[Between 2006 and 2016 I wrote a number of short articles for the magazine of Shakespeare’s Globe in London, Around the Globe. Strangely, though, I only saw my first production at the Globe this year, when my daughter Gracie took me to see King Lear performed by the incomparable Kathryn Hunter under the direction of Helena Kaut-Howson. The experience made me think I should publish my Globe essays on this blog, in the hope they may remind a few readers of the productions staged at the playhouse through all those years when I couldn’t see them. This is the first, on a play for which I’ve always had a soft spot since seeing it in the 1970s with Imogen Stubbs as a handless, tongueless Lavinia.
The following piece comes with multiple trigger warnings: rape, mutilation, murder, cannibalism and more.]
Ancient Rome lay at the heart of the Elizabethan grammar school system. At Stratford grammar school Shakespeare would have learned to see Roman culture as the source of all good writing, the touchstone by which any modern society must measure the degree to which it could claim to be civilised. So when Shakespeare set his first non-English tragedy, Titus Andronicus, in Rome, one might have expected him to approach the subject with timidity: a little over-awed by the sheer weight of expectation that must accompany any theatrical dealings with the supreme exponents of theatre, a little abashed at the prospect of testing his rhetorical skills on the historical home of rhetoric…
Not a bit of it.
Shakespeare dealt with the anxiety of influence by cocking a snook at Rome. Instead of drawing on Roman history he invented a story of his own, rewriting the decline and fall of the Empire as a series of violent set-pieces, riddled with derisory laughter. He responded to the belief that ancient Italy was the cradle of civilization by depicting it as fundamentally barbaric. And he mocked the solemn attitude of his old schoolmasters by filling his play with allusions to the schoolroom, where an appreciation for Latin had been beaten into him with a stick. In Titus, Shakespeare had the temerity to laugh at the culture that shaped him; and having done that so early in his career, it must have seemed to his Elizabethan audience that he was capable of anything.
On the face of it, Titus deals with the infiltration of a great metropolis by the forces of barbarism, as the Queen of the Goths Tamora and her Moorish lover Aaron take a terrible revenge on the Roman general Titus for subjecting them to the humiliation of a military defeat. But as the plot unfolds it becomes clear that barbarism was already endemic in the Empire long before the Goths came on the scene. In the first act, Titus presides over a bloody ritual that horrifies Tamora: the sacrificial killing of an unarmed prisoner-of-war, Tamora’s eldest son; and in the last, he perpetrates a series of atrocities that puts all her crimes in the shade. Between these framing acts of violence, the Empire’s affinity with barbarism signals itself repeatedly: among other things, in the speed with which the Roman Emperor Saturninus woos and marries Tamora, and the ease with which the Romans catch on to the lesson she has to teach them, which is about the intimate relationship between revenge and laughter. This was a topic that fascinated Shakespeare throughout his career, from The Merchant of Venice to Twelfth Night, from Hamlet to The Tempest. And in all his work it is the Roman general Titus who is its bloodiest exponent.
Aaron and Tamora see themselves as teachers, instructing Tamora’s surviving sons in the art of comic vengeance. Summing up his career in Act Five, Aaron explains how he taught the boys to read Ovid’s Metamorphoses – one of the standard books in the Elizabethan school curriculum – as an instruction manual in the art of rape. From it they learn to rape Titus’s daughter Lavinia, then cut off her hands and tongue to prevent her revealing their crime. The Moor finds this ghastly prank hilarious: Lavinia, he says, was ‘washed and cut and trimmed’ by barbarous barbers, and it was ‘Trim sport’, he adds, ‘for them which had the doing of it’. Later, he framed two of Titus’s sons for murder, then tricked the old general into cutting off his own hand in a vain attempt to save them from execution. As Aaron puts it, he ‘played the cheater’ for Titus’s hand – a cheater being at once a swindler, an officer of the crown and a cant word for hand – ‘And when I had it drew myself apart / And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter’. Afterwards Aaron and Tamora celebrated the downfall of the Andronici in an orgy of sex and merry-making: ‘when I told the Empress of this sport / She swoonéd almost at my pleasing tale / And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses’. Clearly, reading the Roman classics in a certain way could have quite the opposite of a civilizing influence; and this is a way of reading that Titus takes to heart. For Aaron is Titus’s tutor too, teaching him through a series of sledgehammer blows to abandon the excessive respect for time-honoured custom with which he began the play, and to discover instead the terrible power of comic improvisation.
The turning point in Titus’s fortunes comes in the middle of the play, when he learns to join in the monstrous mirth provoked by the Moor’s atrocities. This happens at the moment when a messenger comes in carrying the heads of his executed sons, together with Titus’s hand, which Aaron lopped off on the old man’s orders in a bid to procure his sons’ release. As the messenger says, the judges who refused to spare the boys made ‘Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mocked’. And it’s by mimicking this grotesque conversion of grief to jest that Titus finds the path to vengeance. His brother Marcus tells him that this is the proper moment to vent his sorrows: ‘Now is the time to storm’. Instead Titus bursts into peals of hysterical laughter, stinging Marcus into an offended inquiry: ‘Why does thou laugh? It suits not with this hour’. But Titus’s mistimed merriment signals his readiness to take part in the appalling comedy set in motion by Tamora and her lover. Grief is powerless, he tells his brother, making his eyes ‘blind with tributary tears’ and obscuring the path to ‘Revenge’s cave’. Laughter, by contrast, serves as the perfect means of blurring his enemies’ vision, while leaving his own sight clear to seek out the nastiest and most appropriate form of retribution.
The revenge he chooses wittily completes the story from the Metamorphoses that Aaron chose to dramatize when he plotted the rape and mutilation of Lavinia. After a series of comic performances – filling Rome with satirical taunts aimed at Tamora and her Emperor husband, pretending not to recognize Tamora and her sons when they visit him in disguise – Titus stages a banquet as the final act of his comedy, a grotesque parody of the feast of reconciliation that closes the traditional comic plot. In it, he serves up Tamora’s sons to their mother, baked in a pie: a scene that recalls the tale of Philomela, in which her sister Procne killed and cooked a rapist’s son, then served him to his father in a stew. The Gothic Queen is being forced to eat her words: after all, it was she and her sons who first liberated Philomela from Ovid’s pages. Her death at the climax of this cannibalistic supper demonstrates the success of Titus’s scheme to stun her into silence, finally putting an end to the pernicious cycle of comic vengeance she helped to spark off.
Except that Tamora and Aaron, and the horrendous form of comedy they practise, are not so easily suppressed. As the ‘breeders of these dire events’, the couple have also bred a healthy baby in the course of the play; and Aaron’s last trick on the Romans is to make them swear that they will raise the child as one of their own. The offspring of the two notorious pranksters survives the play along with Titus’s grandson, and both branches of the Roman family were adopted by the Elizabethans, who indoctrinated their own offspring in the ways of ancient Rome. The inheritance from that Empire is an unsettling one, and in stressing its unsettling nature Shakespeare makes his audience rethink the concept of civilization, and whether they can claim – or would ever wish to claim – to aspire to the Roman brand of it. Titus Andronicus is a funny play as well as a savage one. its humour is in poor taste; but who says that history, politics, myth, or even good drama have to be tasteful?
[This month my colleague Richard Stacey interviewed me for his brilliant Honours course, Dragged off the Street: Queer Players on the Renaissance Stage. He asked me to talk about Thomas Middleton’s play Your Five Gallants, which gave me a chance to read it in Gary Taylor and John Lavagnino’s monumental edition, Thomas Middleton: The Collected Works (Oxford, 2007). Years back I edited Middleton and Dekker’s plague pamphlet News from Gravesend for this edition, so it was a delight to get the chance to explore it again. All references are to Ralph Alan Cohen’s edition of the play, and I also used Taylor’s life of Middleton, ‘Lives and Afterlives’, and Scott McMillin’s essay on ‘Middleton’s Theatres’, all in the Collected Works.
The questions are Richard’s, the answers mine.]
Q: Your Five Gallants (c. 1606) was written by Thomas Middleton. Could you tell us a little bit about Middleton’s theatrical career?
A: The son of a London bricklayer who became a building contractor and made himself a gentleman, Middleton described himself as a gentleman for the rest of his life. His Dad died when he was five, his Mum married again, but her second husband seems to have been a bit of a monster and she spent the whole of her marriage fighting him over ownership of her property. She won.
Middleton went to the University of Oxford, but like Marlowe he didn’t graduate. He wrote and published poems while a student, and one book of his poems was burned for breaking a law against writing satires. After that he started writing for the theatre. He also wrote civic pageants for the City of London authorities and masques for the royal court. He wrote a lot, in fact: the Oxford Middleton is bigger than the Bible.
Unlike Shakespeare, who wrote for just one company, Middleton was a freelance playwright who wrote for all the major playhouses and theatre companies in London. At the beginning of his career he co-wrote with other playwrights, or made additions to other people’s plays – such as Shakespeare’s Macbeth, to which he added some rather rubbish extra scenes involving the witches, or Thomas Kyd’s The Spanish Tragedy (1580s), to which he added some scenes extending the madness of Hieronimo – one of the servants in Your Five Gallants (1607) is called Hieronimo, as if in homage to this little job of his. His favourite collaborator was Thomas Dekker, his worst enemy Ben Jonson – who also happened to be the son of a bricklayer. In 1603 the theatres were closed for a year, first because of the death of Queen Elizabeth, then because of the plague. While they were closed he got married and wrote some terrific pamphlets about the plague (with his friend Dekker) that got reworked by Daniel Defoe in his novel A Journal of the Plague Year (1722). After this break, his career as a playwright really took off. Here’s a list of his finest plays:
A Trick to Catch the Old One (1607), a comedy about a young man tricking an old one out of his cash.
The Roaring Girl (1611), a comedy about the real-life cross-dressing female thief, Mary Frith or Moll Cutpurse. She attended some of the performances and exchanged banter with the audience.
A Chaste Maid in Cheapside (1613), a satirical city comedy about a girl who doesn’t want to marry an older man called Walter Whorehound, for obvious reasons, dies of grief, and then – but that would be telling.
The Revenger’s Tragedy, an extremely bloody revenge tragedy, in which a Duke is murdered by kissing a poisoned skull.
Women Beware Women (1621), another extremely bloody revenge tragedy which culminates in a masque whose participants are all killed, some of them by Cupids shooting poisoned arrows.
The Changeling (1622), about multiple murders in a castle, purportedly in defence of a woman’s honour.
A Game at Chess (1624), a satire on the court machinations around the proposed marriage of Prince Charles to a Spanish princess. This seems to have been his last play – he may have been banned from writing when it was thrown off the stage by order of the Privy Council.
Q: Your Five Gallants was performed at Blackfriars theatre. Would it be possible for you to tell us a bit about this particular playing space?
A: There were two kinds of playhouses in Jacobean England: the public playhouses, like Shakespeare’s Globe, which had a large capacity – up to around three thousand spectators – and the private playhouses, like the Blackfriars, which held a few hundred. The public playhouses were unroofed, relying on daylight for lighting, while the private ones were roofed and heated, and had artificial lighting: lanterns, rushlights, candles etc. The public playhouses were quite cheap – especially if you were prepared to stand in the pit rather than pay for a seat. The private playhouses were quite expensive. As a result, the public playhouses had a very diverse audience, while the private ones were attended by the middle and upper classes only – ‘gallants’ or gentlemen of the play’s title, gentlewomen, lawyers from the Inns of Court, ladies, well-off merchants, etc. etc.
You’ll notice the way Your Five Gallants plays on class. For instance, it’s got a lot of Latin in it – the masque devised by Fitzgrave in the final act includes a Latin prologue spoken by Pursenet’s thieving boy, as well as Latin mottos for the shields presented to the five fake gallants or gentlemen of the title, whose lower-class status is indicated by their ignorance of the language. And the plot of the comedy is based on class. Fitzgrave, whose name suggests he is the bastard son of a (possibly dead) gentleman, but a genuine gentleman all the same, aims to prevent any of the five fake gentlemen from seducing and marrying the woman he loves – and who loves him – Mistress Katherine, a genuine lady (as against the various fake ladies, most of whom are prostitutes, who populate the play). At the same time, the interdependence of the classes is demonstrated by the way valuable objects circulate among them (a string of pearls, a jewel, a cloak, an expensive salt cellar and a lot more) and the difficulty of distinguishing genuine from fake gentlefolk. King James had degraded the status of the nobility and gentry by selling knighthoods and other honours for cash. Fitzgrave’s struggle to assert the difference between true and false gentry is a genuine struggle, and not guaranteed to come off.
Some commentators suggest that the proximity of the players and the spectators in the private theatres – you could pay for a stool, if you wanted, to watch the play from the stage itself – explains why the plays performed there switch so readily between intimate asides to the audience and dialogue between the actors. There are certainly plenty of these asides – like Piamont’s in Act 4 scene 7, ‘See yonder’s the rogue I suspect for foul play. I’ll walk muffled by him, offer some offence or cause of a quarrel, only to try his temper’. But this is true of many plays performed in public playhouses too, where the spectators were milling around the actors’ feet, so I’m not convinced. On the other hand, another play written for a private playhouse, The Knight of the Burning Pestle by Francis Beaumont, has the most elaborate interplay between audience and players I can think of, as a citizen and his wife emerge from the audience to send the play in an entirely new direction. So they may have a point after all!
The most striking thing about the Blackfriars was that the actors who performed there were young boys: choristers who performed at the Chapel Royal and whose voices had not yet broken. This meant that music was important in this theatre; you’ll notice that there are several calls for music in the play, including the extended musical interlude between Acts Two and Three, when two mini scenes are acted out by Tailby to illustrate how he has all his needs provided for by the many women who appreciate his sexual attentions. The boys were accomplished professional musicians, and the playhouses did all they could to take advantage of the fact.
In addition, the fact that the boys were not paid for their acting (they were funded by their roles as choristers) means that the plays written for them often have large casts. The Oxford Middleton has helpful suggestions for reducing this number by giving the same actors multiple roles, but that wouldn’t have been necessary in the original production. Another thing you might notice is that they often don’t have a central role that lays an enormous amount of stress on a single actor. Your Five Gallants divides the action among multiple main actors, with all the five gallants having plenty of time in the limelight, as well as the ‘true’ gentleman Fitzgrave, Mistress Newcut, the thieving boy, four courtesans, and so on. The public playhouses often featured famous stars of the Jacobean stage – Richard Burbage, Edward Alleyn, Will Kemp and so on – playing roles like Hieronimo, Tamburlaine the Great, Hamlet, Falstaff and the rest. The private playhouses may have had a faster turnover of actors, and were more reputed for ensemble work than individual performances – at least, that’s what I guess.
Q: Have any of the early performance elements of Your Five Gallants been preserved in the script? How do we think the play might have been originally staged?
A: I’ve given quite a few examples in my previous answer, haven’t I? There’s the music, the large cast, the Latin, and the attitude to class. There’s the frequent use of asides, if you think of that as specific to the private playhouses. And the writer of the introduction to the play in the Oxford Middleton, Ralph Alan Cohen, has some interesting things to say, in particular, about the crowd scenes in the play.
There are three of these crowd scenes: a scene in Primero’s brothel, in which Primero acts as a kind of circus master, concealing Mistress Newcut to enjoy her favourite activity of voyeurism, reintroducing the pawnbroker Frip to his latest prostitute, and overseeing the musical performance that accompanies the various seductions and acts of thievery that go on in his establishment. Then there’s a scene in the Mitre Inn, which focuses on a game of dice but keeps breaking away to follow the various player-gallants who have to raise money by illicit means to continue their gambling – suggesting a chaotic economy of theft and counter-theft, all of which culminates in the purloining of the Mitre’s most precious item, a gilt goblet, by the con-man Goldstone. And finally there’s the masque in Act Five, which is danced by the company to music and so has far fewer words than the action in the other acts, while also gesturing towards the high standard of education in the audience through its use of the ‘high’ art of masque as well as the Latin speeches. The masque announces the return of the world to harmony and balance, as the five gallants are exposed by being given their proper names and ranks for the first time in the action. That was the function of masques, according to their most celebrated practitioner, Ben Jonson, so the music in it would have been ravishing.
Each of these crowd scenes plays to the strengths of the playhouse as well as to the boy company that performed there. They’re indoors scenes at which the crowded nature of the venue would be a positive asset. They take advantage of the highly trained boy’s company by using their special talents in music, dance and concerted movement. They also take advantage of the boys’ youth to involve numerous female parts (an adult company only had a few boys in it capable of playing women). And the multiple separate actions taking place at once in the first and second crowd scenes would mean that different sections of the playhouse audience might well be expected to notice different activities going on in different parts of the stage, leading to a satisfying variety of reactions perfectly in tune with the illicit goings-on we’re witnessing.
One can imagine all three scenes as ways to demonstrate the boys’ virtuosity in various ways; a virtuosity that gets underlined by the gallants’ intense anxiety over whether their own boy, the thieving servant of the thieving gallant Pursenet, will be able to remember his lines in the final masque (the masquers in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labours Lost have the same anxiety about their own boy prologue, Moth). There’s no real doubt over whether the Children of the Chapel Royal will remember their lines; it’s a skill that’s been thrashed into them since they joined the choir.
Q: Your Five Gallants is quite a male play, in that a lot of the actors are tasked with portraying boys or men. Critics tend to associate the practice of boy playing with cross-dressing and gender play, almost by default. Are there any particular effects which are generated by boys playing men on stage?
A: This is such an interesting question, and not one I’ve thought about before! Long ago I made a study of the earlier phase of the children’s companies, when their main playwright was a talented man called Lyly. In those days John Lyly made the most of his company’s childishness. In his comedy Sapho and Phao (1584), for instance, the titular ferryman Phao – with whom the poet-queen Sappho falls in love – is consistently referred to as ‘my child’, ‘foolish boy’, ‘fair boy’ and so on; while in Gallathea (1588), in which two girls disguise themselves as boys to avoid being sacrificed to a monster, their youth is constantly emphasized. Gallathea tells herself at one point ‘Thy tender years cannot dissemble this deceit, nor thy sex bear it’, and the other girl disguised as a boy shortly afterwards calls the disguised Gallathea ‘a pretty boy and a fair, he might well have been a woman’, which of course he is (or rather the character is, not the actor). Men’s parts in Lyly’s plays seem sometimes to have been played by grown men – possibly the boys’ teachers. Sir Tophas in Endymion (1588) is obviously much larger and more powerful than his page Epiton, though not half as clever. At the end of the 1580s the children’s companies shut down, but Lyly’s plays were remembered in the Jacobean period: the boy’s company play The Knight of the Burning Pestle (1607) begins (at least in its printed version) with a version of the prologue to Sapho and Phao. But the later children’s companies went a different way, giving audiences the spectacle of children playing adults using adult language.
At the same time, there are times when the youthfulness of the players acting as men would have produced some amusing effects in Middleton’s plays, quite apart from the basic pleasure of seeing the city’s adult affairs played out in miniature. The enjoyment shown by the pawnbroker Frip’s enjoyment of the opportunities for dressing up made available by his trade could be described as boyish: ‘Let me see now, whose cloak shall I wear today to continue change?’ And the pleasure of the other gallants in their own ingenuity has a similar air of youthfulness. After Tailby has gambled away his clothes, his infectious pleasure in being supplied with new clothes by the women who adore him makes him seem like a spoiled boy whose every need is provided for by doting relatives. And Cohen has pointed out how naïve the thief Pursenet is when he plies his trade, delighted with Tailby for giving up his valuables so easily (‘that shows a good nature, sir’), unreasonably shocked by Fitzgrave’s resistance to being robbed – he keeps asking him to play fair – and outraged by Piamont’s discourtesy in keeping one hand in his pocket at all times, preventing Pursenet’s boy from picking it: ‘Unpractised gallant! Salute me but with one hand, like a counterfeit soldier?’ (The joke is that Piamont is a ‘genuine’ gallant or gentleman, so the idea of a fake gallant telling off a true one for not being gallant is highly amusing.) Pursenet’s repeated telling off of his boy for bad manners would also be amusing if done by a larger boy, who is presumably subject to similar tellings-off at other times from his own elders. So would Fitzgrave’s comment on him after he beats him in a fight: ‘O thou world, / How art thou muffled in deceitful forms!’ The fact that the fake gallants are played by children would make their fakery or deceitfulness very obvious at every stage of the action; and the fact that Fitzgrave is himself a child, and that he’s in disguise for most of the play, would help to emphasize the difficulty of distinguishing ‘real’ fakes from ‘fake’ fakes in Jacobean urban life.
There’s another pleasure to be had from the notion of the five gallants being played by boys. They are members of the Elizabethan criminal underworld, which had been the subject of many pamphlets by Robert Greene and Middleton’s friend Thomas Dekker. Those pamphlets achieved popularity by posing as the products of men with inside knowledge of the secret lives of con artists and tricksters. The notion that children might possess such inside knowledge when in fact they are still imbibing more conventional knowledge at school would add to the wit of Middleton’s plot. And the fact that they are beaten at their own game by another child – Fitzgrave – who has clearly spent longer at his lessons than they have, since he knows Latin and they do not, would add another layer of wit to the performance. The humour to be got from this situation only applies if the actors are boys playing men, of course, since most girls and women did not have access to the same educational opportunities. Around 80% of women in Jacobean London, including Middleton’s mother, signed their names with a mark.
Q: Your Five Gallants is quite a bawdy play, in line with other child company pieces. As critics, what can we make of this type of early modern dramaturgy?
A: The plays performed by the children’s companies were famous for being risqué, arousing the disapproval of the moralists for their tendency to have many female roles – the idea of the male putting on the garment of the female being expressly forbidden in the Bible – and for the conviction that they corrupted both the children who acted in them and the audiences who went to see them. In Middleton’s time, too, they frequently engaged in topical satire, something that had theoretically been banned in print – as I mentioned when I pointed out that Middleton’s own verse satires were burned, along with other offensive books, by order of the Ecclesiastical High Commission, the Elizabethan censors of printed books. Children’s companies may have been banned from performing for ten years before they began performing again in the first decade of the seventeenth century; though whether or not this was the result of a ban is not certain. They had powerful patrons – children’s companies were at different times very popular for entertainment at court – but the powerful antitheatrical lobby, led by the City authorities, did not approve, and this doesn’t seem too surprising from the perspective of the twenty-first century, given the sexually explicit content of some of their plays.
I suppose the question of knowledge comes into this too (and when I use this word I think of Henry James’s great novel of childhood, What Maisie Knew). There might perhaps have been an assumption that schoolboys would not know exactly what they were talking about when they spoke about sex, just as they wouldn’t if they talked in the cant terms of the criminal underworld. So the explicit allusions would add to the humour of the performance, from one point of view, while the fact that they were made by boys could be held up as a way to defuse them, so to speak – to drain them of their poison. You may remember the puppet play in Ben Jonson’s Bartholomew Fair (1614), which is thought by the fool Bartholomew Cokes to be performed by a children’s company because the puppets are small, like children. When attacked for performing profanities by a religious zealot in the audience, the puppets respond by pulling up their garments and displaying their puppet bodies: they have no genitalia, of course, and therefore cannot be accused of indulging in sexual acts – or of inciting them, the puppet master implies. Cokes’s confusion of puppets with boy players may suggest that boy players, too, were seen as in some sense sexless and genderless – which explains their skill in acting both men and women, since they have not yet acquired the physical characteristics of either gender. That’s a bit of early modern biology, by the way: you grew into your gender as you grew up, you weren’t exactly born with it, they thought. Their view of gender identity was therefore somewhat flexible in comparison with the views, say, of Victorian biologists at a time of imperialist expansion.
One thing the plays demonstrate, down all these years, is the remarkable skill of those boy players. They could perform highly complex scripts, deploying a combination of complex physical and musical skills; they could chop and change from one disguise to another, play elaborate tricks on stage, dance, sing, cavort and juggle, fight with swords. That’s another thing the plays would have given their audiences: the opportunity to be amazed that such young boys could be such consummate performers. This suggests, perhaps, that there would always be a little bit more of a distance between the boy players and their roles than in an adult production. They were so much more obviously not the people they played, not doing the things they pretended to be doing, not involved in the politics or the business decisions or the plots or sexual antics they were acting out on stage. The children’s plays tend not to have deep emotion in them – at least, not the ones I can think of (though the boy players could do deep emotion if they wanted to, if Antony and Cleopatra is anything to go by). They were so much more obviously plays as a result; playful play-acting; hence perhaps the Jacobean tolerance for the bawdy material they contained.
Q: What role do objects play in Middleton’s comedy?
A: In a discussion with me after completing the podcast, you suggested that Elizabethan theatre has objects in it that contribute to the symbolic order: the sword the guards swear on in Hamlet, the crown in Henry IV Part 2, the pound of flesh in The Merchant of Venice, the magic flower in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the armour pursued by Hector in Troilus and Cressida, etc. I suggested in response that there’s a far greater diversity of heterogeneous objects in Jacobean drama, which represents a change of order under James I – often thought of at the time as a wholesale loss of order. Think of the revolting list of things described in Ben Jonson’s Volpone as the contents of a mountebank’s (fake) elixir of youth (‘a sheep’s gall, a roasted bitch’s marrow, / Some few sod earwigs, pounded caterpillars, /A little capon’s grease, and fasting spittle’); or the even more disgusting list of substances used by alchemists to trick their customers out of their money in Jonson’s The Alchemist (‘your broths, your menstrues, and materials, / Of piss and egg-shells, women’s terms, man’s blood, / Hair o’the head, burnt clouts, chalk, merds, and clay, / Powder of bones, scalings of iron, glass, / And worlds of other strange ingredients’). The elixir is supposed to impart long life; the potions are supposed to refine the alchemist’s customers into suitable recipients of limitless gold; but both are sickening when broken down into their constituent elements, and symbolize a market-driven society that’s sickly as well as disordered, no longer capable of distinguishing the good stuff from the bad, the fake from the genuine, in food and objects as well as in people.
Your Five Gallants opens with a scene in which the exchange of heterogeneous objects is used to represent the breakdown of the early modern class system and the symbolic order connected to it. People of all classes pawn their things to raise cash – the things are mostly clothes – and the pawnbroker-gallant Frip collects them and puts them to use, transforming himself in the process from his earlier condition as a hard-up, put-upon servant into one of the five fake gallants of the title. During the play we witness other objects being passed from hand to hand, including the precious things exchanged as love tokens at the beginning of the play by the genuine Lady Katherine and the genuine gentleman Fitzgrave, a string of pearls (signifying chastity) and a jewel (signifying fidelity). At the end of the Mitre scene, the gilt goblet stolen by the con-artist-gallant, Goldstone, is thought to have miraculously disappeared: presumably this is a mocking reference to the miracles wrought in medieval romance by the Holy Grail, the cup Christ used at the Last Supper; and the name of the tavern, the Mitre, strengthens the allusion. The draining of meaning from objects by their random exchange symbolizes a draining of conviction from religious practices, a forgetfulness of the virtues that drove the Arthurian knights on their lonely quests, a draining of value itself from the Jacobean economy.
At the end of the play, however, objects are restored to their role in the symbolic order by the devices Fitzgrave uses to expose the true nature of the five fake Gallants: an upside-down purse to signify the thief-gallant’s thieving and whoring, three silver dice to signify the con-artist gallant’s cheating and opportunism, a pearl in a cave to represent the pimp-gallant, who sells the virginity of young women and can’t appreciate beauty or value of any kind, and so on. When the devices are formally presented to the five fake gallants in the final masque, the languages of value and social order are restored to meaningfulness again. The promise of this ending is held out throughout the performance by the applicability of the names of the characters – Pursenet the fisher for purses, Frip the pawnbroker who thrives on other people’s frippery, Goldstone the con artist, who converts anything he touches to gold for his own uses, Tailby who lives by his (front) tail, and so on. The masque dances these names into their correct position in relation to meaning; so for a while at the end of the play the Jacobean audience would have felt reoriented and comforted – until they stepped out of the playhouse door and re-immersed themselves in the seething city streets.
Journeys in the sixteenth century were woven around with magic. Classical precedent meant that any educated sailor could expect to meet a bewildering variety of supernatural obstacles on a sea voyage, from Sirens, sea monsters and Cyclopes to the enchantresses Circe, Calypso and Medea. Even writers who thought these phenomena fantastical invoked them as potent metaphors for the genuine perils of early modern travel. Circe in particular stood for temptations of the flesh and spirit that threatened to turn travellers aside from their educational, religious or political objectives. And for the celebrated teacher Roger Ascham, the highest concentration of such temptations was to be found in Catholic Italy, whose people and customs were capable of transforming English tourists into beasts or demons, with disastrous effects on the island nation that produced them.
Even Italians, Ascham claims, fear an Englishman infected with the virus of Italianism. ‘Englese Italianato, e un diabolo incarnato’, he cites them as saying in his influential tract The Schoolmaster (1570), and he goes on to list the specific forms of devilry carried home to England by youths returning from Rome:
for Religion, Papistrie or worse: for learning, lesse commonly then they caried out with them: for pollicie, a factious hart, a discoursing head, a mynde to medle in all mens matters: for experience, plenty of new mischieves never knowne in England before: for maners, varietie of vanities, and chaunge of filthy lyving. These be the inchantementes of Circes, brought out of Italie, to marre mens maners in England.
Catholicism, ignorance, treason, clever talk, an interfering nature, voracious lechery – such are the toxic side effects of spells cast on the unwary English student who strays too close to Venice or the Vatican, refashioning him into an ungainly monster with ‘the belie of a Swyne, the head of an Asse, the brayne of a Foxe, the wombe of a wolfe’ (p. 228) whose sole purpose is to spread the twin diseases of false religion and sexual promiscuity throughout his native country. And travel, Ascham adds, need not be physical to work its deadly mutations. Italian soil can be imported to England in the form of books, and Italian books translated into English can do twenty times more damage than any trip to Naples. Travel weaves its deadly enchantments in the head, which is why the young traveller, whether in foreign books or foreign countries, needs to cultivate the godliness and ingenuity of the greatest of travellers, Ulysses, if he is to keep a fragile hold on his identity during his wanderings.
At the same time, the seductiveness of travel is taken as read by the moralists who rail against it. Circe, the Sirens, Calypso, Medea – all are deeply alluring to the vagabonds who cross their path. And the notion of travel itself, with its dissolution of boundaries and obligations, its pleasures erotically tangled up with its perils, its encounters with wonderful novelties and antiquities of art and nature – there is a magic to it which, as Ascham acknowledges, incites young Englishmen to ‘go, and ryde, and flie’ after ‘the Siren songes of Italie’ (pp. 228, 226). What more natural for aspiring authors, then, than to harness this metaphorical magic in their own books by sending their protagonists on a literally magical journey? A voyage by a fiery chariot, perhaps, cutting the tedium of a long-haul sea voyage to a few short hours of flight; or an excursion to somewhere no one else has ever visited, like the moon, the stars, the underworld; or a succession of close encounters with figures from myth or history or legend. To narrate such a journey is to set your mind at liberty for a while and question everything your teachers told you about right and wrong, truth and falsehood, the orthodox and the heretical. It is to discover that thought is free (as Stephano and Trinculo did with Caliban’s help), and that mobility can make your actions as unencumbered as your thought is. And if anybody challenges you about the ideological implications of your fantastic journey – well, you can always say with Lucian that you never claimed to be giving an account of anything real, just indulging in a little jeu d’esprit to relax the exhausted minds of busy readers.
Besides the chivalric romance, two major traditions of prose fiction sought to exploit the imaginative possibilities of the magical journey in the Tudor period. The better known of these is the magical jest-book, most successfully represented by the Europe-wide bestseller Virgilius – first translated into English, and printed by Jan van Doesborch, in about 1518 – whose protagonist embarks on a career of conjuring, sexual adventure, and flamboyant trickery, which provided a template for the legends of Dr Faustus. The other tradition was that of Lucianic satire: a witty, highly inventive literary exercise derived from the work of the Syrian satirist Lucian. The translation of some of Lucian’s dialogues by the celebrated humanists Desiderius Erasmus and Thomas More set him for a while at the heart of the English school curriculum; he was used to teach both Greek and Latin, despite his reputation for irreverence and even blasphemy; and his status in Protestant countries was enhanced by the fact that two of his works were placed on the papal Index of forbidden books in 1559, followed by the rest in 1590. From a twenty-first century perspective, these two traditions – the magical jest-book and the Lucianic satire – look as though they might have been aimed at two different classes of reader. The barely educated man or woman has seemed to many critics to be the obvious target audience for the exploits of a trickster magician; and the scholar has seemed the obvious recipient of Lucian’s dialogues, with their high density of literary allusions and their risqué, sophisticated subject matter. I’d like to suggest, though, that the two traditions were more closely linked than we tend to think. Thanks to Faustus, the magical jest-book became as closely associated with the Protestant Reformation as the works of Lucian, and as engaged with the serio-comic scrutiny of the triumphs and disasters of contemporary scholarship. The magical jest-book found its way into Tudor imitations of Lucian in the guise of ‘merry tales’, those pithy celebrations of spontaneous wit, scatological pranks, and inventive adultery. And both traditions fused in explosive fashion in the 1580s and early 1590s as components of the great burst of creativity that gave rise to Marlowe’s theatrical masterpiece Doctor Faustus, along with some equally energetic works of experimental prose fiction.
This essay about magical journeys, in fact, traces a journey that participates in the transformative magic of the narratives it discusses. Supernatural travel begins in the early years of the sixteenth century as a pleasure trip, spiced up by the presence of devils and the somewhat blasphemous resemblance between its protagonist’s peregrinations and those of a wonder-working saint, a second Saint Brendan. It becomes a tool of Protestant propaganda in the middle years of the century, tracking down the illegitimate activities of Catholics in England and beyond with the persistence of a good-humoured spymaster. And in the 1580s and 90s it undergoes another metamorphosis, mocking the religious inflexibility of Protestant moralists as cheerfully as it continues to deride the adherents of other religions. From one point of view, this is a voyage from exuberance to wittily articulated paranoia and back again to exuberance; and it provides a fascinating miniature model of the trajectory of English literature as a whole in the course of the Tudor period. But throughout the period there is a moral ambiguity about the magical journey that protects even its most propagandistic manifestations from charges of crudeness or simplicity. Authors who flirt with magic are playing with fire, and such perilous playfulness has little to do with preaching.
To begin with a magical jest-book, then: the most influential work of this kind before the Faustbuch – Virgilius – is a wish fulfilment fantasy that invites its readers to throw themselves headlong into the heady joys of imaginative travel. Virgilius himself is a strange alternative version of Virgil the poet, possessing at once the phenomenal powers ascribed by some to Virgil’s Aeneid (which could predict the future by way of a ritual called the Sortes Virgilianae, whereby readers chose a passage of the poem at random and then applied it to the circumstances of their own lives) and the dubious moral status of Aeneas himself, betrayer of his hometown Troy and his lover Dido. The son of a Roman knight, Virgilius begins life as an ordinary schoolboy in Spain before stealing some necromantic books from a devil and reinventing himself as a teacher of thaumaturgy renowned across Europe for his learning and good looks. When his mother falls ill he does to her in Rome, where he quickly rises to become chief counsellor to the Emperor himself. His geographical mobility is as remarkable as the speed of his social rise. He goes to school in Tolleten – presumably Toledo, famous for sorcery – then moves to Rome and builds the city of Naples with his necromantic arts. In between, he indulges in a spot of sexual tourism. Finding himself unhappily married, he constructs a bridge of air and visits a soldan’s daughter on the other side of the Mediterranean. On being caught together by her father the couple flees across the airy viaduct, and it is for the princess that he builds his Neapolitan city by the sea. Power, sex and unlimited travel, then, derive in this book from books of magic – the volumes Virgilius purloins from the fiend. So too does danger, as the poet-magician’s exploits anticipate all Ascham’s anxieties about the deleterious effects of travel and Italian culture half a century before the publication of The Schoolmaster. And this combined promise of power and danger lends the book itself – the fiction purveyed by the anonymous author to his readers – a curiously amoral atmosphere, which may help to explain its Europe-wide success.
The most fascinating thing about Virgilius is his unstable position as protagonist, which his freewheeling lifestyle serves to emphasize. What are we to think of him? We are never allowed a settled view of this magician as a jest-book hero. An immigrant in Rome, Virgilius begins by showing solidarity with the Roman poor, rewarding them for looking after his mother and providing them with free public services such as an efficient lighting system for the city. Later he becomes the patron of scholars, who are the most favoured citizens in the city he founds by magic, Naples. He is a successful lover, bowling over his eastern princess at first sight, and the world’s most powerful magician, twice defeating the Roman army. At the same time, all his encounters with women apart from the Soldan’s daughter prove unsatisfactory. A woman he fancies arranges to hoist him up to her bedroom window, only to leave him dangling in a basket for the world to laugh at; his wife destroys the magic image he made that robbed women of the desire to ‘do bodely lust’; and an unfaithful wife gets the better of his patent lie detector, made in the shape of a metal serpent, with a simple but cunning ruse. As these incidents suggest, there are times when Virgilius has no sympathy at all with underdogs, male or female. He dedicates much of his time and energy to installing security systems to protect the Emperor’s interests: a palace designed to let him eavesdrop on the private conversations of his subjects; a brass horseman who enforces a curfew by slaughtering anyone who emerges from their houses after nightfall; a device for keeping tabs on the Roman dominions, installed in statues mounted on the Capitol. Such devices indicate the traveller-magician’s willingness to insinuate himself where he is not wanted, to pry into the minds and bedrooms of men and women, violating other people’s private space in a more insidious manner than any nosy tourist or itinerant scholar. And his undermining of his own heroic status is compounded by the manner of his death.
In the last chapter of the book Virgilius attempts to rejuvenate himself, using the tried and trusted method by which the enchantress Medea promised to rejuvenate King Pelias. The magician instructs his servant to chop him to bits and stow them in a barrel, then carefully tend a lamp hanging over the barrel for nine full days, after which the dismembered mage will be reborn as a beardless youth. Unfortunately, the Roman Emperor suspects the servant of having murdered his master and executes him before the nine days are over, after which a miracle does indeed occur – but not the one Virgilius intended:
Than sawe the Emperoure and all his folke a naked chylde .iii. tymes rennynge a boute the barell saynge the words. Cursed be the tyme that ye cam ever here / and with those words vanysshed the chylde a waye and was never sene a geyne and thus abyd Virgilius in the barell deed [i.e. dead]. (sig. F3r)
Ironically, given his status as the Emperor’s surveillance expert, Virgilius dies as a result of the Emperor’s eagerness to keep him under surveillance, which leads the dictator to break into his castle and stab his research assistant. Virgilius the spy is killed by an aggressive act of espionage; and his lifelong struggle to get the better of the supreme imperial authority – which began with a campaign to get back his father’s lands in Rome, and later saw Virgilius challenge the Emperor’s supremacy by setting up a rival metropolis – ends with power being restored to the Emperor again, albeit with the minor compensation that the latter never gets hold of the magician’s fabulous wealth, which remains secreted in an undiscovered cellar.
This scholar’s fantasy ends, then, by reinstating the political status quo, thus setting a precedent for the ultimate submission of magicians to their political masters, and the eventual entrapment of itinerant sorcerers, which is a regular feature of magical jest-books from the Faustbuch to Fortunatus. The return of the status quo is reinforced by the effacement of the wonders created with the help of the black arts. A traveller-magician builds many monuments but leaves few behind. The palace Virgilius built for the Emperor exists no longer. Neither do the surveillance statues he set up on the Capitol, or the lighting system he devised for Rome, or the airy bridge with which he abducted the soldan’s daughter, or his lie-detecting serpent. At each stage of the narrative the reader is invited to gawp like a tourist at Virgilius’s achievements in Rome and Naples; but should we wish to retrace his footsteps like a secular pilgrim, we shall be disappointed. All that remains of the magic that founded Naples is an egg suspended in a steeple (actually the Castel dell’Ovo on the island of Megaride), and the myth that the city will fall if the egg should break. The black arts of Virgilius have proved as short-lived as the man himself, ensuring that any traveller who seeks material traces of his passage can only bear witness to the rapid dissolution of his achievements in necromancy, despite his reputation as ‘the conyngest that ever was a fore or after in that scyence’ (sig. E3r).
Virgilius takes place in a pre-Christian society, and this along with its meticulous erasure of its protagonist and all his works helped it avoid religious censure. The sorcerer-poet’s errant behaviour poses no threat to the early modern authorities by virtue of its antiquity and the obliteration of its traces. But with the advent of the Reformation, the suspect qualities of the traveller (magical or otherwise) were multiplied a thousandfold by the pressures of religious conflict. In mid-Tudor England the uncertain credentials of every vagrant (where does he come from, who is his master, what is his agenda?) easily identified travellers with Catholic missionaries who sought to reclaim England for the Church; and the wonders they spoke of could easily be equated with the miracles and transubstantiations legitimized by Rome. During this period it was the satirist Lucian, with his reputation as the scourge of religious hypocrisy, whose accounts of fantastic voyages made him a favourite with English Protestants. William Baldwin’s brilliant anti-Catholic satire Beware the Cat (c. 1553), which is full of lying Catholic travellers, witches and magicians as well as the devious feline informers of the title, bears a close resemblance to Lucian’s Philopseudes (‘The Doubter’), translated by Thomas More in the first decade of the century. And in 1564 the physician William Bullein introduced a still closer imitation of Lucian into this celebrated Dialogue Against the Fever Pestilence (1564), in the form of the magical journey of a traveller called Mendax [i.e. liar, perhaps with a pun on mendicant or beggar], modelled as much on the sublime nonsense of Lucian’s True History as on the travels of Sir John Mandeville.
In exchange for food, Bullein’s Catholic wanderer mesmerizes a London citizen with his strange accounts of the dragons, unicorns, giants, chess-playing parrots, tennis-playing apes and tree-climbing mermaids he has encountered on his worldwide peregrinations. His narrative is filled with hints at the abundant riches he has gained and lost, and with promises of future riches to be obtained by seizing certain ‘little fleting [i.e. floating] Islandes’ full of ‘Suger, Spice, Silke, Linnen, &c., readie made, and that will make readie money, and money maketh a man’ (p. 102). The islands are clearly ships to be snapped up in acts of piracy, and the whole narrative reeks of the greed for gold that fuelled the first great wave of Tudor exploration. The fact that buccaneering is advocated here by a Catholic makes it seem a Catholic vice rather than an English one – ironically enough, given the Dialogue’s publication in the lifetime of the English buccaneers and slave traders John Hawkins and Francis Drake.
But the satire of Bullein’s Dialogue is not exclusively directed at Catholics. Mendax’s story also satirizes the credulity of those Protestants who fall so easily for the tall stories told by beggarly ex-mariners and vagrant con artists. As proof of his veracity, Mendax offers his listeners his own dog, who is in fact (he claims) the victim of a spell like the one used by Circe to turn Ulysses’ companions into pigs. This dog, he insists, was once a boy who had the bad luck to be changed into a dog in the magical land of Ethiopia. In that country children grow on trees, which encourages cannibalism – a human being or an apple for breakfast, it makes no difference to an Ethiopian enchanter. Unfortunately, a recent team of Catholic missionaries did not know about this taste for human flesh, and got themselves consumed by hostile locals who disliked the new brand of magic the missionaries brought with them. Mendax and his boy were saved from consumption by their canine transformation at the hands of a friendly local; and the boy remains trapped in the form of a domestic pet. ‘This same is he,’ the traveller asserts:
he was a gentleman of a good house; he understandeth us well, and sometime was a proper man, and shoulde have maried with one in London called Jone Trim: whiche nowe are, God wot, of sondrie kyndes, but differ not in conditions, chast, religious, and kind harted. (p. 104)
Here the Circean metamorphosis performs a quite different function from the one it would have in Ascham’s treatise The Schoolmaster. The cannibalistic magicians of a distant land use it to protect themselves from the rapacious acquisitiveness of English visitors as well as from the agents of the Inquisition. In fact, foreignness has become naturalised in England as a result of religious division. The Englishman is as much a menace to his own countrymen as to the Africans whose goods and persons he covets, and young people of the island kingdom find themselves estranged from one another – rendered ‘of sondrye kyndes’ – by the bad religious company they find at home (where presumably the boy signed up for his ill-fated voyage to Africa). That the boy’s metamorphosis – indeed, the boy himself – is clearly a fiction invented by Mendax merely reinforces the point: it is Mendax, not the Ethiopians, who is the deadly enchanter of Bullein’s tale, seeking to take advantage of a naïve Londoner by charming him with seductive falsehoods and using Othello-esque tales to spirit away his gold. The Siren songs of Italy have already come home to roost on English soil.
In fact Mendax goes on to suggest that the Western Archipelago itself is somehow ‘foreign’ to the idea of what it should be. He describes his visit to an antipodean Great Britain, whose Swiftian name (Taerg Natrib) implies that it is the inverted mirror image of his homeland. The capital city Nodnol is the ‘best reformed Citie of this woorlde’ (p. 105); there is ‘not one Papiste in all that lande […] no, nor one wicked liver’ (p. 106); churches are well attended, and ‘[t]here is not one Usurer: not one’ (p. 107). Disturbingly, Mendax’s lying account of his adventures ends with the biggest lie of all: that a version of Great Britain exists that is the ideal Protestant nation. Bullein here pulls off a conjuring trick worthy of the greatest Lucianist of all, the Catholic apologist Thomas More, by having a speaker of nonsense – a second Hythloday (whose name means ‘speaker of nonsense’ and who tells the story of More’s Utopia) – suddenly confront his readers with their own reversed reflection, to their intense discomfort. Protestant readers who have so far revelled in the satirist’s attack on papistry suddenly find themselves the butt of his excoriating pen, forced to acknowledge that they are as diseased as the hostile religionists they despise. Bullein’s Dialogue concerns the plague, and its point is that no one in England can escape either the punishment of that infection or responsibility for the sins that caused it.
We have now encountered both the magical jest-book and the Lucianic satire in English, although one should add that both Baldwin and Bullein incorporate plenty of jest-book material or ‘merry tales’ into their masterpieces. But in the decade after Bullein wrote hs Dialogue, we suddenly get evidence that two learned Englishmen, at least, recognised a generic kinship between the jest-book and the works of Lucian. On 20 December 1578 Edmund Spenser gave his friend the academic Gabriel Harvey a German jest-book called Till Eulenspiegel, translated as A Merry Jest of a Man Called Howleglas, together with two English jest-books and the Spanish picaresque ‘novel’ Lazarillo de Tormes, on condition that he read them all by New Year’s Day; ‘otherwise to forfeit unto him my Lucian in fower volumes’, as Harvey explains in his copy of Howleglas. Clearly, itinerant trickster-heroes like the English jester-poet Henry or John Scoggin and the poet-priest John Skelton, whose jest-books Spenser gave to Harvey along with Howleglas, were seen as inhabiting the same comic universe as Lucian’s philosopher-slave Menippus – the man on whom Lucian modelled himself as a poet and a social commentator. All these texts, it would appear, made suitable Christmas reading, at least from Spenser’s point of view. The link between them was perhaps strengthened by the fact that Scoggin and Skelton were scholars, like Menippus, as would be the heroes of the two most famous magical jest-books of the following decade. Scoggin and Skelton were not magicians, but there is a necromantic aspect to some of their escapades that suggest they would have felt quite at home in the company of Virgilius or Fortunatus.
In 1578 Gabriel Harvey was a lecturer at Cambridge; Spenser may have been one of his students. Over the next few years his job could have put him in touch with several equally gifted young Cambridge students: Christopher Marlowe, Robert Greene, Thomas Nashe, the experimental poet Abraham Fraunce, the teacher of French John Eliot. One thing that links all these men is an interest in Lucianic magical journeys, which Harvey may have helped to stimulate with his ‘Lucian in fower volumes’. Fraunce published an amusing pastiche of Lucian’s True History in 1592, in which a trio of Cambridge scholars travels to heaven to consult with the pagan gods on a problem of astronomy. Eliot printed a series of amusing passages on travel in his French and English textbook Ortho-epiaGallica (1593), taking much of his material from Rabelais and acknowledging Lucian’s influence (STC 7574, sig. B1v). Marlowe worked with Nashe on a Lucianic play about the seductive charms of the traveller Aeneas, Dido Queen of Carthage (c. 1593); while Nashe’s Pierce Penniless (1592) owes much to Lucian’s Menippus and his journeys to the underworld. One gets the sense that the loosely-knit group of playwrights, poets and pamphleteers working in the 1580s and early 1590s known as the ‘University Wits’ felt an affinity with the learned Syrian satirist, especially the Cambridge contingent of that fellowship; and that they shared his delight in drawing on magic and the supernatural as instruments of satire.
But some of these Cambridge men were also interested in magical jest-books. Marlowe used the English translation of the German Faustbuch, The History of the Damnable Life and Deserved Death of Dr John Faustus (c. 1588), as the source for his greatest play; and Greene drew on an English jest-book, The Famous History of Friar Bacon (c. 1590), when he penned his own Faustian tragicomedy Friar Bacon and Friar Bungay (c. 1590). Evidently, one of the features of the Faustbuch that most appealed to its English translator P.F. – and which gets picked up in Marlowe’s play – was the vivid account it gave of Faustus’s travels. Not content with rendering the Doctor’s journeys as they are given in the original, P.F. adds many new details about, among other things, the city of Kraków and the tomb of Virgilius near Naples. Details like these make the central section of his translation read like a supernatural Baedeker or Rough Guide – making it ‘perhaps the most lively brief travelogue of the sixteenth century’ – and it is in these central sections that the master magician is permitted most unequivocally to assume the status of a jest-book hero, punching the Pope and stealing his food without a peep of authorial indignation. When Faustus acts out the naughtiest dreams of good German or English Protestants he can be permitted to play his pranks unimpeded, although his famous deal with the devil – to say nothing of the portentous title page – makes it inevitable that his story will end in disaster.
Friar Bacon, on the other hand, engineers a cheerful ending for his story, burning his books, renouncing his craft, and saving his soul on the brink of damnation. To justify this redemption, the anonymous author has him devote his entire career to the service of the English monarch; and his geographical stability as a resident of England helps to confirm the relative moral stability of his character, as compared with those shifty wanderers Virgilius and Faustus. Instead of travelling himself, Bacon makes other people travel to him. He conjures Russians, Poles, Indians and Armenians to meet the English king in Oxford, bearing ‘sundry kinds of furres’ as if in celebration of the productive sort of travel indulged in by the English Muscovy Company. He sends his German rival Vandermast flying home through the air to his wife after beating him in a conjuring contest. And he seeks to procure England’s safety by all means necessary. The Friar constructs his famous brazen head not for personal gain but to protect his country from its enemies by surrounding it with a giant wall of brass. Had he succeeded, he would also have cut the English off from the possibility of foreign travel, penning up the Englishman’s identity once and for all by barring him from shopping for outlandish continental fashions. He fails to build the wall, of course; but Bacon’s failures serve not as judgments on his character but to affirm for him the weaknesses of necromancy when set against the will of God – a lesson which like any good proto-Protestant he proves ready and willing to learn.
Like Virgilius, Bacon is an expert in the art of surveillance; but unlike his Roman predecessor his surveillance devices end up by making him see how closely he himself is watched by the divinity. At one point he constructs a mirror capable of showing what is going on at a distance – thus once again obviating the need for travel. But a pair of young men use the mirror to watch their fathers kill each other, and they avenge these deaths by fighting each other to the death in imitation of their parents. This incident is what makes Bacon renounce magic, burn his books, and become a ‘true penitent Sinner, and an Anchorite’ or hermit. So the English book, like Virgilius, ends in a decisive act of self-censorship, symbolically stamping out the trade in inflammatory texts that caused such anxiety to Roger Ascham, and committing its protagonist to solitude, bookishness, and meditative silence.
It is well known that Marlowe and Greene wrote plays based on these two magical jest-books. What is less well known, perhaps, is the extent to which they themselves became the topic of magical jest-books after their deaths. Greene in particular had a hugely active afterlife following his death in September 1592. He and the comic actor or clown Dick Tarleton (who died in 1588) embarked on a series of Lucianic journeys through Heaven, Hell and Purgatory in a number of ebullient pamphlets, from the anonymous Tarleton’s News Out of Purgatory (1590) to Greene’s News Out of Heaven and Hell (1593) by Barnaby Rich. Indeed, so many of these posthumous pamphlets were published that the cover illustration for John Dickenson’s Greene in Conceit (1598) shows Greene scribbling away in his grave-clothes, as far from decay six years after his death as he had been six years before it. As they wander through the afterlife, Greene and Tarleton make a mockery of the religious wars of the Reformation by co-opting both the fictional region of Purgatory (speaking from a Protestant perspective) and the very real realm of Hell as a source of gossip and merry tales. And in Henry Chettle’s Kind-Heart’s Dream (1593) their ghosts take up verbal arms to defend the theatre, which had been graphically linked to Hell by the anti-theatrical lobbyist William Rankins in 1587. It is Tarleton who makes the best case in this text for tolerating drama, insisting that:
Mirth in seasonable time taken is not forbidden by the austerest sapients [i.e. wise people]. But indeed there is a time of mirth, and a time of mourning. Which time having been by Magistrates wisely observed, as well for the suppressing of Playes, as other pleasures: so likewise a time may come, when honest recreation shall have his former libertie. (STC 5123, sig. C4r).
The magical journeys in these posthumous pamphlets not only purge their dead theatrical protagonists of their sins, but constitute a serial celebration of imaginative freedom. Clearly, the literary scene had changed quite drastically since the aggressive anti-Catholic satires of Baldwin and Bullein in the 1550s and 60s.
Greene’s ghostly travels had a happy ending: he finished as an inhabitant of a Lucianic underworld at the beginning of Dickenson’s Greene in Conceit, listening appreciatively as the Cynic philosophers Menippus and Diogenes torment the spirits of the rich for their desperate desire to get back to their self-indulgent lifestyles. Greene evidently feels at home with these classical satirists who earned a reputation, like himself, for excoriating secret vices. And Marlowe too, I would suggest, ended by being redeemed in a work of supernatural fiction: an extraordinary magical jest-book called The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus.
Entered in the Stationer’s Register in November 1593 and published in 1594, the anonymous Second Report begins by demonstrating its intention to continue in the role played by the first English Faust book, the Damnable Life, as a Rough Guide to supernatural Europe. It opens with a detailed account of all the tourist sights associated with Faustus in Wittenberg, most of which had been visited by the traveller Fynes Morrison in 1590. Even more than Virgilius, the Second Report encourages the sort of magic-themed tourism that Morrison indulged in; it also includes an elaborate description of Vienna, the backdrop for the spectacular thaumaturgic events of the book’s second half. But there is a big difference in tone between the Second Report’s willingness to indulge the reader’s curiosity as to the material evidence of Faustus’s adventures and the Damnable Life’s insistence on its own moral function as a deterrent to curiosity. And this genial indulgence of the reader’s taste for the supernatural extends to its indulgence of Faustus himself, who reappears in the Second Report as a devilish trickster, as well as to Fuastus’s young servant Wagner, who acquires the forename Kit as if to align him with the controversial playwright who was stabbed to death six months before the Second Report was registered.
In fact allusions to Marlowe are stamped all over this jest-book like the fingerprints of a ghost. The first half is a Faustian tract, narrating the adventures of Kit Wagner as he takes up the black arts his master practised. The second half is set in Vienna, which is under siege by the Turks and is clearly, among other things, a pastiche of Marlowe’s Tamburlaine. Both halves are packed with references to the theatre. Wagner first meets the ghost of Faustus in ‘the same Hall wherein his Maisters latest Tragedy was perfourmed’; and when he later decides to summon Faustus formally, with a spell, the ghost arrives in a pageant like the masque of the Seven Daedly Sins in Doctor Faustus, preceded by a miniature devil ‘as it were the Prologue of a Comedy’ (sig. B2v), and culminating in the dead doctor’s coronation. Later still, when a messenger from the Duke of Austria seeks a demonstration of Wagner’s necromantic skills, the young man mounts a performance of Doctor Faustus with a cast of devils in the sky above Wittenberg. Wagner’s activities as a young theatrical impresario align him with Kit Marlowe as strongly as does his nickname; and they also gradually transform the jest-book into a cheeky defence of the stage – or rather of the imagination, whether in the theatre or in print – even livelier and more impertinent than the one mounted by Tarleton in Kind-Heart’s Dream.
A gradual change of tone takes place between the first half and the second half of the Second Report. The first frequently pays lip-service to the moral severity of the Damnable Life; Wagner is racked with remorse of conscience as he drifts into necromancy, and the dire consequences of such magical dabblings are mentioned often. When Faustus is crowned by devils, for instance, the author warns: ‘his wretchednes made [him] a king, and his new-found king-ship nothing’ (sig. B3r); and such interjections invest the first few chapters with some of the menacing atmosphere of the Damnable Life. But as the book goes on, the moral interventions decline in number, to be replaced by an implied imaginative complicity with the events that are being narrated. When Mephistopheles notices that Wagner has got a little depressed by his account of the psychological effects of Hell, he offers him a young woman to restore his spirits, who is described in lascivious details from head to foot – although the author insists the description is ‘farre more copious’ in the non-existent German original (sig. D4v). at the end of the chapter Wagner goes to bed with her, passing the night ‘in such pleasure as I could find in my heart to enjoy or any man (unlesse an Euenuch beside)’ (sig. E1r). The author and the male reader are suddenly in bed with Wagner, both imaginatively and morally speaking, and the theological connotations of the scene are all but forgotten.
The reason for this transformation, it seems to me, lies in the ludic attitude to fiction that gradually comes to dominate the text. It is an attitude much like Lucian’s in his True History, which begins by insisting on its own fictional status and mocking those accounts of impossible journeys that masquerade as reportage. ‘Let this voluntary confession forestall any future criticism’, Lucian declares. ‘I am writing about things entirely outside my own experience or anyone else’s, things that have no reality whatever and never could have’. As we have seen, the True History was in vogue in the early 1590s, when Abraham Fraunce published an imitation of it less than a year before the Second Report was entered in the Stationer’s Register. And the jest-book tales a similar delight on toying with ideas of truth and falsehood.
The description of Faustian tourist sites in Wittenberg, for instance, seems designed to contrast the accuracy of the Second Report with the ‘many things in the first book’ that are ‘meere lies’ (sig. A4r) – for instance, its claim to be a translation, when in fact it expands considerably on the original, especially in the section where Faustus discusses philosophy with Mephistopheles. ‘Let a man mark [these discussions] duely,’ the narrator goes on, ‘they shall finde them I will not saie childish, but certainly superficiall, not like the talk of Divels, where with foldings of words they doe use to dilate at large, and more subtell by farre’ (sig. A4r). The implication is that the Second Report will be a more accurate as well as a more naturalistic narrative, and that the material remains of Faustus (the ruins of his house, a hollow tree where he taught magic to his scholars, the stone he engraved with his own epitaph) may be taken as proof of its authenticity. But the Second Report is even less of a translation than the first, although a German Wagner book did in fact exist by the time of its composition. The text has nothing to do with any German original. And when a philosophical discussion takes place between Wagner and Faustus’s ghost, it lays no stronger claim to authenticity than the Faustus-Mephistopheles dialogue in the Damnable Life. The only proof that this discussion took place are the bruises Wagner shows to his friends afterwards, which he claims to have received when Faustus battered him for doubting he could come back from the dead. ‘As for the disuptations betwixte those two in this place,’ the narrator goes on, ‘consider from whose braines they proceede, for you must give the Germane leave to shew his Art, for witte for the most part they have very little, but that which they toile for like Cart horses’ (sig. C3v). The narrator, in other words, insists that his supernatural dialogue is as crudely conceived as the dialogue he criticized in the first Faust book. Both books betray their fictionality by their style; and this should alert even the most timid of readers to the fact that they are not dabbling in forbidden knowledge when they turn their pages.
All the early episodes are framed by mildly anti-German quips like this one, suggesting that the legend of Faustus is ‘whetted over with the dropping of the Tappe exceedingly’ (sig. C3v) – that is, soaked in beer, which had been identified by the Tudor travel-writer and jest-book author Andrew Borde as a weakness of the Dutch and Germans. Chapter 2 is a case in point, with its title (‘How certaine drunken Dutchmen [i.e. Germans] were abused by theyr owne conceite and selfe imagination, of seing […] Doctor Faustus’, sig. B4v) being reinforced by the chapter’s final sentence: ‘Many odde pranks Faustus is made the father of, which are […] so merely smelling of the Caske, that a man may easily know the childe by the father’ (sig. B4v). This is not just random xenophobia. The effect of the thick, beery vapours that envelop these early episodes is to disarm them by rendering them wholly imaginative – the products not of Satanic influence but of excessive drinking. Thus gradually the moral implications of Wagner’s transactions with damnable spirits get dissipated by the author’s repeated assertions – disguised as reassurances of his text’s veracity – that what he is telling is no more than a silly fiction. Few Elizabethan writers more cleverly illustrate Sidney’s statement in the Apology for Poetry that the poet ‘nothing affirms, and therefore never lieth’ – that he is, in fact, not dangerous. It is even tempting to believe that the writer could have had access to Sidney’s Apology, despite the fact that it only saw print two years after the Second Report went to press.
The journey on which the reader is taken in this text is, in fact, a trip from realism to mock-romance, from fictional biography to Rabelaisian nonsense. One step of the process is marked by the moment when the reader is invited to become complicit with Wagner’s liaison with the young woman. The episode drifts into the realm of romance when Mephistopheles disguises Wagner as the girl’s husband:
O wonder, his habite was changed with his thought, and he was no longer Wagner but Armisuerio the Ladies Lorde. And to be short this new Armisuerio and old Wagner mette with the Lady, and saluting her in the best kind of Bon noche, used her as he would doe his Lady, and shee him as her Lord. (sig. D4v)
The register of the narrative here shifts from the half-sombre tone it has had till now to the cheeky register of Ariosto. An Italian name introduces the lascivious Italianate encounter, and the name Armisuerio, with its gesture towards the terms for ‘true’ and ‘weapons’ (vero, armi), transports readers to the fabulous world of Charlemagne, as mapped out by Sir John Harington in his recent translation of Orlando Furioso (1591). Later the author confirms this link with Orlando by translating a poem in ‘Aristos vaine’ (sig. F2r). And once the scene has shifted again to Vienna, the narrative opens out into a fully-fledged pastiche of a romantic epic.
The siege of Vienna is dominated by a whacky Rabelaisian duel between the Holy Roman Emperor – Charlemagne’s descendant – and the Great Turk, a combat as ornately chivalric as it is ridiculous. The duel is complicated by the fact that the Christian combatant is mounted on a giant horse – big enough to be ‘the son of Gargantuas’ (sig. H2v) – and the Turk on a monstrous elephant. There is a great deal of ineffectual slashing and stabbing with weapons that are much too short, together with improbably agile side-stepping of potentially lethal blows. By this stage the text has stopped insisting on its fictive nature, and relaxed instead into a narrative so flamboyant that it could never be mistaken for realism. By this stage, too, the cold didacticism of the first half has completely vanished. Like the English conjurer Friar Bacon before them, Wagner, Faustus and their devilish companions devote their skills to the defence of Christian territory against foreign invasion, and as a result the author’s disapproval of the black arts is cast aside – just as in the text the religious differences between Christians are temporarily set aside for the fight against the Turk, with Catholics and Protestants joining together to defend the elements of faith they hold in common.
Even the Turks are not presented here as out-and-out villains. The Great Turk accepts the Holy Roman Emperor’s challenge to single combat with all the aplomb of a Carolingean paladin. In the final battle he meets his end like a hero, ‘fighting manfully on his Elephant’ (sig. K2r). Meanwhile his nemesis Kit Wagner, unlike the Wagner of the German Wagner book, avoids death altogether; we never learn what happens to him after the central role he played in the Turk’s defeat. Friar Bacon retired to the life of a hermit; but the Second Report ends with very un-eremitic celebrations, as the Christian princes ‘caused generall feasts and triumphs to be performed in all theyr kingdoms, provinces, and territories whatsoever’ (sig. K2r). For all we know, Wagner took part in the German leg of these celebrations; and we never see him suffer for the infernal pact that put him at the centre of them.
The journey of the Second Report – from England, where the author originated, to a beer-befuddled Germany, to Vienna, to the land of romance – can be read, I think, as a voyage of liberation; a pilgrimage towards the moment predicted in Kind-Heart’s Dream ‘when honest recreation shall have his former libertie’. The book’s breaching of geographical boundaries corresponds to its breaching of moral conventions, a repudiation of the defensive religiosity that put literature in fetters during the early phases of the Reformation. The point of this narrative’s exuberant trajectory may well be that the most flamboyant fictions of page and stage are not finally damnable but inspiring – like the works of the satirist Lucian, or his successors Rabelais and Ariosto, or the outrageous experimental theatre of Kit Marlowe. It is a celebration of the imagination and its ability to cross gulfs, to bring people together, to delight and terrify, to make people believe that unreal things are real, to elevate the poor (as Faustus and Wagner are elevated), to reconcile enemies, and to win heroic victories, where life itself produces only massacres or uneasy compromises. The freedom it invokes may be achievable only through the magic journey of a fictional narrative. But the capacity of that journey to dismantle national, religious and social barriers, using only the bloodless weapon of impish laughter, rendered it as valuable to early modern readers as any more elevated art form.
This essay was first printed in the Yearbook of English Studies, Vol. 41, no. 1 (2011), 35-50. My thanks to Nandini Das for inviting me to write it.
 For a fuller account of Ascham’s attitude to Italianate Englishmen see R. W. Maslen, Elizabethan Fictions: Espionage, Counter-espionage and the Duplicity of Fiction in Early Elizabethan Prose Narratives (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), pp. 41-51.
 Roger Ascham, The Scholemaster, in The English Works of Roger Ascham, ed. William Aldis Wright (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1904), pp. 171-302 (p. 229). Subsequent page references will be given in the body of the text.
 See Lucian, Preface to The True History, in Satirical Sketches, trans. Paul Turner (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1961), pp. 249-50.
 The two editions of this translation are STC 24828 (c. 1518) and 24829 (c. 1562). All references are to the former.
 More’s translations of Lucian are given in The Complete Works of Thomas More, III, Part I, ed. Craig R. Thompson (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1974). For the impact of Erasmus’s and More’s Lucian translations see Thompson’s introduction.
 See Brenda H. Hosington, ‘Translations of Lucian in Renaissance England’, Syntagmatia: Essays on Neo-Latin Literature in Honour of Monique Mund-Dopchie and Gilbert Tournoy, ed. Dirk Sacré and Jan Papy (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2009), pp. 187-205 (p. 188). Thanks to Stuart Gillespie for this reference.
 The dubiousness of Aeneas stems from his depiction as a traitor in the works of Dares Phrygius and Dictis Cretensis. For the vatic powers of the Aeneid see the entry on Virgil in The Oxford Companion to Classical Literature, ed. Paul Harvey (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984).
Virgilius, STC 24828 (c. 1518), sig. D2v. Further references will be given in the text.
 For a detailed discussion of Beware the Cat see R. W. Maslen, ‘William Baldwin and the Tudor Imagination’, in The Oxford Handbook of Tudor Literature, 1485-1603, ed. Mike Pincombe and Cathy Shrank (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 291-306. Baldwin’s debt to Lucian needs further investigation.
 For a detailed account of Bullein’s Dialogue see R. W. Maslen, ‘The Healing Dialogues of Doctor Bullein’, Yearbook of English Studies, 38.1-2 (2008), 119-135. All references are to William Bullein, Dialogue Against the Fever Pestilence, ed. Mark W. Bullen and A. H. Bullen (London: N. Trübner, 1888), and will be given in the text.
 Virginia F. Stern, Gabriel Harvey: A Study of his Life, Marginalia, and Library (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1979).
 For the notion that some of these writers may have formed a kind of literary fellowship see Stephen W. May, ‘Marlowe, Spenser, Sidney and – Abraham Fraunce?’, RES Advance Access (published 11 February 2010), http://res.oxfordjournals.org/cgi/reprint/hgp117.
 Abraham Fraunce, The Third Part of the Countess of Pembroke’s Ivychurch (London, 1592), fols. 55r – 59r.
 For the Lucianic tone of Dido Queen of Carthage see Roma Gill, ‘Marlowe’s Virgil: Dido Queen of Carthage’, RES, n.s., 28.110 (1977), 141-155.
 For the date of the Damnable Life see R. J. Fehrenbach, ‘A Pre-1592 English Faust Book and the Date of Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus’, The Library, 2 (2001), pp. 327-335. For the date of the Famous History see The English Faust Book: A Critical Edition Based on the Text of 1592, ed. John Henry Jones (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), pp. 54-72. All references to the Damnable Life are taken from Jones’s edition.
 For further discussion of the texts that follow, with the exception of the Second Report, see R. W. Maslen, ‘Dreams, Freedom of Speech and the Demonic Affiliations of Robin Goodfellow’, Journal of the Northern Renaissance, 1.1 (2009), pp. 129-44.
 For William Rankins see R. W. Maslen, Shakespeare and Comedy (London: Thomson Learning, 2006), p. 13.
 See John A. Walz, ‘An English Faustsplitter’, Modern Language Notes, 42.6 (1927), pp. 325-365.
The Second Report of Doctor John Faustus, sig. B2v. All references are taken from the first edition (1594), STC 10715, and will henceforth be given in the text.
 ‘The poet never maketh any circles about your imagination, to conjure you to believe for true what he writes’; that is, the poet never works magic to enchant your reason into credulity. Philip Sidney, Apology for Poetry, ed. Geoffrey Shepherd, revised R. W. Maslen (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2002), p. 103. Sir John Harington says something similar in the preface to his translation of Orlando Furioso, but does not invoke conjuring; see Ariosto, Orlando Furioso, trans. Harington, ed. Robert McNulty (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972), p. 5, l. 3.
 For this notion of writing in imaginative fetters in the Reformation see James Simpson, The Oxford English Literary History, II. 1350-1547: Reform and Cultural Revolution (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), Introduction and Chapter 1.
In darkness, Nashe tells us in The Terrors of the Night (1594), mortals are more vulnerable to the machinations of the devil than they ever are by daylight.Dreams and night visions weave Satan’s most cunning ‘nets of temptation’ (p. 210), and after sunset one’s eyes turn into magnifying glasses, so that ‘each mote… they make a monster, and every slight glimmering a giant’ (p. 239), multiplying the viewer’s proneness to delinquency and despair.For the Elizabethan anti-theatrical lobby, on the other hand – as represented by pamphleteers like Stephen Gosson, Phillip Stubbes and William Rankins – it’s drama rather than dreams that constitutes the Devil’s weapon of choice in the unceasing siege he lays to the human mind and spirit.Plays, they claim, constitute an elaborate imaginative trap whereby Satan lulls the citizens of London into a false sense of security, then ambushes their souls through the unguarded portals of the senses.So when in about 1595 Shakespeare wrote a comedy called A Midsummer Night’s Dream and crammed it full of spirits, damned or otherwise, he was playing a witty game with the fears of Gosson and his fellow thespiphobes.What I shall argue here is that the game he played in the Dream was already in full swing among the pamphlets and printers’ shops of 1590s London, and that the appearance of Robin Goodfellow in the woods of Athens would instantly have alerted his first audiences to Shakespeare’s participation in it.
Puck’s presence in the Dream has long been something of a puzzle – whether acknowledged as such or simply ignored.Classical creatures had found their way into the English landscape often enough in Elizabethan culture before Shakespeare started writing: the transformed Philomene had warbled in English woods in Gascoigne’s verse satire The Steel Glass (1576), Neptune had terrorized Humberside in John Lyly’s play Gallathea (c. 1588), the sea-god Glaucus had moped by the banks of the Thames in Thomas Lodge’s poem Scilla’s Metamorphosis (1589).But Shakespeare’s transplanting of Robin Goodfellow to some woods near Athens was the first time (to my knowledge) that a figure from English folk legend had been relocated to the Mediterranean, and the implications of that relocation have not yet, I think, been fully worked out.For one thing, as a peculiarly northern forest-dweller Robin may have had some effect on the relationship between night and day in his new, more southerly setting.Nashe reminds us in The Terrors of the Night that nights are longer in the north, and especially in Iceland, where witches and wizards are plentiful and possess an enviable power over local weather-conditions (p. 223).The Dream transplants those northern nights to Greece, curtailing daylight hours and extending the shortest night in the year to giant proportions.Four days and four nights are supposed to have passed between the first and last scenes of the comedy, whereas the audience experiences only two – and has no idea which of those two is the midsummer night of the title.Robin Goodfellow seems the obvious person to blame for this hypertrophied period of darkness, since he is associated in folk tradition with night, dreams, trickery and Devilish magic.Moreover, he had an unusually high profile in print during the early 1590s, featuring everywhere as a spirit who transcends the normal boundaries of space, time, life and death.It’s only by recovering this profile that we can hope to understand his function in Shakespeare’s ancient Greek extravaganza.
2. Puck in Print
For the Elizabethans, Robin possessed a strange double nature, as the embodiment both of English Catholic superstition in the past and of an innocent native cheerfulness that had been lost with the advent of continental sophistication in the present.Reginald Scot paints him in the former light in The Discovery of Witchcraft (1584), where he features as a bugbear whose ability to terrorize night-wandering papists has been stripped from him by Protestant rationalism: ‘Robin goodfellowe ceaseth now to be much feared, and poperie is sufficientlie discovered’ (sig. B2v).The poet William Warner concurs with Scot. His Robin is a spirit who appears like an incubus to sleeping mortals, and in the fourteenth book of Warner’s digressive epic Albion’s England (published in 1606) Robin sits naked on the face of a dormant shepherd and laments the good old days of Mary’s reign, when English Catholics everywhere believed in him: ‘Was then a merrie world with us when Mary wore the Crowne, / And holy-water-sprinkle was beleevd to put us downe’.But Warner’s Robin is also a blunt teller of unwelcome truths to Protestants.He goes on to utter a satirical invective against the various forms of hypocrisy prevalent in the reigns of Elizabeth and James, thus revealing himself to have as much of the satyr as of the demon about him.
This is hardly surprising, since by the time Warner painted this picture of him in 1606 Robin had long been associated with satire as well as with drama, dreams and devils.Robin’s conversion into a satirist is in fact inextricably bound up with his theatrical associations.In a pamphlet of 1590 called Tarlton’s News out of Purgatory the ghost of the late great comic actor Richard Tarlton appears to the anonymous author in a dream, and sooths his terror at this visitation by reassuring him that he is no devil, but a homely spirit like the noted goblin: ‘thinke mee to bee one of those Familiares Lares that were rather pleasantly disposed then indued with any hurtfull influence, as Hob Thrust, Robin Goodfellowe and such like spirites (as they terme them of the buttry) famozed in everie olde wives Chronicle for their mad merry pranckes’ (p. 2).As a substitute Robin, Tarlton links himself with Catholicism – but a Catholicism defused of the terrors of damnation with which it had been charged by Protestant dogma.When the author asks the dead clown’s ghost how it has managed to visit the land of the living, given the Calvinist belief that ‘the soules of them which are departed… never returne into the world againe till the generall resurrection’ (pp. 2-3), Tarlton contemptuously dismisses Calvinist doctrine as unhealthily dualistic.His spirit, like the spirit of Hamlet’s father, inhabits Purgatory, the third alternative to heaven and hell, vouched for by the great poet ‘Dant’ as well as by ‘our forefathers’ and ‘holy Bishops of Rome’ (p. 3) – hence its ability to return now and then to the earth’s surface. In this way the clown blithely sweeps aside decades of religious conflict; and he goes on to tell a string of stories under the aegis of a non-judgemental version of the afterlife which permits the free flow of merry tales between this world and the next, regardless of theology.His stories may stink of sulphur but they are ‘rather pleasantly disposed then indued with any hurtfull influence’; and in telling them he dismisses out of hand the didactic goody-goodies who saw all such stories – on stage or on the page – as works of Satan.
Tarlton’s News was ‘published’, according to its title-page, by an ‘old Companion’ of Tarlton’s, Robin Goodfellow – the spirit with which the ghost of Tarlton links itself.It seems fitting, then, that when an anonymous ‘Cobbler’ wrote a story-collection of his own (The Cobbler of Canterbury (1590)), and prefaced it with a light-hearted attack on the shortcomings of Tarlton’s News, Robin Goodfellow should have penned a response to the cobbler’s preface, which was printed immediately after it in the first edition.Here the goblin takes the cobbler’s objections to his publication as a sign of the times, when respect for good manners has been utterly eroded since the happy days when he was ‘so merry a spirit of the Butterie’, helping maids to grind malt and getting a ‘messe of Creame’ for his labour (sig. A4r).The inhospitable spirit of Elizabethan England has driven Robin to a self-imposed exile in Purgatory along with his old friend Tarlton.It has also made him devilishly vindictive, though not frighteningly so: he promises to ‘haunt’ the cobbler ‘in his sleepe, and after his olde merrie humour, so to playe the knave with the Cobler, that hee shall repent hee medled so farre beyond his latchet’ (sig. A4r).Damnation and hauntings have here been reduced to pretexts for comic squabbling and trickery, quite bereft of the fear with which the established churches sought to invest them.
At this point in our story the immensely popular writer of romances and comedies Robert Greene gets mixed up with Puck’s Elizabethan biography.Evidently a rumour went round that Greene had written The Cobbler of Canterbury, and to deny this rumour Greene wrote a pamphlet called Greene’s Vision (1592) in which he is visited in his sleep by the ghosts of Chaucer and Gower, who debate the merits and demerits of Greene’s prolific scribblings.At the end of the dispute the spirit of King Solomon appears and elicits a promise from Greene that he will from henceforth devote himself to theology; and perhaps for this reason Greene did not publish the pamphlet in his lifetime, reluctant to commit himself to such a career-changing volte-face until he had exhausted the profitable vein of fiction he was still working at the end of his life.When it did appear, the pamphlet reintroduced the fear of hell into the dialogue between pamphleteers, since it opened with a section where Greene articulates his‘trouble of minde’ in distinctly Faustian terms: ‘can the hideous mountaines hide me, can wealth redeeme sinne, can beautie countervaile my faults, or the whole world counterpoyse the balance of mine offences?’Greene’s fellow pamphleteer Barnaby Rich pounced on this hint at Greene’s posthumous fate, and described him in Greene’s News both from Heaven and Hell (1593) as wandering between Heaven and Hell in search of the happy third location, Purgatory, where he can escape damnation while retaining all the venial faults that made him so attractive a writer in his lifetime.(On his journey he meets Dick Tarlton, who has now become Lucifer’s resident satirist-entertainer.)The devil finally expels Greene’s ghost from hell at the request of the cony-catchers he exposed in his final pamphlets; and at this point Greene is transformed into a particularly aggressive incarnation of our old friend Robin Goodfellow, a spirit who troubles the nocturnal wanderings of living sinners.‘I woulde therefore wish my friendes,’ he declares, ‘to beware howe they walke late a nights, for I will bee the maddest Gobline, that ever used to walke in the moonshine’ (sig. H3r), haunting the sleep of women and persuading them to cuckold their husbands, infecting men of all occupations with the spirit of avarice so that they will do anything to amass wealth for their heirs, and urging lawyers, courtiers and clergymen to persevere in the corrupt practices already rife in their professions.Robin has resumed his mantle as a night-dwelling satirist; but by now he trails in his wake the ghosts of clowns and popular authors, whose activities had been denounced as devilish by the theatre- and fiction-haters along with Robin himself.The implication here as elsewhere is that the target of the moralists has been badly misjudged, and that they have wasted their energies in denouncing fictions and the makers of fictions, when in fact these are far more effective and energetic in attacking social abuses than they are.
For all his residence in a fictitious Catholic Purgatory, then, Robin Goodfellow was seen as mostly harmless by Shakespeare’s predecessors in popular print.Indeed, he was represented as the victim of a miscarriage of justice, sharing with the common people of England the burden of an inequitable social and legal system, and endowed with gifts that enable him to expose these inequities.In the anonymous pamphlet Tell-Troth’s New Year’s Gift (1593) he joins forces with the honest narrator Tell-troth to denounce the operations of jealousy or envy at every level of the English commonwealth.Here he is characterised as ‘Robin good-fellow… who never did worse harme, then correct manners, and made diligent maides’ (sig. A2r), a kind of incorruptible agent for the discovery of hidden vices, who ‘could go invisible from his infancy’, is ‘subject to no inferiour power whatsoever’, and has ‘a generall priviledge to search every corner, and enter every castell to a good purpose’ (sig. A2r-A2v).Robin’s affiliation with hell is explained as a consequence of this privilege, which means he can visit even the infernal regions without becoming contaminated by them, and use what he sees and hears there ‘to a good purpose’.The insistence on his independence of all authority apart from nature’s is intriguing: it is the most explicit statement so far that Robin has become a figure for the legendary liberty of imaginative writers, a liberty invoked by the ghost of the executed poet Collingbourne in William Baldwin’s hugely influential collection of political poems, The Mirror for Magistrates (1559, 1563, etc.).
Behind all these vision-pamphlets, in fact, the Mirror looms as a monumental presence, containing as it does the richest collection of posthumous first-person narratives in the English language.Its versified stories of the decline and fall of great men and women throughout English history are narrated by the spirits of the dead, and its representation of the past is repeatedly linked to political and social abuses still current in the present.Interestingly, too, it features a representation by a protestant poet of a Hell that is based on classical accounts of Hades (as it is in Kyd’s Spanish Tragedy (c. 1589) and Tell-Troth’s New Year’s Gift) and which is also explicitly linked to the Catholic doctrine of Purgatory.This representation of Hell occurs in the celebrated ‘Induction’ to Thomas Sackville’s tragedy of the Duke of Buckingham, and is followed by a discussion of Purgatory among the protestant writers who have gathered to hear the narrative.The Induction’s Hell, complains one writer, ‘savoreth so much of Purgatory… that the ignorant maye thereby be deceyved’ (fol. 137r) – presumably into thinking that Purgatory really exists.But the chief editor of the Mirror, the printer-poet William Baldwin, disagrees.In his poem, says Baldwin, Sackville has depicted not Hell or Purgatory but the grave, ‘wherin the dead bodies of al sortes of people do rest till tyme of the resurrection.And in this sence is Hel taken often in the scriptures, and in the writynges of learned christians’ (fol. 137r).A second listener goes further.What does it matter if Sackville’s Hell resembles Purgatory, he says, since ‘it is a Poesie and no divinitye, and it is lawfull for poetes to fayne what they lyst, so it be appertinent to the matter’?True enough, Baldwin replies, but such liberty has not always been accorded to poets; and he proceeds to read out the tragedy of Collingbourne, who was executed for writing satirical verse in the reign of Richard III, and whose ghost warns all poets to beware of speaking the truth about tyrants in an age that has grown ‘so fell and fearce / That vicious actes may not be toucht in verse’, and when ‘The Muses freedome, graunted them of olde, / Is barde, aye reasons treasons hye are helde’ (fol. 138r).The tragedy closes with the heartfelt wish from its listeners that the warning it contains ‘may take suche place with the Magistrates, that they maye ratifie our olde freedome’ to speak openly in verse (fol. 146v).Restoring this liberty will work for the ruling classes as much as for the common people in whose name the poet speaks, since rulers need to know what their subjects think of them if they are to defend themselves from popular insurrection and eventual dethronement.
The audience of Collingbourne’s tragedy speak with the heartfelt hopefulness of Protestants who have lived through persecution under a Catholic monarch and who hope for something better under her successor.The first print-run of The Mirror for Magistrates was suppressed in the reign of Mary Tudor, and the 1563 edition from which I have been quoting couches its plea for poetic liberty in terms that are wittily designed to shock both radical protestants and Catholics alike – invoking the concept of Purgatory while at the same time dismissing it as a poetic fabrication – as if to test the Elizabethan reader’s capacity for greater tolerance.The references to Purgatory in the pamphlets of the 1590s seem to take up this notion of Purgatory as emblematic of the poet’s exemption from political or religious persecution, as does their frequent invocation of that figment of the superstitious Catholic imagination Robin Goodfellow.Robin is a spirit of the buttery – that is, the bar or pub – rather than of the infernal regions, and his location in Purgatory indicates his temporary immunity from knee-jerk moral judgments based on over-rigid notions of right and wrong.
In the spirit of the other pamphlets we have touched on, Henry Chettle’s Kind-Heart’s Dream (1593) deploys its revenants to argue against simplistic views of the theatre and popular print.Robin does not figure in it (though it addresses itself to ‘Gentlemen and good-fellowes’, sig. B1r), but the ghosts of both Tarlton and Robert Greene are summoned up, the latter appealing to Pierce Penniless – a pseudonym of Thomas Nashe – to defend his memory against the posthumous slanders of Gabriel Harvey, and the former defending the stage against its detractors while acknowledging the shortcomings of the modern theatre.‘Mirth in seasonable time taken,’ the ghost of Tarlton avers, ‘is not forbidden by the austerest Sapients.But indeed there is a time of mirth, and a time of mourning.Which time having been by the Magistrates wisely observed, as well for the suppressing of Playes, as other pleasures: so likewise a time may come, when honest recreation shall have his former libertie’ (sig. C4r).The latter sentence so closely echoes the discussion of Collingbourne’s tragedy in the Mirror that it is hard not to read it as a reminder of William Baldwin’s hope that liberty of speech will be restored to poets at last – even if only at the latter end of Elizabeth’s reign.Greene and Tarlton, poets and players are ‘good fellows’ in two Elizabethan senses: good drinking companions (Kind-heart sees their apparitions while dozing in a tavern) and morally upright citizens who tackle vice wherever they see it.And both wish the same punishment on all moralistic ‘maligners of honest mirth’: that is, ‘continuall melancholy’ (sig. C2v).
In Nashe’s Terrors of the Night – a pamphlet where spirits and devils are reduced to the size of dust particles so that ‘not a room in any man’s house but is pestered and close-packed with them’ (p. 212) – Don Lucifer himself, ‘their grand Capitano’, is described as having taken on the form of a ‘puritan’ with an aversion to shows and ceremonies of all kinds (p. 230).In doing so he has ceased to be the cheerful entertainer he was of yore, when he ‘was wont to jest and sport with country people, and play the Goodfellow amongst kitchen-wenches’ (p. 231).As a result of this transformation ‘there is no goodness in him but miserableness and covetousness’; he has shifted his allegiance to the camp of the theatre-haters and laughter-loathers, and the world is a poorer place.Here again Robin represents a form of night mischief that is finally harmless, despite its devilish associations, and those who set themselves against it condemn both themselves and others to an unalleviated depression, the condition for which laughter was prescribed by early modern physicians.
Shakespeare’s Robin Goodfellow is the heir to all these Robins, Greenes, Tarltons and merry Devils.Like his precursors he frequents the sleeping places of mortals, shaping what are in effect their dreams (all the lovers concur in retrospectively perceiving the business in the wood as dreamlike).Like the Robin of Tell-Troth’s New Year’s Gift he can make himself invisible at will and go with impunity wherever he wishes in the globe or, presumably, out of it.Tell-Troth’s Robin has the licence accorded to fools (and sometimes poets) to meddle with the doings of all classes, and Shakespeare’s Puck takes the role of Oberon’s fool, making and discovering fools wherever he turns up.The merry tricks he plays are mentioned often in the pamphlets, and became the subject of a jest-book in the seventeenth century, Robin Goodfellow his Mad Pranks and Merry Jests (1628), filled with stories like the ones he tells the fairy on his first appearance in Act Two.And his connection with fairies is taken for granted by nearly all the pamphleteers, as it is by Shakespeare.Nashe, for instance, associates Robin with ‘elves, fairies, hobgoblins of our latter age’ in The Terrors of the Night (p. 210); and it is striking that Puck’s fairy friends in Shakespeare’s play have the capacity to shrink themselves to the size of Nashe’s mote-like devils.Even Puck’s fondness for hemp, for stamping and for bellowing ‘Ho ho ho!’ is shared with the Robin of The Cobler of Caunterburie, whose catchphrase when provoked is ‘What Hemp and Hampe, here will I never more grinde nor stampe’ (sig. A4v).Clearly Shakespeare was deeply immersed in the recent literary as well as folkloric history of his ‘merry wanderer of the night’ (2.1.43), and knew how well the ground had been prepared for the rapprochement between popular superstition and sophisticated comedy by his precursors among the Elizabethan pamphleteers.
Shakespeare’s artfully managed rapprochement between popular superstition and romance, too, was prepared for by the pamphleteers we’ve glanced at.Robin’s interest in lovers is first established in Tell-Troth’s New Year’s Gift, where he condemns greedy fathers for seeking to wed their daughters to wealthy men against their will, and catalogues the many forms of jealousy and fallings-out between sweethearts which occupy the central scenes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.Tell-Troth ends with a general blessing bestowed by Robin on young lovers, which foreshadows Oberon’s blessing of Theseus’s household at the end of the Dream:
Their dalliaunce shall bee rewarded with darlings, whose sweete favoured faces, shall be continuall pledges of their faithfull kindnesse… Their encrease shalbe multiplied, their substance doubled and trebled till it come to aboundance… They shall adde so great a blessing to their store as time shall not take away the memory of them, nor fame suffer their antiquitye ever to die… Thus shall loves followers be thrise happy, and thus Robin goodfellowes well-willers, in imitating his care bee manifolde blessed (sig. F4v-F5r).
Oberon too promises that the issue created in the ‘bride beds’ of Theseus, Hippolyta and the rest will be ‘fortunate’, free from the ‘blots of nature’s hand’, and that the ‘couples three’ who engendered them will ‘Ever true in loving be’ (5.1.394-411); and Puck follows up this promise with a heartfelt appeal to his well-willers among the audience.Shakespeare’s Puck shares, too, with Tell-Troth’s Robin a particular concern for the well-being of amorous women, as he shows when he mistakenly dismisses Lysander as ‘this lack-love, this kill-courtesy’ for his apparent spurning of Hermia (2.2.83).The goblin, then, was associated with the defence of romance as well as of the stage at the point when Shakespeare introduced him into his Athenian love story.He was also already seen as a link between English and classical myth, one of the Lares Familiares or household spirits transformed into an impudent English imp who lives in a classical-Purgatorial Hades, well before Shakespeare gave him a new home in the woods of ancient Greece; and a half-demonic champion of laughter with a heart of gold, well before Shakespeare gave him the capacity both to laugh at and pity the mortal fools he spies on.
The combination of mischief-making with benevolence is shared by Shakespeare’s goblin with his namesakes in Tarlton’s News, The Cobbler of Canterbury and Tell-Troth’s New Year’s Gift.In Shakespeare’s play, it is Oberon who speaks most openly about this fusion of qualities, when he invokes the link between himself, his fellow spirits and the devil at the end of the third act, telling Robin to ‘overcast the night’ with ‘fog as black as Acheron’ (3.2.355-7) – one of the rivers in the classical underworld – and encouraging him to mimic the voices of Demetrius and Lysander as devils are said to mimic men’s voices in Nashe’s Terrors of the Night (3.2.360-3).But when Robin tells him that this must be done swiftly before dawn sends ‘damned spirits’ back to their ‘wormy beds’ (no hint of Purgatory here), Oberon replies by dissociating himself and Robin utterly from souls who have ‘themselves exiled from light’.‘We are spirits of another sort’, he claims, and goes on to describe his delight in dallying with the morning sunshine like Apollo, the classical god of learning (3.2.378-93); and this assertion of benevolence is reinforced at the point when the fairies and Puck extend their benison to the sleeping lovers in the play’s last scene.If plays resemble dreams, in this play they are evidently dreams that bring peace and health to those who experience them.
Having said this, the terror of damnation with which the theatre-haters had infected the playhouse is by no means absent from Shakespeare’s comedy.When Robin Goodfellow turns ‘actor’, for instance, after witnessing the amateur theatrics of the craftsmen (3.1.75), he throws them into a superstitious panic by assuming a range of terrible forms: ‘Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn’ (3.1.106).But the devilry he practises is finally harmless, like the merry pranks played by the demonic Vices of an earlier dramatic tradition, or the antics of the devilish satyr-spirits in the pamphlets of the 1590s.And if it is both harmless and health-giving, the theatre-haters who saw it only as monstrous stand condemned for crude thinking, moral cowardice, and a lack of generosity.After all, the craftsmen welcomed Bottom back into their midst when they saw he was no monster (4.2); whereas the theatre-haters at their most extreme could find no place in a civil commonwealth for comedy.
It is hardly surprising, then, if in the last lines of the play Robin himself should turn defender of the theatre, like Tarlton in Kind-Heart’s Dream.Theseus lays the groundwork for this defence earlier in the scene when he teaches his contemptuous master of the revels Philostrate the proper way to respond to well-meant drama.‘Never anything can be amiss,’ he says, ‘When simpleness and duty tender it’ (5.1.82-3); and he goes on to explain how best to read incompetent performances where the actors stumble over their lines and fall silent, overawed by the grandeur of their audience.‘Trust me, sweet,’ he tells Titania,
Out of this silence yet I picked a welcome,
And in the modesty of fearful duty
I read as much as from the rattling tongue
Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity
In least speak most, to my capacity (5.1.99-105).
For Theseus, a courteous audience participates in a performance, reading into it the good will they would hope to find in all the works of the imagination.A little later he characterizes this process of generous reading as a kind of amendment or emendation: ‘The best in this kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse if imagination amend them’ (5.1.210-1).It’s the word ‘amend’ that Puck takes up in his epilogue; a word that had long been associated with readerly generosity by Elizabethan readers.Presenting their books to a potentially hostile public, some authors prefaced them with a gnomic challenge to their critics: ‘commend it, or amend it’; speak well of a work of art if you can’t improve on it.Robin Goodfellow presents his audience with a more genial offer from the playwright and actors who have entertained them.‘If we shadows have offended,’ he begins, ‘Think but this, and all is mended: / That you have but slumbered here, / While these visions did appear’ (5.1.414-7).For Nashe, visions seen in sleep, like Robin, are mostly harmless; they seldom have prophetic significance, and in most cases signify little more than the quality or otherwise of the last meal you have eaten.Robin’s dream, too, is no more than a ‘weak and idle theme’, and its idleness is not threatening (5.1.418).If it is pardoned, the players will ‘mend’ or improve their performance next time; if they escape the hissing of envious serpents among their spectators they ‘will make amends ere long’; and finally, generosity from their audience will strengthen the bond of imaginative friendship or amity among the citizens and their entertainers: ‘Give me your hands, if we be friends, / And Robin shall restore amends’ (5.1.421-9).The theatre-haters insisted that the playwrights had failed to amend or reform their plays despite endless promises of amendment.Robin makes the process of amendment a general one, healing rifts and bridging gaps between friendly co-habitants of the linked spaces of playhouse and city, and exorcising the demons that had been introduced into those spaces by the serpentine hissing of ungenerous prudes.
3.Robin Goodfellow and Bottom’s Dream
It’s perhaps worth mentioning one more way in which Shakespeare’s Robin both evokes and counters the anti-theatrical prejudice through interference with sleep.His decision to replace Bottom’s head with the head of an ass, then obtrude him into the presence of the sleeping Titania, in whose arms he is afterwards lulled asleep to the strains of seductive music, is another knowing reference to the Tudor controversy over the beneficence or devilishness of drama.As early as the 1540s, the schoolmaster-playwright John Redford introduced a scene into his moral interlude Wit and Science in which the schoolboy-hero Wit is danced into a state of exhaustion by a seductive female Vice, then lulled to drowsiness in her arms.As he dozes, the Vice’s son Ignorance places his fool’s cap on Wit’s shoulders: a cap no doubt endowed with the usual pair of ass’s ears.On waking, it is some time before Wit becomes aware of his transformation; and if ever Shakespeare saw a performance of Wit and Science or one of its variants, it seems unlikely he would have forgotten the peals of laughter that greeted Wit’s puzzlement at the reaction of those around him to his changed appearance.
The Vice who seduced Wit into this compromising somnolence was called Idleness, a term often used by the theatre-haters to designate the unproductive activities of players.Her rival in the play is a Virtue called Honest Recreation – and again, this is the virtue defenders of the theatre liked to champion, insisting on the necessity for relaxing and instructive entertainment in the midst of one’s daily labour, and claiming that the theatre could provide such entertainment more fully than any other art-form.Redford’s Honest Recreation has nothing but contempt for Idleness; but any attack of hers on the Vice is pre-empted by the Vice herself, who launches a devastating verbal assault on Honest Recreation that anticipates in its wording the polemic of the theatre-haters in the 1570s and 80s.Honest Recreation, says Idleness, is nothing but a fake, a common player or mummer who uses the mask of virtue to cover her vices:
The dyvyll and hys dam can not devyse
More devlyshnes then by the doth ryse
Under the name of Honest Recreacion:
She, lo, bryngth in her abhominacion!
Mark her dawnsyng, her masking and mummyng.
Where more concupiscence then ther cummyng? 
Honest Recreation retaliates with an eloquent humanistic defence of leisure-time activities as a source of intellectual refreshment; but her thunder has been stolen, her name forever muddied, and she retires defeated as soon as she has said her piece, leaving Wit firmly entwined in the embrace of her demonic counterpart Idleness.And here he was to be found, again and again, throughout the rest of the sixteenth century.Two more versions of the story of Wit and Science were staged in the 1560s and 70s (The Marriage of Wit and Science and Francis Merbury’s The Marriage Between Wit and Wisdom), each of which replayed the scene where Wit gets saddled with a fool’s cap in his sleep.In the early 1580s a version of the play was acted called The Play of Playes and Pastimes, which responded to Stephen Gosson’s attack on the theatre by depicting Life lulled asleep by Honest Recreation herself – not by her vicious substitute – then entertained with Comedy when she wakes.20And Redford’s play was reworked at least three more times in the following decade: once in The Cobbler’s Prophecy (c. 1590), a comedy by the celebrated clown Robert Wilson, where the god Mars is lulled asleep by Venus until startled into action by a comic cobbler; once in Anthony Munday’s Sir Thomas More (c. 1593), where More takes part in a performance of The Marriage Between Wit and Wisdom; and once in the Inns of Court entertainment The Pilgrimage to Parnassus, whose entire plot is ultimately derived from Redford’s.Shakespeare helped to revise Sir Thomas More for performance, perhaps in the early 1600s.It seems beyond the bounds of possibility that he should not have known the plot, at least, of Wit and Science, and its affiliation with the theatrical controversy.And read as another reworking of this plot, Bottom’s transformation tells us a good deal about his creator’s attitude to the theatre at this stage in his career.
Bottom the weaver is an actor – albeit a very bad one.His designation as one of the ‘rude mechanicals’ – the phrase Robin applies to them (3.2.9) – associates him with the standard insult levelled at actors and non-university playwrights by two of the so-called University Wits of the 1580s, Greene and Nashe, both of whom saw acting as a ‘mechanical’ art, a non-intellectual exercise well suited to the offspring of craftsmen and tradesmen who practised it.So when Puck invests Bottom with the head of an ass it seems no more than he deserves, as an upstart crow who plans to raise his presumptuous voice in the presence of royalty against all the principles of classical decorum.
Yet the weaver responds to his predicament with astonishing dignity. He refuses to be frightened by the insults levelled at him (he tells his fellow craftsmen that in accusing him of monstrosity they are merely exposing themselves as ‘ass-heads’ or fools, 3.1.111), and sings to keep up his courage.His song acts like that of a mermaid or Siren on Titania’s senses; she becomes ‘enamoured of his note’ (3.1.131), much as audiences were said by the theatre-haters to be roused to lustful paroxysms by the melodic blandishments of the stage.Yet when she declares her love for him he remains both rational and scrupulously courteous.‘Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that’, he tells her, and later denies her statement that he is ‘as wise as he is beautiful’ – he lays claim only to the pragmatic ‘wit’ he needs to ‘get out of this wood’ (3.1.135-42).This practical or mechanical intelligence manifests itself, too, in his philosophy: ‘reason and love,’ he says, ‘keep little company together nowadays – the more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends’ (3.1.136-9).For him, the love that matters is the love that binds communities, the love between neighbours which he has clearly provoked among his own neighbours, the fellow craftsmen and actors who mourn his absence at the end of Act Four, just before he is miraculously restored to them.Bottom is a fool only in that he voices popular wisdom, fails to take advantage of Titania’s infatuation for selfish ends, and refuses to modify his behaviour in the presence of power, as a sycophantic courtier would have done.His deportment to Titania’s fairy servants is impeccable; and when Titania tells them to ‘Tie up my love’s tongue; bring him silently’ (3.1.191), it is not an injunction to restrain the ribaldry of an unruly clown, as it would have been in a Redfordian moral interlude, nor yet an act of ritual humiliation, as it would have been in a play by Robert Wilson, but a means of subduing him to her desire – a desire that is ultimately harmless, to herself, to him, and to their Elizabethan audience.
The harmlessness of the piece of supernatural theatre Bottom finds himself caught up in is strongly asserted by Puck in the following scene.When he describes the weaver’s transformation to Oberon, Robin laughs at the unnecessary terror of Bottom’s companions when faced with his metamorphosis: ‘Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, / Made senseless things begin to do them wrong’ (3.2.27-8).Later, unreasoning terror is mentioned again by Theseus, whose analysis of the workings of ‘strong imagination’ includes the transformation of inanimate harmless objects by panic: ‘in the night, imagining some fear, / How easy is a bush supposed a bear!’ (5.1.18-22).Even the craftsmen are aware of the ease with which terror can be aroused by harmless things: they seek to defuse any fear that might be generated by their own theatrical performance by drawing attention to its theatricality, so that the lion in their play gives an elaborate and wholly unnecessary explanation of the principle of dramatic illusion to its courtly spectators.Both the craftsmen’s very reasonable fear of Bottom, and their less reasonable fear that the ladies in their audience will fear them, are profoundly funny; and the implication is that the fear of the theatre evinced by its critics is not much less so.
Malice is simply absent from Robin’s actions, as it is from those of the well-intentioned craftsmen.When Oberon rebukes him for administering the love-juice to the wrong lover, for instance, the goblin repeatedly insists that he ‘mistook’, although he is delighted by the outcome of his errors.Once his cruel but harmless ‘sport’ is over, it assumes the status of ‘a dream and fruitless vision’ (3.2.371) for the Athenian lovers who were its victims; and Titania’s fleeting affair with Bottom – something mistaken on her part, not maliciously intended – also ends by being dismissed as ‘the fierce vexation of a dream’ (4.1.68).Like Titania and the lovers, audiences will leave the theatre without having been adversely affected by what they saw there; restored to what Robin calls ‘True delight’ (3.2.455) – responsible pleasure, something the theatre-haters don’t seem able to imagine – in the things and people that are dear to them, they will return to waking life with nothing but an enhanced sense of its fragile beauty and comic unreasonableness.And having left the stage, they will be no more tempted to engage in any over-critical analysis of their ‘most rare’ theatrical ‘vision’ than they would to analyse a dream after a feast (4.1.202).If they sought to do so, they would show themselves to be asses, transformed to fools by the spectacle they have witnessed, just as those who take exception to satire transform themselves into satire’s targets by their over-sensitive response to its gibes.
This, at least, is what Bottom implies when he wakes from the dramatic role of Titania’s lover in Act 4 scene 1.‘I have had a most rare vision,’ he says, and ‘Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream’ (4.1.202-4).But he couches this observation in the language of theology, adding a somewhat jumbled but instantly recognizable version of Paul’s Epistle to the Corinthians: ‘The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report what my dream was’ (4.1.207-10).As we’ve seen, Robin Goodfellow and Dick Tarlton were not afraid to get themselves mixed up with theology, despite the bloody history of religious controversy throughout sixteenth-century Europe.At the bottom of Bottom’s theatrical dream there may be a serious point about the working of the imagination at all levels of society.After all, real dreams could, Nashe tells us, be heaven-sent ‘visions’ containing genuine prophecies, even if the bulk of them were nothing but outlets for the superfluous matter engendered by the human digestive system.Prophecies could provoke social change, insurrection, maybe even revolution; visions could start religions or spark off heresies; that’s why there was such careful legislation in England against men’s claims to be visionaries or prophets throughout the Tudor period.Bottom awakes these controversial matters even as he dismisses them, just as Robin Goodfellow and his fairy companions evoke the demonic associations of drama even as they dismiss them.The magic of the theatre, and its status as the space where human dreams and nightmares can be realized as nowhere else, remain as potent at the end of A Midsummer Night’s Dream as they were at the beginning.And it’s partly thanks to Shakespeare’s clever predecessors, with all the goblins, ghosts, and visions they invoked on stage and printed page, that this is so.The time has come to wake them from their long sleep, set them loose among us once again, and listen carefully to what they have to tell us.
See Thomas Nashe, The Terrors of the Night or a Discourse of Apparitions, in The Unfortunate Traveller and Other Works, ed. J. B. Steane (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1972), pp. 209-210.All references to The Terrors of the Night are taken from this edition.An early version of this paper was given at the World Shakespeare Congress, Brisbane 2006, in a panel on early modern sleep organized by Garrett Sullivan and Evelyn Tribble.I am very grateful to all the participants in the panel, especially Jeffrey Marsten and Rebecca Totaro.
I have discussed the anti-theatrical prejudice in my book, Shakespeare and Comedy (London: The Arden Shakespeare, 2005), pp. 5-24 etc.See also Jonas Barish, The Anti-Theatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981), and Laura Levine, Men in Women’s Clothing: Anti-Theatricality, 1579-1642 (Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994).
My reading of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in this paper develops my discussion of it in Shakespeare and Comedy, pp. 141-154.I am also indebted to Peter Holland’s introduction to his edition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1994), and his essay ‘“The Interpretation of Dreams” in the Renaissance’, Reading Dreams: The Interpretation of Dreams from Chaucer to Shakespeare, ed. Peter Brown (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999).See also Derek Alwes, ‘Elizabethan Dreaming: Fictional Dreams from Gascoigne to Lodge’, in Framing Elizabethan Fictions: Contemporary Approaches to Early Modern Narrative Prose, ed. Constance C. Relihan (Kent, Ohio and London: Kent State University Press, 1996), 153-67.
Accounts of Robin Goodfellow can be found in Katharine Briggs, The Anatomy of Puck: An Examination of Fairy Beliefs among Shakespeare’s Contemporaries (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1959) (see index); Briggs, A Dictionary of Fairies (London: Lane, 1976), entries for Puck and Robin Goodfellow; Diane Purkiss, Troublesome Things: A History of Fairies and Fairy Stories (London: Allen Lane, 2000), ch. 5; and Winfried Schleiner, ‘Imaginative Sources for Shakespeare’s Puck’, Shakespeare Quarterly 36 (1985), 65-8
Albions England (1612), Anglistica and Americana (Hildesheim and New York: Georg Olms Verlag, 1971), p. 368.The first four books of Warner’s epic were published in 1588; the 14th book, containing ‘A Tale of Robin-goodfellow’, first appeared in the 1606 edition.See my ‘Myths Exploited: The Metamorphoses of Ovid in Early Elizabethan England’, Shakespeare’s Ovid, ed. A. B. Taylor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 27-8.
For a fuller discussion of this text see my ‘Robert Greene and the Uses of Time’, Writing Robert Greene, ed. Kirk Melnikoff and Edward Gieskes (Aldershot and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008), ch. 8, pp.182-7.
The Life and Complete Works… of Robert Greene, ed. Alexander B. Grosart, 15 vols. (London and Aylesbury: privately printed, 1881-3), vol. 12, p. 207.
For a detailed discussion of the place of the tragedy of Collingbourne in The Mirror for Magistrates see Andrew Hadfield, Literature, Politics and National Identity: Reformation to Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), chapter 3.All references are to the 1563 edition.
For a print history of The Mirror for Magistrates see the introduction to Lily B. Campbell’s edition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1938).
For a recent account of Gabriel Harvey’s posthumous attack on Robert Greene and Nashe’s response, see Ronald A. Tumelson II, ‘Robert Greene, “Author of Playes”’, Writing Robert Greene, ed. Melnikoff and Gieskes, ch. 5.
For the health-giving properties of laughter see my ‘The Afterlife of Andrew Borde’, Studies in Philology vol. 100 no. 4 (Fall 2003), pp. 463-92.
The Cobbler’s Robin opens his epistle with ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’, the phrase Shakespeare’s Robin uses at 3.2.421.Shakespeare’s Robin alludes to hemp at 3.1.72, and describes himself stamping to terrify Peter Quince and his fellow craftsmen at 3.2.25.
Nashe associates him with the Lares or ‘household Gods’ in The Terrors of the Night (p. 210), and Warner calls Robin a ‘breechlesse Larr’ in Albions England, p. 367.See also Tarlton’s News Out of Purgatory, p. 2, quoted above.
Nashe mentions the devil’s power of mimicry several times in The Terrors of the Night, but cf. ‘Those that catch birds imitate their voices; so will he imitate the voices of God’s vengeance, to bring us like birds into the net of eternal damnation’ (p. 211).
Stephen Gosson takes this stance in his Plays Confuted in Five Actions (1582).See Arthur F. Kinney, Markets of Bawdrie: The Dramatic Criticism of Stephen Gosson (Salzburg: University of Salzburg, 1974), introduction.
For the phrase ‘Commend it, or amend it’ see e.g. the title-page of John Lyly’s Euphues and his England (1580).
‘From the unequal and repugnant mixture of contrarious meats… many of our mystic cogitations proceed; and even as fire maketh iron like itself, so the fiery inflammations of our liver or stomach transform our imaginations to their analogy and likeness’.Nashe, Terrors of the Night, p. 233.
For the theatre-haters’ rejection of the playwrights’ claims to have reformed their work, see my Shakespeare and Comedy, pp. 11-12.
John Redford, Wit and Science, in Tudor Interludes, ed. Peter Happé (Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 1972), pp.181-219, p. 196.
For a summary of the plot of The Play of Plays, which demonstrates its indebtedness to the plot of Wit and Science, see Markets of Bawdrie: The Dramatic Criticism of Stephen Gosson, ed. Arthur F. Kinney (Salzburg: Universitaet Salzburg, 1974), pp. 181-3.
See Nashe’s statement that ‘everie mechanicall mate’ aspires to the status of a rhetorician because of the example set by ‘vainglorious tragoedians’; epistle ‘To the Gentlemen Students of both Universities’, printed with Greene’s romance Menaphon (1589), Works… of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart, vol. 6, p. 9.See also Greene’s romance Francescos Fortunes (1590), Works… of Robert Greene, ed. Grosart, vol. 8, p. 132, where the players’ art is described as ‘a kind of mechanical labour’.
[I wrote this essay for a Festschrift in honour of my DPhil supervisor, Professor Helen Cooper, Medieval into Renaissance: Essays for Helen Cooper, ed. Andrew King and Matthew Woodcock (Woodbridge and Rochester, NY: D S Brewer, 2016); you can find it on pp. 35-54. I place it here in Helen’s honour, with infinite thanks for her patience, scholarship, good humour and support through the difficult years of writing a doctorate.]
One of Helen Cooper’s finest essays concerns the function of magic that doesn’t work in medieval and Renaissance romance. Bringing together her impish sense of humour, her astonishing range of reading and her infectious delight in tracing the mutations of genre in response to cultural change, the essay is a scholarly tour de force, perhaps the most memorable chapter in her celebrated monograph The English Romance in Time. It is particularly suggestive where it draws attention to the moments in medieval romance when the presence of magic serves to focus the reader’s attention on some peculiarly human quality: on selfless love, for instance, as when the imperiled teenage lovers Floris and Blancheflour compete over which of them will bestow on the other the magic ring which is said to preserve its owner’s life; or on stubborn courage, as when an anonymous lover in a tale by Marie de France refuses to drink the magic potion that would help him carry his beloved up a mountain, an act of heroic obstinacy that kills them both. The chapter is not about a ‘meme’, Cooper explains – an idea or theme that survives from generation to generation, mutating in response to the changing pressures of the time. Instead it concerns what she calls a ‘meme that got out of hand’, that of the magical object. All too easily magic can get boring, operating in too predictable a fashion, providing too easy an escape route from a tricky situation. The magic that doesn’t work revitalizes the magical narrative by introducing a crucial element of surprise, disorder, or emotional crisis; and as such it resists replication, since the whole point of it (when well used) is to unsettle the romance reader’s expectations.
I would like to consider in this essay another recurring theme that has given us some of the most striking passages in medieval and Renaissance romance: that of armour that doesn’t work. For a modern reader, armour is the ultimate emblem of chivalric romance, especially the full plate armour of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, as fetishized in the paintings of John William Waterhouse, John Boorman’s film Excalibur, or the BBC TV series Merlin. For the late medieval reader, too, armour or harness that worked was romance incarnate. Someone in the fifteenth or sixteenth century wearing splendid harness instantly displayed his gender, his status, his affiliations (if he wore a coat armour, or if the steel itself bore heraldic devices), and his physical attributes (think of Henry VIII’s expanding girth as recorded in his successive sizes of battle dress). Armour stood for the chivalric code; praying over it was an integral part of a squire’s induction into knighthood. What you wore in the Middle Ages was, in theory, who you were; and fine armour was at the very apex of the sartorial pyramid.
For all these reasons – because it is so instantly readable in so many ways – armour can be a boring object in romance, especially when its bearer is vying for the position of Number One Knight, so to speak, in the chivalric standings. Under these conditions the armour bearer is like a machine, whose limited functions are always predictable and whose victory always assured. The ultimate example of an armour-bearing machine is of course Sir Galahad, who gallops through the landscape of Malory’s ‘Tale of the Sankgreal’ fulfilling prophesies left and right without any emotional engagement with the men and women he encounters. Galahad is the embodiment of spiritual commitment; he has no personality or history, and when all his deeds have been accomplished his soul is carried up to Heaven by a team of adoring angels, leaving little physical trace behind on the earth he barely touched. In some ways, then, he is the worthy forebear of Spenser’s mechanical man Talus, the metallic dispenser of justice in Book V of The Faerie Queene who signals the poet’s uncomfortable commitment to the Tudor project of subjugating Ireland by force. Talus’s status as what can anachronistically be termed a self-propelled suit of armour conveniently sets him apart from human beings in such a way as to make that project seem (barely) defensible, since though devised by men it is executed by an agent without a soul. Nevertheless, the iron man’s association with the animated statues of Virgilius the Sorcerer or Cornelius Agrippa confirms his ambiguity as a representation of justice. Virgilius derived his power from the devil and Marlowe assumed, in Doctor Faustus, that Agrippa too was in cahoots with the fiend. Given that Talus is simply an allegorical machine, unsullied by magic, he can in theory be employed by Spenser’s knight of justice, Sir Artegal, without tainting his employer with infernal associations. But the memory of other moving statues would have been hard to shake off for an early modern reader. And there remains the fact that Talus is impossible to like, with his remorseless efficiency, his predictable reactions to every situation, and his utter indifference to the Christian quality of mercy.
This problem of the perfect knight as a soulless machine is brilliantly addressed by Italo Calvino in The Non-existent Knight (Il cavaliere inesistente, 1959), his sparkling tribute to Ariosto and Cervantes. The book’s protagonist, a full-body harness that comes to life by an act of sheer will power, makes himself universally unpopular with his fellow paladins by his rigid adherence to the rules of military and chivalric good conduct. As the book proceeds, however, the knight’s increasing sensitivity to other people’s views of him makes him increasingly likeable, and his posse of followers – the fool Gurduloo, the idealistic female warrior Bradamante, the confused young squire Raimbaud – endow him by proxy with the flesh and emotions he lacks. He becomes the focus of their dreams and passions, the anchor of their identities, no longer merely a metal container for the regulations by which these dreams are rendered manageable by the authorities. Armour requires the flesh to make it move, both emotionally and physically speaking; and codes of conduct, however impractical, give direction to the undirected yearnings of the flesh. Calvino’s story beautifully captures the awkward symbiosis between the organic and the inorganic which is the late medieval and early modern knight.
Flesh, then, is the essential adjunct to the carapace of protective steel, as late Victorian painters such as Waterhouse acknowledged when they surrounded their gleaming knights with voluptuous temptresses. Men, of course, can display their fleshly qualities in romance by defeating powerful opponents without the benefit of armour; this is the homosocial equivalent of the amorous encounters, chaste or unchaste, with which romance women have been traditionally associated. A fine example of such an unarmed hero is the young Sir Perceval de Gallys in the Middle English metrical romance, whose lack of armour serves at first merely to underline his lack of education in chivalry. Wearing only goatskins, young Perceval’s first heroic act is to transfix his father’s killer, a fully armoured knight, with a light Scottish throwing-spear, when the man is foolish enough to raise his visor. But Perceval is an adolescent at the time, and every reader knows from the old stories that he will soon acquire some armour and join his fellow knights at the Table Round. For Perceval, the acquisition of his harness from the slaughtered body of his enemy makes it an emblem of his power and skill, a natural extension of the unusual muscularity of his right arm and torso, his easy mastery over the objects and people he meets on his travels. But I am concerned in this essay with the knights whose harness proves useless in one way or another after its acquisition; either because the adventure they are on cannot be achieved with the help of steel, or because they are caught without armour through trickery, neglect or betrayal, or because their armour provides inadequate protection – or even because their harness itself is a kind of trap. For these heroes, armour is a difficult affair, never at hand when you need it, not fulfilling its prescribed function when you have it, brittle, permeable or imprisoning rather than impervious, encumbering rather than enabling. And in the adventures they take part in, armour often becomes intriguing in its own right, for a variety of unpredictable reasons.
One twentieth-century embodiment of this difficult relationship to armour is King Pellinore in T. H. White’s novel The Sword in the Stone (1938). Pellinore is an errant knight who is perpetually engaged in the rather pointless pursuit of a friendly creature called the Questing Beast. When the future King Arthur, here known as the Wart, first encounters Pellinore, the boy quickly learns a great deal about the inconvenience of closed helmets for those who wear spectacles (the lenses get ‘completely fogged’), and of armour generally. As the knight explains:
All this beastly amour takes hours to put on. When it is on it’s either frying or freezing, and it gets rusty. You have to sit up all night polishing the stuff. Oh, how Ay do wish Ay had a nice house of my own to live in, a house with beds in it and real pillows and sheets. […] [T]hen Ay would […] throw all this beastly armour out of the window, and let the beastly Beast go and chase itself, that Ay would.
In this passage King Pellinore is a kind of human snail, whose metal shell serves as an uncomfortable substitute for the nice warm house he yearns for. His armour has little value as a means of defence, since the Questing Beast is far too friendly to attack him. Instead it tends to erase the distinction between its bearer and the animal world through which he wanders, exaggerating the limitations of the King’s body by fogging up his spectacles and fraying his temper to the extent that he keeps referring to his equipment as beastly. When the Questing Beast turns up a page or so later, the King’s animal passions get further excited and he promptly forgets the allure of sheets in the thrill of the chase. An unsuccessful fusion of animal unruliness and rigid artifice, of chaos and convention, White’s knight is a direct descendant of Carroll’s White Knight and Cervantes’s Quixote, both of whom are always damaging their elderly bodies precisely because they insist on wearing protective steel. For all three, the harness they wear underscores the limitations of the flesh it encases, as well as the eccentric relationship between that flesh and the code of conduct that the harness represents.
In this as in other ways, armour that doesn’t work has a similar function to magic that doesn’t work, as Cooper describes it. If full plate armour is a kind of meme in late chivalric romance – like the meme of the magic object – then the armour that doesn’t work is designed to circumvent the narrative problems posed by that meme; an ‘anti-meme’, in other words. The romance hero is nearly always one of the greatest fighters of his time, and in full armour his fighting prowess must necessarily render him as indestructible as the owner of an effective charm or talisman – and hence as dull, in terms of the narrative possibilities to which he gives rise. For such a knight to retain his stature as a combatant while engaging in properly perilous adventures, he must be stripped of his protective exoskeleton, deprived of the tools of his trade by one means or other – or those tools must be turned against him, like King Pellinore’s fog-inducing helmet. And the effect of this process of stripping down, deprivation or armorial recalcitrance is to draw attention to the fragile humanness of the romance’s male protagonist.
This may be the central difference between the magic that doesn’t work and the armour that doesn’t work. Cooper’s examples of non-functional magic (and she includes under this rubric magic that might well work but isn’t used, just as the present essay includes functional armour that gets left aside at crucial moments) often serve to demonstrate the spectacularly exceptional nature of the people who fail to use it. It is the exceptional strength of Floris and Blancheflour’s love that prompts a sympathetic king to urge their captor, the Admiral or Emir of Babylon, to spare them. In Marie de France’s tale, it is the refusal of the lover to drink the magic potion that exhibits the exceptional potency of his love, since love alone gives him strength to achieve what no other man has managed by carrying his lady unassisted up a mountain. Armour that doesn’t work, by contrast, tends to underscore the vulnerability of the person it fails, or who fails to wear it. For this reason it becomes one of the defining themes of the late chivalric tradition, when the best writers (Chaucer, Malory, Shakespeare) chose to produce ‘works designed to question their own generic assumptions’ in response to the ‘strong self-consciousness of a genre now passing into its fourth century’, as Cooper reminds us.
These comments on late chivalric romance come from the final chapter of The English Romance in Time, ‘Unhappy Endings’, and armour that doesn’t work is strongly represented here among the romances that choose to resist the genre’s assumption that all its narratives must end well. But like magic that doesn’t work, non-functional armour can be comic too. Inevitably it is Chaucer who provides the best examples of both the comic and tragic aspects of this ‘anti-meme’ (Cooper was always pointing out to me in tutorials that Chaucer provides the best examples of almost anything before the late sixteenth century). In The Canterbury Tales, Sir Thopas exhibits his own and his narrator’s ignorance of the romance tradition by getting caught without his armour when he meets a giant. Any medieval reader would have known that an errant knight should be wearing armour when he seeks adventure, and that if he happens not to be wearing it he should defeat his antagonist regardless, as Perceval beats the Red Knight dressed only in goatskins. But for Chaucer’s narcissistic protagonist, wearing the wrong clothes for any given deed is inexcusable; he must hurry home to arm himself before he can even think of engaging in combat. When he does so, it is in an elaborate metal and fabric confection which again violates romance conventions, both by its placement in the wrong part of the narrative (he should have armed himself at the beginning) and by the sheer weight of clichés that cluster round it (his coat armour is ‘whit as is a lilye flour’, his fine cypress spear ‘bodeth werre, and nothyng pees’, and so on). The belatedness of Sir Thopas’s arming also confirms his inverted understanding of the chivalric code, which has already been signaled by his plan to marry an elven queen because no mortal woman is worthy of him. After reading this poem it is hard to imagine anyone taking another metrical romance entirely seriously.
At the tragic end of the spectrum, ‘The Knight’s Tale’ provides an example of a yet more radical inversion of the proper order of the chivalric romance narrative and the code to which it theoretically adheres; and it does so largely through the difficult relationship it sketches out between a man and his armour. Like a true romance hero, the protagonist Arcite defeats his friend and rival Palamon in combat, and the tournament in which he achieves this is stuffed to bursting with allusions to armour: from the frantic ‘devisynge of harneys’ that precedes the fighting (line 2496) to King Theseus’s prohibition of certain weapons from the contest itself (‘ne polax, ne short knyf […] Ne short swerd, for to stoke with poynt bitynge’, lines 2544-6). As it turns out, however, neither harness nor prohibition offers much protection to the contestants. ‘The helmes they tohewen and toshrede,’ the poet tells us with unnerving relish; ‘Out brest the blood with stierne stremes rede;/ With myghty maces the bones they tobreste’, and it is by the merest chance that no one dies in the melee (lines 2609-2611). When the tournament is over, Arcite takes off his helmet to salute the woman who inspired his triumph; and at once his horse falls over and fatally crushes him. The calamitous effect of this fall on Arcite’s flesh is described in lurid detail, as if to stress the limitations of his strong young body: ‘The pipes of his longes gonne to swelle,/ And every lacerte [muscle] in his brest adoun/ Is shent with venym and corrupcion’ (p. 44, lines 2752-2754). In this narrative, then, armour and the rules that govern its use represent men’s feeble attempt to take control in a world full of insidious poisons, from the venom of corrupted wounds to the contagion of desire, from the disease of jealousy that sets the knights at odds to the poisonous rivalry of the gods who sponsor each combatant. Theseus does his best to re-impose a sense of order after Arcite’s accident, declaring the tournament a draw and delivering a speech that affirms the continuing stability of creation. But Arcite’s death was not in fact accidental. It was engineered by Venus (or rather by Saturn acting on her behalf), and intended to benefit Palamon, her devoted acolyte. Arcite, by contrast, was an acolyte of Mars, the god of war, who also happens to be Venus’s lover. So the pantheon of pagan gods would seem to be as violently competitive as the knights they sponsor, and as capable of circumventing regulations and breaking alliances. The armour that doesn’t work here serves to point up the limitations of the structures that bind us: above all the kind of structure represented by traditional stories and comforting fictions, the imaginative armour with which we defend to ourselves such slippery concepts as honour and friendship.
The works of Malory, too, offer fine examples of both the comic and tragic aspects of non-functioning armour. On the tragic side, there is the tale of the brothers Balin and Balan, who hack each other to death because each is wearing unfamiliar harness. The final section of ‘The Knight with the Two Swords’ begins with Balin accepting a shield from a stranger knight in place of his own, whereupon a mysterious damsel warns him that ‘ye have put yourself in grete daunger, for by your sheld ye shold have ben knowen’ (p. 56, lines 22-4). His brother meets him shortly afterwards wearing unmarked red armour, and in the fight that follows both men dismantle each other plate by plate until ‘their hawberkes [were] unnailed, that naked they were on every syde’ (p. 57, lines 12-13). Mortally wounded, Balan crawls to his brother and takes off his helmet; but he cannot recognize him at first because of the damage he himself inflicted in the battle: he ‘myght not knowe hym by the vysage, it was so ful hewen and bledde’ (p. 57, lines 22-3). As Cooper has argued, part of the power of this denouement springs from the fact that it forms part of a larger narrative with which the medieval reader was well acquainted – the Arthurian cycle – while the knights themselves have no idea what forces drive their fate. Throughout his adventures, the invincible Balin is helplessly propelled by the machinery of story, unwittingly setting up riddles, problems and conundrums that will only be resolved long after his death by the machine-man Galahad. The armour that destroys him, then, embodies his entrapment in structures he cannot understand because of his limited vision – the restricted view you get from inside a closed helmet (think of Pellinore’s spectacles). The fact that he cannot recognize his brother, and that his brother cannot recognize him, sums up his condition as an ignorant tool of dispassionate supernatural forces – as represented at Balin’s burial by the sorcerer Merlin, who laughs sardonically as he makes further predictions about the tragic fate of Balin’s sword.
Malory’s Lancelot, meanwhile, furnishes us with examples of both the comic and tragic aspects of the armour that doesn’t work. Of all the knights in Malory’s pantheon apart from Galahad, Lancelot stands in greatest danger of becoming boring, since he is the best knight in the world and we know in advance the likely outcome of every battle – and hence of every narrative – in which he is involved. For this reason Malory is careful to vary the scenes he selects for inclusion in the parts of his work he devotes to Lancelot; and an inordinate number of these episodes involve non-functional armour. In ‘A Noble Tale of Sir Launcelot du Lake’ the hero is forced to don another man’s armour if he wants adventures; wearing his own means he is avoided like the plague. But some of his best adventures occur when he wears no armour at all. On one occasion, for instance, he finds a pavilion in the forest, lavishly prepared for the reception of a guest. In many romances such a discovery would signal the presence of the supernatural: the pavilion would belong to a fairy or enchantress, as in Sir Launfal, and Lancelot would have to deploy all his knightly self-control to resist the seductions of its owner. It seems only natural, then, to the reader, that on finding the tent he should remove his armour, lie down in the bed and go to sleep; this is what you do in enchanted pavilions. Later, the knight who owns the pavilion comes home and gets into bed. Finding Lancelot between his sheets and assuming him to be his lover, he ‘toke hym in his armys and began to kysse hym’, scratching the sleeping hero with his ‘rough berde’ (p. 153, lines 27-8). This leads to a brief, fierce swordfight between the two warriors – presumably naked – during which Lancelot wounds the stranger ‘sore nyghe unto the deth’ (p. 153, line 33). At this point, the men pause to explain themselves to each other. Lancelot then takes the stranger indoors to tend his injuries, and the knight’s lady arrives. The lady is naturally inclined to blame Lancelot for her husband’s injuries; but she soon comes up with a means for him to make amends. He must use his influence at court, she insists, to procure her man a place at the Round Table. In this way Lancelot’s nakedness leaves him exposed to the lady’s judicial expertise, to the extent that he must set aside the usual procedure for admitting knights to that exclusive company and offer a seat at the Round Table to an unproven stranger. What began as an encounter with potential enchantment ends not with a dazzling display of unmatchable swordsmanship but with an out-of-court settlement, a legal compromise; and in this way the episode exposes the absurdity both of chivalric convention and of the narrative traditions Lancelot lives by.
Later in the same book, Lancelot is tricked into removing his armour and climbing a tree to rescue a lady’s falcon. Once he is safely in his breeches and astride a branch, the lady’s husband leaps out of a bush ‘all armed’ (p. 169, line 44), and explains that this was all a plot to get Lancelot into a state of undress so as to enable him to be summarily dispatched. Lancelot disarms the knight with a stick and kills him with his own weapon; but the episode neatly illustrates one of the perils of being a romance hero, which is that the landscape gradually fills up with people who hold a grudge against you, and whose only hope of besting you is by trickery. As a hero you can only trust that your own wiles, or the wiles of some well-disposed passing damsel, will permit you to escape from the tricks to which these grudgers are prepared to resort. And in the last two books of Malory’s work, a deadly web composed of grudges and trickery binds together all the major episodes that feature armour that doesn’t work.
Lancelot’s relationship with armour in these last two books becomes increasingly difficult, as if to emphasize the increasing difficulty of reconciling his duty to King Arthur with his devotion to Arthur’s wife. In the tale of the Fair Maid of Astolat, Lancelot plays his old trick of borrowing armour in order to participate in a tournament. But the armour fails him – he is pierced through the side by his cousin Bors while wearing it; and during his long period of convalescence, necessarily unclothed, his body attracts the devotion of his nurse, the Maid of the title. The borrowed armour has meanwhile got him into trouble with Guinevere, since to complete the disguise he wore a token on his helmet, a red sleeve lent him by the Maid. The sleeve misleads the Queen into thinking he has transferred his affections to another woman, while encouraging the Maid to believe he might eventually fall in love with her. In ‘A Noble Tale of Sir Launcelot du Lake’, Lancelot’s appropriation of Sir Kay’s armour had no serious consequences; it was a game, as were the fights he undertook while bearing it. In the last two books, games turn to earnest, and borrowing armour becomes a problem, which interweaves itself with the personal and political problems that accumulate around the adulterous couple.
Armour is yet more problematic in ‘The Knight of the Cart’. The villain here is a kind of anti-Lancelot, Sir Melliagaunt, who shares his alter ego’s obsession with Guinevere but none of the chivalric qualities by which he justifies that adulterous passion. The difference between the two men can be summed up by their attitudes to armour. Melliagaunt captures the Queen while she is out a-maying with some unarmed knights, who are seriously wounded trying to defend her against the villain’s armed retainers. Lancelot sets out to rescue her, but his horse is shot dead by Melliagaunt’s archers, and as a result his armour ceases to assist him and becomes a burden. He cannot get at the archers because it weighs him down, and when he tries to continue his journey he finds himself ‘sore acombird of hys armoure, hys shylde, and hys speare’ (p. 653, lines 41-2). Worse still, when he finally arrives at Melliagaunt’s castle – travelling in the requisitioned transport of the title like a prisoner carted off to punishment – the villain refuses to fight him, throwing himself on Guinevere’s mercy. The Queen grants him her protection, and as a result all Lancelot’s skills, as embodied in his harness, are rendered useless. At the end of the first part of this story, Lancelot has been reduced to a state of helpless jealousy, all his efforts to act as the conventional romance hero having been thwarted either by his enemy or by his lover, neither of whom play by the rules a knight’s harness represents. There could be no more devastating exposure of the many chinks in Lancelot’s emotional and physical defences.
Next Melliagaunt succeeds in underscoring the moral link between himself and Lancelot, thus breaking down any clear distinctions that might have been signalled by their different attitudes to armour. The night after arriving at Melliagaunt’s castle, Lancelot disarms himself and slips into Guinevere’s bed, leaving blood on her sheets from a minor injury to his hand. Melliagaunt finds the blood, and accuses Guinevere of infidelity with one of the unarmed knights who were wounded defending her. Lancelot’s discarding of his harness here endangers his knightly colleagues, and he seeks to make up for this lapse by resorting to the chivalric rules of engagement by which he has always lived: rules that require full body armour for their fulfillment. He challenges the villain to trial by combat, as if Lancelot remained the impregnable entity he has always been thanks to his hitherto unquestioned identity as a top romance hero. But God is the ultimate judge in any such trial, ensuring that the fighter with the best cause will emerge triumphant; and in this case, the hero is saddled with a cause which is decidedly questionable. Guinevere has indeed committed adultery, as Melliagaunt asserts, and Lancelot is forced to equivocate in order to place himself on the side of justice. He therefore challenges his alter ego on the basis, not that Guinevere has not been unfaithful but that she has not sleptwith any of the knights who were wounded in her defence. This is a blatant prevarication, and its problematic moral status is reflected in the peculiar nature of the trial itself. After a brief bout of hand-to-hand fighting, Melliagaunt surrenders tamely to Lancelot, and chivalry dictates that his opponent must accept his surrender. But Guinevere signals to the hero that her accuser must die, and if Lancelot is to obey her he must once again find a way to circumvent the rules of the judicial game. He persuades Melliagaunt to fight on by offering to disarm his own head and left side to make the contest more even; and he kills the villain, of course, despite this handicap. But the half-armoured state in which he does so confirms his morally compromised position, his susceptibility to the corruption his opponent embraces. And the disarming of his body on the left side in particular, where the heart is, may be taken to demonstrate the extent to which the desires of that body are undermining his role as a knight. The whole adventure, in fact, foreshadows the part that will be played by armour in the final book, which tells how Lancelot’s adultery with Guinevere brings about the dissolution of the Round Table and the fall of Arthur.
In this last book, the ‘Morte Arthur’, it is the lack of armour that takes centre stage rather than its failure. When Lancelot is finally caught in flagrante delicto in Guinevere’s bedroom, he blames his resulting predicament on his unarmed state: ‘Alas,’ he complains, ‘in all my lyff thus was I never bestad that I shulde be thus shamefully slayne, for lake of myne armour’ (p. 676, lines 24-5). The sentence recalls the wording of his earlier complaint when trapped up a tree in the story of the falcon: ‘Alas […] that ever a knyght sholde dey wepynles!’ (p. 170, line 17). But on that occasion Lancelot could have been taken as a representative ‘knyght’, the equivalent of any romance hero trapped by treachery. In Guinevere’s room, by contrast, his situation is unique: he considers it only in the context of his private misfortunes (‘in all my lyff thus was I never bestad’), and sees the situation as ‘shameful’ to himself, not to those who have trapped him. The contrast between the two laments underscores his increasing alienation both from honour or worship and from his fellow knights. He succeeds, of course, in escaping; but he does so by killing one of his comrades of the Round Table, Sir Colgrevaunce, then donning his armour and fighting his way to freedom. The echo here of the many past occasions on which Lancelot borrowed armour serves only to underscore the extent to which what was once a game has become a disaster. And a lack of armour plays a yet more tragic role in the events that unfold in the wake of this episode.
Another knight killed at the door of the Queen’s chamber is Sir Agravain, brother of Gawain, Lancelot’s best friend. It is a measure of Lancelot’s worth that Gawain does not resent his killing. Indeed, Malory fills these late books with loyal friends who refuse to begrudge the hero his unfortunate propensity for causing the deaths of those who love him: the faithful horse in ‘The Knight of the Cart’ which is shot full of arrows by Sir Melliagaunt’s archers, yet continues to follow its master with its guts hanging out; the Maid of Astolat, who dies for love of Lancelot, and her brother Lavayne, who understands why she chose to do so: ‘for sythen I saw first my lorde sir Launcelot I cowde never departe frome hym’ (p. 639, lines 13-14). Gawain’s younger brother Gareth is another of these paragons of loyalty, who never forgets that Lancelot was the man who made him knight. He switches to Lancelot’s side in ‘The Great Tournament’ and fights against his brothers on his mentor’s behalf; and when Arthur orders him to accompany Guinevere on her final journey to execution as an adulteress, he refuses to wear his ‘harneyse of warre’ as a token of solidarity with her absent lover (p. 683, line 41). Inevitably Lancelot rides to her rescue; and inevitably Gareth is killed with his brother Gaheris in the confusion, ‘for they were unarmed and unwares’ (p. 684, line 26). At this point in the story Lancelot is once again the most efficient of killing machines, as he was before things got complicated. But his repeated compromising of the chivalric code means that his mechanical efficiency is no longer simple. Instead of being deployed in the service of some good cause, his force gets visited on the vulnerable flesh of the men he loves. Even Guinevere suffers from its effects, since the enmity brought about by Gareth’s death – the falling out it occasions between Gawain and Lancelot – is responsible both for her husband’s downfall and for her penitent demise.
Lancelot himself claims it is the brothers’ missing armour that was responsible for their deaths. ‘God wolde,’ he says at one point, that Gareth and Gaheris ‘had ben armed […] for than had they ben on lyve’ (p. 695, lines 41-2). He duly offers to make reparation by forgoing his warrior status, as embodied in his harness, and walking from end to end of the kingdom ‘in my shearte’, founding religious houses along the way to sing masses for the dead men’s souls (p. 696, line 14). But Gawain, too, has by this stage become machine-like – welded, so to speak, into his martial persona. War against Lancelot is the only reparation he will accept. And since everyone knows by now that Lancelot will be victorious in any conflict, the reader sees at once that this mechanical insistence on revenge will usher in the end of Arthur’s reign. Malory has reversed the machinery of the romance narrative so that it destroys its most efficient components, the iron-clad knights; and it is the armour that doesn’t work which is largely responsible for changing the function of the armour that does, from protective covering to engine of (self) destruction.
Interestingly, what brings about this major change in the function of armour is a change in the form of Malory’s evolving Arthurian narrative. Many of his earlier works consist of a succession of largely disconnected episodes, such as ‘A Noble Tale of Sir Launcelot du Lake’, with its errant structure neatly but loosely bound together by certain recurrent themes: the tricks Lancelot has to play to get a fight, the tricks played on him to render him vulnerable. But the episodes in the later ‘Book of Launcelot and Guinevere’ are woven together by tangled chains of cause and effect. The consequences of each episode get played out in the next; and the final book, the ‘Morte Arthur’ itself, is more tightly woven still, with each tale emerging organically from its predecessor. It is as if armour can only remain impervious in episodic narratives. Where one adventure has few links to the next, the simplicity of armour’s function as an emblem of the knightly ideal can be sustained, or can readily be recovered when that function has been compromised. But where competing allegiances – to friend and lover, to King and Queen, to knightly honour and a jealous mistress – get carried over from one episode to the next, armour too becomes permeable. In Malory’s interlinked narratives, harness loses its singular purpose and becomes instead, in its uneasy relationship with the flesh it covers (or fails to cover), an increasingly sophisticated device for undermining its bearer’s pretensions to honour, for exposing the fissures and flaws in his logic, the anarchic passions he seeks to hide or suppress.
The most sophisticated medieval study of the armour that doesn’t work is Sir Gawain and the Green Knight; and here too it is the structure of the narrative that renders that armour problematic, as it accumulates associations through the successive sections or ‘fits’ of the poem. In the opening scene at Arthur’s court, where the mysterious Green Knight invites one of the king’s champions to strike off his head with an axe, the poet makes much of the stranger’s unarmed status: ‘Whe[th]er hade he no helme ne hawbergh nau[th]er,/ Ne no pysan ne no plate [th]at pented to armes’. The Green Knight’s armourlessness is notable because he possesses a body so eminently suited to martial exploits (‘Hit semed as no mon my[gh]t/ Under his dynttez dry[gh]e’), and because the giant axe he carries underscores the violent nature of the strange game he proposes. The relationship between flesh and steel, then, is implicitly foregrounded from the moment he rides into the court; and when Sir Gawain takes up his challenge, the blow he aims at the Green Knight’s neck constitutes perhaps the most graphic encounter between flesh and steel in English literature: ‘[th]e scharp of [th]e schalk schyndered [th]e bones,/ And schrank [th]ur[gh] [th]e schyire grece, and schade hit in twynne,/ [Th]at [th]e bit of [th]e broun stel bot on [th]e grounde’ (lines 424-6). And flesh and steel continue to dominate the poem. The Green Knight survives the blow, by supernatural means, and leaves the court; Gawain sets off to find him the following year, as the game dictates; and his journey begins, as in all proper romances (though not that of Sir Thopas), with a ritual arming, described in loving detail as the knight’s servants assemble his harness piece by piece around his torso, limbs and head. But even as this physical armour is assembled the reader is aware that it will prove useless, since the encounter Gawain has agreed to entails exposing his own ‘naked’ neck to the Green Knight’s axe. And that approaching moment of nakedness is recalled again and again throughout Gawain’s journey.
It is invoked in the physical rigours of his passage through wintry landscape, during which armour provides no protection against the cold: ‘Ner slayn wyth [th]e slete he sleped in his yrnes/ Mo ny[gh]tez [th]en innoghe in naked rokkez’ (my emphasis) (lines 729-30). It is recalled, too, in the Christmas game Gawain plays while staying at Bertilak’s castle. Each day Bertilak goes hunting while his guest remains at home, and at the end of the day they agree to exchange whatever they have obtained in their respective activities. This second contest, like the Green Knight’s, involves the conspicuous juxtaposition of flesh and steel: the lavish descriptions of Bertilak’s wife, who seeks to seduce her guest in her husband’s absence, being interlaced with passages that describe the mangling and butchering of animal flesh with steel on Bertilak’s hunting expeditions. And as the game goes on, the final encounter between flesh and steel at the Green Knight’s chapel draws steadily closer, until it hardly seems surprising when on his final day at the castle Gawain succumbs – not to the lady’s seduction, but to her offer of additional armour. The armour, however, is not metal, since we already know that metal is useless. Instead she offers him a girdle, whose virtue, she claims, is to protect its wearer so that ‘no ha[th]el vnder heuen tohewe hym [th]at my[gh]t,/ For he my[gh]t not be slayn for sly[gh]t vpon er[th]e’ (lines 1853-4). Gawain accepts the gift and does not declare it to Bertilak that evening, thus violating the terms of the game they have been playing; and next morning he ties it on over his harness like an extra layer of proofing. He never, however, wholly trusts in its protection – witness the flinch he gives when the Green Knight raises his axe. After all, the green girdle represents the love of the body, which is intimately connected through food, drink, desire and clothing with the beasts and growing plants in the world around it; and flesh is frail as grass, as the Bible reminds us. The body’s frailty could not be better suggested than by the contrast between the soft silk girdle and the iron plates it binds, or between the fatty tissue of a man’s exposed neck and the steel blade that nicks it. The girdle confirms Gawain’s humanity, and as such it serves a similar purpose to the armour that doesn’t work which he is wearing, and which he knows full well will do him no good when he meets his enemy.
In tying on the girdle over his harness, as Cooper points out in The English Romance in Time, Gawain compromises the symbolic function of that armour in an effort to supplement its function as protection. This symbolic function is indicated by the device he wears on his coat armour: a pentangle that stands for five interlinked virtues, each virtue possessing five aspects, together making up the combined qualities to which a knight is expected to aspire. In tying on the girdle, Cooper points out, Gawain obscures the ‘endeles knot’ of the pentangle with a lace which has two distinct ends (‘pendauntez’, line 2038) and which is also tied in a ‘knot’ (line 2376). As a man who knows he has an end – the death that awaits all mortals – Gawain shares with his readers the wish to defer it for as long as possible. He is not made of metal, and metal in any case has been inescapably connected with mortality throughout the poem. Most commentators agree with the Green Knight that Gawain’s love of life, as embodied in the girdle, makes him more, not less, attractive.
Gawain’s useless armour, which gets trumped by a band of green silk, foreshadows the many varieties of non-functioning armour in the sixteenth century. Spenser, whose iron man Talus embodied the grimmer connotations of fully functional armour, opens The Faerie Queene with the portrait of a young knight whose ancient armour does not quite suit him, as if to alert us to the complex relationship between physical, spiritual and political struggle that the poem explores. In the first stanza we read about the ‘cruell markes of many a bloody fielde’ with which Redcrosse’s arms are covered, together with the paradox that ‘armes till that time did he never wield’; and Redcrosse certainly does not find it easy to acclimatize himself to his antique equipment. At the half way point of the first book we find him cavorting with the sorceress Duessa, ‘Pourd out in loosnesse on the grassy grownd’ (I.vii.6), just at the moment when a ferocious giant happens by. Sir Thopas, too, met a giant when he was unarmed, but unlike Chaucer’s hero Redcrosse never gets time to dress for the occasion. ‘Ere he could his armour on him dight’ the knight finds himself the giant’s prisoner (I.vii.8), and has to be rescued by a better-furnished hero, Prince Arthur, whose worth is signaled by his ‘glitterand armour’ (I.vii.29). This hero, too, has something in common with Sir Thopas – he serves a fairy queen – but fortunately his excellent dress sense is better matched by his prowess and he slays the giant with ease (Sir Thopas never even gets close to his). The whole of Spenser’s poem, in fact, is populated by people whose outward garb bears a difficult relationship with their inward qualities, or lack of them, and by the time the reader meets Redcrosse’s rescuer Arthur she has become well used to scrutinizing the verbal and emblematic context of each character’s first appearance in the poem before passing judgement on them.
Even after his rescue by Arthur, who ought to have furnished him with a good example of a knight whose inward qualities match his harness, Redcrosse’s armour remains a problem to him. His climactic fight sees him face a dragon whose scales resemble a ‘plated cote of stele’ (I.xi.9), and whose weaponry (the fire he breathes, his claws, the stings in his tail) render armour a hindrance rather than a help to his antagonist. Finding himself ‘seard’ through his metal covering (I.xi.26), Redcrosse seeks to remove it and unlace his helmet. Soon afterwards the monster pierces his shoulder with its stings, then grips his shield so fiercely he is forced to cut off its claw, which remains attached to the shield, much to the knight’s annoyance. In his ‘Letter to Ralegh’ Spenser explains that the ancient armour Redcrosse wears is the armour of Christ described by Saint Paul in Ephesians 6:10-18; but its emblematic associations (the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, the helmet of salvation) keep breaking down in this encounter, and the steel has to be reinforced with further injections of allegory – water from the well of life, balm from the tree of life – whose exact significance (baptism? Eucharist?) has never quite been settled. The intense pain Redcrosse endures in his battle with an enemy who is as well armoured as himself tends to overwhelm the allegorical function of his harness, and only the spiritual remedies applied to his scorched and damaged flesh can restore him to his symbolic identity as the champion of holiness.
Lorna Hutson has written brilliantly about how the feats of physical combat that had been central to medieval romance were displaced in many Tudor romances by verbal combat, in which the hero displays his prowess through eloquence rather than force. It is for this reason, perhaps – the widespread emphasis on debate, and in particular the orator’s skill in arguing on both sides of any given question – that there are so many examples of armour that doesn’t work throughout the period: from the armour borne by Parthenia in Sidney’s New Arcadia, which she dons not to avenge her dead husband but to share his fate; to the borrowed armour worn by the hero to hide his identity in Robert Greene’s Gwydonius, which means that he nearly kills his own father in the romance’s climactic fight; or the poisoned helmet put on by Duke Brachiano in John Webster’s tragedy The White Devil. In each of these cases the tools of defence are transformed into agents of destruction – much as Redcrosse’s armour becomes a furnace when he fights the dragon. The analogy with the way a skilful orator could deploy the same material to argue against a cause he had just been defending is irresistible.
The most sophisticated post-medieval treatment of this anti-meme occurs in Shakespeare’s most knotty play, Troilus and Cressida. Like TheFaerie Queene the play can be read as a response to Chaucer, though it also recalls the other English-language versions of the Trojan War that had circulated since the Middle Ages. By the sixteenth century Troy was best known, perhaps, as the focus of a conflict about which radically different accounts had been written, some biased towards the Greek perspective, others towards the Trojan. Debate, then, and many forms of falsification were inseparably attached to the Trojan myth, as we learn from the early fifteenth-century romance TheDestruction of Troy: ‘sum poyetis full prist [th]at put hom [th]erto/ With fablis and falshed fayned [th]ere speche,/ And made more of [th]at mater [th]an hom maister were’. And armour was the theme of one of the most celebrated debates of the conflict: the quarrel between Ulysses and Ajax over which of them should inherit the arms of Achilles, as described by Ovid in the thirteenth book of the Metamorphoses. Ulysses won those arms with his crafty tongue, a result that led to the suicide of Ajax; and in the process Ajax’s claim that Ulysses was dedicated to undermining his Greek comrades as much as his Trojan enemies was lent a large measure of credibility.
Shakespeare’s play is full of similar debates, between purported friends as well as deadly enemies. The Trojans squabble over whether they should continue to keep Helen from the Greeks; the Greeks contend over whether she is worth fighting for, and over how to maintain discipline in the ranks of the pan-Hellenic army. Caught up in these controversies, armour finally loses the chivalric connotations it possessed in romance, becoming instead a potent weapon in the war of words, fought out in a period of stalemate between the Greeks and Trojans when other forms of fighting have been temporarily suspended. Shakespeare punctuates this, one of his most verbally inventive plays, with allusions to armour, and these become increasingly contaminated by the anxieties and inconsistencies of the armour-bearers as the play wears on.
The performance opens with a ‘Prologue arm’d’, who delivers his speech clad in protective steel. His appearance may have resembled that of the actors illustrated in Henry Peacham’s near-contemporary sketch of a scene from Titus Andronicus: a peculiar fusion of ancient and modern costume, with Elizabethan vambraces and legharness tacked on to Graeco-Roman cuirasses. The Prologue’s harness is, however, no sign of heroism, as it was for Shakespeare’s Henry V when he wore it at Agincourt. Instead it betrays his lack of ‘confidence’ in the play itself, an uncertainty that stems in part from his ignorance about which side the audience will favour in this particular version of the Trojan war: ‘Like, or find fault,’ he tells us, ‘do as your pleasures are:/ Now good, or bad, ’tis but the chance of war’ (Prologue, 30-1). In these lines, as in the play that follows, values have become contingent, the quality of ‘goodness’ being assigned to whichever side emerges victorious from the conflict, while ‘badness’ is used to brand their defeated enemies regardless of any merits they might have had. Under such circumstances, armour is a political weapon, a means of gaining the upper hand in the confusion of battle. Its links with knightly honour have been severed, and with them the romance presumption that a common code of conduct binds together the men who sport it.
The first scene of the play confirms the central part that will be played by armour in the action that follows. Angered, we learn, by a recent defeat at the hands of Ajax, the Trojan hero Hector has ‘chid’ his wife that morning and ‘struck his armourer’ before going to battle (1.2.6). His chiding of Andromache, taken together with the blow against a nameless technician, points to the culture of violence that underpins the Trojan claim to be waging war for the best of reasons: in defence of honour and the women they love. Helen may be the official cause of the Trojan War, but she is in reality no more than an excuse to engage in the testosterone-fueled grapplings that define a young man’s standing in a warrior culture. To drive the point home, Shakespeare later makes Hector use Andromache as an excuse for a return match against Ajax, offering to engage in single combat with any Greek who refuses to acknowledge her as ‘a lady wiser, fairer, truer,/ Than ever Greek did couple in his arms’ (1.3.274-5). The terms of this challenge effectively explode the Trojan claim that Helen is worth fighting for (if Hector is right, she is neither as ‘fair’ nor as ‘true’ as his Trojan wife). This fact, however, is mentioned by nobody; and this is because everyone knows full well that the claim for Andromache’s pre-eminence among women has been swiftly cooked up for the single purpose of restoring Hector’s pre-eminence among fighting men. The real motive for the single combat is made clear when Hector enters the Greek camp, as enemies on both sides eye up each others’ muscles and embrace with more than soldierly enthusiasm. Men are far more interested in their own masculinity than in the women they claim as prizes; and this fact is reflected in the tendency of that most masculine of costumes, armour, to get caught up in the rampant infidelities of its bearers.
Ulysses, for instance, deploys armour prominently in his bid to set his fellow Greeks against each other, while ostensibly inciting them to honourable action. When he informs the Greek commanders that Achilles and Patroclus have been undermining their authority among their men, he reinforces the claim by re-enacting one of the scenes Patroclus is supposed to have acted for Achilles’s pleasure: a mocking imitation of the aged warrior Nestor ‘Arming to answer in a night alarm’, where the coughing and spitting old man ‘with a palsy fumbling on his gorget/ Shake[s] in and out the rivet’ (1.3.171-5). Whether or not Ulysses is telling the truth about Patroclus, his performance in front of Nestor of Nestor’s own ineptitude with his armour is clearly more subversive of the old man’s authority than any performance that may have taken place in Achilles’s tent. Later, when Ulysses urges Achilles himself to return to military action after an extended hiatus, he tells him that only ‘Perseverance’ will maintain his heroic status in the public eye: ‘to have done is to hang/ Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail/ In monumental mockery’ (3.3.150-3). In saying so, Ulysses encourages Achilles to break his promise to the Trojan princess Polyxena, whom he loves, and who has made him swear he will not harm her fellow citizens. This is, then, another treacherous invocation of armour on Ulysses’ part. And when Achilles’s ‘rusty mail’ does indeed go to war, first enclosing the body of Patroclus (who dies in it), then on Achilles’s own body as he seeks revenge for Patroclus’s death, it is more a monument to his serial faithlessness than to his valour. Achilles has betrayed Polyxena with his male lover Patroclus, betrayed the Greeks by making a promise to Polyxena, and betrayed Polyxena by going to war and breaking his promise. When he finally fights Hector in Act Five, the Greek hero is out of condition and unused to wearing armour or carrying weapons (‘my arms are out of use’, 5.6.16), and it is this that leads him to his final act of betrayal: to have the ‘unarm’d’ Hector slain by his men-at-arms, the Myrmidons, instead of fighting him hand to hand (5.8.9).
Hector, meanwhile, has a passion for armour that amounts to infidelity, not only to his wife Andromache but to the values he purports to be defending. In the central scene of the play, Act 3 scene 1 – our only extended encounter with Helen, the woman whose ‘worth’ is cited by both Greeks and Trojans as justification for their conflict – Paris exhorts his purloined lover to encourage Hector to keep fighting by indulging in a little erotic dalliance with his equipment:
Sweet Helen, I must woo you
To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles,
With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d,
Shall more obey than to the edge of steel
Or force of Greekish sinews: you shall do more
Than all the island kings – disarm great Hector. (3.1.145-50)
Paris’s request links the act of disarming with a whole sequence of infidelities: Helen’s to her husband Menelaus; his own to Helen in encouraging her to seduce his brother; and Hector’s to Andromache in being aroused by Helen’s ‘white enchanting fingers’. Later, it is Hector’s armour that points up his forgetfulness of the value he earlier attached to his wife Andromache. When she begs him ‘Unarm, unarm, and do not fight today’ (5.3.3) – convinced by many omens that he will die if he ignores her warning – he threatens to ‘offend’ her, for the second time in the play, if she does not lay off (5.3.4). It seems appropriate, then, that armour should also prove his undoing. His last act of war is to pursue a weaponless soldier because he admires his harness (‘I like thy armour well’, 5.6.28). This is another mark of Hector’s inconsistency; he earlier told Troilus that he would never kill a helpless enemy because of his commitment to the rules of ‘fair play’. When he kills the fleeing soldier for the sake of his outer covering he describes him as a ‘putrefied core’ concealed in ‘goodly armour’ (5.8.1-2); and it is not entirely clear here whether he means that all mortal flesh is effectively putrid or that this soldier in particular was diseased, perhaps with syphilis, another mark of infidelity. There is certainly something rotten about Achilles’s actions when he catches Hector ‘unarm’d’ beside the victim’s body. The Greek hero orders his Myrmidons to kill him, which is bad enough; but he then dresses up the unequal contest in a garb of ‘fair play’, by ordering them to spread the word that Achilles killed the Trojan champion in equal combat: ‘On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain/ “Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain”’ (5.8.13-14). In this scene the audience sees history being written; and it looks very much like a scam, fronted by the ‘goodly armour’ that conceals the cross-infected rottenness of the flesh within.
Shakespeare’s play completes the process of conceptually disengaging armour from its bearer and investing it with a grotesque life of its own; a process that had been steadily at work over the preceding two centuries. There are other manifestations of this process, some contemporary with this one, which would be worth holding up as exemplary representations of the complex relationship between human flesh and the rigid social, cultural and moral carapaces we don in a vain attempt to contain and define it. The most notable of these is the armour of Quixote. The inadequacy of this ancestral iron shell (most notably the various home-made helmets with which he seeks to complete it) reflects the weakness of the bearer’s ageing brain; but it also embodies his infectious delight in the imaginative glamour bestowed on the world by a romance sensibility, and his determination to invest the world with that glamour whatever the cost to his unguarded head. What is evident, however, is that armour that doesn’t work deserves the same close attention Cooper gave to non-functional magic; and that it has enabled equally startling transformations, down the years, of the romance tradition. It is time to polish up the rusty mail.
 Cooper, Romance, ch. 3: ‘Magic that doesn’t work’.
 My knowledge of medieval armour depends largely on two sources: Claude Blair’s European Armour circa 1066 to circa 1700 (London, 1958); and the kindness of Dr Ralph Moffat, Curator of European Arms and Armour at the Kelvingrove Museum, Glasgow. Warm thanks to Ralph for showing me round the museum’s remarkable collection and providing me with an invaluable reading list.
 ‘And so suddeynly departed hys soule to Jesu Cryste, and a grete multitude of angels bare hit up to hevyn evyn in the sight of hys two felowis’: Sir Thomas Malory, Works, ed. Eugène Vinaver (Oxford, 1977), p. 607, lines 6-8. All references are to this edition.
 See [Anon.], Virgilius (Antwerp, 1518), sigs. A5v-A6v; Marlowe, Doctor Faustus, eds. David Bevington and Eric Rasmussen (Manchester and New York, 1993), A-Text, I. i. 102-168. For Agrippa’s moving statues, see Three Books of Occult Philosophy Written by Henry Cornelius Agrippa, trans. J.F. (London, 1651), pp. 77-8.
 Spenser, Faerie Queene, I.i.1. All references are to this edition.
 See The Usurer’s Daughter: Male Friendship and Fictions of Women in Sixteenth-Century England (London, 1994).
Middle English Metrical Romances, ed. French and Hale, p. 811, lines 33-5.
 The sketch is reproduced in The Norton Shakespeare, ed. Stephen Greenblatt, et al., 2nd edn. (London, 2008), p. 89.
 All references to Troilus and Cressida are taken from Kenneth Palmer’s edition for the Arden Shakespeare (London, 1982).
 My thanks to Matthew Woodcock for his comments on this essay. He asked me a number of excellent questions I have no space to answer here, among them ‘do you have a sense of when the “armour that doesn’t work” anti-meme develops’? The fact that Beowulf is the first example I can think of (the episode in which the hero’s specially-forged iron shield fails him in his fight against the dragon, of course, but more interestingly the whole notion that Beowulf has never managed to fight with weapons because they have always failed him) suggests to me that it is as old as armour itself.
At a time of Covid, fantasy has provided a refuge for the housebound, a means of travelling vicariously to lands free from disease where social distancing is either entirely absent or a function of plot, not necessity. As we read in the beleaguered safety of our beds, or curled up under blankets on a shabby sofa, or stretched out on patches of grass between forbidding banks of Victorian tenement blocks, it would hardly be surprising if our attention had been drawn with unusual persistence to fantasy’s obsession with houses. This, then, is a wandering meditation on the magic houses of fantasy fiction, which begins with ordinary buildings made bizarre – interspersed with some very strange dwelling places indeed – and ends with a series of domiciles that succeed in domesticating the odd, the wayward and the impossible, recognizing these as in effect the conditions under which we have lived in the long decades since the Second World War. Brace yourselves. As the Wizard Howl observes in Diana Wynne Jones’s Howl’s Moving Castle (which is where we end), ‘It should be hair-raising’.
The Domestic Roots of Fantasy
Fantasy fiction begins and ends with the domestic house, no matter how far it strays in between. The foundational epic of the modern fantasy tradition, The Lord of the Rings (1954-5), has its roots in a house buried in the ground, and this homely structure provides the epic’s preface or springboard – The Hobbit (1937) – with its much-loved opening paragraph:
In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.
Here the hobbit’s underground dwelling invokes comfort, stability, security, a place of one’s own with literal roots, perhaps with a room of one’s own inside it to read or write in – the room, for instance, where Bilbo Baggins later writes his memoirs, which Tolkien imagines as blossoming into the book of family records from which The Lord of the Rings is taken. But a hobbit’s house is also a kind of adventure in itself, with its tunnel-shaped hall lined with circular doors leading to innumerable rooms, which by the end of the novel are reputed to be filled with treasure. All those doors make it a place for adventures to start from; each of them might serve as the portal for a different quest, and Bilbo’s own quest is full of equally magical houses, from the Last Homely House with its mischievous, diminutive elves – rebranded as Rivendell in The Lord of the Rings – to Beorn’s wooden hall at the edge of Mirkwood, outside whose doors and windows hosts of bears go snuffling at night, or the Wood King’s underground house in Mirkwood itself, or the cavernous halls of the dragon Smaug, which were once the halls of the Dwarf King Thorin Oakenshield and his ancestors, and which thus provide a disturbing illustration of how adventures can infiltrate and destroy the family home. Many of these houses are variations on the hobbit’s hole, fulfilling the promise of adventure hidden in its many unvisited rooms and subterranean location. Bilbo’s hole was invaded by dwarves in the opening chapter, and it continues to occupy his thoughts through all the chapters that follow, providing both a parallel and a contrast to the many houses he visits before his adventures end. That’s the key to the allure of fantasy: in most cases a house something like the place where the reader sits when she begins to read, and to which she returns after dipping her toe into the perilous streams that run through the forests of romance, remains central to the reading experience from start to finish. And fantasy’s acknowledgment of the house’s importance to the reader’s experience, with its strangenesses, its precariousness when disaster strikes, the dangers it contains as well as its attractions, has helped to make fantasy the genre of choice for the shielding citizens of the Covid crisis.
That other foundational epic of modern fantasy, C S Lewis’s sequence of Narnian chronicles (1950-56), also begins in a house which is both a comfort and an adventure: the old Professor’s home in the West of England. This building is ancient and interesting enough to warrant visits from curious sightseers, while also being filled with mysterious rooms containing suits of armour, libraries, or wardrobes made of wood from another dimension. Lewis tells us, O bliss! that there are masses of other stories to be told about the building, some of them even stranger than the one we are about to read, and the very fact that he does not hint at what these stories might be invests the house with an imaginative potency that confirms it as the starting place for unnumbered potential narratives: a Wood Between the Worlds to match the one in The Magician’s Nephew. Like Bilbo’s hobbit-hole, the Professor’s house is full of doors that might easily open onto alternative novels containing different universes, and there are books that quite deliberately mimic the experience of opening another one of these doors – such as James Treadwell’s Advent (2012), which takes as its central location a house in the West Country that bears a curious resemblance to the Professor’s residence at a later, more dilapidated stage of its long existence. Lewis’s own The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (1952) – the third of the Narnian chronicles to be published – contains a house that shares the mood and mode of the Professor’s mansion, with mirrors, decorations and books in it that seem as quasi-sentient and portal-esque as the famous wardrobe. In it, Lucy engages in an act of reading that confirms the link between houses and books in fantasy fiction: houses are places to be read as well as to read in, and books are capacious annexes of the houses, flats or rented rooms we occupy.
Lewis and Tolkien share their interest in domestic settings with some of the crucial taproot texts of fantasy fiction. The Grimm brothers recognized the house as a site of storytelling when they dubbed their great collection of fairy stories the Household Tales for Children (Kinder- und Hausmärchen, 1812). William Morris’s late romances (1888-98) constructed themselves around a succession of strange houses, described with the kind of loving attention to detail one would expect from an interior designer, while Dickens consciously invoked the Grimms when he dubbed the magazine he founded Household Words (1850-8). In the days of the Grimms and Dickens and Morris, fantastic stories were a winter activity, the outcome of long hours of darkness confined to the house, crowded round a fire. Christmas, coming as it did just after the winter solstice, was story season. Many of these stories summoned up ghosts, as Henry James suggests in the opening sentence of his great novella The Turn of the Screw (1898): ‘The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no comment uttered till somebody happened to say that it was the only case he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child’. The rest of the book gives another example of a child being haunted or possessed – or rather two children, which gives an extra ‘turn of the screw’ to the delicious torment inflicted on the listener by the unrelated story mentioned in the opening sentence. And the screw is tightened further still by the setting of James’s ghost story largely in summer, with its apparitions manifesting themselves in glaring sunlight and in the expansive grounds of Bly House as much as among its twilit staircases, ponderous dining rooms and gloomy bedrooms. James extends the hauntings of Christmas through every season, suffusing every corner of the country house and its estate with their gruesome strangeness.
Dickens, of course, produced a series of Christmas fantasies, the most celebrated of which – A Christmas Carol (1843) – begins by bringing the house itself alive at the darkest time of year, in a grotesque pastiche of the new life promised by Christ’s nativity. When the knocker on Scrooge’s door metamorphoses into the face of his business partner, Jacob Marley – who is ‘dead as a doornail’, as the saying goes – it is just one example of the many moments in the book when inanimate objects acquire vitality. Indeed, Dickens’s energetic narrator is inclined to see life in all sorts of places where others don’t; such as in doornails (‘I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail’), or old sayings like this that have had the life leeched out of them by repetition. The whole of his book, then, becomes a competition between his tendency to bring things to life and Scrooge’s efforts to deaden and dull them. By the time Scrooge slams his door after seeing Marley’s face – waking echoes in every part of the building it serves, so that ‘Every room above, and every cask in the wine-merchant’s cellars below, appeared to have a separate peal of echoes of its own’ – Dickens has already animated a succession of other buildings, along with all the objects in them, to an extent that challenges the limitations of Scrooge’s narrow understanding of what’s possible. ‘Phantom’ houses have been glimpsed through the fog near Scrooge’s office, like supernumerary ghosts awaiting the protagonist’s trial and conversion. The bell in the church tower has peeped down ‘slily’ at Scrooge as he makes his way home, vibrating as though its bronze ‘teeth were chattering in its frozen head’. And the house that encloses Scrooge’s apartment has been described as so out-of-place in the yard it occupies that the narrator needs to give it a biographical back story to account for its presence there: ‘a lowering pile of [a] building up a yard, where it had so little business to be, that one could scarcely help fancying it must have run there when it was a young house, playing at hide-and-seek with other houses, and forgotten the way out again’. Scrooge himself has no truck with such anthropomorphic antics as Dickens plays with the buildings and objects in this list. His medium, or so he imagines, is the deadness of doornails and the frostiness that brings about and attends the end of life: ‘He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dog-days; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas’. Yet Scrooge is mistaken, since his symbiotic relationship with the buildings he occupies – his office as well as his suite of rooms – seems to extend his chilly influence into the surrounding streets, like a malignant form of life. As a result, the conversion of Scrooge becomes a question of the conversion of an entire city, the City of London, where the vigorous good cheer of Scrooge’s nephew joins the narrator in a war of attrition against his uncle’s tendency to frosty immobility, seeking to unlock what the old man locks, to warm what he freezes, and to animate what he seeks to render lifeless.
Things and buildings support the narrator and nephew in their efforts by opening up and acquiring flexibility despite all Scrooge’s attempts to shut them down and make them rigid. Bolted and fastened doors give way before the Ghost of Christmas Present, who can accommodate his size to any dwelling in existence, so that he ‘stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall’. In this the Ghost embodies the life of houses at Christmas time, which are always releasing and admitting new occupants as if their walls could expand, contract and dissolve at need. The festive permeability of buildings is enacted when the house fronts seem to disintegrate as Scrooge passes them in company with the Ghost, enabling the ill-matched pair to see ‘the brightness of the roaring fires in kitchens, parlours, and all sorts of rooms’, as if through the hinged facade of a doll’s house. Scrooge’s conversion involves a similar architectural dissolution. As the novel goes on he finds that he can go everywhere, through doors and walls and windows like a genial spirit himself, in anticipation of his closing promise to live simultaneously in Times Past and Present and to Come, in defiance of the Victorian laws of physics. In the final pages of the book, ‘He went to church, and walked about the streets, and watched the people hurrying to and fro, and patted children on the head, and questioned beggars, and looked down into the kitchens of houses, and up to the windows, and found that everything could yield him pleasure’; and by the final paragraph he has become an embodiment not just of his own ‘good old city’ but of ‘any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world’. National and local boundaries cannot contain him any more than walls can – and the same can be said of Dickens’s story, which has burst out of the architecture of its pages and transformed itself into films and TV serials, inspired as much by the vivid original illustrations of John Leech as by Dickens’s words.
In freeing himself from the confinements of architecture, Ebenezer returns to the condition he inhabited in his boyhood when he first read fantastic stories, such as the tales from the Arabian Nights. The first image shown him by the Ghost of Christmas Past is that of the schoolhouse where he read them, ‘a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed’. Here in a ‘long, bare, melancholy room’, Ebenezer sees himself as a lonely boy being visited by different phantoms, whose presence makes the walls of the broken building melt away: ‘a man, in foreign garments […] stood outside the window, with an axe stuck in his belt, and leading by the bridle an ass laden with wood’. The man reveals himself as Ali Baba, and is swiftly followed by the medieval romance heroes Valentine and Orson, followed in their turn by Robinson Crusoe, Friday, and the desert island on which they were marooned. Stories animate the dead of winter, bringing a tropical or Orientalist warmth to dilapidated houses, and A Christmas Carol re-enacts this process for a Victorian readership by warming up the bodily tenement occupied by the old man’s chilly soul. Reading fantasy for Scrooge was salvation in his youth, and reading Scrooge’s adventures enables the reader to participate in his salvation. In the process the houses of London are saved too, and rendered integral parts of the salvific narrative.
Going back to the early modern birth of the fantastic – when a change of faith opened up the possibility of appropriating the imaginary of the supplanted Catholic religion – Richard Johnson, author of The History of Tom Thumb the Little (1621), opens his book with an invocation of the house as the location for similar reviving or regenerative stories:
The ancient Tales of Tom Thumbe in the olden time, have beene the onely revivers of drouzy age at midnight; old and young have with his Tales chim’d Mattens till the Cocks crow in the morning; Batchelors and Maides with his Tales have compassed the Christmas fire-blocke, till the Curfew Bell rings candle out; the old Shepheard and the young Plow boy after their dayes labour, have carold out a Tale of Tom Thumbe to make them merry with: and who but little Tom, hath made long nights seeme short, and heavy toyles easie?
Johnson’s marvelous opening paragraph, a rival to Tolkien’s in its evocativeness, invites us to concentrate on the odd community that inhabits many houses: old, middle-aged, young, workers and unemployed, married and single, whose diverse concerns must be somehow unified by the tales told round the ‘Christmas fire-blocke’. The selection of a tiny person for a hero is an obvious way to unite this diverse audience, because everyone has been tiny in their time, and tininess makes the sort of housebound existence that dominates the lives of the very young and the very old as exciting and dangerous as the adventures of the fit and strong beyond the building’s walls. Mary Norton understood this when she wrote The Borrowers (1952), which is set in a house occupied by a prosperous invalid and her housekeeper, and where a young boy, also an invalid, comes across a family of tiny people – the titular Borrowers – for whom the stairs are even harder to negotiate than they are for a normal-sized child with damaged lungs, or an elderly woman with arthritic limbs. Clocks, dressers, fireplaces, stairs and cabinets become in this book the site of perilous quests; floorboards for giants become ceilings for midgets; the garden and the fields beyond it become a limitless wilderness where predators roam. All through, there is a recognition of the way houses have been transformed by the recent war into unstable structures liable to instant demolition, hiding places for fugitives from unnamable terrors, decaying memorials to stable times long left behind. No wonder the book was so easily transferrable from one culture to another, being rewritten and reimagined as well as translated for the benefit of various countries shattered by conflict. In Japan (for instance) Norton’s book transformed itself into The Secret of the Blue Glass by Tomiko Inui in 1967, a book as haunted by the Second World War as its British counterpart; and the Studio Ghibli film adaptation of Norton’s novel, The Secret World of Arrietty (2010), transforms Norton’s English house once again, this time into a Japanese building left over from an earlier epoch, marooned by modernization in the selfsame suburb of Tokyo where Studio Ghibli is located. Similar suburbs provide the setting for the struggle between human lives and the lives of other, more fragile creatures in earlier Studio Ghibli movies, including Pom Poko (1994), where the other lives are those of tanuki or raccoon dogs, and Whisper of the Heart (1995), where the other lives are those of cats, cicadas and adolescents, the latter of whom occupy a border between the human and the non-human through the liveliness and flexibility of their imaginations. Raccoons, cats and adolescents populate The Secret World of Arrietty, too, converting the house and garden the Borrowers occupy into a junkyard each of whose elements can be put to an utterly different use from the one intended for it by its first makers. Even the doll’s house that was built for Borrowers by the elderly owner’s ancestors (a detail not present in the book) proves in the end not a dwelling-place for them but a much-needed catalyst for their departure from the building, as a human boy befriended by Arrietty transfers the tiny furniture from the doll’s house to the Borrowers’ refuge under the floorboards, and in doing so inadvertently reveals their hiding-place to the malicious housekeeper. A household kettle becomes the ship that aids their escape. Migrating populations, both human and animal, can find houses and their contents threatening, and the film ends with a dilemma, not having found a stable way for humans, Borrowers and wild animals to co-exist in the architecture of late capitalism.
Fantasy Houses and the Gothic
Fantasy could be said to have arisen at a time in history when the British became fascinated by domestic architecture. The early modern period, when Richard Johnson was writing his stories of Tom Thumb, was not particularly interested in the house as object – at least in literature. The human being rather than the human dwelling place was the focus of its interest, even if Edmund Spenser succeeded in reimagining the human body and brain as a mighty building in The Faerie Queene (his account of the House of Alma – the house of the soul – contains an early representation of the imagination itself in the form of Phantastes, a madman who bedaubs the walls of the house’s tower or head with images spawned by his own ravings). People enjoyed designing houses but don’t seem to have spent much time writing about them. Even the Country House poem, such as Marvell’s wonderfully weird ‘Upon Appleton House’ (1651), is more concerned with the estates it celebrates than with the buildings that preside over the surrounding fields, farms, forests and lakes (though Marvell’s poem does contain a memorable house that adapts itself to its owner as a turtle’s shell adapts itself to the growing reptile, its walls and ceilings expanding and contracting as the giant-spirited General Fairfax marches restlessly from room to room). The House of Solomon in Bacon’s New Atlantis (1627) is more of an intellectual system than a habitation, while the houses in More’s Utopia (1516) – which provided Bacon with his model – are strictly functional, being transferred from one set of occupants to another at regular intervals, and so never invested with any distinctive aura or personality. Houses themselves began to be an object of imaginative attention in the eighteenth century, when reforms in farming led to radical changes in the structure of rural estates, while country people displaced by the same reforms crowded into cities, necessitating a radical shake-up of urban building practices. T. H. White paid charming homage to this epoch of experimental housing design in another post-war masterpiece, Mistress Masham’s Repose (1946), where a small girl finds a colony of Lilliputians (or rather Blefuscans) on an island in the grounds of her ancestral home, a Palladian mansion called Malplaquet. Through them she learns how not to tyrannize over people smaller and weaker than herself, unlike the dictators of the 30s and 40s, or British landlords at the time of the agricultural revolution, or the girl’s grown-up guardians, who plot to steal Malplaquet from her for their own enrichment. Margaret Irwin paid similar homage to eighteenth-century housing innovations in her adult novel She Wished for Company (1924), in which a woman of the 1920s, alienated by the frenetic bustle of the modern metropolis, finds herself drawn back, both spiritually and physically, to the time when idealized homes were being constructed by the ruling classes as a model of the happy class relations they hoped to achieve in their private territories. Irwin identifies the end of this Palladian dream with the outbreak of the French Revolution; but in Britain it was the industrial revolution that exposed its fragility, its ghostly tendency to melt into air like the ‘cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces’ of Prospero’s island.
The industrial revolution quickly triggered a series of mass migrations, with cities expanding to ten or more times their former size in a matter of decades, and a radical rethinking of the basic nature of the house itself. New means had to be found to cram as many dwellings as possible into a limited area, and even greater ingenuity had to be applied to the question of providing these houses with adequate sewerage and other kinds of infrastructure. Social mobility brought vast sections of the population into proximity with strangers, disrupting ancient communities, creating new ones, and inspiring sometimes bizarre and unnerving efforts to render the expanding suburbs humane as well as habitable. The design of domestic buildings became increasingly inventive as the century wore on, and increasingly fanciful. By the 1890s the English suburbs were filled with terraced houses that wittily mimicked the styling of Elizabethan or Jacobean rural cottages or manor houses, as if in a bid to transplant the half imaginary, newly marginalized rural idyll into the urban centre of the British Empire. Social classes found themselves squeezed up against each other in adjacent streets. The middle classes aspired to associate themselves with the aristocracy, but also feared slipping swiftly down the social scale into poverty, and the geographical proximity of both alternatives in the shape of working-class and upper-class districts intensified their sense of being unsure of their own identity (does a ‘middle’ class, defined by its positioning between clearly defined upper and lower classes, in fact have any identity at all?). Their houses expressed both their aspirations and their fears, their fanciful prettiness or elegance pointing upwards towards the possibility of ascent to wealth and power, their identikit similarity indicating the likelihood of decline into anonymity. Victorian houses were oxymorons, announcing their link with a long, proud national past while at the same time self-evidently serving the purposes of the most rapid and radical set of social mutations in human history. They were fantasies, proclaiming an impossibly comfortable fusion of old and new, while actively drawing attention to the radical disparities between them.
This revolution in housing found literary expression in the Gothic mode, where domestic buildings are always dangerous, especially when imbued with recollections of an older, supposedly more stable social order. At the climax of the first Gothic novel, Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764), one wall of the titular fortress suddenly collapses to let in a giant, anticipating the total collapse of Edgar Allan Poe’s outmoded House of Usher (1839), along with the aristocratic way of life it represents. Otranto and Usher demonstrate how unwise it is to live in large, isolated, poorly-maintained ancient buildings, whose hidden cellars, unoccupied bedrooms and forgotten chambers provide the perfect setting for clandestine violence, and whose joists and lintels are no longer equal to the task of sustaining the weight of feudal history. The late Victorian Gothic story, meanwhile, takes particular aim at houses that have been rented or temporarily occupied by migrants. Dracula (1897) begins with a visit by an estate agent to an ancient, dilapidated castle in Transylvania, and the rest of the novel is dominated by the Count’s forlorn attempt to transfer his eccentric household to urban England, mirroring the urbanization of the industrial world and the opportunities this affords for illicit nocturnal feasting. Edith Nesbit’s ghost story ‘Man-Size in Marble’ (1887) opens with a couple’s lengthy search for a country residence which is ‘sanitary and picturesque’ as well as affordable (impossible combination!), and like most such searches for perfect real estate this one turns out to be doomed – though in a much more drastic way than is usual with house-hunting. Her first great children’s fantasy, Five Children and It (1902), similarly starts with a change of residence from city to country; indeed, many of her stories and novels open with a house move, with all the economic and social changes this entails. The Governess in The Turn of the Screw is a stranger in a country house, like Jane Eyre before her, and her inferiority complex when faced with the magnificence of Bly may help to explain the speed with which she comes to see its youngest occupants as haunted. Walter de la Mare’s ‘Out of the Deep’ ascribes appalling supernatural powers to a simple bell-pull in a newly inherited house, while Edith Wharton’s ‘The Lady’s Maid’s Bell’ does something similar, this time from the point of view of a newly appointed servant.
At times of war, meanwhile, every house is a strange one; and Doris Lessing described the twentieth century in Shikasta (1979) as the Century of Destruction, when houses were visited by violence on an industrial scale. Elizabeth Bowen’s Second World War story collection The Demon Lover (1945) is full of buildings rendered unstable by bombing; in one story a bomb-blast hurls a home-owner into the past, while another sees the emergence of an alternative city from the bombed-out ruins of the metropolis as a whole, named ‘Mysterious Kor’ after the subterranean home of Rider Haggard’s immortal Ayesha in She and its sequel. Bowen’s story contains an echo of one of the great architectural ghost stories of the late Victorian period, Margaret Oliphant’s novella A Beleaguered City (1900), in which an entire city’s population become migrants, driven from their houses by the appalling presence there of the unseen dead – disembodied judges of the people’s inability to live well together in an urban context. In these last two stories, ‘Mysterious Kor’ and A Beleaguered City, the house opens out to encompass the city of which it is part, and the city becomes a representative of all modern cities, as London does in the final paragraphs of A Christmas Carol; so that we readers find ourselves connected to something larger, stranger and more unsettling through the simple act of sitting in our living room or bedroom, envisioning a boundary-dissolving strangeness we have never experienced except in our heads and hearts.
The metamorphosis of Victorian housing confirms that the domestic environment is an intensely political space. When H. G. Wells wanted to describe the Victorian social attitudes from which the twentieth-century petit bourgeoisie sought to liberate itself in his Edwardian novel Tono-bungay (1909), he used the model of a country house to sum up the entire class system. For Wells’s protagonist as a child, Bladesover House is ‘a little working-model—and not so very little either—of the whole world’, occupied by a population in which ‘every human being had a “place”’, and it’s only with adolescence that he comes to realize that the Bladesover ‘system’ of rigid class distinctions, as he calls it, has fallen into decay like the wizened old ladies who ruled the Bladesover estate in his youth. Yet class structures can long outlast the physical structures that once contained them. Wells’s Gothic science fiction novel The Time Machine (1895) anticipates the messing with time and space that would take place in twentieth-century physics, using the medium of the Time Traveller’s house as a way to embody the experience of moving forward through history at a rapidly accelerating speed:
As I put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing. The dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me, and I saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every minute, and every minute marking a day. I supposed the laboratory had been destroyed and I had come into the open air. I had a dim impression of scaffolding, but I was already going too fast to be conscious of any moving things.
Yet when his journey comes to an end, many thousands of years in the future, the architecture of the class system has consolidated itself at the expense of domestic architecture, with two distinct species inhabiting separate communal dwelling spaces, one above and one below ground, as belated embodiments of the working and ruling classes of the nineteenth century – though the subterranean working classes now have the upper hand. And the persistence of the Victorian class system is again embodied in houses in two of the great Gothic fantasy novels of the late twentieth century. In Angela Carter’s The Magic Toyshop (1967), the insistently working-class toymaker Philip Flower takes a perverse revenge on the children of his middle-class brother by trapping them in a Victorian household that incorporates the toyshop of the title, where he seeks to transform the children into puppets or toys, submitting them to an oppressive patriarchal regime that rejects all the social developments that have taken place between the death of Queen Victoria and the mid-to-late 1960s, when the novel is set. And in Alasdair Gray’s Poor Things (1992) a large Glasgow house in Park Circus gives shelter and a political education to a late Victorian working-class woman, who may or may not have been manually constructed, like the house she lives in, by a clever middle-class man with a gift for surgery. Bella Baxter or Victoria McCandless, as the woman is called at different times, undergoes an education in the nature of the class system at the hands of her mentor, Godwin Baxter, through the medium of a doll’s house, which must surely be a nod to Bladesover House in Tono-bungay:
See me open the hinged front door of this big doll’s house and fold it back. Look into all the rooms. […] The servants live mostly in the basement and attics: the coldest and most crowded floors with the smallest rooms. Their body heat, while they sleep, keeps their employers in the central floors more snug. […] Tell me, Bella, what the scullery-maid and the master’s daughter have in common, apart from their similar ages and bodies and this house.”
“Both are used by other people,” I said. “They are allowed to decide nothing for themselves.”
“You see?” cried Baxter delightedly. “You know that at once because you remember your early education. Never forget it, Bella. Most people in England, and Scotland too, are taught not to know it at all – are taught to be tools.” (pp. 262-3)
The doll’s house here embodies complicity, the problem Gray wrestled with throughout his career as a writer-artist. Whatever your politics (so the thinking goes), no matter how fiercely you uphold revolutionary principles, the building you live in has the shape and machinery of the class system built into it, as does the city that building occupies, its infrastructure depending on inequalities of pay and status which cannot be overthrown except by a radical reconstruction of the city itself and each of the houses it contains. Everyone who lives in a house, then, can be seen as complicit, despite themselves, in the economic and social system that brought that building into being, or that lets the building continue to function as a domestic mechanism. As a result, studying your house can be a means to understand the economic and social processes you live by – something Baxter demonstrates when he explains the design of the doll’s house to his student. And Alasdair Gray, too, took the notion of using houses as a means of education more seriously than most. Throughout his career he designed murals and mosaics that now bedeck buildings throughout Glasgow and the West of Scotland, from a private flat in West Prince’s Street, which houses his mural of the Book of Jonah, to the entrance of Hillhead Subway Station, the Oran Mor Bar on Byres Road, the Ubiquitous Chip Restaurant in Ashton Lane, and the café at Palacerigg Country Park. Each mural or mosaic tells a tale, for the most part a political one. Meanwhile his books are designed like murals or mosaics, with decorations from jacket to index, a typography devised by Alasdair himself, and a place on the shelves of many homes in Glasgow and elsewhere, from which they invoke the spirit of place by bearing his motto: ‘Work as if you lived in the early days of a better nation’, or a better world, or a house that has been decorated in anticipation of both. Gray’s buildings and books invoke the spirit of that other great writer-designer, William Morris, and the species of practical political dreaming he invented.
Magic Houses in Victorian Children’s Fiction
Poor Things and The Magic Toyshop pay homage to the Victorian Gothic tradition, invoking its continued domination of twentieth-century culture long after the regime that brought it into being has become redundant. Children’s literature – as Nesbit’s Five Children and It suggests – owes a great deal to the Gothic tradition in its attitude to houses. In their Children’s Fantasy Literature: An Introduction (2016), Michael Levy and Farah Mendlesohn rightly contend that Victorian fantasy fiction for children was obsessed with domestic architecture; but for them, houses are fundamentally safe spaces and their use is designed to contain and control the children whose adventures take place within their walls:
Perhaps the most striking aspect of mid to late nineteenth-century children’s fantasy is the degree to which the fantasies can seem contained and bounded. Furthermore this containment is presented as desirable. Colin Manlove argues that the character of British fairy tale gave to British children’s fantasy one of its major characteristics, domesticity […] ‘House-based action’ is a striking feature of nineteenth-century fantasy: it can be argued that even Never-Never Land is situated in the bedroom.
However, the eye-deceiving shiftiness of houses – their tendency to imply the presence of bounds and orders and systems which dissolve, collapse and reassert themselves under the pressure of changing times – is as present in fantasy fiction for children as it is in adult fantasy. John Ruskin’s The King of the Golden River – first written in 1841 and published nine or ten years later – is a case in point. Despite being among the first ‘literary’ fairy tales written in English, Ruskin’s story is set in Germany, home of the Gothic, in a rural house much like the ones in the Household Tales of the Brothers Grimm. Like many Grimm households, this cottage is the locus of systemic abuse, where the youngest member of a family, twelve-year-old Gluck, is treated by his older brothers as an unwaged labourer or slave, controlled by the threat of violence. The house, meanwhile, is used as a tool to support the brothers’ obsession with accumulating wealth at the expense of their neighbours. Gluck is strictly forbidden to let strangers into the building when his brothers Schwartz and Hans are away from home, and he believes the pair will kill him if he disobeys. Its walls, doors and windows operate as impermeable barriers between the rich and the folk they feed on, obstructions to hospitality, giving and lending of all kinds. So when a diminutive, rain-soaked stranger taps on the front door seeking shelter, the boy has to inform him through the window that he can’t come in. And when Gluck finally relents and allows the stranger to share fire, food and shelter, his gesture is quickly reversed when Schwartz and Hans get home and tell the little man to go away. The man consents, but promises to visit again at midnight; and sure enough when the clock strikes twelve he reappears, mounted on a magical cloud of foam, having blown off the roof to effect his entrance. As it turns out, he is none other than the South West Wind, and his second appearance effectively demolishes the physical and verbal obstructions Fritz and Hans have erected to distinguish themselves from the world they see as hostile competition in their lifelong quest for capital.
The rest of the story dedicates itself to the further demolition of these obstructions, setting against the fortress-household of Schwartz and Hans the benign influence of the free-flowing wind and the mountain valley in which the house is situated. This is called the Valley of Treasure, formed by the passage of the Golden River, and both names conjure up hard objects made of precious metal, usually stored in windowless vaults protected by guards. But the valley’s treasure is its fertility, which is quickly blasted by the vengeful Wind, and the Golden River gets its name from the play of light on its rushing waters. The Wind dims the light, too, thus revealing to the brothers how their fortune relies not on rigid architectural structures but on wayward natural forces they can’t control. Their concern with material things is based on an arbitrary set of values, which is informed in turn by a certain way of seeing the world, and of interpreting what they see in very limited terms. Later, the three brothers – Hans, Schwartz and Gluck – are sent on a quest to restore their fortunes by the titular King of the Golden River, a kind of shape-changing elf; and the success of the youngest brother in this quest depends on the difference between the way he looks at things and the way his brothers see them. When they go up the valley to pour holy water in the Golden River, as the King instructs them, Hans and Schwartz are unable to fix their eyes on anything except their economic objective, despite the glorious alpine scenery they must pass through in order to reach it. Ruskin describes this scenery with the kind of meticulous precision he brought to his watercolour sketches of buildings and landscapes:
Level lines of dewy mist lay stretched along the valley, out of which rose the massy mountains, their lower cliffs in pale grey shadow, hardly distinguishable from the floating vapour but gradually ascending till they caught the sunlight, which ran in sharp touches of ruddy colour along the angular crags, and pierced, in long, level rays, through their fringes of spearlike pine. Far above shot up red, splintered masses of castellated rock, jagged and shivered into myriads of fantastic forms, with here and there a streak of sunlit snow traced down their chasms like a line of forked lightning; and far beyond and far above all these, fainter than the morning cloud but purer and changeless, slept, in the blue sky, the utmost peaks of the eternal snow.
The brothers’ indifference to these constantly changing effects of light on stone and snow extends to the presence in it of desperate people who need their help: an old man, a parched child, a dog dying of thirst, to whom they refuse even a drop of their holy water. Gluck’s responsiveness, on the other hand, to the effects of light on the mountains finds a correlative in his responsiveness to the material needs of the people he meets en route to the river. Ruskin effectively reverses in this story the concepts of substance – a term associated by capitalists with economic prosperity – and insubstantiality, pointing up the false human consciousness that bestows value on material possessions (such as real estate) while dismissing humans themselves as valueless. The materialism of Hans and Schwartz leads in the end to their being turned to unchanging stone by one of the people they neglected, the dying dog, who turns out to be the King of the Golden River in animal form; while the same dignitary ensures that Gluck’s name fulfils its promise of bringing him lasting happiness. Hans and Schwartz are reduced to the component materials of the house they made their fortress, while Gluck returns to live in the Valley of Treasure, restored to its former prosperity by the impact of his attitude to his fellow valley-dwellers, his benevolent way of seeing. Ruskin’s light tale, then, is designed to carry political weight as both a celebration and democratization of what he thought of as the proper artistic perspective, and the power of this perspective to drive social change, as the power of the Golden River drives the prosperity of the valley it waters. There couldn’t be a much more explicit illustration of Tolkien’s notion of recovery, the ability to see the natural world and its population in a fresh new light, as a child might see them. And there couldn’t be a much more lucid exposition of the political applications of that recovery, either, or a clearer foreshadowing of Ruskin’s account of the politics of the household in his socio-economic manifesto Unto This Last (1861).
The brother’s house in The King of the Golden River suffers a partial collapse because of its impractical rigidity, like the Castle of Otranto or the House of Usher. Other fairy tale houses of the period undergo more subtle forms of destabilization. Frances Browne’s much-reprinted fairy tale collection, Granny’s Wonderful Chair (1856), for instance, concerns itself with the mobility of populations and its impact on domestic buildings and their occupants. A frame narrative tells of a little girl called Snowflower who lives with her Grandmother in a cottage that closely resembles the domestic buildings in Donegal, where Browne grew up and from which she migrated during the Hunger. It is a house that melds with the local fauna and flora to such an extent that there seems to be no barrier between the interior and the outside of the building, in sharp contrast to the house in Ruskin’s story:
[It was] a little cottage built of peat, and thatched with reeds, on the edge of a great forest; tall trees sheltered its back from the north wind; the mid-day sun made its front warm and cheerful; swallows built in the eaves; daisies grew thick at the door; but there were none in all that country poorer than Snowflower and her grandmother. A cat and two hens were all their live-stock: their bed was dry grass, and the only good piece of furniture in the cottage was a great arm-chair with wheels on its feet, a black velvet cushion, and many curious carvings of flowers and fawns on its dark oaken back.
This one ‘good piece of furniture’ turns out to be magic, and to be good in more ways than one: aesthetically attractive, useful and instructive, it tells marvellous stories about faraway places very different from Snowflower’s home. And it is also geographically mobile, like the population of rural Ireland in the middle of the nineteenth century. When the Grandmother leaves the cottage to go on a long journey, and the food begins to run out, the chair magically transports Snowflower to the palace of King Winwealth where food is plentiful and shelter can be found, however grudgingly it’s offered. Here the little girl earns a living by instructing the chair to tell its stories to the King; and as story follows story through the collection, Snowflower is rewarded with a succession of promotions to better and better locations in the royal building: from a dusty corner in the worst kitchen to a pallet in the best kitchen, a bed in the servant’s hall, the housekeeper’s parlour, a ‘wainscot chamber’ and finally ‘one of the best chambers of the palace’. She is granted these rewards because each story reminds the King of the halcyon days of his youth, when he ruled alongside his intelligent and imaginative brother, Prince Wisewit. Each story, too, tells of traffic between cottages and royal palaces, between the houses of the peasantry and the houses of the governing classes; from ‘The Christmas Cuckoo’, in which two poor cobblers travel from a ‘hut built of clay and wattles’ to the king’s residence and back again, finding the hut a more congenial home than the palace (at least in times of prosperity); to ‘The Story of Merrymind’, in which a vagrant boy with a broken fiddle transforms an entire kingdom obsessed with constant labour and amassing huge profits, thanks to a chance encounter in a ruined cottage. Like Ruskin’s King of the Golden River ‘The Story of Merrymind’ celebrates the power of aesthetic participation – in this case, the performance of music and storytelling – to lighten the heavy business of work and change dreary or squalid buildings into pleasant homes. The inhabitants of the ruined cottage who help young Merrymind effect this change are the so-called ‘night-spinners’: ‘two fair maidens, all in white spinning on silver wheels, and singing together a blithe and pleasant tune like the larks on May-morning’. Light-hearted, light-clothed, high-spirited young women, their work and the ‘blithe’ music they sing to accompany it is considered of no worth by their profit-minded compatriots. But thanks to their song-driven spinning, the boy Merrymind gets golden strings for his violin; thanks to his violin the ruler of the work-obsessed country, Dame Dreary, learns to dance again; and thanks to her dancing the spell that kept the country in bondage to labour is broken, and the land itself restored to its original identity. It becomes a place where the night-spinners ‘spun golden threads by the hearth of every cottage’, where the people ‘wore homespun, and drank out of horn’ but ‘had merry times’, where ‘there were May-games, harvest-homes and Christmas cheer among them’, and ‘Shepherds piped on the hill-sides, reapers sang in the fields, and laughter came with the red firelight out of every house in the evening’. Attention to the marginalised economies of small buildings, with the industries they harbour such as spinning and smallhold farming, and the popular artistry they encourage such as storytelling and singing, keeps a country alive and well in a world increasingly given over to alienated labour. And Browne’s fiction implies in particular that her own country of Ireland could regain its lost national identity by paying the same close attention to its marginalised communities, and to its popular culture as embodied in her fairy stories.
The houses of Lewis Carroll are more fluid even than Browne’s cottages and palaces, and their fluidity derives from the changing bodies rather than the developing imaginations of their occupants. Radically detached from the social, political, religious or economic grand narratives to which other Victorian buildings pay tribute, they dedicate themselves instead to exacerbating the monstrous difficulty of accommodating a growing child’s body and mind within the architectural and ideological limits of a conventional middle-class home. Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865) opens with the representation of a book very unlike the novel itself, as young Alice’s older sister reads to her from a volume which seems to have been written from the exclusive perspective of a third-person omniscient narrator, unembellished by dialogue or decoration: ‘“and what is the use of a book,”’ Alice thinks to herself, ‘“without pictures or conversations [in it]?”’ As a result of the volume’s drab uniformity the girl’s attention strays from the rational route it’s expected to follow, and the rest of the novel can be read as an extended distraction from and commentary on the various official discourses which are supposed to shape her. Alice finds herself chasing a white rabbit down a hole which transforms itself into a vertical house, whose curved walls are ‘filled with cupboards and book-shelves’ with here and there among them ‘maps and pictures hung upon pegs’, in homage to the conventional techniques used to store the brain of a growing child with appropriate knowledge. But the circularity of the house’s walls, together with its uncertain depth, make any attempt to systematically organise this knowledge decidedly awkward – as does the difficulty of picking out any particular object from the shelves when one is falling rapidly past them.
Carroll’s own mind tended to stray from the systematic method of developing and organizing narratives as represented by shelves and maps. In his prologue to Sylvie and Bruno (1889) he explains how his fanciful work, such as the ballad The Hunting of the Snark (1874-6), sprang from ‘random flashes of thought – as being suggested by the book one was reading, or struck out from the “flint” of one’s own mind by the “steel” of a friend’s conversation’. It also contains certain passages ‘which occurred in dreams, and which I cannot trace to any antecedent cause whatever’. The structure of the subterranean house in which Alice finds herself proves as unruly as Carroll’s procedure in assembling his narratives. The girl’s attempts to open and pass through one of its doors into a beautiful garden are constantly thwarted, while the interior spaces she wanders through exist in a state of constant flux, often thanks to her own repeated changes of size. The hall with the door to the garden in it gets suddenly filled with water when Alice grows to gigantic proportions and begins to cry. The white rabbit’s house (when she eventually finds it) shrinks to the size of a hutch as she grows again, and she has to put its architectural features to unusual uses, sticking her foot up the chimney and her arm out of the window in a quest for additional space. Later, the house of the Duchess to which the rabbit was hurrying when she first saw him turns out to be full not of aristocratic decorum but of pepper, broken crockery, and babies who refuse to keep the same shape from one moment to the next. Outside and inside flow together, as rabbit burrows become well-furnished wells, treacle wells become domestic houses, front halls become high seas, al fresco tea parties take place in perpetuity thanks to a broken watch, croquet parties happen near the seashore, and the seashore transforms itself first into a schoolroom and then a courthouse. Alice’s social role flows too, from schoolchild to maid to nanny to lady-in-waiting to schoolchild again to prisoner-in-the-dock. The constant fluctuation of houses, bodies and roles in the book is recorded in a giddily fluctuating language, where the meanings of words and the logic of sentences constantly intersect, hurling the reader from one train of associations to another. Most disturbingly of all, perhaps, every architectural, horticultural and linguistic space in the book plays its part in a judicial process which is wholly arbitrary, punctuated by shrill cries of ‘Off with his head’ or the barks of a terrier who plans to act as judge, jury and executioner for an unfortunate mouse.
In this narrative, then, the faculty of judgement, understanding or reason, as depicted by Spenser in the House of Alma, has been utterly overwhelmed by Phantastes, the untrammelled fancy, who has continued the process of breaking down the boundaries between the domestic house and the outside world which he began in The Faerie Queene. And yet the book is funny, coherent and compulsively readable despite its refusal to follow familiar patterns of cause and effect, or proposition, proof and conclusion. This is because its representation of the abrupt and bizarre transformations being imposed on the Victorian population, as embodied by Alice, through the combined agencies of industrialization and free market capitalism, is defused by the affectionate tribute it pays to its feisty heroine. Alice refuses to let herself be crushed by the various monsters she encounters – in marked contrast to the unfortunate teenager Conrad in The Castle of Otranto, who got himself crushed by a giant flying helmet. It’s a testament to Alice’s resilience that she is able to wake from her dream, at the end of the novel, quite unmarked (it seems) by the traumatic experiences to which she has been subjected. In the Alice books, a new generation in the shape of a young girl comes to understand fantasy as the medium she lives in – the stuff and substance of the Victorian epoch – and shows herself entirely capable of keeping herself afloat in it, as she kept herself afloat in the sea of tears.
Plural Magic Houses of the Twentieth Century
Alice’s experience with houses, as represented both in the mutating rooms and gardens of Alice in Wonderland and the house of mirrors in Through the Looking Glass, provides the template for the plural magic houses of the twentieth century. The most fascinating of modern fantastic houses embody the increasing mobility of twentieth-century populations, the increasingly rapid social changes taking place within and around them, and the ingenious techniques house-dwellers and house-designers have discovered for replicating Alice’s resilience in the face of these challenges. But where Scrooge, Dracula, Gluck, Alice and the rest often feel like strangers in the bizarre domestic spaces they inhabit, and their post-Victorian descendants – Melanie in The Magic Toyshop, Bella Baxter in Poor Things – share their unease in these unsettling enclosures, many residents of magic houses in the later twentieth century seem to have become somehow naturalised to the wayward structures that surround them.
Three examples will suffice to illustrate the strange plurality of these houses, their capacity to embody several identities at once, and the remarkable adaptability of their occupants. The first is the apartment in Doris Lessing’s The Memoirs of a Survivor (1974), from which the unnamed narrator watches closely as the city outside breaks down, filling with refugees, travellers, gangs, radical communes, and groups of aggressive feral children. Each change in the city outside finds its reflection within the narrator’s apartment walls, in her relationship with her cohabitants – a teenage girl called Emily and her pet, a strange yellow cat-dog by the name of Hugo. Emily teaches the narrator how to interact with the new societies springing up in rapid succession beyond her front door, while the narrator teaches Emily that older people can have a productive understanding of and scepticism about radical change, and Hugo teaches them both that they are animals, and so have needs very similar to his, no matter how grandiose their hopes and fears for the society they are part of. Furniture and household objects are requisitioned for new uses, new members of the household community come and go, the building that houses the apartment changes into a vertical city in itself, whose economy reproduces in miniature the new economy of barter, adaptation and recycling that has sprung up all over the decaying city as a whole. And meanwhile…
Meanwhile, behind the walls of the narrator’s apartment another space begins to reveal itself, a space in which she sees reflected in alternative forms the personal, social and environmental crises taking place in the city and in her own household. Passing through the wall of her living room, at times she finds herself in rooms that reproduce the experiences of Emily and her mother in childhood and young adulthood, experiences that have conditioned Emily’s emotional response to the current social collapse, partly inhibiting her power to rise above the continual crisis of the day-to-day. At other times the narrator finds herself wandering through her living room wall into a wholly different set of rooms: rooms in which are played out in alternative terms – through games, images concrete and abstract, gardens, experimental architectural and artistic structures – scenarios that suggest alternative, healthier ways of living, utopian escape routes from the ecological and socio-political nightmare that is eating up the city from inside. The narrator’s work as a householder, a survivor intimately concerned with the nitty gritty of living from day to day, gives her the wherewithal to understand the utopian possibilities enshrined in these scenarios, so that in the end she can lead Emily, Hugo and the rest through the wall of her apartment towards the possibilities they represent. At this point, the dissolving mirror of Alice Through the Looking Glass becomes not a wayward reflection of the insanities of contemporary culture but a portal to a new kind of future, a migratory corridor to hope. And the seeds of this future have been planted by simple house-dwellers in our own timeline, cultivators of the friendships, observations, interactions, affections, careful thought and ingenious solutions that might one day bring such a future about, if we can find a way to break through the brick and plaster that hems us in.
The Memoirs of a Survivor is full of references to the children’s fantasies that have shaped so many voracious readers, from its obvious allusions to Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass to the presence in it of Emily’s boyfriend Gerald, who is both Peter Pan, with his gang of murderous Lost Boys, and the Pied Piper, who leads populations of unsuspecting children to potential destruction. The implication is, I think, that these children’s fantasies can have two alternative functions: to keep us trapped, through continual nostalgic return to their familiar contours, in a mindset of the sort Carter’s Philip Flower seeks to cultivate in the children in his Magic Toyshop, a condition of arrested development, of perpetual Victorian infancy, unable or unwilling to imagine better ways to exist than the ones that have been handed down to us; or to assure us that we can think outside the domestic box, somehow dream our way through innovations in our daily living to a worldwide state of collaboration and mutual support. Something similar can be said about John Crowley’s seminal fantasy Little, Big, or the Fairies’ Parliament (1981), which contains one of the most intriguing magic houses of the twentieth century, the house called Edgewood, which is a portal to fairyland, to Alice’s Wonderland, and to the new place radical reformers and revolutionaries dream of, which has its roots in the distant past.
Edgewood is the home of the Drinkwater family, constructed by the nineteenth-century architect John Drinkwater as a set of interlocking samples of the domestic styles he can offer potential customers. As a result, it is a house which is ‘all fronts’, designed ‘so people could come and look at it, from any side, and choose which kind of house they wanted; that’s why the inside is so crazy’. This is how the architect’s great-granddaughter, Daily Alice, explains the building to her future husband, Smoky Barnable, and when he expresses incomprehension she proceeds to show him what she means:
He looked where she pointed, along the back front. It was a severe, classical façade softened by ivy, its gray stone stained as though by dark tears; tall, arched windows; symmetrical detail he recognised as the classical Orders; rustications, columns, plinths. Someone was looking out one tall window with an air of melancholy. ‘Now come on.’ She led him by the hand along that front, and as they passed, it seemed to fold like scenery; what had looked flat became out-thrust; what stuck out folded in; pillars turned pilasters and disappeared. Like one of those ripply pictures children play with, where a face turns from grim to grin as you move it, the back front altered, and when they reached the opposite wall and turned to look back, the house became cheerful and mock-Tudor, with deep curling eaves and clustered chimneys like comic hats.
Inside this plural house whose ‘crazy’ interior combines all the different styles performed by its multiple façades, Drinkwater’s family lives through the alternative history they call the Tale, in which the things humans dream of awake or asleep are real and have a direct and indirect impact on politics, economics, society, culture. Daily Alice is the grown-up descendant of Carroll’s Alice, her height, quiet self-confidence and strength affirming her importance in a world that has not yet learned to recognise it. She and her family exist in communion with the fairies of Europe, who followed the Drinkwaters from the Old World to the New, enabling ancient narratives involving their ancestors to continue to work themselves out in their descendants’ words and actions. Here they found Edgewood, with its innovative fusion of familiar architectural elements into a new kind of complexity, the ideal centre from which to begin their secret invasion of the rational and mundane. From it other magical spaces emerge, such as Old Law Farm in the nearby city: an urban version of Edgewood, made of the space formed by a city block whose interior has been opened up to become a single communal space, within which an urban farm has been created, superintended by a helpful brownie and pervaded by supernatural manifestations.
Edgewood functions, too, as a looking-glass for those who seek to recognize the operation of myth and legend in modern times, so that when the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa returns, as legend says he will, he can be recognised by the Drinkwaters and their relations in the person of a modern politician known as the Tyrant, whose agenda seems to be to advance the fairies’ cause at the expense of the unsuspecting human inhabitants of the New World. Edgewood, in other words – and Old Law Farm, and any other outposts of its arcane aesthetic – dedicates itself to reading the world in multiple terms, from the terms provided by folk wisdom and ancestral beliefs to the arcane terms of the Tarot pack, astrology, and other forms of occult knowledge. For the Drinkwater family who built it, the world cannot be properly understood in the crude terms dictated by late capitalism or science. Alternative means of understanding it have been provided by books of magic, picture books, fairy tales, and even the history-cum-guidebook written by Edgewood’s builder, John Drinkwater, Architecture of Country Houses (1880). Only a comprehensive view of things provided by combining all these different forms of understanding can properly describe the patterns being created by everyday events. And the best means of achieving such a view is to inhabit the domestic space with due attention to its complexities: the way houses are able to accommodate multiple personalities with diverse interests, different kinds of imaginative energy, alternative historical perspectives (based on their different ages or their varying levels of awareness of their family’s past), rival aesthetic tastes, and so on. For Crowley, as for the Drinkwaters, a house can be the model for a new society, and the presence of Old Law Farm in the city – Edgewood’s outpost and double – affirms the possibility of extending this new society to entire urban and national communities.
The chief attraction of Edgewood is the absence from it of a patriarch or tyrant. John Drinkwater built it largely to the specifications of his clairvoyant wife, Violet Bramble, who could commune with the fairies while he could not. Variations on this couple’s relationship coexist through the lives of their descendants, some of whom see the world in material terms, some of whom are deeply familiar with the supernatural, but all of whom are willing to recognise and support the alternative perspectives of their spouses, children, friends and odd relations. The importance of the house to achieving this psychological cooperation is reinforced by some of its occupants’ interest in the early modern Art of Memory, which encouraged those who wished to remember certain things with absolute accuracy to map the contents of their minds onto the architecture of a familiar building, usually their home. All the Drinkwaters effectively use the same building as their Memory Mansion, the structure onto which they map their minds. The building is of course Edgewood, but each of them reads the building differently, and as a result the house is enriched, becoming the ultimate working model of happy coexistence in a modern world where such models are in short supply. Edgewood’s enrichment via the presence in it of so many forms of imaginative and intellectual eccentricity – marginalised thinking, which may be one way of accounting for the building’s name – means that when at last the Drinkwater family and their associates move on from the house, travelling into the depths of the fairyland they have helped to sustain into the twentieth century, the house takes on a mythical status. Buried in the heart of ever-expanding woodlands (Crowley’s America undergoes a collapse like Lessing’s Britain, and a similar reversion to wildness), its many lights blazing thanks to the efficiency of its occult lighting system, Edgewood becomes an enduring symbol of hope, a hope which gets clearly articulated in the many fantastic stories that spin themselves around it. But unlike most such myths:
It could be found. There it was: at the end of a neglected drive, in a soft rain, not what had been expected at all and however long-sought always come upon unexpectedly, for all its lights; sagging porch steps to go up, and a door to go in by. Small animals who thought the place theirs, long in possession, sharing only with the wind and the weather. On the floor of the library, by a certain chair, face down at a certain page, a heavy book spine-broken and warped by dampness. And many other rooms, their windows filled with the rainy gardens, the Park, the aged trees indifferent and only growing older. And then many doors to choose from, a juncture of corridors, each one leading away, each ending in a door that could be gone out by; evening falling early, and a forgetfulness with it, which way was the way in, which now the way out?
The house’s many corridors here deny the notion of forward progress; instead it celebrates the multidirectional mazes constructed by the meeting of many hearts and minds, the concept of community that so often gets lost in the face of geographical mobility and social change.
The third twentieth-century magic house can be found in Diana Wynne Jones’s novel for children Howl’s Moving Castle (1986). This is a house which in a number of ways is the opposite of Edgewood. Where Edgewood is larger on the inside than it is on the outside, like many magic houses, Howl’s Moving Castle is much smaller, its modest two-up two-down internal construction belying its forbidding external appearance as a wizard’s fortress, tall, black and grim. Where Edgewood is widely regarded as unique, the moving castle is unexpectedly ordinary, despite its magical properties; its life revolves around the daily rituals of cooking, cleaning, sleeping, arguing. Where Edgewood is old and full of close relatives whose story stretches back through generations, the castle has been recently constructed to shelter Howl and his extended family, whose component members – the old woman Sophie, the demon Calcifer, the apprentice Michael, and later a dog who is also a man – are connected not by a common ancestry but by common needs, many of them generated by their disconnection from their blood relatives. And where Edgewood is firmly rooted in a certain place – an estate on the edge of woods, not far from the City – the Moving Castle is always shifting from place to place, both literally, in that it can propel itself round the landscape by demonic magic, and metaphorically, in that its owner has many functions: as local magic-worker, king’s sorcerer, faithless lover, no-good brother, and so on. The castle contains the tools of each of these trades, has a magic front door that opens onto locations associated with each of them, and provides shelter from the consequences of Howl’s actions in each role. Like Edgewood, then, it is a complex space where many functions and narratives interpenetrate; yet it is a small and ordinary space in appearance, the kind of space a reader might really occupy, a proper domestic sphere, unlike most of the magic houses we have looked at till now.
What interests Diana Wynne Jones is the house as the starting point of all adventures – its domestic function as a catalyst as well as a material and emotional launching pad for social and political action. The events that take place in the Moving Castle’s modest front room drive all the action in the novel, from the threat posed to the land of Ingary – where the castle is mostly located – by a malicious sorceress called the Witch of the Waste, to the threat of war that is brewing in the background as the citizens of the country go about their daily business. Howl’s magic, which is involved in both these national crises, is rooted in his contract with the demon Calcifer, who occupies the house’s hearth and lends it the mobility that gives it its name. Also in the hearth, we learn in the end, resides Howl’s heart, which binds the contract, so that Howl’s emotional life – a whirlwind affair that involves successive romantic entanglements, multiple parallel jobs, and many complex relationships with his various friends and relations – has a direct effect both on conditions within the castle and in the land beyond. The novel’s protagonist Sophie, too – a young woman transformed into an old one by the jealous Witch’s curse – similarly has a direct effect on the wellbeing of the nation, by virtue of her instant impact on the guardian of Howl’s heart, the demon Calcifer, and on Howl himself. As the book goes on she finds herself having interviews with the King, fighting the Witch in the wasteland where her own castle is located, and stimulating Howl to put his magic to useful and attractive purposes – greening the desert, correcting the effects of curses, and fighting the Witch with the help of Sophie and the various allies she has attracted to the castle’s front room. Sophie sees herself as the embodiment of the Victorian view of the woman as the Angel of the House, tied to the hearth by bonds of duty as well as affection. Wynne Jones demonstrates that such a role is a massive one, linking its occupant by elaborate threads to almost every conceivable aspect of the world outside her home’s front door.
At the same time, Wynne Jones is interested in the extent to which these powers of the domestic house and its keeper – the person who keeps it running smoothly, so often a woman – have been occluded or hidden away by history, storytelling convention, language, and the trappings of social custom. The power of Howl’s Moving Castle is carefully concealed thanks to Howl’s determination to hide it; this is why the castle is always shifting from place to place, in a futile bid to evade responsibility by making it seem unconnected to any given location it settles in, its occupants unattached to any local or national population or concern. The same motive has led Howl to conceal the source of his magic, the heart that binds him to the demon Calcifer – and with it his genuine care and affection for his fellow creatures. As well as concealing the source of his power and his sense of duty and affection from others, Howl seeks to hide them from himself, by living like an adolescent in a building that he never bothers to clean, and by refusing to allow Sophie – when she arrives by chance at his front door and decides to move in as his cleaning lady – to come near his bedroom, with its thick patina of dust and its unruly swarms of spiders. Sophie shares Howl’s impulse to conceal her own powers, to hide her own feelings, to evade her responsibility for other people, despite the centrality of all these things to her personality and actions. Her transformation into an old woman is worked at first by a wicked Witch, but it merely confirms Sophie’s view of herself, and she reinforces it with increasing determination as the novel goes on – in the process transforming herself into a witch very nearly as powerful as the woman who changed her. Sophie’s strenuous evasion of herself is what makes the castle her natural home, the location where evasions can be most successfully carried out, thanks to its construction as Howl’s hideout and protective shield.
The nature of a house and its occupants can be disguised or altered by many other kinds of movement besides traversing the ground: by being tidied up or redecorated, for instance, or by having its contents shifted around, or even by being moved from one building to another (after all, the same household with the same possessions in two different buildings makes these in effect the selfsame building, for all the minor distinctions between them in terms of location and internal geography). Disguise, in fact, can become material change, and the castle is always moving in the sense that changes are always taking place within its walls: new occupants arriving in the shape of Calcifer, Michael, Sophie, the dog; new problems throwing its occupants into frenzied new activities; new moods covering its floors and walls with heaps of magic slime, the physical manifestation of Howl’s periodic bouts of depression. Putting on clothes can be a disguise – like the magic cloaks donned by Sophie and Michael when they leave the house, which transform them into a large red-bearded man and an ungainly horse. But clothes can also effect change, attracting people to their wearers, for example – as one of Howl’s enchanted suits can do – or in the case of seven-league boots, enabling the wearer to cover many miles at a single stride. And people can be disguised or changed by other people’s view of them. People can assume us to be what we are not, based on appearance combined with prejudice: an old woman instead of a young one, a wicked magician instead of a generous local benefactor, a scary scarecrow or a dumb dog instead of a decent human being, and so on; and we can respond to these perceptions of us by taking on some of the characteristics that have been assigned to us. In other words, we are all performing feats of magic every day, transforming ourselves and other people by every trick of the eye or mind we have at our disposal. And the house is the potent hub within which our capacity for magic germinates, and where its operations are at their most powerful.
Wynne Jones’s method for drawing attention to the magic potential of the house is by two gestures of estrangement, performed at the beginning and in the middle of her novel. To begin with, she sets her book in the land of Ingary, ‘where such things as seven-league boots and cloaks of invisibility really exist’, and where ‘it is quite a misfortune to be born the eldest of three’, because in fairy tales the eldest child is always destined to fail, the youngest to succeed, if all three set out to seek their fortunes. This is the first gesture of estrangement: in Ingary fantasies are real and magic operates in the everyday. And it emerges that there are positives and negatives to living in a fantasy world like this – just as there are to living in the ‘real’ world of the reader. On the one hand, vast distances may be covered in an instant, thanks to those magic boots, and bodily limitations overcome with ease, thanks to that magic cloak. On the other hand, certain narrative rules (such as the rule of three) impose themselves like locks on the population, and it requires real ingenuity – and a lot of good luck – to work your way around them. The protagonist, Sophie, finds that her mind and body are cramped and distorted by her assumption that thanks to fairy tale logic she can never get anywhere as the eldest of three; so when the witch turns her into an old lady it seems only to fulfil a destiny she has already assumed to be hers: to age without noticing, and to achieve nothing in the process. Yet the limitations of being an old lady turn out to be not so extreme as Sophie expected. She can speak her mind freely, she doesn’t worry so much about what other people think, she is no longer afraid – or not as much and not as often – and she has certain powers she never suspected, above all the power of talking life into things, such as household objects, clothing, buildings, even people. As the book goes on, Sophie transforms the house she arrives at – the moving castle of the title – thanks to her energetic acting, thinking, dreaming and talking; and in the process she becomes a powerful sorceress herself, without even noticing the transformation. And she gradually accumulates a rich community of her own, an eccentric but affectionate composite family, an extensive network of friends, relations, contacts and allies. If magic in the land of Ingary is everyday, the everyday too is clearly magic, and astounding things can be accomplished within the confines of a modest building.
The other gesture of estrangement is the unexpected appearance in the middle of the book of suburban Wales. One of the multiple locations to which the magic front door of the castle leads is the Welsh housing estate where Howl’s sister lives – part of the community where Howl was born and bred, and from which he departed for the magic land of Ingary, in defiance of his sister’s expectation that he take on a well-paid job and thus enhance his family’s wealth and reputation. This wholly conventional Welsh setting, ruled by expectations as strong as those of a fairy tale, is a magic place for Sophie Hatter when she visits it in the exact centre of the novel. Upstairs in the suburban house of Howl’s cross sister is a room where her son plays computer games with his friends, unconcerned by anything beyond the enchanted circle of their gaming:
Sophie was not even sure the two boys crouched over the various magic boxes on a big table by the window would have looked up even for an army with a brass band. The main magic box had a glass front like the one downstairs, but it seemed to be showing writing and diagrams more than pictures. All the boxes grew on long, floppy white stalks that appeared to be rooted in the wall at one side of the room.
Before he leaves the house, Howl gives his nephew a new game – presumably created in Ingary by magic – which reproduces the conditions surrounding Howl’s moving castle, and presumably bears some resemblance to the text-based game by Roberta Williams, ‘Wizard and the Princess’ (1980). As the boys start to play it, the opening text reads: ‘You are in an enchanted castle with four doors. Each opens on a different dimension. In Dimension One the castle is moving constantly and may arrive at a hazard at any time’. In Wales, in other words, life in the castle is a fantasy, something that does not and cannot exist except in a narrative fit for children, adolescents and adult dreamers. At the same time, certain residents of Ingary are Welsh. Howl is one of them (his original name is Howell), and another is a wizard called Suliman, his original name Sullivan having been rendered exotically oriental in a bid to make him seem more suitable to his new role (names, too, are agents of disguise and change in Wynne Jones’s novel). Meanwhile, the demon of the Witch of the Waste is hidden in Wales, in the shape of Miss Angorian, the local English teacher. Miss Angorian sets homework for Howl’s nephew which consists of an analysis of John Donne’s poem ‘Song: Go and Catch a Falling Star’. But the analysis is not easy, given Miss Angorian’s own straddling of different dimensions. In Wales the poem is nothing but a list of impossibilities: ‘Go and catch a falling star, / Get with child a mandrake root, / Tell me where all past years are, / Or who cleft the Devil’s foot’. In Ingary, by contrast, everything it describes can actually happen, so that its misogynistic climax – whereby Donne declares that it is just as impossible that a woman can be both faithful and attractive – must automatically be discredited. In Ingary the poem is also efficacious in another way, in that it serves as a curse on Howl, drawing him into the toils of the Witch of the Waste and leading to the showdown at the end of the novel, which unexpectedly takes place in the castle’s front room – the sort of location where English homework might be completed, and where the apprentice Michael carries out the homework assigned him by his teacher, Howl.
For Wynne Jones, in other words, the house or home is interpenetrated by wonders, which are constantly disrupting and overturning conventions and other forms of expectation. No one gifted with mobility need feel trapped in any house, since it is the beginning of every journey as well as its destination. No one need feel bored by being enclosed by its four solid walls, since alternative worlds can be imagined, constructed and interacted with inside their confines. The houses we live in are magical places, whether they’re in housing estates, on open moorland or above a hat shop – like the house from which Sophie sets out on her adventures and to which she returns when the moving castle is magically fused with it. Houses are strange spaces, always surprising us with the incidents, moods and activities they can accommodate. And houses are also political spaces, as every fantasy writer from Ruskin to Brown to Stoker to Crowley has never ceased to remind us. We should delight in them and nurture them as best we can, since they form an integral part of our identity. And we should ensure that decent housing is available to all – in this world as well as in the many dimensions of the fantastic.
[This is the script for a five-minute talk I gave at the launch of the Glasgow Centre for Fantasy and the Fantastic on 16 September 2020. Ellen Kushner gave the keynote, which was followed by a discussion panel featuring Brian Attebery, Terri Windling and myself.]
Once upon a time there was a child who loved to read. He only read stories about things that could never happen, often set in lands or worlds that never existed, full of creatures unknown to science. He liked these stories because he was at boarding school and they took him far away from the life he led there, in dormitories and classrooms and corridors smelling of cabbage.
As he got older he went on reading stories about impossible things, but he did it in secret, because such stories were for younger children. He found there were also stories for adults of this kind, often of great beauty and complexity, though people told him that this sort of story was less grown up than other kinds.
When he grew up he wrote a doctoral thesis about stories written in the sixteenth century. This was considered a serious subject because the stories were old, but they carried him away to lands that felt as if they had been invented, full of magic, and strange creatures, and vivid pictures painted in delightful words. He got a job at Glasgow University.
Later still he went to America, where he was allowed to teach a course on the books he most liked reading, about things that never existed and never could exist. When he got back he set up a course exactly like that, for undergraduates. His friend Alice Jenkins suggested he set up a Masters programme to teach the books to graduate students and encourage the world to take them seriously.
People like him from all over the world came to study on the programme. He hadn’t realized how many people there were like him in the world: people who loved thinking about invented places and things and creatures and asking questions about them, such as why they had been invented, what needs they fulfilled at different times in history, and how they might shape the world we live in.
Glasgow University saw how many people were interested in impossible things and created more jobs in the area. He was joined by new companions from places far away and magical to him, such as Greece and Wales and the British Library. The fellowship of staff and students grew quietly from year to year.
Together we invented new ways to share the pleasure of the impossible. Night at the Museum, where imaginary people and things took over the Hunterian Museum for an evening. Glasgow International Fantasy Conversations, where more people were invited to join us and talk about books and films and comics and games. A conference for imagining climate change. Fantasy Reading Parties, where we could share the stories, scripts and poems we had written. Symposiums where we plotted events for the future.
Five years after the founding of the Glasgow Fantasy MLitt programme, here we are again, setting up a Glasgow Centre for Fantasy and the Fantastic, designed to make it easier to share ideas and dreams about the impossible with everyone who cares to join in.
Perhaps the impossible is not so impossible after all? Perhaps things can really be done with fantasy and the fantastic, and to the hearts and minds of people who enjoy such things? Perhaps fantasy and the fantastic can change the way we think of the world or the country or the town or the house we live in? Perhaps together we can build a future where the impossible becomes a template for the possible?
[Before the onset of Corvid 19 I was due to give a talk at the University of Pisa today. In lieu of that talk I thought I’d put up this essay I wrote a few years back, which touches on the relationship between Italy and England in the sixteenth century. It hasn’t yet been published, and I have no idea if it ever will be, so I’m making it available here, from Scotland to Italy with love.
Behind this post is the astonishing story of the Sienese nobleman Enea Silvio Piccolomini of Corsignano, later Pope Pius II, who found himself in my country, Scotland, in 1435, fathered a child here, and made his way back to Italy through England in disguise, because England and Italy were at war. He was nearly shipwrecked on the coast of Scotland and promised to walk barefoot to the nearest shrine of Our Lady if he survived; as a result of this promise, rashly made in a Scottish winter, he got frostbite in his feet and walked with a limp for the rest of his days. So he left a child in Scotland and Scotland left a limp with him. He nearly got slaughtered by Border rievers on his way south, and was hugely impressed by York Minster when he visited; he described it as walled with coloured glass. He was also much impressed by the beauty of Scottish women, though he thought Scottish men were barbaric. Later, he was the last Pope to be involved in a crusade – in fact he died on the way to the Holy Land, after which the crusade was sensibly cancelled. Besides being the only Pope I know of to have fathered a child in Scotland, he was apparently the only Pope to have written an autobiography while in office (the Commentaries), and certainly the only one to have written a work of erotic fiction (though the latter happened before his election to the papacy). This post is about that work of fiction: a Europe-wide bestseller called de duobus amantibus (The Two Lovers), and its possible influence on the early English novel.]
A Lost Golden Age of Tudor Fiction
Along with William Baldwin’s Beware the Cat (c. 1553), George Gascoigne’s Adventures Passed by Master F.J. (1573) is the work of Tudor prose fiction or ‘novelistic discourse’ whose reputation has undergone the most radical transformation in recent years. A lot of work has been done to trace Gascoigne’s influence on his English successors, but the question of where his proto-novel came from remains something of a puzzle. The Adventures is sometimes talked about as if it sprang fully-formed from its author’s head, spontaneously generated by a combination of quick wit and good fortune (which is just the impression Gascoigne meant it to give). The first purpose of this blog post is to show that this is not in fact the case; and the second is to argue for the largely unacknowledged complexity of the novelistic milieu of the 1560s and early 70s from which it emerged. Gascoigne had many different models of prose fiction available to him when he started writing the Adventures, and one model in particular, I shall argue, suggests the extraordinary sophistication of the humanist tradition of erotic novella-writing on which he drew.
Of the possible influences on Gascoigne’s text, Geoffrey Chaucer’s long poem Troilus and Criseyde (mid-1380s) has rightly been given pride of place, along with its Italian source, Giovanni Boccaccio’s Il Filostrato (1345-50). The 1573 version of the Adventures opens with a homage to Chaucer, and the direct links between the climactic bedroom scenes in the poem and the novella have been noted. Gascoigne also acknowledged the impact of the Italian short story writer Matteo Bandello when he revised the Adventures in 1575, disguising his rewrite as a translation from the salacious ‘riding-tales’ of a non-existent author called ‘Bartello’ whose name clearly echoes that of his real-life counterpart from Piedmont. It is becoming increasingly clear, too, that Gascoigne wrote his proto-novel in the wake of a series of sophisticated English fictions: a native pre-novelistic tradition whose practitioners show a keen awareness of their English precursors in the field. The belated publication of Beware the Cat in 1570 may well have inspired him. So might one or more of the many editions of the anonymous novella TheImage of Idleness (c. 1556), whose epistolary form and wittily erotic content could have given him many hints. William Bullein’s experimental novella-cum-textbook A Dialogue Against the Fever Pestilence (1564), which influenced Nashe, might have suggested some of the pseudo-medical goings-on in the Adventures; and Gascoigne’s interest in questioni d’amore could have been sharpened by Edmund Tilney’s attractive garden-set novella The Flower of Friendship (1568), as well as by Henry Grantham’s 1566 translation of Boccaccio’s Filocolo. Indeed, if one takes translations and reprints into account as well as original compositions, the 1560s could be seen as a golden age of prose fiction in English, making available to the aficionado a wider range of novelle, merry tales and imaginative dialogues than at any time in the country’s history before that decade.
In this blog post, though, I shall argue that one of Gascoigne’s main inspirations, both for his proto-novel and for the delight in quick-wittedness that drives it, was a little-known book by the fifteenth-century diplomat Enea Silvio Piccolomini, later Pope Pius II: the Historia de duobus amantibus (1444), translated into English as The Goodli History of the Ladye Lucres of Scene and of her Lover Eurialus – or more simply, Eurialus and Lucrece. Piccolomini’s Latin narrative was much better known in sixteenth-century Europe than Chaucer’s Troilus, and proved as popular in England as in Gascoigne’s other stamping-ground, the Netherlands, where the first translation into English was made. John Coyle has described it with disarming accuracy as the best pornographic novel ever written by a future pope. At the centre of Piccolomini’s narrative, I shall argue – as at the centre of Gascoigne’s – is a preoccupation with literary depictions of the Trojan War (Virgil’s, Ovid’s, Boccaccio’s, and in Gascoigne’s case Chaucer’s): and its playful toying with this theme helps to point up its preoccupation with the moral, political and social paradoxes beloved of the humanist movement. In Gascoigne’s and Piccolomini’s novelle the Trojan War becomes internalized in a pair of adulterous early modern lovers at a time of relative peace, a process that highlights the religious and cultural fissures that threatened to tear Europe apart in both men’s lifetimes. As with Chaucer’s and Shakespeare’s versions of the Troilus story, the war also comes to stand for the social and moral hypocrisies that underlie religious conflicts. It’s this internalizing of Troy that I shall explore in this post, as indicative of the transference from Italy to England of an interest in what I’ll call the politics of the mind which found its best expression in prose fiction.
I shall begin with a brief account of Piccolomini’s literary career, and move on to a close comparison of his and Gascoigne’s masterpieces before returning to the Trojan theme of my title. In the process I hope to show that de duobus amantibus deserves to be thought of, alongside the Adventures, as one of the seeds whose long germination culminated in the rise of the novel in late seventeenth-century England.
The Seductive Stranger
The neo-Latin novella de duobus amantibus, written by a little man on the make, Enea Silvio Piccolomini (his surname means ‘wee man’, as he often reminds us), is a minor work of genius, a breath of Tuscan fresh air from the middle of the fifteenth century. One of the most widely disseminated and often-translated narratives of the early modern period – a Europe-wide bestseller for 250 years – which was translated four times into English in Tudor times alone, it has nevertheless failed to get more than a passing mention in histories of English fiction. Yet the briefest glance makes it clear that here is a major point of origin for that remarkable series of Elizabethan proto-novels written in the 1570s and 80s, which began with Gascoigne’s own mini-masterpiece, The Adventures of Master F.J., and went on to include George Pettie’s Petite Pallace of Pleasure (1576), John Lyly’s two Euphues books (1578 and 1580), Philip Sidney’s Arcadia (written c. 1580-6, published 1590) and the astonishing outpouring of fictions in the 1580s and early 90s by Robert Greene. Not only may Piccolomini’s text have served as Gascoigne’s inspiration; it may also have fed its influence directly into the work of his successors, as its second Elizabethan translator William Braunche seems to have recognized in 1596 when he transformed the relatively plain style of the original into the highly-patterned prose of Lyly, Sidney and Greene.
One of Piccolomini’s lifelong preoccupations, emerging in both his religious and literary writings throughout his career, was to expose a form of hypocrisy that lay at the heart of European civilization: the refusal to acknowledge the role played by the body in human affairs – the failure, that is, to accommodate humankind’s full humanity. In this he is a true humanist; a rhetorician and a poet rather than a logician or a philosopher. But he is an astonishingly daring and outspoken humanist, whose daring paid off to the extent that despite working through much of his career as a servant of the chief challengers of papal authority, the reformist Council of Basel, he successfully switched allegiance in mid-career and went on to become Pope. His switch of allegiance is seen by some as a career move, one of the supreme examples in the fifteenth century of unprincipled self-advancement; but he insisted that his transformation from agitator for ecclesiastical reform with a hyperactive sex drive to chaste clerical crusader for the papal supremacy was not so much a schizophrenic change of personality as a well-timed and appropriate shift in emphasis. His choice of the name ‘Pius’ as his papal sobriquet alludes to Virgil’s identification of the protagonist of the Aeneid as pious Aeneas (Piccolomini’s forename Enea is the Italian form of Aeneas, legendary founder of the Italian nation). So when Pope Pius II urges his flock in a celebrated proclamation to ‘reject Aeneas; accept Pius’ he is asking them to recognize that he is the same man he was in his youth, but that his priorities have changed, as is expected of an intelligent man in the later stages of his life.
This notion of humankind as an unruly composite, whose bodily needs must be met as well as its mental and spiritual requirements, can be found everywhere in Piccolomini’s writings. His influential treatise on the education of boys the ‘Art of Rhetoric’ stresses the training of the body as forcefully as the training of the mind, the value of poetry as well as the necessity to ingest philosophy, the crucial importance of using theory as a blueprint for practice. As one might expect, the treatise has nothing to say about sex, since it was composed as a letter to a 10-year-old princeling, and Enea was a priest by the time he wrote it. But an equally famous letter to a teenage prince, Sigismund of Tyrol – written before Enea found his ecclesiastical vocation – suggests that sex can in fact form an integral part of a young man’s physical, intellectual and moral development. When young Sigismund asked him to draft a love-letter to instruct him in the art of seduction, Piccolomini explained his motivation in acceding to the request in scrupulous detail. Given that desire is a ‘condition of human life’, he argues, sexual exploits should be undertaken in youth rather than old age, ‘since […] age is inept in love’. Echoing Andreas Capellanus and the school of courtly love he helped to found, he claims that ‘the custom of love… excites the sluggish virtues of youth’, encouraging young men to extraordinary feats of arms, letters and friendship, and enabling them to know ‘good and evil’ and ‘the stratagems of the world’. And he closes the letter with an unusual twist on a familiar literary trope. Writers of the Renaissance are forever urging their readers to treat their texts as bees treat gardens, shunning unwholesome weeds and drawing nectar only from the sweetest literary flowers – or else extracting goodness from weeds and flowers equally. But Piccolomini’s metaphorical gardens are not texts but the bodies of women: ‘as the bees sip honey from flowers, so you should learn virtue from the blandishments of Venus’. This identifies the female body, and the sexual adventures young men might experience with women, as a kind of book or library from which virtue can be extracted as effectively as – more effectively than? – from the tomes of the philosophers. This is a position that gets taken up by some of the most sophisticated English writers of early modern prose fiction, most strikingly John Lyly, as I suggested long ago in my book Elizabethan Fictions (1997).
Piccolomini’s own life, as unfolded in his collected epistles and his autobiography, the Commentaries, gave a perfect practical demonstration of his conviction that sexual adventures have an integral role to play in the development of a fully rounded human being. He fathered two illegitimate children that we know of: one in Scotland, where he was as impressed by the beauty of the Scottish women as by the barbarity of the Scottish men, and one in Strasbourg, with an English or Breton woman named Elizabeth. The Scottish child died in infancy, but Elizabeth’s son seems to have survived a little longer, since Enea wrote a letter to his father asking him to receive the boy into his household. What is striking about this letter is the extent to which he defends his behaviour in literary terms. He begins by describing himself as ‘Aeneas Sylvius, poet’ – a title he used throughout this phase of his career, after being crowned laureate by Frederick III in 1442 – and nearly all the examples it deploys are drawn from the works of poets or fiction writers. When he wants to point out that his father, too, slept around in his youth, he quotes the story of Tancred and Ghismonda from Boccaccio’s great anthology the Decameron (c. 1348-53): ‘you begot no son of stone or iron, being flesh yourself’ (Enea’s own fictional lover Eurialus later uses the same quotation to defend his adulterous desire for Lucrece). A few lines later, Piccolomini uses a different tale from the Decameron, to flesh out the details of his liaison with Elizabeth. Having asked her to leave her bedroom door unlatched and been twice refused, he tells his father that ‘I remembered Zima the Florentine’. This is Boccaccio’s story of a dandy who contrives to arrange a tryst with a woman sworn by her husband to silence, by appointing himself her ventriloquist, speaking her words for her, and setting up a nocturnal meeting, an arrangement with which she silently concurs by following his instructions to the letter. Enea chose to assume that despite Elizabeth’s show of reluctance she too would follow his instructions, which were delivered in the same way Zima delivered his; and when that night he made his way to her room, sure enough he found the door unlatched, whereupon they proceeded to conceive a son together. Enea’s sexual adventure, in other words, was modelled on that of a Boccaccian hero, Zima the dandy, and he uses the words of a Boccaccian heroine, Ghismonda, to defend it. Poetry, then, in Sidney’s sense of ‘fiction’ in verse or prose, for him offers practical help to desperate lovers. And in Piccolomini’s universe all men and women are to a greater or lesser extent lovers, often quite desperate ones. So those who disapprove of erotic fictions or the actions they encourage are no better, Enea claims, than the ‘hypocrite’ who ‘says that he knows no fault in himself’, in defiance of Christian doctrine (1 John 1:8).
Eloquence itself, in fact – the essential skill of a secretary, as he says in one of his letters, and an art whose supreme exponent is the poet – is closely associated with illicit desire by Piccolomini. His attraction to Elizabeth began, he claims, with an admiration for her linguistic skills. For one thing, she spoke his language, Tuscan; for another, Enea ‘delight[ed] in women’s jests’, a field in which ‘she excelled’, reminding him of Cleopatra’s seduction of Ceasar and Antony with her playfully seductive use of language. Her eloquence, in fact, bred eloquence in him. Inspired by his attraction to her, he quickly persuaded himself by analogy with great men – Moses, Aristotle, and certain notable Christians – to pursue his interest in her. For Enea, then, three major philosophical traditions of the world (the Jewish, the ancient Greek and the Christian) agreed in recognizing both the power of the sexual urge and its significant place in the make-up of the great public speakers and policy-makers. And even as Pius II, Piccolomini continued to think of rhetoric in sexual terms. In the famous ‘retraction bull’ he wrote to exonerate himself for defending the controversial Council of Basel – an official pronouncement composed to prevent any of his earlier writings from bringing ‘scandal’ to his pontificate – Pius speaks of his old letters and pamphlets as the product of a youthful passion for articulacy: a passion which produces illegitimate texts as readily as a young lover produces illegitimate offspring. ‘Our writings pleased us,’ he confesses, ‘in the manner of poets who love their poems like sons’. The sentence neatly identifies his pro-Basel polemics as works of poetry or fiction, while showing an amused tolerance for the ease with which a clever man may be seduced by the music of his own utterances.
1444 was an annus mirabilis for Enea the poet. Having been crowned laureate two years earlier by the Emperor Frederick III, he confirmed the validity of the title by penning a trio of compositions: an epistolary satire on the misery of a courtier’s life (De curialium miseriis), a version of which George Gascoigne could have read in Alexander Barclay’s celebrated Eclogues (c. 1520); a scandalous Plautine comedy called Chrysis, about love between priests and prostitutes in a brothel; and his most widely-read work, De duobus amantibus. All three texts identify Enea as a detached, witty and sometimes acerbic commentator on contemporary European life, a tone made easier for him to adopt by the Emperor Frederick’s policy of maintaining a neutral stance in the conflict between the Anti-pope Felix V (who was elected by the Council of Basel) and Pope Eugenius IV (whom the Council opposed). And the play and the novella identify illicit sexual liaisons as the ultimate testing ground for the pervasive culture of sexual hypocrisy that possessed fifteenth-century Europe. They identify, too, exuberant speech as the peculiar province of lovers, who wield it honestly in the service of dishonest love, and in the process show up the degree to which eloquence has been commandeered for vastly more destructive purposes elsewhere in the world they inhabit.
Gascoigne could not have known Chrysis, since the play was lost from the time of its composition to the twentieth century; but it is interesting to note that Enea’s novella was penned by a practitioner of neo-classical comedy, just as Gascoigne’s Adventures sprang from the imagination of the translator of another Italian comedy, Ariosto’s I Suppositi, Englished by Gascoigne as Supposes (meaning something like ‘assumptions’). And Chrysis can help us to interpret de duobus amantibus. Emily O’Brien has recently shown how Enea’s play satirizes the fifteenth-century fashion for Neo-Stoic philosophy: the intellectual tradition that rejects passion in favour of an idealized and unattainable rationalism. In addition, Enea transplants the Grecian setting of his comedy to the political hotbed of Basel in the 1440s, identifying its characters with real-life participants in the struggle between he Anti-pope Felix and Pope Eugenius, and having the young man Charinus allude to the conflict between the pontiffs only to dismiss it as irrelevant to the concerns of non-politicians. ‘There are some gentlemen of the toga,’ Charinus observes,
who say there is some kind of awful dissension between pontiffs. For my part, I keep in mind that saying of the wise: that useless worries are best put behind you. Just as chickens who are destined to be slaughtered tomorrow fight amongst themselves for feed in the henhouse, so men contend for empire when they have no idea how long they’ll be permitted to hold it. If I’m going to give up something, I’d sooner give up an empire than my dinner (IV.164-74).
Accordingly, the characters in Enea’s play have little interest in virtue, as either the popes or the Stoic philosophers defined it. His lecherous priests consider their celibate status as the perfect excuse for evading the legal trap of matrimony and indulging in a perpetual round of free love. They resolve to punish their prostitute lovers not for sinning but for sleeping with other men besides themselves. And the prostitutes teach the priests in return a lesson not in celibacy but mutual affection, showing a warmth for their clerical lovers – despite their promiscuity – that scuppers the men’s plans to abuse the women for being as unfaithful as they themselves are. Overhearing the prostitutes profess their love for them near the end, the priests conclude that ‘it’s we who have been wicked and they good’ (XVIII.778); and the play closes with a reconciliation between whores and clerics which is celebrated with ‘three jugs of the best vintage wine’ (XVIII.802), as well as the applause of Enea’s male audience.
When another male character, then, tells us in the epilogue that the play’s moral is that ‘you should work hard to be virtuous, stay away from courtesans, pimps, parasites, and wild parties,’ and that ‘Virtue excels all things, and the virtuous man lacks for nothing’ (XVIII.807-812), we could be forgiven for assuming that he has completely missed the point. The word virtue has been appropriated by popes and politicians, and like the squabbles of politicians has little to do with what makes relationships work between ordinary men and women of flesh and blood. It seems likely, too, that the moral is a joke at the expense of the moralized versions of Terence’s often raunchy comedies that formed a staple of the medieval school curriculum. Unlike the philosopher, the schoolmaster or the power-hungry pontiff, the poet knows all about the emotional machinery that drives the households and daily activities of common people, and can discover a complex web of alternative virtues being practised there which do not involve an actual or presumed withdrawal from either hard work, hard play or a bit of hard core fornication.
All of which brings us to Enea’s masterpiece de duobus amantibus, one of the models, I suggest, for The Adventures Passed by Master F.J. A brief summary of what the two texts have in common can serve as a starting point for the comparison.
Enea’s novella, de duobus amantibus, was written not much more than a year before he accomplished his spectacular political volte-ace, switching his professional role from apologist for the anti-papal Council of Basel to propagandist for the papacy. This imminent change of allegiance is signalled by the fact that it’s a book about divided loyalties. It concerns a German man, who finds his career as an official in the court of the Holy Roman Emperor at odds with his love-life, and a faithfully married woman of Siena, who finds herself in love with the German – a man who is not her husband – and transfers her affections to him without compromising her wholehearted commitment to the principle of loyalty to one’s lover. It is hard to imagine anyone who was not in Enea’s complicated position, or something like it, writing such a richly duplicitous text, which identifies certain intransigent problems at the heart of Christian morality and exposes them in painful detail through what is ostensibly the lightest kind of romance – the prose equivalent of a classical comedy.
Gascoigne’s proto-novel The Adventures Passed by Master F.J., too, is a story of divided loyalties. A young man from the South of England, the titular F.J., comes to stay with a Northern friend in his castle and initiates an affair with his friend’s wife, Elinor. Another woman in the castle, Frances, detects the affair and signals her attraction and loyalty to F.J. by showing him that she knows what he is up to, yet refraining from exposing his adultery. Instead she seeks to win him for herself with a mixture of witty banter, amorous fables, and hints about Elinor’s congenital promiscuity. F.J. finds himself attracted to both women, but cannot commit himself to Frances because (as in Capestranus’ treatise De amore) the allure of illicit, hard-won love proves far too intense to be surrendered for legitimate affection. Gascoigne, like Piccolomini, stood accused in his lifetime of a taste for sexual and political intrigue: he was indicted and acquitted as both a bigamist and a traitor, and his verse outside the Adventures celebrates and repents of adultery (real or imagined) with equal fervour. And if he did not switch his political allegiance in mid career as Enea did, his failure to find steady employment necessitated an equally developed capacity to change objectives and allegiances at a moment’s notice, a talent for spontaneous improvisation which is invoked by the word ‘adventures’ in the title of his novella.
To live ‘at adventure’ in the sixteenth century was to live from day to day, seizing whatever chances or adventures fell in your path and resisting all attempts to confine you within the bounds of duty, obligation or (by extension) morality. Gascoigne’s well-attested delight in weaving his own reputation as an unruly adventurer into the plots of his various fictions could well have made Enea’s ingenious interweaving of autobiography and poetic invention singularly attractive to him. So too might Enea’s ambiguous recantation, when he transformed himself from Enea/Aeneas to Pius without ever quite rejecting the political and sexual exploits of his youth. Gillian Austen has made a thorough case for the ambiguity of Gascoigne’s many gestures of repentance in the last years of his life. Where Enea cut off the sins of his youth in one clean gesture when he took the cloth (though he remained willing to recall the sins of his youth in ample detail in his autobiographical writings), Gascoigne carefully tailored each of his later texts to its intended recipients, switching with disconcerting ease between stern recantations of his youthful folly and continued dabblings in erotic poetry. He might well have seen Enea as something of a fellow spirit, with his pragmatic juggling of the claims of body and soul, the variety of his literary output, and his reputation as a man of sexual, political and even military action.
The first formal link between Enea’s and Gascoigne’s novelle is that both are contained within the framework of a letter, and that both are packed with epistolary exchanges between their central characters. This formal choice is hardly surprising in Enea, since he was one of the most respected letter-writers of the early modern period; and Gascoigne’s extensive use of the form may owe as much to Piccolomini as to the anonymous author of the first English piece of epistolary prose fiction The Image of Idleness (1556), which kept being reprinted throughout the first half of Elizabeth’s reign.De duobus amantibus first appeared in a letter to the humanist Mariano Sozzini, and was frequently printed in the sixteenth century with this and another letter as explanatory prefaces; and although the Tudor translations of Enea’s text omit these epistles, Gascoigne’s considerable skills as a linguist could have given him ready access to them in Latin, by way of the various Italian, French and German editions circulating in his lifetime. Enea’s prefatory epistles foreshadow the celebrated letters from HW and GT that preface Gascoigne’s Adventures in the book where it first appears, A Hundreth Sundrie Flowres (1573). The first of Enea’s letters as they are printed, to a German friend named Caspar Schlick, lets slip the fact that de duobus may be a roman à clef, and that Schlick has much in common with Eurialus. It thus anticipates the hints at a true-life scandal that run through Gascoigne’s Adventures, and to which Gascoigne alludes in the revised 1575 version of his novella, the Posies of George Gascoigne Esquire. But Enea’s first epistle also resembles the letter from Gascoigne’s HW in the challenge it presents to orthodox morality, and in the way it sets the tone for the tale to come.
The bulk of the epistle to Schlick consists of an extravagant mock eulogy of that ‘very little Person’ Mariano Sozzini, who should have been surnamed ‘wee man’, Enea tells us – like Piccolomini himself – on account of his diminutive size. Despite his small stature, Enea showers Sozzini with praise: he is ‘as great a Philosopher as Plato; in Geometry equal to Boetius; in Arithmetic to Macrobius’; he ‘paints like another Apelles’, carves like the legendary sculptor Praxiteles, and so on. Nobody, of course – let alone a little body like Sozzini – could possibly encompass all these qualities. And even if he did, the letter goes on to point out that even the best of men has some blemish that lets him down. Plagarensis, Enea observes, became enraged that his ass could not bear as many offspring at one birth as his sow; Gomicius thought he had fallen pregnant because he let his wife get on top when they were making love; and Sozzini, too, has his blemish. He is addicted to sex; and since Enea owes him a favour, the writer has duly obeyed the little man’s request to write him a pornographic novella to indulge his proclivities. But the letter ends by claiming, as Sidney did in his Apology for Poetry (1595), that a love of love is hardly a fault. ‘He who never was in Love,’ Enea declares, ‘is either a Stone or a Beast’, and any attempt to deny this would be hypocrisy. Human frailty in matters of desire is an intransigent ‘Truth’, and this frailty deserves due recognition from poets like himself.
The second epistle prefacing Enea’s novella, which is addressed to Sozzini himself, is equally witty at the expense of po-faced moralists. It begins by pointing out that Sozzini is fifty and Enea nearly forty, and that it would therefore seem inappropriate for either of them to show much interest in erotic writing. But Enea adds that Sozzini’s continued ‘Proneness to Amour’ protects him from ageing, and therefore promises that he will ‘rouze all the amorous Spirits of this grey headed Lover’ in the ensuing story. So when the letter closes by claiming that the tale of Eurialus and Lucrece gives a ‘warning to Youth, to avoid such Criminal Amours’ as the lovers indulged in, the rest of the epistle forbids us to take this seriously. Enea undercuts the moral of his narrative by placing it in a context where its obsolescence is palpable. And this process of setting up apparent moral judgements only to explode them in the next sentence – and perhaps reinstate them the sentence after – will become familiar as we read on. It is not a device that Gascoigne mimics directly; but he could have learned a lot, I think, from Enea’s willingness to play continually with set notions of right and wrong.
Piccolomini’s two prefatory epistles prepare us for one aspect of the story that follows: its playfully ironic tone, which undercuts the exalted pretensions of the courtly love tradition, laughs at Petrarchan idealism, and mocks the chivalric code as depicted in conventional romances. The Emperor’s court in the novella is a place where playfulness is endemic: the Emperor himself is both lover and joker, who delights in teasing Eurialus about his attraction to a married woman. At the same time, a strand of seriousness runs through the narrative, which comes to the fore in its final pages. Unlike the Emperor, Eurialus cannot afford to treat his affair with Lucretia as a joke; if he does, his career will suffer. The material conditions of fifteenth-century life dictate that a courtier cannot laugh freely at the things his master laughs at. And a married woman cannot afford to laugh at the things a male courtier might find amusing. Enea keeps reminding us of these incompatibilities, as if to draw our attention to the real social issues that get obscured by talk of moral idealism and the apparatus of conventional romance.
Again, it is the philosophy rather than the details of this constant play between light and darkness, the comic and the deeply serious that Gascoigne could have learned from. Gascoigne’s Adventures shares with de duobus an ability to veer between moods at a moment’s notice, and he makes repeated changes of tone and sensibility a defining feature of the relationship between his lovers. There is, however, one occasion when Master F.J., like Eurialus, learns the danger of telling jokes about infidelity in the context of royal courts. One of his poems celebrating his adulterous affair finds its way to the ears of Queen Elizabeth’s courtiers, who take offence at his claim to have got a monopoly on beauty now that he has got Elinor as his mistress (Pigman 176.22-31). Not much is made of the courtiers’ displeasure with F.J.’s boasting and its possible consequences. But the effect of its being mentioned is to stress the provincialism of F.J.’s affair, and to remind us that it would have had quite different personal and political repercussions if it had been prosecuted a little closer to the seat of power. Juxtaposed with the household of the Queen herself, F.J.’s hubristic comparisons of Elinor to a range of mythical deities and monarchs might have looked uncomfortably like treason. And the episode also demonstrates how easy it is for provincial doings to find their way to the cultural centre, however discreetly they may seem to be conducted. Enea’s text could well have laid the foundation for this perception of Gascoigne’s, given the atmosphere of increasing paranoia about the possibility of detection that pervades the Sienese narrative.
Women Versus Men
Like the Adventures, then, de duobus is a duplicitous or two-faced text, remarkable for its clear-eyed recognition of the torments as well as the delights of an illicit relationship. This tension is of course familiar from the literature of courtly love, but both Piccolomini and Gascoigne are astonishingly skilful in sustaining it; and they manage this feat, I think, through the complexity of their female characters. Gascoigne supplies his readers with two clever heroines: an adulterous wife called Elinor and her free-spirited but faithful sister (or sister-in-law) Frances, who between them test F.J.’s intelligence in the context of a three-way attraction. Enea, by contrast, gives his readers a single heroine, Lucrece/Lucretia, who seems to have been designed specifically to confound anti-feminist preconceptions about desiring women. Neither Gascoigne’s Frances nor Enea’s Lucretia permits readers the satisfaction of passing easy judgement on her actions. And part of what forbids such a judgement is the link both stories forge between the dilemma these women find themselves in and the greatest of all stories about adultery: the myth of Troy.
The first of the links with Troy is that both novelle describe an affair between a married woman and a foreigner, reminiscent of the relationship between the Trojan Prince Paris and the Greek Queen Helen. In this they run counter to the best-known contemporary versions of a Trojan love story, Boccaccio’s Filostrato and Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde, in which Cressida is a widow and Troilus her fellow Trojan. Enea’s and Gascoigne’s lovers have more in common with Paris and Helen, whose affair sparked off the Trojan war, than with the much less politically explosive relationship between Troilus and Cressida. Gascoigne stresses the parallel by naming his heroine Elinor, which gets changed to ‘Helen’ in one of F.J.’s poems (Pigman 175.21-177.24), while Enea gives his heroine a husband called Menelaus and a brother-in-law called Agamemnon, while repeatedly associating his hero with Trojans such as Memnus and Paris. Intriguingly, though, both writers mix up their lovers with Troilus and Cressida too. Enea’s hero Eurialus, for instance, has a go-between called Pandalus, while Master F.J. becomes a member of ‘Troylus sect’ (Pigman 189.5) when he gets jealous of Elinor. The double parallel with Helen/Paris and Cressida/Troilus identifies both couples as simultaneously enemies and friends as well as lovers – a paradox Gascoigne recognizes when he has F.J. refer to Elinor as his ‘friendly enemy’. It also marks them out as subject to a higher dispensation, the helpless playthings of politicians whose agendas run counter to their own. Eurialus’s imperial overlord, the Holy Roman Emperor, governs his fate just as Priam governs that of Troilus, while F.J.’s hidden rival for Elinor’s love, the so-called ‘secretary’, turns out to be a far more potent ghost-writer of Elinor’s affairs than he is, a Homer or an Ovid where F.J. is just a clever schoolboy with too much pride in his own compositions. And the use of Troy as an analogy for these two affairs suggests that each set of lovers is in some sense doomed from the start. They are retreading old ground filled with the ruins of lost civilizations, and the location of this ground in Siena and England suggests that the tensions and contradictions that led to the fall of Troy are somehow replicated at the level of the town and even the household in early modern Europe.
In the 1573 version of the Adventures, Gascoigne associates F.J. with another character from the Trojan war, a figure who makes explicit the link between ancient Troy and early modern England. At the point when F.J. finally succeeds in arranging a secret liaison with his lover Elinor – in a deserted corridor of the castle at night – the narrator invites his male reader to share his imaginative complicity with the act of adultery that follows:
But why hold I so long discourse in discribing the joyes which (for lacke of like experience) I cannot set out to the ful? Were it not that I knowe to whom I write, I would the more beware what I write. F.J. was a man, and neither of us are sencelesse, and therfore I shold slaunder him, (over and besides a greater obloquie to the whole genealogie of Enaeas) if I should imagine that of tender hart he would forbeare to expresse hir more tender limbes against the hard floore (Pigman 168.11-18).
This passage is a wonderful example of the moral ambiguity of the 1573 Adventures (it was omitted from the cleaned-up 1575 version). It begins by implying the inexperience of the narrator, who has never undergone the pleasures he wishes us to picture. His inexperience becomes gullibility in the second sentence, where he claims to know the identity of his reader (‘I knowe to whom I write’): a reference to the fact that the whole narrative is supposed to have been contained in a private letter from the narrator G.T. to his friend H.W. – who promptly betrayed his friend by disobeying his instructions to keep it private and sending it to a printer to be published (Pigman 141.1-142.37). Any reader of the novella who is not H.W. is a beneficiary of this act of betrayal, and therefore complicit with it; in other words, betrayal is spread from person to person like an infection by the printed text we are reading. Yet treason is already endemic in the English people, because they trace their ‘genealogie’ to the arch-traitor Aeneas, whose grandson Brutus founded the island nation, according to Tudor legend. Gascoigne could have referred, if he wished, to ‘the genealogie of Brutus’ – and indeed this was the more usual formulation. But Aeneas’ treachery was proverbial, condemned in the Trojan histories of Dares Phrygius and Dictys Cretensis as well as by the woman he abandoned, Dido Queen of Carthage, in Ovid’s Heroides. By tracing F.J. and the male reader to a common ancestor – the legendary founder of Rome – Gascoigne makes them brothers in brutishness, capable of abandoning any pretence at a ‘tender hart’ and crushing the ‘more tender limbes’ of women without a moment’s reflection. And it is tempting to see the shadow of another womanizing Aeneas/Enea behind the allusion to Virgil’s ambiguous hero.
F.J.’s treacherous, Aeneas-like nature is confirmed soon afterwards in Gascoigne’s second set of extended references to the Trojan war. F.J. composes several poems or songs to celebrate his betrayal of his friend, Elinor’s husband; and one or more of these songs exposes the young man’s adultery as well as his hubris to the world at large. But the verses also expose him to the suspicion of Elinor, who suspects they were first written about some other lover of his, although F.J. later swears that he changed the name Elinor to Helen in one of the poems because ‘he toke it all for one name, or at least he never red of any Elinor such matter as might sound worthy like commendation for beautie’ (Pigman 177.13-15). The narrator tangles himself into fantastic knots of speculation at this point as to whether Elinor was right, and the Helen of the poem was someone different. Rumour has it, we learn, that F.J. did once have an affair with a woman called Helen; but she was not worth writing poems about, and besides the style of the poem suggests that it was written long before he met her, and besides it is clearly a sensible policy to adapt the same poem for use in more than one relationship. By the end of the passage, poetry has become the versatile tool or pimp of serial adulterers, a stalking horse (or Trojan horse) whose general purpose is always sexual and specific purpose always obscure. ‘Well[,] by whom he wrote it I know not,’ the passage ends:
but once I am sure that he wrote it, for he is no borrower of inventions, and this is al that I meane to prove, as one that sende you his verses by stealth, and do him double wrong, to disclose unto any man the secrete causes why they were devised, but this for your delight I do adventure (Pigman 177.24-29).
In other words, nothing about the poem is clear except that it can readily be adapted to treachery – such as the treachery we are condoning by reading F.J.’s poems, adventurously purloined from him for our voyeuristic pleasure. The one set of values the narrator seems to celebrate is the technical accomplishment of the poet: and he gives F.J. special praise for the originality of his compositions, ‘for he is no borrower of inventions’. But even this seeming ‘fact’ about F.J.’s originality proves uncertain; the next poem we read is a translation from the Italian, and therefore a ‘borrowed invention’. Lyrics are like so many Helens, available to be poached from one situation or language and deployed for erotic purposes in another; no wonder, then, if Elinor regards their male composer with equal distrust, and subjects the poet F.J. to the same cavalier treatment as his poems promise her. Like her namesake Helen, whose first experience of love was with that serial abandoner of women Theseus (as F.J.’s lyric about her reminds us (Pigman 176.9-10)), or like Criseyde in Chaucer’s poem, Elinor inhabits an environment where women are used by men as sexual playthings and political pawns, and under the circumstances it is hard to blame her for acting at all times in her own best interests, as she does when she swaps F.J. for another lover later in the story.
F.J.’s Helen poem marks him out as a betrayer, although he continues to pose throughout the narrative as if he were the soul of amorous integrity. Enea’s male lover Eurialus is also a betrayer, abandoning Lucretia so as not to compromise his political future. Here, then, is another way in which Gascoigne’s narrative has more in common with de duobus amantibus than with Troilus and Criseyde. Chaucer’s innocent Troilus has had no experience of love before he falls for Criseyde, whose widowhood teaches her to be far more wary of the sudden twists and turns of fortune than her lover has yet learned to be. There is an element of Troilus’s innocence in both Eurialus and F.J., but it is the heartless, self-serving innocence of a young man who thinks the pose of courtly lover is a game, and has no idea how much they will damage themselves and others with their infidelities. And once one has recognized this first set of family resemblances between the two texts – Enea’s and Gascoigne’s – a number of others present themselves, binding the books together in intriguing ways.
Both pairs of lovers are defined in their narratives as being at once foreign to each other and fellow citizens of the same emotional nation. The German Eurialus tells the Italian Lucretia: ‘call me no straunger, I pray the, for I am rathere of thys contrye, than he that is borne heare, sythens hee is but by chaunce, and I by myne own choyse’ (Morrall 16.27-29). Later, of course, his foreignness reasserts itself, as he decides to throw in his lot with Emperor Sigismund rather than his lover, and abandons Lucretia as Aeneas abandoned Dido – or as that other Aeneas, Piccolomini, abandoned his women in Scotland and Strasbourg. F.J. and Elinor, too, begin by assuming that they share a common language: the discourse of continental courtship, whose French, Italian and Spanish lexicon litters their conversation, covertly signalling their willingness to subscribe to continental amorous practices, of which adultery was supposed to be one. In one sentence F.J. gives Elinor a French congé or greeting accompanied by the Spanish gesture of kissing the hand (Bezo las manos), and the cod-Spanish gesture of a kiss on the lips described in the cod-Spanish phrase zuccado dez labros, before reciting a poem in the Italian form of a Terza sequenza (Pigman 149.31-34). The Babel of different languages anticipates the inevitable breakdown in communication, when the lovers’ foreignness to each other reasserts itself as it did in Enea’s novella. F.J. loses track of Elinor’s meaning and avenges himself by raping her; and Elinor at once avenges herself in turn by transferring her affections to another man. The frail city of their relationship, built on the slenderest of foundations, collapses and leaves no trace – like Babel or the City of Troy. In all versions of the Trojan legend the city betrays itself. Without Paris’s ruinous affair with Helen, and Troy’s condoning of it, the war with Greece would never have started; without the city’s rash acceptance of the wooden horse its towers would not have fallen; and in many versions it is the Trojan Aeneas who is responsible for persuading his fellow countrymen to bring the horse inside the city walls. By their allusions to the Trojan war, both Piccolomini and Gascoigne put betrayal at the heart of their stories – and at the heart, I would suggest, of the cultures they inhabit.
Both texts reinforce this theme of self-betrayal by replacing a war between two separate peoples, the Trojans and the Greeks, with what is effectively a civil war. The states where the action of the novelle takes place are in each case enjoying a fragile peace between bouts of conflict. Eurialus comes to Siena in the train of Emperor Sigismund, who is often at war (as Eurialus tells Lucretia) but pays his visit to the city en route to a diplomatic mission in Rome; while the Southerner F.J. arrives in the North parts of England not long after the Northern Rebellion of 1569, when the Catholic lords of the North of England rose against the Protestant settlement that had been imposed on them by the South, as part of the ongoing religious struggle between Reformers and Counter-Reformers. But despite the official lull in hostilities in both texts, conflict continues: between adulterers and husbands; between the lip-service paid to laws and customs in Renaissance Europe and the passionate, wit-fuelled relationship pursued by the lovers in defiance of both; between the literary conventions of courtly love or chivalric romance invoked by the adulterers on the one hand, and their repeated violation of those conventions on the other. And the potential for violence in these conflicts is signalled by the conspicuous presence of swords in sexual encounters. Master F.J. carries a sword to his first assignation with Elinor, on the bare floorboards of the gallery. Eurialus too carries his sword to his first assignation with Lucretia. Their love-making is interrupted by her husband, which condemns Eurialus to an hour or two of cowering in a closet; and when he later recalls the episode, swords figure prominently in his recollection: ‘though I hadde escaped [her husband’s] handes because hee hadde no weapon, and I hadde a sweard by my syde, yet hadde he a man wyth hym, and weapons honge at hande uppon the wall, and there was many servauntes in the house […] and I shoulde have ben handled accordynge’ (Morrall 25.13-18). So war in these narratives is no mere metaphor (although it is that too, especially in the Adventures). There are physical dangers involved, and phallic weapons can end up damaging their bearers, as well as the women they are supposedly intended to protect. Swords, like penises, have divided loyalties, and unsheathing them can lead to a host of unpredictable consequences.
Eurialus’ inner torment, both while he is locked in the closet and afterwards when reflecting on his predicament, dramatizes a central conflict in both narratives: the internal war of attrition between the male lover’s contradictory attitudes to his mistress. Throughout the text Eurialus careers between emotional extremes: delighted celebration of the wonderful sex he is enjoying and outbreaks of lacerating self-disgust in which he berates himself for falling prey to the wiles of women. Gascoigne’s protagonist too gets trapped in mental turmoil – the self-inflicted excruciation of jealousy – which leads him half way through the story to mistrust the elusive word-games with Elinor he has so far relished, and to re-read the letters she has sent him as products of duplicity rather than affection. This agonized reinvention of himself and her leads to his rape of Elinor, a rape that is linked with their earlier liaison in the corridor by being described in terms of a sword attack: ‘he drewe uppon his new professed enimie, and… thrust hir through both hands, and etc.’ (Pigman 198.19-21). Violence in the civil war of these two narratives springs from an interior split or fragmentation in men which inflicts appalling damage on women’s bodies.
Both texts stress the inwardness of the affairs they describe – their origin and growth in the enclosed space of the lovers’ minds and bodies – by careful concentration on the physical details of the buildings where they take place. Gascoigne’s Elinor knows of secret passages between her bedchamber and his, and we quickly become familiar with the ambience of the bedchambers themselves, where F.J. languishes in a jealous fever and Elinor holds court. In the same way, we build up a vivid picture of the streets and buildings that surround Lucretia’s house in de duobus, and learn much about the marital bedroom where she and Eurialus make love. The effect of all this architectural and mental inwardness is a mounting sense of claustrophobia, which culminates in the failure of either affair to escape from the confines of the house where it got started. In each case, it is the woman who stays trapped in the building at the end of the story, unlike her Greek and Trojan counterparts, as if to confirm her continued subjection to the laws and customs she has dared to challenge. Both stories, then, imply that the conditions which gave rise to their own particular Trojan War remain in place after the affair has fizzled out, and that the conflict will carry on into successive generations. Notwithstanding the passions that have been aroused in Siena and Northern England, the European household and the rules that are presumed to govern it remain unchanged, and the emergence of further labyrinthine secret histories – post-Trojan histories – like the ones we have witnessed seems inevitable.
Names and Naming
Lucretia’s name in de duobus amantibus promises exactly this. It is an inspired choice of name and a deeply unsettling one. It means that hovering over Enea’s heroine is the shadow of rape – the rape that is carried out in Gascoigne’s story – and a corresponding problematization of the early modern anti-feminist tradition of laying the blame for any sexual act, consensual or otherwise, squarely on the woman, who must therefore pay the price for it. Lucretia shares her name with a founder of Rome as distinguished as Enea’s namesake: the woman whose rape set off a revolution, leading to the collapse of the Roman monarchy and the foundation of the republic. She is physically beautiful, described in loving detail by a seemingly besotted narrator; and like Elinor and her sister Frances she is amusing and intelligent as well (‘Who would then leave to love,’ Eurialus cries, ‘when he seeth suche wit and learning in his maystres?’, Morrall 15.35-6). But despite this perilous fusion of beauty and intelligence with powerful desire, Enea never once lets her integrity be questioned. Whenever Eurialus gets frightened or frustrated by his affair, he lapses into the commonplaces of fifteenth-century misogyny; but he always finds his anti-feminism demolished by the unarguable fact that Lucretia lends no fuel to it.
Her fusion of bodily and mental perfection remains as marked at the end of the tale as it was in this lyrical passage near the beginning:
Her mouth small and comely, her lyppes of corall colour, handsom to byte on, her small tethe, wel set in order, semed Cristal through which the quivering tonge dyd send furth (not wordes) but moost pleasant armony. What shall I shewe the beautye of her chynne, or the whytenesse of her necke? Nothynge was in that bodye not too bee praysed[. A]s the outwarde aparaunces shewed token of that that was inwarde, no man beheld her that dyd not envy her husbande[. S]he was in speche as the fame is, the mother of Graccus was, or the doughter of Hortentius. Nothynge was more sweter, nor soberer than her talcke. She pretended not (as dothe many) honestye by hevy countenance: but with mery vysage, shewed her sobernes, not fearefull, nor over heardye: but under drede of shame, she caryed in a womans hart (Morrall 3.35-4.10).
It is only after agonized self-interrogation and a lengthy correspondence that this paragon of loyalty transfers her allegiance from her husband to a German stranger; and once the transference has been completed, her ‘honestye’ and ‘sobernes’ remain unshakeable. This deeply honest form of dishonesty – a carefully considered change of mind as complete as the change of the physical object of her desire – is a state few early modern English poets could allow their women to inhabit. Gascoigne had to split his heroine in two in order to present women from as complex a perspective as Piccolomini did, while Lyly and Greene never tried anything so controversial. I wonder whether, in creating such a heroine and calling her Lucretia, Enea aimed to stage a revolution in the attitudes of his contemporaries to desire itself? If so, the attempt was a failure of heroic proportions. But I suspect he knew his attempt would fail, and was determined only that it should fail heroically.
The most complex use of Lucretia’s name occurs in the final letter of the narrative, in which Eurialus explains why he has to leave her, and why he cannot take her with him. It’s her name, he insists, that has prompted both these acts of seeming betrayal, which he presents as being in her own interest. ‘Thou knowest thou art maryed into a noble familye,’ he says, ‘and haste the name of a ryght beautyful and chaste Lady’ (Morrall 38.2-3); and the English phrase used by the translator neatly collapses the distinction between two meanings of the word ‘name’: designation and reputation. The latter meaning is taken up when he suggests another name that might become linked with hers if she should elope with him: ‘Lo,’ the world would say, ‘Lucres that was called more chast then the wyfe of Brutus, and better than Penelope, foloweth an adulterer […[ it is not Lucres, but […] Medea that folowed Jason’ (Morrall 38.8-12). He concludes by insisting that his abandonment of her will preserve her as the living image of the woman her name commemorates. ‘Another lover peraventure wolde otherwyse counsel the,’ he writes, ‘and desyre the to ronne thy way, that he myghte abuse the as long as he myght, nothynge regardynge what shulde befall of it, whyle he myght satisfye hys appetite[;] but he were no true lover that wolde regarde rather his own lust, than thy fame’ (Morrall 38.26-31). The image he presents of this alternative lover, dragging her like a camp-follower round the battlefields of Europe as he follows in the train of the Emperor, reminds us of what he claims not to be: Diomedes seducing Cressida, Tarquin raping Collatinus’ wife. By invoking these examples, however, he glosses over his own resemblance to the Jason who abandoned Medea. And he also inadvertently betrays his excessive respect for fame and fortune, which he demonstrates by pursuing his political ambitions at the expense of his devotion to Lucretia. Earlier, he persuaded a relative of her husband’s – Pandalus – to act as messenger between them by offering him an earldom. Here Eurialus shows that he shares Pandalus’s preference for position over personal loyalty. The Emperor made Eurialus ‘ryche and of great power,’ he points out, ‘and I cannot departe from hym without the losse of my state, so that if I shulde leave hym, I coulde not convenientlye entertayne the’ (Morrall 38.17-19). The mixture here of genuine concern for Lucretia and deep self-interest, of the exalted vocabulary of courtly love and the double-speak of hypocrisy, renders it as complex a piece of prose as anything written in the following century. Eurialus’s dishonest play on his lover’s name also anticipates Master F.J.’s equally dishonest games with the names ‘Elinor’ and ‘Ellen’.
One of the things this letter and its aftermath show us is how far Enea’s text works to subvert its reader’s expectations. If Lucretia is never condemned by Piccolomini, neither is Eurialus. He leaves her like a traitor, but is never the same again, psychologically speaking; he is grief-stricken ever after. Having refused to carry her off on this occasion, he tries and fails to find an opportunity to run off with her later. And their final meeting causes such physical torment to both parties that all doubts of Eurialus’s continuing desire for Lucretia are banished: ‘one love and one mynde was in two devyded, and the harte suffred particion. Parte of the mynde wente and part remayned and all the sences were disperpled and playned too departe from theyr owne selfe’ (Morrall 39.33-6). Body and soul, reason and emotion are damaged by the lovers’ parting, and it’s easy to see this as a comment on Piccolomini’s culture, which can see no way to reconcile the needs of the flesh with those of the mind and spirit, the pursuit of a career with the satisfaction of desire. Enea and his protagonists inhabit a radically divided community, and its unification could only ever have been effected by drastic collective action – an ethical revolution – to accommodate the needs of the body alongside the demands of the sacred and secular authorities.
The moral complexity of Enea’s narrative may well have been one of the things English readers prized about it. The 1553 English translator tones down or omits the rare moments of moral commentary that occur in the Latin. Instead he tacks on a few verses at the end which stress not the immorality of the affair but the agonies it inflicted:
Love is no plesur, but a pain perdurable
And the end is deth which is most lamentable
Therfore ere thou be chayned with suche care
By others peryls, take hede and beware (Morrall 41.5-8).
One might be reminded of the apparently ‘moral’ conclusion of Gascoigne’s revised Adventures of 1575, in which a woman dies as a result of the lovers’ affair – though the woman who dies is Elinor’s blameless sister-in-law Frances, not the unfaithful Elinor, while the latter goes on to live ‘long in the continuance of hir acustomed change’ (Pigman 215.29-216.16 note). The death of Frances is as bereft of moral purpose as her rejection by F.J. was in the first version, and serves, like Lucretia’s death in de duobus amantibus, to satirize the early modern tendency to equate literary value with the delivery of simplistic moral lessons, without much concern for their relevance to the difficult world inhabited by the reader.
Throughout both versions of Gascoigne’s Adventures, in fact, Frances behaves like an Elizabethan successor to Enea’s Lucretia, making plain her desire for F.J. at every opportunity while never eliciting a word of condemnation from the narrator for her witty acknowledgement of her own attraction to him. Indeed, Frances’ nickname for F.J. – she dubs him her ‘Trust’ – echoes one of Lucretia’s letters, in which she identifies Eurialus (with equal irony) as ‘my onelye truste’ (Morrall 37.24). Perhaps Gascoigne’s killing off of Frances in his revised version was intended to strengthen her resemblance to Enea’s heroine. One might even consider Frances to have been as selfishly and casually abandoned as Lucretia was. After all, F.J. seems at one point to confirm his status as Frances’s lover and champion: when Frances dubs him her ‘Trust’ he names her his ‘Hope’ as if exchanging verbal tokens or emblems with her, thus sealing his status as her chivalric champion, perhaps even her betrothed. But although F.J. and Frances continue to address each other by these affectionate nicknames, the relationship they imply never comes to fruition – F.J. and Frances never become a couple – and ironically, all because of F.J.’s misplaced insistence that he is loyal to Elinor, despite the fact that he raped her. As in de duobus amantibus, in other words, notions of loyalty and betrayal, friendship and enmity, sexual promiscuity, sexual violence and sexual fidelity, are challenged and problematized at every stage of the Adventures, just as they are in the most interesting stories to have emerged from the myth of Troy.
As I’ve said before, it’s in the tone and moral complexity of his novella rather than its details that Gascoigne most clearly betrays his debt to the subtle mind of Piccolomini. Both men were citizens of a new Troy of intelligent, articulate, playful and destructive desire: a lovely, doomed city that never was and never could be, but whose contours they dared to superimpose on the map of their own particular time and nation. And it would seem to me well worthwhile to go on tracing the contours of that shared imaginative cityscape in more detail than I can manage here.
 For the use of the phrase ‘novelistic discourse’ to describe early modern prose fiction see Constance Relihan, Fashioning Authority: The Development of Elizabethan Novelistic Discourse (Kent, Ohio: Kent State University Press, 1994), introduction. Throughout the paper I use the term ‘novella’ to describe prose fiction by Piccolomini and Gascoigne, but I do so loosely, meaning both to distinguish the kinds of narrative they wrote from the modern novel and to acknowledge its place in the prehistory of that genre.
 My thanks to Gillian Austen for inviting me to give a version of this essay as a paper at the Gascoigne Seminar at Lincoln College, Oxford, in September 2009.
 For the homage to Chaucer see George Gascoigne, A Hundreth Sundrie Flowres, ed. G.W. Pigman III (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000), p. 143, lines 25-31. All references are to this edition, henceforth cited as Pigman. Pigman gives parallels between the Adventures and Troilus and Criseyde on p. 555.
 For the Bartello reference see Pigman, p. 140, lines 1-2, note.
 For the publication history of Beware the Cat see Beware the Cat: The First English Novel, ed. William Ringler and Michael Flachmann (San Marino, Cal.: Huntington Library, 1988), introduction.
 For the publication history of The Image of Idleness see ‘The First English Epistolary Novel: The Image of Idleness. Text, Introduction and Notes’, ed. Michael Flachmann, SP, 87 (1990), pp. 1-74, introduction.
 See R.W. Maslen, ‘The Healing Dialogues of Dr Bullein’, YES 38.1 and 38.2 (2008), pp. 119-35, and R.W. Maslen, ‘Edmund Tilney’, Dictionary of Literary Biography Vol. 136, Sixteenth-century Nondramatic Writers (Detroit, Washington, D.C. and London: Bruccoli Clark Layman, 1994), 326-9. For Grantham’s translation see STC 3180-3182.
 For translations of the 1560s see the entries on prose fiction in The Oxford History of Literary Translation in English, Volume 2: 1550-1660, ed. Gordon Braden, R.M. Cummings and Stuart Gillespie (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010).
 See E.J. Morrall, ‘Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini (Pius II, Historia de duobus amantibus: The early editions and the English translation printed by John Day’, The Library, 16.3 (1996), 216-29, and Piccolomini (Pius II, The Goodli History of the Lady Lucres of Scene and of her Lover Eurialus, EETS 308 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), introduction. All references are to this edition, henceforth cited as Morrall.
 John Coyle of the University of Glasgow, in conversation.
 For Piccolomini’s jokey explanation of the meaning of his surname see Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius: Selected Letters of Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini (Pope Pius II), introd. and trans. Thomas Izbicki, Gerald Christianson and Philip Krey (Washington, D.C.: The Catholic University of America Press, 2006), pp. 9-10. He repeats the joke about his surname in his letters to his father and to Mariano Sozzini discussed below.
 Braunche’s 1596 translation is The most excellent historie, of Euryalus and Lucresia, STC 19974.
 See Cecilia M. Ady, Pius II: The Humanist Pope (London: Methuen, 1913), and Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, introduction. For Piccolomini’s own retrospective account of his apostasy see Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, letter 69.
 For the proclamation see Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, entry 78 (pp. 392-406); the phrase occurs on p. 396.
 See Albert Baca, ‘The “Art of Rhetoric” of Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini’, Western Journal of Communication 34.1 (Winter 1970), pp. 9-16; and Piccolomini, De liberorum educatione (The Education of Boys) in Humanist Educational Treatises, ed. And trans. Craig W. Kallendorf, The I Tatti Renaissance Library (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2002), introduction and pp.126-259.
Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, Letter 38, pp. 180-1.
Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, Letter 30, pp. 159-62.
 The editors of Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius do not note the phrase ‘you begot no son of stone’ as a quotation from Boccaccio, but E.J. Morrall cites the source in his edition of Piccolomini’s novella: see Morrall, p. 30, lines 7-8, note.
 The letter is cited in Benedikt Konrad Vollmann, ‘ENKYKLIOS PAIDEIA in the work of Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini’, in Pius II: ‘El Piu Expeditivo Pontifice’, ed. Zweder von Martels and Arjo Vanderjagt (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2003), pp. 10-11.
Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, p. 399, my emphasis.
 See The Eclogues of Alexander Barclay from the Original Edition of John Cawood, ed. Beatrice White, EETS 175 (London: Oxford University Press, 1928), introduction.
 Reprinted in Humanist Comedies, ed. and trans. Gary R. Grund, The I Tatti Renaissance Library (Cambridge, Mass. and London: Harvard University Press, 2005), pp. 284-347. All references are to this edition.
 The first version of Sidney’s Arcadia, the Old Arcadia, was divided into five acts like a comedy, and the same five-act structure has been traced in Lyly’s Euphues books; a number of works of early prose fiction, in other words, acknowledge their own affinity with classical theatre.
 Emily O’Brien, ‘Aeneas Silvius Piccolomini’s Chrysis: Prurient Pastime – or Something More?’, MLN 124.1 (January 2009), pp. 111-36.
 For the most up-to-date account of Gascoigne’s life see Gillian Austen, George Gascoigne (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2008), ‘The Literary Career of George Gascoigne: An Introduction’, pp. 1-21. For the term ‘adventures’ in Gascoigne’s novella see R.W. Maslen, Elizabethan Fictions (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997), ch. 3, ‘George Gascoigne and the Fiction of Failure’.
 The military aspect of Piccolomini’s career can be summarized by the fact that Pope Pius II died on an abortive crusade to liberate Jerusalem from the Turks.
 For Piccolomini as letter-writer see Reject Aeneas, Accept Pius, introduction. For Gascoigne’s debt to The Image of Idleness see R.W. Maslen, ‘The Image of Idleness in the Reign of Elizabeth I’, ELN 41.3 (March 2004), pp. 11-23.
 See E.J. Morrall’s article, ‘The Early Editions’, and the introduction to his edition of Eurialus and Lucrece.
 The autobiographical elements of the Adventures are discussed in Pigman, p. 550. For his possible allusions to a scandal involving the Earl of Leicester see Cyndia Susan Clegg, Press Censorship in Elizabethan England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), ch. 5, pp. 103-22.
 References to the prefatory epistles are taken from their first translation into English, The History of the Amours of Count Schlick, Chancellor to the Emperor Sigismund, and a Young Lady of Quality of Sienna (London, 1708). All references are to this edition, which is unpaginated in the relevant section.
 For Aeneas as traitor see James Simpson, Reform and Cultural Revolution, The Oxford English Literary History, Volume 2: 1350-1547 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), ch. 3, especially pp. 79-80 and 87-88.
Time catches up with Falstaff in the end. 2 Henry IV resonates with the ticking of clocks – ‘we are time’s subjects’, says one of the elderly rebels as the insurrection gets under way (1.3.110) – and clocks are Falstaff’s enemy, bringing him always closer to humiliation and death. It is full, too, of fragile and broken friendships, of which Falstaff has his share. Justice Shallow masquerades as his lifelong bosom buddy despite the fact that they both know Shallow’s account of their wild youth together to be fraudulent, a crude and hasty fabrication designed to screen their mercenary desire to profit by one another. ‘I do remember him at Clement’s Inn’, says Falstaff, ‘like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring. When a was naked, he was for all the world like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife’ (3.2.303-7); and he later adds that he could make a dozen Shallows from the superabundant material of his own body (5.1.62-4). Shallow clearly hopes that Falstaff will ‘make’ him in another sense by making his fortune, and this is the shallow foundation of their friendship. The casting off of Falstaff is the moment when his accumulated debts catch up with him, as the newly-crowned Hal reminds him of what he said in Part One – that ‘thou owest God a death’ (1 Henry IV, 5.1.126) – and forestalls any ‘fool-born jest’ he might invent to inveigle his way out of due payment (2 Henry IV, 5.5.55). Shallow at once calls in his loans (‘let me have five hundred of my thousand’ (5.5.84-5)) and Falstaff is clapped into prison to atone for his misdeeds, financial and moral. The fat knight’s promised reappearance in Henry V, which is flagged in the epilogue, never materializes except in the account given by the hostess of his death (Henry V, 2.3.9-25) – as if he has managed one last time to escape shot-free from his creditors, in this case the theatre audience which is responsible for his success, and which clamoured for a sight of his curtain call. Falstaff’s reign ends with Hal’s betrayal, and the ancient moral and social hierarchies of England are both reinstated at once, their restoration ushered in with tired old moral commonplaces such as ‘How ill white hairs become a fool and jester’ (5.5.48).
But this is not the whole story; because Hal’s crowning coincides with the figurative crowning of Falstaff, and it is on the body of Falstaff, as it were, that Hal erects his kingdom. Falstaff is the presiding spirit of the unhistorical ‘merry’ or comic England over which Hal plans to reign; the England where lions recognize the true prince ‘by instinct’ and where Shallow’s glowing account of his youth is true. ‘Merry England’ is created in 2 Henry IV by the sheer force of Falstaff’s laughter. ‘The brain of this foolish-compounded clay, man,’ he tells us, ‘is not able to invent anything that intends to laughter more than I invent, or is invented on me; I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men’ (1.2.7-10). And he triumphantly bears out this claim in the rest of the action. His arraignment by the Lord Chief Justice is transformed at his hands into a jest; Shallow’s falsifying of the past furnishes him with comic material to ‘keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six fashions’ (5.1.77-81); and even the grim Prince John, despite the fact that ‘a man cannot make him laugh’ (4.3.87-8), prompts one of his most brilliant flights of fantasy, the disquisition on sack. The fat knight’s disease-ridden body, then, grown cold with age and huge with self-indulgence, generates wholesome hilarity, the healthiest of moods, which spreads from him like a benign virus until near the end of the play it erupts in the cheeriest party in theatrical history. The party takes place in an orchard on the eve of Hal’s coronation, and in it a man called Silence bursts into song, a male servant is commended for being a good ‘husband’ to his master (5.3.10-11) – meaning both a good steward and a good marriage partner; Falstaff’s red-nosed retainer Bardolph is told he speaks like a king (5.3.68), a young page finds himself welcomed with the same enthusiasm as his old employer (‘Welcome, my little tiny thief and welcome indeed, too!’ (5.3.56-7)), and the company in general is urged to ‘Lack nothing’ (5.3.68), to discard the years of penury they have suffered and to feast instead on the fruits with which Shallow’s orchard, and England in general, is stocked. The contrast with the orchard scene where the starving Jack Cade was killed in the midst of plenty could not be more pronounced. And the party ends with a promise that this genial atmosphere will soon extend itself throughout the nation, as Falstaff hears the news of Henry’s death and declares that ‘the laws of England are at my commandment’ (5.3.136-7), while his comrade Pistol salutes a happy future: ‘welcome these pleasant days’ (5.3.141).
Of course the casting-off of Falstaff puts a dampener on these celebrations. The authority of a monarch could not tolerate a rival of Falstaff’s size and energy, and although we are assured that Hal’s former friends ‘Shall all be very well provided for’ (5.5.100), the fact that it is the odious Prince John who tells us so – and that such sensible provisions seem so much less glorious than the comic vision we glimpsed in Shallow’s orchard – detracts from the pleasure we might otherwise derive from these reassurances. If Prince John delights in Hal’s transformation, we as an audience have good reason to distrust it. And sure enough, there are plenty of Prince John moments in the career of Shakespeare’s Henry V. Henry’s humour is as calculated as Hal’s, and recalls at times the cruelty of Prince John’s coldly jocular betrayal of the rebels. We have already mentioned his witty exposure of the treachery of his friends Cambridge and Scroop, whom he mocks for having ‘lightly conspired’ against his throne (Henry V, 2.2.89); but far more disturbing is the gigantic jest that is the invasion of France. It is one of a series of dazzling diversions designed to draw attention away from the problematic aspects of Henry’s inheritance. If his claim to the throne of England is poor, he must stress his claim to the throne of France, obedient to his father’s advice to busy the ‘giddy minds’ of his subjects with foreign quarrels (2 Henry IV, 4.5.213-4). If he is the aggressor in a war let him transfer the blame to his enemies, telling the besieged citizens of Harfleur that ‘you yourselves are cause, / If your pure maidens fall into the hand / Of hot and forcing violation’ (Henry V, 3.3.19-21) (he sounds here as if he is recalling a lesson from the laughing conquest of Asia by Marlowe’s Tamburlaine). If military action is in his interest he must make sure it is represented as God’s war, divine punishment on any English criminals who die in battle. It is the very lightness of touch, the comic sleight of hand involved in all these post-Falstavian evasions that makes them chilling. Hal’s lies are not gross as a mountain, as Falstaff’s were, but breezy and scarcely visible. And their breeziness kills people, like the jovial folksiness of a modern warmonger.
The link between laughter and slaughter in Henry’s reign is at its strongest in Act One, when the Archbishop of Canterbury – eager to divert Henry’s attention from his plans to tax the church by sending him to France – describes England’s former French campaigns as a grotesque spectator sport, in which the Black Prince’s father ‘Stood smiling to behold his lion’s whelp / Forage in blood of French nobility’ (1.2.109-10), while half the English army stood ‘laughing’ next to him, ‘All out of work and cold for action’ (1.2.113-4). Henry at once catches the Archbishop’s tone, and seizes the pretext of the Dauphin’s mocking gift of tennis balls to represent his own French campaign as a still bloodier joke than the wars waged by his ancestors:
…tell the pleasant Prince this mock of his
Hath turned his balls to gun-stones, and his soul
Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance
That shall fly with them; for many a thousand widows
Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands,
Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down…
His jest shall savour but of shallow wit
When thousands weep more than did laugh at it. (1.2.282-97)
Henry’s campaign is designed to show that the English King is wittier than the French Prince, that all debts to him will be repaid with interest, and that all insults aimed at him will produce an instant and devastating retaliation. Henry, in fact, must be the undisputed master of ceremonies in the play that bears his name.
But Falstaff leaves Hal with another legacy besides the ability to forge brilliant ripostes and improbable evasions. The fat knight acted as a bridge between the Prince and the common people, whose language Hal learned in Falstaff’s company. As Hal puts it in Part One, ‘I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life’, and ‘when I am King of England I shall command all the good lads in Eastcheap’ (2.4.13-19); and the heir apparent even goes so far as to disguise himself as a tapster in Part Two. This familiarity with the people and their language provides Henry with his most brilliant evasive stratagem: that of avoiding the issue of his shaky claim to the throne by rhetorically ennobling the entire population of his nation. In Henry’s language, though not in his policies, the hopes of Falstaff and his gang to be elevated to the aristocracy are abundantly borne out. As he storms the breach at Harfleur Henry urges all his men, not just the aristocracy, to remember their ancestry with pride: ‘On, on, you noblest English’, he cries, and describes their fathers as ‘so many Alexanders’ (3.1.17-19). Later the Welsh captain Fluellen attests to the success of this stratagem when he compares Henry to Alexander partly on the strength of the resemblance between Monmouth in Wales and Alexander’s Macedonia (4.7.11-52). Henry has clearly succeeded in giving his subjects – even his non-English subjects – a sense of ownership, of full participation in his triumphs. ‘There is none of you so mean and base,’ he tells them, ‘That hath not noble lustre in your eyes’ (3.1.29-30), and in saying so he draws their attention away from the less than royal lustre of his own coat of arms. The Prince John aspect of Henry’s humour prompts him to trick one of his common soldiers, Michael Williams, into being falsely accused of high treason (4.8.9ff.) – though he pardons his victim at the last minute and compensates him for his terror. The Sir John aspect of his personality, by contrast, permits him to demystify the role of King (‘his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man’ (4.1.104-5)), and to address his followers as ‘brothers, friends, and countrymen’ (4.0.34). When he imparts to both his ‘mean and gentle’ soldiers ‘A little touch of Harry in the night’ (4.0.45-7), he transforms them into aspects or clones of himself, thus strengthening his power to the extent that it can never be undermined. The skill with which he achieves this he owes to the ‘tutor and… feeder of his riots’, Falstaff (2 Henry IV, 5.5.62).
Henry is no egalitarian. All his rhetoric is designed to strengthen his position as undisputed monarch of England and France, not to establish a new English commonwealth based on fairer principles than the old. But his reign involves due recognition of the central role played by the common people in the changing fortunes of England; and from this time forth their status as major players in history is confirmed. Henry dies young, and his predictions of the future, like Falstaff’s, prove over-optimistic from his own point of view. He never fathers a son who is capable of leading a crusade to Constantinople or of forging a lasting peace between the French and English peoples – or even between rival factions in the English aristocracy. But the common people he figuratively ennobled, and whose power he understood, live on, and comprise the audience of Shakespeare’s Henry V, a play that reminds them repeatedly of their capacity to make a difference in affairs of state. It is the common people, the play seems to say, who make or break monarchs, just as the collective power of the people’s imagination can recreate a Henry on the Elizabethan stage. Without the precedent of Falstaff’s outrageous imaginings this Shakespearean revelation could never have acquired the force it has.
And Falstaff’s imaginative construction of ‘merry England’ has another outlet besides the career of Henry V. The merry-making in Shallow’s orchard is recalled in the title of The Merry Wives of Windsor, the only Shakespearean comedy set in England; and the play provides a kind of escape from the nightmare of history. There is just one mention in it of the grand narrative of the Second Tetralogy, when we are told that the impoverished aristocrat Fenton was once a companion of ‘the wild Prince and Poins’ (3.2.65-6); but this merely disqualifies him, in the minds of the middle-class married couples who dominate the play, as a suitable match for their daughter (3.4.4-10). In the same way, the middle classes are carefully excluded from the Tetralogy, paying their way out of military service and thus avoiding the slaughters, betrayals and machinations that are the province of their nominal rulers. The events of chronicle histories are irrelevant to these people’s lives; and this play narrates the histories of ordinary men and women, history as it is purveyed in the jest-books, whose pranks and japes are faithfully reproduced in the farcical situations with which it is filled.
The titular merry wives occupy an egalitarian rural space where nearly everyone can participate with equal enthusiasm in plots to make, break, prevent or preserve each other’s marriages. It is a space where women rule the roost, hatching stratagems designed to show, as Mistress Page insists, that ‘Wives may be merry and yet honest too’ (4.2.100), in contrast to the dishonest merriment of aristocrats and hereditary knights like Sir John. And it is a space where jests do no harm, as all the characters repeatedly assure us. The host’s deception of the doctor, Caius, and Hugh Evans the parson, is devised not to hurt them but to prevent them from doing each other damage in a duel; the wives’ deception of Falstaff aims to prevent him hurting their husbands by committing adultery; Fenton’s tricking of Anne Page’s parents proves that he has laid aside his aristocratic wildness and committed himself to the stability of middle-class matrimony. As Parson Evans puts it, the play is driven by ‘admirable pleasures and ferry honest knaveries’ (4.4.79-80), and Master Page piously confirms his view: ‘God prosper our sport. No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns’ (5.2.12-13). The authoritarian anti-theatrical lobby, then, is as irrelevant here as the iron hand of the law, or civil war, or bloody revenge; and so rigorously are these oppressive considerations excluded from the action that it would be fair to describe this as Shakespeare’s only pure comedy, the only play in his oeuvre that is unshadowed by the threat of death or the intimidating presence of rulers.29
The egalitarianism of the play asserts itself in the fact that nearly everyone in it has at least one prank played on them. Falstaff is tricked more often than anyone else, and subjected to more painful physical abuse: half-drowned in a deep ditch, beaten in women’s clothes, pinched black and blue by children disguised as fairies. But he is never isolated in his comic sufferings, as he so often seemed to be in Henry IV; his humiliation is shared by the bulk of the Windsor community. Master Ford, Mr and Mrs Page, Slender, Shallow, Doctor Caius, the Host of the Garter and Parson Evans, are all conned as comprehensively as he is, and he himself notes the multiplicity of quarries there are for the play’s pranksters: ‘When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased’ (5.5.232). So if Falstaff is toppled from his position of supreme comic pre-eminence in this play, as many commentators have remarked, his former absolutist monarchy is supplanted by a commonwealth of merriment, the model for a new anti-authoritarian England. In place of the crown of power and influence he hoped for in the Henriad, the fat knight is given a crown composed of the antlers of a Windsor stag, ‘the fattest, I think, i’the forest’ (5.5.12-13). And while the stag is the most lordly of wild beasts, it is also the principal ingredient of the ‘hot venison pasty’ Master Page serves to his guests in the first scene of the play, in token of the amity between them (1.1.181). In the play’s last scene, then, Falstaff has become a wholly wholesome dish, his predatory sexual desires transmuted into a harmless fairy-tale, his bulk made the centre of an inclusive social circle. He has been defused, in other words, but not deflated, and the genial metamorphosis is completed at the end of the scene when Mistress Page invites him to ‘laugh this sport o’er by a country fire’ and enjoy, with his friends, ‘many, many merry days’ (5.5.234-7). In The Merry Wives of Windsor merriness is vindicated, laughter liberated from slaughter, and the shadow of civil war dispersed from a land where everyone enjoys warmth and enough to eat. It is not the land where the Elizabethans lived, but thanks to Falstaff and his friends they could go home from the performance nurturing the hope that one day it might be.
 He again makes his followers his brothers – thus ennobling them – in the famous St Crispin’s Day speech (Henry V, 4.3.56-67).
 Leah S. Marcus argues that the version of the play printed in the First Quarto of 1602 is more egalitarian in its drift than the version in the Folio: ‘Levelling Shakespeare: Local Customs and Local Texts’, Shakespeare Quarterly 42 (1991), pp. 168-78. For the relationship between the two texts see The Norton Shakespeare, pp. 1231-3.
 Apart, of course, from the ruler who may have been watching the play’s first performance. For the theory that the play was written at the command of Elizabeth I for performance in her presence at the Garter Feast of 1597, see Peter Erickson, ‘The Order of the Garter, the Cult of Elizabeth, and Class-Gender Tension in The Merry Wives of Windsor’, Shakespeare Reproduced: The Text in History and Ideology, ed. Jean E. Howard and Marion F. O’Connor (New York, 1987), pp. 116-45. It should be noted, though, that the one direct reference to Elizabeth in the play – as a future owner of Windsor Castle who is blessed by Mistress Quickly in her capacity as Fairy Queen – stresses her absence from the play’s world; the castle is blessed while it is seemingly empty (5.5.55-74).
Besides being rooted in his nation’s present, Jack Cade’s campaign is also embroiled in its past: his insurrection could never have got under way if he had not claimed descent from the ‘legitimate’ successor to the deposed King Richard II. The emaciated Cade, then, owes his rise and fall to the same conditions that permit the rise and fall of that ‘gross fat man’ Jack Falstaff: the disorder that followed Richard’s deposition from the throne of England. But Falstaff’s body is far more intimately involved with the physical condition of his country than Cade’s is. From the beginning of Richard II, when England succumbs to the social sickness that will plague it throughout the civil wars of the fifteenth century, the body forms the focus of Shakespeare’s Second Tetralogy – the epic series of plays comprising Richard II, Henry IV Parts 1 and 2, and Henry V. And the mountain of flesh Falstaff, who dominates the two central plays of the series, is living, breathing proof both of England’s diseased condition and of its irrepressible vitality, its lively hope, like that of a pregnant mother, of better times to come.
Falstaff is no commoner: he is a hereditary knight who has fallen on hard times but lives in expectation of rejoining the ranks of the nobility once Hal comes into his inheritance. But Falstaff’s body has been swollen by the attentions of commoners, especially brewers and barmen; it holds sway in the streets and taverns of the city where commoners throng; and it consumes the cheap luxury commodities that enrich the commoners’ leisure hours. He links the material preoccupations of the commoners to the airy obsessions of the ruling classes as no-one else does in Shakespeare; and he does so through the miracle of his corporal vastness, which is as much a product of his exuberant language as it is of his physical presence on the stage of English history.
In Richard II, a king’s self-indulgent playfulness, his arrogant assumption that his royal powers are absolute and that he may therefore ignore the contracts that bind him to his subjects, unleash a sequence of consequences that are described in metaphors of physical debility. Richard’s arbitrariness first manifests itself when he banishes two of his nobles in the opening act, with devastating effects on their bodies. The pair, who are initially in perfect health (Bolingbroke describes himself as ‘lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath’ (1.3.66)), abruptly find their limbs out of control, bereft of their former agility. As the other exile, Mowbray, tells the King, by sending him to a foreign land ‘Within my mouth you have engaol’d my tongue, / Doubly portcullis’d with my teeth and lips’ (1.3.166-7), while Bolingbroke compares the severing of their flesh from English soil to the parting of soul from body (1.3.194-7). Meanwhile Bolingbroke’s father, the dying John of Gaunt whose spirit is literally about to leave his body, accuses the King of damaging his own constitution as well as those of his nobles and his kingdom. The fashionable monarch ‘limps after’ the trendy customs of Italy (2.1.23), ‘tires’, ‘chokes’ and ‘consumes’ himself with a ‘rash, fierce blaze of riot’ (2.1.33-9), and binds up that ‘teeming womb of royal kings’ England in crushing legal restraints to pay for his own excesses (2.1.51ff.). John of Gaunt’s body, as emaciated as his name suggests, is for him the emblem of England’s decay, bled dry by the King’s frivolous rapacity (2.1.73-83). But it also illustrates the accelerated decrepitude that Richard is bringing on himself as he commits his ‘anointed body’ to the care of ‘those physicians that first wounded thee,’ his reckless favourites (2.1.98-9). And once old Gaunt is dead, Richard’s diseases multiply apace. His Queen quickly detects ‘Some unborn sorrow ripe in Fortune’s womb’ about to fall on his head instead of the son he has failed to father (2.2.10); and when Bolingbroke reappears on the scene, proclaiming his intention to reclaim the ancestral property Richard stole from him during his exile, the Queen recognizes the ambitious young man as her ‘sorrow’s dismal heir’ (2.2.63) – metaphorically designating him both as a substitute prince of the royal blood and as an embodiment of his kingdom’s future misery. In the same scene, the Duke of York compares Bolingbroke to an illness invading the nation’s bloodstream in response to the King’s lifestyle: ‘Now comes the sick hour that [Richard’s] surfeit made’ (2.2.84). From this time forth, Richard with his ‘ruin’d ears’ (3.3.34) and eyes blinded with tears is marked as subject to a more powerful monarch, Death, who occupies the ‘court’ of the King’s living corpse, ‘grinning at his pomp’ with fleshless jaws (3.2.155-70). Richard begets his own death, in other words, like a parodic heir apparent, a grotesque alternative dynasty to replace the dynasty that he never succeeds in founding. At the end of his life he is still fathering imaginary, abortive heirs: ‘A generation of still-breeding thoughts’ that plague him in prison after his abdication (5.5.8), content with nothing till they are finally made nothing by Richard’s death.
But for Bolingbroke, too, as Richard’s heir, the prognosis is none too good. If he is Richard’s and England’s sickness, the time will inevitably come when the disease will grow to a crisis, when ‘foul sin gathering head / Shall break into corruption’, as Richard puts it (5.1.58-9). Richard predicts that this crisis will be brought about by Bolingbroke’s friend and ally, the Earl of Northumberland: and his prediction is remembered eight years later by the ailing Bolingbroke – now Henry IV of England – in the third act of 2 Henry IV (3.1.76-7). The two parts of Henry IV chart the progress of England’s infection, and Falstaff is at once its most visible symptom, its most eloquent diagnostician and (perhaps) its comic cure.
Every detail of the environment he inhabits was predicted in Richard II. Richard’s addiction to laughter forms the model for Hal’s tavern-haunting, as Henry IV points out (‘For all the world / As thou art to this hour was Richard then’ (1 Henry IV 3.2.93-4)), and Hal’s drinking-bouts with Jack recall Richard’s rowdy exploits with his boon companions Bushy, Bagot and Green. Bolingbroke’s rise to power in Richard II, sustained by the commoners who love him, is described by Richard’s Queen as a process whereby ‘triumph is become an alehouse guest’ (5.1.15), and spurs Hal to nurture a still greater intimacy with the residents of alehouses. Falstaff’s commentary on affairs of state, too, has a precedent in Richard II, in the commentary of an egalitarian gardener on the state of England in Act Three (3.4.24ff.). More unsettlingly, the brittle and temporary nature of the friendship between Falstaff and Hal – a brittleness that is repeatedly emphasized by the Prince – resembles the superficial friendships cultivated by Bolingbroke in his rise to power. ‘I count myself in nothing else so happy,’ Bolingbroke tells Northumberland as he returns from exile, ‘As in a soul rememb’ring my good friends’ (Richard II, 2.3.46-7); but it is the breakdown of friendship between Bolingbroke and Northumberland that precipitates rebellion when Bolingbroke is King. In his relationship with Falstaff Hal comically recreates the history of the monarchs who preceded him, scrutinizing the conditions that led first Richard and then Henry to lose control over the course of events, as they presented their subjects with every opportunity to reinvent them at will, to trespass on the royal prerogative of self-definition. Through Falstaff Hal acquires the art both of reinventing himself and of evading definition by others: a comic skill, but the art of the wit rather than the fool, of the acknowledged master of delightful improvization rather than the helpless butt of collective laughter. With Falstaff, too, Hal learns the art of controlling others – even the most uncontrollable people of all, the clever clowns. Or at least, so Hal presumes; how far he succeeds has always been a matter of debate.
The splitting of the reign of Henry IV into two plays corresponds to the splitting of his kingdom into factions – another symptom of the disease of state contracted first by Richard and then by Henry. It structurally reinforces, too, the astonishing multiplication of would-be kings and heirs that emerge as a direct result of Henry’s illegal seizure of power from the legitimate monarch. Both plays are full, not so much of pretenders to the throne as of competing versions of the King himself and the Prince his son. The First Part opens with Henry wishing it could be proved that his son Hal had been substituted at birth for the young war-hero Hotspur, who seems so much more princely in his conduct than the prince (1.1.77-90). Later, Henry tells Hal how his younger brother Prince John has acted as Hal’s substitute in the Privy Council (3.2.32-3); and this is what stings Hal to predict the moment when he will substitute himself for his rival Hotspur, making him ‘exchange / His glorious deeds for my indignities’ in a deadly encounter on the battlefield (3.2.145-6). Hal, then, is regularly ‘performed’ both by his subjects and in his father’s imagination; and Henry IV finds himself performed yet more often by those beneath him. The rebel lords see him as their creation (he enjoys ‘that same greatness… which our own hands / Have holp to make so portly’ (1.3.12-13)), and take it on themselves to read his thoughts, assuming that he ‘studies day and night’ to pay his debt to them with their deaths (1.3.182) – an assumption that is directly responsible for their insurrection. In Act Two, Hal and Falstaff take it in turns to play the King in an impromptu comedy performed in an Eastcheap tavern (2.4.368ff.). In Act Four it is Hotspur’s turn to be christened by Douglas ‘the king of honour’ (4.1.10) (Hal has earlier dubbed himself ‘the king of courtesy’ (2.4.10)). And in the battle of Shrewsbury there are dozens of men playing the King, ‘marching in his coats’ as decoys for the rebels’ blades (5.3.25). As a result, the battlefield seems to be comically thronged with Henries, a host of visored monarchs whose outsides give no clue to their inward identity, so that the frustrated Douglas finds he must ‘murder’ all the royal wardrobe ‘piece by piece’ before he can reach the King (5.3.27). This giddying multiplication of Henries slows down in 2 Henry IV, but even here Falstaff and the Lord Chief Justice contend with Henry for the position of father to the Prince of Wales. Henry IV, then, is not two parts but many, as if his expert performance of the previously restricted role of king has inspired all ambitious men to think they can emulate his acting skills with impunity. As with Macbeth, the leap of imagination he took in usurping the monarchy unleashes the power of his subjects’ imaginations, so that nothing is unthinkable – no act of treason, courage or ambition – for as long as he retains the throne of England.
But the two parts of Henry IV also indicate a split within Henry himself, a deadly separation of his vital components that is one physical consequence of his failure to commit himself, in Richard II, on the subject of whether he was or was not a legitimate contender for the crown. According to early modern medical theory, derived from the teachings of the Roman physician Galen, the human body is composed of four elements or humours, the microcosmic equivalents of the four elements that make up the world: earth, air, fire and water. A healthy body has its four humours in perfect harmony, holding each other in a precarious equilibrium, whereas in an ailing person one or more of these humours dominate, reducing the others to a secondary role and enfeebling the whole constitution as a result. The two parts of Henry IV suggest through metaphor that the humours in the body of the English nation have been radically destabilized. In the first part, the elements of fire and air hold sway; the emphasis is on the self-destructive energies of youth, on the dangerous love of sheer speed that is one of youth’s characteristics, and on the violent rivalries between young men that had such damaging effects in Romeo’s Verona. In the second part, earth and water prevail over fire and air, old age supplants youth as the presiding genius of the time, a chill settles on the language of the contesting English factions, and everyone seems to stir themselves reluctantly into sluggish action, forcing their bodies to move – whether in rebellion or counter-rebellion – with pain and difficulty, and desisting from motion with obvious relief. In Part One, the heat of the times engenders warm friendships between men and loving exchanges between husbands and wives. Hal’s affectionate farewell to Falstaff when he thinks him dead is the high point of their relationship (5.4.101-9), and the exchanges between Harry Hotspur and Kate his wife evoke an atmosphere of marital closeness, strong desires and cheerful bickering that endears them to the play’s spectators. In the second part, relationships are at best cooler, at worst shattered by rejection and betrayal. Family members are distant from one another: Hotspur’s wife Kate, who has survived her husband’s death at the end of Part One, urges her father-in-law Northumberland to break his word to his fellow rebels for no better reason than that he has already broken his word to Hotspur his son, the man she loved (2.3.9ff.); while the mood of the play is incapsulated in Henry IV’s despairing cry to his own sons – from whose number at this moment Hal is conspicuously absent – ‘O me! Come near me, now I am much ill’ (4.3.111). The contrast between the two parts may best be summarized by the climactic encounters between the rebels and the forces of the crown in each play. The first culminates in a duel between two young men, fuelled by hot words and ending with the gushing of youthful blood. The second culminates in an act of treachery, where a rebel force headed by old men are tricked into disbanding with a promise of mercy, then massacred by the army of the cold-blooded Prince John. Heat and cold, youth and old age, and the elements associated with these conditions, seem to have undergone an agonizing divorce in Henry’s reign, and the instability of a state has never been more brilliantly realized in artistic form than it is in this astonishing diptych.
Falstaff provides a satirical running commentary on the divorce between the humours and their associated elements that afflicts the plays. In Part One he absurdly masquerades as a man of Hal’s and Hotspur’s generation, bellowing ‘young men must live’ as he robs the travellers at Gadshill (2.2.90) and melting his fat in streams of perspiration as he flees from the scene of the crime (2.2.107-8), in grotesque imitation of the ‘beads of sweat’ shed by the sleeping Hotspur as he dreams of battles to come (2.3.56-9). The tavern scenes over which Falstaff presides are lit by fires – the ‘everlasting bonfire-light’ of his retainer Bardolph’s inflamed nose (3.3.41), and the infernal conflagrations conjured up by repeated references to devils and hell (Jack himself is ‘a devil… in the likeness of an old fat man’ (2.4.441-2)). In the second part the fat knight’s pretensions to youth are exploded early on by the Lord Chief Justice, and for the rest of the action Falstaff is acutely conscious of his age, reminded of it repeatedly by the nostalgic ramblings of Justice Shallow and the tendency of the whore Doll and others to ‘speak like a death’s head’ by bidding him ‘remember mine end’ (2.4.34-5). If Falstaff’s constitution is never quite cold in the Second Part – unlike that of other old men, such as Northumberland, the Archbishop of York, and the King – it is because his blood has been artificially heated by alcohol, as he explains in his famous speech on the inflammatory qualities of a ‘good sherris-sack’ (4.4.85-124). Nevertheless, this speech ties in with the many allusions to water and other chilling liquids that fill the play; and a look at these ties will help to show how the Falstavian comic ‘subplot’ operates with relation to the political ‘main plots’ in the two Parts.
In Part Two, water metaphors dominate the language of the rebels, who associate their insurrection with one of the sudden deluges that brought periodic devastation to the English countryside. In the first scene, Northumberland declares that the death of his son Hotspur has unleashed a flood of grief in him that will overwhelm the nation. ‘Now let not Nature’s hand / Keep the wild flood confin’d’, he cries (1.1.153-4), and later the Archbishop of York takes up the theme, telling the King’s representative that he and his colleagues were ‘enforc’d from our most quiet… / By the rough torrent of occasion’ (4.1.71-2), and promising that if their demands are met ‘We come within our aweful banks again’ (4.1.176). Henry IV’s followers, too, associate water with insurrection and impending anarchy. As the king lies dying his younger sons speak of the omens that announce his imminent death, and the chaos that will follow once his wild son Hal assumes the crown: ‘The river hath thrice flow’d, no ebb between’, says Clarence, ‘And the old folk… Say it did so a little time before / That our great-grandsire Edward sick’d and died’ (4.4.125-8). Hal responds, when he inherits the throne, by proclaiming the return of moderation to the ‘tide’ of his blood:
The tide of blood in me
Hath proudly flow’d in vanity till now.
Now doth it turn, and ebb back to the sea,
Where it shall mingle with the state of floods,
And flow henceforth in formal majesty. (5.2.129-33)
Falstaff’s speech on sack, then – the fortified Spanish wine that stirs up the forces of ‘this little kingdom, man’ (4.3.108), and has made Hal ‘very hot and valiant’ (4.3.121) – contributes to the many references to liquid that distinguish this play from its fire-filled predecessor. And although the liquid Falstaff mentions is a fiery one, counteracting with its warming properties the ‘cold blood’ he says the Prince inherited from his father (4.3.117), its effects are only temporary, and its after-effects as cooling as those of any other inundation. We have good reason to be aware of this when Falstaff delivers his eulogy, because in the previous scene we have seen Hal’s brother Prince John drinking with the rebels in token of the settlement reached between them and the King; and this loving cup turns out to be a poisoned one. ‘Let’s drink together friendly and embrace,’ Prince John proposes to the gullible insurgents, ‘That all… eyes may bear those tokens home / Of our restored love and amity’ (4.2.63-5); but as soon as the drink has been taken and the rebel army disbanded he has his new ‘friends’ arrested and carted off to ‘Treason’s true bed’ (4.2.123) – the executioner’s block – like drunks carried home after a night of over-indulgence. Drink makes men sick, as Falstaff himself informs us at the beginning of the play when he complains of the gout it has given him (1.3.244-5). And Falstaff’s celebration of Hal’s drink-induced warmth, too, turns cold when Hal freezes him out in the final act, rejecting him as irrelevant to his new kingly role. The old man’s sickness and death, so touchingly reported in Henry V, follow on naturally from the fact that Hal no longer needs either him or sack – or indeed ‘small beer’, the poor man’s tipple that Hal recalls with fondness early in Part Two (2.2.5-11) – to counteract the natural coldness of his dead father.
If Falstaff’s encomium of sack meshes with the metaphorical fabric of Part Two, his equally celebrated speech or ‘catechism’ on honour occupies a similar place in the figurative design of Part One (5.1.127-41). Honour is the preferred currency of the hot-blooded aristocrats who lead the rebellion in this part, and as Falstaff suggests, it is entirely constructed from air. At the beginning of the play Hotspur declares his intention of lifting his favoured claimant to the throne, Lord Mortimer, ‘As high in the air as this unthankful King’ (1.3.134); and the phrase makes insurrection sound like a kind of trapeze artistry, a dangerous and futile exercise in acrobatics. When he later boasts of the ease with which he might ‘pluck bright honour from the pale-fac’d moon’ (1.3.200) his uncle Worcester notes the emptiness of his rhetoric: ‘He apprehends a world of figures here, / But not the form of what he should attend’ (1.3.207-8). His speeches are glowing castles in the air, constructed and dismantled at a moment’s notice. The anonymous letter he receives warning him of the ‘lightness’ of his plot (2.3.12) triggers a lengthy speech from Hotspur dismissing the writer’s objections, which ends by blowing away the young man’s own anxieties in a trice and rendering itself superfluous: ‘Hang him, let him tell the King, we are prepared’ (2.3.33-4). Similarly, his lengthy speech detailing the rebels’ grievances in Act Four is retracted as soon as uttered: when Blunt asks, ‘Shall I return this answer to the King?’ the young man replies, ‘Not so, Sir Walter. We’ll withdraw awhile’ (4.3.106-7). Hotspur’s nightmares, which so worry his wife, are insubstantial visions, and made more so by Hotspur’s airy dismissal of Lady Percy’s worries. And the rebel is equally quick to dismiss his co-conspirator Glendower’s claims to supernatural powers as so much wind. The portents that occurred at the Welshman’s birth were for Hotspur merely a ‘kind of colic’ suffered by the earth (3.1.26), while Glendower himself is no more than a windbag: ‘I had rather live / With cheese and garlic, in a windmill, far, / Than feed on cates and have him talk to me / In any summer house in Christendom’ (3.1.155-8). The insubstantial airiness of Hotspur and his confederates has been well established, then, by the time Falstaff composes his catechism on honour, and the speech is the pin that finally bursts the rebels’ balloon. The word honour, he says – the groundwork of their action – is nothing but a sign without a referent, an empty cipher: ‘What is honour? A word. What is in that word honour? What is that honour? Air. A trim reckoning!’ (5.1.133-5). The last phrase sums up the fat knight’s attitude: honour will not pay any bills (reckonings), and its thinness makes it Falstaff’s meagre opposite, reduced to non-existence by comparison with his massive girth. Its lightness betrays the lightness of the insurgents, who aspire or mount upwards to power like the fire and wind that dominate the play’s imagery, and who crack jokes – something Hotspur does in the midst of his most serious business as enthusiastically as Hal or Jack – while leading their followers to a futile and unnecessary death. If Falstaff is disgraceful in his willingness to lie, bluster, con and steal his way through life, he is of infinitely greater substance or weight – as Cade was, despite his thinness – than the aristocratic men of honour he mocks, who (as Henry IV points out) justify their rebellion with washed out ‘water-colours’ (5.1.80) instead of sound political argument.
But the importance of Falstaff’s role as commentator stems not so much from his sensitivity to the governing metaphors of his time – after all, every character shares this sensitivity to some degree – as from his mastery of the arts of comedy. He is the greatest improviser in Shakespeare’s work, the greatest springer of outrageous verbal surprises and inventor of fire-new phrases; and these abilities come into their own in the age of Henry IV, when uneasy laughter reigns supreme in England. This is Shakespeare’s astounding contribution to the legend of Henry V as purveyed in the Famous Victories. Where the earlier play gives young Prince Harry a virtual monopoly on laughter – a monopoly that is reinforced, not undermined by the admiring mimicry of the clown Derrick – in the Second Tetralogy nearly every major political player has his own peculiar brand of humour, and Falstaff has unrivalled access to them all. It is this all-embracing comic vision to which Hal gains access by seeking Falstaff’s company; and in acquiring it he gains directorial control over the spectacular theatrical performance that is kingship, outmanoeuvring all his rivals with his carefully cultivated wit.
For Hal’s father Henry IV, the dominance of the comic in England began in the reign of Richard, the ‘skipping King’ who ‘ambled up and down, / With shallow jesters, and rash bavin wits’ until his subjects got sick of his constant playing and got rid of him (1 Henry IV, 3.2.60-1). But his death did not rid the land of his jesting spirit: Hotspur is one of its inheritors, and the most noteworthy thing about his rebellion, like that of Jack Cade, is how funny it is – and how relentlessly its humour directs itself against the King. On his first appearance, Hotspur transforms the King’s messenger into a contemptible fop, a ‘popinjay’ whose misplaced arrogance clearly reflects on the master he serves: ‘he made me mad / To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet, / And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman / Of guns, and drums, and wounds, God save the mark!’ (1.3.49-55). By implication, the King who sent him is equally alien to military action, equally willing to belittle the military achievements of his victorious generals – and equally funny. The morose Henry IV seems an unlikely candidate for comic status, but Hotspur assures his fellow conspirators that he is a ‘king of smiles’ (1.3.243) whose ‘jeering and disdain’d contempt’ has ‘fool’d, discarded’ and shaken them off (1.3.176-81). And in saying so Hotspur lays the grounds for treachery and rebellion. Reducing the King to the stature of a clown makes his overthrow seem easy, a matter of training a starling to shriek ‘Mortimer’ constantly in the monarch’s ear (1.3.221-3), of finding a ‘noble plot’ (1.3.273) – it hardly seems to matter which one – and of hurling yourself bodily into the bloody ‘sport’ of the battlefield (1.3.296). The Hotspur rebellion is an elaborate joke – a joke that turns sour at the end of the play – and this is what Falstaff’s commentary on it graphically demonstrates.
At each stage of the play the scenes dominated by Falstaff parody the actions of the rebels. Falstaff’s absurd self-inflation – his claims to heroism at Gadshill and the battle of Shrewsbury, his accusation of Mistress Quickly for stealing valuables he never possessed, even his baseless insults of the Prince in Part Two – exposes the self-inflation of the rebels, whose claims to honour and condemnation of Henry rest on an equally insubstantial basis. Falstaff is the master of the ‘incomprehensible lie’ or preposterous fib (1.2.181-2), which is, like his body, ‘gross as a mountain, open, palpable’ (2.5.222), but which he can defend or disown with the agility of a master fencer; and the palpable grossness of his lies alerts us to the equal grossness of the rebels’ fabrication of their case against their monarch. Besides these general resemblances, there are specific echoes of the rebels’ plot in Falstaff’s, some of which we have already noted. In the second scene, Falstaff asks Hal to change the designation of highway robbers when he is king; instead of thieves, he says, they should be rechristened ‘Diana’s foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon’ (1.2.25-6); and his efforts to mythologize their lawlessness are no more absurd than the rebels’ efforts to dignify their cause with resonant titles. Later in the same scene, Falstaff looks forward to seeing the ‘true prince… prove a false thief’ when Hal takes part in the robbery at Gadshill (1.2.151-2); and in doing so he anticipates the following scene, where the rebels effectively accuse Henry of stealing the crown like a common criminal (1.3.138-57). Later still, Hal and Poins betray Falstaff after the robbery at Gadshill, robbing him of his ill-gotten booty in the interest of producing ‘laughter for a month, and a good jest for ever’ (2.2.94-5). Immediately afterwards Hotspur enters reading a letter from an unnamed friend, which tells him that ‘The purpose you undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time itself unsorted, and your whole plot too light, for the counterpoise of so great an opposition’ (2.4.9-12). Hal’s plot against Falstaff, designed to deflate his monstrous pretensions, is no lighter than Hotspur’s light plot against his monarch, which aims to immortalize the names of its perpetrators through blood. And Hal’s betrayal of Falstaff – in Part One, at least – is a harmless one, a source of perpetual merriment to be commemorated in successive generations of jest-books and farces; where Hotspur’s betrayal of his former friend the King, and his later betrayal by his own allies (Glendower, Mortimer and his own father Northumberland fail to join him at the decisive battle of Shrewsbury) have dreadful consequences for his followers as well as for himself. Hotspur’s lightness, then, is exposed by Falstaff and Hal as a deplorable lapse in comic taste. And the nastiness of this lapse becomes more obvious as the play goes on: when Hal describes Hotspur telling his wife that killing ‘six or seven dozen of Scots at breakfast’ is ‘a trifle’ (2.4.101-7), for instance, or when Falstaff leads his company of ‘ragamuffins’ to be slaughtered on Shrewsbury field (5.3.35-8). By Part Two, insurrection is no longer comic – or if it is, the humour it produces is of the grimmest kind, like the horrible joke played on the insurgents by Prince John, who tells them as he sends them to the block, ‘Most shallowly did you these arms commence, / Fondly brought here, and foolishly sent hence’ (4.2.118-9). At this stage in the Tetralogy, nobody is inclined to laugh at the disastrous shallowness and folly of the ruling classes.
Like Hotspur’s humour, Hal’s is closely connected to betrayal. Shakespeare’s contemporary John Donne saw all humour as a form of betrayal: a betrayal of the expectations of its audience, who are surprised or shocked into laughter by its spontaneous reversals of their settled assumptions about what is to come. Of all humorists in the Second Tetralogy it is Hal who is most concerned to overthrow the expectations of his audience. His carefully-planned career constitutes an elaborate prank whose punch-line he sets up at the beginning of Part One: in the end, he says, he will ‘falsify men’s hopes’ with his abrupt reformation (1.2.206) and display himself as he is, like the sun breaking through ‘base contagious clouds’ in order to intensify the glory of his half-forgotten form (1.2.193). That Hal sees this as a joke is confirmed by his description of this future moment as a ‘playing holiday’ (1.2.199) – a break from, rather than a continuation of, the apparent holiday he has enjoyed in Falstaff’s company. As many commentators have noted, there is something cruel about this well-laid comic plot; and indeed Hal’s laughter at Falstaff’s expense often smacks of cruelty, even in the genial Part One. He is always insulting, needling or threatening him – most famously when Falstaff tells him that to banish ‘plump Jack’ would be to banish all the world, and Hal replies, ‘I do, I will’ (2.4.473-4). In response Falstaff is always threatening half-seriously to break off relations between them, like a lover conscious that his relationship is hurtful to his own health and may eventually end his life. Hal’s father fears that his relationship with Falstaff will do him moral harm, and this conventional view – that the young are always corrupted by the old, never vice versa – is reiterated by Falstaff himself when he plays the role of the King in an impromptu play: ‘pitch (as ancient writers do report) doth defile[.] So doth the company thou keepest’ (2.4.408-10). But the Prince proves wholly impervious to Falstaff’s gracelessness, and it is Falstaff who is always the loser by their connection. ‘Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal,’ he says in their very first scene together, ‘God forgive thee for it’ (1.2.90-1); and the element of pain in their relationship is later summed up in a phrase of Hal’s: ‘Were’t not for laughing, I should pity him’ (2.2.109). The power is always on Hal’s side, and it is in teaching him how to take advantage of this power that Falstaff proves most useful to the heir apparent.
Hal’s humour, then, is a calculated matter, and as such it is the obverse of Falstaff’s. The Prince lays down careful comic plots: the robbery of Falstaff at Gadshill, the plan to expose the fat knight’s hypocrisy by eavesdropping on him disguised as a tapster in Part Two (2.2.163-70) – whereas Falstaff specializes in fashioning spontaneous responses to other people’s machinations. Jack’s only long-term plan is to get power and influence when Hal inherits the crown, and from the beginning it seems inevitable that Hal will overthrow this plan with a counter-plot of his own, prepared and executed with almost bureaucratic precision. The Prince displays the same cold, bureaucratic sense of humour when he exposes a conspiracy against him in Henry V by presenting the traitors – his former friends – with scrolls detailing their treason at the point when they least expect it (2.2.13ff.). In a treacherous world, Hal is the master traitor; though oddly enough, his treason consists in keeping his word rather than breaking it, since honesty is the last thing anyone expects from a ruling class riddled with oath-breakers.
The contrast between Hal’s and Falstaff’s comic styles is at its sharpest in their differing attitudes to time and money. The rebellion in Part One is sparked off by the rebels’ awareness that the King is irrecoverably indebted to them for supporting him in his rise to power: ‘The King,’ says Worcester, ‘will always think him in our debt, / And think we think ourselves unsatisfy’d, / Till he hath found a time to pay us home’ (1.3.280-2), and the insurgents therefore think themselves obliged to deny him this valuable time, to forestall his attack on them with a speedy attack of their own. Hal’s aim, then, is to avoid debts as far as he can, to put others in his debt as much as possible, and to pay off any debts he owes instantly, before they can accumulate interest. At Shrewsbury he tells the rebel Douglas that ‘It is the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, / Who never promiseth but he means to pay’ (5.4.41-2); and sure enough, Hal is always dispensing funds to defray expenses, from the bills Falstaff owes at the Boar’s Head to the money stolen at Gadshill. This is one source of his power over Falstaff; and it is also a source of his power over Hotspur, who is in Hal’s debt for the advantages he gains by occupying Hal’s rightful position as apparent heir to the kingdom. The Prince describes Hotspur as his ‘factor’ or financial manager, employed to ‘engross up glorious deeds on my behalf’ until such time as Hal ‘will call him to… account’, when Hotspur will ‘render every glory up, / Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, / Or I will tear the reckoning from his heart’ (3.2.147-52). For Hal, then, time is money, and even his seeming period of idleness with Falstaff is productive, since his investment in Hotspur accumulates interest in the Prince’s absence. He has an instinctive grasp of the principles of emergent capitalism that marks him out as a member of a new generation, as Hotspur, with his adherence to a redundant code of chivalry, or Henry, with his abiding conviction of the inherent sanctity of kingship, are not.
Falstaff, meanwhile, is an inveterate evader of taxes, an accumulator of debts he never means to repay, a shameless sponger. Time for him is to be stretched and distorted at will, beguiled with amateur dramatics, lost in an alcoholic haze, falsified as he falsifies his age. ‘What a devil hast thou to do with the time of the day?’ Hal asks him on his first appearance (1.2.6), and in doing so introduces us to a world that is governed by different priorities than those of Henry IV, who in the previous scene was urgently seeking ‘a time for frighted peace to pant’ (1.1.2), but whose efforts to free himself from the tyranny of time are repeatedly frustrated in the course of the two central plays of the Tetralogy. Falstaff and his tavern, then, are a place of retreat for Hal, an escape from the pressures of the official calendar and a breathing-space in which to draw up a calendar of his own; and both these functions vindicate comedy from the common Elizabethan charge of being a waste of time – the charge Richard II memorably invoked when he said, in the scene of his death, ‘I wasted time, and now doth time waste me’ (5.5.49). The tavern is also a location in which the nature of capital can be contemplated at leisure. For Falstaff, money like time is subject to the imagination: insubstantial, governed by no fixed rules, and therefore incapable of getting any kind of hold on him – just as he is unable to get any hold on it. The credit with which he pays for his drink – credit he derives from his friendship with Hal, whose financial prospects are theoretically boundless – is wholly imaginary, like the money he claims was stolen from him as he slept. He obtains money by imaginative improvisation: taking advantage of his command of a company in the civil wars to garner cash from prosperous men who are too scared to fulfil their feudal duty of fighting for the crown (4.2.11-47); or collecting from Hotspur the debt he owes to Hal (it is for his non-existent part in killing Hotspur in Part One that he climbs to social pre-eminence in Part Two). Falstaff matches Hal’s ability to collect debts from other people with a seemingly boundless capacity for escaping ‘shot-free’ (1 Henry IV, 5.3.30) – a skill that helps him to avoid injury from gun-shots in battle as easily as he avoids paying bills in peacetime. This capacity for transferring one’s obligations, debts and guilt to other people is another thing Hal will find invaluable when he inherits the kingdom, at which point Hal begins to exert all his imaginative faculties, in Falstavian fashion, to offload the obligations, debts and guilt he inherited with it. But the price Hal pays for acquiring Falstaff’s skills of comic evasion is his casting-off of Falstaff; a deed for which audiences have found it hard to forgive him, despite the seeming success of his efforts to obtain forgiveness for his deeds from heaven.
 Valerie Traub compares Falstaff’s body to that of a pregnant woman in Desire and Anxiety: Circulations of Sexuality in Shakespearean Drama (London, 1992), pp. 56-61.
 For Falstaff’s class see Paul N. Siegel, The Gathering Storm: Shakespeare’s English and Roman History Plays: a Marxist Analysis (London, 1992), ch. 6.
 For the health-giving properties of laughter, attested to by Hippocrates, as well as its ill effects on the body, see Laurent Joubert, Treatise on Laughter, especially Book 3, chs. 14, 15 and 16, pp. 126-33. The English physician Andrew Borde, who studied like Joubert at the University of Montpellier, thought that mirth could be both therapeutic and dangerous: ‘there be many… myrthes and consolacions, some being good and laudable, and some vytuperable… myrth is when a man lyveth out of det, and may have meate and drinke and cloth, although he have never a peny in his purse; but nowe a dayes, he is merye that hath golde and sylver,, and ryches with lechery; and all is not worth a blewe poynte.’ Elsewhere Boorde opines: ‘A mery herte and mynde, the whiche is in reste and quyetnes,, without adversyte and to moche worldly busyness, causeth a man to lyve longe, and to loke yongly, although he be agyd. Care and sorowe bryngeth in age and deth, wherefore let every man be mery; and yf he can not, let hym resorte to mery company to breke of his perplexatyves.’ Andrew Boorde’s Introduction and Dyetary, ed. F. J. Furnivall, Early English Text Society (London, 1870), pp. 88 and 300.
 For an account of the humours see F. David Hoeniger, Medicine and Shakespeare in the English Renaissance (Newark, London and Toronto, 1992), ch.5, esp. pp. 102-7. The chapter culminates in an analysis of Falstaff’s defence of sherris-sack. The centrality of the humours to the Second Tetralogy is hinted at in the title of the 1600 quarto of 2 Henry IV: The Second Part of Henry the Fourth, Continuing to his Death, and Coronation of Henry the Fifth. With the Humours of Sir John Falstaff, and Swaggering Pistol. For metaphors of the body in early modern England see Leonard Barkan, Nature’s Work of Art: The Human Body as Image of the World (New Haven, 1975).
 Northumberland uses the same metaphor when he decides to betray his fellow rebels: ‘’Tis with my mind / As with the tide swell’d up unto his height, / That makes a still-stand, running neither way’ (2 Henry IV, 2.3.62-4).
 Before the battle of Shrewsbury, too, Hal notes that ‘The southern wind / Doth play the trumpet to his purposes, / And by his hollow whistling in the leaves / Foretells a tempest’ (1 Henry IV, 5.1.3-6) – a bad omen for the rebels who have been associated with air and wind.
 Leonard Tennenhouse gives an account of what Hal learns from Falstaff in ‘Strategies of State and Political Plays: A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Henry IV, Henry V, Henry VIII’, Political Shakespeare: Essays in Cultural Materialism, ed. Jonathan Dollimore and Alan Sinfield, second edition (Manchester, 1994), pp. 109-28. For another perspective see Graham Holderness, Shakespeare Recycled: The Making of Historical Drama (New York etc., 1992), ch. 6.
 In this speech, too, air dominates the elements: Hotspur is ‘breathless’ from his exertions during the battle, and the ‘perfumed’ courtier is offended by the smell of a corpse that comes ‘Betwixt the wind and his nobility’ (I Henry IV, 1.3.31-44).