Shakespeare at the Globe, 1599-1609

by Bernard Beckerman

I. PREMISES FOR A STUDY OF SHAKESPEAREAN DRAMATIC FORM

In her constantly stimulating book Endeavors of Art Madeleine Doran introduces a new and provocative approach to the examination of Elizabethan dramatic structure. Adopting the thesis of Heinrich Wölfflin, expounded in his Principles of Art History, Doran extends it to apply to the literary artist. Wölfflin argues that “the art of one age differs from that of another because the artists have different modes of imaginative beholding ... [As a result], any change in representational content from one period to [another is] less important to the effect of difference than the change in style arising from difference in decorative principle” or way of beholding.[4] Thus, the intent of the art work is less evident in the subject treated than in the arrangement effected. In comparing the “modes of imaginative beholding” in Renaissance and Baroque art, Wölfflin differentiates the two styles in terms of five categories of visual opposites, one of which is diffusion of effect (multiplicity) versus concentration of effect (unity). This category is the one most relevant to a consideration of dramatic literature. By demonstrating that Renaissance art “achieves its unity by making the parts independent as free members [and by relating them through a] coordination of the accents,” Wölfflin reconciles the opposites of multiplicity and unity in a concept of “multiple unity.”[5]

In the Elizabethan age the recurrent and popular expression of this concept is found in the image of art as a “mirror.” Hamlet’s use of this image need not be quoted. Substantially it was anticipated by Jonson in Every Man Out of His Humour:

Asper. Well I will scourge those apes;

And to these courteous eyes [of the audience] oppose a mirrour,

As large as is the stage, whereon we act:

Where they shall see the times deformitie

Anatomiz’d in every nerve, and sinnew,

With constant courage, and contempt of feare.

[Chorus, 117-122]

Both uses of the image reveal that the reflection is to be of the times and to be directed at the spectator. That the mirror is inherent in the thinking of the Elizabethan age not only as the purpose but as the method of poetry is expressed even more clearly in Puttenham’s The Arte of English Poesie. In objecting to the mingling of the qualities of lightheaded or “phantasticall” men with poets, which “the pride of many Gentlemen and others” insist on to the derision of poetry, Puttenham writes that the poet’s brain “being well affected, [is] not onely nothing disorderly or confused with any monstruous imaginations or conceits, but very formall, and in his much multiformitie uniforme, that is well proportioned, and so passing cleare, that by [the mind], as by a glasse or mirrour, are represented unto the soule all maner of bewtifull visions.” Later: “There be againe of these glasses that shew thinges exceeding faire and comely; others that shew figures monstruous & illfavored.”[6] Here the poet’s mind, utilizing invention and imagination, is a mirror by which the soul receives vision.

The “mirror” had two principal functions in the Elizabethan period. One was to represent experience, in short, to achieve verisimilitude. Miss Doran demonstrates that the Elizabethans did not expect particular realism but universal truths. The other was to bring together many kinds of experience. Jonson clearly means to have the mirror turn this way and that in order to reflect a multiple image of the times. Shakespeare implies that in showing “virtue her own feature, scorn her own image,” the mirror held up to nature reflects the allegorical figure Virtue, at the same time as it reflects her evil sister, Scorn. The actual practices of the plays illustrate that the poets sought to project multiple aspects of a situation—Puttenham’s multiformitie—as it were by a mirror. Consequently, they tended to give equal emphasis to the various elements of the drama, that is, to produce a coordination rather than a subordination of parts. What “coordination of parts” means in dramaturgy may be seen by contrasting the relative dominance and integration of character, plot, language, and theme in classical and Renaissance drama.

In classical and modern “realistic” construction, plot, or the structure of incidents, is dominant. It is an imitation of an action to which character and language are subordinated. Although Francis Fergusson rightly points out the difficulty of defining the word “action,” nevertheless, he makes it clear that Aristotle specifies that plot is the prime embodiment of the action.[7] In this Aristotle describes the actual practice of ancient Greek drama. The incidents embrace the total significance of a play, for if plot, the structure of incidents, imitates the action which is the soul of tragedy, it must also contain the meaning of that action. Through plot the meaning radiates into character and language. Such a pyramid of emphasis, in which certain dramatic elements are subordinated, ensures genuine unity of action. If Greek drama did not always realize such an ideal form, it aspired toward such a realization.

In Renaissance construction, however, with its independent parts and coordinated accents, unity of action is not really possible. The structure of incidents does not implicitly contain the total meaning of the play. Character and thought have degrees of autonomy. They are not subordinate but coordinate with the plot. Therefore, the plot is not the sole source of unity. Instead, unity must arise from the dynamic interaction of the various parts of the drama: story, character, and language. Our task is to discover how this was accomplished.

Two habits of composition characterized the Elizabethan dramatists. First, the poets turned to popular romance and history for the sources of their plots. Baldwin saw one of the major problems of the dramatists to be the shaping of narrative material to dramatic ends, and this he believes was accomplished through the Terentian five-act structure. Both Hardin Craig and Doran regard the romantic story as the formative influence in English drama.[8] Following Manly, Doran sees the miracle play as the main source of the romantic story and, as such, a principal forerunner of the Elizabethan drama. Secondly, in utilizing these materials, “English dramatists almost without exception adopted the sequential method of action, and all the weight of classic drama did not prevail to change their minds about it.”[9] The importance of this factor in the molding of drama is further emphasized in Miss Doran’s suggestion that the source material, or the story, “is often the chief determinant of whether or not a play is well organized.”[10] A glance at the play list of the Globe’s company reveals that with the possible exception of Every Man Out of His Humour and A Larum for London, story plays a decisive part in the flow of the drama. But so was story or fable the groundwork of ancient Greek drama. The differences arise from the ways in which the dramatists of each age treated their stories.

To begin with, the English dramatists retained a very large portion of a given story. They arranged but did not eliminate. In fact, they frequently supplied additional events. In A Larum for London we find scene after scene illustrating the awful fate that befell the people of Antwerp at the hands of the Spanish. A copious montage of horrors passes across the stage. This multiplicity of events is a prime characteristic of this drama. To the Lear story Shakespeare adds the tale of Gloucester, to that of Helena and Bertram the story of Parolles.

Having taken a bustling story as his basis, the poet had to arrange all the events in dramatic order. According to Doran he had to find “a different method from the classical in two central problems of form: how to get concentration, and how to achieve organic structure, that is, how to achieve an action causally connected from beginning to middle to end.”[11] However, Bradbrook has rightly pointed out that in Elizabethan drama “consecutive or causal succession of events is not of the first importance.” With this observation, she dismisses narrative as not being one of the first concerns of the dramatists.[12] Certainly Bradbrook is right about the absence of Aristotelian causality, as the briefest review of most Elizabethan plays will show. The events leading to Cordelia’s death are without cause unless we choose chance as the cause. It is by chance she is captured, it is by chance that Edmund confesses too late.

The issue, however, is joined incorrectly. Organic structure, in this type of drama, is not a product of “causally connected events.” Nor can the absence of such connection minimize the dependence of Elizabethan dramaturgy upon narrative progression. To appreciate this point of view, we must comprehend the difference between how we usually expect a play to be linked causally and how the Elizabethans employed dramatic causation.

I believe that I follow most critics in deriving the concept of dramatic causation from Aristotle’s admonition that “the plot ... must imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them is displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed.” The Aristotelian plot is compressive and retrospective. Its method is to submit man to an intolerable pressure until there is a single bursting point that shatters life. A single act, invariably occurring before the play begins, initiates a series of events which, linked together in a probable and necessary sequence, produces the catastrophe, which once again casts back to the original source of momentum. Such linear intensification is promoted by the exertion of tremendous will on the part of the leading characters. Antigone’s willful piety clashes with Creon’s statism, Philoctetes’ desire for revenge and Ulysses’ desire for victory at Troy combine within Neoptolemus in a conflict between honor and duty. All incidents develop out of the wills of the characters. Incident counteracts incident. For example, before Oedipus can fully digest the charge of Tiresias, he accuses Creon of treachery. Creon responds to the charge, but before their conflict can be resolved, Jocasta tries to reconcile them, the very act of which brings Oedipus closer to the awesome truth. Focus is upon the drama mounting to the climax: the scenes leading to Oedipus’ discovery, the struggle leading to Neoptolemus’ decision, or the near disaster leading to the ultimate revelation of Ion’s origin. To sum up, a play linked causally dramatizes all the crucial causes of major actions, maintaining due balance between the force of the motive and the intensity of effect, the action mounting from cause to effect to cause, so that at any point we are aware of what circumstances led to one and only one result. Suspense is a natural corollary of such organization, and concentration of effect is its aim.

It is apparent that the Elizabethan dramatists did not address themselves to the organization of that type of sequence. Very few plays of theirs can be found where closely linked causation produces the denouement. First, the causes for significant changes are frequently assumed or implied and not dramatized. Why Lear divides his kingdom, why Cleopatra flees the battle, why Angelo repents remain unrevealed. Iago promises to show Roderigo “such a necessity in his [Claudio’s] death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him” (IV, ii, 247-248), and later Roderigo, waiting to assail Claudio, affirms that Iago “hath given me satisfying reasons” (V, i, 9). Between the scenes some justification, unknown to us, was given Roderigo by Iago. The revelation of Lady Macbeth’s haunting nightmares actually serves as a peripeteia which, Aristotle warns, must be “subject always to our rule of probability, or necessity.” But this reversal is not the result of a succession of events leading to a necessary end, unless we regard it as having taken place off-stage. Such an end may be probable, of course, but we are given no insight into the forces that make it probable. Nor apparently did Shakespeare feel it incumbent upon him to show these forces. That we accept the sleep-walking scene is not so much because it is either inevitable or likely, but because of all things in the realm of possibility that could have befallen the woman, her nightmares so perfectly satisfy both our sense of justice and our inclination toward pity at the same time.

Secondly, the causes for significant changes, when dramatized, are not always commensurate with the effects. To make itself felt, a dramatic cause, in the Aristotelian sense, must have sufficient weight to produce the effect it does; a great cause must not produce a puny effort, nor a puny effort a great result. Yet this lack of proportion occurs often in Shakespeare. The ease with which Iago secures Desdemona’s handkerchief from Emilia, though she wonders at the purpose of his request, does not balance the awful consequences. Brutus’ and Cassius’ meager dispute over whether or not to allow Antony to speak at Caesar’s funeral is overshadowed by the fatal results. Here, as elsewhere, the perfunctoriness of the struggle between two antagonists is out of proportion to the effect that follows. The appearance of such imbalance, however, is not the result of ineptitude, but of artistic choice. Interest was not in the conflict leading to a decision, but the effect of the decision itself. The causes of action, therefore, tended to be taken for granted or conveyed with minimum emphasis; in other words, they were not regarded as being of first importance and so did not need to be dramatized with particularity. This attitude contributed largely to the looseness with which parts of a play are joined.

Causation, of course, was not completely abandoned, but it was generalized. Largely it resided in the given circumstances of the initial action, as Lear’s pride leading him to reject Cordelia or Cleopatra’s womanhood causing her to flee. For, within the Elizabethan scheme of man’s relation to his action, tightly linked causation was incomprehensible.

Nor was the alternative to causal succession, episodic structure, “a stringing together of events in mere temporal succession [where] each complication is solved as it arises.”[13] For dramatic causation of the parts, the Elizabethan substituted a rhythmic framework for the whole. The dramatization of a complete story employing many characters meant that within the scope of the narrative lay many plausible events. This gave the poet a wide choice of incidents with which to arrange his plot, the scope of the narrative imparting a limit of its own. Concurrently, the tendency for “mirroring” nature led him to choose scenes which would contrast or echo others or which would illustrate various facets of a single experience.

In such a drama the first scenes perform a vital function. They establish the premises upon which the action will be built. Little exposition is necessary, for not much has happened before the play opens. It is curious to note that almost all the principal characters are in a state of inertia at the beginning of the action. Hamlet, sorely distressed by his mother’s marriage, is not about to act. Rosalind, Cordelia, Lear, Antony, Cleopatra, Brutus, Macbeth, Timon all are uncommitted to anything but the state, happy or troubled, wherein we first see them. Usually some force, either early in the first scenes or just before them, impels the characters to act. This type of opening contributes to the impression, first, that the play is a self-contained microcosm and, second, that the first scenes are illustrations.

Antony and Cleopatra offers a model for such an opening. The comments of Demetrius and Philo provide the frame for the illustration-premise of Antony’s love for Cleopatra and his rejection of Rome. Though the messenger from Rome does propel the action forward, calling Antony to Caesar, his arrival is handled in a ritualistic manner. We might consider this demonstration of the premise as analogous to the statement of a theme in music. Just as a composer announces his musical idea, the Elizabethan dramatist illustrates his dramatic idea, proceeding from it to the variations which occupy the balance of the play.[14]

Stemming from these premises are two lines of progression, one narrative, one dramatic. The first, which is essentially concerned with what happens to the characters, follows a line of development to the very last scene. The second, which involves what the characters undergo, reaches fullness somewhere near the center of the play.

The narrative line, what happens, proceeds linearly to the finale. In Lear, this is concerned with the story of two fathers deceived by certain of their children; through deception they give these children their trust and power; they suffer at their hands; ultimately they are vindicated by their faithful children. All the plots and intrigues are part of the narrative. Not until Edgar fells Edmund are these plots unmasked.

The dramatic line, what the characters undergo, extends to heights of passion at the center of the play and then contracts. This line in Lear is concerned with how a proud man endures curbs on his nature and is reduced to humility. In the first half of the play Lear, asserting his arrogance to the fullest, passes to the limits of madness. In the second, he acquiesces to suffering, one might say, becomes detached from it. Extension and contraction is the pattern, extension of the potentialities of the premises of the action, contraction of the effects after they have reached their fulfillment.

Such parallel development of a play’s action produces contradictory impulses in the drama. On one hand there existed the impulse to complete the story, on the other there persisted the temptation to dilate upon the effect of the action upon the individuals. One reason why modern audiences suffer from “fourth act fatigue” in witnessing a Shakespearean play stems from the fact that their interest in the play is disproportionate. They have a greater interest in the dramatic line than in the narrative. For the Elizabethan audience the interest must have been more evenly balanced. For them the finale, the completion of the narrative line, had as much appeal as the “climax,” the height of the dramatic line.