Macbeth Act 2.4

The first twenty lines of the scene consist of a verbal scene painting of the disturbances in nature that have surrounded events so far. The “Great Chain of Being” theory outlines how a break in the natural order of things (e.g. the murder of a king) affects every other element in the chain, stability is disrupted, and chaos ensues. The Old Man, who begins the scene, provides an almost homely, commonplace point of view or commentary on events. This is established by his self-description of “Threescore and ten I can remember well,” with its biblical resonance of the natural span of a man’s life. Ross reinforces this by calling the Old Man, “good father,” thereby validating his views, etc. Further, Ross provides a description of how the murder has perverted the normal balanced arrangement–day has been turned into night. And lest we overlook the message, the Old Man makes all plain with his “’Tis unnatural, / Even like the deed that’s done.” Even the lower elements in the chain are affected, such as Duncan’s own horses “Contending ’gainst obedience, as they would make / War with mankind” (rather than fulfill their natural function).

The second half of the scene, marked by Macduff’s entrance, is largely informational. Because Malcolm and Donalbain have fled, they are now suspected by being implicated in their father’s murder. And in a true upending of the scheme of things (at least as far as the audience is concerned), Macbeth has been named king and is to be crowned. It’s left to the Old Man to conclude the scene with a couplet in which he hopes for yet another reversal of events “That would make good of bad, and friends of foes.”

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© 2008

Julius Caesar 2.1.310-334

Although short, this sub-scene has some interest in it if only because it possesses vague biblical undertones. The knock at the door came from one of the conspirators, Caius Ligarius, and it is immediately clear that he is ill–as the faithful servant Lucius announces him as such. Brutus chastises him a little for being sick, in almost homely terms–“O, what a time you chose out, brave Caius, / To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick.” (Obviously Romans also heeded their mothers’ advice to wrap up warmly when ill.)  However, Caius reveals the almost miraculous power of being in the presence of the honourable, noble Brutus, and throws off the kerchief–shades of Christ healing the sick and raising the dead (however, Caius phrases it in slightly more oblique language: “Thou like an exorcist has conjured up / My mortifièd spirit. Now bid me run, / And I will strive with things impossible.”) The effect of this is to cast an honourable, almost righteous air to Brutus and the conspirators as a whole as Caius becomes disciple-like: “And with a heart new-fired I follow you, / To do I know not what; but it sufficeth / That Brutus leads me on.”

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© 2008

Julius Caesar Act 2.1.229-308

The centre of 2.1 provides a valuable contrast with the nature of what has preceded–the male-dominated conspirators, their aims, objectives, rationales, and so forth. Here we have an essentially quiet dialogue between man and wife (Brutus and Portia) set in the middle of the night (“Y’have ungently, Brutus / Stole from my bed”). And in terms number of lines spoken, Portia has the far greater share. (It is also worth considering how Brutus/Portia serve as a balance and contrast to Caesar/Calphurnia.) Thus, though her overall role is a small one in the play, this scene does lends her a certain significance and weight. However, she begins by demonstrating that, thus far, she has been a patient wife; she has asked Brutus “what the matter was” and indeed tried to insist he give her a response, though ultimately she has not pressed her questions on him “fearing to strengthen that impatience” on Brutus’ part. Portia also refuses to accept Brutus’ short, off-hand answer “I am not well in health.” Her perceptiveness is revealed when she says (268) “You have some sick [harmful] offence within your mind, / Which by the right and virtue of my place / I ought to know of.” Incidentally, it is clear that she kneels before Brutus at this point, a stage action that can bear several interpretations with regard to her character–is it genuine “humility,” using a wife’s wiles, being a genuine supplicant, what a wife “has” to do before a husband, or any one or more of other possibilities?? Of course, it is also simply a good visual theatrical technique. What is also interesting is her discussion of aspects of marriage and what that entails (279-87): essentially, she spells out that marriage should be a partnership, and “If it be no more [than a series of inconsequential conveniences], /Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.” In case we miss the point, to Brutus’ assertion “You are my true and honourable wife,” Portia answers “If this were true, then should I know this secret.” She also reminds him (and us) that she is “Cato’s daughter,” Cato being renowned for his moral integrity. Brutus’ comment, “Render me worthy of this noble wife,” summarizes nicely the whole effect of Portia’s behaviour, and her character. So far as the play as a whole is concerned, her nobility has a knock-on effect to far as Brutus’ own character and actions are concerned. A fortuitous knock (!) at the door prevents Brutus revealing “the secret of my heart,” but at least he promises so to do. This also provides a convenient exit line for Portia.

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© 2008

Romeo and Juliet Act 5.3.74-310

The final segment of the play, as is Shakespeare’s habit, breaks down into several shorter, varying scenes, all designed to hold the audience’s attention (not that it is a large task since the play is moving to its ultimate climax–however, after nearly two to three hours audiences can become restless). First, there is Romeo’s final, “death” soliloquy, always a moment that actors relish. He does demonstrate an admirable side to his character in expressing some regret at Paris’s death and by laying him in a tomb, a final decent action. He is also surrounded by other bodies–the dead Tybalt “in thy bloody sheet,” and of course Juliet’s body which, ironically he describes: “Beauty’s ensign yet / Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, / And death’s pale flag is not advancèd there.” It’s ironic, of course, because Juliet isn’t really dead, hence the colour of her face, etc. There is perhaps just a touch of excess in Romeo’s final lines (“Eyes, look, …. etc”), the repetition seeming slightly self-indulgent. His actual death line is suitably romantic (“Thus with a kiss I die”), though even that does contain a bawdy innuendo, or at least it would in other circumstances.

And then, too late, the Friar arrives, and Juliet revives, too late. Conveniently a noise arouses the Friar’s cowardly nature, conveniently leaving Juliet to discover the dead Romeo and commit suicide as well. Plot necessity indeed. However, Juliet’s death “scene” contrasts quite markedly with Romeo’s. His soliloquy is lengthy, and perhaps overly poetic at times, Juliet’s is short and to the point (literally, as it happens). Moreover, after discovering that the poison is insufficient, she then actually kills herself by stabbing herself–not a particularly easy method of suicide (thus revealing her determination, etc). Freudians might be inclined to give a psychological interpretation to Juliet stabbing herself, especially as her final words are “and let me die.” (Those familiar with the Zeffirelli movie version might note how conveniently Juliet manages to fall across Romeo.)

All that remains is the final wrap-up, although it actually proves to be quite lengthy, particularly the Friar’s curiously long explanation of events (229-69) which the on-stage characters might need, but certainly not the audience. Noteworthy is Prince Escalus’s arrival, his third entrance on stage. As previously, his function is to restore order and to point out the root cause of the disorder:
“Capulet, Montague,
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.
And I, for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punished.”

Escalus also gets the final lines in the form of a couplet (a common way of marking the end of a scene or play). This couplet possesses a simplicity that can be quite effective, though the more cynical might deem it trite:

“For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.”

It goes without saying that the play remains the most famous of all adolescent tragic love stories.

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© 2008

Macbeth Act 2.3.58-141

Macduff’s return to the stage presents something of a challenge to the actor playing the role since the actor has the thrice-repeated “horror” (compare Lear’s thrice-repeated “howl” in King Lear, 5.3.258). The challenge is the repetition itself, and the obvious solution is for the actor to say each “horror” differently, attempting to give a sense of the range of meaning the word itself might convey. Macduff then reveals his discovery of Duncan’s murder, which is followed by Macbeth and Lennox leaving to investigate (and for a plot development to take place off-stage). The commotion brings on other characters, particularly Banquo and Lady Macbeth, the latter declaring her famous disingenuous line “Woe, alas! What, in our house?” (However, it should be noted how succinctly that reminds of the “hospitality doctrine”). Macbeth’s return brings a moment of danger as he enlarges upon his confession, “I do repent me of my fury / That I did kill them [Duncan’s servants].” His description of their bloody state is his (apparent) justification, but Lady Macbeth sees the danger in his elaboration, and she promptly faints (115). Thus is such an essentially simple action much is revealed regarding her character at this point in the play. This is followed quickly by some perceptive (and necessary for plot purposes) asides from Duncan’s two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain–they see shrewdly the danger their father’s murder places them in. As the others (including Macbeth!) resolve to fight “treasonous malice,” Malcolm and Donalbain close the scene with their determination to flee to England and Scotland respectively.

[As an aside, it’s interesting to recall the Gowrie Conspiracy which was an attempt to assassinate King James on 5 August 1600 when he was still just king of Scotland. The Earl and his brother were killed in their attempt to murder James, although the circumstances surrounding the whole affair were murky to say the least, especially James’s own role in it. Nevertheless, the murder of a monarch would resonate with King James, whose supposed ancestor was Banquo.]

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© 2008

Shakespeare, Pinero, and The Second Mrs Tanqueray

Arthur W. Pinero’s name is not as widely known as it was a century ago when he was at the peak of his career. Before writing plays, he was an actor, most notably with Henry Irving’s Company at the Lyceum Theatre, London. Although Pinero was never anything more than a supporting actor, in 1879-80 he did find himself performing Salarino in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, for 250 consecutive performances (Henry Irving played Shylock). In the 1880s he became popular with his series of farces produced at the Court Theatre, London–The Magistrate, The Schoolmistress, and Dandy Dick. He also wrote more serious plays on social themes, the best known being The Second Mrs Tanqueray.

The Second Mrs Tanqueray was the theatrical sensation of the London stage in 1893. It established Pinero as the leading English dramatist of serious, “problem” plays, and created a star out of Mrs. Patrick Campbell in the title role. The play recounts the marriage of a “woman with a past” and how it fails because of the double standard of morality applied unequally and hypocritically by Victorian society to men and women. (My recently published edition includes a thoroughly revised text based on the author’s manuscript, prompt copy for the first production, and published first edition; it also incorporates pertinent stage directions from the first production. The critical introduction examines all facets of the play and its production, and the appendices make accessible a wide variety of hard-to-find contemporary contextual materials related to the play.) By the time he died in 1934 Pinero had written nearly sixty plays and, although he always finds a place in histories of the drama and theatre, he is one of the numerous lesser dramatists England has produced. Nevertheless, his plays are worth a read.

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Macbeth Act 2.3.1-57

The drunken Porter’s opening soliloquy (linked to the previous scene by “knocking”) has sometimes been regarded as unShakespearean. However, Shakespeare frequently inserts a comic episode at moments of high drama to provide so-called “comic relief.” And it is true that audiences do need to experience different emotional levels during the course of a play; they cannot be left at a consistently high pitch. Variety in tone or pace is simply a practical necessity, and the comic in its turn serves to highlight the tragic. Here the Porter’s reference to “if a man were porter of hell gate” is particularly appropriate because what has already occurred inside the castle is hellish (and see similar word associations later in his soliloquy). The soliloquy is also interesting for its references to equivocation that serve to link the play to the Gunpowder Plot of 1605, and the subsequent trial of Father Garnet in March 1606. The thwarted Plot was designed to blow up the Houses of Parliament, including King James (and thus there’s the strong regicide link to Macbeth). During his trial Garnet maintained that equivocation was appropriate when laws were unjust (and thereby justifying certain acts of treason). Shakespeare turns this to comic effect with the Porter’s explanation to Macduff of drinking being “a great provoker of three things,” and which he enumerates at 25-33. It might not be stretching the point too much to tie his remarks to the recurrent theme of reality and illusion.

Macbeth’s entrance after this brief comic interlude reminds us swiftly of previous events, and instantly makes an audience wonder how Duncan’s murder will be revealed, etc. This is not to say there are not a couple of black humour, ironic lines, such as Macduff’s “Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?” or Lennox’s “Goes the King hence to-day?” And then, in response to Lennox’s description of the “unruly” night, “strange screams of death,” “accents terrible,” Macbeth provides us with: “’Twas a rough night.” Rough indeed!!!!!!!

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© 2008