The Awkward Puritan at the Party

It’s hard to be a Puritan on Twelfth Night. I don’t mean a Puritan in Twelfth Night; I mean on Twelfth Night.

First, some terms to be defined:

Puritan: a strict moralist or person critical of self-indulgent behavior, or, more specifically (and when capitalized), a member of the Church of England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries who wanted to “purify” church practice

Twelfth Night: also known as the Feast of the Epiphany, held on January 6th, the last day of the Christmas holidays

A 1665 Jan Steen painting of Twelfth Night feasting

The Feast of the Epiphany technically commemorates the Magi’s discovery of Jesus and, in a broader sense, the manifestation of God to humanity. (Jesus’ baptism and his first miracle at the wedding in Cana are also focal points of this holiday.) We should note, however, that Shakespeare did not title this play The Feast of the Epiphany, or the Manifestation of Our Lord; he called it Twelfth Night, or What You Will. When people speak of the Epiphany, they are usually talking about the sacred aspect of the day, but “Twelfth Night” has a slightly less holy connotation. It was a time of merrymaking, monarchs- and bishops-for-a-day, and, of course, drinking. Ordinary life could be reversed on Twelfth Night.

Why might this be a problem for a puritan/Puritan? Puritans harshly criticized any sort of rowdiness (to non-Puritans, it seemed, any sort of fun): dancing, drunkenness, the theatre, etc. Cross-dressing would also not be a good choice of attire at a Puritan party. Moreover, Puritans did not celebrate Christmas because of some of its pagan sources and traditions. Twelfth Night could be considered wicked on two counts and therefore wholly unacceptable.

This is why Malvolio has such a hard time in the world of Twelfth Night. Previous to our story, he seems to have enjoyed a comfortably controlled position in Olivia’s household. Olivia certainly does not accept his views on everything, but she does regard him as a pillar upon which she can lean—a stable servant, in other words. In Act 1, Scene 5, the first time we meet them both, Olivia asks Malvolio’s opinion (then dismisses it) and depends upon him to get rid of unwanted visitors (or call them back again). Her home may not be a Puritan state, but it is not about to alienate that sect.

Unbeknownst to the fastidious steward, though, an invasion of rambunctious knights is making a foray into this kingdom. As far as I could tell, the play does not tell us if Sir Toby is always around, but that doesn’t matter much. Many people are not wild partiers on their own: they need a party. Maria has always been there, and Sir Andrew’s new presence and the return of Feste the clown creates just the right environment to encourage a not-so-divine Twelfth Night to take wing.

For Malvolio, this is bad news. He does not consciously identify himself as a (P)uritan, although I don’t think that’s necessary. When you think you are the arbiter of good taste in a group, whether morally or in some other sense, you don’t necessarily use a label for yourself, do you? You simply label everyone else. In the same way, Malvolio views himself as the moral and behavioral norm of Olivia’s household. All he wants to do is stamp out “uncivil rule” in his mistress’s demesne (II.iii.111). Yet the others recognize his exhortations as a threat to their merry way of life. They taunt his religious convictions (that is, the convictions of English Puritans; Malvolio is actually, as to be expected in a pagan society, a pagan who calls on the name of Jove) by flashing “cakes and ale,” traditional church feast foods, in his face and invoking the name of the Virgin Mary’s mother (II.iii.104-105). They cook a plot to overturn his somber demeanor. When Maria applies a (P)uritan label to him, Sir Andrew’s reply illustrates the enmity between the two camps: “O, if I thought that [Malvolio is a puritan] I’d beat him like a dog” (II.iii.136). The rest of the knights and company’s actions towards the steward illustrate the danger of one party being in complete control of the world of the play.

For Olivia, Orsino, Viola, and Sebastian, on the other hand, the reign of the topsy-turvy for a time is of great benefit. As Malvolio and, symbolically, his morally restraining influence are imprisoned, Viola is free to dress as a boy and win Orsino’s affections for herself—as well as Olivia’s affections for her brother. Olivia is allowed to pursue Sebastian. All four of them, except perhaps Viola, can be completely content with falling in love with and marrying people they didn’t really know an hour before. This doesn’t make sense to us on one level, and it couldn’t happen in a Puritan world in the first place. The temporary victory of the revelers allows possibilities that guide us to the conclusion of the play.

Nevertheless, just as the Puritan world isn’t conducive to the upper classes, the wild world is also ultimately unsustainable. Sebastian beats the knights out of the way, and Malvolio is released to freedom and his job as soon as Olivia wakes from her love frenzy and realizes that he may be imprisoned unjustly. The play therefore ends on a cheery note: though with a few more companions, we can return to ordinary life where moral conscientiousness plays a restraining role on the unsavory elements of the world but not a restricting role on the owners of that world. We have two weddings to look forward to; what’s not to enjoy?

Yet, as Katy pointed out, Malvolio himself leaves us with a warning, which is chilling in light of the civil war England would endure forty years down the road: “I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you” (V.i.365). He may not risk being put down and cast out again.

Cromwell in the Battle of Naseby in 1645, Charles Landseer

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The Worth of War

Promotional poster for Shakespeare’s “Troilus and Cressida” at Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (Kevin O’Donnell and Chaon Cross)

When I selected Troilus and Cressida as our next play to read, I wasn’t sure what to expect.  Initially research revealed that it is a difficult play to place in one genre.  Some of our group had it listed under the Comedies; some sources list it under Tragedies, and others categorize this story as one of Shakespeare’s problem plays.  Reading the brief summary, I expected it to be romantic.  I would now conclude that this play does not fit any one genre, and I will not try to justify a category.  The play is instead a commentary, observing the symptoms and tragic side effects of the infectious disease known as war.

I use the word disease deliberately, because Shakespeare does as well.  The play is full of references to disease and infection.  One particularly notable passage is pronounced by Thersites:

…Now, the rotten diseases
of the south, the guts-griping, ruptures, catarrhs,
loads o’ gravel i’ the back, lethargies, cold
palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing
lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas,
limekilns i’ the palm, incurable bone-ache, and the
rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take
again such preposterous discoveries! – Act V, Scene 1

In fact the last word of the play is “diseases” in Pandarus’ “Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases.”  Pandarus also adds an abundance of bawdy jokes and crude sexual innuendos such that anyone would feel awkward and dirty.  It’s difficult to get caught up in the romance of a play when the text is filled with images of decay and contamination, and whatever Pandarus is on about.  But then, there isn’t much romance in the play, so what is it about?

War.  In Troilus and Cressida, war taints and corrupts family, soldiers, and love.  Nothing escapes it.  Oaths are broken.  Honor is shattered.  Women are used.  And men turn war into a sporting game.

As the Trojan war starts to tear apart the city and desolate the people, we see it tear apart the royal family in a debate of the realists and the romantics.  In Act II, Scene 2, Priam has yet again been asked to surrender Helen, and he turns to his eldest and noblest son Hector for his opinion.  Hector replies “Let Helen go” and proceeds to argue (rightly) that the hundreds of lives lost in the war are not worth Troy’s possession of Helen.  Surprisingly it’s not Paris that responds to this argument (because he’s a spineless twit), but Troilus, who makes many passionate, and not necessarily logical, arguments for the keeping of Helen.  Troilus and Paris have romanticized and idealized war as a noble effort, worthy of the cost for the sake of honor.  This does eventually sway Hector who says, “’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence upon our joint and several dignities.”  Troilus echos “Were it not glory that we more affect than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood spent more in her defense.”

I love this scene of argument because it is still so relevant today.  Why do we go to war?  What is the cost?  Is it worth it? What will we do for honor?  And what is honor worth?  These questions are also explored in the First and Second Parts of Henry IV and in Henry V – especially in Falstaff’s famous speech: “What is honour?  A word.  What is that word ‘honour’? Air. A trim reckoning!” (Henry IV Part 1, Act V, Scene 1)  Though Troilus would famously argue “What’s aught but ’tis valued?” Similar to Shakespeare’s second tetralogy, Troilus and Cressida also strips and defaces war to reveal it for what it is.  War is driven by passion, not reason.

In the end, war destroys it’s most honorable soldier in a dishonorable death.  Hector, Troy’s champion who earned the respect of the Greeks, is struck down while unarmed, not in fair combat, but cornered and overwhelmed by Achilles’ groupies, and his body is maliciously dragged through the dirt.  What was the great Hector fighting for again?  Was it worth it?  War must make us question honor because we must always be assessing the value of what

Laura Pyper as Cressida in Troilus and Cressida at The Globe Theatre

we are fighting for and the cost we are paying.  Because war infects everything, even the soldiers, and tears apart families.

War also tears apart love.  Troilus and Cressida are victims of circumstance, driven apart by the war.  A desperate and endangered Cressida was forced to betray her love to protect herself.  She waivers between loyalty to Troilus and the need for self-protection in the enemy’s camp.  Cressida does what she needs to do in the end to survive and protect herself in a world of men.  She is in the enemy camp and as soon as she entered the men descended on her, every one of them kissing her and speaking of her as though she was an object (as compared to Hector’s visit, where he was treated with great respect). Cressida’s father clearly is not going to protect her.  Diomedes is her only protection in the camp.  What else could she have done but turn to him for shelter, even though the cost was betrayal?

Things could have ended differently.  If it was a comedy, it would have.  Comedies can so easily be tragedies, except everything coincidentally works out in the end.  Rob Kimbro, who recently directed a production of Romeo & Juliet at Rice University, which I had the pleasure of working on, worded this thought wonderfully:

The plots of Shakespeare’s comedies often hinge on tragedy narrowly averted.  Imagine a Much Ado About Nothing in which Benedick, spurred to revenge by Beatrice, kills Claudio and Pedro before Don John’s plan comes to light.  Sometimes the circumstances that lead to the happy comedic ending are pretty improbable, but they’re also inevitable, because the world of those plays is one in which things work out for the best in the end.

In the realistic world of Troilus and Cressida, which strips all romanticism from the ideas of war, honor, and even love, things do not work out for the best in the end.  There is no satisfactory climax to the play.  Because it’s not a play about love, it’s a play about war.  And we are asked, is there ever a satisfying ending?

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Rediscovering Lear

I’m very grateful that this was not the first time each of us had read King Lear. We all read it when we studied abroad in London in 2010. The four of us were also lucky enough to see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform it when we visited Stratford-upon-Avon for Shakespeare’s birthday. I say I’m grateful because this play is so complex and heavy and awesome that reading and seeing it multiple times makes such a difference that I feel compelled to reiterate this perhaps obvious yet important notion of how repetition is vital with Shakespeare.  Okay, I got that out of the way, whew! Now, I will continue on with the meatier parts of our discussion and my reflection.

There are many elements that I feel we picked apart and that I understand better this time around. For starters, I felt like I finally got a grasp on understanding the characters of the Fool and Edgar, Gloucester’s legitimate son who disguises himself as a crazy, homeless man named Tom. What struck me most about them this time is seeing both serve as representations or markers of Lear’s diminishing mind.

We see the Fool partway through the beginning of the play, after Cordelia’s banishment. It is at this point where Lear has truly made a foolish mistake by giving away his power and land to two of his daughters, who do not have his best interests at heart, and sending his true and loyal daughter into exile. The Fool tries to make Lear realize his mistake through repetitions of little ditties and jokes. In fact, the role of the fool, historically, went beyond simply entertaining and amusing. The fool was expected to criticize his master along with their guests. Fun Fact: “Queen Elizabeth is said to have rebuked one of her fools for not being severe enough with her” (from The New Cambridge Shakespeare, editied by Jay L. Halio). That is the responsibility and the little power the Fool has with his master. But Lear does not fully acknowledge the Fool’s elucidations. The Fool sticks with Lear through the most intense of storms, trying to care and guide his king to safety. Then shortly after the storm, the Fool leaves and does not return for the rest of the play. Tom, the crazy beggar, stays with Lear, continuing to lead Lear along with Kent, a loyal subject to the King. Along with the transition of attendants, Lear transitions from foolishness to madness.

Greg Hicks, with Kathryn Hunter in The Royal Shakespeare Company’s production at the Courtyard Theatre, Stratford upon Avon

More fun facts: We found out that in Shakespeare’s time the actor who played Cordelia doubled as the Fool, which was not only practical but also would add another layer to that character’s relationship with Lear. Also, some productions have insinuated that the Fool could possibly be Lear’s illegitimate child, which would also be interesting given that the play is largely about the relationship between sons and daughters, legitimate or not.

In our discussion we really tuned in to the importance of Lear’s relationship to Tom. Edgar completely strips away his identity to take on the role. Lear, who has also been stripped of his identity and belongings, recognizes himself  in the beggar. He sees them as equal, and, even though he is losing his mind, he shows us what being human is without the adornments that have come with civilization: “Thou ow’st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. . . thou art the thing itself. Unaccompanied man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art” (3.4.93-97). Lear views himself in his true nature.

Nature is one of the more poignant themes of Lear. We see it referenced all over the place in a variety of ways including simply witnessing the realities of being human. We all know that each of us will keep continuing to age until we die. We all share that same fate. This play forces us to think about our own mortality and our own fragility. I think if this play is done well we are taken in and made to feel the same amount of vulnerability as Lear feels at the end of the play. That is one of the many reasons why this play is so difficult, moving, uncomfortable, and ultimately so important.

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