[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 blog post was inspired by the recent ‘Fantasy and Puppetry’ event hosted by the Centre for Fantasy and the Fantastic at the University of Glasgow, featuring Marita Arvaniti, Brian Froud, Wendy Froud, Howard Gayton, William Todd Jones, Mary Robinette Kowal and Terri Windling, with funding from the University of Glasgow’s Chancellor’s Fund, obtained by my wonderful colleague Dimitra Fimi. My warm thanks to all the participants for their stunning insights, to which I’ve hardly begun to do justice here. Special thanks to Mary Robinette Kowal for putting me on to the work of Steve Tillis.]
What is it about puppets that draws and horrifies us? Puppets are representations of human figures whose radical dissimilarity to human figures marks them out as grotesque imitations, always eerily distanced from what they purport to portray. Their workings are often visible, whether as rods or strings manipulating limbs, or the bony solidity of hands beneath the cloth of their bodies, or puppeteers alongside them on stage, manoeuvring heads and arms and legs with the attentive reverence of priests or undertakers. They are, then, the embodiment of control: control by authority, control by fate, control by our own desires, fears, instincts and diseases – control by anyone but themselves.
But they are also the embodiment of anarchy. Their unfeeling bodies make them impervious to damage, their seeming detachment from their puppeteers absolves them of responsibility, with the result that many puppets are violent things often subjected to violence. Most of the narratives about puppets I can think of involve acts of aggression: from the constant infighting of the friends Damon and Pythias in the puppet show that dominates the final act of Ben Jonson’s play Bartholomew Fair (1614) to the multiple murders that beset Carlo Collodi’s Pinocchio (1883); from the self-destructive darkness that inhabits human puppets in Russell Hoban’s post-apocalyptic novel Riddley Walker (1980), to the forced reiterations of Mr Punch’s actions magically imposed on young children in Diana Wynne Jones’s book The Magicians of Caprona (also 1980), the ‘scrobbling’ and near murder of the Punch and Judy man Cole Hawlings in The Box of Delights (1935), or the revelations of dark family secrets imposed on a child by successive encounters with the puppet master, Mr Swatchet, in Neil Gaiman and Dave McKean’s graphic novel The Tragical Comedy and Comical Tragedy of Mr Punch (1994). All these narratives are designed for children or have children in them, so that the darkness and violence they contain runs fiercely counter to the narrative of innocent childhood, which prescribes insipid pap as children’s entertainment in place of unsettling revelations. Puppets tell us that childhood is, like adulthood, full of shadows and damaging encounters, confirming our suspicion that the version of our young selves that is foisted on us by much children’s television is a falsification, a smiling puppet rendered increasingly sinister, as we grow, by its distance from our concussive daily lives.
Human but not human; controlled yet anarchic; violent and subjected to violence yet somehow amusing; puppets are full of paradoxes and contradictions, and this, for Steve Tillis, is the source of their ancient fascination. For Tillis, puppets of all kinds give rise to a kind of double-vision, and his definition of a puppet incorporates this fundamental doubleness:
the puppet is a theatrical figure, perceived by an audience to be an object, that is given design, movement, and frequently, speech, so that it fulfils the audience’s desire to imagine it as having life; by creating a double-vision of perception and imagination, the puppet pleasurably challenges the audience’s understanding of the relationship between objects and life.
This double-vision whereby an object is seemingly endowed with life while at the same time remaining self-evidently an object explains the affinity puppets seem to have with the fantastic – an affinity which Tillis notes elsewhere in his book Toward an Aesthetics of the Puppet, and which is borne out by the many fantasy movies that have given a central role to puppets. Fantasy is the art of the impossible; objects endowed with life are an impossibility; so the union of fantasy with puppets seems an obvious artistic strategy. But Tillis’s placement of double-vision at the heart of the attraction of the puppet also has something crucial to say about fantasy as a mode or genre. Fantasy involves a similar double-vision. We read a fantasy text, or watch a fantasy film, in the knowledge that what we are reading about or seeing could never have happened in what we think of as ‘real life’; if it could, the film or book would not be fantasy. This awareness inhabits our minds all the time we are viewing or reading. Where Tolkien would have us totally immersed in the fantasy narrative as we read or watch, forgetful of the rules that govern the ‘real’ world we live in, that immersion involves processes which we know very well as we watch or read have never happened and never will happen, such as a person turning invisible by putting on a ring, a person looking across a vast distance by peering into a stone, a tree coming alive and waxing lyrical about the ages it has lived through and the changes it has seen. The amazement with which the Hobbits confront such processes reminds us repeatedly of the fact they cannot take place in the world we live in; this is why they’re delightful. Reading about these things may make us look at gold rings and stones and trees in a new light – surrounding them with an aura of previously unimagined (im)possibilities, as Tolkien says it will in his essay on Fairy Stories – but it won’t lead us to expect that these objects will somehow really acquire the qualities Tolkien gave them; that we may find a ring to turn ourselves invisible, or a stone to see through, or a walking, talking tree. When we walk over downs and stroll through forests our imagination may fill them with barrow wights, Black Riders, Ents and elves, but we’ll always be conscious these are things of the imagination, no matter how keenly we may yearn for them to be real.
The double-vision of perception and imagination, in other words, is not exclusive to puppets. It inheres in paintings, where the viewer can often see the brush-strokes laid on paper by a watercolour artist – even intuit the movements that laid down those brush-strokes – yet simultaneously recognise what they’re looking at as a landscape. It inheres in poetry and prose, where words on the page remain stubbornly present in front of our eyes even as we look through them into the worlds they conjure up. Fantasy, like puppets, stresses the disparity between the object we are looking at – the book, the painting, the screen – and the impossible forms of life with which it seems to have been imbued. The fantasy book or film or painting are theatres, like the puppet theatre, in which impossibilities are brought into being yet remain impossibilities, because if they weren’t we wouldn’t get the kick out of seeing the impossible brought to life that defines them as fantasy.
In the final chapter of his book, Tillis has a chapter entitled ‘Coda – Metaphor and the Puppet’ (pp. 159-169), in which he considers how the metaphors of puppets and puppetry have been used in a range of contexts. He is mostly concerned with marionettes – not glove puppets, rod puppets, shadow puppets or Bunraku – and hence with the relationship between the puppet and the hidden, distant puppeteer, which he sees as embodying the awareness humans have of being at the beck and call of forces beyond our vision: divine forces, political forces, or the force of a powerful emotion such as love. In this blog post I’d like to consider three fantastic texts which deploy the metaphor of puppets in special ways, particularly as a way of playing with the double-vision Tillis writes of. All three of my examples contain representations of glove puppets rather than marionettes, which affects the terms of Tillis’s coda in certain fundamental ways (the glove puppet, for instance, is partly made of the puppeteer’s flesh and blood, as well as the wood and cloth of the head and body; the puppeteer may be in some sense distant, but they are also very much present and intimately bound up with the objects they manipulate). In all three cases, too, double-vision is central to the narrative in which the puppets appear; or rather double-, treble- and quadruple-vision, as the puppet metaphor introduces us to a world in which multiple layers of perception and imagination dominate our lives. These puppet narratives seem designed to defy our belief (our practical belief, that is, as evinced by our movements as we go about our activities) that we live in a rational universe, where the rules that govern what’s real, what’s imagined, and how effect will follow cause, are more or less known and more or less invariable. That’s what the last sentence of Tillis’s definition implies: ‘the puppet pleasurably challenges the audience’s understanding of the relationship between objects and life’. In the particular puppet stories I’ll be discussing, knowledge is precisely what’s being called into question by the prolonged encounter with an inanimate object which is also imagined to be alive, while remaining an object, against all the laws of biology and physics.
Diana Wynne Jones, The Magicians of Caprona
Diana Wynne Jones’s children’s book The Magicians of Caprona is all about contention, violence, and the kinds of knowledge and ignorance that enable acts of spontaneous aggression. She sets it in an alternative Italy that has never been unified, and is therefore made up of multiple city states whose competing interests break out from time to time in military conflict. Her book sees the neighbouring city states of Florence, Pisa and Siena invade the made-up city-state of Caprona, hoping to extend their respective territories at Capronan expense. This contention between countries is reflected in the hostilities that divide the two principal Capronan families, the Montanas and the Petrocchis. Each family possesses a stock of grievances and disparaging myths about its rivals, handed down from parent to child and growing more extravagant with each new iteration, until violence breaks out between them around the middle of the book in the form of a huge street brawl, rendered more terrible by the fact that it is waged by magic – the families in question being universally renowned specialists in fashioning spells.
Jones’s imagined world, in other words, is governed by imaginary boundaries: boundaries between those fantastic entities known as nations, between those porous entities known as families, between the commercial interests of businesses which trade in the same product – in this case, magic. These boundaries encourage conflict – war and brawling – and inhibit the sharing and verification of ideas and information – in other words, knowledge. At the same time, the book makes it clear that neither the boundaries nor the selective information that leads to conflict has any basis in material reality. All the geographical divisions between nation states mentioned in the book have long been removed, in our own world, by Italy’s nineteenth-century unification, while the reader knows that the two families are mistaken in thinking that each house has kidnapped a child from its rival, which is the ostensible cause of the street brawl. In other words, the plot of the book is based on double-visions engendered by self-absorption, delusion and prejudice, proposing their dominance of our daily lives and the destructive intransigence that maintains them.
Meanwhile, the book’s comic treatment of its two conflicts – between neighbouring nations, between neighbouring families – stirs up echoes of two well-known tragedies, one real, one imagined. The imagined tragedy is Shakespeare’s play about young love in the context of a feud between two Italian families, Romeo and Juliet. The real tragedy is the civil war between fascists and partisans in Nazi-occupied Italy towards the end of the Second World War, with all the atrocities that entailed. The book is founded, then, on a set of double-visions which gives its light-hearted story, full of cats and puppets and clever children, the darkest of undertones.
It’s hardly surprising, then, if the metaphor at the centre of Jones’s narrative should be that of the Punch and Judy show, a light-hearted take on the domestic or homegrown violence which breaches so many imaginary boundaries: between sexes (Punch and Judy), between adults and children (Punch, the Baby and the children in the audience), between legality and illegality (Punch and the Policeman), between life and death (Punch, the Ghost, the Devil), between the domestic and the public (Punch, Judy, the Policeman and the Hangman), between the stage and the world beyond the stage (Punch, Judy, the Baby and the audience), and so on. No wonder, too, if Jones is concerned to compound the double-vision produced by puppets in Tillis’s book – which is governed by perception and imagination, the perception of the puppet as an object, the imagination of that object as alive – by adding multiple further double-visions to it. I’ve mentioned the double-visions behind the book’s two central conflicts; but there is also a particular double-vision in it that challenges the boundaries conventionally imposed between adulthood and childhood. For instance, in this novel the traditional Punch and Judy show is a personal obsession of the Duke of Caprona, who is himself a living, breathing double-vision, a ‘large damp-faced man’ decked out like royalty (‘He was wearing a shiny silk suit with flashing gold buttons and glittering medals’) who responds to a street puppet show with as much enthusiasm as ‘the smallest boy there’ (p. 21). He is also, as it happens, a puppet himself, in the metaphorical sense mentioned by Tillis in his coda. His wife, the Duchess, indulges his love of puppets in order to distract him from his royal duties, leaving her free to rule Caprona herself. It’s while the Duke is watching a Punch and Judy show at the palace that she declares war on Siena, Florence and Pisa in his name, triggering the invasion for her own dark purposes. And the same Punch and Judy show also effectively triggers the childish brawl between the two families that distracts them from the impending political crisis. It is the Duchess who kidnaps a child from each of the families, then spreads the rumour that each child was stolen by the other family, thus unleashing a potentially deadly Punch-and-Judy style fight between the two families in the city streets. Meanwhile the two kidnapped children are themselves transformed by magic into Punch and Judy puppets – the Duchess being a powerful sorceress whose magic powers exceed those of the Montanas and the Petrocchis combined. So the presence of the kidnapped children as puppet-performers in the Punch and Judy show watched by the Duke at the palace, at the very moment when war is being declared in the Duke’s name by the scheming Duchess, lends a further double-vision to the double-vision of the objects endowed with life as defined by Tillis. The show, designed for children, masks very adult political manoeuvres, while the children who take part in it find themselves deeply conscious, in a very adult way, that they are in mortal danger from an adult (the Duchess), while the principal member of the adult audience (the Duke) watches the show with all the insouciance of a child. There could hardly be a more complex troubling of the conventions that divide the adult world from the sphere supposedly occupied by children.
The Duke is not the only adult in the book to be consumed by childish obsessions. The head of the Montana family, too, resembles a child: ‘Old Niccolo’s face, and his eyes in it, were round and wondering as the latest baby’s’ (p. 16); while his son and heir Rinaldo strikes poses, harbours grudges, and ‘enlists’ the youngest members of the family as part of his secret gang, like an overgrown schoolboy (p. 166). Both men are content to believe the old lies about the Petrocchis, and to ignore the plentiful evidence that the Petrocchis had nothing to do with the Montana child’s kidnapping. Like the Duke they are therefore easily puppeteered by the Duchess into acting out their obsessions. Enraged by the kidnapping and certain they know who is responsible, Niccolo and Rinaldo spontaneously lead their family through Caprona towards the Petrocchi residence, unleashing a chaos of dangerous spells as they go without regard to the possible consequences. All Jones’s books, in fact, are full of adults who have not grown up, continuing to cleave to the stories, prejudices, resentments and obsessions of childhood without subjecting them to any kind of discipline or critical analysis. The division between adulthood and childhood is rendered permeable by her narratives, which are equally full of children who take on responsibility for themselves and their families, often with considerable success.
At a certain point in each book, these responsible children show themselves capable of moving on from a passive acceptance of the controls imposed on them by the simplistic narratives they inherit from their childish parents to a critical consciousness of those narratives’ simplicity. In many cases this is brought about by a kind of double-vision which enables them to separate one aspect of a person’s character from another, and hence to ‘clear [their] eyes’, as Jones puts it in the Magicians (p. 166). A case in point is Paolo Montana, the elder brother of one of the kidnapped children. Paolo’s moment of productive double-vision comes when Rinaldo, a ‘true Montana’ whom Paolo has always tried to mimic (p. 163), expresses callous indifference to the question of whether his father will die of a stroke he has recently suffered. ‘It’s about time the old idiot gave up anyway,’ Rinaldo scoffs; ‘I shall be one step closer to being head of the Casa Montana then’ (p. 165). At these words, things in Paolo’s head abruptly fall into a new perspective: ‘he tried to imagine Rinaldo doing the things Old Niccolo did. And as soon as he did, he saw Rinaldo was quite unsuitable. […] It was as if Rinaldo had said a powerful spell to clear Paolo’s eyes’ (pp. 165-6, my emphasis). Abruptly the boy understands the callous self-interest of Rinaldo, the will to power that motivates his heroic posturing – posturing which is itself based on the model of the theatrical brigand, a human puppet whose clichéd heroism is fatally compromised by a casual indifference to other people’s sufferings. From this moment onwards for Paolo, his older brother Rinaldo is always the spoilt, irresponsible eldest son, whose posturing no longer hides his bullying propensities.
Paolo’s kidnapped younger brother, meanwhile, whose name is Tonino, needs his own eyes cleared by acquisition of the distance provided by double-vision. He loves to read, an activity represented in most children’s fiction as an unqualified good. But in Tonino’s case his kidnapping is accomplished through a spell cast by a book he has been reading obsessively; and the book in question is a novel full of questionable nationalist heroics called The Boy Who Saved His Country. Tonino believes the story to have been sent to him as a present by the most highly educated member of his family, Uncle Umberto; and the boy’s conviction that it is precisely the kind of gift his uncle might have sent him suggests that its propagandistic content may indeed conform to the Montana family’s philosophy. We already know by the time the book appears that a ‘true Montana’ like Rinaldo will do anything to put down the Petrocchis, whether or not there is evidence that they are at fault for any given situation. Tonino’s outlook has been shaped by his family and his city as well as his reading, and having finished the book he at once sets out to map its story onto his home, Caprona. The boy searches its streets for the strange blue house at which the protagonist’s adventures began, hoping to mimic the fictional boy’s heroism, just as his brother Paolo hoped to mimic the heroic posturing of Rinaldo. Thanks to his family, then, Tonino already has a propensity for confusing fiction with reality, and it’s by playing on this propensity that the Duchess is able to entrap him. His eventual discovery of a real blue house matching the fictional one in The Boy Who Saved His Country triggers the trap which is woven by magic into the fabric of the volume. Soon afterwards he finds himself imprisoned in the ducal palace, held alongside (horror of horrors!) a Petrocchi child, who turns out to have been entrapped by reading fiction in exactly the same way. Both children have to learn that the fantasies peddled by stories shouldn’t be uncritically confused with the day-to-day reality of family life; and it’s by being changed into puppets that this fact comes home to them, quite against the wishes of the sorceress who accomplished that transformation, the scheming Duchess.
Becoming a puppet gives Tonino and his fellow prisoner, Angelica Petrocchi, a terrifying insight into what it is to be controlled by an unscrupulous adult. The motivation for the change is never quite clear to them – they may have been ‘punished’ for an attempt to escape from their imprisonment, or simply transformed to give sadistic pleasure to the Duchess – but once changed, their knowledge of the story they are part of makes the situation far worse than if they had been acting out an unfamiliar narrative. Tonino is Punch, Angelica Judy, and as each new puppet character pops up from under the stage – Angelica-as-Judy, the Baby, the Policeman, the Hangman – the children are horribly aware of the fate that lies in store for it, yet wholly unable to prevent the unfolding suite of murders, as Mr Punch annihilates the entire cast-list one by one through a mixture of trickery and brute force, to the accompaniment of strident laughter.
Jones represents the children’s sense of entrapment by adding yet another layer of double-vision to the usual double-vision engendered by puppets. As Punch and Judy, each child can see the other’s dual nature in their puppet face:
Judy was coming along the stage holding the white rolled-up shape of the baby. Judy wore a blue nightdress and a blue cap. Her face was mauve, with a nose in it nearly as large and red as Tonino’s. But the eyes on either side of it were Angelica’s, alternately blinking and wide with terror. She blinked beseechingly at Tonino as she squawked, ‘I have to go out, Mr Punch. Mind you mind the baby!’ […]
‘What have you done with the baby?’ squawked Angelica. And she belaboured Tonino with the stick. It really hurt. It knocked him to his knees and went on bashing at him. Tonino […] tried to stay crouched on the floor. But it was no good. He was made to spring up, wrest the stick from Judy and beat Angelica with it. He could see the Duke laughing, and the courtiers smiling. The Duchess’s smile was very broad now, because, of course, Tonino was going to have to beat Angelica to death. (pp. 155-7)
Here the transformed Angelica and Tonino, trapped in cloth bodies and hard wooden heads, clearly recognise that they have a distinct identity from that of the puppets in whose forms they are enclosed – the kind of recognition they lacked when they imagined themselves as the heroes of the children’s book The Boy/Girl Who Saved Their Country. Angelica has a large red wooden nose, the nose of Judy, but the eyes that stare out on either side of it are her own, while Tonino finds himself ‘made to spring up’ (the phrase makes it sound as if the necessity is woven into the fibres of his puppet body), then ‘wrest the stick from Judy and beat Angelica with it’ – the sentence underlining his horror at and inward resistance to these enforced actions even as he performs them. The stick is described as Judy’s, the beaten body Angelica’s – two distinct entities – and the action is rendered more horrific by Tonino’s awareness that a child’s body feels the blows of the stick intensely (‘It really hurt’), even after the child has been changed into a thing of wood and cloth. Meanwhile the stick is not just Judy’s, Angelica’s or Punch’s; it has a will of its own: ‘It knocked him to his knees and went on bashing at him’. Jones’s prose perfectly captures, in other words, the multiple identities of a glove puppet, whose head and body clothe a living hand which directs their actions. The hand, meanwhile, serves a traditional, centuries-old story, embodied in the stick which cannot be restrained from its murderous ‘bashing’. Some of the elements of a puppet should in theory be able to operate independently of the others; the flesh-and-blood heads of the children inside the puppets, for instance, are deeply opposed to the story represented by the figures’ wooden heads, while the flesh-and-blood hand of the puppeteer has the agency to take that story in new directions. Yet with seeming inevitability the narrative repeats itself along the same old lines. From a position outside the story – the position of the spectators – the repetition might seem pleasurable, since none of the characters (except perhaps Mr Punch himself) knows what will happen next, and a sense of superiority is part of what makes a situation funny – especially when we’re conscious that no harm is being done (puppets don’t really feel pain). But Jones’s story positions the eyes of the child spectators within the puppets performing the action, so that their horrified knowledge of where the story is going is coupled with a still more horrifying sense of vulnerability (‘it really hurt’), as well as complicity – though it’s a complicity driven not by their own desires but the impossibility of escaping from the long tradition.
The situation I’ve just described can of course be read in political terms. It may invoke the moment when a child suddenly realizes that in looking at its elders – as represented by the Punch and Judy puppets – it may be looking at a horrible image of its future self, physically and mentally transformed by years of damage inflicted by inside and outside forces, and horribly incompatible with the heroic, successful or beautiful selves it has been promised in stories. The audience of royalty and courtiers, meanwhile, who laugh uproariously as Tonino and Angelica batter each other, might suggest the moment when a child first acquires a political consciousness and understands its personal helplessness in the face of indifference or even sadism on the part of the ruling classes. The Duchess with her ‘very broad’ smile need say nothing to make it clear how she relates to the children in terms of class. They can see from her expression that she knows exactly who they are, what has been done to them, how it will end, and that this only pleases her, is part of her plan, an image of what makes her a Duchess and them nothing more than her helpless lower-class subjects. The fact that the show is performed in front of a royal court helps to underscore the disparity between the comfortable fairy tales about themselves encouraged by the powerful and the oppressive truths these tales conceal.
But in fact, as Jones shows us, the kids are not without a power of their own. There are ways they can exploit the rules of the Punch and Judy show to resist their sneering puppet-master – as there always are in Jones’s books. Mr Punch, after all, is the master of breaking rules. He successively kills the Policeman, the Hangman, a Ghost and the Devil, the details varying according to the version of the show you happen to be playing; and it isn’t long before Tonino realises he can use this characteristic of his puppet character to undermine the Duchess. In order to control the show the Duchess must be ‘putting some of herself into all the puppets to make them work’ (p. 158). This means that to some extent she is the Policeman, the Hangman, the Devil and the rest, each of the instruments of power effectively drawing on some vital element in the puppet master who operates them. Her power over the puppets links her to the puppets, so that if Tonino-Punch can beat the other puppets he can beat the Duchess – physically as well as metaphorically. And he can beat them, because Punch always beats his enemies. The Duchess is as much the victim of the narrative she has chosen to be part of as the children are; and despite all her efforts to alter the outcome of the confrontation between Punch and the Hangman, it’s inevitably the Hangman who comes off worst in the end. Punch asks the Hangman repeatedly to show him how to put his head in the noose, and after several attempts to change the script the Hangman finally succumbs, puts the rope around his own neck, and is hanged himself by the irrepressible murderer – which damages the Duchess quite badly, thanks to the link between herself and the Hangman puppet. The Duchess may have thought this could not happen because her Punch and Judy puppets were mere children, and therefore self-evidently powerless; but one of the children was also Punch, and therefore self-evidently capable of subverting the script written by authority. The Duchess’s double-vision was not sufficiently advanced to let her recognise the consequences of her decision to take control of the Punch and Judy show, which is all about working against control.
Stories have rules, like states, Jones seems to suggest, but those rules can work both ways, asserting control over the would-be storyteller as much as over the story’s cast of actors. Another mistake the Duchess makes is to use her magic to bring both the rival families of Caprona under her control at once. By uniting Tonino and Angelica as her prisoners, forcing them to work together to escape her, she begins the process of undermining the two sets of familial stories or myths that have been handed down to the children of each family in lieu of knowledge. It doesn’t take long for Angelica and Tonino to realise that they have both been manipulated by their elders all their lives, as they exchange inherited ‘facts’ about the Montanas and the Petrucchis which turn out to be lies, all underpinned by their first-hand knowledge that they have both been kidnapped not by a rival family but by the Duchess. Their two separate perspectives combine to form a truthful double-vision of each other’s upbringing and of the myths on which it was founded.
Between them, too, they begin to read their situation in the light of a new story, dedicated not to conflict but cooperation. This is the story of the Angel of Caprona, a symbolic being who provides the two families with a spell to protect themselves against the White Devil that seeks to destroy the City of Caprona in each successive generation. Thanks to the children’s new alertness to the fact that one thing can also be another – their double-vision – they learn that the human-seeming Duchess is also the legendary White Devil, manifesting itself in a new form in their lifetimes as it has done in every earlier age or epoch. To defeat her, the children must combine the words of the spell of protection brought from Heaven by the Angel, only half of which is known to each of the families, the Montanas and the Petrocchis. The double-vision of the two families, who have described each other in grotesque terms to sustain their quarrel, must be symbolically fused by bringing together the two halves of the spell; and once this has happened the statue of the Angel on the dome of the Cathedral will come to life and defend the City (and it’s worth stressing here how the statue, once animated, becomes in this way an alternative ‘puppet’ to Punch and Judy). At the same time the White Devil will appear in her true form – a giant white rat – and be hunted down, in a final act of violence, by the cats of each family. Double-vision, in other words, need not be divisive. It can be shared, like all forms of knowledge, so that two people on opposing sides can learn together that the world is not the simplistic place they thought it was, composed only of trusty friends and implacable enemies; and this lesson once learned, their new, positive double-vision of each other can be shared in turn with the warring factions that brought them up.
With the end of the Duchess the invasion ends too, as the bewildered armies of Siena, Pisa and Florence return home after being somehow defeated by the Angel (we never learn the details). The Duchess’s favourite story, too, goes into abeyance at this point, as the narrative of Punch and Judy suddenly ceases to be relevant. At the climactic moment of her plot to destroy Caprona, all the members of both warring families, the Montanas and the Petrocchis, are turned into Punch and Judy puppets by the Duchess’s sorcery and imprisoned in the ducal palace, like Tonino and Angelica before them. The defeat of the White Devil restores them to human form, but in the meantime their transformation has humiliatingly confirmed their predilection for being manipulated, as Tonino and Angelica were in the puppet show before the Duke. As a result, both families quickly agree to abandon the habit of attacking one another on the slightest provocation, thus freeing themselves from the danger of succumbing to the power of puppet masters. The Duke, too, decides to abandon his obsession with Punch and Judy puppets; ‘Somehow I don’t fancy them like I used to’, he observes ruefully (p. 265). At this point the story of the Angel of Caprona – another object magically or imaginatively endowed with life – takes the place of Punch and Judy as the presiding narrative of the city and the novel. We can, then, choose the stories that govern us, Jones implies, at least to some extent.
But our choice of story will have a material effect on the way we see ourselves and each other. It must be made with care; and we must be equally careful not to let ourselves be subsumed or mastered by the narratives we have selected. Reading them with double-vision will help, keeping ourselves conscious of the fictionality of the stories we live by. An angel which is also a statue has less say over our choices than a plain angel. A Duchess who is also a giant rat can hardly make a bid for control of the country. Enemies who also have families just like ours are more difficult to see in simplistic terms; while we can hardly take ourselves over-seriously if we understand our own capacity for becoming objects, operated by strings, rods, slogans or cunning fingers. Puppets not only have a use in bringing stories to life, but they also have a use in reminding us that they are only stories. The double-vision they afford is a crucial one, and needs to be valued.
Russell Hoban, Riddley Walker
If The Magicians of Caprona considers glove puppets as embodiments of our susceptibility to being possessed by malevolent powers, Hoban’s Riddley Walker presents us with a still more disturbing vision of how they might embody the human condition. In a South-East England of the distant future – after a worldwide nuclear holocaust that has wiped out much of the population and mutated many of the survivors – we find ourselves wandering across a blasted landscape described in an English language which has mutated into a broken down, worn-out dialect, haunted by unintended puns and echoes of ideas, people, beasts, desires and objects from earlier epochs. Words, here, harbour double-visions of multiple kinds, reminding us repeatedly of their composite nature – constructed both from letters arranged in an unfamiliar orthography and embedded fragments of other words – while pointing towards different fragmentary narratives and forms of knowledge that run concurrently through the novel. The verbal units that make up this futuristic dialect can be seen as puppets steered by puppet-masters who suffer from acute memory loss – and who are therefore themselves in a sense made up of fragments, a situation symbolised by the severed hand of a dead puppeteer which is discovered by the protagonist, Riddley Walker, inside the remains of a glove puppet he unearths near the start of the novel. Desperately guessing at connections between one part of a sentence and the next, between one historical period and another, and between one element of knowledge – science, religion or philosophy – and the crucial companion element that will ignite it into new significance, the many would-be puppet-masters of time to come plunge blindly forward towards an unknown end. Some of them, indeed, plunge forward in a state of literal blindness, as one would-be puppet-master loses his eyes by violence, while another was born with ‘no eyes nor no hoals for eyes’ in his pallid face (p. 72). As a result of this outward and inward sightlessness their quest to move forward takes them only in circles, treading paths that have already been well worn by their ancestors, each circle centred on the ancient city of Canterbury, or ‘Cambry’ as it is known in Riddley’s lifetime. They are pilgrims condemned to repeat the trajectories of their forefathers over and over, Punch and Judies unable to free themselves from the murderous traditional narrative, so once again it’s hardly surprising to find Mr Punch himself at the heart of Hoban’s novel.
The multiple meanings spawned by the dialect of Hoban’s text are matched by the multiple rival factions that seek to dominate this damaged future, each of which is hard at work to recover the half-understood technologies of the past. Most of these factions are ironically convinced that recreating the nuclear bomb – or a less ambitious explosive such as gunpowder – holds the key to regaining the power that once put planes in the sky, light and heating into homes, and pictures and information into the metal brains of quasi-sentient machines. They seek, in other words, the power of destruction, thinking it the power of creation, and the most frightening thing about the book is its suggestion that they may well be right about the close connection between these two processes.
Stalking this blasted landscape is the half-remembered figure of Mr Punch, the embodiment of human resilience, human savagery, and human possession by ideas, dreams, feelings and obsessions not our own. A figure of Mr Punch is unearthed by twelve-year-old Riddley near the start of the narrative, and comes to embody in his mind the uneasy relationship between the post-apocalyptic present and the forgotten past. The chief characteristic of Mr Punch, for Hoban as for Wynne Jones, is possession. The puppet is possessed both by the puppeteer who seeks to make gains from his performances and by the violent story he is condemned to repeat through endless generations. His visible disability – the hump on his back – is understood by Riddley as a sign that Punch’s body has been deformed by radioactive fallout, while his violent life story (which Riddley learns from the puppeteer-politician Abel Goodparley) is being re-enacted on a larger scale in the book’s ‘real’ world, where the power-seeking factions descend from murderous local rivalry to the brink of all-out war. Possession locks Mr Punch into re-enacting his past again and again, and Mr Punch’s re-enactments confirm that the world is also locked into its habit of repeating past mistakes again and again till it self-destructs and the tortuous history begins once more.
The possessed interior of Mr Punch is destructively at odds with his colourful exterior. Inside is a living darkness full of fear and cunning, while the side he presents to the world is bright and crude – the disparity between the two qualities making him funny, at least in theory, at least for some. The inside is always on the verge of breaking out, of breaking into and breaking apart the already broken body that contains it (back to those broken-down words again, with meanings breaking through them in all directions). The same is true of Riddley Walker’s world, the world from which the body of Punch was accidentally dug up in a quest for the technological secrets of the past. The puppet body unearthed by Riddley at the dig signals the fact that the past has finally broken through into the present, and that the hidden darkness, fear and cunning which lurk in the human heart and mind have broken through into the light and colour of the shattered landscape, as one might expect they would in a place whose name has mutated over the centuries from ‘England’ to ‘Inland’, a land whose inhabitants are obsessed with looking inwards.
‘Looking inwards’, here, might mean seeking out one’s personal advantage in a bid to survive from day to day; or behaving parochially – in the interests of one’s local ‘crowd’, not anyone else’s; or examining one’s mind and body in a bid to understand one’s desires and instincts. Two sets of desires and instincts struggle for possession of the ‘inward’ parts of humankind in Hoban’s future. The first is the ‘first knowing’, the sort of knowledge humans share with animals: an inherited awareness of how to survive, and of the tragic inevitability of not surviving, giving rise to a sadness born of collective memory of family members and much-loved places repeatedly lost to disease or violence in a constant cycle from generation to generation. The second is ‘clevverness’, embodied in Mr Punch himself, as well as in his immortal enemy and twin Mr Clevver, aka Mr On The Levvil, aka the Devil. Clevverness is the constant quest for the upper hand, combined with the dangerous conviction that one’s head will supply it; this is the force that drives the factions on their explosive rival quests for power. These two forms of possession or inward action are in effect one, since they combine to urge the possessed – the human species or its subject members – on the same circular path that was trodden by their forebears. Clevverness cannot prevent this – and in Mr On the Levvil’s case may even wish to bring it about – and the First Knowing in us knows as much, though we suppress that knowledge as best we can. Riddley Walker, our protagonist, represents a fusion of Clevverness and First Knowing, reading riddles in the landscape and people around him, working out those riddles through ingenuity or by instinct or by accident, and walking them around the circuit he is doomed to tread, like his ancestors and contemporaries, till the answers fall into place (or don’t, as the case may be). For the most part, though, it’s the First Knowing that possesses him, giving him a special empathy with the anarchic wild dogs (the opposite of controlling gods) that roam the Inland landscape, for ever alienated from humankind by the memory of worldwide devastation.
The best representation in the book of First Knowing – the inherited, instinctual, dark knowledge we carry with us from birth – comes near the beginning in a conversation between Riddley Walker and the wise woman of his community, Lorna Elswint (Lorna implying loneliness, her surname suggesting a wind or spirit from elsewhere). Read in the light of Riddley’s later discovery of Mr Punch, the passage could equally be an account of the power of puppets, especially puppets of the glove variety, made from painted wood and colourful cloth and designed to fit the human hand, with the thumb and middle finger working the arms while the index finger nods the head. The passage is also a fine example of the broken-down dialect in which the novel is written, a suitable medium for a narrative about brokenness, forgetfulness, incomprehension, and the tendency to repeat ourselves inadvertently, without understanding:
Lorna said to me: ‘You know Riddley theres some thing in us it dont have no name.’
I said, ‘What thing is that?’
She said, ‘Its some kynd of thing it aint us but yet its in us. Its looking out thru our eye hoals. May be you dont take no noatis of it only some times. Say you get woak up suddn in the middl of the nite. 1 minim youre a sleap and the nex youre on your feet with a spear in your han. Wel it wernt you put that spear in your han it wer that other thing whats looking out thru your eye hoals. It aint you nor it dont even know your name. Its in us lorn and loan and sheltering how it can.’
I said, ‘If its in every 1 of us theres moren 1 of it theres got to be a manying theres got to be a millying and mor.’
Lorna said, ‘Wel there is a millying and mor.’
I said, ‘Wel if theres such a manying of it whys it lorn then whys it loan?’
She said, ‘Becaws the manying and the millying its all 1 thing it dont have nothing to gether with. You look at lykens on a stoan its all them tiny manyings of it and may be each part of it myt think its sepert only we can see its all 1 thing. Thats how it is with what we are its all 1 girt big thing and divvyt up amongst the many. Its all 1 girt thing bigger nor the worl and lorn and loan and oansome. Tremmering it is and feart. It puts us on like we put on our cloes. Some times we dont fit. Some times it cant fynd the arm hoals and it tears us a part. I dont think I took all that much noatis of it when I ben yung. Now Im old I noatis it mor. It dont realy like to put me on no mor. Every morning I can feal how its tiret of me and readying to throw me a way. Iwl tel you some thing Riddley and keap this in memberment. What ever it is we dont come naturel to it.’
I said, ‘Lorna I dont know what you mean.’
She said, ‘We aint a naturel part of it. We dint begin when it begun we dint begin where it begun. It ben here befor us nor I dont know what we are to it. May be weare jus only sickness and a feaver to it or boyls on the arse of it I dont know. Now lissen what Im going to tel you Riddley. It thinks us but it dont think like us. It dont think the way we think. Plus like I said befor its afeart.’
I said, ‘Whats it afeart of?’
She said, ‘Its afeart of being beartht.’
I said, ‘How can that be? You said it ben here befor us. If it ben here all this time it musve ben beartht some time.’
She said, ‘No it aint ben beartht it never does get beartht its all ways in the woom of things its all ways on the road.’ (pp. 6-7)
In this passage, the ‘thing’ inside us could be taken for our puppeteer, or the impulses that drive the puppeteer. But instead of a ‘clevver’ being with a self-serving agenda – the kind of being implied by the phrase ‘a puppet state’, authoritative, cunning and cruel, like the Duchess of Caprona – the being inside the human puppet is both childishly innocent and utterly inhuman. It has no identity, no words, no shape, no community, no hidden agenda. It isn’t an individual and it’s not a collective; it seems to have been split into multiple pieces by some past cataclysm – each piece lodged in a separate human person – and to be both lonely for the lost fragments of itself and terrified of assembling them, as if when assembled like the ingredients of a bomb it might go off, with devastating consequences. Like the hidden puppeteer it has no name, but its primary motivation is fear; above all, fear of itself, or of what might happen to itself and others if it comes together and gets ‘beartht’ or born. Hoban’s narrative gives numerous indications of the kind of happening that might ensue from such a reassembly and parturition. The nuclear catastrophe that destroyed humankind in the past seems to embody the sudden coming-together and emergence of that ‘thing’, released from the caging and sheltering womb by the quest for clevverness. A smaller-scale coming together and sudden emergence or birth takes place at the end of the novel, when one of the questing factions succeeds in detonating gunpowder, using ingredients of various kinds which have not been brought into explosive contact with each other for generations. In the process, the ‘thing’ is let loose again on the world, being born and killing, creating and destroying at one and the same time. And throughout the rest of the narrative, human beings and animals – dogs, boars, boys and men – find themselves torn to pieces and tossed aside as they first converge, then burst apart, like gloves or garments or bodies that can no longer contain what lies within. Being reassembled and born into the world, this dismantled ‘thing’ subjects itself and others to destruction of different magnitudes. The ‘woom’ or womb of creation is also the ‘WHAP’ of exploding ordnance (p. 188). No wonder the ‘thing’ is ‘Tremmering’ at the prospect of its own destructive creation.
In Riddley Walker, then, human beings are violent puppets; but puppets themselves also play a role. Puppet shows tour the scattered communities of the future, performed by the Pry Mincer and Wes Mincer of Inland’s government or Mincery, which is physically based on an island known as the Ram (the Isle of Thanet, with Ramsgate on it). The show is essentially government propaganda, informing the people of Inland about Mincery policy and urging their compliance. But the communities can answer back, and in doing so affect that policy. Each show is digested and reinterpreted for the local community by their own ‘connexion man’, a job that falls to Riddley Walker when his father, the old connexion man, is killed in an accident while working on a Mincery dig. Riddley ‘tels’ or makes connexions for his people, and in doing so has the potential to build resistance to unpopular directives from the Ram. He supplies them with a political double-vision, ensuring they never lose sight of the contingent nature of the policies acted out by the Mincery’s puppets.
The Ram’s puppet shows, in other words, have several checks on them to ensure they cannot work in a monologic or univocal way. Being delivered by puppets, all of them stock characters who get reused from show to show and from generation to generation, they are contained and controlled by certain conventions. The Ram’s shows have a backdrop of smoke and flames that reminds their audiences of the appalling consequences of wrong decisions. One of the characters is a figure called Eusa, a Punch-figure whose name recalls the two Cold War superpowers that brought about those consequences (USA, USSR). Another is Mr Clevver, with his pointy beard, his horns and his red complexion – an animated warning of the dangers of certain forms of knowledge, or of assuming one can control those dangers by ingenuity. The puppets are necessarily small, the ‘fit-up’ in which the show takes place is a portable, collapsible box, and the Mincery men who deliver the show are required to carry it around Inland themselves as if in ritual penitence for the events that reduced Inland to its current state. They are pilgrims, in other words, doing penance for past misdemeanours. And the show’s audience, as well as the connexion man, is actively involved in interpreting the Mincery’s performance, as well as in deciding whether or not to accept the connexion man’s exegetic reading of it, or ‘tel’. They are stridently vocal, as we see whenever Hoban describes a puppet performance. They are sometimes violent. Some nervous Pry Mincers and Wes Mincers, including Abel Goodparley and his sidekick Ernie Orfing, choose to protect themselves against potentially hostile audiences by being accompanied on their travels by a crowd of ‘hevvies’ from the Ram. Puppetry, in Hoban’s world, is an art that restricts the ambitions of the powerful and confers a degree of power on the people, who are rendered by it unruly co-performers as well as spectators, with a voice and unruly bodies of their own.
It’s crucially, too, a mobile art, created by travellers, even when those travellers purport to be speaking for a government attached to a fixed location (the Ram). Travellers are vulnerable, dependent on the goodwill of the communities they pass through and trade with; in this case, the items for trade on offer being the entertainment and the knowledge or information supplied by the show. Riddley Walker takes place at a point in future history when the communities across Inland have become divided between travellers and ‘formers’ or farmers, who are increasingly enclosing land for their own private uses, encroaching on the space available to the groups who have chosen to continue with their mobile lifestyle. Formers are also implicitly conservative, dedicated to recovering former times. A shift of power is taking place, from travellers to formers, and the current Pry Mincer and Wes Mincer are keen to encourage the shift to a forming existence. But their tool for encouragement, the show, embodies travelling rather than forming; and the travelling community who watch it, if not the formers, are inclined to side with the travelling ethos figured by the puppets, rather than the policies preferred by the Mincery’s script.
Meanwhile the Mincery itself is not monologic; like a Punch and Judy show, it doesn’t speak with a single voice. Of course, the voices of puppets in such a show are all spoken by one person – the puppeteer – albeit in different ways, so that like Lorna Elswint’s hidden ‘thing’ the puppets are one as well as many. But a crucial mediator between the show and its audience is the front man or bottler, who in the old days would pass a leather bottle round the audience to collect their fees, and who in Riddley’s time does the ‘patter’ – encouraging Eusa to come up from inside the booth and begin his performance, then challenging him when the show goes in a direction he doesn’t approve of. Orfing is the front man or bottler, and hence also the ‘Shaddow Mincer’, ‘Wes Mincer’ or opposition leader in the Mincery, and he challenges the Pry Mincer Goodparley repeatedly in the first performance by the pair we witness. Later the two Mincers split up, in a witty allusion to the splitting of the atom to create nuclear fusion, and form separate factions in the quest for power. And later still Orfing joins Riddley as they develop a new show – based not on Eusa but on Punch and Judy – which is designed specifically to encourage the continuation of travelling, and of remembering the disastrous outcome of the last quest for geographically demarcated, hierarchically organised power on the part of their ancestors. Orfing becomes Riddley’s front man, continuing the tradition of questioning the monologic voice on behalf of the community, without robbing the community itself of its raucous multiple voices.
For Hoban, in other words, a puppet show can be used for propaganda – like television, from which the twenty-first century public gets ‘tels’ from its powerful rulers – or as a work of art, with its own, less predictable ‘tels’, always wandering, refusing stability, taking its creators as much as its recipients by surprise, stirring up trouble, breaking up communities as well as forming them. At the end of the novel, Riddley and Orfing acquire a following through their performances: a mobile community of men, women and children, who choose to join them on their travels after each performance instead of continuing their lives as members of stable communities defined by ‘forms’ and ‘fentses’ (fences, the temporary defensive structures put up by travellers at their camp sites). This travelling troupe, possessed by the spirit of First Knowing and carrying the memory of the ambiguous Mr Punch, takes to the roads at a time of crisis, when the knowledge of how to make gunpowder has been unleashed on the world once more and violent power struggles have broken out of the shadows to which for a while they had been confined. Puppets have always been used for resistance and protest – most strikingly, perhaps, in the radical days of the 1960s and 70s, when political companies like Bread and Puppet (in New York City, then Vermont) or In the Heart of the Beast (in Minneapolis) sponsored performances and May Day processions in the USA, or in modern times when the refugee puppet Little Amal walked from the Syrian border to Glasgow for COP 26, the climate conference of 2021. For Hoban these political puppets have a supernatural or spiritual air about them, being driven by forces we and they do not understand: the winds of change, the wind from elsewhere (the ‘Elswint’), an instinctive alertness for imminent crisis. In Riddley Walker and his people he has created a potent image of the perennial potential of puppets to serve as a means of giving a voice to the unvoiced, the dis-voiced, the voiceless.
John Masefield, The Box of Delights
If Riddley’s puppet show is an unsettling work of political and spiritual art, written as prologue to the cyclical human performance of war, another puppet show that speaks to an approaching conflict is that of the Punch and Judy man, Cole Hawlings, in John Masefield’s celebrated fantasy for children The Box of Delights (1935). Like Punch himself, old Cole is an ancient figure, reminiscent of the Wandering Jew or the Flying Dutchman as portrayed by Eugène Sue and Richard Wagner. Masefield introduced him in a long poem of 1921, King Cole, as a flute-playing traveller whose magic revives the fortunes of a group of destitute circus performers by bringing royalty to watch their show. In the poem, King Cole is the resurrected figure of a legendary monarch commemorated in the nursery rhyme ‘Old King Cole’, under whom England was properly merry – or at least that little corner of England ruled by him, the quasi-fictional ‘valley-land from Condicote to Thame’ in which Masefield sets most of his novels, a kindlier, smaller version of Hardy’s Wessex (p. 731). After his death King Cole is granted the gift of wandering the country with his wooden flute, an ‘old, poor, wandering man, with glittering eyes’ who bestows blessings on the needy: ‘His piping feeds the starved and warms the cold, / It gives the beaten courage; to the lost / It brings back faith, that lodestar of the ghost’ (p. 731). As a performer who brings new courage and prosperity to performers, King Cole is a patron of art and artists, who specializes in celebrating the humblest forms of creativity. He says of the travelling circus people, ‘they serve the arts and love delight’ (p. 749), and transforms their painted waggons with his music into rich emblems of fertility: ‘And all the vans seemed grown with living leaves / And living flowers, the best September knows, / Moist poppies scarlet from the Hilcote sheaves, / Green-fingered bine that runs the barley-rows’ (p. 741). By the end of the poem the fragile love-relationships between members of the circus troupe have also been renewed. Returned from the dead as a genial green god, King Cole in turn revives, refreshes and regenerates the people of Masefield country and their dreams (hence the reference to poppies), giving him the same supernatural, quasi-ritualistic potency as Hoban’s puppets.
In The Box of Delights Masefield brings back King Cole again in the person of Cole Hawlings, still a wandering, poor old man with glittering eyes, but transformed in voice – he now speaks like a traveller rather than a monarch – and seemingly also more ancient than any King of England, since he has been travelling, he tells us, since before England even existed. As he explains to the book’s protagonist, young Kay Harker: ‘First there were pagan times; then there were in-between times; then there were Christian times; then there was another in-between time; then there was Oliver’s time; and then there was pudding time: but the time I liked best was just before the in-between time, what you might call Henry’s time’ (p. 46). In this incarnation Cole is a Punch and Judy man, with a little dog called Toby; but the focus of his act is not so much on the puppets as on the visions he can conjure up with his performer’s magic: sometimes in the fire, sometimes from the wainscot of a living-room wall, sometimes in an ordinary picture (which becomes a portal, Mary Poppins style, when Cole needs to make a quick escape from his enemies), but most often through the little box of the novel’s title, which gives its user free access to the folkloric spaces of the past like a miniature time machine.
The Box of Delights is a kind of Puppet theatre or booth, and hence an embodiment of the artist’s ability to conjure up wonders in a little space with the most ordinary of ingredients: wood, paint and cloth, or words like Masefield’s, or a child’s imagination. The theatre can be carried even by a little man – Orfing in Riddley Walker is the porter of the Mincery’s booth despite his diminutive stature – and Cole Hawlings can lift it with ease when escaping by mule from his enemies into the drawing of a Swiss mountain: ‘he swung himself onto the mule, picked up the theatre with one hand, gathered the reins with the other, said, “Come, Toby,” and at once rode off with Toby trotting under the mule, out of the room, up the mountain path, up, up, up, till the path was nothing more than a line in the faded painting, that was so dark upon the wall’ (p. 61). The portable nature of the theatre explains and symbolises its resilience, its capacity to survive from generation to generation, evading censorship and litigation, and mutating from time to time to accommodate new social and political circumstances. It is a theatre for travellers, as Hoban confirmed in Riddley Walker; and as it travels the magic it contains can be unleashed and escape into its various surroundings, rendering them magical too. In this scene the drawing on the wall becomes another miniature theatre, and after Cole Hawlings has disappeared into the picture magical fragments continue to blow back into the room where it is hung from the mountain landscape he has brought alive: snowflakes that resolve themselves into ‘shapes of coloured paper’ and ‘little coloured balloons, in the shapes of cocks, horses, ships and aeroplanes’, each carrying a gift for one of the children in Kay’s house (p. 61). The puppet theatre is small and seemingly enclosed, but thanks to the interactions between the puppets, the audience, the bottler (where there is one) and the puppet-master’s little dog Toby, is always escaping from its confines and unleashing strangeness on the world. And every audience that witnesses a puppet performance takes a fragment of it home with them in their hearts and minds, to lend new strangeness to enclosed spaces like paintings, boxes, wainscots, wardrobes, and windows with curtains, throughout their lives to come.
The Box of Delights, being even smaller and more portable than a puppet theatre – though equally full of the visions and wonders which Cole Hawlings calls ‘plays’ (p. 47) – comes to symbolise this capacity for survival from the deep past as strongly as the booth itself. And the theatre and its master are connected to the past from the very beginning of the story. The villainous Abner Brown – a foreigner of uncertain origins, possibly American, who wants to get hold of the Box for his own nefarious purposes – thinks of Cole Hawlings as the custodian of an ancient puppeteering tradition that goes back even further than Punch. ‘I am interested,’ he tells Kay’s cousin Little Maria,
‘in the various forms of the Punch and Judy show, and this man is the son, and grandson of Punch and Judy men, who were on the roads many years ago. This man is known to have several versions of the play which they played, and other versions still older, which are not played, and I do most earnestly want to meet him, and now he is off to this wild life of the roads in weather like this, where a touch of pneumonia, or a passing van, may wipe out his knowledge for ever.’ (p. 68)
Brown’s slightly sinister hint at the fragile mortality of the Punch and Judy man is belied by Cole’s own account of his long, long memory, which implies that he is more or less immortal. Abner’s concern for the old man’s welfare as he continues in the traveller tradition seems to mask a desire to see him confined to a fixed address, perhaps a workhouse or a Public Assistance Institution (the replacement for the workhouse in the 1930s). And Brown’s later insistence that Cole is no more than a reincarnation of the Catalan philosopher and alchemist Ramon Lully, Lull, or Llull (p. 265), serves a similar purpose: to fix him in a specific time and place, robbing him of his supernatural mystique. Cole himself never answers to the name ‘Lully’, and his memory of ‘pagan times’ suggests that if he is indeed Llull (who lived in the twelfth century) then Llull is a good deal more ancient than historians suspect; Lull, that is, may be Cole, rather than the other way round. Abner contends that Llull invented an elixir of life, and sought to trade it for the Box of Delights, which gave him mastery over time and space. If such a bargain had been successfully concluded this would help to explain Cole’s longevity, of course, while his possession of the Box – dug up by the Punch and Judy man many years after it was first lost – would help to explain his detailed knowledge of all those periods of history and prehistory; after all, the maker of the Box, Arnold of Todi, shows an equally detailed familiarity with the career of his greatest hero, Alexander the Great. But Cole’s own interest in the past is driven not by history but folklore. His Box transports its new possessor, Kay, to encounters with the pagan wood-spirit Herne the Hunter and a nameless Woman of the Oak-Tree, who has a wonderful way with animals of all species. These folkloric figures are as unconfined as the creatures that accompany them – squirrels, birds of every kind, and porpoises – and by giving Kay access to them, the Box identifies itself as a work of resistance to arbitrary boundaries and oppressive limitations.
Cole’s connection with Herne the Hunter and the Woman of the Oak-Tree marks him out, too, as a folkloric figure, not a historical one, closer to the nursery rhyme personality Old King Cole than the twelfth-century philosopher with whom Abner seeks to identify him. He embodies knowledge which is not that of ancient philosophers, elitist magic-workers or modern scientists, but of the popular, oral variety; a knowledge which is decaying in the current cycle of history, but may revive itself, as King Cole did in the poem, when the next cycle begins. Wielders of such knowledge, like Punch and Judy men and travellers, are now despised, but were not so in the past and may not be in the future: ‘Time was when we had power,’ Cole tells Kay Harker when he first meets him, ‘like the Sun, and could swing the Earth and the Moon, and now our old wheels are all running down and we are coming to our second childhood. […] Still, they say […] that it begins again, in the course of time’ (p. 20). Regardless of Abner’s stories about Cole as Ramon Llull and Arnold of Todi, the old man seems possessed of both command over space and time and immortality thanks to his folkloric knowledge what he calls ‘the secrets of my show’, which ‘aren’t to be had by these common ones’ (p. 20), meaning the wealthy, ruling class men and women who seek possession of them – though he shares his show freely with the those who don’t seek exclusive possession of it.
Abner’s desire to get hold of Cole, meanwhile, and to winkle his knowledge out of him by fair means or foul, marks him out as the polar opposite of the old man. Brown is a person with his own narrow, secretive, self-serving range of desires and obsessions; not a generous sharer of his art like the puppet master, who performs for every comer he encounters in his ‘wild life on the roads’, but a private collector, who keeps the things he collects (like the box of jewels he crows over at one point in the novel, a colder, stonier container than the Box of Delights) for his own delight and no one else’s. Brown, in fact, represents a menace from the past that has always been opposed to what Cole stands for: imaginative wonder, delight, and adventure freely shared with all. Brown is the leader of a band of ravening ‘wolves’, who have materialised in every epoch to which the Box gives Kay magical access. In each of these epochs these symbolic ‘wolves’ have hurled themselves against the protective fences of peace and art: not just as the ‘enormous wolves, with red eyes and gleaming teeth’ that attack Kay when the Box takes him into the Camp of the legendary King Arthur (p. 88), or clamour about the walls of the mythical City of Troy, which Kay also visits; but as the ‘other wolves’ who are in pursuit of the Box, the devious human kind that ‘magistrates don’t heed’ (p. 90). One of the reasons magistrates don’t heed this kind of wolf is that it so often takes the shape of establishment figures. Abner disguises himself as a clergyman – the head of a missionary training college – while his followers who kidnap Cole after he has passed the Box to Kay are at first assumed by the police to be officers from the local aerodrome, having a frolic. Abner’s gang has an enormous underground hideout which is mostly made up of prison cells; cars that can turn into planes and fly at great speed in absolute silence; criminal operations throughout the world, it seems; and an endless supply of weaponry. Abner himself, meanwhile, is an avid collector. He has his personal collection of jewels, a collection of enslaved supernatural servants – including a sullen Boy and a Brazen Head – and a collection of human prisoners, to which he adds as the novel goes on till the dungeons underneath his hideout are crammed full of them. His acquisitiveness marks him out as capitalistic, as well as socially elevated; but for all his high status the double-vision supplied by Cole identifies him as one of the wolves, readily visible to all despite the clerical sheep’s clothing he affects.
Abner Brown shuts things down and locks people up; the Box opens things out and liberates people from bondage – first the castaway Arnold of Todi, who is rescued from a desert island through its agency, then the crowds of prisoners locked up by Abner Brown. Kay’s acquisition of the Box of Delights from Cole Hawlings renders Kay an apprentice puppet master, first drawn into the wonderful ‘plays’ the Box already contains, then empowered to produce original ‘plays’ with props of their own. And his plays are dedicated to liberty. In the final section of the book, Kay uses the Box to transport himself to Abner’s underground lair, where the cells are, and here Cole shows him how to make functional, liberatory art using the old man’s special brand of magic. Under Cole’s direction Kay makes drawings of creatures and objects that could help the prisoners break free from the cells in which Abner has locked them; drawings that come alive, as the drawing of the mountains came alive for Cole, and detach themselves from the fragile sheets of paper to which they were once confined. Here’s the moment when it begins to happen:
In fact, the drawings did stand out from the paper rather strangely. The light was concentrated on them; as [Kay] looked at them the horses seemed to be coming towards him out of the light, and, no, it was not seeming, they were moving; he saw the hoof casts flying and heard the rhythmical beat of hoofs. The horses were coming out of the picture, galloping fast, and becoming brighter and brighter. Then he saw that the light was partly fire from their eyes and manes, partly sparks from their hoofs. “They are real horses,” he cried. “Look.” (p. 378)
As with the moment when Cole Hawlings rides the mule into the picture of the mountains, the wonder of this passage is the double-vision it generates; the picture is as vividly present to the reader’s eye as the horses in it, and Kay’s joyful cry, “They are real horses,” serves only to remind us that they are also not real horses, since they are ‘coming out of the picture’, not out of a field or forest, and they have a light about them ordinary horses do not cast.
In The Box of Delights, then, large and small puppet theatres, the puppet master and his young apprentice, become emblems of art at its most liberating and exuberant. And although the end of the book has disappointed some, with its Alice in Wonderland consignment of Kay’s adventures to the land of dreams, Masefield ensures the boy wakes up in a railway carriage – making him a modern traveller, capable of going wherever the rails might take him – and with a strong appreciation of the dream in which he met Cole Hawlings (‘Have you had a nice dream?’ his governess asks him, and Kay replies ‘I have’, p. 418). His return to the ordinary world need not disenchant the story we’ve just been reading so much as re-enchant the ordinary. And the ordinary was in great need of re-enchantment in the year the book was published, 1935.
Abner Brown is a pleasingly hopeless villain, plotted against by his witchy wife, Sylvia Daisy Pouncer, and her scheming lover the foxy-faced Charles, unable to retain the loyalty of his gang (purely on account of his own disloyalty), incapable even of getting satisfactory service from his supernatural servants, who resent him because he mistreats them every time he consults them. But the Wolves with whom he is associated are sometimes frightening, if only because they are everywhere, in all times and places, and always hungry. Perhaps, too, Masefield’s first readers of Kay’s age would have been aware that there were Wolves abroad as they read: the wolves of fascism, Stalinism, Nazism and the rest, whose presence in Europe would lead to another war almost as mythical as and vastly more cataclysmic than the Trojan wars or the wars waged by King Arthur, or even Alexander the Great. Under these conditions the smallness of puppets, who enact stories that endure from age to age in the face of conflict and calamity, and who come to life again and again despite the self-evident lifelessness of their wood, paint and cloth, can be comforting and even inspiring, as we look for ways to express our own opposition to the abuses of power. Diana Wynne Jones, Russell Hoban and John Masefield all seem to say so. We could do with some of their hopeful double-, treble- and quadruple visions right here and now, in the year of conflict 2022.
 Steve Tillis, Toward an Aesthetics of the Puppet (New York etc.: Greenwood Pres, 1992), p. 65.
 See for example the quote from Michael R. Malkin on p. 37 of Tillis’s Toward an Aesthetic of the Puppet: ‘Puppetry has played a vital role in the development of what can be called the dramatic concept of the plausible impossible […] [This] is the link between the world of the real and the realm of pure fantasy […] It is this sense that puppetry represents a basic theatrical concept; it represents dramatic imagination in one of its most fluid forms’.
 See his discussion of ‘literary belief’ in the essay ‘On Fairy Stories’ in Tree and Leaf (London: HarperCollins 2001), pp. 37-8.
 As I write this, I remember the artist and puppet designer Brian Froud telling us how, when drawing our painting the Devon landscape, he seeks out the strange life that inhabits it – the life that’s somehow inside it, as the faeries of Ireland and Scotland are said to dwell inside the hills; and I wonder if I’m right. That wonder is exactly where the pleasure of fantasy lies. The status of what we ‘know’ is at stake here, and fantasy is often concerned to trouble our assumptions about ‘knowledge’ and ignorance, as I hope this post will go on to suggest.
 All references are to The Magicians of Caprona (London: HarperCollins, 2008).
 Tillis’s book includes a fascinating section on the way puppets have sometimes seemed to take control of their puppet masters; Toward an Aesthetics of the Puppet, p. 33 ff.
 All references are to Riddley Walker (London: Picador, 1980).
 All references to ‘King Cole’ are taken from The Collected Poems of John Masefield (London: William Heinemann, 1923).
 All references are to John Masefield, The Box of Delights, or When the Wolves Were Running (London: William Heinemann, 1935).
 ‘And now, Master Harker and friends,’ he said, coming outside his stand, ‘now that I’ve played my play, I’ll play more than my Punch and my Judy, for a travelling man collects as he goes, or doesn’t he?’
[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.
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.
[Enter CLARISSA, MELISSA, FRANCHISSA, DOCTOR and PROFESSOR.]
CLARISSA: We had too much excitement
Last night, Melissa. We’re too old
For gallivanting round in forests.
MELISSA: O woe! O woe!
The Palace walls are melting into the floor,
There’s no difference between one room and another.
When I’m in bed I can’t sleep; when I’m awake I dream.
CLARISSA: Alas! There’s nothing lovely left in the land.
FRANCHISSA: My handsome Prince is gone.
CLARISSA: My poor Franchissa, yours is the deepest sorrow.
MELISSA: Don’t cry, Franchissa – I’ll give you my cosmetics –
Any of my best dresses, only don’t cry!
DOCTOR: I can’t understand it. My experiments
Have lost all lustre since the Prince was killed.
PROFESSOR: All night I was hungry, but now food tastes like ash.
Ladies, we’ve acted like a pair of pigs.
CLARISSA: You certainly have!
MELISSA: O please don’t blame them, dear Clarissa!
We must try to comfort one another.
EMPEROR: Doctor, Professor, I’ve made a decision –
I’ve finally made a decision of my own.
Henceforth you’re relieved of the government!
PROFESSOR: Take it back, sire, with our thanks.
EMPEROR: But O, it wasn’t mine to give away!
Every trust I was given I betrayed;
Why didn’t the Dragon gobble me
Instead of my daughter, the sweetest, brightest girl
Ever to brew her father’s cocoa?
[Enter NURSE, bandaged.]
NURSE: It’s been the worst night I remember.
The wind howled, the raindrops were so huge
They smashed the window in the butler’s pantry.
EMPEROR: My poor dear Nurse, what has become of you?
NURSE: A clap of thunder made me fall downstairs.
I hurt my right arm, my left leg and my chin.
Hark! There’s the doorbell!
EMPEROR: I’ll answer it myself.
DOCTOR: Who can be calling at this hour?
I gave strict orders no one was to leave his bed
Till noon. The streets are empty. Only ash
Stirs here or there in little eddies.
[Re-enter EMPEROR with DRAGON.]
EMPEROR: So I wasn’t drunk when I saw you last!
Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce
This battered newt of my acquaintance.
DRAGON: Delighted to meet the company, I’m thure.
Forgive my lithp. In my panic thith morning
I fell down a coal-thute and knocked out all my teef.
CALRISSA: You were the beast
Who tried to murder the Prince!
MELISSA: You wanted us all to die in the forest –
I’ve half a mind to knock your brains out too!
DRAGON: Ladieth, it’th true I’ve been a thcoundrel –
Though I made nobody do anyfing
That wathn’t in their natureth –
But now, believe me, I’m an honetht Dragon,
Completeley reformed by my exthperientheth.
Without my teef I wouldn’t latht
Ten thecondth ath a villain anyway.
Tho I’ve come to athk if you have any
Thituathion for a willing reptile
Who will acthept the motht modetht thalary
With almotht thycophantic gratitude.
For inthtanth, I thtew thuper thauthageth!
EMPEROR: Snake, in the past my hearth has welcomed you
Too readily; but if you’re really reformed
And promise not to break the glasses when you’re cross,
You can be the thirty-first assistant chef.
DRAGON: I’m thtricken by your generothity.
[Doorbell rings again.]
NURSE: Hark! The doorbell again!
Who would have thought so many would be stirring
So early in the day?
PROFESSOR: This time I’ll go.
It’ll help to keep my stomach quiet.
[Exit PROFESSOR. Re-enter with CAT.]
See who it is! A black cat on two legs!
CAT: Emperor, could you spare a fishbone?
I’ve lost my friends, my happiness and my bet
And I’m almost dead with hunger.
CLARISSA: Come, poor Cat,
Lie down on this soft rug and lick your paws.
CAT: I’m sorry I bonked your nose, your Majesty.
EMPEROR: I earned it, Cat. You may do it again if you like.
[Doorbell rings again.]
NURSE: Will that doorbell never stop ringing?
DOCTOR: By the law of averages it’s my turn to answer.
EMPEROR: I wish we could invite the whole country,
All the people, horses, cats and dogs
Into the Palace to warm themselves by the fire;
All the trees to take root in the carpets,
The fields to sprout from the ceilings,
The rivers to run down the staircases
And the stars to illuminate the chandeliers.
Then, perhaps, if they would come,
The Palace might be bright again at last!
DOCTOR: By all that’s statistically improbable!
I’ll throw my logarithms in the lake!
Ladies and gentlemen, see who was at the door!
[Enter GEORGE, PAMELA and CHIEF OF POLICE.]
EMPEROR: All the miracles that ever were,
The cows, the cats, the forests and the stars
Dwindle to nothing beside this miracle!
FRANCHISSA: My constable! Where have you been?
CHIEF: We’ve been fighting the Dragon.
GEORGE: We defeated it.
PAMELA: It came leaping and squawking in this direction –
We were afraid it might have squashed the Palace.
EMPEROR: Come in, sit down, recover your breath,
Speak, breathe, move, show that you’re alive!
My daughter I thought I’d never see again!
Prince George, what can I say? Can you forgive me
What I shall never forgive myself?
PROFESSOR: Or I, Prince George?
DOCTOR: I can hardly define the word ‘forgive’,
But I surrender to your judgement, Prince.
GEORGE: My dear friends, there’s nothing to forgive;
I’m overjoyed to see you safe and sound.
EMPEROR: Your kindness shames us more than anger would.
MELISSA: But dear Princess, won’t you describe the fight?
CLARISSA: Yes, yes, describe the triumph of virtue!
If only my lumbago
Hadn’t prevented me from joining in!
PAMELA: There’s not a lot to tell.
The smoke and flame from the Dragon’s throat
Hid us as we ran towards it;
The Chief of Police reached the monster first
And struck it on the chin so hard
That its teeth snapped shut like the Palace gates.
MELISSA (hitting EMPEROR): What a blow that was! O, sorry, your Majesty!
CHIEF: Then I fell down and it gripped me
In its right foreclaw; the Prince rushed forward
And stabbed the claw so fiercely it let go.
CLARISSA (hitting DOCTOR): Well smitten, Prince! O, sorry, Doctor!
GEORGE: The Dragon twisted round to deal with me,
But the Chief Constable had dropped his knife
Which Princess Pamela snatched up –
Just as the cavernous jaws stretched to engulf us
She stabbed it on the left hind leg!
EMPEROR (hitting PROFESSOR): Coward that I am! What heroism!
Sorry, Professor, are you hurt?
PAMELA: It gave a bellow like a bursting oil-rig
And crashed away through the trees
Raising solid walls of smoke on either side,
Throwing up hillocks with its scrabbling claws,
Driving away the louds with its dreadful yells,
Its blood staining the earth bright red.
CHIEF: And as it went, colour came back to the land.
GEORGE: The hillocks grew to hills and mountains.
CHIEF: The scales that flaked off as it ran
Took root and sprouted into meadows.
GEORGE: The blood became carpets of scarlet flowers,
The tears it wept flowed down the hills like brooks,
The fire became copper beeches and maple trees,
The smoke became little white clouds
Drifting across the blue of its outstretched wings.
PAMELA: We followed it as far as we could.
CHIEF: And before we knew it
There we stood on the Palace’s front doorstep,
Panting for breath, still smarting from the heat.
FRANCHISSA: And welcome as raindrops to the desert!
PAMELA: There are still stretches of ash about,
Still a lot to do before the land is green,
But the change has begun!
GEORGE: I shall paint cows in the meadows again!
DOCTOR: And I shall smash my terrible machine
And apply my genius to healing the damage I’ve done,
A task as jolly as dissecting frogs!
CLARISSA: Melissa, Franchissa and I shall take our dusters
And polish every corner till there’s not a grain
Of ash left in the kingdom.
PROFESSOR: The lizard and I shall join talents to prepare a feast!
EMPEROR: I proclaim this day a public holiday!
I shall have to tell the people what that means.
CAT: And I shall spend a busy time
Licking my tired paws by the fire.
NURSE: My dears, a word before you begin.
Because you’ve made it clear
You can think of others besides yourselves
I can now tell the true story
Of how I hurt my arm, my leg and my chin.
PAMELA: Sit down and rest yourself while you speak.
NURSE: I’ve often told you how I watched
The Emperor’s ancestors fight with the scabulous beasts
Which have plagued this land since it rose from the sea.
Have you ever wondered how your old Nurse
Could have seen so many battles?
The truth is, I was the baleful Bish,
I was the Snipe snicked by the Emperor’s Uncle,
The garrulous Gargle that choked on his Grandpapa,
The streperous Tock with its purple-blotchy hide,
And moreover, I was the Beast in the vegetable patch
And the Dragon you chopped in the forest last night.
GEORGE: But that’s impossible! You’re our beloved Nurse!
NURSE: Haven’t you learnt yet
Never to judge by outward appearances?
I am the guardian of this little land.
In times of prosperity I wear human form
And hire myself as a baby-minder.
EMPEROR: To think I hired a fiend to mind my daughter!
NURSE: But when darkness clutched the land
Or ash plugged men’s ears and made their children sneeze,
Whenever colours faded, or the sky
Was smothered with evil-smelling fumes,
It was my doom to become a monster
And slither to the woods to fight a hero.
As long as someone would fight me,
As long as I was defeated, the land would live,
The fields grow lush, the pear-trees blossom;
But if once a hero failed to meet my challenge
Or fled when he felt the flame of my roar,
The dust would clog your ears and eyes for ever,
The land become a grave, and I be left alone,
A solitary worm wriggling in hollow places.
CAT: So when I tried to dissuade the Prince from fighting
I put the land in danger of destruction!
EMPEROR: And when I plotted the Prince’s murder
I was plotting the murder of my kingdom!
PROFESSOR: How precious a single life must be.
Perhaps when we squash a fly
A star bursts, or a planet detonates!
CLARISSA: Then how many solar systems died
When we wiped out mosquitoes?
DOCTOR: I kept a pair of mosquitoes in a test tube.
If I set them free, in a year or two
There’ll be as many as before.
CLARISSA: Then free them, Doctor dear!
Mosquitoes have such shapely legs, I feel;
Their bites are worth it just to watch them dance!
GEORGE: Nurse, forgive my bluntness,
But how can we tell if your tale is true?
NURSE: The truth is always changing;
Like a mosquito, it never stays in one spot.
But if you need proof, for what it’s worth,
Look at the battle-scars you gave me.
GEORGE: In exactly the places where we struck the Dragon!
Every word of your tale was true!
Come, Nurse, let’s celebrate with a feast!
NURSE: First let me prophesy that by the year’s end
There’ll be six weddings to sing about;
But who will marry whom I leave to you!
Marriage has nothing at all to do with magic.
[Exeunt ALL except CAT and DRAGON]
CAT: So, Dragon, after all I won my bet.
It’s always best to end with a feast and a dance.
You said I could have anything I wanted.
DRAGON: That wath when I fought I had thomefing to give!
CAT: I wonder now; she said six marriages;
And if my calculations are correct
Two people are needed to make each pair.
Twelve people in the Palace, six marriages.
I’ll tell you what I want at the year’s end!
Come now and help me decorate the Hall –
We’ll make it the first bright room in the Kingdom!
NURSE: I’ve not seen a Prince off on an adventure
Since the present Emperor’s father
Set off to slaughter the streperous Tock!
The bells have all struck midnight;
The people have been told to stay indoors
So that the land is empty. Only moonbeams
Stalk dusty streets and stare between branches.
We’ve come to the forest’s edge
To see the Prince and Princess on their way;
I wonder if we’ll ever see them more?
[Enter EMPEROR, CHIEF OF POLICE, DOCTOR, PROFESSOR, CLARISSA, MELISSA, FRANCHISSA, PAMELA, GEORGE.]
EMPEROR: I’ve liked this plot less and less
Since what happened in the cabbage plot.
DOCTOR: We assure your Majesty that by our calculations
And by the hoofprints in the earth
The beast was nothing bigger than a goat.
EMPEROR: A ghost, you say?
DOCTOR: A goat!
MELISSA: Of course I wasn’t scared, Clarissa.
CLARISSA: Nor I, of course, Melissa. It was a test.
We wanted to try our lovers’ courage!
MELISSA: We knew from the first it was a goat –
But we never guessed what goats the men would prove!
CLARISSA: Franchissa, what’s that object in your hair?
FRANCHISSA: A daisy, a daisy, I picked it by the way!
MELISSA: Why look, the ground is carpeted with daisies
Round the outskirts of the wood.
I haven’t seen daisies since I was a child
Before they were smothered by the ashes!
CLARISSA: Throw it away, at once, my dear,
You don’t know where it’s been.
If you want a flower to stick in your hair
You can have one from the Doctor’s greenhouse.
PAMELA: Aren’t you pleased with the shine on your sword?
GEORGE: Yes, but why can’t I use a gun instead?
PAMELA: Do you think a bullet could pierce a Dragon’s hide?
Only the strength of your arm can do that.
Besides, it wouldn’t be fair play!
GEORGE: You don’t think just a friendly pat would do…
EMPEROR: Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived.
The time has come to wish my nephew luck
And send him in after the goat, I mean Dragon.
Well, goodbye, young man, and may you get
What you deserve. Believe me, if I were younger,
Or you were older, or my daughter wasn’t mine,
Or the state of the country wasn’t what it is,
You, and I, and the country, and my daughter
Would be in different places, as it were.
DOCTOR: In the name of progress, massacre the monster!
CLARISSA: I wish I could lend an ounce of my virtue
To strengthen your arm!
FRANCHISSA: Good luck, good luck!
NURSE: Remember, if you’re eaten
We’ll have a beautiful funeral waiting!
GEORGE: Before I go, let me say this.
I haven’t been a very dutiful nephew,
But I’ve loved you all in different ways.
MELISSA: A secret apology meant for us!
CLARISSA: I could almost forgive him his rudeness!
GEORGE: I’d like to hope that if I killed the Dragon
The land would be green again, and happy,
But I can’t make that happen on my own.
DOCTOR: He wants us to revert to barbarism!
GEORGE: All I mean is, killing the Dragon hardly matters.
EMPEROR: He means it’s more important to kill me!
How right the Doctor was!
GEORGE: I’m trying to kill my Dragon,
But we all have Dragons to kill.
CLARISSA: He can’t surely mean he wants our help!
PROFESSOR: What a long speech!
Did anyone bring anything to eat?
PAMELA: Come along, George, they don’t understand.
Their heads are buried in the dust.
Goodbye everyone! Our quest has started.
[Exeunt PAMELA and GEORGE]
EMPEROR: At last they’ve gone. Now you all know your parts?
Chief of Police, you have your knife;
I have my blunderbuss; Professor and Doctor,
You have the map of the forest and a torch;
Then each to his position. Goodness me!
I’m enjoying this more than I expected!
Giving orders I feel almost like an Emperor!
DOCTOR [aside]: Tomorrow you won’t feel anything at all.
[Exeunt EMPEROR, DOCTOR, PROFESSOR and CHIEF]
MELISSA: These flowers give me the loveliest idea!
When I was a girl there was something we did
Each Midsummer Eve: we used to dress in green
And go singing and dancing through the forest;
We called it ‘maying’.
CLARISSA: No, no, that was in May.
MELISSA: Maying or Juning, I can’t remember which;
But this was the rather mad idea I had:
Why not pretend this is Midsummer’s Night
And dance and gambol as we did when young?
I’m sure I don’t feel a day older than fifty!
FRANCHISSA: Let’s go prancing, let’s go dancing!
CLARISSA: But Melissa, what about the Dragon?
MELISSA: The Doctor says it was a goat,
And the Doctor knows everything.
CLARISSA: The Professor says it was a cow,
And the Professor knows even more.
MELISSA: Whatever it is, it can’t hurt us.
My dear Melissa, surely you’re not scared?
CLARISSA: Melissa, I only had your nerves in mind –
You shouldn’t strain them at your age.
MELISSA: Of course, you know more about such things
Seeing you’ve six years’ more experience!
CLARISSA: Six! Five and a half at most, my dear Melissa.
MELISSA: Then follow me, my doves; just for tonight
We’ll run mad in white linen
And draw pictures in the sand!
[Exeunt MELISSA, CLARISSA and FRANCHISSA]
NURSE: So the forest has swallowed them all.
I’ve heard say woods can change folks overnight;
But this gadding about is for younger bones
Or crackpots like those crazy ladies.
It’s bitter cold at night in these wastes
And anything can happen in the dark.
No one knows that better than I!
I’ll home to bed with a cup of cocoa.
[Enter DRAGON disguised as CAT. Then enter GEORGE and PAMELA]
GEORGE: How dismal the trees are in their mossy cloaks;
This place is arched like an underground dungeon.
PAMELA: At least they’re well spaced out.
GEORGE: Don’t tread on dead leaves,
They sound like thunder.
PAMELA: It’s odd, but there are no dead leaves.
Everything’s clean as if it had been swept.
Have you noticed how the trees have changed?
Near the forest borders they were stooped and dead,
A tangle of charred fingers clutching the stars;
But here the trees are taller, straighter,
With little hand-like sprays of leaves.
Where should we start looking for the Dragon?
GEORGE: I don’t care where, so long as we don’t find him!
Some of these treetrunks are the weirdest shapes,
Almost like people, almost like reptiles…
Ouch! Pamela, I touched one and it moved!
PAMELA: That’s no tree, it’s someone dressed in black!
Whoever you are, don’t move an inch!
GEORGE: So still and silent;
Under the folds of his cloak his eyes are green.
Keep behind me, Pamela, I see claws!
DRAGON: Greetings, your Royal Highnesses!
PAMELA: Why, it’s only the Cat we met in the Palace.
What are you doing in this wilderness?
Hurry back to your warm hearthrug
Before your fur gets singed with Dragon-fire!
GEORGE: I don’t trust Cats with scaly noses.
What are those lights beyond the trees?
[GEORGE wanders off]
DRAGON: My last warning didn’t help you much,
So I’ve come to help you find your precious Dragon.
PAMELA: So you’ve decided Dragons do exist?
DRAGON: Not the big sort.
This Dragon’s little, but he’s deadly.
He doesn’t eat people, only their minds;
Nor burn haystacks, but withers corn at the root,
Nor squash palaces, but he froze the heart
That sold the palace bricks to build a prison.
PAMELA: Now there’s a foe worth fighting!
Where does he live, Cat?
DRAGON: In a slimy cave not far from here
Thick with the bitter chemicals he thrives on.
PAMELA: This time, Cat, you’d better be telling the truth!
Come quickly now, we must stick together –
It’s easy to get lost in the dark. Prince George?
What’s so funny, Cat? Where are you, Prince?
DRAGON: My poor girl, nothing can save him now;
You’ll never see the oaf again.
For all your eagerness to find the Dragon
You never guessed you were staring him in the teeth!
Look at me closely, girl! I am the beast!
PAMELA: You tatty bit of snakeskin!
Wait till I get my hands on your mouldy snout!
DRAGON: Stand back, or I’ll bite our fingers off! O dear,
I’m sorry I spoke so rudely, but I’m sure
We’ll meet in happier circumstances soon.
I didn’t lie, my cave’s not far away,
And I beg you to consider yourself invited
To breakfast there tomorrow morning.
You’ll make an excellent dessert
After a main course of Cat!
Goodbye for now; I’m off to watch the Prince
Being kippered by the Emperor and his men!
PAMELA: Don’t think you’ll get away with this –
My nails are sharper than your scaly eyes!
[Exit DRAGON, pursued by PAMELA]
[Enter PROFESSOR and DOCTOR]
PROFESSOR: Doctor Thumbscrew, let me see the map.
DOCTOR: Professor Dumbstew, I gave the map to you.
PROFESSOR: I’ve never touched it in my life.
DOCTOR: Then we must have dropped it somewhere. Hand me the torch.
PROFESSOR: But the torch was yours;
It was one of your inventions with a beam that went round corners.
DOCTOR: I deny that assertion;
It was one of your inventions, without a beam at all.
PROFESSOR: What a labyrinth this forest is!
I feel like a rat in one of my own experiments.
We should never have let it stand.
DOCTOR: First thing tomorrow we shall have it down.
Lucky I know the place like the back of my scalpel!
We sent the Prince in that direction;
Therefore, if we construct a triangle
With angle forty-five degrees at corner B –
PROFESSOR: Good thing my memory’s better than yours,
Otherwise by now we’d be in the Gulf of Bong!
My dear Doctor, the Prince went that way,
Along a radius X of circle Y
Which converges with diameter Z at angle Q…
DOCTOR: Professor, your geometry’s inadequate.
PROFESSOR: Doctor, your trigonometry needs examining.
DOCTOR: How dare you criticize my trigonometry!
It’s healthier than yours!
PROFESSOR: I had mine refurbished only last month.
DOCTOR: Then I have a simple solution. Since you’re so clever
You go your way to find Prince George
And I’ll go mine.
PROFESSOR: Simple but brilliant.
Your empiricism is unequalled;
Pity about the trigonometry!
DOCTOR: The first to see Prince George must whistle thrice.
Come quickly when you hear me whistle!
PROFESSOR: Except of course that I shall whistle first.
[Exeunt PROFESSOR and DOCTOR]
[Enter EMPEROR and CHIEF OF POLICE]
EMPEROR: Chief Constable, don’t walk so fast!
CHIEF: We’ll never catch him at this rate, sire.
EMPEROR: Don’t shout, Chief Constable. Give me the torch!
You never know what slinking thing
You might awaken in the depths.
O curse the dark! If I were Emperor
I’d plant steel rods across the plain
With light bulbs at the tips in clusters
And banish night to shadows under furniture.
CHIEF: But you’re already Emperor, sire!
EMPEROR: Why so I am, and you wouldn’t believe
How tedious it is!
Peace and quiet – what’s that noise?
CHIEF: Stop here a moment, sire. I’ll run and see.
EMPEROR: Don’t leave me alone!
CHIEF: Be calm, your Majesty. It might be the Prince.
You have your blunderbuss and the torch;
In fifteen seconds I’ll be back
With the Prince’s head in my hand, perhaps.
EMPEROR: How true. I have the gun. I must be brave.
I think these trees would like to strange me
In their knobbly arms. I find I’ve got the map,
But lines on paper make no sense
In this wilderness. The torch only makes shadows
Leap at me angrily from either side.
These trees are the last in the kingdom;
They hate me for the death of their families!
Go away, trees! It wasn’t my fault!
I wish I was safe at home by a blazing fire.
See how they bristle when I mention fire!
The terrible things I didn’t prevent
Frighten me worse than the things I did.
Listen! Footsteps! Constable, is that you?
[Enter PRINCE GEORGE]
GEORGE: In the name of the Emperor, Dragon, show yourself!
EMPEROR [hiding behind CAT as tree]: The Prince! Quick – off with the torch –
Load up the blunderbuss – horseshoes, tintacks,
Nails, ball-bearings, hooks, electric plugs…
GEORGE: I hear the clatter of its metal scales!
EMPEROR: Aim in the direction of his voice,
Bracing the barrel on this useful branch,
This useful branch attached to this furry stump,
This furry stump with glowing eyes
And seven rows of yellow teeth – O help!
GEORGE: The Dragon’s roaring! Heaven preserve me!
EMPEROR: I’m leaning on a monstrous bear!
Save me, Chief Constable! Come back, come back!
GEORGE: Here it comes! Protect me, Pamela!
[Re-enter CHIEF OF POLICE]
CHIEF: Emperor! Emperor! Where have you gone?
Feels like another thunderstorm is brewing!
CAT: Not even a Cat can see in this darkness
Filled with roots and hissing twigs.
We can only follow our noses
And hope for near misses.
Why, here the Misses come!
[Enter CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA, singing]
MELISSA: This life is so jolly! The charms of spring!
FRANCHISSA: Hey diddle diddle the Cat and the Dragon!
CLARISSA: Cuckoo, jug-jug, peewit, tuwhit-tuwhoo!
MELISSA: I wish I could still get into that dress
I bought when I turned sixty.
Don’t you miss the colours there were then?
CLARISSA: Never, dear Melissa; we’re better off as we are.
No colour is more distinguished than grey,
And no girls greyer or handsomer than we.
At our age, we are versed in every accomplishment –
Really, the young hardly deserve their youth!
Let us join hands in celebration
That we are what we are, and nothing less!
MELISSA: There were so many useless things when we were young.
I always thought the Doctor’s greatest triumph
Was the powder that wiped out mosquitoes.
A shame it wiped out all the birds as well,
But it was worth it just to be rid of mosquitoes!
FRANCHISSA: See how thick the flowers are at our feet!
CLARISSA: I never liked flowers. I suffer from hay-fever.
Bless the Professor! He couldn’t cure my hay-fever,
So instead he went to all the trouble
Of wiping out the flowers and butterflies.
So considerate! I wonder how this place was missed?
MELISSA: The Doctor says that by nine tomorrow morning
The world will be perfect. Isn’t that nice?
O Clarissa, why do I feel so sad?
CLARISSA: Yes, I could almost weep for joy myself.
FRANCHISSA: Sing hey, sing hey, the thrush and the jay!
CLARISSA: Franchissa recalls us to our merriment.
I know just the game we could play!
MELISSA: O bully!
CLARISSA: It’s a charm for finding out our future husbands.
MELISSA: My dear, what a simply mad idea!
CLARISSA: At school they called me ‘wild Clarissa’!
Here’s the charm; you have to do the actions.
Seven times we spin around,
Cross our legs and touch the ground,
Throw a daisy in the air,
Follow where it blows, and there,
If the moon is right above
You shall find your only love!
Can you sing that?
MELISSA: Of course!
[They sing it.]
CLARISSA: But it only works if we’re exactly
Underneath the moon. We should be
Further to the West, I think.
MELISSA: Isn’t this thrilling, dear Franchissa?
FRANCHISSA: I’ve already had three husbands.
CLARISSA: Follow me, my merry girls!
Skipping westwards in the moonbeams
To work our wild midsummer magic!
[Exeunt CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA]
GEORGE: I seem to have trudged these woods for years,
Calling for Pamela, looking for the Dragon,
Starting at every footfall, falling at every foot.
I’m so hot my cloak is suffocating me;
I’ll leave it here for mice to nest in.
There was a cave a little way back;
I’ll retrace my steps and hide in that.
Heaven protect my poor Princess!
[Exit GEORGE, leaving his cloak on the ground. Enter EMPEROR.]
EMPEROR: Somewhere along this path I dropped the map,
So now I must retrace my steps to find it,
While every bush I pass becomes a bear.
Why, what on earth is this?
A cloak, just like the one the Prince had on!
The best way to escape nightmares
Is to wrap your head in a blanket.
I’m fed up with running from bears, so here I’ll lie
And wait in piece for daybreak.
[EMPEROR lies down. Enter from different directions DOCTOR and PROFESSOR]
PROFESSOR: I know I’m hot on the Prince’s heels –
My tummy’s rumbling, a sure sign
That my prey is close. I’ve brought this ladle
To mash him with…
DOCTOR: I found a map a while ago,
But couldn’t read it in the dark
So I threw it in the brambles. But my calculations
Tell me the Prince is almost in my clutches…
PROFESSOR: I see a shadow over there
As tall and skinny as the Prince…
DOCTOR: Just where I expected, I see a silhouette
As short and chubby as Prince George!
PROFESSOR: He’s no idea what I’m about to do!
DOCTOR: He can’t foresee what he’s about to get!
PROFESSOR: Take that, barbarian! [Hitting the DOCTOR.]
DOCTOR: Take that, you anarchist! [Hitting the PROFESSOR.]
PROFESSOR: O my stomach!
DOCTOR: O my head!
PROFESSOR: Why, I recognize that voice!
DOCTOR: Professor Dumbstew!
PROFESSOR: Doctor Thumbscrew!
BOTH: What the Dragon do you think you’re doing?
PROFESSOR: It’s lucky you didn’t bludgeon me to death!
DOCTOR: No thanks to you I’m not a jellied pulp!
PROFESSOR: Then where in the name of Science is the Prince?
DOCTOR: Our common senses tell us he’s nearby.
We have only to search this glade
With our weapons and our wits alert…
PROFESSOR [Discovering the EMPEROR in PRINCE GEORGE’s cloak]: What’s that bundle like a pickled herring?
DOCTOR: It has a look of homo sapiens about it.
PROFESSOR: Isn’t it wrapped in the Prince’s cloak?
DOCTOR: I can’t see whether it’s breathing or not.
PROFESSOR: Shall I mash it?
DOCTOR: Shall I strangle it?
PROFESSOR: But – O Doctor Thumbscrew, what if it isn’t the Prince?
What if something crawled out of a hole
And knobbled him while we were in the dark?
DOCTOR: Nonsense, Professor, that’s illogical.
EMPEROR [Sitting up]: What men or beasts are these?
PROFESSOR: Thumbscrew! It spoke!
DOCTOR: Dumbstew! It’s not the Prince! It’s eyes are green!
[EMPEROR switches on the torch.]
PROFESSOR: O Lord, its left nostril has lighted up!
DOCTOR: Run, run, in the name of Science!
[Exeunt DOCTOR and PROFESSOR.]
EMPEROR: What a noise! Those must have been the ghosts
Of trees! I’ll wrap my head up in this cloak
And never be tempted to look out again!
[EMPEROR lies down again. Enter PAMELA.]
PAMELA: I think the Dragon was telling the truth
When he said I’d never see Prince George again.
If only someone would help me search!
What’s this? I tripped over a bundle.
No, it’s a body; in the Prince’s clothes!
Prince George? Prince George! No movement;
Stiff and cold…
He’s dead! Pistols and razorblades! I’m alone!
Why didn’t I bring my battle-axe? Where’s the Dragon?
[Exit PAMELA. EMPEROR gets up again.]
EMPEROR: It’s no good, I can’t sleep.
I thought I heard someone weeping beside me.
If only I had a friend to share my dreams with!
I used to think my nephew was my friend.
Well, I must find the Doctor and Professor
And ask them to report his death.
[Enter CHIEF OF POLICE.]
CHIEF: What luck to have found this map in the brambles!
I climbed a tree and read it by moonlight,
So here I am alone at the mouth of a cave.
I think I see the Prince inside; but traitor as he is
I can’t bring myself to use my knife. What’s that?
[Enter DOCTOR and PROFESSOR, running.]
PROFESSOR: Help, help! I hear the monster’s claws!
DOCTOR: Save me! Its breath is frazzling my hair!
PROFESSOR: Beware, Doctor, here’s another!
DOCTOR: Get out of my way, you clumsy pumpkin!
CHIEF: Professor Dumbstew, Doctor Thumbscrew, wait!
It’s only me, the Chief of Police.
PROFESSOR: Come back, Thumbscrew. He’s a colleague!
DOCTOR: O, it’s you, is it? No need to shout.
Any news of the monster, I mean Prince?
CHIEF: He’s in that cave, he can’t escape us.
But now we have him, why not let him live?
Life is precious in this wilderness.
DOCTOR: Don’t be a fool, Chief Constable.
This nation is on the very verge
Of a major technological leap.
Only the Prince stands in my way.
So draw your knife and follow me!
CHIEF: Stop! Do you hear that awful wailing?
DOCTOR: It’s coming this way!
PROFESSOR: There’s no escape!
[Enter CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA.]
MELISSA: Hi diddle umkum tarum tantum!
FRANCHISSA: The snake and the pussy-cat went to sea!
CLARISSA: Hickory dickory dock!
Here we are, girls! The moon is directly
Overhead. Are you ready to chant?
MELISSA: Dear Clarissa, my heart is chanting already!
CLARISSA: Then all together, for our future husbands!
Seven times we spin around,
Cross our legs and touch the ground,
Throw a daisy in the air,
Follow where it blows, and there,
If the moon is right above,
You shall find your only love!
CHIEF: What do you think they are?
PROFESSOR: Just listen to the racket!
DOCTOR: Watch their behaviour! Whatever they may be
They’re clearly suffering from lunacy.
I suggest we go about our business
As quickly and quietly as possible.
CLARISSA: Melissa, Franchissa, there stand our husbands!
Run, girls, and catch them! It’s part of the spell!
FRANCHISSA: Run, run, as fast as you can!
MELISSA: See who I’ve caught! The Doctor!
CLARISSA: Mine’s the Professor!
FRANCHISSA: And mine’s a handsome Prince!
CHIEF: I’m not a handsome Prince! Let go!
DOCTOR: We have important business to transact.
CLARISSA: Don’t let them out of your clutches, girls!
The spell says we must dance with them all night!
MELISSA: The moonbeam magic holds you fast,
You won’t escape till morning dawns,
So relax, my dears, and enjoy the fun!
DOCTOR: You’re treading on my corns!
[Exeunt CLARISSA, MELISSA, FRANCHISSA, DOCTOR and PROFESSOR.]
CAT: The Prince has never been in greater danger.
Excited though they are, the three old ladies
Can’t keep the murderers occupied for long;
And now the murderers know where he’s sleeping.
The Emperor’s approaching from the South,
The Dragon has mounted guard at the cave
To prevent me warning the Prince of his peril,
Princess Pamela I can’t find,
And over all there’s a feeling of tautness
As if an earthquake were about to burst.
I can do nothing on my own!
I begin to wonder whether any of us
Will survive the night.
DRAGON: Cat! Run away before my patience snaps!
My plans work beautifully; all’s confusion!
The Prince has twice escaped his enemies,
But their next meeting shall be the last,
And you shall witness it! Here’s the Emperor.
EMPEROR: I heard a sound of revelry
Which took me back to my giddy youth
When I wasn’t so fond of peace and quiet.
DRAGON: I should avoid him, Cat;
He hasn’t forgotten that bonk on the nose.
I am invisible to the oaf, of course.
Next the Princess.
PAMELA: I was so eager to rush Prince George to his death!
I’ll never wish anything dead except myself
Ever again! If I meet the Dragon now
I’ll taste like sawdust in his mouth.
DRAGON: Poor girl! What a state she’s in.
Rest here, my dear, till breakfast-time.
By now the scientists have broken free;
Here they come puffing, hotter than ever for blood!
[Enter DOCTOR and PROFESSOR]
PROFESSOR: That’s twice he’s made us look fools!
DOCTOR: I have a thousand lingering poisons
In a cabinet at home;
Would I had brought the most painful of all
To pay him back for the pain in my corns!
PROFESSOR: Keep quiet, Doctor, I hear the mad ladies.
DRAGON: That’s the way, friends; hide behind this tree.
Here comes a party of spectators
For the climax of my masterpiece.
CLARISSA: Girls, as soon as you see them, pounce!
We must marry them now to preserve our virtues.
CHIEF: Madam, in the name of the Law release me!
FRANCHISSA: Anything for my handsome Prince!
[She releases him and he falls flat.]
DRAGON: And now for the last item in my entertainment,
The spark that’ll set off the gunpowder:
Ladies and gentlemen, I present – Prince George!
[Enter PRINCE GEORGE.]
GEORGE: I fell asleep listening to the mutter
Of a stream in the depths of the cave;
I woke, and dawn was yawning in the East.
Perhaps I shall see sunrise after all!
DOCTOR [advancing]: I’m afraid there’s little chance of that, Prince George.
PROFESSOR: But there’s one comfort: you won’t be needing breakfast!
PAMELA: Prince George alive! Then I can breathe!
Ruffians, keep your pincers to yourselves;
I’ll never let him out of my sight again!
EMPEROR [advancing]: I suppose this is the moment to act,
Before I begin to regret my decision.
Doctor, let’s get the foul deed over.
CHIEF [advancing]: I can’t stand by and see my master murdered.
He’s better than the three of you put together!
DRAGON: Then I see I shall have to interfere
And finish the tragedy myself.
CAT: No you don’t, Dragon. You’ve cheated once too often!
I trust you remember my claws!
VOICE [from offstage]: Excuse my interruption,
But has everyone forgotten the real Dragon?
ALL: The real Dragon?
DRAGON: What do you mean, impostor? I’m the only Dragon here!
VOICE: You, a Dragon? You’re just an overgrown tadpole!
DRAGON: Cat, this is some trick of yours!
VOICE: This is no trick, earthworm, unhappily for you.
You silly bunch of guinea pigs
Have blundered about my property all night,
Trampling my flower-beds, screaming and wailing
At every glimpse of imagined danger
Without a thought for the danger that’s real.
I was asleep here in my cave
When you woke me with your endless squabbling.
DRAGON: Why, that’s my cave, you fraud!
I don’t believe you’re bigger than a blue tit.
If you’re so grand, come out and show yourself!
VOICE: Here I am, lizard; look at me well!
MELISSA: Out of the cave-mouth a snout is gliding,
Longer than a bus, smoke pouring from the nostrils!
CLARISSA: A pair of eyes like swimming-pools…
PRINCESS: An endless neck…
CHIEF: A body big as the North Wing of the Palace,
Bloated and warty, squeezing between the rocks…
EMPEROR: Hooves sharp as atom bombs…
CAT: A tail that could crush a ship…
And to think I didn’t believe in old-fashioned Dragons!
VOICE: Can you all see me clearly? Aren’t I handsome?
DOCTOR: I’ll burn my books!
This monster defies all natural laws!
PROFESSOR: This monster could eat a forest in an hour!
DRAGON: This monster will eat me for my impudence!
Have mercy upon me, King of Dragons!
PAMELA: Prince, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for!
GEORGE: I’m so scared I can hardly breathe,
But I won’t shame my ancestors! Prepare yourself, monster!
PAMELA: Wait for me, George! I’m at your heels!
CHIEF: I shan’t watch them eaten unaided!
[Exeunt GEORGE, PAMELA and CHIEF OF POLICE.]
VOICE: Not since the death of the Emperor’s father
Have I met such impudence!
EMPEROR: Come back, you fools, there’s nothing you can do!
CLARISSA: The Dragon’s rearing up on its hind legs –
Its mouth is wider than a railway tunnel –
The three of them are running straight
Towards its lower lip! A gush of smoke
Sucks them out of sight – they’re gone –
Run for your lives, girls! All is lost!
[Exeunt CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA.]
EMPEROR: Back to the Palace before it’s too late!
DOCTOR: Back to the metal-walled laboratory!
PROFESSOR: Which way out of this dreadful wood?
DRAGON: Don’t hesitate! Run! My tail’s on fire!
[Exeunt EMPEROR, PROFESSOR, DOCTOR and DRAGON. Loud roaring recedes into distance.]
CAT: How could I have been so blind?
All the while I bickered with the lizard
The real Dragon crouched behind the scenes
With embers throbbing on his tongue.
I was too clever to see past my own whiskers,
And now the morning has broken to bits,
My friends are dead and I’ve lost my bet.
I’m not fit for a Dragon’s dishcloth!
The birds are singing.
I only hear birdsong when I hold my breath,
The endless music that reminds me
We’ll meet again when the dance is done,
For the planets are still spinning round the sun
Like honey-bees around a giant flower.
I’ve lost my bet. I must give myself up to the lizard.
[This play was performed by children in the Barn Theatre at Cumnor House School, Danehill, Sussex, in Winter 1983, under the direction of the Headteacher, Nick Milner Gulland. Nick invited me to write it, and I finished it in the summer vacation after completing my degree.
I tried at the time to achieve a measure of gender equality in the cast list, giving an equal number of parts to girls and boys. The focus on climate change remains relevant. But there are attitudes and assumptions here you might want to change in a 2020 performance: play about with the gendering of the couples, give a stronger active role to the Princess, offer a positive view of science to offset the negative ones, slot in some songs – Nick wanted songs! – etc. etc.
The verse was inspired by Ted Hughes’s use of verse in his plays for children, especially The Coming of the Kings. The plot draws heavily on my love of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which I’ve acted in twice: once at High School, and once in the open air theatre at Cumnor House under the direction of Nick’s father, Hal. I put it here in memory of Hal and Nick, with thanks for everything they did for me.
All pictures are by the inestimable Robin Jacques.]
In order of Appearance
CHIEF OF POLICE
ACT ONE: THE PALACE
[Enter CAT, with DRAGON behind]
CAT: O, they’re spreading miles of tablecloth
And lighting chandeliers like palaces;
The ceiling hisses with paper-chains
And the goblets bubble with golden light.
But it’s a sad occasion just the same;
The servants go about with doleful faces
Because the Great Hall is the last bright room in the Kingdom,
And this is the last banquet
The Great Hall shall ever see.
It’s all the fault of that pestiferous Dragon!
DRAGON: What are you doing in my play, Cat?
Get out before I gobble you up!
CAT: I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dragon,
But this play doesn’t belong to you.
Go roast potatoes with your smelly breath!
DRAGON: Impudent hussy, you’re out of date!
Go back to your silly pantomimes
And leave the high art forms to Dragons.
CAT: You call yourself a Dragon!
You’re no bigger than a mouse.
Dragons are as big as palaces,
They shrivel haystacks and gobble princesses,
And what’s more, they’ve been extinct for centuries.
DRAGON: A popular misapprehension.
The giant, palace-burning kind
May be extinct, for all I know,
But these days Dragons are of another ilk
Of which I humbly propose myself
As a not infelicitous example,
Modestly scaled, sophisticated, suave,
With top credentials from the Dragon School.
Just look at my achievements in this land!
From a desert choked with trees and flowers
I’ve transformed it to a recreation-ground,
Flattened the hills, erected endless fences
And softened the vulgar shades of blue and green
To elegant tones of black and white.
Such are the powers of the modern mind. In fact,
The only way I’m like old-fashioned Dragons
Is, that I like to GOBBLE PUSSY-CATS!
CAT: Fiddle, I’m not afraid of lizards.
Go nibble maggots in your hole!
She who speaks the Prologue writes the Play,
And I’ve decided to make this play a comedy.
DRAGON: A comedy! Just hear the creature!
These days nobody wants to laugh!
Moonlight murders and noontime massacres,
These days that’s what draws the crowds.
But I like your cheek, Cat. Let’s make a bet.
If you can make the play end happily
I’ll give you anything you ask.
But if it ends badly, even for one person,
I’ll have your flesh for dinner. Is it a deal?
CAT: Shake hands, crocodile.
I’ll win this bet if it’s my last act.
DRAGON: It will be, Cat, it will be.
Ouch! You forgot to sheathe your claws!
CAT: Just wanted to remind you they were there.
The Emperor passes this way to the Hall;
We’ll wait for him in the broom cupboard!
[Exeunt CAT and DRAGON]
[Enter NURSE, followed by PRINCESS PAMELA and PRINCE GEORGE]
NURSE: Come in and let me see you both, my ducks.
O Princess Pamela, I do declare
You’ll taste better than plum cake!
PAMELA: Just let that monster bite my little toe!
It’s about time they changed that stupid rule
That girls are only allowed to watch;
I’d love to belt a Dragon round the chops!
GEORGE: Don’t mention chops, Pamela. I’m not well.
NURSE: And such a handsome Prince!
You’ll make a lovely corpse, if I may say so.
I watched the Emperor’s great-great-grandpapa
Carried home on his shield after bashing the baleful Bish;
So cold and handsome! I cried a fortnight after.
GEORGE: Dear Nurse, don’t talk like that. I’m ill!
PAMELA: I’ve never been so happy in my life!
Think of all those years they taught us
That Dragons don’t exist, and we must concentrate
On Maths and French and Physics; when hey presto!
Out pops a Dragon like a jack-in-the-box
And threatens to eat me up, the lovely creature!
How vexing I can’t bash it. Well, at least
I’ll get a grandstand view of the fight.
GEORGE: My tummy aches when I think what a grandstand view
I’ll get of the Dragon’s tummy!
[Enter CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA]
MELISSA: Clarissa, dear, you look enchanting.
And to think you’re seventy-seven years old last Friday!
How have you kept so young and fresh?
CLARISSA: I’ve kept my virtue, dear Melissa,
Which was better for my skin than ass’s milk.
Imagine, we’re invited to a banquet!
It’ll be almost like old times again.
FRANCHISSA: We’re going to a blanket, we’re going to a blanket!
MELISSA: A banquet, dear Franchissa. Do stop capering
And remember you’re the Emperor’s aunt.
CLARISSA: Remember your age, Franchissa:
Eighty-seven if it’s a day.
Thanks heaven I have tend years left
Before I can call myself old!
MELISSA: Look there! The Prince and Princess, with their nurse!
CLARISSA: How fine the Prince looks in his velvet coat!
How can he bear to look at that plain Princess?
MELISSA: Have you noticed how young the girls are nowadays?
Pamela behaves like a two-year-old.
CLARISSA: Melissa, one need never be ashamed of looking mature!
[Exeunt CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA]
PRINCESS: It’s the first bit of fun we’ve had since the land went grey.
Isn’t being eaten better than emptiness?
Once there were colours, animals and flowers,
But now they’ve gone. This is the last chance!
There’s one dance left, the dance of battle,
One colour left, the colour of battle,
One monster left to battle, the Dragon –
And no hope left at all, except the Dragon.
If you won’t fight the beast, I will!
GEORGE: You’re right, of course, Princess. I’ll fight.
But I’d rather paint pictures of cows!
NURSE: Now ducks, the feast’s about to begin,
So hurry along or you’ll miss the soup.
And for afters there’s a juicy sucking pig
Born and bred in the Doctor’s test-tubes,
All in honour of our handsome hero!
GEORGE: O goodness! Soup and sucking pig! My head!
[Exeunt GEORGE, PAMELA and NURSE]
[Enter DOCTOR THUMBSCREW and PROFESSOR DUMBSTEW]
DOCTOR: Ah, Professor Dumbstew, are you heading for the feast?
A word while we’re alone.
PROFESSOR: Doctor Thumbscrew, let it be short.
My tummy’s rumbling like a washing-machine.
DOCTOR: Professor Dumbstew, we have much
To congratulate ourselves upon.
PROFESSOR: We’ve suffered for science, Doctor Thumbscrew.
I haven’t eaten for at least an hour!
DOCTOR: Think of the state the realm was in
Before we came, five years ago!
Wherever there weren’t mountains there were seas,
Wherever there weren’t flowers there were trees –
There were no rules! It was chaos!
But we soon changed all that with our golden rules.
Do you remember mine?
PROFESSOR: Could I forget it?
Every-man-is-a-cog-in-the-great-machine, you used to say.
And have you forgotten mine?
DOCTOR: That every-man-is-a-drop-in-the-primal-stew?
I have it engraved on a pedestal in my brain.
Why, these two rules transformed the land!
PROFESSOR: The air became soup!
DOCTOR: The fields became perfect squares!
PROFESSOR: The sun and the moon were lost in a permanent gravy.
But what was out reward?
Not so much as an extra course at dinner.
DOCTOR: Not so much as a peasant or two
To experiment on in the peace of our laboratories.
Yet we brought our research to fruition –
We invented that great machine in which every man is a cog.
From now on everything anyone does
Shall be a miracle of efficiency!
PROFESSOR: A triumph of taste!
DOCTOR: We simply plug them into our new machine
And nobody shall think, laugh, cry,
Eat sweets, or do anything that’s bad for them
For ever and ever. It’ll be Paradise!
Everyone in the world shall be a cog
Excepting you and I, Professor Dumbstew,
Whose task it will be to oil the joints.
PROFESSOR: But the Emperor will never let his people
Be plugged into this marvelous mechanism!
DOCTOR: The Emperor is one of the last of the backward race
We found when we first arrived in this backward land.
But Prince George is a different kettle of fish.
The lad is sharp – I tutored him myself –
But his consciousness has been preconditioned
To outmoded notions of morality.
I have therefore arranged for him to disappear.
This feast is the last Prince George shall ever taste!
PROFESSOR: The Emperor’s death will be easy to fix,
A drop of something in his porridge oats,
And then I shall marry his elderly aunt –
DOCTOR: And I shall marry his beautiful daughter –
PROFESSOR: And the rest shall be plugged into the machine –
DOCTOR: And I shall be King, and you shall be Queen!
PROFESSOR: And I shall be King, and you shall be Prime Minister.
DOCTOR: Not a word about this to anyone.
PROFESSOR: We mustn’t spill the beans. Look, here he comes!
[Enter CHIEF OF POLICE, followed by EMPEROR]
CHIEF: Make way for his Imperial Majesty!
EMPEROR: I wish you wouldn’t shout, Chief Constable!
Everywhere I go, make way, make way.
Peace and quiet, peace and quiet, all I want is peace and quiet!
DOCTOR: Good evening, sire. Is all prepared?
EMPEROR: The banquet’s ready, if that’s what you mean.
DOCTOR: No, your Majesty, I meant the affair of the Prince.
Will he be in the forest tonight, alone?
EMPEROR: Yes, unless he’s too frightened, in which case
He’ll run through seven kingdoms before he stops,
Which will serve our purpose just as well.
DOCTOR: Then by tomorrow, Emperor,
You may be assured of peace and quiet.
PROFESSOR: Yes, by tomorrow, Emperor,
For you, all will be silent as plum cake!
Come, Doctor, let us hurry to the table!
[Exeunt DOCTOR and PROFESSOR]
EMPEROR: Now I wonder what those two were discussing
So privately when I came in?
Since I put the government in their hands
I’ve hated to see them talking on their own.
Thank you, Chief Constable. Leave me alone.
CHIEF: To hear is to obey!
[Exit CHIEF OF POLICE]
EMPEROR: I wish you wouldn’t shout, Chief Constable!
Now what I need is a drop of medicine
To strengthen me for the dirty deed ahead.
[Enter CAT and DRAGON]
CAT: Good day, and better days to come, your Majesty.
DRAGON: Don’t mind the Cat, your Majesty. Good day!
EMPEROR: Goodness this alcohol works quickly!
I hope I haven’t overdone it.
CAT: Did I hear something about a dirty deed?
DRAGON: Sounds exciting! Tell us more.
EMPEROR: O, it’s not exactly a dirty deed.
I’m going to kill my nephew in a forest.
CAT: I thought there weren’t any forests left.
DRAGON: Of course there’s a forest, you ignorant Cat –
A single forest in the North of the Kingdom,
A dark damp forest fit for dark damp deeds.
Don’t mind the Cat, your Majesty. Go on!
EMPEROR: I’m sending him to save my daughter from a Dragon,
Though the last Dragon in the Kingdom died
By choking on my Grandpapa
And Dragons are therefore now extinct.
DRAGON: Except we subtle Dragons of the mind.
CAT: Shut up, fossil! Go on, Emperor.
EMPEROR: Well, though there are no Dragons left,
The air has gone so grey, the earth so ashy,
The trees so stunted and the rain so bitter
That one would think a Dragon had been ravaging the land.
So tonight the Prince goes off to the forest
To fight a beast that doesn’t exist,
And when he’s dead I shall have peace at last.
Now let me drink my medicine in peace.
Explanations give me a headache.
CAT: But why do you want to kill the Prince at all?
DRAGON: Remember, curiosity killed the Cat!
EMPEROR: If you must know, the Doctor says he’s dangerous.
Is that enough for you?
CAT: And you believe whatever the Doctor says?
EMPEROR: Anything for peace and quiet.
CAT: That’s not fair. In fact, it’s dictatorial!
DRAGON: Dictatorial! Where did she learn that word?
Did you hear the Cat, your majesty? Dictatorial!
EMPEROR: I can hear you both, crocodile. I’m not deaf.
DRAGON: But insult of insults! A common Cat!
Dictatorial, You? She should be shot!
EMPEROR: Nobody respects me any more.
The other day my daughter called me Pugface.
DRAGON: If I were Emperor I wouldn’t stand it.
After all the good you’ve done your country!
EMPEROR: By Jove, lizard, you’re right!
Her insolence has turned my medicine sour.
Why, I’ve never hurt a fly in all my life!
I’ll have the cheeky creature boiled and stuffed!
CAT: You wooden-headed puppet of an Emperor!
EMPEROR: O my heart! An insult!
CAT: Here you sit, dreaming of peace and quiet
While your kingdom turns to cobwebs round your feet!
I’ll give you medicine. Take that, and that!
EMPEROR: My nose! Chief Constable! Fire! Murder! Help!
[Exeunt CAT and DRAGON. Enter CHIEF OF POLICE]
CHIEF: No need to shout, your Majesty. I’m here.
EMPEROR: There was a Cat-thing and a Lizard-thing,
And the Cat-thing upped and bonked me on the beak!
O! I have caught an everlasting cold!
CHIEF: You’ve taken too much medicine, sire, that’s all.
Your medicine always makes your nose go red.
A Lizard-thing, you say? That’s odd.
Earlier this evening, as I did the rounds
In a dark passage in the North Wing of the Palace,
I glimpsed a strange phenomenon at the window…
EMPEROR: What sort of strange phenomenon?
CHIEF: There was a fierce dust-storm at the time,
And you know when the dust blows these days
Nobody dares to leave the house;
It looked like clouds of smoke rolling from Earth to Heaven.
Yet there was another movement in the smoke,
As if the night were shifting in its sleep,
And the floor trembled under my feet.
EMPEROR: No doubt an earthquake.
There’ve been more since we went progressive.
CHIEF: That’s what I thought. I approached the window
And suddenly I could have sworn I saw
A scaly eye blinking among the dust-clouds.
EMPEROR: You’re not employed to swear.
CHIEF: I knew I was dreaming, because if it had been real
The creature would have been bigger than a haystack,
Bigger than the North Wing of the Palace.
EMPEROR: Don’t mention wings! The Dragons are extinct –
Only the Prince thinks Dragons still exist.
Your part in my plot is confusing your brains!
Is your dagger sharp? I’d hate to think
You were untrustworthy.
CHIEF: True as steel, your Majesty. I won’t mention it again.
EMPEROR: Then escort me to the feast, Chief Constable.
I must ask the Doctor to change my prescription;
This stuff’s too strong for my tender head.
[Exeunt EMPEROR and CHIEF OF POLICE. Re-enter CAT and DRAGON]
DRAGON: You see, Cat? You’re ineffectual.
I hear they need a Puss-in-Boots at Haywards Heath;
Why not apply for the job? They can only refuse!
CAT: Very clever, Dragon, but I’m not finished yet!
The Emperor’s a mouse hardly worth catching –
I’m after bigger fish.
DRAGON: Just keep out of my path,
Or I might find myself too hungry
To leave my dinner to the final Act!
[Exeunt CAT and DRAGON]
NURSE: Bless my soul, can you hear the banquet?
Between the soup and sucking-pig there’s salmon,
Rosy-pink salmon on silver platters,
And eighteen different puddings that nobody will touch,
Made of a new kind of edible plastic
Invented by the Doctor.
But it’s a solemn banquet just the same;
People laugh with eyes glazed like jellies
As they did on the night the Emperor’s Uncle
(The one the poets nicknamed Beolamb)
Went out in his armour to savage the sedulous Snipe.
I’m here to light the ballroom lamps;
I haven’t waltzed since my second husband died!
[Enter CHIEF OF POLICE, EMPEROR, PAMELA, GEORGE, CLARISSA, MELISSA, FRANCHISSA, DOCTOR, PROFESSOR, and behind them, CAT]
CHIEF: Ladies and gentlemen, take your partners for the waltz!
EMPEROR: I wish that fellow wouldn’t shout!
Well, Aunt, we had better set an example.
Madam, will you dance?
FRANCHISSA: With all my heart!
GEORGE: I feel a little better now, Pamela.
Will you dance? We may not get another chance.
MELISSA: Did you see, Clarissa? I’ve been snubbed!
There I stood on the other side of the room,
Waiting for a partner, radiant with beauty,
When George took the hand of that saucy trollop!
CLARISSA: Melissa, thank Heaven you saw him for what he was
Before your virtue was endangered.
Myself, I knew him rotten to the core
Since the first course of the banquet,
When he passed the rolls to Pamela
Before passing them to me.
MELISSA: Tush! We can do without the young.
Now observe that Doctor Thumbscrew in the corner;
Wouldn’t a woman break her heart for him?
CLARISSA: A dashing figure! But my tastes
Incline towards the thoughtful Professor.
Beauty and Virtue offer themselves to Science!
BOTH: Good evening, gentlemen! Will you join the dance?
EMPEROR: My goodness, Aunt, how quickly you can waltz!
CAT: Round and round the Prince and Princess whirl;
Somehow I must speak to them before the evening ends.
The lizard is wolfing salmon scraps in the kitchen,
But the Doctor keeps an eye fixed on the Prince.
CHIEF: It’s odd, I feel a crackling in the air
As though a thunderstorm were building up.
Yet the dust has settled,
And the moon for once is clear as ice.
I think I’ll go the rounds again
To see that the guards are keeping their eyes peeled.
CLARISSA: What do you think of Dragons, dear Professor?
PROFESSOR: A mythical beast reputed to swallow Princesses.
It must have had an excellent digestion;
I fear I’ve eaten too much sucking-pig!
CLARISSA: I think of Dragons whenever my virtue’s in peril.
A thousand Dragons dance with me tonight!
MELISSA: How rude the young are these days, Doctor Thumbscrew!
They need ruling with an iron rod.
DOCTOR: How pleasant to find we share an opinion!
You must visit my chambers one day and examine my blueprints!
[Re-enter CHIEF OF POLICE and NURSE]
CHIEF: Sound the alarm! There’s something in the garden!
NURSE: Call out the guards! It’s trampling the cabbages!
CHIEF: The second-best kitchen is on fire!
EMPEROR: Report to me in the cellar, Chief Constable!
[Exeunt in different directions EMPEROR, NURSE and CHIEF OF POLICE]
PAMELA: Come on, Prince George, we’ll chop its tail to shreds!
[Exeunt PAMELA and GEORGE]
CLARISSA: Save me, Professor Dumbstew!
MELISSA: Protect me, Doctor Thumbscrew!
DOCTOR: Dumbstew, you have the keys to the laboratories –
The walls are fireproof, we can hide in there.
PROFESSOR: Women aren’t allowed in the laboratories,
You’ll have to hide elsewhere.
MELISSA: But Doctor, the words that passed between us!
CLARISSA: Professor, the whispers we exchanged!
PROFESSOR: Now don’t be difficult, ladies.
We great men have a duty to survive
So that when all else is destroyed
We can restore celestial Civilization.
DOCTOR: Civilization has no need of women.
We hope the fire display is to your liking.
[Exeunt DOCTOR and PROFESSOR]
CLARISSA: You basilisks! We’ll scratch your eyes out!
[Exeunt CLARISSA, MELISSA and FRANCHISSA]
CAT: Now I wonder what this monster is,
Since you and I know Dragons don’t exist…
At least the alarm has broken up the party
So there’s more chance of speaking to Prince George.
[Re-re-enter CHIEF OF POLICE]
CHIEF: This is dreadful! The guards have run away
Swearing they won’t protect a cowardly Emperor,
All the Royal Family
Except the Prince and Princess Pamela
Are hidden in different cupboards in the cellar,
And the Doctor and Professor are locked in their laboratory
Refusing to answer the door. It’s chaos!
[Re-enter PAMELA and GEORGE]
PAMELA: We put the fire out in the kitchen, Chief Constable.
GEORGE: I burnt my finger. Look, it’s gone red!
NURSE: Thank Heaven I’ve found the three of you at last!
I’ve looked in every cupboard in the Palace.
CHIEF: I left you watching from an upstairs window.
What news of the monster? Did you see it clearly?
PRINCESS: Did it have wings?
GEORGE: Did it look poorly at all?
NURSE: I saw the baleful Bish bashed by the Emperor’s ancestor,
And the garrulous Gargle that choked on his Grandpapa,
And the sedulous Snipe skewered by his valiant Uncle,
But my sight’s not as good as it was;
I didn’t see the monster in the garden clearly.
I saw a pair of shining horns and two pairs of cloven hooves,
I heard its fearful bellow and the cracking of its teeth –
It was bigger than the North Wing of the Palace!
But I didn’t get a closer glimpse
Before it lolloped roaring back to the forest
Sending up clouds of ash at every stride.
PAMELA: How annoying of it to run off
Before we could give it a reason for running!
CHIEF: It’s gone! We’re rescued! Come on, Nurse,
We’ll inform the Emperor at once.
[Exeunt NURSE and CHIEF OF POLICE]
PAMELA: Wasn’t it fun to feel the beast so close?
I hope it wasn’t frightened by our racket;
It’ll be a shame if the beast’s too scared to fight.
GEORGE: It wasn’t too terrifying, was it, after all?
I thought I was quite plucky in the fire.
Do you think I’m getting braver, Pamela?
I’m almost looking forward to – O help!
CAT: Good evening, your Royal Highnesses.
GEORGE: A talking Cat on hind legs! It’s a werewolf!
CAT: No, not a werewolf, just unspeakably clever.
I’ve come to warn you of a plot!
PAMELA: Are you the plot?
CAT: No, I’m the Cat, I tell you.
There’s no time for discussion, you’re in danger.
Listen: the Dragon you’re to fight tonight
Doesn’t exist, it’s merely a device
To get you in the forest on your own
And have you horribly murdered in the dark!
Prince George, don’t leave the Palace walls tonight!
GEORGE: The Dragon doesn’t exist? Then how do you explain
The monster Nurse saw in the cabbage-bed
With horns and cloven hooves?
CAT: What else has horns and cloven hooves?
GEORGE: A cow.
But I love painting what few cows are left
In their ashy meadows, and I know cows don’t breathe flames.
How could a cow set a house alight?
CAT: Kitchens are always catching fire;
Cook probably left a bun loaf in the oven.
PAMELA: But what about its size?
Cows aren’t as big as haystacks, let alone
As big as the North Wing of the Palace!
CAT: The Nurse was frightened, she exaggerated.
Besides, she said herself her sight is poor.
O Pamela, trust me for the Prince’s sake!
PAMELA: How can we tell you’re an honest Cat?
You’re probably trying to make us miserable
Like everyone else in this wretched Palace!
Nurse never told an untruth in her life.
CAT: Princess. It’s George’s life at stake;
You’d better let him decide.
Look at me, Prince! You know I’m telling the truth!
GEORGE: Certainly what you say sounds reasonable.
It’s possible she could have been mistaken;
And the Emperor hasn’t addressed me for several days.
PAMELA: O George, don’t trust the Cat!
What shall we do if we don’t go into the forest?
Shall we sit around and moulder like the Emperor?
Or murder the flowers like the Doctor?
Or sit at home pulling off spiders’ legs!
CAT: The Prince must make up his own mind, Princess.
Will you go to the forest and meet your doom?
GEORGE: Don’t think I doubt your goodness, Cat,
But it seems to me that whether I believe you or not
I’m likely to end up eaten or murdered;
And I’d rather act than sit in a dither at home.
I only hope I give the Dragon heartburn!
PRINCESS: Then you’ll fight after all! I knew you would!
O George, I love you better than a left to the jaw!
Come along, I’ll polish your armour to sunbeams!
[Exeunt PAMELA and GEORGE. Enter DRAGON]
DRAGON: Why, Cat, you’re looking down-in-the-mouth!
Have you failed again? Perhaps I should eat you now
And save you any further misery!
CAT: Shut up, serpent. You’re not playing fair!
I knew all along there wasn’t a cow in the garden,
Because the eye the Chief Constable saw
From the window of the North Wing corridor
Had scales! You’ve been up to your tricks again!
DRAGON: Now don’t you act the injured innocent!
I’ve been in the kitchen all the time
Picking the salmon bones. The cabbage-bed monster
Was you yourself, dressed in a Dragon suit,
Trying to scare the Prince into staying at home!
CAT: Don’t try to fool me, Dragon. It was you!
DRAGON: I’d scorn to lie to a Cat. I’d eat you first.
CAT: Then – what was in the cabbage bed tonight?
DRAGON: Suddenly I feel prickles all over my hide.
We sophisticated Dragons
Don’t like unexplained phenomena.
CAT: We Cats don’t like mysteries we can’t solve.
DRAGON: If I find you’ve been lying –
CAT: If I find you’re a double-crosser –
DRAGON: Well, we won’t discuss it now.
Whatever the answer to this riddle
It’s plain you’re rapidly losing the bet.
Soon the Prince will be stumbling through the forest,
And the forest is my kingdom, Cat!
CAT: There you go again, claiming what isn’t yours.
Anything can happen in the dark. Remember,
I said I’d win if it was my last act.
Nicholas Stuart Gray is a name which is mostly missing from histories of children’s literature, but which rouses strong passions in those who admire his work. He started out as a respected children’s playwright, his first play being performed in 1949, and worked on many productions throughout the 50s and 60s with his close friend the stage designer Joan Jefferson Farjeon. The plays are all based on fairy tales, though they also include a version of the great medieval fairy poem Gawain and the Green Knight. Not much is known about his private life apart from the fact that he describes himself in blurbs as a ‘Highlander’, that some of his books are set in Sussex and Devon, and that he went on cycling holidays with Joan Jefferson Farjeon in Provence. I discovered him by chance in the early 80s when a friend lent me a copy of his first novel, Over the Hills to Fabylon (1954), about a magical moving city ruled by a paranoid monarch (think Howl’s Moving Castle with a cast of thousands). After this my grandmother took to buying me his books one by one for birthdays and Christmases: The Seventh Swan (1962), The Stone Cage (1963), Mainly in Moonlight (1963), The Apple-Stone (1965), Grimbold’s Other World (1965), and my favourite, Down in the Cellar (1961), magnificently illustrated by Edward Ardizzone. There are several more I haven’t read, and it’s time the whole oeuvre was brought back into print to delight and move new generations. I’m not the only one to think so. This blog post stems from a rereading of Down in the Cellar after Gray’s name was mentioned on Twitter by Neil Gaiman, which led to an outpouring of praise for him from Ellen Kushner, Katherine Langrish, Garth Nix and Terri Windling, among many others. That’s a roll call that should make publishers sit up and take note; and I hope a few words about Down in the Cellar will add fuel to the flame.
Gray’s book is an unsettling fusion of disparate elements that locate it precisely in the time and place of its composition. The plot is misleadingly simple. Four young siblings – Bruce, Julia, Andrew and Deirdre Jefferson, who share their family name with Joan Jefferson Farjeon – are staying in their uncle’s rambling Rectory in the South Downs when they find an injured man in a disused cave. The man tells them he is on the run, and they decide to hide him in a half-forgotten cellar of the Rectory, which they happen to have stumbled across a few days earlier. Having hidden him in the cellar and done their best to tend his wounds, the children suddenly find themselves under siege by a range of threatening forces: from the Rector’s stern but affectionate housekeeper, Old Mim – who is afraid the cellars have rats in them and wants to call in the ratcatchers, like Mrs Driver in The Borrowers (1952) – to the local police, who are on the lookout for a runaway whistleblower; from a conspiracy of unpleasant grown ups who belong to the ‘Spinners and Weavers Club’ – clearly a witch’s coven – to the sinister, barely-visible ‘Green Lantern people’ who infest the hills and fields around the Rectory. All these forces show a keen and unwelcome interest in the cellar and its occupant, while the stranger himself gets increasingly ill as the book goes on, his condition worsening despite the best efforts of Bruce, the eldest Jefferson, who plans to be a doctor or a vet when he grows up ‘Depending on which examination is the easiest’ (p. 9). The novel, in other words, mixes together elements from the Scottish Border Ballads, horror stories and spy thrillers (two of the people tracking Stephen are foreign agents who want to assassinate him for betraying state secrets), as well as children’s fantasy fiction of the sort popularized by Edith Nesbit in the 1900s. The shadow of the Second World War hangs over the narrative in the form of the cave, which was constructed as a shelter to protect the villagers from German flying bombs; while the atmosphere of paranoia generated by the search for the injured man, led as it is by policemen and assassins, locates the action in the decades-long stand-off between superpowers which culminated in the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962. This modern political context competes for centre stage in the book with a legendary past embodied in the ‘old Roman Camp’ (a prehistoric barrow frequented by the Green Lantern people) and an ancient fairy hill which once stood where now the Rectory stands, and whose entrance may still be concealed in a wall of the cellar. The fusion of ancient and modern narratives, none of which is fully articulated – the Cold War is never mentioned, the words ‘fairy’ or ‘Sidhe’ (i.e. people of the hills) are never uttered – gives the whole story an air of uneasy mystery. At no stage are we offered a full explanation for what is happening in the narrative, or how the competing strands of it fit together, and this refusal to elucidate is what makes the book so strange, with a strangeness that speaks to the uneasy historical moment when it first saw print.
This is a crosshatch novel, in other words – to borrow John Clute’s term from the Encyclopaedia of Fantasy. The word was repurposed by China Miéville in The City and the City (2009) to describe districts claimed by two or more competing cultures or political authorities at the same time. As I’ve suggested, the first sort of crosshatching one can see in the novel is the literary variety. It’s indebted to a range of authors for specific elements in its make-up: Edith Nesbit for the first person narrative from the point of view of a child protagonist; C. S. Lewis for the rambling house where the children stay with an elderly scholar, the village Rector; John Buchan for the spy story element, which comes to the fore when the children are pursued through the night by a pair of grim-faced labourers, clearly assassins in disguise; and John Masefield for the Spinners and Weavers Club, led by the silky Mr Atkinson, which closely resembles the coven led by Abner Brown in The Midnight Folk (1927) and The Box of Delights (1935). The crosshatching of time, meanwhile, in the novel – which fuses the unimaginably ancient with the historical and the modern – is foregrounded by the chronologically ambiguous spaces in which the action unfolds. The bomb shelter, for instance, keeps slipping between time periods in the children’s imagination as they approach and enter it. Julia is afraid to go in because it was constructed ‘ages back, and things might have come to live there since’ (p. 29). Andrew suggests that its inhabitants might be troglodytes or ‘cave-men’, and when Bruce claims that the shelter could have made quite a pleasant modern refuge if well stocked with ‘oil-stoves and […] people’, his brother points out that ‘the cave-men would have lit huge fires and roasted bears for their dinner’ (p. 31), and speculates that the person hiding there might be a ‘left-over cave-man […] drawing bison on the wall’ (p. 31). For the youngest Jefferson, Deirdre, the location has an emotional and supernatural resonance rather than a historical one, as the place where ‘Sad people’ come when they need to cry (p. 30). The strange young man they find in an inner chamber of this shelter resembles by turns a Dickensian ‘escaped convict’ (p. 36), a ‘hunted Cavalier, or a Jacobite in hiding’ (p. 37) – like someone from the work of Captain Marryat or Buchan – and a supernatural being, when he gives a laugh ‘of the sort a ghost would make, if it wasn’t trying to be frightening’ (p. 40). The liminal status of the cave perfectly suits the liminal status of the young man hiding in it, who is stranded between different ideologies (as we deduce later), different countries, and different realms of possibility – that is, between the everyday, the world of espionage and the supernatural, the last of these being in the end the only space available to him as a means of escape from his predicament. He is also caught between the living and the dead, since his younger sister (we later learn) is dead – killed in a car crash – yet he keeps mistaking Deirdre for her. This explains his status as simultaneously one of the ‘Sad people’, who make their way to the cave as a place of mourning, and a kind of ghost suspended between a lost past and an impossible future. Neither healthily stable nor unquestionably doomed to imminent termination, his life is precarious, and might be cut short at any moment either at the hands of the various enemies who are looking for him or by the fever that takes hold as his injury worsens. The fever is a perfect metaphor for his precarious situation and unstable identity, and it worsens as that precariousness and instability grow more intense.
Crosshatched spaces like the cave keep cropping up throughout the novel. There is the cellar of the title, the ‘dark and cobwebbed underworld’ (p. 7) where the children act out games across time and space – Boadicea against the Romans, King Solomon’s Mines, the Babes in the Wood, representing history, adventure romance and fairy tale respectively, all blended and blurred together in the subterranean twilight – and where they later hide the young man, Stephen. The cellar occupies the space where once there was a hill – ‘It was supposed to be a magic one, with sort of people living inside it, and things’ (p. 86) – which was then dug out to make a sandpit and afterwards leveled to provide foundations for the Rectory, that pillar of the eighteenth-century establishment. In former times the cellar served as a storage place for horse’s harness, sacks, wine and other necessities, but by the time the children find it there is nothing left of any value apart from abandoned odds and ends they use in their games. The nearby village is another liminal space, divided between very old houses like the chemist’s, ‘with its beams showing among the narrow, pink bricks’ (p. 137), and new buildings like the Home Made Cake and Tea-Shoppe, which is a crude pastiche of an older structure: ‘This building also had beams showing, but they were quite new, and rather obvious as they were stained black against the white-washed wall of the front’ (p. 140). The fakeness of the Tea-Shoppe means the children don’t ‘care for it’ much, and also makes it the ideal meeting place for the Spinners and Weavers Club, whose harmless hobbies serve as a front for their machinations against the fugitive, Stephen. A third crosshatched place is the Roman Camp or mound, which is equally associated with the practical Romans and the elusive Green Lantern people. This is a ‘hump like a gigantic mole-hill’ (p. 163), under which the youngest Jefferson is imprisoned at one point by its supernatural occupants, and where the members of the Spinners and Weavers Club converge to barter with the three older Jefferson children for her release. The mound’s joint connection with the Romans and the ahistorical fairies is rendered confusing by the actions of the Spinners and Weavers as they gather round it. As the eldest Jefferson, Bruce, points out, his younger sister ‘said they wove circles and spells. I knew nothing about spells… who does? […] But these people were certainly weaving circles’. The link between magical and physical weaving sets the boy’s thoughts ‘whirling’ or spinning in his head (p. 167), making it hard to focus on the problem of how to win back his imprisoned sister from the mound that impossibly contains her. Is rational thought or a spell the appropriate instrument for her salvation – or should one try a combination of the two? Crossing a Cold War thriller with a fairy story makes the answer uncertain, especially for Bruce, who does not believe in fairies, yet finds himself faced with what seems incontrovertible evidence that they have stolen away his sister.
The solution to Bruce’s dilemma comes from an unexpected quarter: a pair of young and irritating children, Robin and Karen Meddings, who inhabit the most radically crosshatched building in the village. If the Jeffersons find the Home Made Cake and Tea-Shoppe repulsive for its fakery, the Old Forge is more repulsive still, as Bruce explains:
It’s all got up with wrought-iron gates, and lanterns, plaster doves on the roof, and… believe it or not… a plaster deer on the lawn! […] Where the blacksmith used to have his furnace, they have an anvil standing in the fireplace. And the room is packed to bursting with warming-pans, and horse-brasses, and candlesticks wired for electric light, and a wheel hung from the ceiling for more electric light. It’s like a tea-shoppe. We were only asked in once. Julia says we shouldn’t have laughed. Honestly, we didn’t do it loudly, I thought. (p. 23)
The Meddings children who live in this mocked-up Forge are, for Bruce, as fake as their home’s interior décor. They are always simpering and deferring to one another, behaviour that conceals the fact that they are no more angelic at heart than ‘normal’ children like the Jeffersons:
It’s not as though they really meant it. They only do this act when anyone’s watching. I saw Robin once snatch a sweet from his sister, just as she was putting it in her mouth. And she screamed and kicked him. It wasn’t pretty, but at least it was normal. Then they saw me, and started bowing and smirking to each other sickeningly. They may grow out of it. (p. 24)
Bruce’s distaste for the Meddings children’s hypocrisy, as he sees it, makes him treat them ‘’orribly’ (as Robin puts it) whenever he meets them. At one point Robin and Karen have the misfortune to show up at a point when tensions are at their highest – with the cellar under siege by its enemies – and Bruce lets off steam with a fierce tirade against the youngsters as if they embodied all the sinister forces ranged against him in one small package: ‘“Silly brats!” I shouted at them. “Dotty idiots! Showing-off asses! Don’t stand there staring, in front of your silly house. ‘Old Forge’, indeed! It’s an old forgery!’ (p. 135). On this occasion Bruce only succeeds in upsetting his own siblings as well as the Meddingses, making it one of his many moments of physical and social clumsiness in the narrative. Indeed, his resentment of the Meddings children may well stem from the fact that they seem at ease in an adult social context which he finds completely unfathomable, and which he is always failing to negotiate owing to the difficulty he has in concealing his feelings or finding words to convey his meaning.
At the same time, his association of Robin and Karen with Stephen’s enemies is hardly surprising, since all of them are adepts in the art of concealment. Not only does the Spinners and Weavers Club meet in a Tea Shoppe that closely resembles the Old Forge in its faux-medieval aesthetic, but the Spinners and Weavers themselves are past masters in the art of interweaving truth and falsehood, just like the Meddings children as Bruce sees them. When Bruce meets the Club’s leader, for instance – Mr Atkinson – he at once gets caught up in a complex web of lies and half-truths. Yes, Mr Atkinson is an old university ‘friend’ of the Rector’s, as he claims, but the word ‘friend’ is a misnomer, since the Rector later confesses ‘I didn’t like him very much’ (p. 90). Yes, Mr Atkinson has been given permission to sketch in the parish church, but he can’t be sketching a ‘crusader’s tomb’, as he insists (p. 82), because there isn’t one. The old man keeps addressing Bruce as ‘little boy’, which is both true and false, since Bruce is indeed young, but has no conception of himself as ‘little’ and so feels humiliated by the description. And Bruce does indeed have a ‘secret’, as Mr Atkinson insinuates (p. 81) – he is hiding Stephen – but the old man has secrets too, and the lie about the crusader’s tomb suggests that he will not willingly part with them. The same mixture of truth and falsehood characterizes the other members of the Club. The woman in the chemist’s shop, for instance, is really the sister of the chemist, as she claims, but she is also as ‘nasty’ as he is nice, and seems all too eager to weigh the Jeffersons ‘on a long hook’ – a metaphor with a potentially ‘gruesome double meaning’ (p. 139) – and to supply them with her own home-made and possibly lethal ‘tonic’ in place of their usual medicine. One member of the Club at the Tea Shoppe has her hair dyed blue as if in token of her fakery, while another has ‘what looked to me like a hundred huge false teeth’ (pp. 140-1), and owns a dog that may well be a wolf. In addition, the members of the Club are somehow linked to the ‘so-called labourers’ working at the church (p. 141). Their motives in tracking down Stephen are unclear, but the unclearness itself is of a piece with the disparity between their semi-respectable, everyday appearances and the obvious malice of their hidden agenda.
The whole world through which the Jeffersons move is in fact packed with menacing double meanings and false appearances. This leads Bruce a number of times into mistaking friends as enemies: Old Stanley the poacher, for instance, whom he identifies at first as one of Stephen’s pursuers (p. 63) but later finds to be a useful ally against them; or Lady Ariadne Hodgson, whose deep voice and unfriendly appearance make the children think of her as a ‘witch’ (p. 126), but who makes peace with them by giving them a box of toffees, which she cannot eat herself because of her false teeth (so that she too is revealed as a confusing mixture of the fake and the authentic). Robin and Karen Meddings, too, are transformed into friends from their initial status as diminutive enemies. Yet like Old Stanley and Lady Ariadne, the Meddings kids retain their dual nature as a fusion of the true and the false, the real and the imagined, and their transformation could be said to entail a belated recognition on the part of the Jeffersons that they themselves inhabit a context composed in equal parts of dreams and logic, facts and falsehoods.
The transformation of the Meddingses takes place on the night when Deirdre, the youngest of the Jeffersons, gets imprisoned in the crosshatched space of the Roman mound. Taunted by Deirdre’s captors (the Green Lantern people) and their allies (the old men and women of the Spinners and Weavers Club), the three older Jeffersons find themselves on the verge of surrendering Stephen to his pursuers in exchange for the little girl’s safety. At this precise moment they hear footsteps approaching through the darkness, which make the Spinners and Weavers vanish. Bruce at once seeks a ‘reason’ for the coven’s disappearance, and his sister Julia suggests that the footsteps may belong to that embodiment of authenticity and ordinariness, the housekeeper Old Mim. Instead they belong to the Meddings children, embodiments of middle-class ‘forgery’, who are walking up the hill holding hands in the ‘phony’ way Bruce finds so disgusting, and carrying a gift he thinks irrelevant: ‘a big, and very rusty horse-shoe, all covered with mud’ (p. 169). All three of the older Jeffersons, frantic with worry, unite to shoo these kids away and reject their gift; but they are wrong to do so, as Robin insists. The horseshoe is physical proof that the Old Forge and its inhabitants are not in fact the products of fakeness:
‘It’s one the blacksmith made […] We dug it up in the garden this afternoon, when we were planting a chocolate. In our garden. So ’tisn’t all forgery and that, either! This is proper iron, what a proper blacksmith made.’ (p. 169)
The horseshoe shows that the Old Forge is a ‘proper place where a proper blacksmith made proper iron and things’; the name of the house has a meaning just as authentic as that of the Rectory where the children are staying. And the gift is authentically useful to the Jeffersons. Being made of iron and twisted into the familiar U of the horseshoe, with its age-old connotations of protection and good luck, it proves highly effective in the bewildering nocturnal world in which the siblings find themselves stranded. Andrew Jefferson suddenly has the idea of embedding it in the mound as a kind of padlock, thereby imprisoning Deirdre’s gaolers – who like other members of the fairy community cannot pass cold iron – and enabling Andrew to demand his sister’s release in exchange for their freedom. Like the Meddingses themselves, whose presence drove away the Spinners and Weavers, the Meddingses’ gift subdues the powers of Deirdre’s captors, confirming the younger children’s participation in the Jeffersons’ adventures, despite all of Bruce’s attempts to keep them at arm’s length and to claim that the supernatural events going on all round him have a perfectly rational explanation.
In the process, the enduring presence of magic underneath the Sussex landscape is confirmed – the resistance of its ancient charms to all the rapid changes of recent decades. The disused shelter, the forgotten cellar, the Roman mound, even the gnome-ridden garden of the Old Forge each retain an active link to still potent traces of the past, despite the patina of newness that covers them. Indeed, the shelter and the Old Forge could be described as acts of homage to the past, an acknowledgment of its continuing potency framed in terms of the kitsch and the obsolete. The Forge’s plaster gnomes have an ambiguously ‘real’ equivalent in the living gnomes mentioned at one point by Bruce’s younger sister: ‘Deirdre said she didn’t mind gnomes, but she didn’t like the lantern-men who’d gone over the hills, looking and looking’ (p. 65). And as the supernatural hunters and seekers converge on Stephen’s hiding place in the cellar, ‘looking and looking’, Bruce’s desperate efforts to keep things rational prove increasingly ineffective, until he is forced to enlist the Meddingses in the struggle against Stephen’s enemies. After all, Robin and Karen come from a background that freely accommodates the impossible: gnomes and fairies, magic rituals, the resurgence of the past, the power of cold iron. Their parents are ‘artistic’, despite their affection for warming-pans and horse-brasses: the mother is a TV scriptwriter, the father an actor, and both are therefore adult participants in the same imaginative games enjoyed by the Rectory children (p. 22). And the Meddings children themselves mean well, despite their mannerisms and the intrusiveness of their efforts to win the approval of the Jeffersons.
Meaning, in fact, is a central theme of Gray’s novel; in particular, the way meanings change in different contexts. This theme is pointed up by a stylistic quirk of the first person narrative voice, which is that of Bruce, the oldest of the Jefferson siblings. The Jeffersons could be said to inhabit a crosshatched space of their own, whose function in the narrative shifts repeatedly in response to changing situations, and who therefore provide an ideal vehicle for thinking about the complex process of making meaning in the 1960s. Their surname, as I mentioned earlier, recalls the ‘professional name’ of Gray’s good friend Joan Jefferson Farjeon, which she adopted to underline her descent from a celebrated dynasty of American actors. The Jefferson children, too, are inveterate actors, transforming the cellar they find into a private stage sealed off from the rest of the Rectory by a symbolic curtain. Their days are passed in a blend of the imagined and the real quite as complicated as anything they encounter in the outside world, and for them the cellar embodies that potent mixture, changing its significance with each new game they play, from the heathland of Ancient Britain to a fairy tale forest to King Solomon’s mines, depending on which of them is in charge of their activities. Bruce’s voice as narrator mimics the voice of Oswald Bastable, narrator of Edith Nesbit’s The Treasure Seekers and its sequels. Like Oswald, Bruce is an eldest brother with multiple siblings, though Gray adjusts the number to take account of the diminishing size of the average family in the 1960s. Where Oswald is one of six, Bruce is one of only four – two boys, two girls – and is older than his twin sister Julia by just half an hour, which suggests another adjustment in terms of equality between the sexes (although he draws heavily on his male privilege to assume the role of ‘masterful leader’ on most occasions). The characters of these four children are carefully differentiated: Julia is the aspiring novelist with the novelist’s capacity for imaginative empathy; her younger brother Andrew is a passionate reader of non-fiction and decidedly ‘clever’, though imaginative too, as his trick with the horseshoe shows; while five-year-old Deirdre, saddled with a name from Irish mythology, is inevitably a seer, inclined to imagine ‘too much’, as we learn towards the end of the story (p. 200), and vulnerable as a result to the machinations of the Green Lantern people she alone can visualize with absolute clarity.
Bruce, meanwhile, is a literalist, or so he claims. He keeps insisting he has no imagination – although he willingly joins in with his siblings’ games – and his ambition to become a doctor underlines his concern with the practical needs of the mind and body. His literalism expresses itself in his prose style, which is full of comic clarifications aimed at removing ambiguity from his declarations, but managing only to draw attention to the sometimes bizarre alternative constructions that could be put on his words. From the beginning to the end of the narrative he works to elucidate his meaning, repeatedly using the phrase ‘I mean’ whenever he thinks a word or phrase may be ambiguous: ‘The cellar ran all about under the Rectory. It hadn’t been used for years. The cellar, I mean’ (p. 7); ‘we dropped it… the book, I mean… and it got trodden in with the cider’ (p. 12); ‘This turned out to control the milking-machine, in some obscure way. The switch, I mean’ (p. 14); ‘We’d found some candle-ends in a tin box down there. In the cellar, I mean. […] I took a box of matches from the bathroom, leaving twopence in its place. Just for a start, that was. The matches, I mean’ (p. 17). In most cases here the clarifying phrase ‘I mean’ serves to point up the chaotic situations the children get themselves into: the book of instructions for making cider getting mixed up with the cider itself, the confusion over the function of the switch for the milking-machine, the complex self-justification rendered necessary by an act of minor theft from the Rectory’s stores. Their activities defy all Bruce’s attempts to reduce them to grammatical and rational order – to bring the uncontrollable, so to speak, under verbal control.
In the same way, the eldest Jefferson is always seeking to find rational explanations for things, assigning new, mundane meanings to them as new evidence emerges, but invariably reaching a point where conventional reasoning fails to account for what’s going on. When strange lights begin to appear in the cellar – Deirdre says they come from the gates of the fairy hill – his reasoning becomes fragmented and frantic: ‘There had to be a reasonable explanation for it all. Otherwise one might be forced to believe in Spoilers, and witches, and suchlike. Which was impossible. So there must be the explanation. The trouble was, I couldn’t think of one’ (p. 105). The bewildering events at the Roman mound challenge his logic still further. As the children make their way home after rescuing Deirdre, Bruce observes that ‘No one said any more about the lantern-men for the time being. To my great relief, as I could think of very little to say that made any sense’ (p. 174). Barred from the belief in the impossible that his three siblings increasingly share, his sense of incomprehension grows until the final chapter, ‘The Gate’, when the entrance to the fairy hill is finally opened in the cellar. Here all three of his siblings are able to see that something magical is taking place, but Bruce cannot, since he has been vouchsafed only transient glimpses of the supernatural throughout the narrative. To the end of the story he continues to insist that ‘It was all imagination’ (p. 197) despite the accumulation of evidence to the contrary. When his brother Andrew tells him ‘The cellar’s full of sunlight’, he can only answer: ‘Well, it wasn’t. Not that I could see’, and add: ‘I felt for a moment that I was going mad, rather than the others’. This from the boy who observed in the opening chapter that he might need to become a ‘brain specialist’ to take account of the imaginative eccentricities of his two youngest siblings, who may both be ‘mad’ (p. 9). In the final chapter, in fact, he recognizes that it may be his own senses that are faulty rather than theirs: ‘If I was really the only one who had seen nothing special, then perhaps I was duller than the rest… which was sad, but quite possible’ (p. 196). In the course of the story the boundaries of the possible have grown permeable, and Bruce’s certainty about his position – as rationalist, as the eldest and as the most ‘masterful’ member of his family (p. 62) – has been shaken to the roots.
The shaking of Bruce’s rationalism is in fact quite literal; he is constantly getting knocks on the head in the course of his adventures, rendering him temporarily disoriented and subject to visual disturbances. His first encounter with the cellar is a violent one: suspended upside down inside a cupboard, he is pushed by Andrew, falls (presumably on his head) and rolls down ‘about ten steps’ into the hidden room. Later the children set up a booby-trap to deter unwelcome visitors, and Bruce promptly forgets it is there, falling down the stairs a second time and being hit on the head with a broom (again by Andrew) at the bottom (‘Things went rather dim for a while’, he comments wryly, p.99). Later still, in a neighbour’s barn, Bruce bangs his head ‘so hard on a beam that it rang like a bell. My head, I mean’ (p. 149); and when the Spinners and Weavers Club converge on the children by the Roman mound he trips over a hummock and falls flat on his face, which prompts Mr Atkinson to comment: ‘Poor little boy […] it’s bumped its poor head, and now it’s all muddled’ (p. 165). This adds to Bruce’s difficulties in distinguishing between the real and the illusory: ‘My head was spinning. I suppose I’d banged it just once too often that night. Even now I can’t be quite sure how much of all this really happened, and how much I imagined. I may have been dreaming, though I was not asleep’ (p. 165). In response to all these knocks, the inside of Bruce’s head becomes a crosshatched space, its contents muddled to the extent that memories can no longer be disentangled from waking dreams.
At the same time, the distinction between the imagined and the real, the dreamed and the remembered, keeps getting blurred even outside Bruce’s head as the book goes on. For one thing, the children’s games keep turning real. Deirdre is constantly telling adults about their clandestine adventures, and although she is never believed – her stories are variously described as ‘horrible inventions’ (p. 160) and wild ‘fantasies’ (p. 175) – her elder siblings are always on tenterhooks in case she lets slip something too believable about the all-too-material runaway Stephen. At one point, seeking to distract their enemies’ attention from the cellar where Stephen is hiding, the children pack a suitcase full of fake medical supplies and set out across country, drawing the two fake labourers after them towards a neighbouring farm. Here the classic children’s game of doctors and nurses becomes a component part of a genuine crisis: the Jeffersons are in fact genuinely tending to a sick fugitive, and only the location of the man and the supplies they carry are illusions. The Roman mound is the focus of a real adventure when Deirdre is trapped underneath it, but it’s also a reminder of the games the children played in the cellar earlier, which involved Romans and Britons, with Bruce inevitably playing a rational Roman while Julia stood in for the impetuous British queen, Boadicea. Not long afterwards the stuff of games is repurposed again as the children prepare to repel Stephen’s massed ‘enemies’ from the cellar. The dustbin-lids and rusty scythe-blades they used as Roman and British weapons in Chapter 2 get recalled and reused in Chapter 13, when Bruce describes them as ‘the weapons of happier days’ and adds forlornly, ‘We didn’t really think they would be much use’ (p. 192). The horseshoe brought to them by the Meddings children changes from an element in a game – Robin and Karen were burying a chocolate when they found it – into a key part of Deirdre’s rescue from the mound. Later the Jeffersons recall the power of cold iron when pondering ways to protect the Rectory, placing iron objects in all the windows and doors to repel the Lantern people. Repeatedly, objects and concepts that were first given new meaning by their involvement in imagined scenarios acquire a serious, even urgent function in the decidedly unplayful context of the hunt for and defence of the fugitive.
As the process of ‘realising’ the imaginary goes on, both of the older Jefferson siblings, Bruce and Julia, feel increasingly stressed by the mounting complexity of the situation. This is one of the ways Gray’s novel differs from some analogous work by his contemporaries, such as Alan Garner’s debut novel The Weirdstone of Brisingamen (1960), which was published the year before. In that book, the child protagonists Colin and Susan are left more or less unscathed by their adventures. The svart alfar or Dark Elves, the terrible journey through the mines, even the death of their friend, the dwarf Durathror, at the hands of the Morrigan – none of these incidents seems to have got much emotional purchase on their psychologies (though the psychological effects of mixing with magic get much more intense in Garner’s later novels). Down in the Cellar, by contrast, leaves one with the sense that Bruce’s mental health, and that of his twin sister, is genuinely suffering as they struggle to manage a state of affairs that would have challenged the psychological equilibrium of any adult. Bruce’s fierce diatribe against the Meddings children is a symptom of this mental stress, which reaches its climax when he bursts into tears under interrogation by the Chief Constable, Mr Wheatley, who has come in person to lead the search for the missing man. ‘Everyone was amazed,’ Bruce says at this point, ‘including me. But I couldn’t help it, it just happened’; and in response, the police and his family members ‘stared at me in horror, while I stood with my mouth open, and tears running into it, hiccupping and sobbing for breath’ (p. 186). Yet Bruce’s siblings mistake this torrent of emotion for a cunning ruse, another bit of playacting designed to disrupt Mr Wheatley’s investigations. Afterwards Andrew asks admiringly, ‘How on earth did you do it? They were real tears!’, and Julia admits ‘I didn’t honestly think Bruce had it in him’; while Bruce himself decides to say no more about ‘the reasons for my break-down’ (p. 187). One good reason for this reticence, perhaps, is that his breakdown springs from the breakdown of reason itself; first, in that his own reasons for protecting the fugitive may not stand up to police scrutiny, and secondly because the events since Stephen entered their lives have been so confusing. Bruce’s outburst is allowed to stand for what his siblings think it: another game that has suddenly been saddled with a serious purpose.
One could read Gray’s novel as what’s glibly called a ‘coming-of-age’ story, as if children grew to adulthood at some definable moment in their lives, or as if maturity itself were something stable. The book suggests instead that the process is complicated, since responsibility emerges from within the context of childhood play, while play and serious adult concerns have the same ingredients. But there’s something else that might be read into Gray’s narrative of transition. Bruce’s isolation at the end, as the only unimaginative Jefferson, is intensified by the fact that he alone of the four siblings is blessed or cursed with the ability to remember Stephen and all they went through to hide and defend him. The three younger children are asked to forget the strange young man by the Lady of the Hill, as she leads him away through the hidden gates to her underground kingdom. The least imaginative Jefferson, Bruce, is left with a memory of Stephen’s face, now indistinguishable from a private dream since none of his siblings shares it. By the final page of the novel the two youngest children have already switched their attention to other things: Deirdre declares that when she gets older she may marry Robin, the older Meddings child, while Andrew adds: ‘Come to that, I may decide to marry Karen’ (p. 203). Bruce, by contrast, recalls specific details of Stephen’s appearance: ‘I remembered Uncle’s old dressing-gown that Stephen had taken with him. And the heap of chalk-stained clothes he’d left behind’ (p. 203). For Bruce, in fact, Stephen himself is always physically interesting, indeed attractive, as well as mysterious. When he first sees the fugitive he describes him as ‘a handsome sort of person, though unshaven and grimy, and all smeared with chalk’ (p. 35). Later on, when tending to him in the cellar, Bruce thinks that Stephen may be complimenting him on his own appearance: ‘How kind you are, and how beautiful’, the sick man murmurs (p. 109), and the startled Stephen thinks to himself, ‘I hoped I was fairly kind, but no one would describe me as more than average good-looking’. On another occasion Bruce is struck for a second time by the stranger’s good looks; now he has grown a beard, he observes, ‘He looked like an actor in Shakespeare or something. Actually, it suited him. It was rather romantic. As he was asleep and couldn’t hear, I said this to Andrew. And he agreed’ (p. 180). Bruce seeks reassurance from his brother that his perception of Stephen’s appearance is accurate, and duly records that his brother agrees, as if to exonerate himself from the charge of paying too much attention to what a man looks like. Then towards the end, when the Hill-Lady finally comes to take Stephen to safety, Bruce is still more impressed by the young man’s beauty: ‘He was much handsomer than anyone we’d imagined from stories’ (p. 200). Stephen, in other words, has drifted in Bruce’s mind from being a figure out of fiction, to the author or actor of fictions, to a real, live human being, whose face is better than anything he could have conjured up in his childhood imaginings. It’s for this reason, perhaps, that the young man’s departure has such an acute effect on Gray’s narrator. As Stephen limps out of the underground room where the siblings have tended him, ‘A sort of grief came over me in a wave’, Bruce tells us (p. 200), and Stephen stops and looks at him as if in response. What Stephen says at this point is an observation that might well have come from a man addressing a young male admirer on parting, at a time in history when same-sex desire was effectively outlawed. ‘You mustn’t mind, Bruce,’ he tells him; ‘It’s not easy to see a thing through, when you aren’t sure what it is you’re seeing’. In the 50s and early 60s same-sex desire might well be something a growing child could not be certain he was seeing or feeling, a state of mind that was wholly unacknowledged in his education or family life. As he passes from the cellar into the hill, Stephen leaves Bruce with a story he can never tell in full, at least with any expectation of understanding, a story he does not fully understand himself, and part of that story may well be what first attracted him to Stephen. Gray’s fairy tale, in other words – like the fairy tales of Oscar Wilde and Hans Christian Andersen, four of which provided themes for plays by Gray – could stand in for the experience of first discovering yourself to be gay in early adolescence.
Gray’s other fiction lends support to this reading. His first short story collection, for instance – Mainly in Moonlight (1965) – is full of stories of young men who are rejected by their communities and find a new place for themselves in an all-male household. The first story, ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentices’, involves a boy called Martin rescuing another boy called Avenel and bringing him back to live with him in the house of his male teacher, Alain. ‘The Hunting of the Dragon’ involves another rescue of a boy by another boy, after which the rescuer, Prince Michael, feels comfortable with his own identity for the first time in his life. ‘According to Tradition’ tells of a pair of princely brothers the younger of whom ends up as the married king of his country, while the elder chooses to defy tradition and go live with the fairies – led by a handsome witch-king – because he ‘could never be at home’ living by the conventions of ‘mortal men’ (p. 104). ‘The Lady’s Quest’ tells of a prince who hates the convention that only men are allowed to embark on dangerous quests. His sister Alexa tells him that ‘you would make a better girl than I do’, he tells one of his father’s soldiers that his men are ‘lovely’ (p. 119), and his best friend Gregory is ‘not quite at home in the company of ladies’ (p. 125). The story culminates with the two young men being rescued by Alexa, and though Gray hints that both have become fascinated by the women they have met in the course of their adventures, there is no indication that either boy intends to do more with this new interest than learn at last ‘to be at ease in the company of ladies’ (p. 129). Very few of Gray’s fairy tales end in marriage; many are about young men who feel deeply out of place in the world they were born into. In one of the most poignant stories, ‘The Star Beast’, an intelligent creature of uncertain gender from another world – its hands are ‘slender, long-fingered, with the fine nails of a girl’, its body ‘like that of a boy – a half-grown lad – though it was as tall as a man’ (p. 71) – is mistreated until it starts to behave like what it has been called by all the people it meets: an abused animal. Both Bruce and Stephen of Down in the Cellar fit easily into this collection of displaced boys and men.
The novel ends with Bruce hearing a sound in the cellar that reminds him of some lines from the Scottish Border Ballad Tam Lin: ‘About the mid-hour of the night / They heard the bridles ring’ (p. 203). The sound, so clearly out of place under the Rectory, offers one final confirmation that it was indeed the ‘Hill-Lady’ who took Stephen into the hill before erasing all memory of him from those who saw him, apart from Bruce. The displacement of the ballad from Scotland to the Sussex Downs, alongside the displacement of the sound from the open air to an enclosed cellar, emphasizes the theme of displacement that runs through the novel; and this displacement is invoked by a number of references to Scotland throughout – from Bruce’s name, which invokes the Scottish hero Robert the Bruce, or Andrew’s, which he shares with Scotland’s patron saint (Deirdre’s name, by contrast, is Irish), to Julie’s observation to the police that the fugitive ‘is probably in the north of Scotland by this time’ (p. 78). The children themselves are displaced, in that they are outsiders from London in a Sussex village, while their parents are on the other side of the planet, in New Zealand. Stephen comes from an unnamed country where a different language is spoken; he can clearly never go back there, and as the novel goes on it becomes clear that there is also no place for him in England. For most of his life Gray was a Scot in England, and the cultural crosshatching he practises in Down in the Cellar, as well as the sense of alienation that fills it, may well have been deeply familiar to him.
As a version of Tam Lin, Gray’s novel does not run ‘According to Tradition’ any more than his other fairy tales tend to. The handsome Tam Lin had to be rescued from the fairy queen to save him from the fate of serving as a human sacrifice to Hell – the famous fairy ‘teind’. The rescue involved great courage on the part of his earthly lover, Janet, who clung to him as he changed shape into a variety of wild animals, as well as a burning coal and a naked man, never letting go until the spell that bound him was finally broken. One of the stories in Mainly in Moonlight, ‘A Letter to My Love’, culminates in an ordeal very like Janet’s, where a young woman clings to the body of a man in need of rescue as it changes from lizard to woodlouse, from slug to lump of ice (pp. 68-69). Stephen, by contrast, must be given over to the Hill-Lady if he is to survive. ‘Poor Bruce’ must let go of him instead of clinging on, give him up instead of winning him, and can expect ‘no sort of reward’ for all his struggles on the stranger’s behalf, all the mental and physical pain he has undergone for him. Tam Lin in all its versions is about a difficult romance, from Diana Wynne Jones’s Fire and Hemlock (1984) to Pamela Dean’s Tam Lin (1991) and Sally Prue’s Cold Tom (2002). Romance is the lifeblood of the story, and Bruce’s sense of loss at the close of the novel – the ‘sort of grief’ that ‘came over me in a wave’ (p. 200)– suggests an emerging awareness that he is being bereaved of the romance that he identified with Stephen from the moment of his discovery in a disused cave.
Among other things, Down in the Cellar is a story about finding that the mind is a strange and complex organ, and about how words, places, communities and relationships participate in its complexity. In it, the imaginative and the rational exist in partnership, memory and fantasy cohabit, new desires transform the world, the body affects the mind and the mind the body, while the lightness of games is always giving way to the heavy weight of responsibility, which in turn reveals an unsuspected affinity with childhood play. It’s a fine example of the way fantasy for children responds to the particular challenges of political and social history. And it’s an argument in itself, I think, for reprinting Gray’s fiction for children.
 Gray’s other illustrators included Joan Jefferson Farjeon, Charles W Stewart (who also worked in theatre design), Charles Keeping and himself.
This blog is called The City of Lost Books, and has concentrated on quite a few little-known texts in recent months: the fantastic novels of Margaret Irwin; the only novel by the modernist art critic Herbert Read; William Morris’s brilliant last romance The Water of the Wondrous Isles. Few books, however, can have been more justly neglected than Clifford Mills’s Where the Rainbow Ends (1912), and few books can have been more popular before they fell into oblivion. Based on a ‘fairy play’ co-written by Clifford Mills and John Reginald Owen (writing as John Ramsey) and first produced in 1911 with music by Roger Quilter, the book was a bestseller from its publication in 1912 to the 1950s. For forty years or so the play was as much a staple of Christmas in Britain as J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan (1904), on which it was partly based. Princess Elizabeth went to see it at Christmas in 1937, when she was eleven. Being a blatant piece of British imperialist propaganda, however, it didn’t survive the sixties, and had more or less vanished from sight by the time I read the book version at the age of seven or eight, in my grandmother’s Salford flat in 1970.
The book made a huge impression on me, not least because it made me profoundly uncomfortable. This was not because of its imperialist, militaristic propaganda – I was rather enthusiastic about things military at the age of seven – but because of its penchant for sadistic violence. Mills’s delight in subjecting her child protagonists to extreme mental and physical torments was obvious to me, and the deaths of her villains were unusually gruesome. Most dreadful of all, there was a boy in it who expressed his willingness to be transformed into a monster, in an episode that haunted my nightmares for several years. Another book I read at my grandmother’s flat was the Penguin translation of Homer’s Odyssey, its cover carefully protected with a transparent plastic dustjacket, and although that story too had people being magicked into beasts they didn’t consent to their transformation, and were in any case restored to human shape soon afterwards by the wily Odysseus. Mills’s doomed boy, by contrast, actively chooses his metamorphosis, and remains stubbornly committed to becoming a monster on the last occasion we see him. Through him Where the Rainbow Ends introduced me to a kind of fantasy I hadn’t encountered anywhere else, in which children’s behaviour could be as horribly punished as the wickedness of adults, and the bed you made for yourself was very much the one you lay in. Again, children had been punished with transformation in other books I knew, most notably Eustace in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, who became a dragon because he refused to fit in. But Eustace learned his lesson in the process, whereas the boy in Where the Rainbow Ends learned nothing at all. This couldn’t happen, I thought, in books for children, and I dwelt on it with morbid fascination when Clifford Mills showed me that it could.
One of the things I liked about the book was that it did a good job of representing the pain of being separated from one’s family. The story begins with two middle-class English children who have lost their parents in a shipwreck six months before, and who are now being looked after by an abusive aunt and uncle, aided and abetted by a houseful of nasty servants, formerly the servants of the children’s beloved Cousin Matthew, also recently deceased. The children, Rosamond and Crispian, have been separated from their parents for several years – two in the case of Rosamond, four in Crispian’s – because the parents stayed behind in India when the children went to boarding school in England; it was on the journey from India to England that their Mother and Father were drowned. I can’t remember if I had yet gone to boarding school when I was staying at my Grandmother’s, but I certainly started a few weeks after turning seven, and the idea of long-term separation from one’s parents would have been familiar to me in any case from the fact that my older brother started there a year before I did. The British Empire, it seems, was built on the principle of separating children from their parents, and trained the children in question to respond by cultivating a sense of plucky independence underpinned by strict adherence to certain rules.
One such rule was the hackneyed notion that boys don’t cry, and Mills’s novel begins with Crispian breaking this rule, as I myself had done on many occasions. I appreciated this touch of honesty on the part of the author, though not the response of Crispian’s sister: Rosamond overhears him sobbing for their mother, and forces herself not to intervene for fear of shaming him (‘Boys’ tears, she told herself, were not to be seen – except by Mothers – sometimes’, p. 10). Suddenly, however, she thinks of a way to cheer him up, which is by consulting a book Cousin Matthew used to read to them at bedtime. This is the ‘Rainbow Book’, and it is introduced into Mills’s story in the very first sentence: ‘Rosamond had suddenly remembered the “Rainbow Book”, and this is how it happened’ (p. 9). That sentence involves a double act of magic, first in adopting a tone which implies that everyone knows about the ‘Rainbow Book’, and secondly in giving that book the same title as the book we’re reading. The ‘Rainbow Book’ is Where the Rainbow Ends, and mentions a land where all lost loved ones can be found again; it also includes detailed instructions on how to get there. This made me think that perhaps the book by Clifford Mills called Where the Rainbow Ends might contain similar instructions; that it might in fact be some kind of guidebook. The title retains something of the glamour of this promise for me even now. And of course the book is meant as a guidebook, giving clear instructions on how to attain the pluck of its central characters, although one is unlikely to get much chance to show that pluck in a similar context.
One way of achieving pluck, Mills suggests, is to harbour suitable ambitions. In the case of middle-class boys like Crispian, the best ambition is to join the Navy and become an Admiral; in the case of girls like Rosamond it is to get married. Crispian’s ambition sets him apart from the wayward boys in Peter Pan who want to be pirates (remember how John is gently mocked for his imperialist sentiments?); he is clearly meant to be exactly the sort of material the British forces need as naval cadets and future officers. Rosamond, on the other hand, is pretty much like Wendy, but with an added spirit of adventure which makes her the motivating force behind all the book’s important moments. Not only is she the one who remembers the existence of the book called Where the Rainbow Ends, but she also decides to go and find the land described in it, then inspires her brother to come along as back-up. She later locates the magic carpet of Faith which will take them on their journey; and summoning the genie of the carpet is simple for her, since she has read The Arabian Nights. So is giving him instructions (though perhaps she has learned this from having had servants all her life); and when he offers each of the children two wishes, as genies do, she uses hers with impressive effectiveness. The first wish makes her Uncle and Aunt start their dinner all over again so that she and Crispian will have time to prepare for their travels. Her second wish summons Saint George to act as the children’s bodyguard on their adventure. Much later on, Rosamond thinks nothing of plunging into the Dragon Wood by herself to rescue a younger girl; and later still she is the one who thinks of the way to defeat the Dragon army, sewing the flag that will claim their Castle for England and summon Saint George (who has the unfortunate trait of being unable to appear anywhere except where the cross of Saint George is flying). This, then, is one of the book’s few redeeming features: it has a resourceful and active heroine, which makes it an excellent counterbalance gender-wise for Peter and Wendy, where most of the physical action is given over to Peter and Captain Hook. Along with C. S. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and a few others, it’s one of the books that trained me as a child to accept a girl as principal protagonist, something my male friends and some of the books I read had a tendency to drum out of me.
I’ve mentioned the play Peter Pan a couple of times, as well as the novel that followed, Peter and Wendy, which was first published in 1911, the year before the novelization of Where the Rainbow Ends. The fact that the second novel followed so closely on the first is probably not a coincidence, since Mills’s play had followed the pattern of Peter Pan from the beginning, above all in its efforts to accommodate special effects and character types of the sort that Barrie’s play had made hugely popular with spectators of all ages. Peter Pan involves flying, of course, and Crispian, Rosamond and their two companions – Crispian’s school friend Jim Blunders and his little sister Betty, whom Crispian summons with his own two wishes – not only get to fly on Faith’s magic carpet but are later carried off to captivity (like Dorothy and Toto in The Wizard of Oz) by the winged henchmen of the principal villain. Peter Pan has a cheeky, wayward flying boy in a leading role, and his place is taken in Where the Rainbow Ends by the fairy Will o’the Wisp, who is in love with the Lake King’s Daughter and dances very nicely with her, but whose most important function is to inform the children’s parents that Rosamond and Crispian are on their way to rescue them. Peter Pan has pirates, where Mills’s play has dragons. Peter Pan has incompetent adults – Mr Darling and his dark double, James Hook – while Where the Rainbow’s End has villains who are both incompetent and sadistic, Uncle Joseph and Aunt Matilda, neither of whom have Captain Hook’s redeeming qualities. The villains in both get eaten (more on that later). Peter Pan contains a dog called Nana, always played by a human actor; Where the Rainbow Ends has a lion cub called Cubby, also played by a human, who seems to subsist on a kind of tonic called Colonial Mixture, composed in ‘Equal parts of Canadian, Australian and New Zealand Iron mixed with Indian and South African Steel’ (p. 19). The small print on the label also says that the tonic is ‘Poison to Traitors’ (p. 205), which means that when Uncle Joseph drinks it the effect is much like the effect on Tinkerbell of drinking Peter’s medicine in Barrie’s play. In other words, it’s fatal, and in Mills’s play there is no one to clap their hands and bring him back to life. So the play goes one better than Peter Pan in every department by ensuring that there are no ambiguities at all; the heroes are totally heroic, the villains utterly villainous (indeed it’s implied that the Dragon King is the devil himself), and the destruction of the villains is correspondingly spectacular and hideous. These differences help to point up the relative complexity of Barrie’s play, whose purported hero, Peter, is pompous and merciless, its villain conflicted, and their respective fates (from an adult’s point of view, at least) more or less equally painful.
What Mills’s play has which has no equivalent in Peter Pan is the patron saint of England, a certain Saint George, whose presence in it for forty years provided a role for the current male heart-throb of the English stage. Saint George has something of Aragorn’s modesty about him; when Rosamond wishes for him he first appears in the garb of a pilgrim, evoking that much-loved Christian romance The Pilgrim’s Progress, and informs the children he is rather out of fashion these days, having stopped fighting with Saint Denis of France some time ago and taken to galloping around instead ‘with my true brothers [the patron saints of] Scotland, Ireland, Wales and kindred kind beyond the seas’ (p. 71), doing deeds of valour for the needy colonies. Meanwhile he has been neglected at home, and is inclined to blame this on the honorific people have saddled him with, ‘Saint’, since ‘a halo is such a misty unsoldierly decoration’ (p. 72). Rosamond and the other children, however, find him ‘ripping’ (p. 67), and he wins their hearts by telling them the story of the Battle of Agincourt, a victory over the French which was actually sponsored by his friend Saint Crispian (Crispian’s namesake), but which Saint George observed from the sidelines with great interest. Saint George’s connection with Agincourt aligns him, of course, with Shakespeare’s King Henry V, who was given to yelling the names of Saint George and Saints Crispin and Crispian as he charged across the bloody fields of France. Mills has him talk Shakespearean English, too; he is constantly breaking into the rhythms of blank verse. ‘Dear English maid,’ he tells Rosamond as he prepares to leave in a flash of lightning (I don’t remember any lightning in Peter Pan!), ‘No foe of yours that is not foe of mine. No dangers yours that are not shared by me. No wrong of yours that I will not redress’ (p. 74). Heady stuff, when addressed to a girl of eleven or twelve, and guaranteed to supply her with a substantial dose of extra pluck. I found it thrilling, too, at the age of seven, though I don’t remember being filled with anything much like patriotism by Saint George’s flashy appearances and disappearances. I thought of him as a superhero, as no doubt did the many generations of boys who thrilled to the adventures of the patron saints in Richard Johnson’s perennial nursery classic, The Seven Champions of Christendom (1597).
Unfortunately, reviving Saint George and his red cross flag has had a tendency, historically speaking, to involve large doses of racism; and Mills’s novel is not exempt. Not for nothing does Saint George change Henry V’s battle cry from ‘God for Harry, England and Saint George’ to ‘God for George, England and the Right’ (p. 74). The genie, for instance, is ‘of Ethiopian darkness, but not at all repulsive looking’ (p. 51), while a French merchant called Bertrand who offers to buy the defunct Cousin Matthews’s effects is said to have a shrewd eye for a bargain because ‘his great-great-grandmother had been a Jewess’ (p. 79). Despite these racist throwaway remarks both the merchant and the genie are clearly meant to be attractive figures, though the genie’s principal charm is his obedience (he is the children’s ‘faithful friend’, p. 94), which is particularly unsettling when he refers to himself as a ‘slave’ (p. 51). Bertrand, on the other hand, is both gallant and courageous, and has nothing but contempt for the treachery to family and nation shown by Uncle Joseph and Aunt Matilda. His function in the play, in fact, is to point up their nastiness, since even his foreignness and suspect ancestry cannot blind him to their perfidy. The presence in the novel of these two characters amply confirms Mills’s quasi-fascistic views, as does her assumption that England’s glory depends exclusively on its military victories, ‘Crecy and Poictiers, […] Waterloo and Trafalgar’ (p. 224), and her certainty that the pirate-poet Sir Walter Raleigh was the ‘pattern of chivalry’ (p. 49) because he only sank Spanish ships. Her views on class are equally repugnant. The sole working-class character in the book, the page boy William, is an insufferable sneak who delights in taunting Crispian and Rosamond on their penniless state since the death of their parents. Sometimes it’s worth reminding oneself of fantasy’s potential to sow the seeds of fascism, and of how enthusiastically the British were capable of embracing fascistic ideas well before the rise of Nazism.
The literary virtues of Where the Rainbow Ends are of a piece with its moral and ideological vices. Foremost among these is its capacity for building dramatic tension in each of its three constituent parts. The first ‘act’ of the novel sees the children informed by their wicked Uncle and Aunt that their schooldays are over for lack of funds and that their beloved Cousin Matthew’s library will be sold to pay their bills, and with it the guidebook to ‘Where the Rainbow Ends’ as well as the magic carpet that might have taken them there. It is then a race against time to use the carpet before Uncle Joseph, Aunt Matilda and the page boy William can hold them back. The second ‘act’ sees them confronting the dangers of Dragon Wood, their chief obstacle here being their friend little Betty Blunders, who is clearly designed to embody all the female failings Mills has banished from the lively personage of her heroine, Rosamond. Betty ignores the advice of the guidebook by entering Dragon Wood at nightfall in pursuit of the alluring Will o’the Wisp, just at the point when the monsters and beasts are waking up. Although she is quickly rescued by the boys, the presence of those beasts and monsters ensures that the rest of the night – and of the book’s second ‘act’ – is as full of terrors as a night can be. The third ‘act’ begins with the capture of the children by flying dragons and their incarceration in the Dragon King’s Castle, where they are due to be executed at any moment. Escape involves the rapid sewing of an English flag by Rosamond – who has had the good sense to bring along her sewing kit – and its hoisting by the boys on the Castle flagpole, a deed that brings Saint George to the rescue in the usual flash of lightning, with predictable results. The Dragon King is transfixed by the Saint’s doughty blade, and the rest of the dragons are hurled howling into a bottomless abyss, like Milton’s fallen angels. Fortunately at this point in the story not a single dragon seems to remember that it can fly, so they all perish. The way is therefore cleared for the children to press on to the place Where the Rainbow Ends, where Rosamond and Crispian’s parents are waiting, having survived their shipwreck after all. The children find their way to the correct location without any difficulty, despite having dropped their precious guidebook in the lake when the Dragons seized them. Their reunion with their parents is suitably moving, and caused seven-year-old me to break the injunction not to cry every time I read it.
Another redeeming feature of the novel (if it has any) is its clear sense that the British Empire is in steep decline. Saint George no longer lives on English soil, but spends his time overseas because the Colonies are more interested in him than his countrymen are. The older generation of English patriots are similarly located elsewhere, unable to make their way back from distant parts to their homeland; Rosamond’s parents Captain and Mrs Carey spend the whole novel loitering in ragged clothes on a distant shore, like Prospero and Miranda on their desert island, persecuted by a witch out of Macbeth and a fairy out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (the unreliable Will o’the Wisp) as well as the constant threat of dragonish assaults straight out of Milton. Mrs Carey has even become a legend or fantasy herself, being referred to by Will as Mother Vera – Mother Truth – which effectively makes her Mother Carey, a sailor’s legend who is referred to by (among others) Charles Kingsley in The Water Babies (1862-3) and John Masefield in Salt Water Ballads (1902). England, then, is always elsewhere in this novel, a little like Narnia in the Narnian Chronicles, and its identity is always under threat of erasure. Captain and Mrs Carey have been replaced in the household by Uncle Joseph and Aunt Matilda, who regard the English flag as ‘That Jingo bogey – that pretty bit of bunting – that child’s plaything’ (p. 119), and whose only concern is to cheat their nephew and niece out of their inheritance. Meanwhile the heraldic Lion of England is represented in this novel by a half-grown lion cub, Cubby, and the next generation of English human beings (as embodied in the page boy William and the indolent youth known only as the Slacker) threatens to follow the children’s uncle and aunt into self-obsession and indifference to the national interest.
The most striking representation of this tendency can be found in the Dragon Wood, a place where everything that is inimical to imperial orderliness resides. It is full of foreign beasts, a category from which Cubby is excluded despite being a lion (he is a specifically English lion, we are told (p. 18)). There is a black leopard which injures Crispian and Blunders, a pack of hyenas whose voices Crispian remembers from his time in India, and miscellaneous other carnivores. The Wood has supernatural creatures in it, too, including Will o’the Wisp, who is always ‘mislead[ing] night wanderers, laughing at their harm’, like Shakespeare’s Puck, and a bunch of nastier elves and gnomes who are given to pinching errant strangers black and blue like the false fairies in The Merry Wives of Windsor. Worse still, it is a place of metamorphosis, where a person’s identity is constantly on the verge of getting compromised. One of the trees in it was once a ‘high-born Dragon’ who dared to eat the Dragon King’s food and was punished for this by being transformed into a stump with arms, which is constantly hungry for the flesh of passers by. Another monster is the thing that gave me nightmares:
Out of the reeds a loathsome creature, half man, half worm was crawling, slowly dragging its flabby useless limbs along the ground. Its face was ashen, its worm-shaped head hairless. It had a great, gaping, loose-lipped mouth and its eyes, that were for ever turning restlessly from side to side, shone like arc lamps. Lamps they were indeed, that warned others of the deadly trail of slime it left as it crawled – slime that clogged the feet of those who encountered it [–] but to the creature itself they gave no light, for it was blind. Slowly it dragged itself from the marsh and entered the thicket while the boys stood transfixed with horror. (p. 171)
Crispian recognizes this creature, too – he calls it ‘a Slitherslime’ – and there is a dreadful revelation to come about it. After its disappearance into a thicket the two naval cadets meet another boy who seems to live in the Dragon Wood, unharmed by its monstrous denizens. The boy is English, and like Crispian and Blunders once set off to find a lost loved one – his sister – in the place Where the Rainbow Ends; but he got distracted by the pleasures of the Woods, where one can get endless supplies of tasty fruit, spend one’s time fishing in well-stocked trout streams, and watch the gnomes playing cricket (p. 177). Now he lives there in permanent indolence, protected by the toll he pays the Dragon King, which involves passing on to him unopened all the letters he gets from his mother (delivered by passing pilgrims on their way to Heart’s Content), and wearing on his breast the Dragon King’s crest in place of the cross of Saint George.
Worst of all, he is degenerating physically. Already ‘round-shouldered and walk[ing] with a slouch’, he has a ‘livid’ face (p. 172), and the end of this degenerative process, he tells Blunders, is to become the slug-like creature they have just encountered, which helpfully reappears to underline the horror of this fate just as the boy makes reference to it: ‘For a moment in hideous helplessness it turned its restless worm-like head with the blazing, sightless eyes towards the boys, then, with a horrible whimper of distress it slithered off into the marshes’ (p. 180). Horrified by this vision, Blunders automatically repeats Nelson’s famous slogan from the Battle of Trafalgar – ‘England expects every man to do his duty’ (p. 182) – and at once the Dragon Light that protects the indolent youth begins to grow dim. The boy promptly swears to stay in the Wood for ever, the Dragon Light rekindles, and away he flees through the trees ‘laughing and crying hysterically’ (p. 183), never to be seen again.
The curious thing about this episode is that it sets up an indolent version of England as the antithesis of the cadets’ beloved imperial power. The indolent youth – known as the Slacker – introduces himself as an English subject, enjoys peculiarly English pursuits such as fishing and cricket, and offers the cadets fruit that look ‘just like ordinary English apples’ (p. 179). The decay of England lurks in the inner spaces of English national identity, like a maggot in a healthy core, just as the Slacker’s sluggish future form is foreshadowed in the round-shouldered debility of his body; only a subtle shift of emphasis in one’s clichéd fantasies of the ideal English existence is needed for England to become a breeding ground of the Dragon’s minions. If being English is a fantasy, as its association here with Shakespeare’s plays, Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress and Milton’s Paradise Lost suggests, then an alternative fantasy could easily supplant it, and this play is filled with alternative fantasies, many of them derived from the very same sources that supplied material for the fantasies of imperial England.
The nastiest of these fantasies by far are those of Uncle Joseph and Aunt Matilda, which are both greedy and sadistic. At the beginning of the novel Aunt Matilda wears a ‘cruel smile’ as she tells Crispian he can no longer go to the naval college he has been attending, then forbids him to wear his cadet’s uniform the following day: ‘Aunt Matilda knew that this would hurt Cris. She knew that a naval boy loves his uniform, not so much for the look of it but because it is a uniform of noble traditions and a thing to live up to and be proud of and it did hurt Cris horribly to be told in that cold and heartless fashion not to wear it again’ (p. 30). Uncle Joseph is even worse. When he finds the children gone from his house on a quest to find their parents – which would deprive him of the family home he has feloniously inherited with the help of his expertise as a lawyer – he chases after them armed with a whip which he plans to use to ‘tickle them with for running away’, after tying their hands and feet with rope and gagging their ‘pretty mouths’ (pp. 122-3). Fortunately Saint George removes the whip from him before he can use it, but Uncle Joseph later succeeds in catching Rosamond, whereupon he ties her to the Enchanted Tree, gags her, and leaves her alone in the Dragon Wood to be eaten by hyenas. As he abandons her to her fate he can’t resist a final gloat: ‘“What a pity, isn’t it?” he said […] “Brother Crispian is in the wood and you can’t call to him to come and rescue you, and I’m afraid when he does pass this way you won’t be here, hyenas are so fond of little children”’ (p. 193). Later still the hyenas come after Uncle Joseph and Aunt Matilda instead, and the lawyer climbs a tree to escape their jaws, leaving his sister on the ground in her impractical evening gown to be devoured with ‘piercing […] shrieks’ (p. 202) – though fortunately off stage, both in the play and in the novel. He doesn’t escape his own fate long, however. Overcome with hunger he finds Cubby’s bottle of Colonial Mixture in his pocket and proceeds to drink the contents, having failed to read the small print on the label (‘Poison to Traitors’). He has no time to feel much more than the first pangs of this poison before the hyenas come back for him, having made short work of his sister’s bony body. Like the Slacker he is destroyed by what he consumes to sustain him, trapped into the very fate he sacrificed his family ties to evade.
Set up in opposition to Uncle Andrew’s fantasies of selfishness, torture and material gain, the fantasy of England restored to imperial glory is all about emotional reunions with lost relatives; as I said before, the final scene of the novel had a tendency to reduce my seven-year-old self to a tearstained wreck. There’s something disturbing, though, about this final vision, as well as about the story that leads up to it. This ending asserts that not only can the British Empire be buttressed by affectionate young patriots, but that death itself can be overcome; and this not in the form of a life to come but through resurrection in this world – or so it seems. The scene begins with a reunion between a nameless English mother and her lost ‘little one’ on the beach Where the Rainbow Ends. Carried to the blessed location by an English ship, then ferried ashore by the boast of ‘faith and Hope’, the woman suddenly sees her infant rushing towards her:
and, seeing the little one, sinks to her knees and with eyes that almost fear to believe looks into the little face she has for so long seen only in her dreams. Scarce daring to breathe, her yearning fingers glide over the golden curls to the white brow upon which they cluster. Wistfully her hungry gaze meets again the laughing look of dear blue eyes; she longs, yet fears to kiss the smiling roguish baby lips raised to hers, lest, as in those cruel dreams which so long have mocked her grief, she will wake to find her poor arms empty.
But upon the child’s face is no sorrow, no surprise. Closer it nestles into the dear, remembered arms.
‘Mummy,’ the little one coaxes, ‘Mummy darling – now – tell again the story of little ten toes.’ (p. 248)
The reunion is clearly not meant to be subjected to rigorous theological analysis, but the implication is, I think, that the mother in this scene is alive, that she has taken a journey analogous to that accomplished by Rosamond and Crispian in their quest to find their parents, and that when she has reached the place Where the Rainbow Ends she has been reunited with a child she had lost – presumably to death, since she has not seen it except in dreams for an extended period. What happens next? The last we see of the mother and child is an image of them running up the golden sands in jubilation; but a little later we witness the reunion of Rosamond and Crispian with their lost loved ones, Captain and Mrs Carey, on the same beach; and shortly afterwards all four surviving members of the Carey family are on Hope’s boat again, with the Blunders siblings, heading towards the English ship by which the Carey parents were earlier rescued from the Witch’s Cove where they were wrecked – a ship now ‘bound for England’ (p. 254). Moments later Saint George manifests himself at the stern of the boat, duly accompanied by the English national flag:
He was coming with them back to the dear land to which they were sailing; to fight once more the dragons that sought his country’s downfall – coming back, not to be lifeless stone in cold cathedral, but to live henceforth and for ever in the hearts of children of his race. (p. 255)
Of course, we are to understand that Captain and Mrs Carey were never really dead, they were merely shipwrecked on their way home from India; their deaths were a dreadful illusion which their children had been forced to live with for several months. But what of the nameless mother reunited with her dead child? The place Where the Rainbow Ends promises to restore ‘all lost loved ones’ to their relatives – that was the promise made by the book in the opening chapter. There was no mention there of the golden shore being in the afterlife, and in the final chapter there seems to be no prohibition on taking your recovered lost loved ones back to England along with the equally lost and recovered patron saint of England. The distinction between the saint in stone and the saint in living flesh reinforces the assumption; if you have sufficient faith in God and your country (which are here more or less the same thing, thanks to the happy accident of the country’s flag happening to be the emblem of the Christian faith), your lost loved ones will come back to life, whether they were dead or merely missing, and all will be well not just for a while but in fact ‘for ever’. That’s an irresponsibly massive pledge to make in a play for children. It also seems to make nonsense of an earlier passage in the novel where Uncle Joseph realizes he is about to die without benefit of patriotism, and hence alone:
Not one of a vast brotherhood who, though separated by continents, feels still bound and upheld by a thousand ties of national hopes and ambitions; not as the humblest patriot, who dying in a distant land, feels yet around and about him like a royal mantle those best traditions of his country he has given his life to uphold. (p. 204)
The final chapter holds out the possibility that those who die as part of the ‘vast brotherhood’ of patriots can be brought back from the dead. This investment of the nation with powers of resurrection beyond the divine is perhaps the most grandiose assertion about national identity I have ever encountered. God barely rates a mention in Where the Rainbow Ends; his place is almost entirely ceded to England, presumably because the name of God, like the title of saint, may be felt by many patriotic Englishmen to be no more than ‘a misty unsoldierly decoration’ (p. 72). The unsettling nature of Mills’s fantasy, then, is not just about its sadism; it’s also about the claims it makes on the reader’s world. Children reading a book like this are being encouraged to apply its assertions about the country Where the Rainbow Ends to their own ‘race’ in particular (there are no French, Jewish or African lost people, it seems, on the golden beach). They are being encouraged to think that the dead can be brought back to life through nationalistic fervour. It’s hardly inaccurate to describe a sentiment like this as fascistic, and to describe Mills’s book as engaging in a deeply irresponsible use of the strategies of fantasy.
Philip French once suggested in The Observer that the Christian writer C. S. Lewis might have been influenced by Where the Rainbow Ends when he wrote The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (1950). Given what I’ve just said about the book’s theology, one might imagine this would be improbable; but in fact there’s every sign that the book had a strong influence on Lewis – but not, I think, on the first of the Narnian chronicles. Certainly there are a lion and four children in both Where the Rainbow Ends and The Lion, but I can’t see much more to link them apart from a common zeal for battle and the presence in both of a wicked witch. Much closer, though, is the link between Mills’s book and The Magician’s Nephew (1955). Both involve a quest for the recovery of a parent, taken on by a boy and girl with the help of friends. Both contain tempting apples (the Slacker offers one to the cadets, Digory is offered one by Queen Jadis) and moments of exhilarating flight, on a winged horse in Lewis’s novel, a magic carpet in Mills’s. The apple in The Magician’s Nephew gets replanted in England and so becomes the English apple which is mimicked by the Slacker’s fruit. Meanwhile Digory’s father is away in India, and makes his way home at the end of the story against all odds, like Captain and Mrs Carey. But the most obvious link between the books is the wicked uncle. Uncle Joseph lives with his sister, exactly like Lewis’s Uncle Andrew, although Uncle Andrew’s sister Letitia (Aunty Lettie) is much nicer (and tougher) than Aunt Matilda. Both uncles are tall and thin, and given to wearing top hats, which like the rest of their clothing get subjected to appalling wear and tear – Uncle Andrew’s by his adventures in company with Jadis, the witch-queen of Charn, and Uncle Joseph’s by his underground journey in company with the devilish Dragon-King, during which his garments are ‘considerably damaged’ by ‘sparks and lava dust’ (p. 115). Both uncles have a singular contempt for children (remember Uncle Andrew’s willingness to use Digory and Polly for his experiments in magic). Both have a commercial side to their personalities, with Uncle Joseph scheming to deprive his niece and nephew of their inheritance – ‘Riverdale and the fortune that accompanied it’ (p. 199) – while Uncle Andrew devises grander projects to do with the newly-created land of Narnia: ‘Bring a few scraps of old iron here, bury ’em, and up they come as brand new railway engines, battleships, anything you please. They’ll cost nothing, and I can sell ’em at full prices in England. I shall be a millionaire’ (p. 103). Finally, both uncles meet their doom at the hands, or rather paws, of savage animals. As we’ve seen, Uncle Joseph is first poisoned by drinking the tonic of an English lion cub then eaten by hyenas; while Uncle Andrew is first frightened half to death by a fully-grown lion, then pursued across the Narnian landscape by a crowd of baying beasts, which he thinks are hungry for his blood. Andrew is lucky enough to be mistaken; his death is only symbolic, and being less wicked than his prototype he is allowed to repent of his wickedness and become ‘a nicer and less selfish old man than he had ever been before’ in the final pages of Lewis’s novel (p. 171). His transformation can be taken to begin at the moment when the animals plant him in the earth of Narnia, mistaking him for a kind of tree. Unlike Mills’s Enchanted Tree, which started out as a dragon and retains a dragon’s hunger, Uncle Andrew’s planting eventually bears fruit in repentance and personal reform, which he carries back with him from Narnia very much as Digory carries back the fruit that will heal his dying mother.
Uncle Andrew’s reprieve can be read as a kind of symbolic reprieve for Where the Rainbow Ends, which is transformed by Lewis from a piece of imperialist propaganda to a creation myth for an Edenic secondary world. Lewis’s concern in the Narnian chronicles with revitalizing religious faith in the Britain of the 1950s is balanced in The Magician’s Nephew by an anti-imperialist spirit which runs more or less counter to the politics of Mills’s play and book. Lewis pits the Empress Jadis of Charn and her minor-league disciple, Uncle Andrew, against the lion Aslan, who raises ordinary London Cabbies to the status of kings but insists on their remembering how to ‘use a spade and a plough and raise food out of the earth’ (p. 129) and how to treat their subjects as they would wish to be treated themselves. The newly-crowned King Frank is exclusively concerned with protecting Narnia against its enemies rather than expanding its borders – though the assumption that he deserves ‘natural’ authority over both talking animals and his wife, Queen Helen, will annoy most modern readers. Lewis endows his main female character, Polly, with something of Rosamond’s force of personality, though on the whole women are relegated to a secondary position in his narrative compared with that of Mills; even the quest for the healing apple is Digory’s rather than Polly’s, though elsewhere in Lewis’s work he was happy enough to include girls among his principal questers (Lucy in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, Jill in The Silver Chair).
At the same time, here as elsewhere Lewis takes it for granted that the fantastic genre he writes in is in some sense a feminine one. Uncle Andrew has inherited what magic talents he has from his godmother, Mrs Lefay, whose name suggests an association both with fairy tales and Arthurian legend. She it was who bequeathed her godson a box from Atlantis containing dust from another world (Philip Pullman took note), which he uses to manufacture the rings that convey the child protagonists, Digory and Polly, to Charn and Narnia. Uncle Andrew, however, has learned nothing from this about the potency of female storytelling. When Digory points out that Mrs Le Fay’s gift suggests that ‘all the old fairy tales are more or less true’ (p. 28), and that one of the things that happens in fairy stories is that wicked people like Uncle Andrew get their come-uppance, his uncle retorts that such notions are no more than ‘Old wives’ tales’ and that Digory only believes them because he was ‘brought up among women’ (p. 29). One of the women Lewis himself got his ideas from was Clifford Mills, and this makes me wonder how many other better remembered writers owe a debt to her unsettling fantasy of death reversed, treason savagely punished, and imperial degeneration temporarily halted.
Where the Rainbow Ends has a place in the history of British fantasy, and I think it’s best not to forget it, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us feel. Fantasies can be damaging, it reminds us, as well as enriching; and even damaging fantasies can sometimes have unexpectedly enriching effects. Where the Rainbow Ends shaped me to a certain extent as well as Lewis, and it’s crucial to analyse that shaping process if we are not to be controlled by it. I can’t honestly, however, recommend that you read the book for yourself.
 Clifford Mills was Emilie Clifford (née Bennet, married Harold Mills Clifford in 1889), who adopted a variant of her husband’s name when writing. Besides Where the Rainbow Ends she wrote two other successful plays, The Basker (1916) and The Luck of the Navy (1919), both of which were performed on Broadway. The Luck of the Navy was filmed twice, in 1927 and 1938.
 Clifford Mills, Where the Rainbow Ends (London: Forgotten Books, 2015); all references are to this facsimile edition.
 Philip French, ‘The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe – review’, The Observer, Sunday 11 December 2005.
 C. S. Lewis, The Magician’s Nephew (London etc.: William Collins and Sons, 1989). All references are to this edition.