after the third sounding of
the trumpet. But, in the sketch, a scene is already under way.
Consequently, if a rehearsal was in progress, why is the flag
flying, the trumpeter calling the audience? If a performance was in
progress, why at the beginning are we in the midst of the action?
Could it be that the sketch reflects no particular instance but a
composite impression of the Swan and that the rendition of such
an impression was likely to have been made after DeWitt had left
the playhouse? The text which accompanies the sketch, starting
with a general discussion of London playhouses and proceeding to a
description of the Swan, indicates that DeWitt set down a summary
of experiences either after he had visited various theaters or
after he had had them described to him.
It may be well at this time to consider the reliability of the
Swan drawing in other respects. Currently it is the fashion to
adhere to the sketch closely. However, one fact must be faced,
insofar as the Globe is concerned. Granted that the original
drawing, as well as Arend van Buchell’s copy that has come down
to the present, were both trustworthy, nevertheless we are still
forced to amend the sketch in order to have it accord with other,
indisputable evidence. All sorts of ingenious explanations, that
the hangings were not in place or that a stage-width curtain was
added for performance, have been offered, but the fact remains: the
Swan, as it is depicted in the drawing, unaltered, could not have
accommodated the Globe plays. However plausible the suggestions for
additions may be, they cannot still the doubt with which one is
obliged to regard the sketch, and though DeWitt’s testimony cannot
be ignored, it cannot be accepted without corroboration.
From the preceding material two conclusions emerge. First, there
was no single form for the above. Therefore, in developing an
image of the Globe, we cannot rely on the Swan drawing. Yet
even if we do, we discover that such an unrelieved gallery as
it shows is simply not characteristic of the Renaissance design
which presumably DeWitt sought to catch. A glance at prints of
various continental stages will illustrate this point.[41] What is
suggested by the later views and what accords with the needs of
the Globe playhouse is an above which, regardless of the presence
of auditors, could be differentiated structurally from the rest of
the gallery. Architecturally this might have been accomplished by
separating and emphasizing a central, probably uncurtained, section
in the balcony, reserved for the actors. On either side of this
area, auditors might have overlooked the stage.
Second, all the views agree that the maximum number of spectators
in each section was two. Keeping literally to the evidence, we
must conclude that twelve persons could be accommodated in the
Swan gallery. We could, of course, indulge in the fascinating game
of using the dimensions of the Fortune to calculate the capacity
of the Swan. But this is unnecessary. DeWitt tells us the Swan
could hold three thousand people. Whether twelve or twenty or a
few more could sit above, their proportion to the total would be
small. Could the actors have directed their performance to such a
minority? It is certain that they did not, for in one other respect
the extant views are in complete agreement. Where performers are
shown in action on stage, they play, not toward the “spectators” in
the gallery, but toward the auditors listening “round about.” In
short, they turn their backs to the stage wall and play front.
III. THE DESIGN OF THE STAGE
Until now the discussion of the Globe playhouse has proceeded
from dramatic function to theatrical realization. But inevitably
the reader is bound to wonder, if only inwardly, what the Globe
looked like. No one knows. Startling as it may seem, no one really
can reconstruct the design of the Globe playhouse. The reader may
remonstrate: what about the various reconstructions of Walter
Godfrey, John C. Adams, C. Walter Hodges, Richard Southern? What
about their sketches and models? All hypotheses, some reasonable,
some farfetched. Each scholar, selecting for his palette certain
scraps of evidence, has painted a hypothetical image of the
Elizabethan playhouse. Each realizes, of course, that his image
is conjectural. The damage occurs when the image is realized in
drawings and the drawings are reproduced with such frequency that
what was conjecture comes to be regarded as historical fact by the
general reader. Acknowledging that “the hard facts available [for
the reconstruction of Elizabethan playhouses] are insufficient
in themselves,” Hodges admits that each scholar interprets the
evidence according to “influences of taste” of which he may not
even be aware.[42] The result has been that equally reputable
scholars have produced widely divergent images of the Globe
playhouse. In recent times the once prevailing Tudor image has
yielded to Renaissance design.
The leading advocate of Tudor style is John Cranford Adams. He
affirms that it was a “tendency of [Elizabethan] stage design to
imitate contemporary London houses,” and therefore, that “the
façade of the tiring-house differed from its model, a short row
of London houses, mainly in having upper and lower curtains
suspended in the middle.” Each reference to a contemporary urban
structural feature of the stage is considered to be a description
of a realistic detail. “It was the habit of Elizabethan dramatists
to accept the equipment of their stage rather literally and to
refer to that equipment in dialogue.”[43] He cites construction
methods of the period for support. The building contract for the
Fortune calls for wooden frames “sufficiently enclosed withoute
[outside] with lathe, lyme & Haire.” This specification suggests
a half-timbered-and-plaster building of Tudor design, a type of
construction which continued to appear through the early part
of the seventeenth century. In contrast, buildings in the newer
Renaissance style were largely built of stone or brick.[44] Since
its completion in 1950, Adams’ model of the Globe, now at the
Folger Library, has impressed itself upon the imagination of lovers
of Shakespeare, particularly in America.
In 1953 C. Walter Hodges presented an opposing image of the
Globe.[45] Adhering closely to the Swan drawing, which Adams
rejects, and deriving the Elizabethan stage from market place
booth stages and _tableaux vivants_, Hodges developed a series of
sketches in Renaissance style. Doors and galleries in the stage
façade are flanked by columns of one of the three regular orders;
obelisks and statuary appear above the cornices of the Fortune
sketch; and in his drawing of the Hope, carved busts support the
gallery ends of the heavens. To avoid contradicting the Swan
drawing, which shows no enclosure, he devised one to project from
the stage façade.
The contribution of the _tableaux vivants_ to the design of the
Elizabethan stage was first explored by George Kernodle. His thesis
is that “The greatest problem of the Renaissance stage was the
organization of a number of divergent scenic elements into some
principle of spatial unity.” Medieval art bequeathed three forms to
the theater: the side arches leaving the center clear, the center
arch or pavilion with subordinate side accents, the flat arcade
screen. While the Italian theater, later to be imitated by Inigo
Jones in England, utilized the form of side arches in combination
with central perspective to create illusion, the northern theaters
of England and Flanders developed the central pavilion into a
theater of architectural symbolism. The immediate predecessors
of these stages were the _tableaux vivants_, or street pageants,
erected to signalize the entry of a royal or civic personage into
a city. It was “from the _tableaux vivants_ (whose conventions
they took over)” that the Flemish and English stages derived “the
power to suggest, by decoration and remembered associations, the
places they symbolized.” The conventions of medieval art, which
persisted throughout the early Renaissance, were passed on to
the street theaters where they were interwoven with Renaissance
forms. Prints of the Flemish stages illustrate the conventional
architecture which resulted from these influences. In parallel
fashion, the English theater was subject to the same influences.
“Most of the new buildings erected in England in the latter half of
the sixteenth century were of the newer Renaissance architecture.”
Yearly the Londoner could witness the pageants in the Lord Mayor’s
Show. “A comparison [of street shows and stage drama] will make
clear,” Kernodle believes, “not only that many particular scenes
of Elizabethan drama were derived from the _tableaux vivants_
but that they provided the basic pattern of the English stage
façade.”[46] This basic pattern involved a central arch which
conventionally represented an interior, and side arches or doors
which conventionally represented an exterior. Architectural symbols
as throne, arbor, arras, by general recognition could transform the
façade into the symbols of palace, garden, room.
For the design of the English stage, Kernodle’s theory is
provocative rather than proved. There is no clear flow of Flemish
theatrical influence into Elizabethan England, and even in art,
though we know many Flemish craftsmen were in London, there is
no certain influence.[47] Furthermore, the medieval tradition in
art, which Kernodle has shown to have persisted on the continent,
was abruptly terminated in England. “The year 1531, in which the
convocation of Canterbury recognized Henry VIII as the Supreme Head
of the Church of England, can be conveniently taken to mark the
close of the medieval period of art in England [and the severance
of] what had been the most fruitful field of subject-matter for
artists in Europe for a thousand years.”[48] What followed was a
court art of portraiture which does not readily yield demonstration
of Kernodle’s thesis. Even in the popular forms of art, which he
recommends for study, the formal medieval elements are absent. For
example, the woodcuts of Wynken de Worde show no consistent use of
conventional devices.
As for the street pageants, continental experience cannot be
readily applied to Tudor practice. For the last half of the
sixteenth century the royal entries were virtually abandoned by
Elizabeth, and it was not until the coronation of James that the
magnificence of the royal entry returned to London. When it did,
it had all the characteristics of the flamboyant Renaissance style
described by Kernodle. Until then, from 1558 to 1603, the Londoner
could witness the Lord Mayor’s Show, an annual event to honor the
installation of the new Lord Mayor. The central device was a single
pageant supplied by the Company of which the Lord Mayor was a
member.[49] Featuring child orators, it was usually carried along
in the procession by porters, though from time to time we hear of
frames being built to support the pageants.[50] It appears that the
pageant was stored in the company hall from which it was removed
when needed, with or without redecoration, though occasionally
a new pageant would be ordered.[51] The fact that the pageant
remained on permanent view in the company halls suggests that it
may have been similar to the figures of saints carried even today
in religious processions.
Allegorical in nature, the pageant depicted a theme apt for the
new Lord Mayor and his company. In 1561, for example, five ancient
harpers, David, Orpheus, Amphion, Arion, and Iopas, were displayed
in a pageant to honor the new Lord Mayor, Sir William Harper.
Often the themes of the pageants represented the trade rather than
the man, the Ship, for instance, being deemed appropriate for
the Merchant Tailors Company.[52] At an appropriate point in the
procession, the figures in the pageant would speak commendatory
verses to the Lord Mayor. From the extant texts, it is quite clear
that the presentations were brief and rhetorical; they did not
involve dramatic action. In fact, the very people being honored
were those who most assiduously sought to destroy the public
playhouses.[53]
No sketch of a sixteenth century pageant exists. The presence of
mythical figures encourages the notion that Renaissance design
characterized these pageants, but there is no graphic or thoroughly
descriptive evidence for assuming so. Nor do the symbols which
Kernodle enumerates appear prominently in these pageants. Instead
the companies relied on those trade-or-personal symbols which held
special significance for them. For one company the lion appears in
pageant because a lion is part of the company’s coat of arms;[54]
for another, a Moor rides on a lynx, which animal is deemed
appropriate for the Skinners’ company.[55]
What is substantiated by these pageants and reinforced by the royal
entries of the seventeenth century is the mode of presentation.
Perhaps the particular symbols which Kernodle emphasizes did not
have significance for the Londoner of the 1590’s, but he was
familiar with presenting and interpreting theatrical forms in a
symbolic manner, and I believe that to this extent the pageants may
have influenced the design of the public playhouse.
In conclusion, then, one cannot verify whether the Elizabethan
playhouse reflected the outgoing Tudor or the incoming Renaissance
style. Roughed up by a master carpenter, such as James Burbage,
Peter Streete, or Gilbert Katherens, the structure could have
retained the traditions of design familiar to these men or it could
have responded to the new fashions. These new fashions, however,
were principally decorative; classical forms were applied to
Tudor-Gothic foundations.[56] I tend to think that the pragmatic
attitude of Elizabethan builders led them to erect a fundamentally
Tudor structure to which they attached classical ornaments more or
less at random. In such a structure the stage would certainly be
the focus of such adornment.
Based solely on the evidence of the Globe plays, what then is
the picture of the Globe stage? The principal part of the stage
was a large rectangular platform upon which rested two pillars.
At the rear of the platform two doors and a curtained recess
between them provided access to the stage. The recess, which was
an integral part of the tiring house, had to accommodate less than
half a dozen people. Above the recess and/or doors was an upper
level principally required where characters related themselves
to others below. In the floor of the outer stage there was at
least one substantial trap. No machinery for flying either actors
or properties existed. In over-all design the stage, which was
Renaissance in surface details, emphasized formal rather than
realistic decoration. Altogether it was a theater that presented
itself as a show place rather than as an imitation of London.
In a review once Granville-Barker remonstrated against overemphasis
on the physical aspects of the stage at the expense of the
imaginative. Such overemphasis has too frequently resulted. In
their zeal to reconstruct the Elizabethan stage, theorists have
given the impression that the theater of that day was constantly
using traps, heavens, upper level, and enclosure. However, a
comparison of the number of scenes which use some stage facility,
be it merely a stool, with the number which use no stage facility
whatsoever, neither property nor stage machinery, save merely
a means to get on and off, shows that of the 345 scenes in the
Shakespearean Globe plays, only 20 per cent require any facility.
Fully 80 per cent need nothing but a bare space and an audience,
not so much as a stool.
As a result, Shakespearean drama depends a great deal upon the
vigorous movement of the actors coming on and off the stage.
The actors themselves, rather than the stage equipment, provide
the impetus for a play’s progression. We are all familiar with
the conclusion of a Shakespearean scene. More often than not, a
character will say, “Come along with me,” and off will go the
actors. I have checked every scene in the Globe plays and found
a startlingly high percentage of such exits. For purposes of
computation I divide the scene conclusions into four categories.
First, there is the explicit exit line.
ORL. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter,
and thou shalt not die for lack of a
dinner if there live any thing in this
desert. Cheerly, good Adam. Exeunt.
[_As You Like It_, II, vi, 16-19]
Next, there is the implicit exit line.
ANT. [musing upon Sebastian’s departure]
But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. Exit.
[_Twelfth Night_, II, i, 48-49]
Thirdly, there is the scene which ends with no exit line implying
motion.
TO. [to the dancing Sir Andrew] Let me see
thee caper. Ha, higher! ha, ha, excellent! Exeunt.
[_Twelfth Night_, I, iii, 149-150]
Lastly, there is the scene which ends in a soliloquy or an aside.
Although the playwright occasionally inserts an exit line in such
a conclusion, his opportunity to do so is slight. Below I have
enumerated the scene endings that conclude with explicit and
implicit exit lines, with no exit lines, and as a solo exit.
Explicit Implicit No. Solo
Exit lines Exit lines Exit lines Exits
Shakespeare 192 57.2% 74 22% 35 10.4% 35 10.4%
Non-Shakes. 88 48.4% 37 20.3% 23 12.6% 34 18.7%
Only 9 to 13 per cent of the scenes fail to indicate that the
characters end a scene by leaving the stage. Although the
soliloquies may or may not imply that the actors leave the stage,
the majority of the scene endings clearly demonstrate that it was
the physical departure of the actors which gave fluency to the
action. When a stage direction reads “exeunt” at the end of a
scene, it means exactly that: “they go out.”
It is time to revive an old cry. The pendulum has swung too far. It
is time to reassert that the Globe stage _was_ bare. Sumptuous and
gorgeous as this playhouse may have appeared, the decoration was
largely permanent and passive. In brief, the Globe was constructed
and employed to tell a story as vigorously and as excitingly and
as intensely as possible. Though spectators were usually informed
where a scene took place, they were informed by the words they
heard, not the sights they saw. Instead, place was given specific
emphasis only when and to the degree the narrative required.
Otherwise, the audience gazed upon a splendid symbol of the
universe before which all sorts of human actions could be unfolded.
Chapter Four
THE ACTING
Since 1939 the debate over the style of acting in the Elizabethan
theater has been argued on the grounds defined by Alfred Harbage.
One of two styles could have existed, he wrote. Acting was either
formal or natural.
Natural acting strives to create an illusion of reality by
consistency on the part of the actor who remains in character and
tends to imitate the behavior of an actual human being placed in
his imagined circumstances. He portrays where the formal actor
symbolizes. He impersonates where the formal actor represents.
He engages in real conversation where the formal actor recites.
His acting is subjective and “imaginative” where that of the
formal actor is objective and traditional. Whether he sinks his
personality in his part or shapes the part to his personality, in
either case he remains the natural actor.[1]
Professor Harbage then, and a succession of writers
subsequently,[2] have endeavored to prove that formal acting
prevailed on the Elizabethan stage.
When we have sifted the various arguments presented over the years
by this school of thought, we discover these common points. Oratory
and acting utilized similar techniques of voice and gesture so that
“whoever knows today exactly what was taught to the Renaissance
orator cannot be far from knowing at the same time what was done
by the actor on the Elizabethan stage.”[3] Contemporary allusions
which compare the orator to the actor establish this correspondence
without a doubt. This system depended upon conventional gesture,
“as in a sorrowfull parte, y^e head must hange down; in a proud,
y^e head must bee lofty.”[4] By learning these conventional
gestures, the actors could readily symbolize all emotional states.
Such symbolization was necessary since the speed of Elizabethan
playing left little room for interpolated action. The result was
that the actor did not so much interpret his part as recite it.
His personality did not intrude, for his attention was devoted
to rendering the literary qualities of the script. Although the
emotions expressed in the play were usually violent, the actor
projected them “by declaiming his lines with the action fit for
every word and sentence.”[5] In this way he properly stressed
the significant figures of speech. He played to the audience,
not to his fellow actors. The final effect, several writers have
concluded, was more like that of opera or ballet than modern drama.
Rejecting this theory of formal acting, a smaller but equally
fervent group of scholars is sure that Elizabethan acting was
“natural.”[6] Denying that oratory and acting were similar,
they maintain that style was dynamic, that an older formalism
gave way to a newer naturalism. Since Renaissance art sought
to imitate life, the actors in harmony with this aim thought
that they imitated life. To grasp how their style emerged from
such a view, it is necessary first to comprehend what was the
Elizabethan conception of reality. Admittedly, natural acting
then was different from natural acting today in some respects,
yet the intention was very much the same. “What can be said is
that Elizabethan acting was thought at the time to be lifelike
... [which would suggest] a range of acting capable of greater
extremes of passion, of much action, which would now seem forced
or grotesque, but realistic within a framework of ‘reality’ that
coincides to a large extent with ours.”[7]
Some attempt has been made to reconcile these contradictory views.
Generally the reconciliation has taken the line that Elizabethan
acting was mixed, partly formal, partly natural. Some have thought
of the mixture as a blend: a unified style midway between the
rigidity of formalism and the fluidity of naturalism. It has
also been thought of as an oscillation: certain scenes played
in a formal manner, such as longer verse passages delivered in
a rhetorical style; other scenes, such as brief exchanges of
dialogue, acted in an informal manner. The scholars who have
proposed this reconciliation, despite the fact that they arrive
at slightly different conclusions from those of the proponents
of formal or natural acting, accept the fundamental premise that
Elizabethan acting can be discussed only in terms of formal or
natural styles.
Until now, it is true, the research and discussion that have gone
into this debate have produced careful studies of contemporary
allusions to acting. But it seems unlikely that further progress
can be made by considering Elizabethan acting in relation to
these fixed poles of formality and reality. Brown and Foakes have
undertaken a new approach by urging an evaluation of Elizabethan
acting in terms of the Elizabethan conception of reality. But
neither has followed through. They have merely redefined what is
meant by natural acting. Much of what the formalists consider
conventional, they argue, represented reality to the Elizabethan.
Do sudden insubstantially motivated emotional changes in _Othello_
or _Measure for Measure_ seem forced? They occurred in life
and therefore were natural to the period, is their answer. The
result has been confusion. The formalists describe the means at
the actor’s disposal, the techniques of voice and gesture; the
naturalists, the effect at which he aimed, the imitation of life.
This confusion is inherent in the original proposition. Harbage
wrote about both aims and means, but without sufficiently
discriminating between the two. I think that it is necessary
to clarify our understanding of the aims and methods of the
actor’s art in general before returning to a consideration of the
Elizabethan actor’s art in particular.
At the heart of dramatic presentation stands the actor, imitating
a person in a fictional situation in such a way as to hold
the continuous attention of the audience in the unfolding
circumstances. This holding of attention is dramatic illusion.
Whether that illusion is an imitation of contemporary life,
historical life, or mythical life, the action and characters must
achieve a level of reality sufficient to involve us. For the
children who say, “I believe in fairies,” Tinkerbell has become
real. The means may be conventional and symbolic or contextual
and descriptive; the effect must be an “illusion of reality.”
Ultimately, we must reconstruct what that “illusion” signified and
how it was achieved in order to visualize the acting of a period.
The understanding that the actor has with the audience about
the relation of dramatic experience to life will determine the
significance of the illusion. The common understanding that they,
actor and audience, have about the characters and stories will
affect the means at the actor’s disposal for creating the illusion.
Consider a simple stage movement. An actor turns his back on the
audience. In the context of the Théâtre-Libre or the Moscow Art
Theatre this movement emphasizes the convention of the fourth wall
and the illusion of the unpresent audience. The same movement
employed in Molière’s _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_ is a deliberate
artifice introduced for comic effect. Not the fixed forms, but
their function and context shape the illusion of reality. Not the
intent, but the created image, determines the significance of that
illusion. The aim may be one, but the manifestations are many.
When an illusion of reality becomes differentiated sharply, it
eventuates in a style. Not being an arithmetic total of absolute
qualities, style does not remain constant. It is a dynamic
interplay of many impulses brought to a point of crystallization by
the creative genius of the actor. Such a complex, if distinctive
and appealing enough, itself becomes an impulse for further
creative activity. What we often term “formal acting” is a previous
means of creating illusion which has coalesced into a fixed form
imitable by later generations. Some of the impulses that led the
commedia dell’arte to create a Harlequin, a Franca Trippa, and a
Dottore were “realistic”; that is, the activities of Italian daily
life helped to refine the stage figure. Gradually the types became
stock and finally ossified so that they responded less to the
impulses of contemporary life and more to the tradition from which
they were derived. Perfection and variation of old roles rather
than the invention of new devices and characteristics became the
custom. By the time these figures came to the hand of Marivaux
they had, through the loss of much of their original force, become
somewhat precious and self-conscious. Illusion of reality was still
achieved, but it was a new kind of illusion, less robust, more
sophisticated, less aware of the cry of the street, more attuned to
the repartee of the drawing room. Then the acting became “formal,”
that is, traditional, conventional, “objective.” But from the
germination of the improvised drama to the “decadence” of Marivaux,
commedia acting went through several styles. To visualize the
style of any single period we have to study a cross section of its
theatrical and social conditions.
Of these conditions there are five which provide the principal
clues to an understanding of the Globe acting style. First, there
are general intellectual tendencies reflected in the theory and
practice of Elizabethan rhetoric. Next, there is the theatrical
tradition handed down to the Lord Chamberlain’s men. Thirdly,
and continuing the foregoing material, there are the playing
conditions under which the company operated. Fourthly, there is
the conception of human character and behavior held by society.
Lastly, and perhaps most important, there are the playing materials
themselves, the characters and actions with which the actors were
provided. Cumulatively, the study of these conditions supplies
an understanding of the means at the Globe actors’ disposal for
creating their “illusion of reality” and, through it, offers an
insight into the significance of that illusion.
I. THE RELATION OF TUDOR RHETORIC TO ELIZABETHAN ACTING
Rhetoric played a vital role in the education and life of the
Elizabethan man. From its study he could learn all that was known
of the art and techniques of oral and written communication.
Scholars of the school of formal acting have insisted that
seventeenth century works on rhetorical delivery reflect an
image of Elizabethan acting. Usually the actor is considered the
transmitter, the rhetorician the receiver of influence. This
contention has been disputed, as I have pointed out. For the
moment, however, let us suppose that there was some connection
between oratory and acting. What then does rhetoric teach us
of Elizabethan acting? To answer this question Bertram Joseph
relies principally upon Bulwer’s double study _Chirologia_
and _Chironomia_ (1644), a late work. But, since we have been
considering acting as a dynamic art, it would be well to examine
the evidence of sixteenth and early seventeenth century manuals of
rhetoric.
Compassed under the heading of rhetoric in the sixteenth century
were three of the five parts of classical rhetoric. _Inventio_ and
_dispositio_ had been transferred to logic, particularly in the
Ramist scheme. _Elocutio_, _memoria_, and _pronuntiatio_ remained.
However, _memoria_ or the art of memory was generally, though
not entirely, ignored. Of the two remaining parts that made up
sixteenth century rhetoric, _elocutio_, or the art of eloquence,
and _pronuntiatio_, or the art of speech and gesture, the former
received the almost undivided attention of Elizabethan writers.
Before 1610 only Thomas Wilson in _The Art of Rhetorique_ (1553)
and Abraham Fraunce in _The Arcadian Rhetorike_ (1588) treat the
art of pronunciation separately. The other writers,[8] except for
occasionally defining the term or citing an example, or describing
the qualities of a good voice, omit the subject entirely. Even
Wilson and Fraunce treat it in summary fashion.
Wilson defines the two parts of the subject, voice and gesture. A
praiseworthy voice is “audible, strong, and easie, & apte to order
as we liste.” Before an audience orators should start speaking
softly, “use meete pausying, and being somewhat heated, rise with
their voice, as the tyme & cause shal best require” (Sig. Gg1^r).
For those with poor voices, attention to diet, practice in singing,
and imitation of good speakers are the means of improvement.
Gesture, which is a “comely moderacion of the countenaunce, and
al other partes of mans body,” should agree with the voice.
Altogether, the orator should be cheerful, poised, and moderate in
deportment (Sig. Gg2^r).
The entire section sets up standards for good pronunciation, but it
does not specifically show how they are met. The standards place
emphasis on comeliness and grace, on a harmony of speech, gesture,
and matter. The actual manner of delivery shall be “as the tyme &
cause shal best require.”
Fraunce is both fuller and more specific in his treatment of
pronunciation, although, like Wilson, he devotes the smaller
portion of his book, _The Arcadian Rhetorike_, to it. Generally he
reiterates the points made by Wilson: the voice must be pleasing,
the speaker should begin softly and rise “as occasion serveth,”
the delivery should follow the meaning. Fraunce goes further than
Wilson, however, in equating a kind of voice with appropriate
rhetorical form.
In figures of words which altogether consist in sweete
repetitions and dimensions, is chiefly conversant that pleasant
and delicate tuning of the voyce, which resembleth the consent
and harmonie of some well ordred song: In other figures of
affections, the voyce is more manly, yet diversly, according to
the varietie of passions that are to bee expressed.[9]
His specific suggestions depend upon the equation of voice and
affection, for example, “in pitie and lamentation, the voyce must
be full, sobbing, flexible, interrupted.” Largely there is an
association of tone of voice with a particular passion. For “feare
and anger” there are additional injunctions concerning rhythm.
Otherwise, these “rules” seem suggestive and general rather than
imperative and specific.
In writing of gesture, Fraunce once again supplements the
standards of Wilson with illustrations of his own. The truism of
the age that “gesture must followe the change and varietie of the
voyce,” is conditioned by the warning that it should not be done
“parasiticallie as stage plaiers use, but gravelie and decentlie as
becommeth men of greater calling.” This implies that the attitude
may have been similar but the resulting manner different. Actual
suggestions are made for the portrayal of affections; for example,
“the holding downe of the head, and casting downe of the eyes
betokeneth modestie.” Forbidding gesture with the head alone,
Fraunce notes that its chiefest force is the countenance, and of
the countenance the eyes “which expres livelilie even anie conceit
or passion of the mind.” How to use the eyes is not explained. The
particular ordering of the lips, nose, chin, and shoulders is “left
to everie mans discretion.”
Concerning the arms and hands Fraunce writes little. The right arm
in being extended reinforces the flow of the speech. This action
is supplemented by the moderate use of the hands and fingers which
rather “follow than goe before and expresse the words.” Since the
left hand alone is not used in gesture, it is joined with the right
in expressing doubt, objection, and prayer. The fingers in various
combinations express distinct significance.
For the body as a whole Fraunce warns against unseemliness. He
associates striking the breast with grief and lamentation, striking
the thigh with indignation, striking the ground with the foot with
vehemency. By and large the speaker should not move more than a
step or two.
In substance this is the written material on pronunciation in
English before 1610. Fraunce alone shows any indication that there
was a conventional system of vocal delivery and physical gesture.
As early as 1531 Elyot in _The Governour_ (fol. 49) had included
“the voyce and gesture of them that can pronounce comedies” in the
attributes of a fine orator. This Ciceronian tradition is probably
reflected in _The Arcadian Rhetorike_ so that Fraunce may be
following the custom of the players except where he specifically
notes a difference. But do the “rules” of Fraunce demonstrate
the presence of an accepted system of convention in voice and
gesture, or are they personal observations organized into a system?
Writing of the affections and speech, Fraunce indicates that the
correspondence _must_ be followed. In writing of the affections and
gesture, he is less sure. Some matters are left to the discretion
of the speaker, others must adhere to a certain convention. About
the body he is suggestive. Striking the breast to express grief “is
not unusuall,” but striking the thigh to express indignation “was
usuall” as was stamping.’ Usual where? On the stage? In the law
courts? In the pulpit? He does not specify. Keeping in mind that
Fraunce alone has detailed such “conventions of voice and gesture,”
it is apparent that he is regularizing the general habit current in
sixteenth century England of finding external means of expression
for internal conceits or passions of the mind.
A habit is not a convention, however. The gestures described by
Fraunce reinforce the speech, lending harmony and vigor to the
vocal expression. But there is little evidence that they were
raised to the level of symbolism, that particular gestures came
widely to represent particular meanings. That this was the case,
is supported by a comparison of the supposed meanings of several
gestures. As quoted above, Fraunce claimed that “the holding downe
of the head, and casting downe of the eyes betokeneth modestie.”
But the author of _The Cyprian Conqueror_ (1633), cited by
Professor Harbage, asserts that “in a sorrowfull parte, y^e head
must hang downe.” Lest we think that two affections were expressed
by the same gesture, we must note how sorrow was expressed
according to Fraunce. “The shaking of the head noteth griefe and
indignation.” Obviously there was not complete agreement about the
significance of a particular gesture. Nor could there be since
forms of expression are usually left to the speaker’s judgment in
the rhetorics.
Nevertheless, although an exact pattern of conventions cannot be
discovered in Elizabethan rhetoric, general attitudes toward speech
can be discerned. Wilson and Fraunce call for a pleasant voice,
neither too high nor too low, but mean, capable of expressing
nuances of thought. The ideal blending of speech and movement for
the Elizabethan age is well presented in Baldassare Castiglione’s
_Courtier_, translated by Thomas Hoby in 1561.
[What is requisite in speaking is] a good voice, not too subtill
or soft, as in a woman: nor yet so boistrous and rough, as in one
of the countrie, but shril, cleare, sweete, and well framed with
a prompt pronunciation, and with fit maners, and gestures, which
(in my minde) consist in certaine motions of all the bodie, not
affected nor forced, but tempred with a manerly countenance and
with a moving of the eyes that may give grace and accorde with
the wordes, and (as much as he can) signifie also with gestures,
the intent and affection of the speaker.[10]
Grace, dignity, and spontaneity, in short, beauty of expression,
was the accepted aim of the age.
In addition to speaking pleasantly, the educated man was expected
to speak meaningfully. His vocal delivery should express figures of
eloquence effectively.
The consideration of voyce is to be had either in severed words,
or in the whole sentence. In the particular applying of the
voyce to severall words, wee make tropes that bee most excellent
plainly appeare. For without this change of voyce, neither anie
Ironia, nor lively Metaphore can well bee discerned.[11]
Nor must this attention to the figures of speech be lavished only
upon the formal speech. In his informal _Direction for Speech and
Style_ (c. 1590), John Hoskins applies the same consideration
to social occasion. Included in his discussion of Agnomination,
or repetition of sounds in sentence, such as “Our paradise is a
pair of dice, our almes-deeds are turned into all misdeeds,” is a
suggestion that “that kind of breaking words into another meaning
is pretty to play with among gentlewomen, as, _you will have but
a bare gain of this bargain_.” Sensitivity to the figures of
eloquence was widespread; we may expect the actors to have been
particularly attentive to their rendition.
Though scanty, indications exist that the speaker was not thought
to deliver his speech by rote. As Hamlet compares his behavior with
the player’s, he describes the man’s tears, distraction and broken
voice,
and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.
[II, ii, 582-583]
“The conceits of the mind are pictures of things and the tongue
is interpreter of those pictures,” wrote John Hoskins to his
student.[12] Just as eloquence contained figures of sentence
encompassing an extended thought as well as figures of words
expressing a turn of a phrase, so did delivery require an
understanding of the conceit and passion as a whole as well as the
appreciation of the particular literary form.
Among the figures listed by Henry Peacham in _The Garden of
Eloquence_ (1593) is Mimesis:
Mimesis is an imitation of speech whereby the orator
counter-faitheth not onely what one said, but also his utterance,
pronunciation and gesture, imitating everything as it was, which
is alwaies well performed, and naturally represented in an apt
and skilfull actor.[13]
Since imitation is confined to a single figure, it probably was not
expected in delivery except in special situations. But this applies
to the rendering of character types, for the projection of passion
in oratory was generally accepted and encouraged. Fraunce, as we
have seen, describes the kinds of tones to be employed in terms of
the affections to be conveyed. Sir Thomas Elyot in 1531 writes that
whereas “the sterring of affections of the minde in this realme was
never used, therefore ther lacketh Eloqution and pronunciation, two
of the princypall parts of Rethorike.”[14] Wilson explicitly states
not only the desirability of stirring affections but the necessity
for the speaker to feel those affections himself.
He that will stirre affeccions to other, muste first be moved
himself.
Neither can any good be doen at all, when we have saied all that
ever we can, except we brying the same affeccions in owr owne
harte whiche wee would the Judges should beare towardes our awne
matter ... a wepying iye causeth muche moysture, and provoketh
teares. Neither is it any mervaile: for such men bothe in their
countenaunce, tongue, iyes, gesture, and in all their body els,
declare an outwarde grief, and with wordes so vehemently and
unfeinedly, settes it forward, that thei will force a man to be
sory with them, and take part with their teares, even against his
will. [Sig. T1^v]
Not only Elyot’s comment but also Peacham’s changes in _The Garden
of Eloquence_ for the second edition in 1593 show that increased
attention to stirring the emotions occurred in the last half of the
sixteenth century in England.
Peacham’s omission in 1593 of the grammatical schemes he had
included in the first edition of _The Garden of Eloquence_ and
his addition of many figures based on appeal to the emotions
may be taken as indications of a shift which had taken place
in rhetoric in England between 1577 and 1593.... During these
years, too, the rhetorical theories of Petrus Ramus and Audomarus
Talaeus, with their emphasis on those rhetorical devices which
directed their appeal to the emotions, flourished in England.[15]
In such a context, if rhetoric influenced or reflected acting,
it emphasized the already present stimulation of emotion and
encouraged the actor who wished to move his audience to “bryng the
same affeccions” in his own heart to the stage.
That it is misleading to apply the circumstances of later
rhetorical study to this earlier period is evident on two scores.
First, during the first half of the seventeenth century a shift
from medieval rhetoric, of which sixteenth century English rhetoric
is an extension, to classical rhetoric took place, principally
through the influence of Francis Bacon and Ben Jonson. This meant
the reentry of _inventio_ and _dispositio_ into the framework of
rhetoric, bringing about the second change. In the scheme that
Francis Bacon proposed for learning, rhetoric no longer should be
directed at moving the affections:
It is the business of rhetoric to make pictures of virtue and
goodness, so that they may be seen. For since they cannot be
showed to the sense in corporeal shape, the next degree is to
show them to the imagination in as lively representation as
possible, by ornament of words.
Actually, rhetoric should be brought into the attack against
affections:
Reason would become captive and servile, if eloquence of
persuasions did not win the imagination from the affections’
part, and contract a confederacy between the reason and
imagination against them.[16]
To infer conclusions about the details of Elizabethan acting from
Elizabethan rhetoric is, as we have seen, highly conjectural. Yet,
in the intellectual atmosphere of which rhetoric was a part, we can
discern several attitudes that probably shaped acting. Detailed
study was expended on the figures of eloquence and loving care was
devoted to models of fine tropes. The oral rendition of these forms
was left to the judgment of the individual, for the most part. The
few expositions of delivery stress grace of expression and stirring
of affections. But no thoroughly accepted conventions of voice and
gesture seem to have existed. Thus, although rhetorical theory
was conducive to the growth of formal and traditional acting,
rhetorical delivery had not solidified sufficiently by 1610 to
provide a systematic method. In seeking external forms for their
conceits, the orator, and probably actor, still responded more to
invention than tradition.
II. THE INFLUENCE OF THEATRICAL TRADITIONS UPON ELIZABETHAN ACTING
Although Elizabethan rhetorical tradition was essentially
continental, Elizabethan theatrical tradition was largely native.
For the better part of a century, troupes of four men and a boy had
crisscrossed the English countryside, bringing plays to village and
court. Though the Queen’s men, with twelve actors, at its formation
in 1583 became the largest troupe, the smaller troupes continued
to flourish. The English troupe that traveled to Denmark in 1586
numbered five men, and the various companies that are portrayed
in _Sir Thomas More_, _Histrio-mastix_, and _Hamlet_ all number
either four or five. Naturally, when the theater became stabilized
in London, increasingly so after 1575, the companies tended to grow
larger. But periodic difficulties because of politics or plague
caused frequent resort to the small troupe during the next twenty
years.
Small companies required the actor to play several roles in one
play. _Cambises_ divides thirty-eight parts among eight men, with
five of the men playing either six or seven parts each. Only the
Vice had fewer than three parts. _Horestes_ divides twenty-seven
parts among five. Even actors of the larger companies had to play
several roles. _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, presented by the
twelve men of the Queen’s company, contained seventeen substantial
roles, plus twenty-one for supernumeraries. This tradition of
doubling gave the Elizabethan actor no opportunity to develop a
specialty. He could not concentrate on a specific genre, for he
was called upon to play courtly men and country men, villains
and saints. Probably we should except the leading comic from
this stricture. Usually he played fewer roles, and through the
recurrence of the Vice figure and the practice of extemporal
improvisation, he had the conditions necessary to the development
of a distinctive type. But the other actors had to enact all sorts
of roles. Unlike the Italian comedian who devoted himself to his
forte, the Elizabethan tried to become flexible and varied in his
abilities. It is evident that the attention of the actor had to be
concentrated on telling the story, not developing the characters.
Since the shift from one character to another necessitated some
change in appearance or manner, readily discernible characteristics
must have distinguished each type of part. As we shall see,
this kind of acting was in harmony with the generic nature of
Elizabethan characterization.
Systematic training of the popular players does not seem to have
been the rule either. Stephen Gosson in _Playes Confuted in five
Actions_ (1582), describes three sources of recruitment:
Most of the Players have bene eyther men of occupations, which
they have forsaken to lyve by playing, or common minstrels, or
trayned up from theire childehood to this abhominable exercise.
But the latter group, for which we can reasonably assume careful
training, does not seem to have supplied many actors to the
professional companies before 1600. Of the six men in Leicester’s
company we know the background only of James Burbage, who had been
a carpenter by trade. Of the twelve in the Queen’s men, we know
little more. John Dutton may have been a musician, since Lincoln’s
Inn paid him for musicians in 1567-1568. Richard Tarleton, the
renowned clown, tended swine, according to Fuller. But his fellow,
Robert Wilson, asserted that he had been an apprentice waterbearer
whose native wit led him to the stage.
When we come to the actors of the Globe company, the information
is somewhat fuller. Shakespeare himself did not leave Stratford
before 1584, when he was over twenty years of age, so that we
can assume that he went from some craft or from a schoolhouse
to the theater. Besides Shakespeare, there were thirteen other
sharers in the company between 1599 and 1609: Thomas Pope, John
Heminges, Augustine Phillips, Richard Cowley, Richard Burbage,
William Sly, Henry Condell, and Robert Armin, all members before
1603, and Laurence Fletcher, John Lowin, Alexander Cooke, Nicholas
Tooley, and Robert Goffe, all of whom became members after 1603.
Of the antecedents of most of the members we know little. Thomas
Pope had been one of the English players in Denmark and Germany
in 1586-1587. Heminges, in his will, calls himself “citizen and
grocer,” which may indicate that he, too, was an artisan turned
player. Burbage presumably grew up in his father’s theater.
While quite young, he appeared in the _Seven Deadly Sins_. Armin
was said to have been an apprentice to a goldsmith. Condell is
conjectured to have been the “Harry” of _Seven Deadly Sins_, but
the identification is inconclusive. Thus, of the earlier group
of actors, several seem to have come from the trades. In the
later group of five, three may have been apprentice actors and
one, Lowin, had been an apprentice goldsmith. Fletcher seems to
have been connected with a troupe in Scotland. The evidence,
inconclusive as it is, indicates that with the increased stability
of the theater and the alteration in theatrical taste the source of
actors shifted from adults to trained boys.
The ready transfer of a man from trade to stage in the early period
argues that an elaborate training, at least at the beginning, was
not expected. The ready conversion of the tradesmen into actors in
_Histrio-mastix_ (Sig. B1^r), once a poet has been secured, further
demonstrates that the possession of a story, not the cultivation of
a manner, was requisite. What the details of early acting may have
been, we do not know. The conditions of training and the methods
of recruitment, however, were not conducive to the development of
precisely executed conventions.
The actual skills of the early Elizabethan actors can be inferred
in part from references to various actors. Tarleton and Robert
Wilson were commended for their “extemporall wit.” In letters
dealing with English players on the Continent in the 1580’s,
acting is always linked with dancing, vaulting and tumbling. Thomas
Pope and George Bryan, a Lord Chamberlain’s man until the end of
1597, were among the five “instrumentister och springere” at the
Danish court in 1586. These scattered allusions reinforce the
opinion that simple characterization, rude playing, native wit, and
physical vigor were the qualities of the early actor.
We must turn to the plays presented by the public companies
before 1595 to round out the picture of the theatrical tradition.
Character was not fully developed in the popular theater until
Marlowe. Before his plays appeared, character had been barely
differentiated from generic types, such as kings, vices, rustics,
tyrants, etc. A word is necessary about generic types. Each of
the generic types arises from a social class, and the characters
within each type reflect their class. Differences between generic
characters of the same type are not as great as similarities. Some
distinctive habits of thought and behavior cluster about each type,
but these are never rigidly fixed. Simple representatives of the
generic type are the merchant and the potecary in John Heywood’s
interludes of _The Weather_ and _The Four PP._ respectively. The
generic type differs from the stock figure partly in source but
mainly in definition. The stock figure tends to coalesce into a
single perfect representative of each type: a Scapin, a Columbine,
a Harlequin. The generic type encourages multiplicity. The stock
figure, such as the doctor from Bologna, often has a regional
origin. From the region of his birth he usually derives physical or
social idiosyncracies, for example, a dialect, an item of apparel,
or a distinctive manner. As the stock figure develops, additional
external features become attached to him. Certain bits of stage
business, quirks of personality, modes of dress, and style of
playing, become his trade-marks. But the generic character seldom
becomes fixed and traditional. Instead, he constantly undergoes
change according to the demands of the story.
The early popular plays definitely show that the actors were used
to playing generic characters. Thus, they were able to concentrate
on the story, the sentiment, and the sententiousness of their
plays. In limited ways they relied on dress to identify types of
characters. Alan Downer has shown that there was some symbolism in
costume. Hotson has traced the evolution of a distinctive garment
for the Elizabethan “natural.”[17] Henslowe lists certain costumes
which were probably generic or symbolic. But features of dress
remained generalized rather than becoming attached to a stock type.
Whether habits of carriage or gesture corresponded with types of
roles, we do not know. But it is certain, as we found in our study
of rhetoric, that no traditional, systematic scheme of vocal and
physical conventions developed.
Actually, in a rudimentary way, the early plays show tendencies
toward the kind of structure described in the chapter on
dramaturgy. In _Cambises_, it is not the discovery or death of
Sisamnes which occupies our attention, but the responses of
the son, Otian, to his father’s execution. Affective display
and rhetorical pronouncement occupied the center of the stage.
Some time ago, Albert Walker demonstrated that the methods for
expression of emotions in the pre-Shakespearean plays can be found
in Shakespeare’s plays.[18] Many of the ways of portraying grief,
joy, anger, rage, could be and were handed down from one theatrical
generation to another. For the actor, the projection of grief in
the following speeches would not be very different in each case.
OTIAN. O father dear, these words to hear
--that you must die by force--
Bedews my cheeks with stilled tears.
The king hath no remorse.
The grievous griefs, and strained sighs
My heart doth break in twain,
And I deplore, most woeful child, that I
should see you slain.
[_Cambises_, 445-448]
NERONIS. Ah wofull sight, what is alas, with these mine eyes beheld,
That to my loving Knight belongd, I view the Golden Sheeld:
Ah heavens, this Herse doth signifie my Knight is slaine,
Ah death no longer do delay, but rid the lives of twaine:
Heart, hand, and everie sence prepare, unto the Hearse
draw nie:
And thereupon submit your selves, disdaine not for to die
With him that was your mistresse ioy, her life and death
like case,
And well I know in seeking me, he did his end embrace.
[_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, 1532-1539]
AGA. What greater griefe had mournful Priamus,
Then that he liv’d to see his Hector die,
His citie burnt downe by revenging flames,
And poor Polites slaine before his face?
Aga, thy griefe is matchable to his,
For I have liv’d to see my soveraignes death,
Yet glad that I must breath my last with him.
[_Selimus_, 1863-1869]
QUEEN. A sweet children, when I am at rest my nightly dreames
are dreadful. Me thinks as I lie in my bed, I see the
league broken which was sworne at the death of your
kingly father, tis this my children and many other causes
of like importance, that makes your aged mother to lament
as she doth.
[_The True Tragedy of King Richard III_, 802-807]
Essentially the actors were provided with methods for making
emotion explicit. In the first three illustrations the characters
name their emotions outright, in the last the Queen describes
it. Descriptions of external manifestations of grief, such as
“strained sighs,” and apostrophe, either to another (“O father
dear”) or to oneself (“Aga, thy griefe”) or to abstract properties
(“Ah wofull sight”), or to divinity (“Ah heavens, Ah death”) are
common. The later plays were subtler in the depiction of emotion.
In _Selimus_, the similarity of his state to that of Priam
conveys the overwhelming grief of Aga. In _The True Tragedy_,
the Queen expresses the grief of the moment through the terror
of a dream. By utilizing these various methods for years, the
actor had become familiar with openly rendering the character’s
emotion. Furthermore, the quality of the emotion was not highly
differentiated. In force and depth, the grief for the loss of
a loved or revered one, in each of the instances cited, is
fundamentally the same.
One major development in the acting conditions must be noted.
In the plays of the 1560’s and 1570’s the verse was regular and
conventional. The galloping fourteener left little opportunity
for nuance. The rhythm and accent of the verse in _Cambises_, for
example, intruded upon the character. It erected a barrier to
the immediate impact of emotion upon the auditor. The actor who
rendered such verse was encouraged in the conventional expression
of emotion and the reliance upon rhythmic sweep for his success.
In the 1580’s the verse became suppler. Rhyme was abandoned,
rhythm because subtler and more varied. The total effect was
less stentorian and more lyrical. It was possible to utilize the
superior advantages of poetic drama without the artificiality to
which it is liable. For the actor the change tore down a veil.
Character portrayal could be more vivid. Contact between actor
and actor was easier to achieve. In a word, the actor was able to
make events more “real.” At the same time, he had a more difficult
task in rendering speech. Whether or not this change led to a
realistic style of acting will be discussed in connection with the
Globe plays. To these plays the early actor contributed experience
in playing all kinds of roles before all kinds of audiences,
portraying generic types through conventional means, emoting in
extravagant and conventional fashion, speaking verse with vigor and
sweep, and performing in the peripheral arts of dancing, tumbling,
and vaulting. The picture he presents is of a rough-and-ready
trouper, not a sophisticated and refined artist.
III. THE EFFECT OF PLAYING CONDITIONS UPON ELIZABETHAN ACTING
After 1592, stability and new theater construction, though
continuing the earlier tradition in many respects, brought about
new playing conditions, the third factor which contributed to
the acting style at the Globe. Playing conditions include the
structure of the theater, the arrangement of the repertory, and the
organization of the company. The first two of these conditions have
been discussed at length in previous chapters and the last has been
treated in Professor T. W. Baldwin’s _Organization and Personnel of
the Shakespearean Company_.
With the opening of the Globe playhouse the company, for the first
time since its organization, had its own building. Although the
Theatre may not have been very different in form, it had never
served as a permanent home. How much this affected the actors is
difficult to know. We found in Chapter Three that only 20 per cent
of the scenes in the Globe plays made use of stage facilities. For
the larger part of the play, the actor needed only a bare platform.
Thus the conditions that the plays required were no different from
those he had known for years.
But if the physical conditions did not change greatly, the artistic
conditions did. The splendor of the stage façade enhanced the
actions of the player. The very sumptuousness of the stage elevated
them to a level of grandeur, setting them off with elegance and
opulence. In return it called for scope in delivery, grace in
manner, and audacity in playing. Against a setting so dazzling only
intensive and extensive action could hope to make an impression
upon an audience.
Not only the design but also the plan of the stage conditioned the
acting. The flat façade and the deeply projecting platform had a
serious effect upon the physical movement of the actor. For the
moment we can assume that the actor played many scenes at the front
of the stage. To do so he had to come forward twenty-five feet. The
modern director would motivate such a movement, that is, provide
the actor with some internal or external impulse to cause him to
move forward. In some instances this must have been the same at
the Globe. Often we read scenes where characters on stage describe
the entrance and approach of another actor. But there are many
instances where such aid is not forthcoming. In those cases one of
two effects was possible. Either the movement forward was treated
as a conventional action which the audience expected, or it was
treated as a ceremonial action which dignified the player. Further
investigation of this matter is reserved for the next chapter.
Here it is sufficient to point out that in either case the actor’s
entrance was theatricalized. Boldness was necessary to catch and
hold attention on such a vast stage.
The sightlines of the theater also had an effect upon the acting.
Essentially they were poor. We are dealing with an aural theater,
not a visual one. Note how the author of _An Excellent Actor_
(1615) expresses the relation of actor and spectator:
Sit in a full Theater, and you will thinke you see so many lines
drawne from the circumference of so many _eares_, whiles the
Actor is the Center. [My italics.]
Gesture for specific communication rather than general
reinforcement of the speech was not feasible. For example, the
comic actor could not rely on a visual gag. A humorous walk or
risible situation, such as the tavern scene in _I Henry IV_, could
be managed. But the type of farcical routine represented by the
commedia dell’arte _lazzi_ would have been lost to a large part of
the audience.
The sightlines not only prohibited certain types of gestures, they
also required a certain orientation of the body. Today as much as
possible the actor will try to maintain the illusion that he is
facing a fellow actor and not facing the audience. The flat picture
frame of our theater encourages this illusion. In the Elizabethan
theater the actor had to turn out, that is, orient himself to the
circumference of auditors, if he were to be seen at all. This
condition reinforced the conventional or ceremonial manner in
acting.
By turning out, the actor emphasized the stage as a setting behind
him rather than as an environment around him. This was in accord
with the demands of the plays. As I have pointed out, most of the
scenes were set in a generalized locale. The actor did not have to
maintain an illusion of place. He could concentrate wholly on the
action and the passion of a scene. To achieve verisimilitude it
was not necessary that he project time and place. Standard practice
in movement and delivery would fit every play, for they would never
seem out of harmony with the conventional façade. The result was
that the actor did not adapt himself to every environment, as the
actor does now, but translated every environment into a theatrical
form.
These tendencies towards simplification and systemization were
reinforced by the conditions of repertory. In Chapter One I showed
how many plays were maintained actively in the Globe repertory.
A member of the company, who was likely to be in every play, had
to learn a new role every other week. At the same time, he had to
keep in mind thirty or forty others. We do know that the players
were used to preparing a script rapidly. Augustine Phillips, in
the course of testimony offered on the Essex conspiracy, reveals
that the Lord Chamberlain’s men had only a day or a day and a half
to revive _Richard II_, a play long off the boards.[19] The fact
that the play was actually presented at the Globe is proof of the
actors’ adaptability.
But the player’s task was still more arduous. There was no
opportunity for him to fix a role in his memory by repetition.
Rarely would he play the same role two days in succession. Even in
the most popular role he would not appear more than twice in one
week, and then only in the first month or two of the play’s stage
life. The consequences of such a strenuous repertory were twofold.
First, the actor had to cultivate a fabulous memory and devote much
of his time to memorization; various plays testify to the scorn of
the playwright for the actor who is out of his part. Secondly, the
actor had to systematize his methods of portrayal and of working
with his colleagues. How far this could be done will have to be
considered below in light of the variety of roles the actor played.
If we could have a glimpse of an actual rehearsal, we should learn
a great deal about Elizabethan acting. The closest that we can come
to such a glimpse is to examine various players’ scenes in the
drama of the period. From _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ (I, ii, 101
ff.), we learn that it was the practice to distribute the sides
to the actors and, after these had been memorized, to rehearse
the company. That this was normal procedure is indicated by the
surviving part for Orlando from _Orlando Furioso_.[20] Used by
Edward Alleyn, it embodies the system adopted by the professional
companies. The part, inscribed on a narrow sheet of paper, was
originally arranged on a long roll. From this roll Alleyn studied
his part and from it we can learn some of his methods, particularly
by comparing the part to the extant copy of the play.
The part contains Orlando’s speeches, together with the cues for
each speech and some stage directions. The cues are extremely
brief, consisting of no more than two or three words of the
preceding actor’s speech. If the speeches of more than one actor
separate two speeches of Orlando, only the last cue is inserted. Of
the presence of any other actors on stage there is no indication.
The stage directions, usually written in the third person, are
not as descriptive as in the text of the play. Entrances of other
actors are not noted. In effect, the part is shorn of almost
everything but the speeches of the character.
As Dr. Greg has pointed out, the part does not rely upon quite the
same text as the full copy of the play. Therefore, a word-by-word
comparison cannot be made. Yet there is some evidence that short
replies by the other actors were conventionalized in the part.
Compare the following extract, for example:
Part.
stay villayne I tell
the/_e_/ Angelica is dead, nay she is in deed
... lord
but my Angelica is dead.
... my lord.
[154-158]
Play.
ORL. O this it is, Angelica is dead.
ORG. Why then she shall be buried.
ORL. But my Angelica is dead.
ORG. Why it may be so.
[856-859]
In several other places short lines of the other actor have been
omitted.[21] There is one instance, in an otherwise satisfactory
section, where a cue is omitted (after Part, 344, compare with
Play, 1311-1312). Another set of omissions involves brief
interchanges between Orlando and another character. The brevity
of the speeches where the omissions occur indicates that they are
not cuts in the script. Perhaps these lines were picked up by the
actors in rehearsal.
The uncertainty governing the relationship of part to play
makes it difficult to depend too much upon the evidence of the
comparison. But a few tentative deductions can be made. We must
remember the little time available for rehearsal. Nowadays when
extensive rehearsals in the Moscow Art Theatre manner are the
ideal, the few hours that were available to the Globe actors appear
to be an insurmountable obstacle to dramatic art. However, long
rehearsals of an entire dramatic company are a comparatively recent
innovation. In the last century, for instance, a rehearsal or two
was deemed sufficient. An actress who was asked by Edwin Booth to
rehearse the closet scene in _Hamlet_ was so insulted that she left
the production. Concentration upon the individual player rather
than the play, which this anecdote illustrates, is also reflected
in the part of Orlando. It is trimmed to provide the actor with the
information he needed as a solo performer, not as a member of a
group. Since the full copy of the play was difficult to secure, the
one copy being zealously guarded by the bookkeeper, the part was
all the actor had to rely on. From it he got his familiarity with
the play. In it he put the essentials of his role. The absence of
more stage directions in the part than are in the play indicates
that the acting was free from any but the most relevant business,
an observation with which B. L. Joseph seems to agree. Altogether,
the evidence points to a type of acting which emphasized the
individual performer, minimized his relationship to the other
actors, and placed great emphasis upon the delivery of speeches.
The organization of the Globe company may have somewhat mitigated
the emphasis upon the individual. Between 1599 and 1609 the company
became stabilized and won the prestige of a royal patent. From
the opening of the Globe to the accession of James in 1603, the
sharers, who were the principal actors, remained the same. They
were Thomas Pope, John Heminges, Augustine Phillips, Richard
Cowley, William Shakespeare, Richard Burbage, William Sly, Henry
Condell, and Robert Armin. At the time the company received the
royal patent in May, 1603, it was enlarged to twelve members.
Entering at the same time was a replacement for the deceased Pope,
Laurence Fletcher. The three new members were John Lowin, who had
been a member of Worcester’s men in 1602-1603, Alexander Cooke,
who may have been the “sander” of the _Seven Deadly Sins_ of 1592,
and Nicholas Tooley, who spoke of Richard Burbage as “master.” E.
K. Chambers conjectures that the Samuel Grosse whose name appears
in the Folio actor list preceded Tooley into the company, but that
he probably died of the plague almost at once. This history is
doubtful, but even if true, it made little difference. Since it
is generally accepted that Fletcher did not act with the King’s
men, only three actors joined the company. One was clearly an
outsider, one was probably an apprentice, who had grown up in
the company, and one, Cooke, may have been an apprentice. On
the death of Phillips in 1605 either Samuel Gilburne or Robert
Goffe succeeded him. To account for Gilburne’s name in the Folio
actor list, Chambers places him after Phillips, to be followed by
Goffe before 1611. Baldwin believes that Goffe, who was Phillips’
brother-in-law, entered the company in 1605. He was possibly the
“R. Go.” of _Seven Deadly Sins_, and may have remained with the
company as apprentice or hired man throughout. In 1608 William
Ostler replaced Pope, who was buried August 16, and John Underwood
replaced Fletcher, who was buried September 12. Both men came from
the Revels company, where they had been boy actors. However, since
they entered during the period when plans for placing the King’s
men at Blackfriars were under way, we can exclude them from our
consideration. Thus, in the ten years we are treating, three new
actors joined the company and one replaced a former actor. Two of
the new actors had probably appeared with the company previously,
another possibly had, but only one had been definitely associated
with another group, and that one of the popular companies. The
hired actors have not been considered, it is true, but the sharers
who were the principal players made a tightly knit, relatively
unchanging group.
Determination of the identity of the boys of the company who
played the ladies is somewhat difficult. Baldwin lists seven names
of boys who acted the female roles between 1599 and 1609.[22] In
1599 Samuel Gilburne, Ned (Shakespeare?), and Jack Wilson were boy
actors. Samuel Grosse joined them in 1600, shortly after which
Gilburne and Ned ceased playing women. In 1603 John Edmans, John
Rich, and James Sands began playing women’s parts. Grosse in 1604
and Wilson in 1605 in their turn ceased performing as women. This
rapid turnover is to be expected, since the span of a boy’s ability
to play a feminine role was relatively short. However, since each
of these boys was apprenticed to one of the members of the company,
his training and performance would probably have harmonized with
the adult acting.
What effect, then, did this closed and intimate group have upon
the style of the acting? Baldwin proposed that each actor had a
special character “line” to which he devoted himself and to which
the playwrights, particularly Shakespeare, trimmed the roles.
Baldwin points out that the same actors consistently took the
major roles. In this I believe he is correct. Richard Burbage
invariably played the leading role, Robert Armin the leading comic
role, Robert Cowley played important secondary roles. Lowin seems
to have come in to play leads or second leads just below the rank
of Burbage: Baldwin gives him the role of Enobarbus to Burbage’s
Antony. Although this designation may not be strictly accurate,
the relation it reflects is likely. It is apparent that a modified
star system obtained in the Globe company. This arrangement had
two advantages. On the one hand, it enabled the company to develop
virtuoso acting. On the other, it ensured a high level of general
competence throughout the production. The competitive conditions
which drew actors away from the King’s men after 1615 did not exist
at this time, so that actors who received minor roles year after
year had little opportunity to separate from the company.
The distribution of prominent roles to the same actors at all
times, however, does not constitute a “line.” By a “line” Professor
Baldwin seems to mean the recurrent appearance of a type of role,
requiring certain definite characteristics in the player. Although
he applies the conception of “line” rigorously, he never defines
the term clearly. The criteria which he apparently considers in
establishing a line are prominence of role, physique, age, genre,
temperament, and special skills. First, actors distinguished
according to prominence of role was a fact of Globe organization
as we have seen. But instead of aiding the formation of an
actor’s “line,” it interfered with it, for a leading actor would
assume a leading role regardless of its type or nature. Secondly,
Shakespeare may well have kept the physiques and ages of the
actors in mind as he wrote, but, though such a practice may have
aided naturalism, it hardly affected the type of role. In effect,
the practice is no different from the kind of casting that occurs
today. Thirdly, Baldwin distinguished an actor’s line according to
the genre in which he specialized, comedy or tragedy. Probably the
clown was a comic specialist who had to be given a role in most
plays. But that there was any general tendency to specialize in one
genre or the other is unlikely in view of the alternation of plays,
some of which call for almost all comedians, others for almost all
tragedians. _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ was performed about the
time of _Hamlet_, and _Volpone_ about the time of _Lear_. Fourthly,
special talents may be dismissed, for they involve such abilities
as Kemp’s dancing. Finally, we are left with one criterion for the
actor’s “line”: his temperament. Baldwin links the temperament of
the actor to the temperament of the “line” that he played. Sly was
the player of jolly, roisterous roles; Lowin, the player of blunt,
honest soldiers. Ultimately Baldwin rests his case for a “line”
upon the playwright’s adherence to distinct character types and his
imitation of the actors’ temperaments.[23]
The Elizabethan playwright, however, could not adhere to types, for
the actor had no tradition of playing clear-cut types, as we have
seen. The actor did not specialize, but he portrayed a wide range
of characters. This practice persisted into the Shakespearean
era. For example, Dogberry may be regarded as a comic type, the
bumbling constable. The character who most nearly approaches him
in type is Elbow in _Measure for Measure_. He too is the inept
comic constable, malapropisms and all. But the original actor of
Dogberry, Will Kemp, was not in the company when _Measure for
Measure_ was presented. Obviously, in this case at least, the type
was not shaped by the actor, that is Kemp, but the actor fitted the
generic type.
Nor did the playwright imitate the actors’ temperaments, for the
host of different roles which a single actor was called upon to
play could not have been shaped to one personality. The four
Shakespearean roles that are assigned to Burbage upon reliable
evidence are Richard III, Hamlet, Othello, and Lear. I think
no one would care to describe the personality that could serve
as a model for these four roles. Moreover, when we add to this
repertory, Baldwin’s assignments to Burbage of the parts of
Claudio in _Much Ado_, Ford in _Merry Wives_, and Bertram in
_All’s Well_, we must give up any idea that these characters
were fitted to a personality except that of a sensitive, capable
actor. Instead, the Globe company seemed to have distributed
roles without attention to personal traits of the actors. This is
evident in _II The Return from Parnassus_. Philomusus, after he
has been auditioned by Burbage and Kemp (IV, iii), is considered
suitable for parts as different as a foolish justice and Richard
III. The scene may be mockery, but it accurately reflects all we
know about role distribution. In contrast to this method, Molière,
in his public plays, kept the number and distribution of roles
fairly constant, evidently to meet the needs of his company. But
neither the number, distribution, nor type of role was consistently
repeated by Shakespeare or any other writer for the Globe company.
Consequently, I fear that Baldwin’s “line” is a fiction which bears
little relation to reality. His insistence upon it betrays an
ignorance of histrionic method.
We must not, however, presume that the stability of the company
and the absence of rigid types gave rise to ensemble acting in the
naturalistic sense. The arrangement within the plays was suitable
to individual playing. Most scenes in Shakespeare’s plays involve
less than five active players on stage at one time. Even where
there are a large number of actors on stage, the action is confined
to a scene between two or three. For example, only 24 per cent
of the lines in _As You Like It_ are spoken when more than three
actors are active on stage. In _Twelfth Night_ the percentage is
higher, 34 per cent, but in _Hamlet_ it is only 19 per cent and
in _Lear_, 31 per cent. These percentages are as high as they are
because the final scene in most plays is a formal resolution of the
story involving a public revelation or judgment. In _Lear_ half the
lines involving more than three active players occur in the first
and last scenes of the play. The actor generally had to play with
one or two others. When on stage, he was involved in the action.
When on stage and mute, which was rare, he was excluded from the
immediate sphere of action. In most scenes, one or more of these
actors were likely to be virtuosi performers, for though the Globe
plays require large casts, they rely upon relatively few performers
to carry the bulk of the play.
IV. ACTING AND THE ELIZABETHAN VIEW OF HUMAN BEHAVIOR
The dramatic tradition, however, affected the general type of
character rather than its specific form. In evolving this form
the actor was guided by two influences: his own understanding of
behavior and thought and the poet’s image of behavior and thought.
In the first instance we must deduce the actor’s understanding from
the outlook of Elizabethan society as a whole. In the second we can
analyze the poet’s image in his plays. The poet’s unique outlook,
infused in his image, is still a part of society’s conception of
behavior and thought, and in the case of Shakespeare has come to
represent the larger conception of the age. Together, age and poet
present the psychological and philosophical foundation which the
actors and audience took for granted and thus upon which the actors
built their roles.
Study of characterization is complicated by the absence of decisive
evidence. The literary practice of the time does not encourage a
ready formulation of a poet’s idea of character. As Hardin Craig
says:
One sees no evidence in the field of knowledge of the art of
characterization as it is known in modern criticism. The art
of characterization, as distinguished from simple biographical
narrative, was there, but often not as a conscious factor.
Craig goes on to relate this lack of development to the Elizabethan
idea of personality:
Indeed, the conception of human character as set down in formal
psychology, and often evident in literature, taught instability
in the natures of men, taught that there was no such thing as
consistency of character, except in so far as it might result
from “complexion” or be super-induced by training.[24]
It is in the works of “formal psychology” that the most explicit
statements of the Elizabethan conception of human character can be
found. But in offering a detailed exposition of how Elizabethans
thought man functioned, the works are inconsistent. Miss Louise
Forest has pointed out the contradictions in the theories and
definitions of the Elizabethan and Jacobean writers. Instead of
a scientific system with which the dramatists were familiar, we
find that “Elizabethan popular psychology was simply every man’s
private synthesis of observations of human behavior understood in
the light of whatever selections from whatever authorities appealed
to him.”[25] Although her criticism has won general approbation
as a healthy corrective for facile and mechanistic application of
“psychological” theory to literature, it has not undermined the
conviction of scholars that the evidence of Elizabethan psychology
can prove illuminating in revealing not necessarily _what_ the
Elizabethans thought, but how they thought.
Mr. R. A. Foakes admits that although the disagreement in detail
hinders the application of Elizabethan psychology to literature, it
does not hinder an understanding of “the general habit of thought
from which the detail springs.”[26] The exposition of this “general
habit of thought” has been set forth in part by Theodore Spencer,
Lily B. Campbell, E. M. W. Tillyard, and John W. Draper, and
most fully by Hardin Craig in _The Enchanted Glass_.[27] Against
the broad and deep background painted by them, I shall consider
the “general habit of thought” as it affected three aspects of
character: decorum, motivation, and passion.
_a. Decorum_
Classical decorum in literature sought to reflect a broader decorum
in life. As it came down to the playwrights of the Renaissance,
however, it implied little more than a trite correspondence between
character type and nature. Edwardes in The Prologue to _Damon and
Pithias_ (1565-1571) refers the audience to Horace as his model in
the observance of “decorum”:
In Commedies, the greatest Skyll is this, rightly to touche
All thynges to the quicke: and eke to frame eche person so,
That by his common talke, you may his nature rightly know:
A Royster ought not preache, that were to straunge to heare,
But as from vertue he doth swerve, so ought his woordes appeare:
The olde man is sober, the yonge man rashe, the Lover triumphyng
in ioyes,
The Matron grave, the Harlot wilde and full of wanton toyes.
[Prologue, 14-20]
George Whetstone seconds this propriety in his Epistle to William
Fleetwood, prefixed to _Promos and Cassandra_:
For to worke a Commedie kindly, grave olde men, should instruct:
yonge men, should showe the imperfections of youth: Strumpets
should be lascivious: Boyes unhappy: and Clownes, should be
disorderlye.
Both statements of the principle of decorum rigidly match character
type with nature or behavior. By simplification of character,
consistency could be assured. It is obvious that this view of
dramatic character did not prevail in Elizabethan drama, but not
because it was completely out of harmony with Elizabethan thought.
When Timothy Bright approvingly noted that “butchers acquainted
with slaughter, are accepted therby to be of a more cruell
disposition: and therefore amongst us are discharged from iuries of
life & death,”[28] he was reflecting a type of thinking in keeping
with the principle of decorum.
It is against such Idols of the Tribe that Bacon inveighs. But even
when he attacks such habits of thought, he gives us a clear concept
of them.
The spirit of man (being of an equal and uniform substance)
pre-supposes and feigns in nature a greater equality and
uniformity than really is. Hence the fancy of the mathematicians
that the heavenly bodies move in perfect circles, rejecting
spiral lines. Hence also it happens, that whereas there are
many things in nature unique and full of dissimilarity, yet the
cogitation of man still invents for them relatives, parallels,
and conjugates. Hence sprang the introduction of an element
of fire, to keep square with earth, water, and air. Hence the
chemists have marshalled the universe in phalanx; conceiving,
upon a most groundless fancy, that in those four elements of
theirs (heaven, air, water, and earth,) each species in one has
parallel and corresponding species in the others.... Man is as
it were the common measure and mirror of nature. For it is not
credible (if all particulars be gone through and noted) what
a troop of fictions and idols the reduction of the operations
of nature to the similitude of human actions has brought into
natural philosophy; I mean, the fancy that nature acts as man
does.[29]
For the Elizabethans, as Bacon laments, external and internal
experiences were manifestations of a single spirit which had
parallels in the natural and moral universe. Consequently, in
depicting and understanding character, the Elizabethans looked for
similarities, not differences. What made one man like another and
like the macrocosm was a habitual way of estimating character.
However, instead of the simple formulae of “decorum,” the
Elizabethans employed a complex system of correspondences. For
them, man was volatile. Potentially he was capable of absorbing
concepts shared by other men. This reduced the possibility of
matching thought and character. He was also capable of experiencing
passions common to all mankind. This made it impossible to match
nature and character. In so dynamic a philosophy the meaning of
decorum had to change. Professor Lily B. Campbell has rightly
pointed out that decorum in Elizabethan drama was “not a law of
aesthetic theory but a law of moral philosophy.” To extend her
definition, it was also a law of social organization and political
life.
In the highly stratified Elizabethan society, precepts and models
of behavior were strictly developed. Bearing, speech, and dress
reflected class status. Ceremony was not only appropriate but
necessary, for, as Sir Thomas Elyot admonished:
Lette it be also consydered, that wee bee men and not Aungelles:
wherefore we know nothyng but by outwarde signification. [Honor
is not everywhere perceived] but by some exterior signe, and that
is eyther by lawdable reporte, or excellency in vesture, or other
thing semblable.[30]
In this context ceremony is not unnatural, and in fact, to the
Elizabethan, ceremony signified the natural order of the universe.
Man constantly saw his corresponding reflections in the “outward
signification” of society, nature, and morality.
That this central habit of thought was deeply ingrained in
Elizabethan nature is reflected in Bacon himself. Despite his
recognition of the fallacy of such thought, he still finds general
similitude between feature and nature. He still thinks that the
deformed person must be evil, although he tries to provide a
scientific explanation of the causes of this correspondence. It is
true that this form of logic was falling before the development
of inductive thought, particularly in the sciences. Nevertheless,
through most of the Renaissance and certainly in the period with
which we are dealing, it prevailed.
Its effect on the decorum of character was twofold. First,
character fitted into a group. Whatever his individuality might be,
a man was a member of a class and his behavior conformed to the
behavior of the class. Second, external features implied internal
qualities. Man carried the mark of his class and his nature, in
his walk, talk, features, and costume. The outer man was the inner
man; therefore, the inner man tended the form and bearing of the
outer man carefully. In these ways decorum still functioned in
Elizabethan thought and served as a basis for the portrayal of
character by the actor.
_b. Motivation_
The habit of generalized thinking operated also in the explanation
of human motivation. Thinkers and writers were not concerned with
the unique impulse that drove a man to certain ends but with the
broad desires that all men experienced. This aspect of personality
was understood in terms of the struggle between passion and reason
which went on in each man.
It was an Elizabethan commonplace that reason allied man with
God, passion with the beasts. Imagination, which receives images
of experience and relays them, should be subordinate to reason.
Unfortunately, since it is often allied with the affections, the
affections rule man. As Bacon explained it:
The affections themselves carry ever an appetite to apparent
good, and have this in common with reason; but the difference is
that affection beholds principally the good which is present:
reason looks beyond and beholds likewise the future and sum of
all. And therefore the present filling the imagination more,
reason is commonly vanquished and overcome.[31]
This “good which is present” is often the satisfaction of the
senses or passions without concern for the consequences. When
the affections, like the imagination, are under the control of
reason, all is well. When the passions lead man, they often lead to
disaster.
Man, therefore, was moved either by his reason or his affection. If
he were learned in or persuaded by a moral or politic course, he
could measure the particular good in terms of the enduring good.
Thus reason, moved by consideration of ethics or policy, obeyed
objective and rational motivations which, individual though they
might have been in particular circumstances, had in common with all
cases the attainment of goodness or power. But if affection ruled,
then man was moved to satisfy it. Although his personality might
make him liable to certain passions more readily than to others,
he could give way to any of them. His past life did not accumulate
motivations which impelled him or influenced his reception of new
motivations. Instead, immediate and direct contact was effected
between the object of desire and the governing passion.
Functioning in such a way, man was moved by generalized ends.
The habit of seeing motivations in general terms is reflected
in the titles of essays by such men as Bacon, Charron, and Sir
William Cornwallis: “Of Ambition,” “Of Envy,” “Of Affections,”
etc. Although a physio-psychological theory in part replaced
temptation by the devil as an explanation of motivation, entities
such as pride, lust, ambition, and envy, among others, continued
to be regarded as genuine temptations by the Elizabethan. By
and large the motives for man’s actions were taken for granted
or symbolized. Often in the drama they are never made explicit.
Here too correspondence was observed. Women were easily given to
lust, unpromoted men to envy, young men to prodigality, Italians
to revenge. An Elizabethan audience would assume or ignore the
reasons for Iago’s or Antony’s or Bertram’s actions. They would be
interested in what they did and how they felt.
_c. Passion_
In concentrating on what happened to the characters, the audience
found its attention directed toward the passions that the
characters experienced. Passions were divided in kind and number.
They were either concupiscible or irascible, that is, arose
either from coveting or desiring some end, such as Love, or from
accomplishing or thwarting some end, such as Anger. However, there
was disagreement over the number of passions. Coeffeteau lists more
than fifteen, Bright only six, some writers even fewer.[32] In the
matter of detail there is no concurrence, but the difference arises
from the degree of subordination observed by the different writers.
Behind all their thinking is the habit of regarding a passion as an
autonomous quality which is either operative or not. An inclination
toward or a repulsion from an object induces physiological changes
in the bodily humors. These changes feed the passion so that it
dominates the individual entirely. But the passion is a fixed
thing. It betrays external symptoms; for example, fear leads to
trembling and love to sighing. It affects internal operation, such
as the contraction of the heart and the acceleration of breathing.
It alters the view of reality, for passions are like “greene
spectacles, which make all thinges resemble the colour of greene;
even so, hee that loveth, hateth, or by anie other passion is
vehemently possessed, iudgeth all things that occure in favor of
that passion, to bee good and agreeable with reason.”[33]
Moreover, a particular passion was the same for all persons
affected by it. Fear in one was the same as fear in another. Love
in one man was not very much different from love in another. One
man was not distinguished from another by the quality of a passion,
but by his propensity toward it. Man was thought to have a dominant
temperament or complexion. It might fall into one of four principal
categories: the sanguine, the choleric, the phlegmatic, or the
melancholic. The Elizabethan physiologists developed a series of
correspondences, of course disagreeing among themselves, between
temperament and physique, intellect and passion. Supposedly each
type was liable to certain passions more readily than others.
Yet, when a man is carried away by a passion uncongenial to
his temperament, he assumes the quality of the passion fully.
“Each passion alters the complexion of the entire body, which
assumes, at least temporarily, the very qualities which excite the
emotion.”[34] Thus, in Elizabethan thinking, there was a range of
distinct passions and a range of distinct temperaments. Although
there was a tendency for certain passions to cluster about a
certain temperament, any passion could enter into any temperament.
When it did, it transformed the temperament into its quality.
Some disagreement existed over the completeness and ease with which
a temperament could be transformed. Bright considers the complexion
strictly fixed. Other writers believe that there is a strong
tendency toward a specific temperament, but that an uncongenial
passion could overpower natural resistance to it. As Forest has
observed of these discrepancies in the Elizabethan views about
complexion, it is difficult to establish any firm conclusions
about the details of the subject. Generally, it can be said that
each man was thought to have some definable central temperament
which arose from the disposition of humors in his system, that his
external and internal faculties corresponded in a broad sense with
his temperament, and that he was liable to passions which were
sympathetic to his temperament. And yet it was accepted that his
natural temperament could be overpowered by passions in disharmony
with it, that one passion could drive out another, and that the
nature of the passion was not affected by his temperament. These
two groups of concepts are at bottom mutually contradictory; the
first visualizes relative stability and consistency in character,
the second, virtually complete subordination of the individual to
immediate impulses. These views reflect the desire for similitude
and order on one hand and the awareness of the power of passion
on the other. Without reconciliation they continued as habits of
thought throughout the English Renaissance.
Both views acknowledged the swiftness with which passion could
overwhelm an individual. Professor Craig explains sudden changes
in Bellafront in _The Honest Whore I_ and in Hamlet by reference
to “the theory that one emotion or passion drives out another, and
that the substitution is immediately operative.”[35] One passion
yields readily to another, the concupiscible passion often giving
way to the irascible, as hatred may give way to anger or grief
to despair. Love at first sight, as R. A. Foakes points out,
is a convention based on a reality and the “common and ancient
thought-habit that the sight is the chief and most powerful of
the senses.” Sudden emotional changes were either the daily acts
of Elizabethan behavior or the usual explanation of more gradual
alterations. In either case, the potential for such immediate
transformation was thought to be ingrained in every man, just as at
present the potential for repressed infantile conflicts is thought
to exist in every man.
Furthermore, the ability to suppress the mounting passions within
oneself was thought to be very slight. Once a passion subdued the
reason, the reason was virtually powerless to control the passion.
It coursed through the entire body, expressing itself in external
signs. An individual of extraordinary will could suppress these
signs, but the vast majority of people was helpless to hide the
play of passion within their souls. A correspondence between the
passions and the external signs was assumed, but as we found in the
study of rhetoric, there was no clear codification of passions and
symptoms. Instead, the habit of expecting an expression of emotion
in recognizable symptoms rather than the repression of emotion
in enigmatic behavior marked the Elizabethan age. The volatile
and pervasive nature of passion, then, was one of the crucial
assumptions of the Elizabethan period.
Thus, the Elizabethan conception of how human beings function
and feel shows two principal tendencies. In a strictly regulated
society such as the Elizabethan, the members were keenly aware of
degree and order. So urgent was the impulse to find order in the
universe, that an elaborate series of correspondences was observed
between man and all other forces in nature as well as between man
and all forces within himself. It was natural for the Elizabethan
to look for correspondences, no matter how farfetched, and to
insist on decorum, no matter how trifling. In conflict with this
tendency toward order was the recognition of the tendency toward
disorder. Largely, this was thought to arise from man yielding
to passion. The orderly arrangement of the moral and political
world could be destroyed by the unrestrained passions of man. As a
result, the description and analysis of passion became a central
function of Elizabethan psychology and philosophy. Bacon carries
the condemnation of passion to such an extreme that he condemns
love almost entirely. It is a weak passion, it is a “child of
folly.” As we turn to a consideration of the plays themselves, we
shall find that by and large the tendency toward order subsumed the
actions, and the depiction of passion occupied the forefront of the
Globe stage.
V. THE EFFECT OF THE GLOBE PLAYS UPON THE ACTING
The drama that appeared on its stage is the single most important
witness to the acting style of the Globe company. Through this
drama the general style of acting, which was a product of the
conditions I have outlined heretofore, became refined into the
specific style of the company. The wide gap between the quality
of the Shakespearean and non-Shakespearean plays in the repertory
makes the delineation of this style extremely difficult. The
differences are those of subtlety, insight, and penetration.
Probably the acting wavered between the more obvious requirements
of the non-Shakespearean plays and the modulations of the
Shakespearean.
For the actor an important part of the drama was the distancing of
the action. Almost every popular pre-Globe play is distanced in
time or place or both. Plays such as _Orlando Furioso_ and _A Knack
to Know an Honest Man_ are set in France and Italy respectively.
_The Troublesome Reign of King John_ and _Fair Em_ are set back in
English history, the latter to the days of William the Conqueror.
Plays such as _Selimus_ and _The Battle of Alcazar_ are set back
in time and place, to Islamic Turkey and Moorish Africa. Sometimes
the action was placed in a mythical or semimythical land. But only
three of the pre-Globe plays are set in London. Two are moralities
of Robert Wilson, _Three Ladies of London_ and _The Three Lords
and Three Ladies of London_. In these the allegory distances the
action. Only _A Warning for Fair Women_ is placed in contemporary
England. Its realism, however, is somewhat removed by a morality
framework in which Tragedy as a presenter moralizes upon the sins
of lust.
This practice is followed by the Globe plays. Of the Shakespearean
plays _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ is usually thought to picture
contemporary England. However that may be, the action is actually
placed in the days of Henry IV or Henry V. Falstaff’s presence
and Page’s references to Fenton’s escapades with the young prince
identify the period. The compliment bestowed at the end of the play
upon the worthy owner of Windsor Castle is anachronistic. Of the
non-Shakespearean plays, four may be considered as taking place in
contemporary England. Three of these are prodigal son plays, still
close to the morality theme. The fourth, _Every Man Out of His
Humour_, is clearly set in England, as the scene at Paul’s shows.
But the characters have Italianate names. The effect is one of a
double image, a removed intimacy.
The characters who are distanced are also typed. Most of them fall
into one of several categories: the tyrant, the tyrant-father, the
gull, the beloved, the lover, and so on. Usually they stem from
generic types. Unlike the practices in the commedia dell’arte where
the characteristics of the stock figures dictated the plot, in the
English drama, as I have shown in Chapter Two, the story dictated
the handling of character. The types that existed were a function
of the story. That is why the generic types did not develop into
stock characters. As long as the story could wrench a character as
it required, the stock type could not become solidified.
In Shakespeare the generic types are blended and enriched. An
examination of all the characters in the Globe Shakespearean plays
reveals the presence of a definite group of related characters.
They are more than the repeated figures of any author’s art, for
they hark back to the traditional types. The most frequently
recurring and most sharply marked are the lovers, villains, clowns,
gulls, loyal advisers, faithful friends, chaste maids, faithful
wives, tyrant fathers, tyrant princes, and politic princes. One
could go on multiplying subsidiary classes of characters as
Polonius does classes of drama. Though certain types, such as the
faithful servant (Adam, Provost in _Measure for Measure_, Corin
in _As You Like It_), recur with some frequency, many do not. One
type, the elderly _grande dame_, has only two representatives: the
Countess in _All’s Well_, and Volumnia in _Coriolanus_. Nor do the
types recur in the same form. Horatio is the faithful friend in
_Hamlet_; Kent is also the faithful friend, but he has something of
the court adviser in him too. From this it follows that the types
are not differentiated clearly. Antony in _Julius Caesar_ has some
of the faithful friend in him, but as his character develops, he
reveals something of the Machiavellian politician, and in battle
shows himself the honest soldier. Furthermore, the same generic
type may show strong differences in temperament. Lafeu, the court
adviser of _All’s Well_, is a merry gentleman; Escalus, the same
type of adviser in _Measure for Measure_, is sober and serious.
They are both members of the same type whose quality is dictated by
the function that it performs in the story. But the full range of
the character does not remain within the confines of the types.
The combination of distanced action and generic type served to
romanticize and symbolize the Shakespearean stage figures. No
matter how reminiscent of a contemporary Londoner a character
may have been, the audience reposed in the fiction that he was
an Italian, a Roman, or an ancestor. With the Elizabethan’s
insularity, the fiction took on imaginative reality and tinted
the action of the plays with romance. The characters of this
romance, who had a generic base, were not only individuals but
also symbols of the host of kings, lovers, and clowns who peopled
the world. Again, this is a reflection of the Elizabethan habit
of seeing similarities rather than differences in human behavior.
The interaction of these two qualities alone would have elevated
the action into a wondrous world of imagination, untouched by real
experience. But, as we shall see, other elements were at work.
Within the broad boundaries of the generic type, individualization
of character took place. But in what manner was this accomplished
by the dramatists, particularly by Shakespeare? Today we place
great stress on motivation. Our plays constantly search the past
to explain the present. In _A Streetcar Named Desire_ Blanche
is revealed and drawn in terms of her tortured past and her
unfulfilled desires. In the Elizabethan period, as we found, there
was little awareness of specific motivation. The plays reflect this
condition. The motivation is usually generalized. Viola wishes
to love and be loved, and Sir Toby wants to have an easy life.
Antony wishes to love Cleopatra, Coriolanus to satisfy his pride.
But little attention is directed to probing or developing these
motivations. At the conclusion of these plays we do not understand
the motives of these characters one whit better. Motivation is
often assumed, as in Lear’s partition of his kingdom, or promised
for the future, as in _Othello_ when Iago persuades Roderigo
to kill Cassio. In the same type of character there is little
distinction in motivation. The motives for Horatio’s loyalty
to Hamlet are no different from the motives for Kent’s loyalty
to Lear. In the prodigal son plays, the motivations for the
prodigality are barely noted. It is considered a condition to which
all youth is liable. Motives for any act were so often assumed that
they could not have demanded concentrated attention by the actors.
Another way in which the modern playwright individualizes character
is through speech and gesture. This does not seem to have been a
regular practice at the Globe playhouse. Here and there are hints
that status may have been indicated by carriage and accent. In _As
You Like It_ Orlando questions “Ganymede” about his life.
ORL. Your accent is something finer than you could purchase
in so removed a dwelling.
ROS. I have been told so of many. But indeed an old religious
uncle of mine taught me to speak, who was in his youth an
inland man.
[III, ii, 359-363]
In these externals the Elizabethans maintained a strict decorum.
Yet the play does not reveal any difference between Rosalind’s and
Corin’s speech insofar as breeding is concerned. References to
fineness in speech, as in _Twelfth Night_ (I, v, 311), place the
character in a class rather than make him unique. Only in a few
cases can we be certain that characteristic speech habits are used
to individualize. The Hosts of _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ and
_The Merry Devil of Edmonton_ have their tricks of speech; so does
Corporal Nym. Edgar as Poor Tom alters his speech as an aid to his
disguise. Other less certain instances are Osric in _Hamlet_ and
Thersites. But more important characters are not drawn in that way.
Dogberry and Elbow both use malapropisms, but the characters are
not distinguished by them. In fact, the linguistic twist tends to
obscure the differences of character and emphasizes the likeness in
type. The distinction between the two comes from Dogberry’s fatuous
self-confidence and condescension in contrast to Elbow’s alternate
deference to authority and scolding of Pompey.
If neither kind of motivation nor form of speech and gesture
individualized the characters, perhaps the kind of action they
performed did so. In modern drama this usually happens, for the
action comes out of the character. But the narrative nature of
Elizabethan drama, with its loose causation, makes this less
possible. Plays based on the same narrative, for example, differ
not so much in action as in character. _Lear_ does contain a
sub-plot, the Gloucester story, not present in _King Leir_. But
this addition does not affect the character of Shakespeare’s Lear
very much. In a number of scenes both Lear and Leir perform the
same action, but there is a world of difference in the characters.
Lear proposes the division of his kingdom upon entering, and
then immediately questions his daughters. At Cordelia’s muteness
his emotions mount in three stages: rejection of Cordelia,
banishment of Kent, and dismissal of France. From the beginning
Lear demonstrates authority and pride. Leir, however, reveals two
reactions: delight at the flattery of Gonerill and Ragan, anger at
the bluntness of Cordelia. But he does not have Lear’s intensity of
emotional expression.
In their first realization of rejection, the two men repeat these
differences. Leir mourns, repenting his folly, regarding Gonerill’s
treatment as payment for his sins. This is the beginning in Leir
of the grief that he shows throughout the play. Lear, on the other
hand, demonstrates amazement, anger, scorn, all at a great height
of intensity. This too is the beginning of the barely suppressed
rage which finally drives him to madness. When, near the end,
Leir’s request for Cordelia’s pardon emerges as grief, he is
continuing the emotional quality he attained at the beginning.
Lear, however, comes to that level of humility only after having
passed through the fires of rage and madness. Of the central range
of passion poured out by Lear on the heath, there is no sign in
_King Leir_.
For it is mainly through the depiction of the passions that
Shakespeare individualizes his characters. Just as the Elizabethan
age envisions reason struggling with passion, so Shakespeare
reveals the individual emerging through his passions. With the
possible exception of Jonson, this was the general method of the
other writers for the Globe company. By them too the generic type
is rendered unique when passion is freshly portrayed.
A secondary means of individualization was the presentation of
a character’s mind. Many of Shakespeare’s finest characters are
distinguished by a profuse and keen wit. Rosalind, warm-hearted
and merry, becomes the distinct figure she is through the play
of her wit.[36] Octavius Caesar in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is a
man supremely guided by reason. In these cases wit or reason,
rather than passion, controls the character. But in the gallery
of Shakespeare’s portraits such characters are in the minority.
Prepared as the actor had to be to render thought vividly, his main
efforts had to be devoted to painting the varied passions of man.
The application of this interpretation will be more evident in an
examination of Globe plays. For example, the faithful wife type
appears in them with some frequency. In the prodigal son plays she
is probably closest to a pure type. Luce in _The London Prodigal_
does not wish to marry Flowerdale, but she is forced to do so by
her father. After the marriage, when Flowerdale is revealed as a
wastrel, the father commands Luce to leave her husband. She replies:
LUCE. He is my husband, and his heauen doth know,
With what vnwillingnesse I went to Church,
But you inforced me, you compelled me too it:
The holy Church-man pronounced these words but now,
I must not leaue my husband in distresse:
Now I must comfort him, not goe with you.
LANCE. Comfort a cozoner? on my curse forsake him.
LUCE. This day you caused me on your curse to take him:
Doe not I pray my greiued soule oppresse,
God knowes my heart doth bleed at his distresse.
[Sig. E1^r]
Her grief is conventional. It is echoed by the wife in _A Yorkshire
Tragedy_ and by Anabell in _Fair Maid of Bristow_. Shakespeare,
however, assuming the conventional devotion, deepens the emotion of
the wife. Virgilia in _Coriolanus_ is the same type of character.
Her only individualizing element is her readiness to weep at the
slightest hint of her husband’s danger. This sensibility serves
as a strong contrast to Volumnia’s Roman pride and honor. Portia
and Calpurnia in _Julius Caesar_ are other representatives of this
type, yet they are distinguished from each other. Not through
motivation: they both wish the well-being of their husbands. Not
through action: they both try to persuade their husbands to another
course of action. Portia demonstrates a stoicism, a suppression of
fears, in order to persuade Brutus to reveal the reasons for his
troubled state, only to give way later to her uneasiness. Calpurnia
pours out her fears and forebodings, nagging and pleading in turn.
Probably in manner, gait, speech, and gesture, this type would be
played in the same way. Only the drawing of the different passions
would transform them into distinct characters.
In many types this kind of differentiation occurs. Leonine and
Thaliard are minor villains in _Pericles_. They are both commoners
and servants, both are commanded to commit murder by their
masters. Yet they differ from each other. In manner Thaliard is
prompt, reflecting a cynical attitude toward his task. Leonine
is reluctant, reflecting an innate gentleness. Dogberry and
Elbow, as I have noted, are distinguished from each other by one
being condescending, the other deferential. Kent and Enobarbus,
faithful friends and advisers, have much in common: bluntness in
speech, an unbreakable tie to their royal masters, loyalty in the
face of disaster. Their abilities too are not so very different,
though Enobarbus is a soldier. The distinction arises from their
temperaments and passions. Enobarbus is critical and scornful,
Kent is blunt and protective. But Enobarbus attains striking
individuality only when he undergoes the pangs of shame for having
abandoned Antony.
Implied emotion is not characteristic of the period. Today
actors hint at unfathomed depths or suppressed drives which are
ever on the verge of bursting forth. This was not the style of
the Globe. Passions were immediately and directly presented. A
character revealed the full extent of his passion at once. Our
habit of seeing unplumbed depths in people may lead us to sense
inner turmoil in Elizabethan plays where it does not exist. But
this is in accord neither with Elizabethan thought habits nor
with Elizabethan dramaturgy. Professor Albert Walker has shown
that Shakespeare inherited conventional expressions of emotion
and utilized them in a unique manner. A perusal of any of the
Shakespearean plays will demonstrate the prevalence with which the
overt expressions of emotion enumerated by Professor Walker are
found.
One matter of the treatment of passion by Shakespeare remains to
be considered, that of consistency. In analyzing the Elizabethan
theory of passion, we discovered some dispute over the stability
of temperament. Some writers believed that it was fixed and
sympathetic to certain passions only. Other writers believed it was
fairly flexible, that any passion could overwhelm the temperament.
The same question arises in reference to the plays. Professor
Draper, for example, has attempted, unsuccessfully, to prove that
the Shakespearean characters fitted into one of six types of
temperament. It seems to me that he attributes to a consistent
temper what may only be the result of a dramatic type.[37]
Nevertheless, though it is unwise to press consistency of
temperament too far, some characters seem to be controlled by a
dominant passion. There is a distinction. Temperament differs
from dominant passion by including a predisposition not only to a
particular passion, but also to a specific physique, intellect,
and morality. Malvolio is moved by self-love, a form of pride;
Antony, by lust; Angelo, by self-righteousness. Malvolio’s temper
is never superseded by another passion; Antony often gives way to
self-chastisement or grief, yet fundamentally obeys his passion;
Angelo is transformed into another man by yielding to lust and
still another by yielding to penitence at the conclusion. Thus the
degree of consistency varies with the individuals, yet even with
the most consistent characters, the interest is not directed to
incidental characteristics such as physique, but to the passions to
which they yield. Only here and there do we find a man of balanced
temperament who does not yield to passion. As we might expect,
such a man, of whom Horatio is the most famous example, shows very
little individuality.
All of the foregoing conditions, verbal and physical expression,
theatrical tradition, playing circumstances, thought habits, and
acting roles shaped the Globe actor. As he took on a role, he
had to work with dispatch. In less than two weeks the show was to
go on the boards. While he was studying a new role he was playing
from eight to twelve others. Given a copy of his part, he depended
principally upon himself for working up the role. Shakespeare might
advise him about the interpretation, but in the time available not
much group rehearsal could take place. Since most of the scenes in
which he appeared involved only one or two other characters, little
time had to be spent in worrying about blocking out the movements
or about grouping.
The role he had been given most likely fell into one of several
general types to which had become attached some conventions of
portrayal. But these conventions were suggestive rather than
absolute since the period had not developed a rigid correspondence
of passion and external expression. The actor could rely on these
conventions or habits because the basic outline of his character
would fit into some social group. He endeavored to impersonate a
typical character of this group in his walk, manner, character
relationship, speech. Acutely conscious of ceremony, he infused
these elements with an artistry which imitated the ideal rather
than the specific. With his voice he did not attempt to imitate
particular persons, but expressed the meaning of the speeches
by accenting the figures of language. In all this he obeyed the
tendency of the age to find similarities rather than differences in
behavior.
This ritualistic acting, however, contained within it specific
passions which burst from these typical characters. Unto the
portrayal of these passions the actor had to give himself fully.
Audacity and vehemency were required. He knew he had to feel
the emotions himself if he were to move his auditors. Overtly
expressed, the emotions came forth without self-conscious
restraint. Perhaps in other acting companies the actors relied on
conventional expressions of emotions. But Shakespeare gave his
actors too rich a variety of emotions of too fine a subtlety to
permit them to rely upon a stock rendition of outworn conventions.
Although the actor did not have to search for the emotion, as
actors do now, he had to discriminate among the various emotions
and individualize each of them in order to project an effective
character. His conceit or idea of the passion had to be keen to
make the character come to life; he knew that without a vivid
comprehension, the external expression would be hollow.
On stage, he shared his experience directly with the audience.
He was part of an elaborate pageant taking place in a far-off
land against an opulent backdrop. Yet on an emotional level he
communicated intimately and directly with the audience. In more
or less unrestrained utterance he portrayed extremes of passion,
passion which was so alive and real that the audience might wish to
say about the Globe player what Polonius said about the player in
_Hamlet_:
Look, whe’r he has not turn’d his colour, and
has tears in’s eyes. Prithee no more!
[II, ii, 542-543]
At the peak of his passion he might well have fitted Hamlet’s
description of the player who
in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That, from her working, all his visage wann’d,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in’s aspect,
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.
[II, ii, 578-583]
To this type of ceremonious acting, the heart of which was
overwhelming passion intensively portrayed, neither the adjective
formal nor natural applies. I suggest that we accept the inevitable
adjective and call it romantic acting, but romantic acting
understood in the finest sense before decadence and extravagance
set in. The Globe company brought this art to perfection.
Chapter Five
THE STAGING
I. STAGE ILLUSION AT THE GLOBE PLAYHOUSE
Staging, like acting, is an art of illusion, but its illusion,
unlike that of acting, deals not with being but with time and
space. In the manipulation of time, it has long been recognized
that Shakespeare is a master. An oft-cited example of his mastery
occurs in the guard scene in _Othello_ (II, iii). During the
course of the action a night is made to pass. At the beginning of
the scene, the time is not yet “ten o’ the clock” (15). At the
conclusion, Iago remarks, “By th’ mass, ’tis morning!” (384).
In the midst of the alarum, Othello speaks of night and Iago
agrees that Cassio should see Desdemona “betimes in the morning”
(335). Here, as elsewhere, Shakespeare creates his own illusion
of time corresponding neither to actual chronology nor to agreed
convention, but solely to narrative demands.
It has also been generally recognized that Shakespeare may utilize
more than one time scheme within a single play. For example, after
Edmund has shown “Edgar’s” letter to his father, the Duke of
Gloucester, he assures him that he will seek out Edgar as quickly
as he can,
convey the business as I shall find means, and
acquaint you withal.
[I, ii, 109-111]
In Act II, scene i, three scenes later, he expedites his plot,
presumably without delay, for the action picks up where it had left
off. In the intervening scenes, however, Lear spends sufficient
time at Goneril’s castle for her to complain to the Steward, “By
day and night, he wrongs me!” (I, iii, 3). Certainly the spectator
is to suppose that a good portion of a month has gone by.
Through a kind of illusion the author accelerates or decelerates
the passage of time to fit the needs of his narrative. Thus, the
time sequence varies during the course of the play. In some scenes
time is extended, in others highly contracted. Antony is told,
only a moment after the mob, which he has stirred to fury, rushes
out to revenge Caesar’s death, that Brutus and Cassius have fled
before this same mob. The reference point, manifestly, is not the
length of time that the events would require in actuality, or a
fixed standard of time, such as the twenty-four-hour neoclassical
day, or a symbolic dimension, such as the morality time scheme of
man’s life on earth, but the duration of time required to tell the
story. This narrative ordering of time, moreover, has a parallel in
a similar narrative ordering of space.
Simultaneous staging illustrates the operation of such ordering
of space. By simultaneous staging is meant, in this instance, the
practice of mounting more than one setting on stage at the same
time so that during one scene the setting for another is already
present. The degree to which it was employed by the popular
companies is a matter of controversy.
In 1924 E. K. Chambers endeavored to distinguish between
simultaneous staging in the private theaters and sequential staging
in the public playhouses. But Professor George Reynolds has shown
that at the Red Bull, some of the time at least, simultaneous
staging was practiced. Later studies by George Kernodle and C.
Walter Hodges have supported his position. In writing about
simultaneous staging Reynolds, as well as Kernodle and Hodges,
refers to the disposition of properties only. Reynolds argues
that properties from one scene were occasionally left on-stage
during the playing of another. Or he suggests that tents or shops,
utilized much like the mansions of the medieval stage, were erected
on-stage. He cites the tents scene in _Richard III_ (V, iii), where
both Richard’s and Richmond’s tents occupy the stage, as evidence
that “theaters permitted violation of realistic distance and the
use of simultaneous settings.” Instances of such simultaneity,
although not abundant, do occur among the Shakespearean Globe plays.
The disguised Kent is placed in stocks before Gloucester’s castle
where he is to remain all night (II, ii). The Quarto specifies
that at the end of a soliloquy he “sleeps.” A soliloquy by Edgar
follows. After Edgar’s exit, with the coming of morning, Lear
arrives. Editors frequently treat the sleep and Edgar’s exit as the
conclusions of separate scenes, thus marking Edgar’s soliloquy Act
II, scene iii, and the scene commencing with Lear’s arrival, Act
II, scene iv. However, neither the Folio nor the Quarto texts have
any divisions at these points, although the Folio text is otherwise
divided. John C. Adams, in his proposed staging of _King Lear_,
suggests that the “inner stage” curtain was closed while Kent
sleeps in order to allow Edgar to deliver his soliloquy, and then
reopened for the next scene. But the direction “sleeps” indicates
that this was not the case. Edgar merely entered while Kent slept
in the stocks. Whether he was supposed to be in the same part of
the castle yard or another part does not much matter. In this
instance an imaginative expansion of space occurs and he “does not”
see Kent.
A similar instance occurs in _As You Like It_. While Amiens and
Jaques are singing in the Forest of Arden, a banquet is brought
out. Seeing the uncovered dishes, Amiens says,
Sirs, cover the while; the Duke will drink under
this tree.
[II, v, 32-33]
After they sing some more, Jaques announces that he will go off to
sleep and Amiens replies:
And I’ll go seek the Duke. His banquet is prepar’d.
[64-65]
These definite exit lines spoken by Amiens, as well as those spoken
by the Duke at the end of Act II, scene vii (where he is careful
to have Adam supported off stage), indicate that discovery of the
banquet is not intended in either scene. Between the setting and
partaking of the banquet, there intervenes the scene in which
Orlando and Adam enter the forest fainting from want of food. Here
is demonstration of the blending of general localization with
simultaneous staging.
However, such simultaneous staging did not set the style for
an entire play. Nowhere is there evidence that mansions or
properties were left on-stage throughout an entire play. Nor is
this surprising. It is apparent by now that scenic materials
appeared infrequently on the Globe stage. Therefore, if there were
conventions of spatial order, they involved not merely the physical
elements of staging but more especially the organic elements,
namely, the actors.
A nonrealistic ordering of space becomes necessary when the
demands of a dramatic story create a disparity between the actual
dimensions of the stage and the spatial dimensions of the action.
Utilizing the theatrical conventions of the age, illusion masks
this disparity. Such illusion is a product of two factors: the
extension and/or compression of space and the juxtaposition of
actors and properties.
As in the case of temporal illusion, Elizabethan _spatial_ illusion
does not obey a fixed proportion between stage and reality.
It employs neither the unity of place nor the cosmic range of
medieval drama. Between property and actor and between actor and
actor, space assumes whatever dimension the narrative requires.
This is true not only of the compression of space, that is, how
closely characters stand to one another, but of their dramatic
relationship, that is, the quality of that proximity.
To illustrate how the Elizabethans employed narrative space
relationships between actors, I turn to a striking, and, as far as
I am aware, hitherto unnoticed instance of compression in one of
the Globe plays, _Pericles_.
In the first scene of the play Pericles seeks the hand of the
Daughter of Antiochus. To win her, he must successfully answer
a riddle. To fail, as many princes before him have done, means
death. After the Daughter appears before him in all her regal
beauty, Pericles receives the text of the riddle which he reads
aloud. Almost immediately he fathoms the meaning: Antiochus and his
daughter have committed incest. Pericles expresses this revelation
in an aside, in the midst of which he addresses the Daughter
directly.
Y’are a fair viol, and your sense the strings:
Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music,
Would draw heaven down, and all the gods, to hearken;
But being play’d upon before your time,
Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime.
Good sooth, I care not for you.
[I, i, 81-86]
We might assume that, since the character speaks an aside, the
actor was standing some distance from the Daughter in order to give
the illusion that he is not overheard. But the next line, which
Antiochus addresses to Pericles, shows that Pericles was actually
next to the Daughter.
ANT. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life,
For that’s an article within our law,
As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expir’d.
Either expound now, or receive your sentence.
[I, i, 87-90]
Apparently, Pericles in his aside gestures toward the Daughter on
the line, “Good sooth, I care not for you.” Antiochus misinterprets
the meaning of the gesture and warns Pericles not to touch his
daughter. Thus, instead of speaking from afar, Pericles delivers
the aside in the midst of the other actors.
In analyzing the aside as a dramatic device, writers have accepted
the convention but rejected a conventional delivery by suggesting
that in performance the platform stage enabled the actor to render
it realistically. Not only this scene in _Pericles_, but equally
significant instances of spatial compression contradict this
theory. Many asides give the actor neither time nor motivation for
creating verisimilitude. When Othello meets Desdemona, after Iago
has awakened the “green-eyed monster” within him, he is struggling
to hide his conviction of her guilt. Desdemona greets him.
DES. How is’t with you, my lord?
OTH. Well, my good lady. O, hardness to dissemble!
How do you, Desdemona?
[III, iv, 33-35]
Today the actor mutters the aside, “O, hardness to dissemble,”
turns away, or in some other manner endeavors to give plausibility
to the convention that Desdemona does not hear the remark. In final
desperation, he may cut the line. The study of asides below shows
that these were not the methods employed at the Globe.
Naturally, the high degree of spatial compression among the players
caused a change in the quality of their relationships. When one
actor comes closer to another than realistic action plausibly
admits, as in the scene in _Pericles_, he destroys illusion, if it
is one of reality, or he creates a new illusion, if it is one of
convention. By standing near the defiled princess while he unravels
the mystery, the actor of Pericles can convey his horror with
maximum effectiveness, and by speaking his aside near her while he
paints a word picture of her outer beauty and inner pollution, he
can project his revulsion at her foul proximity. The Globe players,
in the staging of asides, did not think in terms of creating an
illusion of actuality but of relating the crucial elements of
the narrative to each other. Within such a frame of reference
the dilemma, folly, or scheme which gives rise to an aside is
demonstrated more lucidly and more dramatically than it could be
within a realistic frame of reference. What is true of the aside is
equally true of observations, disguises, concealments, parleys, and
other theatrical devices.
The conventions governing grouping of actors also governed the
sequence of actions. From scene to scene, and within scenes,
space had a fluidity which was accommodated to the narration.
Generalization of locale required such fluidity, for locale was
as broad or as narrow as occasion demanded. The picturing of
locale, we must remember, was not accomplished with scenery.
Nor was passage from one locale to another accomplished through
physical changes in the stage façade, as some scholars have
insisted. According to various views, the drawing of a curtain or
a shift from one part of the stage to another or from one mansion
to another was a conventional means of conveying a change of
place to the audience. All these views assume in common that the
establishment of space was dependent upon clues of a physical sort.
The application as well as the refutation of such an assumption
can be illustrated in the assassination scene of _Julius Caesar_,
which begins in the streets of Rome and moves to the Capitol (III,
i). Ronald Watkins would express this sequence in a change in the
stage itself. To mark the moment when the scene shifts into the
Capitol, he would open the “inner stage” curtain to reveal a state
for Caesar.[1] The possibility that the street and the Capitol were
situated in the same imaginary area is never explored although
there is no instance in a Globe play where a shift takes place
like that which Watkins predicates. Before examining this scene in
detail, it might be well to turn to another Globe scene which is
unqualified evidence against Watkins’ method of staging.
In scene x of _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, it will be recalled,
Butler has convinced Ilford, Bartley, and Wentloe that he can
provide them with rich wives. Appointing a time to introduce them
to their “brides-to-be,” he arranges to meet first Ilford and then
the other two “at the sign of the Wolfe against Gold-smiths row”
(Sig. G1^v). After these rakes depart, Butler soliloquizes upon the
punishment that he will inflict upon them for their villainy. At
the conclusion of this brief soliloquy, he does not exit. Instead,
Thomas and John Scarborrow enter.
BUT. O, are you come. And fit as I appointed.
[Sig. G2^r]
He bids them wait while he sets up the plot for Ilford. The scene
with Ilford is played in continuous fashion. There is no indication
that the scene has shifted to any other part of the stage, for
Ilford observes the Scarborrows from a window. When Wentloe and
Bartley appear, Wentloe points out the sign of the Wolfe. Through
dialogue, the audience is made aware that a change of locale has
occurred without either a clearing of the stage or a shift in
area. Furthermore, the appearance of the sign suggests one of
three possibilities: the sign was visible throughout the scene,
thus creating a type of simultaneous setting; it was not employed
physically and thus Wentloe’s line is imaginative; or it was placed
in position during the course of the scene. In any one of these
instances the change of scene did not depend upon any change in the
form or size of the stage space.
To return to _Julius Caesar_. It is possible to carry out the
staging of the scene as Watkins suggests. But there is no instance
in the Globe plays which clearly shows this to be Globe practice.
A scene in _The Devil’s Charter_ (II, i, Sig. E1^r) contains a
similar scene of procession, this time to a papal state. In the
other stage directions of the play, Barnes has carefully indicated
when the enclosure was employed, even within a scene, so that his
failure to mention it in a stage direction for this scene argues
against its use. In that event the state must have been thrust
out. This method would serve equally well in _Julius Caesar_ with
the result that both street and Capitol would be simultaneously
presented.
Essentially the stage was a fluid area that could represent
whatever the author wished without the necessity for him to
indicate a change in stage location. The actors did not regard the
stage as a place but as a platform from which to project a story,
and therefore they were unconscious of the discrepancy between real
and dramatic space. How far behind Malvolio were the “box tree”
and his tormentors? How far from Brutus and Cassius are Caesar
and Antony when Caesar sneers at Cassius’ “lean and hungry look”?
Is the eye meant to take in both parties at once? In performing
these scenes, the Globe players probably concentrated on making
the observation of Malvolio and the scornful characterization of
Cassius dramatically effective. That this frequently necessitated
the substitution of imaginary for real distance must have passed
unobserved both by the players and the audience.
Space, though flexible, was not amorphous. Principles of order in
staging existed independently of the stage façade and machinery.
As in Elizabethan graphic art during this period, the principles
were simple and derivative. The “primitive” art of the medieval
period had been suppressed by Henry VIII. No vital growth in a
secular art appeared to take its place. Save for some painters who
created original and masterly miniatures, among them the master
Nicholas Hilliard, the Elizabethans failed to develop a school of
graphic art and thus resorted to foreign artists or imitators. It
is not surprising, therefore, that the stage which developed at
this period was simple in composition and imitative in adornment.
Massive and symmetrical, not easily varied in its fundamental
appearance, its boards served any scene.
Evidence for fixing stage positions is scanty at best. The text of
a drama, unless it is accompanied by detailed stage directions,
does not contain the kind of evidence needed. Unfortunately, no
one at the Globe thought of preparing a _regiebuch_. Furthermore,
methods of rehearsal indicate that the pictorial arrangement of the
actors received little attention. Considering the history of the
Elizabethan acting company and the conditions of its repertory,
it is not unlikely that traditional patterns of arrangement
were retained and repeated. Novelty in the stage picture is
a characteristic of the director’s theater, not of the stock
company’s repertory. But, though the evidence for stage composition
is scanty, what evidence there is is consistent.
The simplest order in art is symmetrical balance. It is this type
of composition which one observes in the Globe plays from time to
time. At a banquet in _The Devil’s Charter_, Act V, scene iv, Pope
Alexander enters with three cardinals and three soldiers. The stage
direction reads,
The Pope taketh his place, three Cardinals on one side and
[three] captaines on the other.
[Sig. L1^r]
Poisoned at this banquet by the Devil, Alexander rushes to his
study,
Alexander unbraced betwixt two Cardinalls in his study
looking upon a booke, whilst a groome draweth the Curtaine.
[Sig. L3^r]
This might be an echo of Richard III’s position between the Bishops
as he receives the Lord Mayor’s embassy from London. A more
dramatic use of symmetry can be found in the finale of _Miseries of
Enforced Marriage_. At the last moment Scarborrow repents his wild
courses. Surrounded by the brothers and sister he has ruined, the
wife and children he has neglected, and the uncle he has abused, he
is deeply shamed.
Harke how their words like Bullets shoot me thorow
And tel mee I have undone em, _this side_ might say,
We are in want and you are the cause of it,
_This_ points at me, yare shame unto your house,
_This tung_ saies nothing, but her lookes do tell,
Shees married but as those that live in hel.
[Sig. K4^r. My italics]
The demonstratives indicate brothers and sister on one hand, the
uncle on the other, and his wife next to him.
This type of symmetry can be seen in Shakespearean plays also. At
one point in _Antony and Cleopatra_ Antony’s soldiers, while on
watch, hear the subterranean music which signifies, according to
one of them, that “the god Hercules, whom Antony lov’d,/Now leaves
him.” For the setting of the watch occurs the stage direction,
“They place themselves in every corner of the stage” (IV, iii,
7). What arrangement could be simpler? In the same play there is
another example. Antony and Caesar are to meet to settle their
dispute (II, ii). The scene opens with Lepidus urging Enobarbus
to “entreat your captain/To soft and gentle speech.” Then the two
monarchs of the world enter from opposite sides of the stage. I
quote at length to make the balance clear.
LEP. Here comes
the noble Antony.
(Enter Antony and Ventidius.)
ENO. And yonder, Caesar.
(Enter Caesar, Maecenas, and Agrippa.)
ANT. If we compose well here, to Parthia.
Hark, Ventidius.
CAE. I do not know,
Maecenas. Ask Agrippa.
LEP. Noble friends,
That which combin’d us was most great, and let not
A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss,
May it be gently heard. When we debate
Our trivial difference loud, we do commit
Murther in healing wounds. Then, noble partners,
The rather for I earnestly beseech,
Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
Nor curstness grow to th’ matter.
ANT. ’Tis spoken well,
Were we before our armies, and to fight,
I should do thus.
(Flourish)
CAE. Welcome to Rome.
ANT. Thank you.
CAE. Sit.
ANT. Sit, sir.
CAE. Nay then.
[13-28]
And they sit, to discuss their grievances. From the entrance to
the final seating, the scene and dispositions are balanced. At the
end of this episode there is a formal symmetrical grouping: Caesar
seated with his two supporters in attendance facing Antony with his
two supporters in attendance. Between them, mediating the matter,
is Lepidus.
Throughout the Shakespearean Globe plays instances of this sort can
be found, not only in the arrangement of the actors but also in
the writing of the scenes. An extended example of verbal symmetry
occurs in _As You Like It_, where Rosalind vows to marry Phebe if
she marries any woman (IV, ii, 90-118). Often these symmetrical
arrangements are taken for granted because they seem dramatic and
do not disturb the flow of narrative. Yet occasionally we can
discern dramatic logic sacrificed for symmetrical arrangement.
This “failing” can be more graphically observed in the buildings
of the period and, therefore, I digress for a moment. A feature
of the great houses built as show places during the Tudor age was
the adherence to symmetrically balanced design. Usually a central
structure would be flanked by more or less elaborately developed
ells or wings, as at Wollaton Hall, Hatfield House, Charlton House,
or Hardwick Hall. The main hall was in the center, naturally, and
the quarters of the noblemen were in one wing. In the other wing
the buttery, scullery, or otherwise menial part of the household
was located. In both Wollaton and Hardwick Halls, the kitchen or
scullery occupies the front chamber of only one wing to balance
the opposite lordly wing.[2] From a functional point of view in
planning, the symmetrical arrangement did not satisfy the living
accommodations of the Tudor household. But from a visual point
of view, it represented a dignity and order that relatively
unsophisticated builders could create. Despite the obvious waste in
space, the visual need determined the structural design.
This tendency can be observed on the stage. I have already cited
the scene in _Twelfth Night_, when Malvolio “returns” Olivia’s
ring to Viola. Olivia had sent him to run after the “peevish” boy
to tell him that she would not take “his” ring (I, v, 318-323).
We should suppose that, in order to catch the boy, Malvolio would
have followed Viola on the stage. Yet the stage direction clearly
specifies that they enter “severally,” that is, from opposite sides
of the stage. The entrance is symmetrical but not logical.
The general thesis for symmetrical staging that I have advanced
must be qualified in two respects. First, the reliance upon
symmetrical arrangement was probably stronger in the earlier than
in the later period. The plays themselves change from a more
formal, balanced arrangement of speeches to a more colloquial,
asymmetrical arrangement. The balanced dirges of the various queens
in _Richard III_ (IV, iv) and the measured laments of Blanch in
_King John_ (III, i, 326 ff.) begin to disappear. However, they do
not wholly vanish during the Globe period.
Secondly, the principles of composition may not be readily
perceived in scenes involving only a few characters. Therefore,
in the Globe plays symmetry as an element of staging can be best
studied in group scenes, for it is a simple way to arrange groups
of actors. The nature of Elizabethan dramatic material made simple
balance not only the most feasible but also the most meaningful
method of composition.
II. STAGE GROUPING AT THE GLOBE PLAYHOUSE
In considering grouping on the Elizabethan stage, we should keep
in mind the basic conditions of production. During its periods
of rehearsal the Globe company was actively engaged in daily
performance. Within two weeks customarily, the actors had to
learn extensive parts and mount a multiscene play. In a certain
proportion of these scenes many characters appeared on stage. Once
presented the play was not repeated for some days. Furthermore,
the stage on which the actors played had poor sightlines. The only
area from which they could be seen by virtually all members of the
audience was at the center of the platform in front of the pillars,
at the very place where DeWitt’s Swan drawing shows a scene in
progress.
Although most scenes in the Shakespearean Globe plays require
five people or less on the stage at any one time, there are still
quite a number of scenes or sections of scenes in which more than
five people appear. In the fifteen plays of Shakespeare in the
Globe repertory, I count one hundred and sixty-six such scenes
or episodes, or an average of more than ten in each play. The
lowest proportion is 14 per cent in _Twelfth Night_, the highest
61 per cent in _Coriolanus_. Generally 20 to 30 per cent of a play
consists of what I term “group” scenes or episodes.[3]
In terms of the problems of staging, these group scenes fall into
four distinct categories. More than half of the group scenes,
eighty-eight, fall into category one. These are scenes in which
though there are actually five or fewer speaking characters on
the stage, the addition of one or more mute supernumeraries
increases the size of the group to six or more Almost all of these
mute supers fall into one of several distinct generic types,
easily recognizable and probably conventionally portrayed. The
most frequently recurring types are soldiers in thirty scenes;
attendants and servants in twenty-three scenes; and noblemen of one
sort or another in twenty-one scenes. A small but important type
consists of the crowds in _Julius Caesar_ and _Coriolanus_. The
rest of the supers come from various miscellaneous classes, such
as ladies, musicians, sailors, and so on. It is probable that the
stock-in-trade of the hired men and gatherers was a standardized
portrayal of such types. Problems in grouping must have been
solved as readily. The prevailing types, soldiers, attendants,
and noblemen, contain in their ranks and duties the rationale for
their positions upon the stage. Implied in the relationship of
servant to master or nobleman to king is an attitude of service
expressed in a characteristic manner. That this pattern was
representative of Globe plays as a whole is borne out by the
examination of the non-Shakespearean and non-Jonsonian plays in
the Globe repertory. Although in proportion there are fewer group
scenes in the non-Shakespearean plays than in the Shakespearean, in
the separation into types of group scenes, the same divisions are
evident.
A second category consists of group scenes which require more than
five actors with speaking roles on-stage at one time. This numbers
twenty-two. However, though there are more than five characters
on-stage, no more than five of them are active. In effect, the
others become mute observers, functioning much as the nobleman,
soldier, or attendant type. For example, in the debate upon Grecian
policy in _Troilus and Cressida_, Act I, scene iii, 1-212, three
people speak: Agamemnon, Nestor, and Ulysses. During the utterance
of these 212 lines neither Diomedes nor Menelaus speaks, although
they are present throughout. In this scene they are mere supers.
Donalbain is on-stage throughout _Macbeth_, Act I, scenes ii and
iv, but he does not speak. He, too, functions as a mute nobleman.
Once Lear faces Goneril and Regan before Gloucester’s castle (II,
iv, 129-298), Kent and the Fool, who have been prominent hitherto,
drop into the background as mute attendants. This practice, not
of subordinating characters but of reducing them to ciphers,
facilitated the handling of large groups of characters. That this
was the technique of the poet is evident when one considers those
scenes where characters, who have every reason to be active, fail
to respond to events in which they are immediately involved. When
the Duke reveals to Isabella the brother whom she thought dead
(_Measure for Measure_, V, i, 495-498), we might expect Isabella
to say something, but she does not. Or when Cleopatra beats the
messenger who brings the report of Antony’s marriage to Octavia
(II, v), we might expect the otherwise talkative Iras or Alexas to
say something, but Charmian alone intervenes. In that scene the
others play mute supers.
The third, and second most numerous, category of group scenes
requires more than five active characters on-stage at one time
_excluding_ mute supers. There are forty-six instances of such
scenes. What distinguishes them as a class is that all of them
represent some type of situation which demands ceremonious
grouping. Among others there are banquet scenes, single combats,
council sessions, trials, parleys, processions, and greetings. In
all of them the formal character is marked, attention is directed
to one focal point, and the arrangement of the action is often
symmetrical and ceremonial (see Appendix C, chart ii).
It is apparent from categories one, two, and three that in the
case of 156 of the 166 group scenes, the organizing principle is
ceremony or duty. Movement and arrangement, though formal, are not
artificial. Rather, they reflect circumstances of Elizabethan life.
In the group scenes the personage of greatest prestige is usually
the one who directs the action and to whom the other characters
relate themselves. The importance of this organizing principle is
demonstrated by considering the plays of domestic life, such as
_The Merry Wives of Windsor_. Without a ranking figure, another
system of grouping had to be developed. In such a play, an object
of ridicule, accusation, or pity serves as the focal point, as in
the final scene of _Merry Wives_.
In the ceremonious scenes it happens sometimes that the focal
figure is not a major character in the play, yet as the person
of highest rank he is the one to whom all the characters address
themselves. This is clearly the situation in _Othello_ (I, iii),
where Brabantio accuses Othello before the Duke and Senate. It is
the Duke whom Othello answers.
Where no single figure serves as the point of reference in the
grouping, a center of activity invariably does. The wrestling
scene in _As You Like It_ (I, iii) or the duel in _Hamlet_ (V,
ii) are examples of this kind of organization. Another method is
the processional. Most processions pass over the stage with or
without halting for brief speeches. Occasionally the procession
might combine a focus of both activity and a central figure, as
in _Julius Caesar_ (I, ii). In some instances characters on-stage
describe or discuss members of the procession (_All’s Well_, III,
v; _Pericles_, II, ii; _Troilus and Cressida_, I, ii). Given the
free passage of the stage and a point of observation when needed,
these scenes offer little problem in staging. In fact, the regular
recurrence and similar arrangement of these scenes suggest the
influence of standardized staging.
Even where more than five characters are active in the course of
a group scene, more than five are rarely active during extended
portions of the scene. The finale of _As You Like It_ will serve
as a succinct and relatively typical example. The scene opens with
Orlando and Duke Senior briefly discussing Ganymede (1-4). Rosalind
enters, still disguised, to make certain that the mutual pledges
of marriage hold. She asks each interested person in turn for
confirmation (5-25). Five speak, all but Phebe answering Rosalind
with one line. She speaks two. Orlando and the Duke return to the
discussion of Ganymede (26-34). Touchstone enters and engages in
conversation with Jaques and the Duke while Rosalind has a chance,
off-stage, to change into her maidenly garments (35-113). Hymen
appears, leading in Rosalind; the pledges are finally confirmed
in single-line refrains. Hymen blesses the marriages. Five speak
(114-156). The Second Brother enters to tell the story of Duke
Frederick’s conversion. He is welcomed by the Duke only. In fact,
his brothers, Orlando and Oliver, never speak to him. Jaques, in
his own fashion, blesses each marriage. Three speak (157-204).
Rosalind delivers the Epilogue. In scenes of this pattern there is
no need for all the characters to be seen at all times. Instead,
the actors could come forward when needed, to play where they could
be heard and seen by everyone. At the conclusion of such a portion
of the scene, as when Touchstone and Jaques finish speaking, the
unneeded characters could retire to the rear until called for once
again.
That this was indeed the practice is illustrated by the Globe play,
_Every Man Out of His Humour_. Jonson’s stage directions in Act
II, scene iii, show that when Sordido and Fungoso are not needed,
they “with-draw to the other part of the stage” and that when
Puntarvolo has completed one part of his action he “falls in with
Sordido, and his Sonne” while other action is in progress.
The last category of group scenes contains as did those already
enumerated, more than five characters _excluding_ supers. However,
these scenes do not have a formal arrangement. Thus, the method of
grouping these scenes is not quite so rigidly set as that of the
previous category. Of this sort there are relatively few examples,
only ten or about 6 per cent of the group scenes. Some of these
verge on a formal arrangement without fully realizing it. The scene
of choosing a husband in _All’s Well_ (II, iii) is a unique example
in Shakespeare, although in the pattern of the writing there is a
symmetry which tends to give the scene a schematic quality. The
farewell scene in _Antony and Cleopatra_ (III, ii) and the arrest
scene in _Twelfth Night_ (III, iv) also approach formality. What
distinguishes these scenes from the rest of the formal group scenes
is merely the degree of ceremony.
The presence of formal patterns in stage grouping enabled the Globe
company to present large-cast plays with a minimum of rehearsal.
The presence of sub-scenes within the larger scene enabled the
essential action to be brought forward and viewed. Such a practice
naturally reduced the importance of the stage façade as a frame
for the stage picture, for the attending figures remained in the
background, near the tiring house, and the active characters
came forward to the front of the stage where they could be seen
in the round. Nothing hindered the operation of such a stage
procedure, for more than 80 per cent of all Globe scenes required
no stage machinery or properties whatsoever. Everything favored
it. The platform stage was not a gargantuan apron before a modern
proscenium. It was _the_ stage and the group scenes were played to
make full use of its expanse and flexibility.
I have devoted this much attention to Elizabethan stage illusion
and the group scenes in order to show that there were theatrical
practices in operation which did not depend upon the stage façade
or machinery. Yet the scholar of Elizabethan staging invariably
approaches the subject by first considering the function of the
stage and its properties in identifying the location of scenes.
E. K. Chambers categorizes scenes according to what setting they
need. Even Reynolds, who understands the necessity for considering
scene situations rather than stage locations, uses the latter
to determine the arrangement of his book. The result of such an
approach has been that a drama, which in production relied almost
wholly upon the voice and movement of the actor, has been studied
in terms of its settings, its least pertinent part. When a modern
character enters a scene, he enters a definitely indicated place.
The audience or readers are made very conscious of that place, its
odors, its atmosphere, its effect upon the characters. But in the
Elizabethan drama, particularly in the Shakespearean, a character
enters not _into_ a place but _to_ another character. Where he
enters is of secondary importance--to whom he enters or with whom
he enters is of primary interest.
Coordinately, the continuity of action from scene to scene was
independent of the stage façade. This conclusion is a logical
corollary of the evidence offered in Chapter Three. The enclosure,
used for discovery or concealment, is introduced sometimes within
scenes, sometimes with scenes, but not for the purpose of providing
flow from scene to scene, as we saw. Neither the above nor the
hell below ever serve the function of enabling one scene to follow
another. Properties, even though they serve conventional uses,
appear too infrequently and too irregularly to afford a means of
scene connection. Consequently, these conclusions have led me to
draw up five premises covering continuity in staging.
(1) The mention of place in the dialogue does not necessarily mean
that either a part of the stage façade or a property is employed.
Only actual use of the stage area or property confirms its
employment or appearance on stage. (2) A new scene does not have
to be played in a different part of the stage from the previous
one. This premise is closely connected with the idea that (3) a
change of location in the narrative is not necessarily accompanied
by a change in location on stage. Most scholars have recognized
that the exit of one character and the entrance of another from
a different door is enough to signify a change of location.
Although this is generally true, there are exceptions even in these
cases, for examples of scenes exist where a change of location
is effected without the clearing of the stage (_Julius Caesar_,
III, i; _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, scene x; _Measure for
Measure_, III, i-ii; _London Prodigal_, D3^r-E1^v). (4) No regular
system of scene alternation occurs. Brödmeier’s simple theory of
alternation, one scene in front of a curtain and one scene behind,
has been discarded by scholars long ago. But more elaborate systems
of alternation, employing the “inner” and “upper stages,” are
still advanced. Examples are available for examination in Watkins’
book and Reynolds’ reconstruction of _Troilus and Cressida._ (5)
Evidence for the use of the enclosure in one scene of a play does
not mean that the enclosure was used in other scenes for which
there is no evidence. Many years ago Ashley Thorndike advocated the
opposite premise. “Clear evidence of the curtained inner stage in
one scene of a play must be taken as a presumptive evidence that it
was used in others,” he wrote.[4] Thorndike’s presumption has been
liberally interpreted by students of staging. Perhaps the absence
of additional mention of the enclosure is the clearest proof of its
limited use. After all, when the total evidence for a curtained
space is gathered together, the bulk is fairly slim in comparison
to the vast number of scenes which contain no such mention. Of the
519 scenes in the Globe plays, sixteen of them show fairly strong
evidence of being partly placed in the enclosure. This is about 3
per cent of the total. Perhaps the texts of the non-Shakespearean
plays offered by the Globe company reflect a truer percentage. Of
their 182 scenes, twelve show evidence of enclosure use, or about
6½ per cent.[5] In either case the total percentage is low.
These premises arise from my conviction that the part which the
stage façade played in the presentation of the plays has been
greatly overestimated. Visually, the façade was always the formal
background, but in the overwhelming number of cases the action
took place before it, not within it. Instead of looking to the
façade for the organizing principles of staging, it might be better
to look to the patterns of the scenes themselves.
III. ACTORS’ ENTRANCES UPON THE GLOBE STAGE
At one time, Sir Mark Hunter defined a scene as the action between
clearances of the stage.[6] Since this definition is generally
accepted, we can consider that the scene concludes with the exit of
all characters and commences with the entrance of other characters.
This so-called “law of reentry” operates in the overwhelming
majority of scene changes. It is rare for a character who has left
the stage in one scene to enter immediately in the very next. As C.
M. Haines has pointed out, most of the exceptions occur in battle
scenes. In those instances it is usual for an alarum or excursion
to separate the two scenes. The other exceptions are in large
measure suspect.[7]
Ready analogy to cinematic technique has led a number of scholars
to minimize the scene markings. Emphasis has been placed on the
flow of scene _to_ scene, to the extent that the separation of
scene _from_ scene has had to be made by a shift from one stage
area or mansion to another or by the opening or closing of a
curtain. However, in deemphasizing the contribution of the stage
façade to the continuity of the play, it is necessary to consider
that the pointing of scene divisions was managed by the actors
themselves. Overlapping of the exit and the entrance may not have
been the habit of the Globe company; instead separation and pause
may have been the method. The actors or stage attendants, on
occasion, had to bring out properties. This necessitated a pause,
however brief. Nor need this pause have been reflected in the text.
For one entrance in _The Battle of Alcazar_ the stage direction in
the Quarto reads:
Enter the king of Portugall and his Lords, Lewes de Sylva,
and the Embassadours of Spaine.
In the plot of the play, however, the corresponding direction
reads:
Enter: 2 bringing in a chair of state (mr. Hunt): w. Kendall
Dab & Harry enter at one dore: Sebastian: Duke of Avero;
Stukeley: 1 Pages: Jeames Ionas: & Hercules (th) to them
at another dore Embassadors of Spaine mr Iones mr Charles:
attendants George and w. Cartwright:[8]
Unfortunately, no similar parallel of stage direction and plot
exists for any of the Globe plays. In these same plots, we may also
notice, a line was drawn across the page to separate one scene from
another. Probably this was done to clarify the sequence of scenes,
but it had the added effect of fixing the scene divisions firmly in
the actor’s mind. Together with the rhyming couplet which concluded
so many scenes, it may have encouraged the insertion of a slight
pause between the scenes.
In Chapter Three I fully examined the character of the scene
endings. The conclusions are relevant at this point although the
evidence need not be reviewed. Seventy-nine per cent of the scene
endings indicate explicitly or implicitly that the actors march
off-stage. About ten and one-half per cent of the scenes end with
solo exits. About the same number of scenes fail to indicate
that the actors actually move out. It is obvious, from this
distribution, that at the ends of scenes the playwright normally
provided the actors with exit lines or movements. These served a
double purpose. They stressed the conclusion of the scene, and they
bridged the movement across the large platform.
The sufficiency of such simple movement to separate scenes is
reflected in what I call split entrances or exits. The split
entrance or exit occurs when characters come together or go apart
through more than one entryway. Entrance of two or more characters
“at several doors” or exit of two or more characters bidding
farewell to one another are split. Of the 644 entrances and exits
which begin or end scenes in the Shakespearean Globe plays, only
12.1 per cent are split scenes. Even of this low figure only
6.4 per cent are definitely split scenes, the remaining number
including probable cases. Thus nearly 90 per cent of the scenes
merely involve the exit of one actor or group at one door and the
entrance of another actor or group at another. The split scenes
are readily staged, if the third entry through the center curtain
is employed. Thus the burden of maintaining the continuity and
clarifying the story is placed on the actors--not on the stage.
Shakespeare relies on few methods for opening a scene. In 339
entrances[9] in the Shakespearean Globe plays he employs eight
methods for 88 per cent of the entrances. The most frequent type
of entrance is that of the mid-speech, which accounts for over 40
per cent of the scene beginnings. In such an entrance two or more
characters come on-stage engaged in a conversation the topic of
which was begun off-stage. This type of entrance is best adapted
to emphasize continuity of action. Among the seven other types is
the processional entrance, 9½ per cent of the total; the inquiry,
soliloquy, and commanding entrance, about 7 per cent each; and
finally the salutation, summoning, and emotional entrances, between
5 and 6 per cent each. In the commanding entrance a character
enters giving a command to someone already on-stage; in the
summoning entrance the character summons someone who is off-stage,
and in the emotional entrance a character enters disturbed by some
emotional experience, as Julius Caesar is after the tempestuous
night (II, ii).
Except for the processional and salutation entrances, the entrances
plunge the audience into the midst of a new situation or a more
highly developed stage of an earlier situation. In this respect the
evidence would appear to contradict my suggestion that a hiatus
may have defined the scenes. But considered in terms of the stage,
the contradiction is more apparent than real. This can be seen by
turning to the mid-speech entrance, 132 examples of which appear
at the beginning of scenes. A typical example opens _Othello_.
Roderigo and Iago enter, apparently after Iago has told Roderigo of
Desdemona’s marriage.
ROD. Tush, never tell me! I take it much unkindly
That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse
As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.
IAGO. ’Sblood, but you will not hear me!
If ever I did dream of such a matter,
Abhor me.
[I, i, 1-6]
But where do the characters begin speaking? At a stage door? The
stage doors on either side of the stage are virtually behind the
stage pillars. No matter how narrow one supposes these pillars to
be, and they cannot be very narrow considering their function of
supporting the heavens and huts, they interfere with action at the
stage doors. Although the exact locations of the doors in the back
wall are uncertain, they must have been behind or nearly behind
the pillars if one allows for the enclosure. Consequently, I doubt
that the mid-speech, which usually provides information vital to
the narrative, was begun at a door, and think it more likely that
the characters took several paces toward the center or forward
before speaking. This action may have provided a hiatus sufficient
to mark a new scene. Presence of such a hiatus is supported by the
fact that the mid-speech entrance seldom occurs within the body
of a scene. Shakespeare uses it almost exclusively to enable the
actor to maintain continuity from scene to scene. For example, in
_All’s Well_ and _Measure for Measure_, fifteen and ten mid-speech
entrances respectively all occur at the beginnings of scenes.
However, if the characters entered through the rear curtain, they
could engage in immediate conversation. Entrance of actors through
the enclosure curtains was not unusual, and, in fact, may have
occurred more frequently than we usually assume. For instance, in
_The Battle of Alcazar_, the Quarto stage direction reads:
Enter the king of Portugall and the Moore, with all theyr
traine.
For the same action, the plot reads:
Enter at one dore the Portingall Army with drom & Cullors:
Sebastian ... att another dore Governor of Tanger ... from
behind the Curtaines to them muly mahamet & Calipolis in
their Charriott with moores one on each side & attending
young mahamet....
Behind the terse stage direction then, lies a more elaborate
entrance involving the curtain. Although definite evidence for
such entrances does not exist in the Globe plays, there is, on the
other hand, no evidence to exclude such entrances. Moreover, there
are several situations which imply such use. At the conclusion
of scene i in _Othello_, Brabantio and Roderigo exeunt to seek
Othello. At line 160 Brabantio had come out one door, representing
his house. At line 184 he and Roderigo go out, certainly not back
into the house. Othello and Iago enter in mid-speech, surely upon
the outer stage. But from where? Not from the door through which
Brabantio and Roderigo just went out. Possibly from the door which
only recently had been the entrance to Brabantio’s house. Probably
through the curtain in the center of the stage. Although the
evidence is not conclusively applicable to the Globe plays, it may
be pertinent to note that in the _Roxana_ drawing, the flap of the
curtain is partially open, and in the frontispiece to _The Wits_ a
character is shown coming through the curtain. In all likelihood,
actors regularly entered through the center curtain, and when they
did, they could begin speaking immediately upon entrance. But
when the entrances were made through a stage door, I suggest that
conversation was held back for the several seconds needed by the
actors to move into the acting area proper and there to mark the
beginning of a new scene.
That a need to focus attention upon an entrance existed is evident
from a consideration of the entrances within the scenes. Many
of these entrances are heralded by some form of announcement or
question, such as “My lady comes,” or “How now?” or “Who comes
here?” Other means of emphasizing entrances were through action,
such as a procession, or through music, such as the horn announcing
Lear (I, iv), or through response to a previous command, such as
Lucius’ report of the Ides of March in _Julius Caesar_ (II, i).
In _As You Like It_, I count thirty-one intrascene entrances:
twenty-one are announced, one is accompanied by action, three are
responses to a previous command or scheme, and six are unprepared.
In _Lear_, there are fifty-one intrascene entrances, of which
twenty-five are announced, ten accompanied by action, three by
music, and thirteen unprepared. The unprepared entrances in _Lear_
are usually unannounced for dramatic purposes. Oswald’s entering
impertinently to Lear (I, iv), Lear’s bearing in the body of
Cordelia (V, iii), and Oswald’s sighting “the proclaimed prize,”
Gloucester, (IV, vi) depend upon suddenness for dramatic effect.
In addition to directing attention to an incoming actor, the
announcement filled an awkward gap. The depth of the stage caused
a dislocation between the actors already on stage and those
coming on-stage. Frequently, the former would be at the front
but the entrant would be at the rear. It was necessary to allow
time for the entrant to come down stage. The full effect of these
announcements was to formalize the entrances and enhance their
ceremonial impression.
Just how conventional the entrance might have been can be seen
by examining a particular group of entrance announcements. About
forty-three entrances in the Shakespearean Globe plays are
accompanied by announcements of greater length than the brief,
“Who’s there?” These announcements run from two lines to sixteen
lines in length. Most of them are short, two to four lines in
length, but a few are longer than ten lines. In each of these
instances a character or characters on-stage describe or comment
upon someone who has just entered. Usually the entrant is aware
of the others, but it is understood that he does not hear the
description. Modern producers often try to cover these awkward
entrances by giving the entrant some motivated business to
account for the delay in speaking. But these scenes are frankly
demonstrative, for the audience is supposed to be aware of both
parties. In _Hamlet_, Polonius greets Hamlet, Rosencrantz, and
Guildenstern. Hamlet, without answering, says:
Hark you, Guildenstern--and you too--at each ear a hearer!
That great baby you see there is not yet out of his
swaddling clouts.
[II, ii, 398-401]
And so forth for another three and one-half lines. Polonius can
“cover up” by waiting upon the prince, or by engaging in character
business, but in essence he becomes an inert object for that period.
The longest delay in an entrance, sixteen lines, occurs in
_Coriolanus_ (V, iii, 19 ff.) when Coriolanus describes the
delegation of Volumnia, Virgilia, young Marcius, and Valeria
approaching him. By no means could it require a speech of that
length for the actors to reach him, no matter from what part of the
stage they may have entered or where he may have been standing.
During his speech they become the visible expression of the inner
struggle that he is about to undergo. If they move, they must move
very slowly; if they stand still, they compose a picture. It is
highly unlikely that the Globe company tried to “naturalize” this
entrance by giving the entrants business or movement which would
divert the attention of the audience from the effect their entrance
was having upon Coriolanus.
Essentially the plays were written to enable the actors to enter
effectively without the aid of the façade, to play intimately near
the audience, and to retire convincingly without loss of attention.
When one takes into account the number of processions, salutations,
commands, summonses, and expressions of duty introduced to cover
and emphasize the entrances, one realizes that continuity from
scene to scene was mannered rather than casual, ceremonious rather
than personal, conventional rather than spontaneous. The effect was
probably not too far removed from the daily social manner of the
Elizabethans, but on stage their natural predilection for ceremony
may have been more fully systematized.
IV. RECURRENT PATTERNS OF STAGING
The patterns of continuity then do not lie in a play’s use of
the stage façade but inhere in a play’s structure. Chapter Two
traced the principal method of Shakespearean storytelling with
its apparent looseness of construction but its actual scheme
of central intensification and narrative finale. Within this
framework abounds a tremendous variety of scenes which seem to defy
classification. Nevertheless, situations and devices do recur in
Shakespeare’s plays. It is to those recurrent devices that I now
turn, for an examination of their patterns provides the best means
of envisioning the staging of Shakespeare’s plays at the Globe.
At one extreme there are those devices, such as the soliloquy,
which are highly conventionalized and frequently employed. At
the other extreme are the situations or episodes which are so
individualized that they seem to rely upon no distinct dramatic
convention, and therefore seem to be “a mirror of nature.” Between
the common theatrical device and the unique dramatic situation
exist the many episodes and devices in Shakespeare which are more
or less formal and which are repeated with greater or lesser
frequency in play after play. Through the reconstruction of the
staging of these recurrent devices and scenes, such as asides,
disguises, and so forth, the practices of the Globe playhouse
should become apparent.
I shall first consider the soliloquy, the aside, and the
observation scene. These forms being readily imitable appear
throughout the Globe repertory with frequency. For that reason
comparisons in function and technique are plentiful. Although these
devices compose a brief portion of a play, they contribute to the
development of the action and represent the theatrical method
employed to tell the story.
The soliloquy is probably the most characteristic theatrical device
of the Elizabethan stage. In the great soliloquies of _Hamlet_
and _Macbeth_ Shakespeare perfected this form of expression.
Unfortunately, these supreme examples have epitomized the content
and atmosphere of all soliloquies. The result has been injurious
both to the study of literature and the reconstruction of
theatrical conventions.
In tone and character, the soliloquy displays great variation.
Among the 144 soliloquies which I count in the Shakespearean
Globe plays, I distinguish three main subdivisions. All of these
represent some form of conscious thought brought to a point where
it verges on speech. Broadly, the soliloquies can be divided into
those which are essentially emotive in expression, those which are
cerebral, and those which are invocative. The divisions are not
hard and fast, however. The emotional release of Hamlet, after he
castigates himself as a “dull and muddy mettled rascal,” gives
way to rational plotting to ensnare his uncle. For convenience,
however, it is not inaccurate to speak of these three categories.
The emotive soliloquies make up about 40 per cent of the total;
the rational, containing philosophical comments, plotting, and
moralizations, make up about 46 per cent of the total; and the
invocative, such as Lady Macbeth’s call to the spirits of evil,
make up about 7 per cent. These figures are suggestive, not
definitive, nor does it matter that they are so. The important
thing to note is that the introspective soliloquy is rare. Among
the emotive soliloquies, there are expressions of sheer emotion,
such as Orlando’s paean of love (_As You Like It_, III, ii, 1-10)
and Angelo’s cry of remorse (_Measure for Measure_, IV, iv, 22-36),
Ophelia’s lamentation over Hamlet (_Hamlet_, III, i, 158-169), and
Thersites’ railings (_Troilus and Cressida_, V, iv, 1-18). But
there are few examples of the soliloquy of inner conflict, no more
than 5 per cent of all the soliloquies.
Not only in character are the bulk of the soliloquies
nonintrospective, but also in style they are extroverted.
Shakespeare depends a great deal upon apostrophe to sustain the
soliloquy. The character’s address may be directed toward the gods
(_Pericles_, III, i, 1-2: “Thou god of this great vast, rebuke
these surges,/Which wash both heaven and hell”) or to another
person not on stage (Antony to Cleopatra, IV, xiv, 50-52: “I come
my queen.... Stay for me./Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll
hand in hand/And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze”)
or to natural forces (_Timon_, IV, iii, 176-196, to Mother Earth)
or to bodily organs (Claudius in _Hamlet_, III, iii, 70: “Bow,
stubborn knees”). In fact, this form of address may be directed
to anyone or anything. The effect of this literary figure was to
substitute a listener for an absent actor. True, the listener was
imaginative rather than actual, mute rather than responsive. But
instead of directing the soliloquy inward, the apostrophe enabled
the actor to direct it outward.
Other literary forms were also employed toward this end. Frequently
the character makes himself the listener by self-interrogation.
“Am I a coward? Who calls me villain?” asks Hamlet of himself (II,
ii, 598-599). Often the emotive soliloquy is couched in a series
of flat assertions or descriptions or comparisons, all of which
are contained in Hamlet’s soliloquy beginning, “How all occasions
do inform against me” (IV, iv). However, because twentieth-century
ears are acutely sensitive to psychological nuances suggested by a
soliloquy, they very often hear a false echo of inner revelation.
Only a few speeches of admittedly great soliloquies reveal profound
conflicts of the mind (_Hamlet_, I, ii, 129-159; II, i, 56-89;
_Macbeth_, I, vii, 1-28; II, i, 33-64; _Julius Caesar_, II, i,
10-69).
In line with the modern conception of the soliloquies as moments
of the most intimate, intensive personal revelation has arisen
the idea that the very front of the platform stage is the true
province of the soliloquy. Surrounded by the audience, so close
that he could almost touch the spectators, the actor is pictured
as unveiling his soul. But this view of the soliloquy must be
questioned. Although there is no evidence in the Shakespearean
Globe plays concerning the actors’ positions during the delivery
of the soliloquies, in the non-Shakespearean Globe plays there are
four instances where soliloquies are delivered from the enclosure,
two each in _The Devil’s Charter_ and _Thomas Lord Cromwell._
Whether or not the speaker remained in the “study” throughout the
speech is uncertain. In one case, _The Devil’s Charter_, Act IV,
scene i, a stage direction after the sixth line of the soliloquy
specifies that Alexander “commeth upon the Stage out of his study”
(Sig. G1^r). In _Cromwell_ one soliloquy is six lines long (Sig.
B1^v) and the other is ten lines long (Sig. E4^v). None of the
three soliloquies is introspective or intimate. Alexander expresses
rage as he gazes into his magical glass. Cromwell and Gardiner
in _Cromwell_ are planning one thing or another. The remaining
soliloquy in Act I, scene iv (Sig. B2^v-3^r), of _The Devil’s
Charter_, is lengthy, running to thirty-two lines. In it Alexander
reviews his covenant with the devil. He chastises himself, but
moderately, as befits a man who benefits hugely from his compact
with Lucifer. There is no indication that Alexander moves out of
the “study.” In the absence of a specific direction and in view
of the stage direction in Act IV, scene i, it seems likely that
Alexander remained in the study. Perhaps all that the evidence
can demonstrate is that no special area of the stage seems either
reserved for or barred to the soliloquy and that the actor took the
stage as the temper of the scene prompted. In all likelihood the
actor himself decided how and where he played the soliloquy.
In none of the Globe plays is there any certain indication that the
audience was directly addressed in the soliloquy. A. C. Sprague
has pointed out that some soliloquies lend themselves to such
delivery.[10] When Falstaff says in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_
(III, v, 12-13), “you may know by my size that I have a kind of
alacrity in sinking” or Iago queries (_Othello_, II, iii, 342-343),
“and what’s he then that says I play the villain,/When this advice
is free I give and honest,” the actor could speak directly to the
audience. In earlier popular plays actors undoubtedly did.[11] But
the plays of the Globe company do not provide conclusive evidence
on this point.
Two types of asides are usually recognized. In the first, something
is said “by one of the dramatic characters to another (or others)
not intended to be heard by all those present.” I shall refer to
this type as the “conversational aside.” In the second, what is
said is “very like a soliloquy (usually short) spoken while other
characters are present--and known to be present by the speaker--but
unheard by them.”[12] I shall refer to this as the “solo aside.”
Warren Smith distinguished a third type of aside, composed of
those speeches which “appear to be aimed at rather than addressed
to, another character on stage--and the words are evidently not
intended for his ears or any others.”[13] For the purposes of
examining the staging, the third type can be included with the
second. It will be sufficient to treat only two types of asides.
Although, in a count of the two types of asides in all of
Shakespeare’s plays, Warren Smith finds that the conversational
aside is more numerous than the solo aside, in a similar count in
the Shakespearean Globe plays only, the reverse is true. There are
fifty-six conversational asides and eighty solo asides.[14] Next
to the soliloquy the two together make up the most frequently used
device in these plays.
The conversational aside is usually introduced by some transitional
phrase which enables the speaker to move away from the rest of the
actors. When Brutus agrees to permit Antony to deliver a funeral
address over the body of Caesar, Cassius interrupts.
Brutus, a word with you.
You know not what you do. Do not consent
That Antony speak in his funeral.
[III, i, 231-233]
Sometimes the transitional phrase enables the nonspeakers to
retire. After Macbeth receives word from Ross and Angus that he has
been made Thane of Cawdor, Banquo addresses them,
Cousins, a word, I pray you.
[I, iii, 127]
This leaves Macbeth free to muse upon “the imperial theme.” Of
course, not all conversational asides are so explicit. But in
most cases some provision is made for enabling the speakers to
separate themselves from the others. After the murder of Duncan,
Lady Macbeth faints, drawing the other actors to her. This action
leaves Malcolm and Donalbain free to converse (II, iii, 127-130).
On occasion this type of aside may be delivered immediately upon
entrance, before the newcomers have joined the other actors
(_Measure for Measure_, IV, i, 8-9). In only a few cases is there
no definite removal of the speaker from the rest of the action.
Rosencrantz covertly says, “What say you?” to Guildenstern when
Hamlet presses him to confess that the King sent for them (II,
ii, 300) or Iago surreptitiously urges Roderigo to follow after
the drunken Cassio, “How now, Roderigo?/I pray you after the
Lieutenant, go!” (II, iii, 141-142). This sort of aside is flung by
one character to another usually without drawing forth a response.
In a few asides a single line is elicited, but only two instances
occur where an extended conversation is conducted without previous
separation having been indicated (_All’s Well_, II, v, 22-29;
_Julius Caesar_, I, ii, 178-214).
Comparison of these conversational asides with those in the
non-Shakespearean Globe plays shows that the convention of
separating speakers and nonspeakers was common to the playwrights
of the company rather than peculiar to Shakespeare alone. To
introduce extended conversational asides, the playwrights resort
to such trite phrases as “A word in private Sir Raph Ierningham,”
(_The Merry Devil of Edmonton_, Sig. B3^r 10-18), “Sir Ralphe
Sadler, pray a word with you” (_Fair Maid of Bristow_, Sig.
A4^v 12-B1^r 10). Where oral evidence is missing, sufficient
evidence is often present in the stage directions that the
speakers and nonspeakers separate. In both the Shakespearean and
non-Shakespearean plays the patterns of conversational asides are
the same.
In the non-Shakespearean plays, fortunately, there are additional
indications of how the asides were delivered. In two cases stage
directions require the actors to move away from others. On meeting
Astor Manfredy and Phillippo in _The Devil’s Charter_, Bernardo
addresses Astor alone. Then according to the stage direction, “They
draw themselves aside” (Sig. E1^v). A similar instance occurs in
_A Larum for London_. Egmont and the Marquis d’Harvuy are trying
to convince Champaign, the Governor of Antwerp, to permit them
to quarter their troops in the city. At one point, in the margin
opposite the lines of the Marquis to Egmont, is a stage direction,
“Take Egm. aside” (Sig. B3^v 25). The movement aside may have also
been followed by whispering upon the part of the actors, for after
Clare draws his wife aside, saying, “My daughter Milliecent must
not over-heare,” Millicent remarks aside, “I, whispering, pray God
it tend my good” (_The Merry Devil of Edmonton_, Sig. B1^v 7). Such
whispering may not have been a practice in all the conversational
asides, but it seems plausible. As a whole the entire pattern of
excuse, movement aside, and possible whispering seems intended
to create an impression of reality. This evidence, therefore,
strengthens the theory for realistic staging. However, the aside
was by its very nature a conventional device. Although the staging
of the conversational aside appears to minimize or hide its
conventionality, I believe that there is another explanation, the
exposition of which depends upon an inspection of the solo aside.
In the Shakespearean plays seventy-six of the solo asides may be
divided into two types according to whether or not the author made
some attempt to shield the aside of the actor from the attention
of the other characters on stage. In one type the other characters
are occupied in conversation or business so that it is reasonable
for them not to hear the aside. They may actually turn away from
the actor or they may be at some distance from him. Arranging the
delivery of asides in this way shows some attention to creating an
illusion of actuality. In the second type the other characters are
fairly near the speaker; in fact, they may be actually speaking to
the person who delivers the aside. It is understood, of course,
that they do not hear the aside, even in certain cases when the
aside is delivered directly to them. This kind of solo aside relies
heavily upon the convention of unheard speech, for which presumably
there were conventional means of delivery. Of these seventy-six
solo asides, exactly half falls into each category.
There is a difference in the categories, however. The evidence for
the realistic solo aside is negative, that for the latter positive.
The scenes in the first group enable the actor to deliver the
aside apart from the other actors, that is, neither immediately
before nor after the aside is he directly involved with the other
characters. When Othello greets Desdemona lovingly after the sea
voyage, embracing her with passionate ardor, Iago remarks:
O, you are well tun’d now!
But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music,
As honest as I am.
OTH. Come, let us to the castle.
[II, i, 201-203]
Iago may or may not be near Othello and Desdemona. Modern
production prefers separation, but this type of aside neither
confirms nor rejects such practice. In this sense such evidence is
negative.
For the second group of asides, the evidence is positive. The
asides are so inserted into the dialogue that the actor has no
opportunity to separate himself from the other characters. I
italicize the aside.
FRIEND. [to Timon] The swallow follows not summer
more willing than we your lordship.
TIMON. _Nor more willingly leaves winter; such_
_summer birds are men._--Gentlemen, our
dinner will not recompense this long stay.
[_Timon of Athens_, III, vi, 31-35]
In addition to instances of this sort of aside, there are examples
of an aside within a speech of a character. Master Page plans with
his wife, Master and Mistress Ford, and the Parson to trap Falstaff
at Herne’s Oak, where he will be assaulted by pinching fairies.
Page offers to provide the material for the fairy garments.
PAGE. That silke will I go buy, _and in that time_
_Shall M. Slender steale my Nan away,_
_And marry her at Eaton_: go, send to Falstaffe straight.
[_The Merry Wives of Windsor_, IV, iv, 73-75. F.]
In such speeches, the actor had no time realistically and credibly
to leave the individual or group to whom he was speaking. A slight
turn of the body or face or a change in voice had to suffice. But
the evidence of _Pericles_ indicates that the action may have been
deliberate and emphatic rather than precipitous and surreptitious.
The abundance of asides is sufficient testimony that their delivery
was not slighted. However, instead of suggesting by the division
of solo asides into two groups that there were two methods of
delivery, I suggest that the first group, for which the evidence is
negative, were staged in the same way as the second, that is, not
realistically but conventionally.
The asides were spoken from all parts of the stage. Actors
delivered them from the enclosure as well as from the very front
of the stage. Both Marina and Pericles speak rather long asides
from the cabin or tent of Pericles’ ship, certainly a discovered
setting (V, i, 95-97, 163-167). But there is no specific evidence
that indicates the method of delivery. The traditional picture of
the cliché aside being delivered by the actor out of the corner of
his mouth or from behind the back of his hand as he leans toward
the spectator did not originate in the Globe playhouse. Instead, as
the following scene from _Troilus and Cressida_ shows, the actor
cultivated the irony or mockery of the aside quite overtly. Perhaps
the other actors had to “freeze” during the aside, for there is no
indication that they covered the solo aside with action as they did
the conversational aside.
Occasionally, an elaborate pattern of asides is unfolded, often
including conversational and solo asides in the same sequence. In
these extended asides the formal character of staging at the Globe
is readily perceptible. One particularly mannered example occurs in
_Troilus and Cressida_. Ulysses has convinced the Grecian chiefs
that they must pit Ajax against Achilles if they are to gain the
services of the latter. Following this advice, Agamemnon flatters
Ajax, stirring his pride and vanity. Ulysses seconds Agamemnon,
asserting that Ajax should not be asked to go to Achilles as a
messenger. I quote at length, italicizing the asides so that the
pattern may be clear.
NEST. _O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him._
DIOM. _And how his silence drinks up this applause!_
AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist
I’ll pash him o’er the face.
AGAM. O, no, you shall not go.
AJAX. An ’a be proud with me, I’ll pheese his pride.
Let me go to him.
ULYS. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel.
AJAX. A paltry insolent fellow!
NEST. _How he describes himself!_
AJAX. Can he not be sociable?
ULYS. _The raven chides blackness._
AJAX. I’ll let his humours blood.
AGAM. _He will be the physician that should be the patient._
AJAX. An all men were o’ my mind--
ULYS. _Wit would be out of fashion._
AJAX. ’A should not bear it so, ’a should eat swords first.
Shall pride carry it?
NEST. _An ’twould, you’ld carry half._
ULYS. _’A would have ten shares._
AJAX. I will knead him; I’ll make him supple.
NEST. _He’s not yet through warm. Force him with praises._
_Pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry._
[II, iii, 210-234]
This scene is a charade, not a realistic dramatic situation. Ajax
talks at times as though no one else were present. Perhaps he turns
away, but there is no need. It is far more likely that Nestor
and Ulysses stand on one side, since they converse together and
Nestor urges Ulysses on at the end, and Agamemnon and Diomedes on
the other side. Ajax remains between them. There is no evidence
for this arrangement, but it accords with the tendency toward
symmetrical design previously discussed.
Within the limitations of the evidence, two apparently
contradictory methods of staging emerge. The method of the
conversational aside seems realistic, the method of the solo aside
conventional. Does this mean that the Globe company practiced
a mixed style of staging? I do not believe so. Although the
conversational aside appears to strive for credibility in staging,
it does not try to make the motivation for separating the speaker
and nonspeaker credible. When Banquo calls to Angus and Ross,
“Cousins, a word, I pray,” he has no reason to do so other than to
leave Macbeth free to speak. His comments upon Macbeth’s reception
of the new honors are hardly the reasons. Similarly, the phrase
with which Hamlet draws Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to him, “at
each ear a hearer,” does not lead to a realistic scene, for Hamlet,
speaking aside to them, mocks Polonius who stands before Hamlet
but is not supposed to hear him. There is a genuine difference in
the methods of staging the two types of asides, but its purpose, I
suggest, was to differentiate the kinds of asides and to preserve
a clear story line. In the conversational aside the speakers draw
apart, for they have to indicate which actors are supposed to hear
the conversation. In the solo aside the speaker remains where he
is, for his delivery indicates that no one else hears him. Both
were devices, equally conventional in form, and yet regularly
staged in variant methods to further the narrative.
Closely allied to the aside in structure is the type of scene that
I shall call the “observation” scene. In the observation scene one
or more characters on-stage, unseen whether hidden or not, observe
and usually overhear other characters on-stage. In the course of
the observation the observer or observers may or may not comment.
In essence, the situation is contrived, although the scene in which
no comments are made is more plausible than that in which comments,
unheard by the observed, are uttered. But the asides have already
demonstrated the basic conventionality of Elizabethan theatrical
devices. The observation scene is of the same nature.
The observation scenes can be most easily studied by dividing them
into those in which the observers speak and those in which they do
not. Where the observers do not speak, the problem of placement is
greatly simplified. In several cases, for example, the observers
actually go off-stage. The location of the exit used in such cases
is revealed in _Hamlet_. Before going to the Queen, Polonius tells
the King,
Behind the arras I’ll convey myself
To hear the process.
[III, iii, 28-29]
As he and the Queen await Hamlet in her closet, he presumably
indicates the same place when he tells her,
I’ll silence me even here.
[III, iv, 4]
In the Quarto of 1603, Corambis (Polonius) is more explicit.
Madame, I heare yong Hamlet comming,
I’le shrowde my selfe behinde the Arras.
exit Cor.
[Sig. G2^r]
Earlier in the play, in preparation for a different observation,
Polonius arranged with the King to observe Hamlet as
he walks four hours together
Here in the lobby....
At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him,
Be you and I behind an arras then.
[II, ii, 160-163]
As the moment for the observation approaches, the King explains the
plan to the Queen.
Her father and myself (lawful espials)
Will so bestow ourselves that, seeing unseen,
We may of their encounter frankly judge.
[III, i, 32-34]
Upon hearing Hamlet approach, Polonius calls to the King,
I hear him coming. Let’s withdraw, my lord.
[III, i, 55]
This is the same phrase the Queen uses to Polonius in her closet.
Withdraw; I hear him coming.
[III, iv, 7]
The stage direction specifies “Exeunt” for the King and Polonius.
In both scenes the observers or observer are to be behind an arras,
in both scenes they withdraw at the sound of the unsuspecting
Hamlet. The location of the arras behind which the King and
Polonius hide is indicated in the First Quarto. Instead of the
lines already quoted, which appear in the Folio and the Second
Quarto:
At such a time I’ll loose my daughter to him,
Be you and I behind an arras then.
the First Quarto reads:
There let Ofelia walke untill hee comes:
Your selfe and I will stand close in the study.
[Sig. D4^v 14-15]
The word “study” in the Globe plays regularly refers to the
enclosure. Therefore, although all texts specify the same place,
the Folio and Second Quarto refer to the hanging in front of the
study and the First Quarto refers to the study behind the hanging.
A similar observation scene occurs in _Measure for Measure_. While
the disguised Duke is consoling Claudio in prison, Isabella, his
sister, visits him. Yielding the prisoner to her, the Duke draws
the Provost aside and says:
Bring me to hear them speak,
where I may be conceal’d.
[III, i, 52-53]
Kittredge marks an exit at this point and an entrance before line
152. He may be correct, for an “exit” follows the King’s and
Polonius’ withdrawal behind the arras and an “entrance” precedes
their emergence. In the First Quarto Corambis’ withdrawal behind
the arras is also marked “exit.” I suggest, of course, that the
Duke, like the King and Polonius, withdraws behind the arras to
overhear Isabella and Claudio and emerges at the conclusion of
their conversation.[15]
There are other scenes where silent observers remain on stage.
In these scenes the observers sometimes interrupt the scene that
they observe. When this happens, it is not always clear whether or
not they hide behind some object or otherwise endeavor to secrete
themselves until they make their presence known. Sometimes the
observer definitely hides. A scene of this sort occurs in _The
Devil’s Charter_ (III, v). Frescobaldi is waiting for Caesar to
enter with the man whom he is to murder. The clock strikes the hour.
This mine hower appoynted, this the place,
Here will I stand close till tha’ llarum call,
he stands behind the post.
[Sig. F3^v]
Immediately thereafter Caesar and the Duke of Candie enter.
Frescobaldi observes them from behind the post. The same post, or
stage pillar, was probably used in the Shakespearean scenes in
the same way although in all but one of the scenes there is no
reference to the actor’s hiding himself. In _As You Like It_ there
are two observation scenes (II, iv; III, v) in which no evident
action is taken by the observers to hide themselves. The opening
scene of _Antony and Cleopatra_ is of the same sort. In these
instances the need for secrecy is much less pressing than in the
other situations. Perhaps it was the practice of the characters to
hide only when the situation demanded it.
Those scenes during which the observer speaks involve more complex
problems of staging. Of these the “handkerchief” scene in _Othello_
(IV, i) is the most intricate. At first, Othello, observing Iago
and Cassio, can hear them laugh but cannot hear them speak.
Next, he can hear them satisfactorily. Finally, he can see the
handkerchief clearly when Bianca flings it at Cassio. The first
phase is set by Iago’s suggestion to Othello to “encave” himself.
Upon Cassio’s arrival, Iago asks Othello: “Will you withdraw?”
During the scene with Cassio, Iago apparently motions to Othello to
come closer, for Othello says:
Iago beckons me. Now he begins the story.
[IV, i, 135]
It is hazardous to take the description of the hiding place
literally. In the course of the various observation scenes, the
stage posts are apparently called “this hedge corner” (_All’s
Well_, IV, i, 2) and “the turn” (_Timon_, V, i, 50). It is
possible, of course, that Othello does not move, the change from
his inability to hear the conversation to his ability to hear it
being conveyed by his line: “Now he begins the story.” But I think
it more likely that he does “encave” himself, that is, he partly
hides himself behind the arras. When Iago beckons to him, he moves
to one of the posts.
There is only one instance for which a property may have been used
as a hiding place. In order to see the effect of the forged letter
upon Malvolio, Toby, Fabian, and Andrew follow Maria’s instructions
to get all three “into the box tree” (II, v, 17). If the property
were used, it was probably thrust out or carried out from the
enclosure and placed in the center of the stage. All the same, the
box tree is not really required. No further mention is made of it.
To the business and lines of the three observers, it contributes
neither humor nor protection. Thus, the completeness and kind of
concealment really depended upon the narrative point which had to
be emphasized. Not the credibility of the observation but the
clarity of its rendition governed the manner of its staging.
All the devices thus far inspected reveal the same characteristic
of being no more conventional than the story requires. This is
particularly true of the observation scene. Where the observer is
not needed on stage until the scene that he is watching is ended,
he is sent off-stage. Where the observer is needed to interrupt at
one point, he is hidden simply and conveniently. Where the observer
must comment on the scene before him, he is prominently placed. The
yardstick is always relevance to the story. The situation is always
as credible as it can be, but the creation of credibility is never
an end in itself. These conditions hold true for the staging of
disguise scenes too.
Several scholars have studied the disguise scene in terms of either
its dramatic form or its psychological import.[16] Paul Kreider,
for example, emphasizes the careful preparation which precedes the
assumption of disguise in Shakespeare’s plays. Although he does not
consider the methods for staging the disguise, he makes it clear
that Shakespeare always informs the audience who is disguised. Here
I shall only consider how the character is disguised.
The basic method of disguise is through a change of costume. Almost
invariably this change furnishes the foundation for the disguise.
In the Shakespearean Globe plays there are seventeen instances of
disguise, of which five rely wholly and six mainly on a change of
costume (see Appendix C, chart i). In the non-Shakespearean Globe
plays, of fifteen cases, four rely wholly and six mainly on a
change of costume. Even when a different costume is not the sole
method of disguise, it is almost always introduced as an important
supplement. Fourteen of the seventeen disguised characters in
Shakespeare change their dress; thirteen of the fifteen in the
non-Shakespearean plays do so too.
Next in frequency and importance in effecting a disguise is a
change of manner. In addition to changing his clothing, the
character adjusts or alters his bearing or attitude. The Duke
becomes paternal in _Measure for Measure_; Harbart becomes as
blunt as his alias, Blunt, in _Fair Maid of Bristow_; Vindice in
_The Revenger’s Tragedy_ becomes familiar in his first disguise,
then melancholy; Edgar becomes a Bedlamite. The degree of change
in manner depends upon the situation in the play. The most
complete changes, such as Edgar’s, have dramatic purposes other
than disguise. Of the disguises in Shakespeare’s Globe plays,
eight show change in manner. In the non-Shakespearean plays eight
definitely and one possibly show change in manner. A change in
voice is occasionally introduced although the evidence may be
deceptive. Kent speaks of “razing likeness” and “changing accents”
but, as _The Revenger’s Tragedy_ shows, the latter phrase can refer
to manner as well as speech. Vindice, who has appeared before
Lussurioso in one disguise, is about to assume another one for a
new interview. Hippolito cautions him.
How will you appear in fashion different,
As well as in apparel, to make all things possible?
* * * * *
_You must change tongue_: familiar was your first.
VIN. Why, I’ll bear me in some strain of melancholy,
And string myself with heavy-sounding wire,
Like such an instrument, that speaks merry things sadly.
[IV, ii, 22-29. My italics]
The change of tongue to which Hippolito refers is not a vocal or
dialect change, but as the context clearly shows, a change of
temperament or manner.
Occasionally, but rarely, a dialect aids a disguise. Generally,
Shakespeare seems to call upon the actor to change his voice
somewhat more than his fellow dramatists seem to have done. There
are four examples of change excluding the instance of Kent examined
above. In the non-Shakespearean plays only one instance occurs.
However, it is equally necessary to note that in the disguises of
Rosalind and Viola, particularly that of the latter, Shakespeare is
careful to show that the voices do not change.
A change in face is rarely employed in disguise. Only one case
certainly occurs in Shakespeare, that of Feste in _Twelfth Night_,
though two others probably occur. In the non-Shakespearean plays
there is only one case of facial disguise. Where facial disguise
is introduced, it is always in highly simplified form. Of the four
certain and possible examples, two require beards, one depends upon
a smirched face, and one introduces a false scar.
In all disguises simplicity is the keynote. Several discoveries
of the disguised character’s identity require speed in changing
costume. The friars remove their hoods to identify themselves.
Others may remove a hat or some other part of clothing. Often
recognition of the true person comes only when the character
names himself. Generally the surprise and wonderment of the other
characters at the revelation of the disguise is out of proportion
to the device of revelation or the means of disguise. That
disproportion emphasizes the conventional element in disguise.
Disguise staging is simple, nominal, and somewhat standardized.
At the same time the authors take some pains to make the disguise
credible to the other characters. Several scenes occur where the
disguised figure is not known in his true person to the other
character or characters. In those situations mere assertion of
the disguise is sometimes sufficient. In the disguise of Old
Flowerdale in _The London Prodigal_ a false scar, removed at
the end, is a symbol of disguise. Yet in the same play Luce
assumes a maidservant’s dress and a Dutch accent in order to
parade as a Dutch “vrow.” Here again the conventional scene is
tempered by efforts to account plausibly for the disguise. By and
large, symbolic methods play little part in effecting disguise.
That is why I have introduced the adjective “nominal.” Through
uncomplicated means, such as a change of dress, disguise is
signified to the audience. But the completeness of the disguise
is insufficient to convince an audience that the character
would pass undetected. In that sense it is nominal, a token of
disguise, without becoming a sign of a deeper disguise, that is,
without becoming symbolic. Shakespeare is slightly more realistic
in his treatment of disguise than are his colleagues. But the
differences are too minute to count. The most complete disguises in
Shakespeare, involving all four means examined above, are those of
Feste and Edgar. In each case the completeness, as Maria says of
Feste,[17] is not to ensure disguise but to elicit for Feste richer
comedy and for Edgar deeper pathos and sharper contrast with the
mad Lear. Disguise scenes are usually staged according to recurrent
principles which are varied no more than the narrative or dramatic
purpose demands.
To draw a detailed picture of staging at the Globe, it would be
desirable to consider all the recurrent scenes minutely. But
this is not feasible in a study of this length. Instead, I must
depend upon the dissection of several types of scenes which can
best reflect Globe conditions. The remaining scenes which I shall
describe, because of the nature of the material or the preciseness
of the evidence, complement the scenes already examined. These
include the appearances of ghosts, the delivery of greetings and
farewells, and the reports of messengers.
There are eight ghost sequences in the Globe plays, six in
Shakespeare’s plays,[18] two in _The Devil’s Charter_. The prologue
of _A Warning for Fair Women_, a pre-Globe play, contains evidence
that the ghosts were physically represented by being shrouded in
a sheet or leather pilch (Sig. A2^r). However, Hamlet’s father is
specifically described as “Arm’d at all points” (I, ii, 200). In
the First Quarto a stage direction specifies that the Ghost wears
“a night gown” in Act III, scene iv (Sig. G2^v), although Hamlet
describes him as being in his habit as he lived (III, iv, 135).
These contradictions would indicate that there was no regular
practice for costuming a ghost.
In the staging of the ghost scenes, however, there seems to have
been conformity. The one non-Shakespearean play which portrays
ghosts, _The Devil’s Charter_, describes the staging exactly.
[A devil] goeth to one doore of the stage, from whence
he bringeth the Ghost of Candie gastly haunted by Caesar
persuing and stabing it, these vanish in at another doore.
Later in the same scene,
He bringeth from the same doore Gismond Viselli, his wounds
gaping and after him Lucrece undrest, holding a dagger fix’t
in his bleeding bosome: they vanish.
[Sig. G2^r]
Later in the play,
The Divell bringeth forth from the doore Lucreciaes Ghost,
and after her the ghost of Candie stabbed.
[Sig. M2^r]
Stage directions early in the scenes place these actions forward on
the stage so that there is no doubt that the stage doors are the
ones described as the entries for the ghosts.
W. J. Lawrence, some years ago, attempted to prove that the Ghost
in the first scene of _Hamlet_ rose through the front trap. His
conclusion was based on the argument that since Horatio, Marcellus,
and Bernardo are seated on stools and are looking ahead, the only
way “by which the Ghost could suddenly make itself visible to the
three [is] by emerging in front of them through a trap.”[19]
The dialogue of the characters contradicts this theory, however. On
the entrance of the Ghost, Marcellus cries:
Peace! break thee off! Look where it comes again!
BERN. In the same figure, like the King that’s dead....
BERN. See, it stalks away.
[I, i, 40-41, 50]
After the Ghost leaves the first time, Marcellus describes the
visitations of the previous nights.
Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour,
With martial stalke, hath he gone by our watch.
[I, i, 65-66]
The First Quarto is more graphic.
With Marshall stalke he passed through our watch.
[Sig. B2^r]
In the next scene, when Horatio describes the initial events to
Hamlet, he states that at first the Ghost appeared before Marcellus
and Bernardo,
and with solemn march
Goes slow and stately by them. Thrice he walked
By their oppressed and fear-surprised eyes,
Within his truncheon’s length.
[I, ii, 201-204.]
All these descriptions suggest that the Ghost entered through one
of the doors, crossed the stage, and departed at another door.
When Hamlet awaits the Ghost, Horatio is the first to see it.
Look my lord, it comes.
[I, iv, 38]
Hamlet addresses the Ghost, urging it to answer. During this time
there is opportunity for the Ghost to cross to the opposite door,
then beckon to Hamlet to follow. Hamlet follows the Ghost through
the door and five lines later Horatio and Marcellus follow them.
Immediately the Ghost, trailed by Hamlet, enters through the door
that he first used.
The final exit of the Ghost, according to Lawrence, is through the
trap. The fact that the Ghost cries from the “cellarage” makes this
suggestion convincing. It must be observed, though, that the Ghost
does not speak until fifty-seven lines after he exits, or nearly
three minutes later. Furthermore, John C. Adams has shown that the
use of the main trap is usually accompanied by thunder to cover the
sound of the trap mechanism. If this were the practice, the exit
through the trap is unlikely.
The last of the ghost scenes in _Hamlet_, that in the Queen’s
closet, is reminiscent of the other scenes. The Ghost enters,
presumably through the stage door, chides his “tardy son” and
departs. Endeavoring to convince Gertrude of his sanity, Hamlet
describes the departure.
Why, look you there! Look how it steals away!
My father, in his habit as he liv’d!
Look where he goes even now out at the portal!
[III, iv, 134-136]
“Portal,” in the Oxford English Dictionary, is defined as “a door,
gate, doorway, or gateway, of stately or elaborate construction.”
Only the outer stage doors can satisfy this definition. Thus,
Hamlet’s description of the departure can pertain only to one of
the outer stage doors. I offer a conjectural reconstruction of this
scene. After Hamlet slays Polonius, who has been hiding behind
the arras at the rear of the stage, he draws his mother forward,
seating her upon one of the stools distributed about the stage.
The pictures of the royal brothers, probably hanging on a wall
of the façade, if the evidence of _A Warning for Fair Women_ is
applicable,[20] are unveiled by Hamlet, who then comes downstage
toward Gertrude. Thus, when the Ghost enters, he comes on stage
behind mother and son and in front of his own picture. At the sight
of the Ghost, Hamlet falls to his knees. After admonishing his son,
the Ghost completes his crossing and “steals away ... even now out
at the portal.”
For the staging of the last two ghost scenes, the evidence is
scanty. Banquo’s ghost enters and sits at the banquet table
twice. Since the table is forward on the stage, Banquo presumably
follows the same course as the other ghosts, entering at one
stage door, sitting, and leaving at the other door. Despite a
modern predilection for more elaborate stage trickery, there is no
evidence that the stage machinery was employed in the staging of
ghost scenes at the Globe. The last of the ghost scenes confirms
the evidence of the other plays. Brutus is seated in his tent,
reading a book. The Ghost of Caesar appears. The lines of Brutus
imply that the Ghost walks toward him. At first Brutus says:
Who comes here?... It comes upon me.
[IV, iii, 275-278]
Finally, as the Ghost departs, he cries:
Now I have taken heart thou vanishest.
[287]
The last verb may be deceptive. In _The Devil’s Charter_ the stage
direction “they vanish” describes the departure of the ghosts
through an outer door. In _Jeronimo_ a ghost is said to have
vanished though he still delivers another five lines before he
exits through the stage door. Altogether the evidence indicates
that the ghost scenes were staged with a minimum use of stage
properties or machinery, with great simplicity and with standard
methods.
In Shakespeare’s Globe plays there are forty-one farewell or
greeting scenes of different degrees of elaboration. These
amenities do not seem to have been perfunctory affairs, casually
staged, but were ceremonious in manner, much more so than modern
productions reveal. Embracing, particularly in farewells,
handshaking, and kneeling all played a part in the ritual of
greeting and bidding farewell. Whenever one person meets or leaves
a group, he does so formally, witness _Troilus and Cressida_, Act
IV, scene v, which contains greetings to both Cressida and Hector.
Perhaps the hails of the witches to Macbeth were in imitation of
courtly greetings. The manner of greeting can be glimpsed through
the jaundiced eyes of Apemantus as he watches Timon welcome
Alcibiades, obviously with bows and genuflections.
So, so there!
Aches contract and starve your supple joints!
[I, i, 256-257]
To a superior figure, whether King (_All’s Well_, I, ii), Protector
(_Pericles_, I, iv), or mother (_Coriolanus_, II, i), kneeling was
the accepted manner of greeting or being greeted. Although doffing
the hat was the accepted sign of greeting a superior, among equals
bowing or shaking hands was usual.
Embracing of men appears quite clearly in farewell scenes. Antony
and Caesar embrace at parting (III, ii, 61-64), as do Flavius,
Timon’s steward, and his fellows in _Timon of Athens_, (IV, ii,
29 f.). The farewell without ceremony, which Helen receives from
Bertram (_All’s Well_, II, v, 59-97) is particularly offensive.
In the same way as in greeting, the departing character, when he
leaves a group, formalizes his farewells by making the rounds
(_Coriolanus_, IV, i). Tears usually flow at such a farewell.
Every group farewell scene in Shakespeare where a woman is present
is bathed in tears (Virgilia in _Coriolanus_, IV, i; Octavia in
_Antony and Cleopatra_, III, ii; Lychorida in _Pericles_, III, iii;
Cordelia in _Lear_, I, i, 271). Natural patterns of decorum as
well as inclinations toward uniformity characterize these scenes
as a whole. Although standard external means of greeting and
bidding farewell exist throughout the plays, they are observed with
ceremony and rendered with deliberation.
Most of the scenes or devices considered heretofore are relatively
uniform in manner and frequency throughout the Globe plays,
Shakespearean and non-Shakespearean alike. The messenger,
however, is a unique figure peculiar to Shakespeare. On the
average, about five messengers appear in each of Shakespeare’s
Globe plays, compared to an average of about one in each of the
non-Shakespearean plays. Shakespeare’s messengers may be divided
into two classes. Fairly often a character in a play will assume
the function of the messenger in order to deliver a report.
Essentially, this is what Gertrude does when she describes the
death of Ophelia (_Hamlet_, IV, vii). Characters as messengers
generally do not assume a special manner but continue to maintain
their own identities.
The other type of messenger is the formal messenger. There are
forty-three of these as compared to thirty-one character messengers
in Shakespeare’s Globe plays. The generic messenger usually has no
identity. His manner is often theatrical rather than natural. This
is particularly evident when he does not inform but directs the
superior characters (_Julius Caesar_, V, i, 12-15; _Coriolanus_,
II, i, 276-284). Occasionally the situation demands some veil of
characterization (_Antony and Cleopatra_, II, v; _Julius Caesar_,
III, i). In those instances the messenger takes on the qualities of
a servant.
The dramatic function of the messenger was to change the course of
the scene, to bring some outside force to bear upon the characters
on stage, and, by doing so, to provoke some alteration in the
passions or actions of the characters. The salutation accorded
the messenger is usually brief, yet attention is clearly focused
upon him. The usual respect of servant to master does not seem to
be present, but instead it is replaced by an imperious manner. A
curious feature of the staging is that no exit is marked for the
formal messenger after he delivers his message. Sometimes he is
dismissed by the one who receives the message, sometimes he is held
back to answer questions, but it is not clear where he goes or how
he joins the rest of the actors. I am inclined to believe that he
usually exits immediately after delivering his message. There are
several scenes in which a series of messengers enter to report
a changing situation (_Coriolanus_, IV, vi, 37-79; _Troilus and
Cressida_, V, v). The effect of mounting pressure depends upon the
repeated entrance and exit of the messengers. The intensification
such scenes require could be effectively produced by the entrance
of the messenger at one door, and after his report, by his exit at
another. If this were regular practice at the Globe, the playwright
did not need to mark an exit for him.
The formal messenger is an example of a purely conventional figure
who is not symbolic. Whether he had a prototype in Elizabethan
life or he was a creation of dramatic technique, he still emerged
as a conventional figure, changing little from Caesar’s Rome to
Macbeth’s Scotland. Attention was concentrated on his function--not
his character. Therefore, he was granted a forthrightness of
expression not found in other stage servants.
Excluded from the study of staging have been many scenes which
depend primarily upon acting. In these scenes, which make up large
segments of the plays, the qualities of clear speech and passionate
action play the major part. A discussion of their staging would be
fruitless because the method of staging them has little influence
upon the final effect. Most numerous among these scenes are those
devoted to plotting, singing, word-play, commentary upon character
or situation, railing against another, and pleading. Scenes of
mocking and loving follow closely behind these.
Among these scenes are some of the greatest expressions of
Shakespeare’s dramatic powers. For example, there are twenty
pleading episodes in Shakespeare’s Globe plays. This score
includes Portia’s plea to Brutus for confidence (_Julius Caesar_,
II, i), Isabella’s plea to Angelo for Claudio’s life (_Measure
for Measure_, II, ii), and perhaps the finest example of all,
Volumnia’s plea to Coriolanus for Rome’s salvation (V, iii). But
few of these derive their powers from elements of staging. Where
they are located on-stage does not matter much, for they create an
environment of their own. Yet scenes such as these need dimension.
If the actors kneel and plead, they need scope to do so. That is
why it is hazardous to depart from the conditions of the open
platform in reconstructing the staging.
The handling of entrance and exit and the representation of the
conventional devices and scenes provide the framework of the
staging. Interwoven and interpolated are those scenes which rely
not on formal presentation but on spontaneous action. These are the
scenes which, through the intensity of their poetic conception, the
penetration of their observation, or the keenness of their wit,
illuminate the stage. But no sharp distinction exists between the
conventional device and the spontaneous action. They both spring
from the need to sustain and perfect an extended narrative.
V. THE STAGING OF THE FINALES
The art of staging in the Elizabethan theater reaches its
culmination in the ritualistic finale which usually brings the
narrative to a close. The dramatic nature of the finale has been
fully discussed in Chapter Two. Its theatrical execution may
fittingly conclude this chapter.
Most of the finales depict a sequence of action foreknown to the
audience but not to the figure or figures central to the action.
This fact contributes greatly to the ritualistic impression of
the finale. Thematically, the finale completes the process of
rendering judgment and rewarding faithfulness or love. This process
is elaborately and meticulously worked out so that all possible
complications of the narrative are unraveled.
Theatrically, it is accomplished in one of two ways. The final
“mystery” is solved with the ranking person usually directing the
process (_All’s Well_, _Twelfth Night_, _Measure for Measure_), or
a final conflict takes place between a figure rendering judgment,
a champion, as in _Lear_, and a figure receiving judgment. Thus,
pictorially, there can be one of three centers of focus: the judge,
the combat, the revealed mystery. In some cases the rendering
of judgment is effected by the central character upon himself,
as in _Julius Caesar_, _Antony and Cleopatra_, and _Othello_.
Othello, who has been touched by Christian morality, is conscious
of rendering self-judgment. Brutus and Cleopatra, instead, commit
suicide in the high Roman fashion.
About two-thirds of the finales begin with only one or two
characters on stage who set the conditions for the finale (_Antony
and Cleopatra_, _Twelfth Night_, _The Merry Wives of Windsor_,
_Othello_, and so on). Once the basic premises are assured, the
essential action takes place. In _Twelfth Night_ it centers about
the contradictory accusations against Viola. In _Julius Caesar_ and
_Antony and Cleopatra_, Brutus and Cleopatra probe the necessity
for death and direct the preparations for suicide, the latter more
elaborately than the former, of course. The finales of _Measure for
Measure_ and _All’s Well_ follow a similar pattern: a ruler seeks
the answer to a mystery by holding a hearing.
All concluding dramatic situations have a courtly or martial
formality, except for the finales of _Merry Wives_, _Othello_, and
_Troilus and Cressida_. The finales of _Hamlet_, _All’s Well_,
_Measure for Measure_, _As You Like It_, _Twelfth Night_, and
_Antony and Cleopatra_ reveal a courtly formality of one sort or
another. In these scenes the subordinate figures are grouped in
relation to the sovereign. This fact alone favors symmetrical
balance in the design. For example, the King in _All’s Well_, after
first welcoming Bertram, is prompted by seeing Helen’s ring on his
finger to question the manner of her death. All action is related
to the King. Probably standing at center, he receives and dismisses
Bertram from one door and receives Diana from the other. In
_Hamlet_, the duel is the focal action of the scene. The placement
of the King and Queen, however, dictates the grouping of the court.
The stage directions specify that a table with flagons of wine upon
it is brought in (_Hamlet_, V, ii, 235f.). The stage direction in
the Quarto of 1604 calls for “cushions” which may have been placed
on the stools (Sig. N3^v). But apparently no state is introduced.
Therefore, the King and Queen probably stand or possibly sit in
the center, well enough downstage to be easily seen, the duelists
fight before them, and the court is grouped behind them. Until the
entrance of Fortinbras, the only speakers are the King, Queen,
Hamlet, Laertes, Osric, and, briefly, Horatio, who speaks once when
Hamlet is wounded and once when Hamlet is dying. Even this résumé
does not convey any idea of the actual sequence of the speeches.
No more than two or three people speak in any one part of the
scene. The members of the court, placed at the sides and the rear
of the stage, are called upon only once to cry “Treason, treason.”
Otherwise they are virtually ignored. Earlier in this chapter I
outlined the finale of _As You Like It_ in the same way, to show
the division of the scene into episodes of twos and threes. To
formalize the grouping, Shakespeare introduced Duke Senior into all
the episodes, thus using him as a point of reference.
Where martial conditions prevail at the conclusion, the grouping
is governed by the presence of the triumphant general or prince.
Malcolm, hailed as King of Scotland, is ringed about by his thanes.
At first Alcibiades is engaged in a parley with the Athenian
Senators, but when they leave the walls, he is left completely
alone. In _Julius Caesar_ the opposite happens, for the defeated
leader is the center of interest. One by one, Brutus approaches the
remnants of his supporters, who are ranged about him, to persuade
one of them to slay him. Finally, the last man gratifies his wish.
Even when the conquering generals enter, his body remains the
center of attention, thanks to Antony’s eulogy.
_Merry Wives_ and _Othello_, having neither courtly nor martial
finales, rely on a different kind of focal point. In the former
play, the place where Falstaff, the object of ridicule, hides
from the “Fairies,” determines the design of the scene. In
_Othello_, the location of Desdemona’s bed initially dictates the
arrangement of the scene. But when the final truth is known and
Iago is arrested, Lodovico supersedes the bed as the keystone of
the grouping although Othello naturally remains the figure of
greatest interest. This shift of focus from one center to another
during the scene and the succeeding diffusion of focus near the
end, make staging the finale of _Othello_ upon the Globe stage
extremely difficult. Constant reference to the bed early in the
scene requires the actors to turn toward the rear of the stage,
even if the bed is thrust out. The text demands that Othello,
Emilia, and Gratiano, at the very least, relate themselves to the
deathbed for considerable periods of time. This kind of finale is
peculiar to _Othello_, lacking as it does a constant focal point
and formal grouping. The explanation may be that the extant texts,
Folio and Quarto, embody the version played upon a shallow stage at
Blackfriars. Mounted upon such a stage rather than upon the deep
stage of the Globe, the finale could be more effectively presented.
The grouping, as I have shown, usually depends upon the placement
of the sovereign or triumphant figure. The progress of the finale,
however, is controlled in large measure by the degree and kind of
activity in which the ranking figure (or figures) engages. In _As
You Like It_ Duke Senior, being passive, is more a point to which
the action relates than a figure who directs the action. Orsino
and Olivia in _Twelfth Night_ jointly direct the uncovering of
the mystery by calling upon others to act rather than by acting
themselves. The focus thus lies between them. In contrast, the Duke
in _Measure for Measure_ not only serves as the center of attention
but also acts as the central force in bringing the “mystery” of
the action to light. _Lear_ reveals an interesting finale which
shifts the centers of interest from the single combat of Edmund and
Edgar, first to the display of the bodies of Goneril and Regan,
and then to the entrance and death of Lear. But throughout these
orderly shifts of attention the ranking figure, the Duke of Albany,
functions effectively but unobtrusively. It is he who questions
Edgar, orders the disposal of the bodies of the evil sisters,
directs the burial of Lear, and speaks the final words.[21]
Although himself never of central interest, his presence at the
center of the action is necessary to the unity of the finale.
The last factor that influences the staging of the finale is the
introduction of a resolving figure, found in many of the plays. He
may be either of critical or of supplementary importance to the
completion of the action. It is his presence which unravels the
mystery. Sebastian is the resolving figure in _Twelfth Night_. His
entrance unties all the knots at once. However, because _Twelfth
Night_ contains a double plot, Fabian is needed to explain the
trick played upon Malvolio, thus serving as a supplementary
resolving figure. Similarly, Edgar and Lear are resolving figures
for their respective plots. Further illustrations include the
Duke in _Measure for Measure_ and Helen in _All’s Well_. For a
spectacular effect, Shakespeare introduces Hymen as a resolving
figure in _As You Like It_. His words to the assembled lovers could
very well speak for all the resolving figures.
Peace ho! I bar confusion.
’Tis I must make conclusion
Of these most strange events.
[V, iv, 131-133]
It is interesting to see that instead of relying upon the enclosure
curtain to effect a sudden discovery, Shakespeare introduced an
allegorical figure to make the revelation of Rosalind theatrical.
The revelation, therefore, had to be processional, with Hymen
acting as marshal. Virtually the same pattern occurs in the finale
of _All’s Well_ where the widow leads in Helen. Under special
circumstances, a discovery can be made without using the stage
curtain. Enveloped in his friar’s hood, the Duke in _Measure for
Measure_, as his own resolving figure, can enter undetected.
Lucio, by plucking off the friar’s hood, accomplishes a sudden
discovery.
Ranking figures may also serve as minor resolving figures. Such
characters as Fortinbras in _Hamlet_, Caesar in _Antony and
Cleopatra_, and Antony in _Julius Caesar_ bring events to a close
by delivering a eulogy over the fallen hero. Their entrances are
processional; their departures are dead marches, in which the body
or bodies of the slain are carried off. Another group of minor
resolving figures are those entering with information necessary to
the disentanglement of the complete narrative. Fabian, as I have
shown, is one of these. So also is Fenton in _Merry Wives_ and the
soldier in _Timon of Athens_.
The entryway through which the major resolving figures come is
crucial to the staging. For this the plays provide no satisfactory
clues. Diana’s lines which precede the revelation that Helen lives
could easily imply a discovery.
He [Bertram] knows himself my bed he hath defil’d,
And at that time he got his wife with child.
Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick.
So there’s my riddle: one that’s dead is quick--
And now behold the meaning.
Enter Helen and Widow.
KING. Is there no exorcist
Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
[V, iii, 301-306]
Similar situations occur in _As You Like It_ and _Twelfth Night_.
In _As You Like It_ the revelation is heralded by music which
suggests a processional entrance. In _Twelfth Night_ Sebastian
follows Toby on stage in order to justify his treatment of Toby.
These scenes by analogy indicate the unlikelihood that Helen was
discovered by the drawing of the curtain of the enclosure. Yet in
all these scenes the resolving figures must enter prominently, for
upon their entrance they occupy the center of attention. I suggest,
therefore, that to achieve maximum effect and to preserve symmetry,
these entrances were made through the curtain at the rear of the
stage.
Throughout this chapter I have stressed dramatic factors usually
ignored, and minimized factors usually stressed. The theory of
staging which emerges, therefore, departs in some ways from the
views generally accepted. I have emphasized that, in re-creating
Globe stage practices, we must be cautious:
(1) Not to reconstruct staging only in terms of settings;
(2) Not to disregard or underestimate the vital role that the
entrances and exits played in the artistic organization of the
productions;
(3) Not to neglect the inclination of the Globe company towards
uniformity in staging;
(4) Not to overvalue the necessity or even the desirability of
novelty in staging;
(5) Not to underestimate the ability of the Elizabethan narrative
to shape its own principles of staging;
(6) Not to assume that staging at the Globe occupied as crucial a
role in rehearsing and performing a play as it does, aesthetically
and organizationally, in the theater today.
Chapter Six
THE STYLE
The conclusions which I have drawn in this essay apply only to
production at the Globe playhouse from 1599 to 1609. From them
it is clear that the staging of the plays was influenced less by
the structure of the stage than we have hitherto thought. When
William Poel undertook to demonstrate how a knowledge of the use
of an Elizabethan stage is conducive to a proper appreciation
of Elizabethan plays, he embarked upon a necessary and salutary
crusade. Almost every recent Shakespearean production attests to
its success. However, the effect of his campaign has led to an
overemphasis upon the importance of Elizabethan stage structure to
production. Such studies as those of V. E. Albright, J. C. Adams,
G. F. Reynolds, and Ronald Watkins are based on the assumption that
the stage structure and its machinery played the decisive role
in the presentation of an Elizabethan drama. This premise is not
supported by the evidence. Certainly the basic form of the stage
affected both the structure of the plays and the manner in which
they were produced. The large platform and formal façade determined
the fundamental conditions of production. But the actual production
of a drama relied upon specific parts of this stage much less than
we have thought. Style in staging was inherent in the dramatic
form, not the stage structure.
The style of acting at the Globe played as much a part in
the shaping of production as the stage structure itself. But
Elizabethan acting lacked both the histrionic traditions and the
fertile conditions for the development of a self-perpetuating
style. Instead, the actor, endowed with a keen tongue, an agile
body, and most of all, a passionate heart, fitted his skills and
talents to the needs of the plays. Unlike the _commedia_ actors or
the naturalistic actors of the Stanislavsky school, the Elizabethan
actor did not impose a mode of presentation upon the individual
scripts. This fact in no way reduces his importance to the
production; it merely means that his style of playing was derived
from the drama. Although the actors employed the playwrights, they
did not dictate the kind of roles which were to be provided.
All factors of production, of course, were modified by the
exigencies of the repertory system. Simplicity and recurrence
in staging were direct results of such a system. It demanded
flexibility from the actors and from the stage. Because of the
practice of doubling in most plays, and the daily change of bill,
the system prevented the development of special “lines.” Altogether
the strenuous demands it made upon the actors encouraged individual
brilliance and bold strokes but discouraged intricately designed
spectacle, ensemble playing, or extensive rehearsal.
Subject to the conditions of the repertory system, the script
played the dominant part in shaping the style of production.
Naturally the form of the script harmonized with the structure of
the stage and the manner of acting. The platform stage encouraged
the growth of a panoramic narrative form of drama. The actor’s
rhetorical and poetical skill, and his freedom of emotional release
enabled the author to provide him with speeches of swelling
passion. But it was the script which united these elements into a
harmonious theatrical style.
This style, within certain limits, was realistic, not because
of the subject matter of the narrative but because of the many
opportunities that it offered for the description and portrayal
of passion and thought. True, the framework of the passion and
thought was conventional, but the conventionality had its source,
for the most part, in the ceremony of Elizabethan life, which was
artificial only in the Elizabethan sense of having art. Within
this conventional framework, which facilitated narration as
well as imparted form to the acting and staging, there operated
a spontaneous, lyrical, and intensely emotionalized reality.
A conventional framework, however, must not be equated with a
symbolic method.
Recent scholarship has looked with increasing favor upon George
Reynolds’ contention that Elizabethan staging was fundamentally
symbolic. Kernodle has shown how symbolism functioned in medieval
art and continental staging but has been less successful in showing
its presence upon the English stage. Both scholars have pointed
out individual instances of symbolic staging during the Globe
period, but neither of them has demonstrated the consistent use of
symbolism throughout a number of plays or an entire production. Nor
is there evidence that a pattern of symbolism pervaded the action
of the Globe plays. It is significant that few of the properties
which we know were used at that playhouse reveal a symbolic
purpose. For the most part they are utilitarian. Those properties
which are most readily suited to symbolism, such as trees, have no
certain representatives at the Globe playhouse. Although I have
pointed out several instances where symbolic staging was or may
have been introduced at the Globe, its occasional appearance did
not establish the over-all style.
This style is chiefly characterized by its reconciliation of the
contradictory demands of convention and reality. The two forces
were maintained in delicate balance through the poetic vision
of the playwrights, most completely by Shakespeare, to a lesser
extent by his contemporaries. To call this style realism leads us
to confuse it with the realism of modern drama. To call this style
symbolism, even though it avails itself of symbols to a limited
extent, leads us astray. Perhaps it is necessary to reflect the
dual nature of the style in a compound term. For the conventional
framework, the adjective “ceremonial” is appropriate. For the
passion which lies within the conventional framework and which even
permeates its interstices, the adjective “romantic” is appropriate.
For the scope of the theme and the elevation of the tone, the
adjective “epic” is appropriate. Thus, the style of production
at the Globe playhouse may be defined as at once, ceremonial,
romantic, and epic.
APPENDIX A
i. Comparison of Plays Known Only Through Henslowe with Plays
Otherwise Known
Total number of plays listed in the performance
lists of Henslowe’s _Diary_ 113
Plays known only through Henslowe’s _Diary_ 62 54.9%
Plays known only through the _Diary_ and Henslowe’s
_Papers_ 5 4.4
Plays known otherwise than through Henslowe’s
_Diary_ or _Papers_ 24 21.2%
Plays which scholars have identified
with works otherwise known (22)
Identification is probable for 10 8.9
Identification is improbable for 12 10.6
Plays definitely and probably unknown but ----- -----
for Henslowe 69.9%
Plays definitely and probably otherwise known 30.1%
Of those known otherwise than through Henslowe 34 plays gave
403 performances
Of those unknown but through Henslowe 79 plays gave
496 performances
ii. Length of Runs of Plays Listed in Henslowe’s _Diary_, ed. W. W.
Greg, I, 13-22, 24-25, 27-28, 30, 42, 49-54
1. Number of Performances
_No. of Plays_ _No. of Plays_
_No. of_ _between_ _between_
_Perfs._ _1592-1597_(a) _1594-1597_(b)
1 19 5
2 15 5
3 8 1
4 7 4
5 4 0
6 3 2
7 7 4
8 5 4
9 4 3
10 6 2
11 6 4
12 8 7
13 3 2
14 4 3
15 2 2
16 2 2
17 2 1
21 1 1
22 2 2
25 2 2
29 1 0
32 1 1
36 1 0
(a) Full performance list, 1592-1597: 113 plays. Average number of
performances: 7.9; mean number of performances: 7.
(b) Partial performance list, June, 1594-February, 1597, limits of
the most stable period. Average number of performances: 10; mean
number of performances: 10.
2. Length of Time
_1592-_ _1594-_
_1597_(c) _1597_(d)
(_No. Plays_
_Years_ _Mos._ _and Percentage_)
1 30 26.5 9 15.8
2 16 } 5 }
3 6 } 2 }
4 7 } 31.0 3 } 22.8
5 5 } 3 }
6 1 } 0 }
7 7 } 5 }
8 7 } 6 }
9 3 } 24.8 2 } 33.3
10 5 } 4 }
11 6 } 2 }
1 0 2 } 2 }
1 1 2 } 2 }
1 3 2 } 8.0 2 } 15.8
1 4 1 } 1 }
1 7 1 } 1 }
1 8 1 } 1 }
2 0 1 } 3.5 1 } 5.3
2 2 3 } 2 }
3 2 1 .9 1 1.8
Revived(e) 6 5.3 3 5.2
(c) 1592-1597, 113 plays.
(d) June, 1594-February, 1597, 57 plays.
(e) Length of run is counted continuously when a play is
performed regularly, there being no more than four months between
performances. Otherwise the play is considered to be a revival.
iii. Summary of Court Performances, 1590-1642
Total number of plays that were or may have been
presented at Court, 1590-1642 144
1. Plays definitely produced publicly before appearance
at Court 67 46.5%
2. Plays where initial performance is uncertain 39 27.1%
(Notice of Court performance is _only_ or _first_
reference to play.)
3. Plays for which there is evidence public playing
preceded Court performance 8 5.5%
4. Uncertain. Title pages indicate performances in public
and at Court 6 4.2%
5. Plays the title pages of which refer only to public
performance 4 2.8%
6. Plays which received licenses shortly before Court
performances 8 5.5%
7. Old plays revived, possibly with additions for Court 4 2.8%
8. Plays definitely presented at Court first 7 4.9%
9. Plays probably presented at Court first 1 .1%
The total number of plays presented at Court is calculated from
the lists appearing in E. K. Chambers, _The Elizabethan Stage_
and Mary Steele, _Plays and Masques at Court_. The investigation
of the circumstances under which the plays received their first
presentations employed a wide variety of primary and secondary
sources. It is beyond the scope of this book to give the evidence
for each conclusion.
APPENDIX B
i. Localization in Shakespeare’s Globe Plays
Type of Locale _Total_
_Play_ _Particular_ _General_ _Neutral_ _Scenes_
P D P D P D
Julius Caesar 6 2 9 1 18(f)
As You Like It 1 3 18 22
Twelfth Night 2 4 9 3 18
Hamlet 1 3 10 6 20
Merry Wives of Windsor 3 13 1 5 1 23
Troilus and Cressida 4 6 2 11 1 24
All’s Well 1 1 17 1 3 23
Measure for Measure 6 4 2 4 1 17(g)
Othello 1 3 5 2 4 15
Lear 2 1 2 14 1 3 23(h)
Macbeth 1 2 8 9 7 27
Antony and Cleopatra 4 8 15 8 7 42
Coriolanus 3 4 9 8 3 2 29
Timon of Athens 4 1 4 5 1 2 17(i)
Pericles 2 5 4 12 4 27(j)
-- -- -- --- -- -- ---
Total 41 38 67 142 24 33 345
P. probably
D. definitely
(f) IV, ii and iii treated separately.
(g) Number of scenes for _Measure for Measure_ is based on Folio
numbering.
(h) II, ii-iv are treated as one scene following Quarto and Folio.
(i) IV, iii-iv are treated as one scene.
(j) Choruses involving dumb shows are treated as scenes.
ii. Properties Required in the Globe Plays
THE SHAKESPEAREAN PLAYS:
_Property_ _Plays_ _Scenes_ _Method of Introduction_
Tables Othello I, iii probably discovered
Pericles II, iii no indication
Antony and Cleopatra II, vii brought on
Antony and Cleopatra I, ii brought on
Timon I, ii brought on
Timon III, vi brought on
Macbeth III, iv probably brought on
As You Like It II, v probably brought on
Hamlet V, ii brought on
Macbeth V, i use uncertain
Julius Caesar IV, iii use uncertain
Seats Antony and Cleopatra II, vii brought on (stool)
Coriolanus II, ii brought on (stool)
Othello V, ii brought on
King Lear IV, vii brought on
Julius Caesar III, i probably brought on
Hamlet I, i probably brought on
Measure for Measure V, i probably brought on
All’s Well II, i probably brought on
Pericles V, i probably brought on
Pericles V, i probably discovered
Antony and Cleopatra III, x probably brought on
Coriolanus I, iii probably brought on
Hamlet III, iv no indication
King Lear III, vi no indication
Julius Caesar IV, iii no indication
Pericles I, ii no indication
All’s Well II, iii no indication
Coriolanus V, iii no indication
Antony and Cleopatra II, ii no indication
Macbeth III, iv probably discovered
Hamlet III, ii no indication
King Lear III, vii no indication
Beds Antony and Cleopatra V, ii taken off
Pericles III, i probably discovered
Othello V, ii probably discovered
Julius Caesar IV, iii no indication (cushions)
King Lear III, vii probably discovered
(cushions)
Pericles V, i discovered
Scaffold Antony and Cleopatra IV, xvi probably brought on
Julius Caesar III, ii brought on
Troilus and Cressida I, ii probably brought on
Tombs Timon V, iii no indication
Pericles IV, iv no indication
Tents Julius Caesar IV, ii use uncertain
All’s Well III, vi use uncertain
Troilus and Cressida I, iii use uncertain
Trees, As You Like It III, ii use uncertain
Rocks, All’s Well IV, i use uncertain
etc. As You Like It II, v use uncertain
King Lear V, ii use uncertain
Antony and Cleopatra IV, xiii use uncertain
Timon IV, iii use uncertain
Twelfth Night II, v no indication
Hamlet III, ii no indication
Straw King Lear III, iv discovered
Julius Caesar V, v no indication
Julius Caesar V, iii use uncertain
Merry Wives of Windsor V, vi use uncertain
Statue Julius Caesar III, i use uncertain
Desk Merry Wives of Windsor I, iv use uncertain
Stocks King Lear II, ii brought on
Cauldron Macbeth IV, i taken off
Chest Pericles III, ii brought on
Corpses Pericles I, i probably discovered
Total number of properties 65
Less properties whose use is uncertain 15
Total number of properties used 50
Properties brought on 12 24% }
Properties probably brought on 11 22% } 50%
Properties taken off 2 4% }
Properties discovered 2 4% }
Properties probably discovered 7 14% } 18%
Properties for whom method of
introduction is not indicated 16 32%
THE NON-SHAKESPEAREAN PLAYS:(k)
_Property_ _Plays_ _Scenes_ _Method of Introduction_
Tables Every Man Out of His
Humour II, ii use uncertain
Every Man Out of His
Humour V, iv no indication
Cromwell vii brought on
Devil’s Charter IV, iv use uncertain
Devil’s Charter Prologue probably brought on
Devil’s Charter IV, iii brought on
Devil’s Charter V, vi brought on
Devil’s Charter V, iv brought on
Fair Maid of Bristow i use uncertain
Miseries of Enforced
Marriage xii brought on
Revenger’s Tragedy V, iii brought on
Seats Merry Devil of Edmonton Prologue discovered
London Prodigal ii probably brought on
Yorkshire Tragedy viii brought on
Miseries of Enforced
Marriage xii brought on
Devil’s Charter IV, v probably brought on
Devil’s Charter V, vi discovered
Devil’s Charter V, vi brought on
Devil’s Charter I, v brought on
Devil’s Charter Prologue brought on
Devil’s Charter II, i no indication
Devil’s Charter I, iv discovered
Cromwell vi discovered
Every Man Out of His
Humour II, ii probably brought on
Every Man Out of His
Humour Chorus brought on
Sejanus II, ii no indication
Sejanus III, i probably brought on
Volpone V, xii probably brought on
Volpone IV, v probably brought on
Volpone V, iii brought on
Revenger’s Tragedy I, ii no indication
Revenger’s Tragedy V, i probably discovered
Beds Merry Devil of Edmonton Prologue discovered
Devil’s Charter IV, v taken off
Volpone I, ii no indication
Revenger’s Tragedy I, iv discovered
Revenger’s Tragedy II, iv no indication
Tents Devil’s Charter Prologue probably brought on
Devil’s Charter IV, iv no indication
Scaffold Volpone II, ii brought on
Fair Maid of Bristow xiii taken off
Raised Every Man Out of His
Structure Humour III, ii no indication
Writing Miseries of Enforced
Desk Marriage iii use uncertain
Miseries of Enforced
Marriage iv use uncertain
Cromwell iii discovered
Volpone V, ii no indication
Trees, Merry Devil of Edmonton x use uncertain
Rocks, Merry Devil of Edmonton x use uncertain
etc. Merry Devil of Edmonton i use uncertain
Miseries of Enforced
Marriage ix no indication
Miseries of Enforced
Marriage ix use uncertain
Every Man Out of His
Humour III, iii use uncertain
Gibbets A Larum for London viii use uncertain
A Larum for London xi use uncertain
Post A Larum for London xiv use uncertain
Cromwell v use uncertain
Every Man Out of His
Humour III, i use uncertain
Tortoise Volpone IV, iv no indication
Chest Volpone I, i no indication
Altar Sejanus V, iv no indication
Magic
Glass Devil’s Charter IV, i discovered
Statue Devil’s Charter I, ii use uncertain
Earthen
Vessel Devil’s Charter IV, i brought on
Prop
Lion or
Dragon Devil’s Charter IV, i brought on
Cupboard Devil’s Charter V, iv brought on
Hearse A Larum for London ii brought on
Cannon A Larum for London II, ii use uncertain
Corpse Revenger’s Tragedy V, i no indication
Total number of properties 68
Less properties whose use is uncertain 17
Total number of properties used 51
Properties brought on 18 35.3% }
Properties probably brought on 8 15.7% } 54.9%
Properties taken off 2 3.9% }
Properties discovered 8 15.7% } 17.6%
Properties probably discovered 1 1.9% }
Properties for which method of
introduction is not indicated 14 27.5%
(k) This list of properties does not include properties from
_Satiromastix_ or _The Malcontent_.
APPENDIX C
i. Disguise
_Play_(l) _Character_
_Dress_ _Manner_ _Voice_ _Face_
_As You Like It_ Rosalind
II, iv, 4-8 I, iii, 122-124
III, ii, 313-315
_Twelfth Night_ Viola
I, iv, s.d. I, V, 177-236 I, iv, 29-34
_Twelfth Night_ Feste
IV, ii, 1 IV, ii, 22-23 IV, ii, 71-72 IV, ii, 2
_Measure for Measure_ Duke
I, iii, 45-48 I, iii, 45-48
II, iii, 1-42
_Coriolanus_ Coriolanus
IV, iv, s.d.
IV, v, 59 ff.
_Pericles_ Pericles
II, ii, 48-52
_Pericles_ Thaisa(m)
V, iii, 13-15
_Julius Caesar_ Lucilius(n)
_Merry Wives of Windsor_ Ford(o)
II, ii (?)
_Merry Wives of Windsor_ Falstaff
IV, ii, 190 ff.
_Merry Wives of Windsor_ Children, Evans
V, iv, 49-52
V, v
_Othello_ Roderigo
I, iii, 346(?)
_King Lear_ Kent
I, iv, 1-4 II, ii, 1-180 I, iv, 1 f.
_King Lear_ Edgar (Poor Tom)
II, iii, 10 II, iii, 9-20 II, iii, 14-20 II, iii, 9(?)
III, iv, 66 III, iv
_King Lear_ Edgar (Peasant)
IV, i, 40-44 IV, vi IV, vi, 7 f., 45 ff.
_King Lear_ Edgar (Cornishman)
IV, vi, 235-251
_King Lear_ Edgar (Champion)
V, iii, 117, 142
_Devil’s Charter_ Candie, Caesar
F3^v
_Merry Devil of Edmonton_ Raymond as Friar
D2^r
_London Prodigal_ Old Flowerdale
A2^r A2^r G4^r 18-20
_London Prodigal_ Luce
F1^v F1^v F1^v
_Cromwell_ Hodge, Bedford
C4^v 26-D1^v 27 C4^v 26-D1^v 27
_Miseries of Enforced Marriage_ John, Thomas
_Fair Maid of Bristow_ Harbart
B1^v 28-2^v 16 B1^v 28-2^v 16
_Fair Maid of Bristow_ Challener
B1^v
_Fair Maid of Bristow_ Sentloe
E3^r 20 E3^{r-v}
_Fair Maid of Bristow_ Anabell
E4^v (?)
_Volpone_ Volpone (Scoto)
II, iv II, iv, 30-36
_Volpone_ Volpone (sick)
I, iii-v
III, iii-v, vii, ix
IV, vi
_Volpone_ Volpone (Commandant)
V, iii
_Volpone_ Peregrine
V, iv, 1
_Revenger’s Tragedy_ Vindice
I, i I, i
(l) _The Malcontent_ is not included in this list although its
plot is based completely upon a disguise. In this play the basic
disguise is manner (see I, i). Malevole and Celso converse about
the former’s loss of his dukedom (213-255). On the entrance of
Bilioso, however, “Malevole shifteth his speech,” that is, he
adopts his satiric manner. This treatment of disguise is similar to
that in _The Revenger’s Tragedy_.
(m) Time here helps to disguise Thaisa.
(n) Lucilius claims to be Brutus, but he is immediately recognized.
(o) Ford may have a change of clothing, particularly considering
that Falstaff sees him at his house in IV, ii, and Ford visits him
again in V, i.
ii. Formal Scenes in Shakespeare’s Globe Plays requiring more than
five characters
Single Combat Scenes
_As You Like It_, I, ii; _Merry Wives of Windsor_, III, i;
_Troilus and Cressida_, IV, v; _Coriolanus_, III, i.
Banquet Scenes
_As You Like It_, II, vii; _Macbeth_, III, iv; _Antony and
Cleopatra_, II, vii; _Timon_, I, ii.
Hearing or Trial Scenes
_Merry Wives of Windsor_, I, i (?); _Measure for Measure_, II, i;
_Othello_, I, iii; _Lear_, II, ii; _Coriolanus_, III, iii.
Council or Senate Scenes
_Hamlet_, I, ii; _Lear_, I, i; _Othello_, I, iii; _Coriolanus_,
II, ii; _Julius Caesar_, III, i.
Play-Within-Play Scenes
_Hamlet_, II, ii; III, ii.
Procession Scenes
_Hamlet_, V, i; _All’s Well_, III, v; _Troilus and Cressida_, I,
ii; III, iii; _Macbeth_, IV, i; _Coriolanus_, II, i; _Pericles_,
II, ii; _Julius Caesar_, III, i.
Welcoming Scenes
_Troilus and Cressida_, IV, v; _Othello_, II, i; _Macbeth_, I,
vi; _Timon_, I, i.
Alarum Scene
_Macbeth_, II, iii.
Parley Scenes
_Antony and Cleopatra_, II, ii; II, vi; _Julius Caesar_, V, i.
Finales
_As You Like It_, V, iv; _Twelfth Night_, V, iv; _Merry Wives of
Windsor_, V, v; _Hamlet_, V, ii; _All’s Well_, V, iii; _Measure
for Measure_, V, i; _Othello_, V, ii; _Lear_, V, iii; _Macbeth_,
V, viii; _Coriolanus_, V, vi; _Antony and Cleopatra_, V, ii;
_Pericles_, V, iii.
The only plays whose finales do not fall into this category
of group scenes are _Julius Caesar, Timon of Athens_, and
_Troilus and Cressida_. Their finales fall into the first
category of group scenes, less than five characters with mute
supernumeraries. Each of three scenes (_Troilus and Cressida_,
IV, v; _Othello_, I, iii; and _Julius Caesar_, III, i) contains
two types of formal actions within the single scene.
iii. The Use of the Above: Two Special Instances
_Julius Caesar_, V, iii
The stage direction “Pindarus above” together with the stage
direction, “Enter Pindarus,” makes it almost certain that the
above and not a platform was used. None of the scaffold scenes
has a stage direction “above” or an “enter.” In this instance,
then, we must suppose that either Cassius spoke very slowly or
Pindarus moved very quickly, for only two and a half lines cover
his ascent and two lines his descent.
_Antony and Cleopatra_, IV, xv
The physical factors that have to be satisfied in staging the
monument scene are (1) Cleopatra is aloft with her women; (2)
Diomedes reports Antony’s suicide and then tells her to look
out the other side of the monument to see Antony; (3) Antony is
heaved aloft as Cleopatra calls for aid, but not specifically
from Diomedes. Diomedes, it is necessary to note, is Cleopatra’s,
not Antony’s, servant; (4) Antony’s body is carried out at the
end of the scene.
Warren Smith suggests that a scaffold was utilized for the monument
(“Evidence of Scaffolding on Shakespeare’s Stage,” _R.E.S._, N.S.
II (1951), 29). This is unlikely in view of the specific direction
placing the action “aloft.” Wherever scaffolds are otherwise
used (_Troilus and Cressida_, I, ii; _Julius Caesar_, III, ii;
_Volpone_, II, ii; _Fair Maid of Bristow_, Sig. E4^r-F2^v), the
term “aloft” or “above” is never introduced. Smith also fails to
satisfy the final direction, “Exit bearing Anthony.” The monument
must be connected to the tiring house. At the same time there is
no indication of a curtain. Consequently, I suppose the monument
to be located above. What of factor (2)? It is generally supposed
that the stage direction, “Enter Diomed,” refers to an entrance on
the platform. Kittredge adds “below” after this stage direction.
But this is not the necessary interpretation. If Diomedes entered
above, and reported in messenger fashion to his mistress,
Cleopatra, his injunction to “Look out o’ th’ other side your
monument” could easily mean “Look out front.” In messenger fashion
he leaves after making his report. The last problem concerns
raising Antony. The agency for doing so was the combined energy
of more than four boys (Cleopatra, Charmian, Iras, and her maids
who appear for the first time) and of at least four men. How high
the body had to be raised is uncertain. J. C. Adams calculates the
above was 12’ above the floor and had a 2’6” railing. Hodges’
estimate is less, about 10’. Neither 10’ nor 12’ are prohibitive
heights although a railing would be difficult to work over. Perhaps
it was possible to remove a portion of the railing. Despite the
obstacles, however, Antony was raised in a manner which, we must
suppose, was not ludicrous.
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
[1] C. W. Wallace, _The First London Theatre_ (Lincoln, Neb.,
1913), p. 24.
[2] Gerald E. Bentley, “Shakespeare and the Blackfriars Theatre,”
_Shakespeare Survey_, I (1948), p. 47.
[3] Peter Streete agreed, in this contract dated January 8, 1600,
to complete his construction by July 25, 1600 (E. K. Chambers,
_The Elizabethan Stage_ (Oxford, 1923), II, p. 438), a period of
about twenty-eight weeks. However, it was covenanted that “the
saide Peeter Streete shall not be chardged with anie manner of
pay[ntin]ge in or aboute the saide fframe howse or Stadge or
anie parte thereof, nor rendringe the walls within” (Chambers,
II, p. 437). Consequently, we must add to the twenty-eight weeks
an indeterminate period during which the playhouse was painted,
thus bringing the estimated completion of the Fortune to some
time in August at least. It is probable that in computing the
schedule for the Fortune, Streete utilized his experience at the
Globe, particularly since the new stage was to be so much like the
Globe’s. Streete would find such computation easy after allowing
for differences in building conditions. On the one hand the fact
that the timber from the Theatre was to be used for the Globe
suggests that the frame for the Globe took less time to erect. On
the other hand, the fact that the Globe had to be built on piles
might reasonably suggest that laying its foundations required
more time. If Henslowe’s notation of payment “to the laberers at
the eand of the fowndations the 8 of maye 1600” (Philip Henslowe,
_Papers_, ed. W. W. Greg, p. 10), correctly reflects the time
consumed in erecting these of the Fortune, a matter of about
sixteen weeks, then we must assume that the base of the Globe was
not ready to take a frame until the middle of June. As Henslowe’s
_Diary_ and _Papers_ indicate, Streete probably consummated his
portion of the contract somewhat later than he had estimated, that
is, about the first week in August (Henslowe, p. 11). But even if
there were some delay, as Greg believes, Streete had erred merely
by a matter of two weeks. I believe that his initial estimate,
fundamentally reliable, reflected his experience at the Globe.
[4] Among others Heminges testified that he shared in profits from
the presentation of plays at Blackfriars for four years previous
to 1612 (Kirkham vs. Painton, as reprinted in F. G. Fleay, _A
Chronicle History of the London Stage_ (London, 1890), pp. 225,
235, 238, 244, 249). The only time when the plague bills declined
sufficiently to permit the possibility of performances was in
March, 1609. The weekly count of plague deaths was thirty-two as of
March 2, forty-three as of March 9, and thirty-three as of March
16. Thereafter, the plague increased in severity and the weekly
number of deaths fell below forty only once again before December,
1609. (Statistics from John Bell, _London’s Remembrancer_ (London,
1665) as reprinted in J. T. Murray, _English Dramatic Companies_
(London, 1910), II, pp. 186-187.)
[5] E. K. Chambers, _William Shakespeare_ (Oxford, 1930), I; Alfred
Harbage, _Annals of the English Drama_ (London, 1940); William
Shakespeare, _The Complete Works of_, ed. G. L. Kittredge (New
York, 1936); James McManaway, “Recent Studies in Shakespeare’s
Chronology,” _Shakespeare Survey_, III (1950), 22-33. In composing
the list of plays performed by the Globe company, I have relied
on Chambers, compared with Harbage and Kittredge, and checked
against McManaway’s survey of studies in the chronological order of
Shakespeare’s plays. Later theories on particular plays have been
examined when relevant.
[6] _Twelfth Night_, ed. J. D. Wilson (Cambridge, 1930); Leslie
Hotson, _The First Night of_ Twelfth Night (New York, 1954).
[7] Percy Allen, “The Date of Hamlet,” _T.L.S._, January 2, 1937,
12; Chambers, _William Shakespeare_, I, p. 423; also “The Date of
_Hamlet_,” _Shakespearean Gleanings_ (London, 1944), pp. 68-75;
_Hamlet_, ed. J. D. Wilson (Cambridge, 1936), 2nd ed.; H. D.
Gray, “The Date of _Hamlet_;” _J.E.G.P._, XXX (1932), 51-61; L.
Kirschbaum, “The Date of _Hamlet_,” _S.P._, XXXIV (1937), 168-175.
[8] Leslie Hotson, “Love’s Labour’s Won,” _Shakespeare’s Sonnets
Dated_ (New York, 1949), 37-56.
[9] A. Hart, “The Date of _Othello_,” _T.L.S._, October 10, 1935,
631; A. Cairncross, “A Reply to Hart,” _T.L.S._, October 24, 1935,
671; Richmond Noble, “A Reply to Hart,” _T.L.S._, December 14,
1935, 859; W. W. Greg, “The Date of _King Lear_ and Shakespeare’s
Use of Earlier Versions of the Story,” _Library_, XX (1940),
377-400.
[10] Chambers, _William Shakespeare_, I, p. 522.
[11] _Macbeth_, ed. J. D. Wilson (Cambridge, 1947), pp. xl-xlii.
Wilson offers a fanciful argument to support his theory that the
play was first performed before James in Edinburgh in 1601-1602.
Kenneth Muir (Arden edition, 1951), p. xxvi, reviewing this
argument, concludes, “It is reasonable to assume that the play was
first performed in 1606, first at the Globe, and afterwards at
Court--perhaps with a few minor alterations.”
[12] Leslie Hotson, _Shakespeare vs. Shallow_ (Boston, 1931), pp.
111-122; P. Alexander, _Shakespeare’s Life and Art_ (London, 1939),
p. 125; William Green, _Shakespeare’s Garter Play_ (unpublished
dissertation, Columbia University, 1959), believes that Lord
Hunsdon commissioned Shakespeare to write the play for performance
on April 23, 1597. However, his explanation for the omission of
the play’s title from Meres’ list is essentially hypothetical (pp.
249-251).
[13] Eight early plays of Shakespeare’s were actually revived
during the Globe period, or supposedly revived according to the
title pages of early editions. These plays were _The Comedy of
Errors_, _Love’s Labour’s Lost_, _The Merchant of Venice_, _A
Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _Richard II_, _Richard III_, _Romeo
and Juliet_, and _Titus Andronicus_. Seven of the eight, all but
the first, were printed in quartos. However, the texts of later
editions were set up from the early editions without appreciable
alterations. The Folio text of _Dream_ does include some additions
to the stage directions which may be illuminating but which do
not change the theatrical elements. The Fourth Quarto (1608) of
_Richard II_ is the first edition to contain the abdication scene,
and the Folio text of _Titus Andronicus_ contains additional stage
directions and a new scene. But these omissions in the early copies
do not seem to be a result of staging conditions. There are two
possible inferences. Either the later texts had no connection with
the playhouse and therefore merely copied the earlier texts, or the
productions did not change sufficiently over the years to cause
variations in the texts. As a result I have decided to use these
plays for occasional reference only.
[14] The dating of these and the succeeding plays is based upon
Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, III, pp. 214, 293, 431, 513; IV, pp.
1, 8, 12, 27, 30, 42, 54.
[15] Baldwin Maxwell, _Studies in the Shakespeare Apocrypha_ (New
York, 1956), pp. 99-106, dates the play between 1599 and 1600.
[16] _A Yorkshire Tragedy_ has been identified with _Miseries of
Enforced Marriage_ by F. G. Fleay and others. Mark Friedlaender,
“Some Problems of _A Yorkshire Tragedy_,” _S.P._, XXXV (1938),
238-253, in his reconsideration of the evidence rejects this
theory. He suggests that both plays were made from a single
original play. In a more recent study Baldwin Maxwell (pp. 153 ff.)
considers the plays to be independent works. Whatever the theory,
it is certain that both plays were staged and must be enumerated
separately.
[17] Thomas Kyd, _The Works_, ed. Frederick S. Boas (Oxford, 1955),
p. xlii. Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, IV, p. 23, suggests that
the present text was the one presented at the Globe about 1604.
However, the suggestion is hedged with so many qualifications that
I thought it better to exclude this piece.
CHAPTER ONE. THE REPERTORY
[1] The material for the succeeding pages comes from an analysis of
Philip Henslowe’s _Diary_, ed. W. W. Greg (London, 1904-1908), the
dates being based on Greg’s correction of Henslowe. Mention must be
made of the new edition of Henslowe’s _Diary_, prepared by R. A.
Foakes and R. T. Rickert (Cambridge, 1961), which appeared while
the present work was in press. The editors offer slight correction
of the primary evidence and some fresh interpretations of its
significance.
[2] Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, IV, pp. 322-325.
[3] Henslowe, I. The list of plays from November 10, 1595-January
17, 1596 may be found on page 27. Fuller descriptions of the plays
mentioned by name may be found in Volume II, pp. 167-168, 175-177.
[4] Performances: Nov. 24-25, _Hercules_, I and II; Nov. 26,
_Longshank_; Nov. 27, _New World’s Tragedy_; Nov. 28, _Henry V_
(new); Nov. 29, _The Welshman_; Dec. 1, _A Toy to Please_; Dec. 2,
_Henry V_; Dec. 3, _Barnardo and Fiametta_; Dec. 4, _Wonder of a
Woman_; Dec. 6, _Crack Me This Nutte_.
[5] _Belin Dun_ was performed regularly from June 10 to November
15, 1594, and regularly from March 31 to June 25, 1597, yet there
was an isolated performance on July 11, 1596. See Henslowe, II, p.
164.
[6] Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, II, pp. 143ff.; Henslowe, II,
pp. 118-119, 124-127.
[7] Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, II, pp. 165-172, 177-180. From
1597 to 1603 nine men, Chettle, Day, Dekker, Drayton, Hathway,
Haughton, Munday, Smith, and Wilson, furnished sixty-four of the
eighty-eight plays which were finished and produced.
[8] These are: _Phaethon_, _Earl of Godwin and His Three Sons_ I
and II, _King Arthur_ I, _Black Bateman of the North_, _Madman’s
Morris_, _Pierce of Winchester_, _Civil Wars of France_ I and II,
_Fount of New Fashions_, _Brute_, _The Spencers_, _The Page of
Plymouth_, _Troy’s Revenge or Polyphemus_, _Cox of Collumpton_,
_Fortunatus, atient Grissel_, _Seven Wise Masters_, _Strange News
out of Poland_, _Cupid and Psyche_, _Six Yeomen of the West_,
_Cardinal Wolsey_, _Thome Strowd_ III, _The Conquest of the West
Indies_, _Judas_, _Malcolm King of Scots_, _Love Parts Friendship_,
_Jephthah_.
[9] Henslowe, II, p. 112.
[10] F. G. Fleay, _A Chronicle History of the London Stage_, p. 117.
[11] Sir Henry Herbert, _The Dramatic Records of Sir Henry
Herbert_, ed. J. Q. Adams (New Haven, 1917), pp. 66-67.
[12] _The Virgin Martyr_ involved the addition of a scene, _The
Tragedy of Nero_ was allowed for printing, _Come See a Wonder_
is listed for “a company of strangers,” and “the company at the
Curtain” is in dispute.
[13] 1604-1605: 10 plays presented, 7 by Shakespeare; 1611-1612: 23
plays, 2 by Shakespeare, 5 by others, 16 unidentified; 1612-1613:
20 plays, 8 by Shakespeare, 12 by others; 1618: 3 plays, 2 by
Shakespeare, 1 by another poet; 1633: 22 plays, 4 by Shakespeare,
18 by others; 1636: 19 plays, 3 by Shakespeare, 16 by others; 1638:
7 plays, 1 by Shakespeare, 6 by others; 1638-1639: 17 plays, 2 by
Shakespeare, 15 by others. See Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, IV,
pp. 171-183; Mary S. Steele, _Plays and Masques at Court_ (New
Haven, 1926).
[14] Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, IV, pp. 350-351. Periods during
which plague forced the closing of the theaters between 1599 and
1608 were: March--December, 1603, c. October 5--December 15, 1605,
July--December, 1606, July--November 19, 1607, August--December,
1608.
[15] Days without performances because of Lenten observance are not
counted.
[16] Chambers, _William Shakespeare_, II, p. 332.
[17] Henslowe, II, pp. 83, 124-125, 149.
[18] The eight plays are Suckling’s _Aglaura_ (1638), Cartwright’s
_The Royal Slave_ (1636), and Habington’s _Cleodora_ (1640), which
were presented for Their Majesties by courtiers seeking favor (see
Steele, pp. 265, 268; Herbert, p. 58); Carlell’s _The Deserving
Favourite_ (1629) and Mayne’s _City Match_ (1639) (see Steele, pp.
263, 274, 277); _Two Merry Milkmaids_ (1620), which may or may
not have been presented publicly (Steele, p. 206); Middleton and
Rowley, _A World Tost at Tennis_ (1620), which was conceived as a
masque, but apparently presented publicly (Steele, p. 227); and _As
Merry as May Be_ (1602-1603).
[19] Herbert, p. 32. Also see pp. 19, 19 n., 36.
[20] _Ibid._, pp. 22, 35, 54; also Bentley, II, p. 675.
[21] J. C. Adams, _The Globe Playhouse_ (Cambridge, 1942), pp.
59-89; T.W. Baldwin, _The Organization and Personnel of the
Shakespearean Company_ (Princeton, 1927), pp. 332-338; Alfred
Harbage, _Shakespeare’s Audience_ (New York, 1941), p. 33.
[22] Chambers, _Elizabethan Stage_, IV, pp. 166-175. From
Elizabeth the Lord Chamberlain’s men received £30 (3.6 per cent)
in 1599-1600, £30 (3.6 per cent) in 1600-1601, £40 (4.8 per cent)
in 1601-1602, and £20 (2.4 per cent) in 1602-1603. The percentages
indicate that portion of their income derived by the players from
the Court. (Based upon Baldwin’s low estimate of £840 annual
income.)
[23] Frances Keen, “The First Night of _Twelfth Night_,” _T.L.S._,
December 19, 1958, 737.
CHAPTER TWO. THE DRAMATURGY
[1] The recognition of this deficiency forced Thomas W. Baldwin
to develop his theory of Shakespeare’s five-act structure in
reference to the Renaissance critics of France, Italy, and Germany
(_Shakespeare’s Five-Act Structure_, Urbana, 1947). Henry Popkin,
_Dramatic Theory of the Elizabethan and Jacobean Playwrights_
(unpublished dissertation, Harvard, 1950) endeavors to show that
the Elizabethan and Jacobean playwrights were aware of prevailing
theories of drama, but he does not go on to show that they
introduced what they knew into what they wrote.
[2] Baldwin, _Shakespeare’s Five-Act Structure_, pp. 305, 315, 321,
326.
[3] Muriel C. Bradbrook, _Themes and Conventions of Elizabethan
Tragedy_ (Cambridge, 1935), p. 5.
[4] Madeleine Doran, _Endeavors of Art_ (University of Wisconsin,
1954), p. 5.
[5] Heinrich Wölfflin, _Principles of Art History_ (New York,
1932), pp. 14-16, 159; Doran, p. 6.
[6] George Puttenham, _The Arte of English Poesie_ (1589), as
reprinted in Gregory Smith, _Elizabethan Critical Essays_ (Oxford,
1904), II, pp. 19-20.
[7] Francis Fergusson, _The Idea of a Theater_ (Princeton, 1949),
pp. 229-230.
[8] Hardin Craig, “Shakespeare’s Development as a Dramatist in the
Light of His Experience,” _S.P._, XXXIX (1942), 226; also S. L.
Bethell, _Shakespeare and the Dramatic Tradition_ (London, 1944),
p. 70.
[9] Doran, pp. 103, 263.
[10] _Ibid._, p. 296.
[11] _Ibid._, p. 264.
[12] Bradbrook, pp. 30, 75.
[13] Doran, p. 295.
[14] See especially _Twelfth Night_, I, i-iii; _Hamlet_, I, i-iii;
_Lear_, I, i; _Measure for Measure_, I, i; _The Devil’s Charter_,
dumb show.
[15] The other ranking figures are Antonio in _The Revenger’s
Tragedy_, Malevole, revealed as Duke Altofronto in _The
Malcontent_, young Flowerdale in _The London Prodigal_, and the
husband in _A Yorkshire Tragedy_. The prodigal son plays, _Miseries
of Enforced Marriage_, _The London Prodigal_, and _A Yorkshire
Tragedy_, have a double figure, the husband who judges himself and
the wife who grants forgiveness.
[16] Discovery: _As You Like It_, _Twelfth Night_, _Merry Wives
of Windsor_, _All’s Well_, _Pericles_; discovery-single combat:
_Hamlet_, _Lear_; discovery-suicide: _Othello_; discovery-trial:
_Measure for Measure_; single combat: _Macbeth_; suicide: _Julius
Caesar_, _Antony and Cleopatra_; trial: _Coriolanus_; siege: _Timon
of Athens_.
[17] Curtis B. Watson, “Shakespeare’s Dukes,” _S.A.B._, XVI (1941),
33. Watson insists that the Duke employed in this fashion is unique
to Shakespeare’s plays. However, as the non-Shakespearean plays
reveal, the same functions are carried out by father, king, or lord.
[18] G. Wilson Knight, _Principles of Shakespearean Production_
(Harmondsworth Middlesex, 1949), p. 21.
[19] _Ibid._, p. 21; W. J. Lawrence, “Some Reflections on
Shakespeare’s Dramaturgy,” _Speeding Up Shakespeare_ (London,
1937), p. 43; Richard G. Moulton, _Shakespeare as a Dramatic
Artist_ (Oxford, 1893), p. 217.
[20] Moulton, p. 217. He persists in finding a “point” for the
climax although he more clearly than any one of the other writers
perceives the extended nature of the climax. On page 209 he treats
the scenes of Lear’s madness as a “Centerpiece,” apparently
realizing their climactic interconnection. Yet he fails to take the
next step by abandoning the conception of a climactic moment.
[21] Harley Granville-Barker, _Prefaces to Shakespeare_ (Princeton,
1947), I, p. 274.
[22] The appearance of the “climactic plateau” late in _Troilus
and Cressida_ is further support for the theory of a two-part play
suggested by T. W. Baldwin in _A New Variorum Edition of Troilus
and Cressida_, ed. Harold N. Hillebrand, supplemental ed. T. W.
Baldwin (Philadelphia, 1953), p. 452.
[23] The climax is also associated with the subsequent
disappearance of the central figure, a characteristic pointed out
by W. J. Lawrence. Both comedy, for example, _Twelfth Night_ and
_Measure for Measure_ (Angelo is absent for the third and almost
all of the fourth act) and tragedy display the same pattern.
[24] Levin L. Schücking, _Character Problems in Shakespeare’s
Plays_ (New York, 1922), p. 114.
[25] Elmer E. Stoll, _Shakespeare Studies_ (New York, 1942), p. 37,
corrected edition; G. Wilson Knight, _Wheel of Fire_ (New York,
1949), pp. 13-14.
[26] G. Wilson Knight, _Wheel of Fire_ and _Principles_, pp.
140-155, for his proposed _Macbeth_ production.
CHAPTER THREE. THE STAGE
[1] G. F. Reynolds, “What We Know of the Elizabethan Stage,”
_M.P._, IX (1911), 68.
[2] V. E. Albright, _The Shakesperian Stage_ (New York, 1909), p.
45.
[3] The figures are suggestive rather than definitive. See Appendix
B, chart i, for breakdown according to plays.
[4] H. Granville-Barker, “A Note on Chapters XX and XXI of _The
Elizabethan Stage_,” _R.E.S._, I (1925), 68.
[5] Ashley Thorndike, _Shakespeare’s Theater_ (New York, 1916), pp.
102 ff.
[6] _Twelfth Night_, II, ii; _Measure for Measure_, V, i; _Lear_,
II, i; II, ii; III, i; _Othello_, V, ii; _Antony and Cleopatra_,
II, vi; III, ii; _Troilus and Cressida_, IV, i; _Coriolanus_,
I, viii; I, ix; _Timon of Athens_, I, i; III, iv-vi; IV, ii;
_Pericles_, Chorus, II; II, v; Chorus, III; _The Devil’s Charter_,
prologue; I, i; IV, i; _Fair Maid of Bristow_, scene xiv.
[7] W. J. Lawrence, _The Physical Conditions of the Elizabethan
Public Playhouse_ (Cambridge, Mass., 1927), pp. 22 ff.
[8] W. J. Lawrence, _The Elizabethan Playhouse and Other Studies_,
Series One (Stratford-on-Avon, 1912), p. 23.
[9] Lawrence, _Physical Conditions_, pp. 22 ff.; J. C. Adams, p.
146.
[10] G. F. Reynolds, “_Troilus and Cressida_ on the Elizabethan
Stage,” _Joseph Quincy Adams Memorial Studies_, ed. James G.
McManaway _et al._ (Washington, 1948), pp. 229-238.
[11] _Julius Caesar_
BRUTUS. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport,
That now on Pompey’s basis lies along
No worthier than the dust!
(III, i, 114-116)
ANTONY. Then burst his mighty heart;
And in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey’s statue,
(Which all the while ran blood) great Caesar fell.
(III, ii, 191-194)
Plutarch, _Julius Caesar_ in _Shakespeare’s Plutarch_, I, p. 102.
“But when [Caesar] saw Brutus with his sword drawn in his hand,
then he pulled his gown over his head, and made no more resistance
and was driven either casually or purposedly by the counsel of the
conspirators against the base whereupon Pompey’s image stood, which
ran all of a gore-blood till he was slain.”
[12] See Appendix B, chart ii, for the list of properties in
Shakespeare.
[13] Henslowe, _Papers_, pp. 116-118.
[14] _Antony and Cleopatra_, I, ii; II, vii; _Timon of Athens_, I,
ii; III, vi; _Cromwell_, scene vii; _The Devil’s Charter_, V, iv;
_The Revenger’s Tragedy_, V, iii.
[15] Probably _Macbeth_, III, iv; _As You Like It_, II, v;
undetermined _Pericles_, II, iii.
[16] Brought out: _Hamlet_, V, ii; _The Devil’s Charter_, IV, iii;
V, vi; probably brought out: _The Devil’s Charter_, prologue;
uncertain: _Every Man Out of His Humour_, V, iv; discovered:
_Othello_, I, iii.
[17] A parallel instance is found in _Volpone_. In the last scene
in which the bed is employed, Mosca says to Volpone, then lying in
the bed:
Patron, go in, and pray for our successe. (III, ix, 62)
The line suggests that the bed was removed rather than hidden by a
curtain.
[18] Warren Smith, “Evidence of Scaffolding on Shakespeare’s
Stage,” _R.E.S._, n.s. II (1951), 22-29.
[19] Richard Hosley, “The Discovery-Space in Shakespeare’s Globe,”
_Shakespeare Survey_, XII (1959), 35-46. Many of my own conclusions
parallel those of Mr. Hosley. See my dissertation, _The Production
of Shakespeare’s Plays at the Globe Playhouse, 1599-1609_ (Columbia
University, 1956).
[20] _Ibid._, 46. Both _Cromwell_, sc. vi, and _Merry Wives of
Windsor_, III, iii, require similar facilities.
[21] Richard Southern, “On Reconstructing a Practicable Elizabethan
Public Playhouse,” _Shakespeare Survey_, XII (1959), p. 33.
[22] Hosley, 44-45.
[23] Alone: _Devil’s Charter_, IV, i; I, iv; _Cromwell_, sc. iii,
vi; attended: _Devil’s Charter_, V, vi; _Cromwell_, sc. xii.
[24] _A Yorkshire Tragedy_, sc. v; _The Revenger’s Tragedy_, II,
iv; _The Merry Devil of Edmonton_, prologue.
[25] _The Revenger’s Tragedy_, I, iv; V, i.
[26] Fastidious Briske takes down a “base viol” from a wall. Such
action may depend upon the discovery of an interior. (III, ix, 81)
[27] Concealment: _As You Like It_, III, ii (?); _Twelfth Night_,
IV, ii; _Hamlet_, III, i, III, iv; _Merry Wives of Windsor_, III,
iii; _Measure for Measure_, III, i; _Lear_, III, vi; _Coriolanus_,
II, i; discovery: _Othello_, I, iii, V, ii; _Timon_, V, iii;
_Pericles_, I, i, III, i, V, i; tents: _Julius Caesar_, IV, ii-iii;
_Troilus and Cressida_, _passim_.
[28] See _Two Elizabethan Stage Abridgements: The Battle of Alcazar
and Orlando Furioso_, ed. W. W. Greg (The Malone Society, 1922),
pp. 34-35.
[29] _Merry Wives of Windsor_, II, ii, III, v; _Every Man Out of
His Humour_, V, iv; _Merry Devil of Edmonton_, sc. i; _Miseries of
Enforced Marriage_, sc. v; _A Yorkshire Tragedy_, sc. iii-v.
[30] Adams, p. 289.
[31] _Devil’s Charter_, II, i, IV, iv; _Timon_, V, iv;
_Coriolanus_, I, iv; _A Larum for London_, sc. ii. There is no
stage direction specifying Sancto Davila’s appearance on the
walls. However, he is “walking about Castle” and he answers to the
question, “Whose that above?” (sig. B2^v).
[32] _Othello_, I, i; _Volpone_, II, ii; _Every Man Out of His
Humour_, I, ii; _Devil’s Charter_, III, ii.
[33] Richard Hosley, “The Gallery over the Stage in the Public
Playhouse of Shakespeare’s Time,” _S.Q._, VIII (1957), 31.
[34] J. C. Adams, pp. 209-215. Also G. F. Reynolds, _The Staging of
Elizabethan Plays at the Red Bull_ (New York, 1940), p. 188.
[35] _Macbeth_, IV, i; _Hamlet_, V, i; _A Larum for London_, scene
xii; _The Devil’s Charter_, prologue; III, v, IV, i, V, vi. For
_Hamlet_, I, iv and v, see Chapter Five.
[36] Leslie Hotson, _Shakespeare’s Wooden O_ (London, 1959), p. 13.
[37] Hotson, _The First Night of Twelfth Night_, p. 67, also p.
119; Nagler, p. 11.
[38] Thomas Dekker, _The Gull’s Hornbook_, in Alois Nagler,
_Sources of Theatrical History_ (New York, 1952), p. 135.
[39] Hosley, “The Gallery,” 28.
[40] Alois Nagler, _Shakespeare’s Stage_ (New Haven, 1958), pp.
10-11.
[41] George R. Kernodle, _From Art to Theatre_ (Chicago, 1944), pp.
87-89, 120-121, 124, 129.
[42] C. Walter Hodges, “The Lantern of Taste,” _Shakespeare
Survey_, XII (1959), 8.
[43] J. C. Adams, pp. 135, 233, 259.
[44] John Summerson, _Architecture in Britain 1530-1830_ (London,
1953), p. 59.
[45] C. Walter Hodges, _The Globe Restored_ (New York, 1953),
Appendix A, pp. 170-177.
[46] Kernodle. Quotations were selected from pp. 7, 70, 110, 134
respectively.
[47] J. A. Gotch, _Architecture of the Renaissance in England_
(London, 1894), I, p. xix.
[48] Ellis Waterhouse, _Painting in Britain 1530-1790_ (Baltimore,
Md., 1953), p. 1.
[49] _A Calendar of Dramatic Records in the Books of the Livery
Companies of London 1485-1640_, The Malone Society. Collections,
Volume III (1954), p. xxvi.
[50] _Ibid._, pp. 9 (1521), 21 (1534), 26 (1535), 27-29 (1536), 33
(1541), 38 (1546), 39 (1556), 41 (1561), 47 (1568), 53 (1581), 58
(1601), 59 (1602).
[51] _Ibid._, pp. 18 (1529), 37 (1540), 46 (1566), 47 (1568).
[52] Charles M. Clode, _The Early History of the Guild of Merchant
Taylors_ (London, 1888), II, p. 267. For Harper, see II, p. 267;
For the Merchant Tailors Company, I, p. 187.
[53] _The Dramatic Records of the City of London_, The Malone
Society, Collections, Volume II, Part III (1931). See p. 311 for
example.
[54] Clode, I, p. 187.
[55] Robert Withington, _English Pageantry_ (Cambridge, Mass.,
1918-1920), II, p. 23.
[56] Gotch, p. xxii; Summerson, pp. 22 ff.
CHAPTER FOUR. THE ACTING
[1] Alfred Harbage, “Elizabethan Acting,” _P.M.L.A._, LIV (1939),
687. Although Professor Harbage modified his views later (“B.
L. Joseph, _Elizabethan Acting_,” _S.Q._, II (1951), 360-361.
A Review.) and arrived at the position that I describe on pp.
157 ff., his original thesis has served as the basis for most
discussion of the subject and may well be used as a point of
departure. In _Theatre for Shakespeare_ (Toronto, 1955), he
reprints his original article as a “personal indulgence.”
[2] W. F. McNeir, “E. Gayton on Elizabethan Acting,” _P.M.L.A._,
LVI (1941), 579-583; Robert H. Bowers, “Gesticulation in
Elizabethan Acting,” _So. Folklore Quarterly_, XII (1948), 267-277;
A. G. H. Bachrach, “The Great Chain of Acting,” _Neophilologus_,
XXXIII (1949), 160-172; Bertram L. Joseph, _Elizabethan Acting_
(London, 1951). In a later book, _The Tragic Actor_ (London,
1959), Joseph disclaims any intention of associating formality
with oratory. Both acting and oratory “had the same object, the
imitation of human emotions as they are to be recognized in human
beings in life” (pp. 19-21). In effect, he adopts the position of
the naturalists (p. 27).
[3] Joseph, _Elizabethan Acting_, p. 1.
[4] Harbage, “Elizabethan Acting,” 698. Quoted from the ms. of _The
Cyprian Conqueror_.
[5] Joseph, _Elizabethan Acting_, p. 60.
[6] John Russel Brown, “On the Acting of Shakespeare’s Plays,”
_Quarterly Journal of Speech_, XXXIX (1953), 477-484; Marvin
Rosenberg, “Elizabethan Actors: Men or Marionettes?” _P.M.L.A._,
LXIX (1954), 915-927; R. A. Foakes, “The Player’s Passion: Some
Notes on Elizabethan Psychology and Acting,” _Essays and Studies_,
VII (1954), pp. 62-77.
[7] Foakes, 76.
[8] Leonard Cox, _The Arte or Crafte of Rhethoryke_ (1527-1530),
ed. Frederic I. Carpenter (Chicago, 1899); Richard Sherry, _A
Treatise of the figures of grammar and rhethorike_ (1555); Richard
Rainolde, _A Book called the foundation of Rhetorike_ (1562);
Roger Ascham, _The Schoolmaster_ (1570); Gabriel Harvey, _Rhetor_
(1577); Dudley Fenner, _Artes of Logicke and Rhetoric_ (1584);
Henry Peacham, _The Garden of Eloquence_ (1593), ed. William G.
Crane (Gainesville, Fla., 1954); John Hoskins, _Directions for
Speech and Style_ (c. 1590), ed. Hoyt H. Hudson (Princeton, 1935);
Edmund Coote, _The Englishe Schoole-Maister_ (1596); Alexander van
den Busche, _The Orator_, tr. L. P. (Anthony Munday?) (1596); Sir
Francis Bacon, _Works_, ed. James Spedding (London, 1858), vols.
iv-vi.
[9] Abraham Fraunce, _The Arcadian Rhetorike_ (1588), ed. Ethel
Seaton (Oxford, 1950), p. 107. Succeeding material has been taken
from pp. 112-128.
[10] Baldassare Castiglione, _The Courtier_, tr. T. Hoby (1561),
reprinted in Everyman’s Library Edition (London, 1944), p. 56.
[11] Fraunce, p. 106.
[12] Hoskins, p. 2.
[13] Peacham, Sig. U1^v-U2^r.
[14] Sir Thomas Elyot, _The Boke named the Governour_ (1531),
folios 48-49.
[15] William G. Crane, Introduction to Peacham, p. 23.
[16] Sir Francis Bacon, _The Advancement of Learning_, in _Works_,
IV, pp. 456-457.
[17] Alan S. Downer, “The Tudor Actor: A Taste of his Quality,”
_Theatre Notebook_, V (1951), 77; Leslie Hotson, _Shakespeare’s
Motley_ (New York, 1952).
[18] Albert L. Walker, “Conventions in Shakespeare’s Description of
Emotion,” _P.Q._, XVII (1938), 26-56.
[19] Examination of Augustine Phillips. Chambers, _William
Shakespeare_, II, p. 325.
[20] _Two Elizabethan Stage Abridgements: The Battle of Alcazar and
Orlando Furioso_, ed. W. W. Greg. The parallel texts of the 1594
Quarto and Alleyn’s part occupy pages 142-201.
[21] Compare part line 221 with play line 1171; part lines 223-224
with play line 1175; part line 165 with play line 1012.
[22] Thomas W. Baldwin, _The Organization and Personnel of the
Shakespearean Company_ (Princeton, 1927). See charts opposite p.
229.
[23] _Ibid._, pp. 197, 232, 248.
[24] Hardin Craig, _The Enchanted Glass_ (New York, 1950), pp.
225-226.
[25] Louise Forest, “Caveat for Critics against invoking
Elizabethan Psychology,” _P.M.L.A._, LXI (1946), 657.
[26] Foakes, 65.
[27] Theodore Spencer, _Shakespeare and the Nature of Man_ (New
York, 1943); Lily B. Campbell, _Shakespeare’s Tragic Heroes. Slaves
of Passion_ (New York, 1952); E. M. W. Tillyard, _The Elizabethan
World Picture_ (London, 1948); John W. Draper, _The Humors and
Shakespeare’s Characters_ (Durham, N. C., 1945).
[28] Timothy Bright, _A Treatise of Melancholie_ (1586), pp. 51-52.
[29] Bacon, IV, 432.
[30] Elyot, pp. 146 ff.
[31] Bacon, IV, 457.
[32] F. N. Coeffeteau, _A Table of Humane Passions_, tr. Edward
Grimeston (1621); Ruth Anderson, _Elizabethan Psychology and
Shakespeare’s Plays_ in _University of Iowa Studies_, III (March
15, 1927), 72 ff.; Campbell, p. 69.
[33] Thomas Wright, _The Passions of the Minde_ (1601), p. 88, as
quoted by Lawrence Babb, _The Elizabethan Malady_ (East Lansing,
Mich., 1950), pp. 17 ff.
[34] Babb, p. 13.
[35] Craig, p. 124.
[36] The display of wit as an individualizing element is usually
limited to the following types: ladies, pages or boys, satirists
such as Jaques and Thersites, clowns, gulls, braggarts, and
occasional generic figures such as gentlemen and citizens. The
only characters outside of these types who engage in wit play in
Shakespeare’s Globe plays are Paris (_Troilus and Cressida_, III,
i), Lafew, Abhorson, Shallow, and Evans (_Merry Wives of Windsor_,
I, i), also in the same play, Pistol and Nym (I, iii) and the Host
(II, iii; III, i). Also Iago (who may be considered a satirist) and
Polonius (II, ii).
[37] Draper, for example, considers Cassio a choleric type, yet
his description of the sanguine personality would fit as well
(p. 15). The sanguine type, as Draper describes it, displays a
predominance of blood, a handsome physique, ruddy color, a full
body, susceptibility to love, honesty, trueness, and gaiety (pp.
18-23). This description fits Cassio.
CHAPTER FIVE. THE STAGING
[1] Ronald Watkins, _On Producing Shakespeare_ (New York, 1950), p.
104.
[2] Summerson, pp. 30-51. See especially the plans of Wollaton
Hall, p. 34; Hardwick Hall, p. 36; and Charlton House, p. 48.
[3] The determination upon the figure of more than five characters
composing a group scene is not arbitrary. Five actors can function
on such a stage as the Globe without encountering problems
of covering each other or vying for attention. Furthermore,
Shakespearean scenes jump from those with five characters to those
with appreciably more. Exceptions are noted in the text of the
chapter, especially in the discussion of category two of the group
scenes.
[4] A. H. Thorndike, _Shakespeare’s Theater_ (New York, 1916), p.
83. Chambers expresses a similar but less sweeping version of this
view in _Elizabethan Stage_, III, p. 86.
[5] Alfred Harbage, _Theatre for Shakespeare_ (Toronto, 1955) pp.
31 ff., estimates that in the 1,463 scenes of the 86 plays produced
in the popular theater between 1576 and 1608, only 90, or slightly
more than 6 per cent of the scenes require “the use of a curtained
recess or equivalent stage enclosure.”
[6] Sir Mark Hunter, “Act- and Scene-Division in the Plays of
Shakespeare,” _R.E.S._, II (1926), 296 ff. J. Dover Wilson,
writing shortly afterward, concurred in this definition. “Act- and
Scene-Division in the Plays of Shakespeare: A Rejoinder to Sir Mark
Hunter,” _R.E.S._, III (1927), 385.
[7] C. M. Haines, “The ‘Law of Re-entry,’” _R.E.S._, I (1925),
449-451.
[8] W. W. Greg, _Two Elizabethan Stage Abridgements_, pp. 32-33.
[9] The difference between the figure of 339 entrances and 644
entrances and exits results from a difference in dividing scenes
in the plays. For the purpose of considering split entrances and
exits, I thought it best to eliminate any instances where it was
even probable that a scene continued, as in _Hamlet_, from III, iv,
to IV, i.
[10] A. C. Sprague, _Shakespeare and the Audience_ (Cambridge,
Mass., 1935), p. 66.
[11] Examples occur in _True Tragedy of Richard III_, 475-477, 581
ff.; _Love and Fortune_, 1370 f., _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_,
828, 852 f., and _Cambises_, 127 ff., 602 ff.
[12] Sprague, pp. 67-68.
[13] Warren Smith, “The Third Type of Aside in Shakespeare,”
_M.L.N._, LXIV (1949), 510.
[14] There are five speeches which may or may not be asides. These
are not included. _Macbeth_, I, iii, 116-117; V, iii, 20-28;
_Lear_, I, iv, 244-245, 251, 255-256; IV, ii, 83-87; _Hamlet_, III,
ii, 191. Four additional speeches are written so that the character
either speaks loudly enough for the sound but not the sense to
be overheard or fears being overheard. _Caesar_, II, iv, 39-43;
_Twelfth Night_, III, iv, 1-4; _Othello_, IV, i, 238-249; _Antony
and Cleopatra_, III, vii, 6-10.
[15] _Coriolanus_, II, i, shows the same characteristics. Brutus
and Sicinius who have been talking to Menenius step aside,
according to the stage direction (106), when the Roman ladies
enter. Shortly after they do so, the triumphal procession for
Coriolanus enters, then moves on to the Capitol. Upon this exit
Brutus and Sicinius, according to the Folio, “enter” (220 ff.)
conversing about what they have seen. Apparently they had gone off
and yet they are aware of what has taken place. The circumstances
fit the conditions of the observation scene that I have been
describing.
[16] Paul V. Kreider, _Repetition in Shakespeare’s Plays_
(Princeton, 1941), Chapter One, “The Mechanics of Disguise”; M.
C. Bradbrook, “Shakespeare and the Use of Disguise in Elizabethan
Drama,” _Essays in Criticism_, II (1952), pp. 159-168; Victor O.
Freeburg, _Disguise Plots in Elizabethan Drama_ (New York, 1915).
[17] _Twelfth Night_, IV, ii, 69-70. Maria. “Thou mightst have done
this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee not.”
[18] _Julius Caesar_, IV, iii, 267-308; _Macbeth_, III, iv,
38-73, 93-107; _Hamlet_, I, i, 18-69, 126-175; I, iv, 38-91; I,
v, 1-113; III, iv, 102-136. From this list I exclude the show
of kings in _Macbeth_, IV, i. The apparitions do not pass over
the stage immediately, but assemble upon it until Banquo’s ghost
“points at them for his.” The lines that follow being of doubtful
authenticity, they offer no assistance in determining how the
apparitions depart, though nothing in the text conflicts with the
conventional manner of staging ghost scenes.
[19] W. J. Lawrence, _Pre-Restoration Stage Studies_ (Cambridge,
1927), p. 106.
[20] _A Warning for Fair Women_, Sig. E3^v. In the midst of a dumb
show which takes place on the platform, the following direction
occurs: “Chastitie, with her haire disheveled, and taking mistres
Sanders by the hand, brings her to her husbands picture hanging on
the wall, and pointing to the tree [above the center trap] seemes
to tell her, that that is the tree so rashly cut downe.”
[21] In the Folio Edgar speaks the final lines, but in this
respect the Quarto follows general usage. Of the other fourteen
Shakespearean Globe plays, the ranking figure definitely speaks
the final lines in eleven of them (_All’s Well_, King; _Measure
for Measure_, Duke; _As You Like It_, Duke; _Twelfth Night_, Duke;
_Coriolanus_, Aufidius; _Timon_, Alcibiades; _Macbeth_, Malcolm;
_Hamlet_, Fortinbras; _Othello_, Lodovico; _Antony and Cleopatra_,
Caesar; _Pericles_, Pericles). The other three plays present
special instances. _The Merry Wives of Windsor_ has no ranking
figure, but it is appropriate for Ford to conclude the action.
_Julius Caesar_ apparently has two ranking figures, Antony and
Octavius. But the fact that Octavius speaks last points to his
triumph in _Antony and Cleopatra_. Pandarus concludes _Troilus and
Cressida_. This play, as I have shown, has a unique structure.
INDEX TO THE GLOBE PLAYS
_A Larum for London_, dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 30, 35, 43-44;
properties in, 224, 225;
stage, use of, 93;
staging in, 188;
theme, 60-61
_All’s Well That Ends Well_, 15, 136, 229;
character types in, 148;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 30, 36-37, 143;
localization, 67, 220;
narrative pattern in, 51;
properties in, 75, 77, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 211-212;
staging, 172, 173, 179, 187, 196, 204, 205, 208-209, 211
_Antony and Cleopatra_, 15, 134, 229;
character types in, 149, 152, 153;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 26, 32-33, 38, 42, 47, 59, 143, 154;
localization, 66-67, 220;
narrative pattern in, 53;
opening action, 34;
properties in, 75-76, 78-79, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 92;
staging, 166-167, 170-171, 173, 184, 195, 205, 206, 208, 212;
staging of IV, xv, 230-231
_As You Like It_, 229;
character types in, 148, 150, 152;
dating of, xi-xii;
dramaturgic practice in, 37-39, 54, 59, 137;
exit lines, 107;
localization, 67, 73, 220;
narrative pattern in, 53;
opening action, 34;
properties in, 75, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 94, 211-212;
staging, 159-160, 167, 171-172, 180, 184, 195, 198, 208-212, 226
Burbage’s roles in, 1, 134, 136
Character types, 148-154
_Coriolanus_, 229;
character types in, 148, 149, 152;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 37, 42, 207;
localization, 64, 66, 220;
narrative pattern in, 49-50;
properties in, 77, 221;
staging, 169, 182, 204, 205, 206, 226
_Cromwell, Thomas Lord._ See _Thomas Lord Cromwell_.
Dating of the plays, x-xiv
_Devil’s Charter, The_, dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 35;
properties in, 77, 79, 81, 95, 223, 224, 225;
stage, use of, 82-85, 88, 90, 92-93, 185;
staging, 164-165, 185, 188, 195, 200-201, 204, 227;
theme, 61
Dramaturgic practice: causation in, 32-33, 111, 143, 154;
climactic plateau (climax) in, 39-44, 55;
contrast in, 59-60;
distancing of action, 147;
finale in, form of (_see also_ staging of finale), 35-39;
in group scenes, 137;
liaison between scenes, 45-47;
narrative development in, 30, 34-35, 38-39;
scene structure in, 54-57;
split structure in, 43-44;
temporal illusion in, 157-158
_Every Man Out of His Humour_, chorus, use of, 25-26;
dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 30, 35-36, 147;
localization, 68;
“mirror image,” 28;
properties in, 223, 224;
stage, use of, 87;
staging, 172-173;
theme, 61
Exit lines, 107
_Fair Maid of Bristow_, character type in, 152;
dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 35-37, 59;
narrative pattern in, 51-53;
properties in, 79-80, 223, 224, 230;
staging, 188, 198, 227-228
Formal scenes, 229
_Hamlet_, xii, 1, 58, 118, 121, 132, 135, 136, 145, 156, 229;
character types in, 148-150, 154;
dating of, x;
dramatic history of, 18;
dramaturgic practice in, 38, 40-42, 46-47, 54, 55, 59, 137;
entrance pattern, 73;
localization, 64-67, 220;
narrative pattern in, 39, 49-50;
opening action, 34;
properties in, 75, 78, 79, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 88, 92-93, 194-195, 201-202;
staging, 171, 181, 183-185, 187, 192, 193-195, 200-203, 205,
208-209, 212
_Julius Caesar_, 229;
character types in, 148, 153;
dating of, x;
dramaturgic practice in, 33, 38, 42, 54, 57, 59, 158, 207;
localization, 64, 66, 220;
narrative pattern in, 50;
opening action, 34;
properties in, 74, 79, 221, 222;
spatial illusion, 164;
stage, use of, 92;
staging, 163-164, 169, 172, 175, 178, 180, 185, 186-187, 203-204,
205-206, 208-210, 212, 227;
staging of, viii, 230
_Larum for London, A._ See _A Larum for London_
_Lear, King_, 1, 15, 135, 136, 229;
character types in, 148-151, 153;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 30, 32-35, 38-39, 41-43, 55, 56, 60, 137,
157-158;
localization, 73, 220;
narrative pattern in, 51, 53;
opening action, 34;
properties in, 77, 78, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 85, 87, 227;
staging, 159, 170, 180-181, 198, 200, 205, 208, 210-211
Localization of action, 64-67, 73, 220;
through chorus, 68;
through identification of stage doors with place, 72-73
_London Prodigal, The_, 1;
character type in, 152;
dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 36, 44;
property in, 223;
staging in, 175, 199, 227
_Macbeth_, 229;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 32, 38-39, 42, 57, 59;
localization, 64-65, 220;
narrative pattern in, 49;
opening action, 34;
premiere of, 23;
properties in, 76, 77, 78, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 70, 93;
staging, 170, 183-185, 187, 192, 203, 206, 209;
theme, 61
_Malcontent, The_, 96, 223;
dating of, xiv;
disguise in, 226
_Measure for Measure_, 15, 136, 229;
character types in, 148, 150, 153;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 32, 36-37, 39, 111, 154, 207;
localization, 220;
properties in, 78, 221;
staging, 170, 175, 179, 184, 187, 194-195, 198, 208, 210-212, 226
_Merry Devil of Edmonton, The_, character types in, 150;
dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 37;
properties in, 74, 223, 224;
stage, use of, 71;
staging, 188, 227
_Merry Wives of Windsor, The_, 135, 136, 229;
character types in, 150;
dating of, xii;
dramaturgic practice in, 38, 45-46, 147;
localization, 72, 220;
narrative pattern in, 51;
premiere of, 23;
property in, 222;
stage, use of, 89;
staging, 171, 186, 190, 208, 210, 212, 227
_Miseries of Enforced Marriage_, dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 37;
properties in, 223, 224;
stage, use of, 90-92, 94;
staging in, 163-164, 166, 175, 227
Narrative patterns in, episodic form, 48-51;
“mirror” form, 51-53;
“river” form, 50-51
Opening action in, 34
_Othello_, 136, 229;
character types in, 149;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 32-33, 37-39, 42, 46, 111, 143, 157;
localization, 66-67, 73, 220;
properties in, 77, 210, 221;
spatial illusion in, 161-162;
stage, use of, 85-88, 196;
staging, 171, 178, 180, 186, 187, 189, 196, 208, 210, 227
_Pericles_, 15, 229;
character types in, 153;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 38;
localization, 68, 220;
properties in, 75, 81, 221, 222;
spatial illusion, 160-162;
stage, use of, 70, 85-88, 94;
staging, 172, 184, 190, 204, 205, 226-227
Premieres of, 23
Properties in, complete list of, 221-225;
introduction of, 75-76;
types: bed, 78-79, 82-83, 86;
chair, 78, 83;
chair for invalid, 77;
miscellaneous, 74-75;
scaffold, 79-80;
sedan chair, 77;
state, 78;
stools, 77-78, 82-83;
table, 76-77;
tent, 81, 95;
tomb, 70, 81
_Revenger’s Tragedy, The_, 58;
dating of, xiii;
disguise in, 198, 228;
dramaturgic practice in, 44, 56-57;
narrative pattern in, 51;
properties in, 223, 224, 225
_Satiromastix_, 223;
dating of, xiii;
properties in, 74
_Sejanus_, 58;
dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 37, 44;
narrative pattern in, 49;
properties in, 223, 224
Simultaneous setting, 159-160
Spatial illusion in, 160-162, 164
Stage, use of: above, 89-92, 230-231;
doors, 70-71;
enclosure, 82-88, 185, 194-196, 211-212;
heavens, 94;
stage posts, 94;
trap, 92-93, 201-202
Staging, of asides, 162, 183, 186-192;
continuity, 163-164, 175;
of disguises, 198-200, 226-228;
of entrances, 178-182;
of farewell scenes, 204-205;
of finales, 208-212;
of focus, 172-173;
of ghost scenes, 200-204;
of greeting scenes, 204;
of group scenes, 169-173;
of messenger scenes, 205-206;
of observation scenes, 183, 193-196;
of processions, 172;
of soliloquies, 183-186;
symmetry, 165-168
Theme in, 60-61
_Thomas Lord Cromwell_, dating of, xiii;
dramaturgic practice in, 37, 44;
narrative pattern in, 48;
properties in, 223, 224;
stage, use of, 185;
staging, 185, 227
_Timon of Athens_, 229;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 37, 39;
localization, 64, 220;
opening action, 34;
properties in, 81, 221, 222;
stage, use of, 85, 87;
staging, 184, 189, 196, 204, 205, 209, 212
_Troilus and Cressida_, 15, 229;
character types in, 150;
dating of, xi;
dramaturgic practice in, 35, 37, 42;
localization in, 66-67, 72-73, 220;
narrative pattern in, 53;
premiere of, 23;
properties in, 79, 81, 222, 230;
staging, 170, 172, 175, 184, 190-192, 204, 206, 208
_Twelfth Night_, viii, 14, 229;
character types in, 149-150;
dating of, x;
dramaturgic practice in, 36-37, 39, 42, 45, 54-55, 137, 154;
exit lines, 107;
localization, 72, 220;
narrative pattern in, 50-51;
premiere of, 23;
property in, 222;
spatial illusion, 164;
stage, use of, 196, 212;
staging, 168-169, 173, 196, 198-200, 208, 210-212, 226
_Volpone_, 135;
dating of, xiii;
disguise in, 228;
dramaturgic practice in, 37;
properties in, 77, 80, 223, 224, 230;
stage, use of, 84, 87
_Yorkshire Tragedy, A_, 1;
character type in, 152;
dating of, xiii;
property in, 77, 223;
stage, use of, 86, 89-90
GENERAL INDEX
Above, the, 89-92, 106, 230-231
Acting, effect of sightlines on, 128-129;
style of, 214
Adams, John C., _The Globe Playhouse_, 22, 65, 69, 71, 89-90, 92,
94, 101-102, 159, 202, 214, 230
Admiral’s men, Lord, 3-6, 9-10, 12-13, 15-18, 20, 95
Admiral-Prince’s men, 4
Aeschylus, 47
Albright, V. E., _The Shakesperian Stage_, 65, 214
Alexander, Peter, _Shakespeare’s Life and Art_, xii
Alleyn, Edward, vii, x, 9, 12, 131
_Annals of the English Drama_ (Harbage), xi, xii
_Antigone_ (Sophocles), 31, 59
_Arcadian Rhetorike, The_ (Fraunce), 114-117, 119
Archer, William, 65
Aristotle, _Poetics_, 29, 31-32, 39, 49, 58
Armin, Robert, 123, 133, 134
_Art of Rhetorique, The_ (T. Wilson), 114-115, 117, 119
_Arte of English Poesie, The_ (Puttenham), 28-29
_As Merry As May Be_, 20
Asides, staging of, 162, 183, 186-192
Bacon, Sir Francis, 120, 140-143, 146
Baldwin, Thomas W., _The Organization and Personnel of the
Shakespearean Company_, 22, 128, 133-136;
_Shakespeare’s Five-Act Structure_, 26, 29, 40
_Barnardo and Fiametta_, 7, 11
Barnes, Barnabe, xiii, 82, 164.
See also _The Devil’s Charter_
_Battle of Alcazar, The_ (Peele), 147, 176-177, 179
Beaumont, Francis, ix
Beds, use of, 78-79, 82-83, 86, 210
Bentley, Gerald E., ix, 14
_Black Book_ (T. M.’s), xiii
Blackfriars Theatre, vii, ix, x, xii, 13-14, 21, 24, 71, 94, 133, 210
_Blind Beggar of Alexandria_, 11
Boas, F. S., xiv
Booth, Edwin, 132
_Bourgeois Gentilhomme, Le_, 112
Boy actors, 134
Bradbrook, Muriel C., _Themes and Conventions of Elizabethan Tragedy_,
26, 30-31, 51, 58
Bright, Timothy, _A Treatise of Melancholie_, 139, 143-144
Brown, John R., 111
_Brute_, 10
Bryan, George, 124
Bulwer, John, _Chirologia_ and _Chironomia_, 114
Burbage, James, vii-viii, 105, 122
Burbage, Richard, x, 1, 4, 18, 96, 123, 133-134, 136
_Cambises_, 121, 125, 127
Campbell, Lily B., _Shakespeare’s Tragic Heroes_, 139, 141
Campbell, Oscar J., xii
Castiglione, Baldassare, _The Courtier_, 117
_Catastrophe_, 26, 39
Cecil, Sir Robert, 18
_Certain Small Workes_ (Daniel), xi
Chairs, use of, 77-78, 83
Chamberlain-King’s men, vii, xiii, 4, 22.
_See also_ Chamberlain’s men, Globe company, and King’s men
_Chamberlain’s men, Lord_, viii, xi, xiii, 3-5, 13-14, 18-19, 93,
95, 113, 124, 130.
_See also_ Chamberlain-King’s men, Globe company, and King’s men
Chambers, E. K., 65;
_The Elizabethan Stage_, xiii, 9, 12, 133, 158, 174, 219;
_William Shakespeare_, x-xii
Chapman, George, 25
_Character Problems in Shakespeare’s Plays_ (Schücking), 45, 47
Character types, 148-154
Charles I, King, 21
Charlton House, 167
Charron, Pierre, 143
Children of Paul’s, xiii
Children of the Queen’s Revels, ix, xiv, 3, 96, 133
_Chinon of England_, 11
_Chirologia_ and _Chironomia_ (Bulwer), 114
_Chronicle History of the London Stage, A_ (F. G. Fleay), 13
Cicero, 25
_Cleopatra_ (Daniel), xi
Climactic plateau (climax), 39-44, 55
Coeffeteau, F. N., _A Table of Humane Passions_, 143
Commedia dell’arte, 112-113, 129, 148, 215
Condell, Henry, 96, 123, 133
Cooke, Alexander, 123, 133
Cope, Sir Walter, 18-19
Cornwallis, Sir William, 143
Court, performances at, xi, xiii, 3-4, 15, 19-21, 23, 218-219
_Courtier, The_ (Castiglione), 117
Cowley, Robert, 123, 133-134
_Crack Me This Nutte_, 7, 11
Craig, Hardin, 30;
_The Enchanted Glass_, 138-139, 145
Curtain, the, viii, ix
_Cymbeline_, xii, 94
_Cyprian Conqueror, The_, 117
_Damon and Pithias_ (R. Edwardes), 139
Daniel, Samuel, _Cleopatra_, xi
Davenant, William, _The Witts_, 21
Day, John, 20
_Defence of Poesie, The_ (Sidney), 24, 58, 66
Dekker, Thomas, 9;
_Fortunatus_, 17, 19-20;
_The Gull’s Hornbook_, vii, 97;
_The Honest Whore I_, 145.
See also _Satiromastix_
Derby’s company, 3
DeWitt, John, 94, 99-101, 169
_Diary_ (Henslowe), 3-5, 8-10, 12-17, 19-22, 217
_Directions for Speech and Style_ (Hoskins), 118
Disguise, staging of, 197-200, 226-228
_Disguises, The_, 6, 11
Doran, Madeleine, _Endeavors of Art_, 27-28, 30
Downer, Alan, 124
Downton, Thomas, 9
_Dramatic Records of Sir Henry Herbert, The_, 13, 21
Dramatic theory, Elizabethan, 24-25
Draper, John W., _The Humors and Shakespeare’s Characters_, 139, 154
Dutton, John, 122
Edmans, John, 134
_Edward I_ (Peele), 6
Edwardes, Richard, _Damon and Pithias_, 139
_Electra_ (Sophocles), 59
Elizabeth, Queen, xii, 18-20, 22, 104
_Elizabethan Acting_ (Joseph), 113-114, 132
_Elizabethan Stage, The_ (E. K. Chambers), xiii, 9, 12, 133, 158,
174, 219
_Elizabethan World Picture, The_ (Tillyard), 139
Elizabeth’s Servants, Lady, 14
Elyot, Sir Thomas, _The Governour_, 116, 119, 141
_Enchanted Glass, The_ (H. Craig), 138-139, 145
Enclosure, the, 74, 82-88, 94, 106, 175, 179, 185, 194-196, 211-212
_Endeavors of Art_ (Doran), 27-28, 30
Episodic pattern, 48-51
_Epitasis_, 26, 40
Essex, Earl of, xii, 130
_Every Man in His Humour_ (Jonson), 93
_Excellent Actor, An_, 129
_Fair Em_, 147
Farewell scenes, staging of, 204-205
_Faustus, Doctor_ (Marlowe), 14, 17
Fergusson, Francis, _The Idea of a Theater_, 29
_First Night of Twelfth Night, The_ (Hotson), x, 23
Fleay, F. G., _A Chronicle History of the London Stage_, 13
Fleetwood, William, 139
Fletcher, John, ix
Fletcher, Laurence, 123, 133
Foakes, R. A., 111, 138, 145
Forest, Louise, 138, 144
Forman, Simon, xii
_Fortunatus_ (Dekker), 17, 19-20
Fortune, the, vii, x, 4, 14, 20, 69, 94, 101-102
_Four PP._ (J. Heywood), 124
Fraunce, Abraham, _The Arcadian Rhetorike_, 114-117, 119
_Friar Bacon & Friar Bungay_ (R. Greene), 18, 20
_From Art to Theatre_ (Kernodle), 102-105, 158, 216
Fuller, Thomas, 122
Gallery over the stage, 95, 98
_Garden of Eloquence, The_ (Peacham), 118-119
Ghost scenes, staging of, 200-204
Gilburne, Samuel, 133-134
Globe company, viii, xii, 14, 16, 23, 35, 134;
acting style of, 146, 156, 214;
actors of, 122;
finances of, 22;
organization of, 132, 135;
repertory of, 15;
role distribution in, 136;
shares in, 4.
_See also_ Chamberlain-King’s men
Globe playhouse, vii, ix, xii, xiii, 4-5, 13-14, 22-24, 100-101;
construction of, viii-ix, 2;
design of, vii, 102, 106, 108;
opening date of, ix, x, xii, 133;
stage of, xiv, 95, 210;
sitting on stage of, 96
_Globe Playhouse, The_ (J. C. Adams), 22, 65, 69, 71, 89-90, 92,
94, 101-102, 159, 202, 214, 230
_Globe Restored, The_ (Hodges), 69, 94, 101-102, 158, 230-231
Godfrey, Walter, 101
Goffe, Robert, 123
Gorki, Maxim, _Yegor Bulichev and Others_, 61
Gosson, Stephen, _Playes Confuted in Five Actions_, 122
_Governour, The_ (Elyot), 116, 119, 141
Granville-Barker, Harley, 65, 106;
_Prefaces to Shakespeare_, 41
Gray, H. D., x
Greeting scenes, staging of, 204-205
Greg, W. W., 9, 13, 131, 217
Grosse, Samuel, 133-134
_Gull’s Hornbook, The_ (Dekker), vii, 97
Haines, C. M., 176
Harbage, Alfred, 109, 117;
_Annals of the English Drama_, xi, xii;
_Shakespeare and the Rival Traditions_, ix;
_Shakespeare’s Audience_, 22
Hardwick Hall, 167-168
Harper, Sir William, 105
Harvey, Gabriel, x
Hatfield House, 167
Hathway, Richard, 20
Heavens, machinery in the, 93-94, 106
_Hedda Gabler_ (Ibsen), 40, 60
Heminges, John, x, 4, 123, 133
Heminges _vs._ Witter & Ostler, 4
_Henry IV, Part I, King_, 14, 129
_Henry V, King_ (Shakespeare), viii, xi, xii, 68
_Henry V_ (Anonymous), 11
Henry VIII, 104, 165
Henslowe, Philip, vii, x;
_Diary_, 3-5, 8-10, 12-17, 19-22, 217;
_Papers_, 75, 79, 94-95, 125, 217
Herbert, Sir Henry, _The Dramatic Records of_, 13, 21
Hertford’s men, 4
Heywood, John, 124
Heywood, Thomas, 9, 10
Hilliard, Nicholas, 165
_Histrio-mastix_, 121, 123
Hoby, Thomas, 117
Hodges, C. Walter, _The Globe Restored_, 69, 94, 101-102, 158, 230-231
_Honest Whore I, The_ (Dekker and Middleton), 145
Hope, the, 94, 102
_Horestes_, 121
Hoskins, John, _Directions for Speech and Style_, 118
Hosley, Richard, 73, 82, 84, 89, 92, 99
Hotson, Leslie, xi;
_The First Night of Twelfth Night_, x, 23;
_Shakespeare’s Motley_, 125;
_Shakespeare vs. Shallow_, xii;
_Shakespeare’s Wooden O_, 95-97
_Humors and Shakespeare’s Characters, The_ (Draper), 139, 154, 241,
242
Hunter, Sir Mark, 176
_Idea of a Theater, The_ (Fergusson), 29
Income of players, 21-22
_Ion_ (Euripides), 32
_Isle of Dogs, The_, 3, 5
James I, King, x, 15, 20, 22, 104, 133
_Jeronimo, The First Part of_, xiv, 96, 204
_Jew of Malta, The_, 8, 14
_John, King_, 168
Johnson, Samuel, 26, 47
Jones, Inigo, 103
Jonson, Ben, xiii, 3, 9, 17, 21, 25-26, 28, 44, 49, 58, 61, 68-69, 87,
120, 151, 172;
_Every Man In His Humour_, 93;
_The New Inn_, 26.
See also _Every Man Out of His Humour_, _Sejanus_, and _Volpone_
Joseph, Bertram, _Elizabethan Acting_, 113-114, 132
Judge-figure in finale, 36-38, 208
Katherens, Gilbert, 105
Keen, Frances, 23
Kemp, Will, viii, xii, 135-136
Kernodle, George R., _From Art to Theatre_, 102-105, 158, 216
King’s men, ix, x, xiii, xiv, 13-14, 21, 24, 94, 133-134.
_See also_ Chamberlain-King’s men, Chamberlain’s men, and
Globe company
Kittredge, G. L., xi, xii, 195, 230
_Knack to Know an Honest Man, A_, 147
Knight, G. Wilson, _Principles of Shakespearean Production_, 39-40;
_Wheel of Fire_, 58, 61
Kreider, Paul, _Repetition in Shakespeare’s Plays_, 197
Kyd, Thomas, 15, 48, 92
“Law of reentry,” 176
Lawrence, W. J., 40, 71, 201
Leicester’s company, 122
_Leir, King_, 151
Localization of action, 64-68, 72-73, 220
_Longshank_, 6, 11
Lord Mayor’s Show, 103-105
_Love’s Labour’s Lost_, 18
_Love’s Labour’s Won_, xi
Lowin, J., 96-97, 123, 133, 134-135
Lucas, F. L., 45
McManaway, J. G., xii
Malone, Edmond, 13, 21, 75
Manly, John M., 30
Mansions, use of, 95
Marivaux, Pierre, 112-113
Marlowe, Christopher, 15, 92, 124;
_Doctor Faustus_, 14, 17;
_The Jew of Malta_, 8, 14;
_Tamberlaine_, 6, 7, 14
Marston, John, xiv, 96.
See also _The Malcontent_
Merchant Tailors Company, 105
Meres, Francis, _Palladis Tamia_, x, xi, xii
_Messalina_ title page, 98-99
Messenger scenes, staging of, 205-206
Middleton, Thomas, 20;
_The Honest Whore I_, 145
_Midsummer Night’s Dream, A_, 130
Mildmay, Sir Humphrey, 21
Mirror, image of art as a, 27-29, 59
Mirror pattern, 51-53
Molière, 21, 112, 136
Moscow Art Theatre, 112, 132
Moulton, R. G., _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_, 40, 41
_Much Ado About Nothing_, xi-xii, 136, 150, 153
Nagler, Alois, _Shakespeare’s Stage_, 96, 99
Nashe, Thomas, 3
Newington Butts, 5, 13, 18
_New Inn, The_ (Jonson), 26
New plays, introduction of, 9, 11-13
_New World’s Tragedy, A_, 11
_Northern Lass, The_, 21
Observation scenes, staging of, 183, 193-197
_Oedipus_ (Sophocles), 31
_On Producing Shakespeare_ (Watkins), 163-164, 175, 214
_Oresteia_ (Aeschylus), 47
_Organization and Personnel of the Shakespearean Company, The_
(Baldwin), 22, 128, 133-136
_Orlando Furioso_ (Greene), 131-132, 147
Orsino, Virginio, Duke of Bracciano, 23, 96
Ostler, William, 133
_Palladis Tamia_ (F. Meres), x-xii
Palsgrave’s company, 14
_Papers_ (Henslowe), 75, 79, 94-95, 125, 217
Peacham, Henry, _Garden of Eloquence, The_, 118, 119
Peele, George, _The Battle of Alcazar_, 147, 176, 179;
_Edward I_, 6
Pembroke’s men, 3
_Peripeteia_, 32
_Phaethon_, 18, 20, 79
Phillips, Augustine, 4, 123, 130, 133
_Philoctetes_ (Sophocles), 31
Platter, Thomas, x, 14, 97
Plautus, 25, 48
_Playes Confuted in Five Actions_ (Gosson), 122
_Plays and Masques at Court_ (Steele), 219
Plutarch, 74, 214
Poel, William, 214
_Poetaster_ (Jonson), xiii
_Poetics_ (Aristotle), 29, 31-32, 39, 49, 58
_Polyphemus_, 10
Pope, Thomas, 4, 123-124, 133
_Prefaces to Shakespeare_ (Granville-Barker), 41
Prince’s men, 14
_Principles of Art History_ (Wölfflin), 27
_Principles of Shakespearean Production_ (Knight), 39-40
Privy Council, 3, 5, 19
_Promos and Cassandra_ (Whetstone), 139
Properties, stage, 74-82, 158-174 _passim_, 221-225
Puttenham, George, _The Arte of English Poesie_, 28-29
_Pythagoras_, 11
Queen of Bohemia’s company, 14
Queen’s men, 121, 122
Ramus, P., 114, 119
Ranking-figure, 38, 210, 212
Red Bull, the, 4, 92, 95, 158
_Repetition in Shakespeare’s Plays_ (Kreider), 197
Resolving figure, 211-212
_Return from Parnassus, II, The_, 136
Revivals, system of, 8, 17-18
Reynolds, George F., 63, 65, 72-73, 175, 214, 216;
_The Staging of Elizabethan Plays at the Red Bull_, 92, 95, 158, 174
Rich, John, 134
_Richard II, King_, 14, 130
_Richard III, King_, 61, 136, 158, 165, 168
River pattern, 48, 50-51
_Romeo and Juliet_, viii
Rose, the, 5-7, 22
_Roxana_ title page, 97-99, 180
Royal entries, 103-104
Sands, James, 134
Scaffolds on stage, 79-80, 82
Schücking, L. L., _Character Problems in Shakespeare’s Plays_, 45, 47
_Seleo and Olempo_, 7
_Selimus_, 126, 147
Seneca, 48
_Seven Days of the Week_, 6, 11
_Seven Deadly Sins_, 123,133
Shakespeare (?), Ned, 134
_Shakespeare and the Audience_ (Sprague), 186
_Shakespeare and the Nature of Man_ (Spencer), 139
_Shakespeare and the Rival Traditions_ (Harbage), ix
_Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (Moulton), 40, 41
_Shakespeare’s Audience_ (Harbage), 22
_Shakespeare’s Five-Act Structure_ (Baldwin), 26, 29, 40
_Shakespeare’s Life and Art_ (Alexander), xii
_Shakespeare’s Motley_ (Hotson), 125
_Shakespeare’s Stage_ (Nagler), 96, 99
_Shakespeare Studies_ (Stoll), 58
_Shakespeare’s Theater_ (Thorndike), 66, 175
_Shakespeare’s Tragic Heroes_ (L. B. Campbell), 139, 141
_Shakespeare’s Wooden O_ (Hotson), 95-97
_Shakespeare vs. Shallow_ (Hotson), xii
_Shakesperian Stage, The_ (Albright), 65, 214
Sidney, Sir Philip, _The Defence of Poesie_, 24, 58, 66
Simultaneous setting, 158-160, 164
_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, 121, 125-126
_Sir Thomas More_, 121
Sly, William, 96-97, 123, 133, 135
Smith, Irwin, 73
Smith, Warren, 79-80, 186, 230
Smith, Wentworth, 20
Soliloquies, staging of, 183-186
Southern, Richard, 84, 101
_Spanish Tragedy, The_ (Kyd), 14, 17
Spencer, Theodore, _Shakespeare and the Nature of Man_, 139
Sprague, A. C., _Shakespeare and the Audience_, 186
Stage doors, use of, 70-71
_Staging of Elizabethan Plays at the Red Bull, The_ (Reynolds), 92,
95, 158, 174
Stanislavsky, C., 215
Steele, Mary S., _Plays and Masques at Court_, 219
Stoll, Elmer E., _Shakespeare Studies_, 58
Stools, use of, 77-78
_Strange News Out of Poland_, 9
Strange’s men, 17
_Streetcar Named Desire, A_ (Williams), 60, 149
Streete, Peter, ix, x, 105
Swan drawing, 72, 94, 97-102, 169
Symbolism in staging, 216
_Tableaux vivants_, 102-103
_Table of Humane Passions, A_ (Coeffeteau), 143
Tables, use of, 76-77, 82-83
Talaeus, Audomarus, 119
_Tambercame II_, 18
_Tamberlaine, I & II_ (Marlowe), 6-7, 14
Tarleton, Richard, 122, 123
Tents, use of, 81
Terence, 26, 40, 48
Theatre, the, vii-ix, 71, 128
Théâtre-Libre, the, 112
_Themes and Conventions of Elizabethan Tragedy_ (Bradbrook), 26,
30-31, 51, 58
_Thome Strowd, II_, 10
Thorndike, Ashley, _Shakespeare’s Theater_, 66, 175
_Three Ladies of London_ (R. Wilson), 147
_Three Lords and Three Ladies of London, The_ (R. Wilson), 147
Tillyard, E. M. W., _The Elizabethan World Picture_, 139
_Titus Andronicus_, viii
Tooley, Nicholas, 123, 133
Tourneur, Cyril, xiii
_Toy to Please Chaste Ladies, A_, 6-8, 11
Traps, use of, 92-93, 106, 201-202
_Treatise of Melancholie, A_ (Bright), 139, 143-144
_Troublesome Reign of King John, The_, 147
_True Tragedy of King Richard III, The_, 126
_Two Angry Women of Abington, II_ (Porter), 10
Underwood, John, 133
Van Buchell, Arend, 100
Walker, Albert, 125, 153-154
_Warning for Fair Women, A_, 81, 94, 147, 200, 203
Watkins, Ronald, _On Producing Shakespeare_, 163-164, 175, 214
Watson, C. B., 37
_Weather, The_ (J. Heywood), 124
Webster, John, xiv, 45, 96.
See also _The Malcontent_
_Wheel of Fire_ (Knight), 58, 61
Whetstone, George, _Promos and Cassandra_, 139
Whitehall Palace, x, 96
Wilkins, George, xiii.
See also _Miseries of Enforced Marriage_
_William Shakespeare_ (E. K. Chambers), x-xii
Wilson, J. Dover, x
Wilson, Jack, 134
Wilson, Robert, 122, 123;
_Three Ladies of London_ and _The Three Lords and Three
Ladies of London_, 147
Wilson, Thomas, _The Art of Rhetorique_, 114-115, 117, 119
_Winter’s Tale, The_, 15
_Wits, The_, 98, 180
_Witts, The_ (Davenant), 21
Wölfflin, Heinrich, _Principles of Art History_, 27
Wollaton Hall, 167-168
_Woman Killed with Kindness, A_ (T. Heywood), 10
_Woman of Andros_ (Terence), 26
_Wonder of a Woman_, 7, 11
Worcester-Queen’s men, 4
Worcester’s men, 3-4, 10, 12-13, 16, 133
Worde, Wynken de, 104
_Yegor Bulichev and Others_ (Gorki), 61
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
The table at the start of Appendix C was very wide in the
original book. It has been modified by splitting each row into
two rows, each one less than 75 characters wide.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources.
Except for those changes noted below, all misspellings in the text,
and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
Pg 112: ‘a Francatrippa’ replaced by ‘a Franca Trippa’.
Pg 152: ‘[Sig. El^r]’ replaced by ‘[Sig. E1^r]’.
Pg 217: ‘[22]’ replaced by ‘(22)’ to avoid confusion with the
footnote notation.
Pg 243: ‘written to that’ replaced by ‘written so that’.
Pg 246: ‘staging of V, iii,’ replaced by ‘staging of, viii,’.
Pg 247: ‘focus 172-173;’ replaced by ‘of focus 172-173;’.
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