Henry V: "though we seemed dead, we did but sleep"

A connection between 2 Henry IV 4.3 and Henry V 3.6, which I don't recall noticing before.

Starting at 3.6.115:

MONTJOY: You know me by my habit.
KING HARRY: Well then, I know thee. What shall I know of thee?
MONTJOY: My master's mind.
KING HARRY: Unfold it.
MONTJOY: Thus says my King: 'Say thou to Harry of England, though we seemed dead, we did but sleep. Advantage is a better soldier than rashness. [...]'

I'm thinking this might hit Henry rather hard, since he mistook his own sleeping father for dead in 2 Henry IV 4.3. When his father awakens to find himself alone, sans crown, he demands to know why Harry walked off with it.  Harry's initial response, "I never thought to hear you speak again," is not well-received; Henry IV replies "Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. / I stay too long by thee, I weary thee." and continues in this vein for another 40+ lines.  Harry kneels and moves his father to reassess the situation with a humble and apparently heart-felt speech.

Misquoted Prophecies in Macbeth

I've become very aware of characters in The Lord of the Rings misremembering others' words, so I was interested to see that Macbeth likewise misquotes two of the prophecies he receives.

When you look at it, the Second Apparition's prophecy is a two-parter; it consists of some really bad advice (here in italics) followed by a "true" but highly misleading statement of the future (here in bold):

Be bloody, bold and resolute; laugh to scorn

The power of man, for none of woman born

Shall harm Macbeth.

(4.1.79-81)

 

In essence, the bad advice is based on the intended misunderstanding of the true statement.

Here's what Macbeth remembers:

The spirits that know

All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus:

"Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman

Shall e'er have power upon thee."

(5.3.4-7)

He's got the gist, I suppose, but he's shortened it and he doesn't remember the rhyme (scorn/born).  The apparition speaks of "harm" (coming from any source, since "none" is gender-neutral); he remembers "power" (and apparently worries specifically about a "man" having power upon him).  So his remembered protection is both broader (a prediction that others will not have even the power to hurt him) and narrower (as it's restricted to men, rather than everyone).  Though perhaps he's saving the rhyme for his encounter with Young Siward: "Thou wast born of woman. / But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, / Brandished by man that's of a woman born." (5.7.11-13)

Likewise, the Third Apparition says:

Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care

Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are:

Macbeth shall never vanquished be until

Great Birnam wood to high Dunsinane hill

Shall come against him.

(4.1.90-94)

And Macbeth again shortens it and loses the rhymes; he quotes it as 

"Fear not, till Birnam wood 

Do come to Dunsinane" 

(5.5.44-45).

I would note that he's also substantially shortened each line this time; he's turned the Third Apparition's iambic pentameter into iambic trimeter.

Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?

The scene where Macduff learns of the slaughter of his wife and children is absolutely heartbreaking.  But to me, there's always a question about how to read Ross's lines when he first responds to Macduff's inquiry.  The words are true enough, from a certain point of view, but they are surely intended to deceive – at least to put off the revelation.  So: Is Ross breezily cheerful, almost cavalier, as if nothing is wrong?  Does he speak heavily, solemnly?  Is there something about his manner that belies his words, something that alerts us and makes Macduff a little uneasy?  Here's the dialogue:

MALCOLM: What's the newest grief?

ROSS: That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker:

Each minute teems a new one. 

MACDUFF:  How does my wife?

ROSS: Why, well.

MACDUFF: And all my children?

ROSS: Well too.

MACDUFF: The tyrant has not battered at their peace?

ROSS: No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.  

MACDUFF: Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't? 

(Macbeth 4.3.174-180)

Ross then goes on to describe how things are going generally (no longer focusing on Macduff's family).  So one reading is that the Macduff is satisfied about his family and has changed the subject. 

One thing I noticed on this re-reading that Ross's words here actually hearken back to something Macbeth said seven scenes earlier: 

MACBETH: ... Duncan is in his grave; 

After life's fitful fever he sleeps well; 

Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, 

Can touch him further. 

(3.2.22-26)

This is clearly the same sense in which Ross is speaking.  Of course it's not an unusual sentiment, then or now, to say that someone who died is "at peace" – but it is not, I believe, customary to say this to someone who isn't aware that the person in question has died. 

Now I suppose the lines in 4.3 can be played for dramatic irony, to heighten the horror of the subsequent revelation by delaying it and giving false hope; but it's a bit thorny if we are trying for some naturalism in the scene and not making Ross a complete monster.  

After watching Ben Crystal's syllable-conscious pacing in 2.2, it occurred to me that these short lines might not necessarily follow each other immediately; we could have pauses – even quite long ones – to fill out one or more 10-syllable lines.  And that opens some interesting possibilities for the actors' faces and body language to do a lot of important work.

MALCOLM: What's the newest grief?  [5 syllables, following on immediately for a complete line]

ROSS: That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker: [10 syllables, with "hour" as monosyllable]

Each minute teems a new one.  [6 syllables]

MACDUFF:  How does my wife? [4 syllables, following on immediately for a complete line]

ROSS: Why, well. [2 syllables]

MACDUFF: And all my children? [5 syllables]

ROSS: Well too. [2 syllables]

MACDUFF: The tyrant has not battered at their peace? [10 syllables]

ROSS: No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em.  [10 syllables, if we ]

MACDUFF: Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't? [10 syllables]

So, looking at the syllable count, we can see that even if we concatenate the three bold lines, we only get 9 syllables – an incomplete line.  But we don't have to concatenate them, do we?  Again, we could string them out and fill out the 10-syllable lines with pauses.

Here is one possibility:

Each minute teems a new one. / How does my wife? 

[beat] [beat] [beat] Why, well. / And all my children?

[beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] Well too.

The tyrant has not battered at their peace?

No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. 

Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't? 

In this reading, Ross takes a 3-beat pause to figure out what to say about Macduff's wife, realizing the enormity of he doesn't know.  Ross may look very pained, knowing what is to come.  Macduff notices, and immediately asks about his kids. This is even harder to answer, as it is cruel to withhold or disclose the truth.  Perhaps Ross's eyes well up during an 8-beat pause; perhaps he is visibly working to control his voice and expression.  Now, in these conditions, Macduff knows something's up, so he immediately asks two follow-up questions, both focused on his family – though Ross deliberately misinterprets the second question as a general one about the situation in Scotland to stall for time.  This works, because Ross then has a short back-and-forth with Malcolm about the general cause (4.3.181-91) before revealing there is an unspeakable grief in store to be disclosed.  Again, if the actor playing Ross has allowed these long pauses to occur, and has given cues in body language and expression, it makes sense that Macduff immediately pounces on this, and his own exchange with Ross suggests his increasing certainty that it will go straight to the heart, culminating in "Hum! I guess at it" (4.3.203).  And now, only now, does Ross disclose it.

There are lots of other possibilities, of course, if we're inserting pauses.  For example, we can give Macduff some time to process the strangeness of the two answers he's just received and frame his next question:

Each minute teems a new one. / How does my wife? 

[beat] [beat] [beat] Why, well. / And all my children?

[beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] [beat] Well too. [beat] [beat] [beat] 

The tyrant has not battered at their peace?

No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. 

Be not a niggard of your speech: how goes 't? 

So this is all speculative, of course, but I like the way it opens up the text.

The Wages of Sin?

Curiously, in the opening and closing scenes of King Lear, there is mention of the begetting of Edmund.  It is passed off as a joke, initially, but becomes quite bitter by the end.

In 1.1, Gloucester says to Kent (re Edmund, who is present):

Though this knave came something
saucily to the world before he was sent for, yet was
his mother fair, there was good sport at his making,
and the whoreson must be acknowledged.

I would note this is structured as prose (not iambic pentameter) and is uttered in Edmund's presence, without any regard for the young man's feelings.

Then in 5.3, Edgar says to Edmund (re Gloucester, who is absent/dead):

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague us.
The dark and vicious place where thee he got
Cost him his eyes.

Here, we have iambic pentameter interspersed with significantly shorter lines.  I find it natural to read both of the short lines with just two stresses, though the first one could – and perhaps should – be read as iambic trimeter, to make the final line all the more jarring: Cost him his eyes.

* * *

Side Note: I don't think Edmund ever claims that he'd have been what he is had he been begotten (or at least born) in wedlock, but he does disclaim any astral influence, noting "I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing" (1.2).

As the Stung Are of the Adder

Every now and then, as I'm pushing through these texts for the Shakespeare-in-a-year project, I slow down and savor the rhythm, counting the beats of each line.  That sometimes brings out some interesting qualities, particularly when you think about how it needs to be spoken.

So in King Lear 5.1, I noticed this speech of Edmund:

To both these sisters have I sworn my love,
Each jealous of the other as the stung
Are of the adder.

The syllables in bold are the stresses of iambic pentameter; but for the meaning to shine through clearly, I think there's also a slight emphasis on the underlined words. 

And what that does is highlight a certain resonance between the word "other" and "adder" (in my American English, using the IPA, I might render them as  äðɘr / ædɘr).  

These lines initially work on an intuitive level, because the natural impression of the image is that Edmund is the adder who has stung both sisters (true enough), and they are both "jealous" of each other in OED's sense 4: Troubled by the belief, suspicion, or fear that the good which one desires to gain or keep for oneself has been or may be diverted to another; resentful towards another on account of known or suspected rivalry.  

But when we look more closely at the simile, it's a bit perplexing.  Are the stung "jealous" of the adder?  In what sense might that be true?  It must mean mistrustful.  (And indeed that is meaning 5b in the OED: †b. Doubtful, mistrustful. Obsolete.)

So the word "jealous" is working in at least two senses here (within and without the simile).

While the literal and figurative meanings of "adder" seem more obvious, here are the most plausible relevant senses the OED gives us in the relevant time-frame:

 1. b. figurative. A treacherous, deceitful, malicious, or pernicious person or thing (also as a term of abuse); the type of envy or treachery. (OE—2006)
 
 2. a. The common or northern viper, Vipera berus, a small, venomous Eurasian snake found widely in northern and central Europe, having a characteristic dark zigzag line down the back. More fully European adder.  Adder is the historical and popular name, originally carrying connotations (as the ideas of darting and stinging) not associated with the name viper.  (OE—1995)

So I'd say the potential "adders" are three-fold: 

• Within the simile: Each sister is mistrustful of the other, just as those who have been stung/bitten (by an adder) are mistrustful of the adder (literal sense 2a).  For purposes of the simile, the adder does not map onto any of the characters; it has to be a generic, literal adder for the simile to function.
• Each sister sees the other as an adder (figurative sense 1b; poisonous/malicious and potentially fatal to the hoped-for union with Edmund);
• Edmund is the adder (figurative sense 1b) who has "stung" (cold-bloodedly poisoned/betrayed) each sister with false promises of love.

Pericles: Marina's Extreme Virtue

In Act IV, Marina's extraordinary goodness and innocence allows her to convert johns to to the paths of virtue when she's put to work in a brothel.  Bearing that in mind, I think there may possibly be a playful riff on Chaucer when Marina's artistic skills are first described.   

Let's start with Gower's description of Marina's upbringing in Tharsus.  Turns out she's really, really good at weaving and sewing, and music:

to th'lute
She sung, and made the night-bird mute
That still records with moan

(Pericles 4.25-27).  So the night-birds were singing away until the beauty of her own voice silenced them.  My Arden Shakespeare glosses "still records with moan" as "always sings dolefully" – but surely there are other possible reasons for moaning at night-time, aren't there?

Why, yes, there are.  So let's turn now to the Canterbury Tales.  The General Prologue opens with a description of the gentle, fecund period of spring.  Chaucer passes from the quickening of flowers and crops to close observation of the animal kingdom, noting spring is a time when

smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open ye
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages)

(9-11).  That is, the effect of spring on little birds is they're singing and mating like mad all night.  Of course in Chaucer this is all a build-up to the punchline, that spring is when humans likewise experience an irresistible urge: the urge to go on pilgrimages! 

So where Marina's grace allows her to silence the night-birds and their moan, we can see that working on two levels, the literal (she's musically gifted) and the bawdy (foreshadowing her effect on her would-be customers at the brothel).  And her purity is such that all the stirrings of spring would doubtless only spur her to greater holiness.

King John: The Bastard's Completed Rhymes

In King John, I noticed the Bastard completing others' rhymes, by which I mean he plays off another character's final line to form a rhyming couplet.  That is, his first line rhymes with another character's unrhymed closing line.

Here's where it happens.

Act I - KING JOHN'S palace.

Two instances, both involving Queen Elinor.

The Bastard first finishes off Queen Elinor's line, expressly accepting her invitation to spurn his right of  inheritance, following with a couplet of his own, and then a second acceptance (essentially to follow her in to battle).

QUEEN ELINOR: I like thee well: wilt thou forsake thy fortune,
Bequeath thy land to him and follow me?
I am a soldier and now bound to France.  (1.1.154) 

BASTARD: Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance. (1.1.155)
Your face hath got five hundred pound a year,
Yet sell your face for five pence and 'tis dear.
Madam, I'll follow you unto the death.

(1.1.152-58)

And again once he's been knighted Sir Richard Plantagenet, though his rhyme scheme thereafter launches as ababcc, a more complicated pattern.

QUEEN ELINOR: The very spirit of Plantagenet!
I am thy grandam, Richard; call me so. (1.1.173) 

BASTARD: Madam, by chance but not by truth; what though? (1.1.174)Something about, a little from the right,
In at the window, or else o'er the hatch:
Who dares not stir by day must walk by night,
And have is have, however men do catch:
Near or far off, well won is still well shot,
And I am I, howe'er I was begot.

(1.1.172-80)

Act II - France. Before Angiers.

He finishes off Austria's line. 

The Bastard's needling on the lion theme gets to Austria, and the Bastard makes it into a couplet to mock him.

BASTARD [To AUSTRIA]: Sirrah, were I at home,
At your den, sirrah, with your lioness
I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide,
And make a monster of you. 

AUSTRIA:                              Peace! no more. (2.1.305) 

BASTARD: O tremble, for you hear the lion roar. (2.1.306)

(2.1.301-06).  This is a much less formal setting than Act I, and from here on out, the Bastard's quips do not lead into rhymed couplets of his own.  He's just jumping in with little zingers here and there.

Act III, scene 1 - The French King's pavilion.

He finishes off Austria's line. 

Just typical of their relationship, really.

AUSTRIA: Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. (3.1.229) 

BASTARD: Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout. (3.1.230)

Act V, scene 3 - The field of battle.

He finishes off the Dauphin's line.

Now that he no longer has the Dauphin to kick around, the Bastard needs to find a new butt for his mockery.

LEWIS (DAUPHIN): Strike up our drums, to find this danger out. (5.2.182) 

BASTARD: And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. (5.2.183)

Is Turn-About Fair Play? 

I found only one instance where another character seizes the initiative to turn the Bastard's closing line into a rhyming couplet.  This takes place in Act II.

At this point, the new plan is for France and England to join forces against the city as a common enemy (rather than letting the citizens sit back and eat popcorn while they battle it out amongst themselves).  The Bastard is utterly delighted in the plan to attack the city from three directions, as France and Austria are to attack the city from opposite sides and thus may potentially injure each other.  First Citizen hijacks his final line by completing the rhyme, introducing an idea for a deeper alliance (marrying the Dauphin to King John's niece) to spare the city.

BASTARD: O prudent discipline! From north to south:
Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth:
I'll stir them to it. Come, away, away! (2.1.432) 

FIRST CITIZEN: Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay, (2.1.433)
And I shall show you peace and fair-faced league;
Win you this city without stroke or wound;
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,
That here come sacrifices for the field:
Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings.

(2.1.430-38)

Lion Heart and Calf Skin

Act I establishes Philip Faulconbridge as the bastard son of Coeur de Lion (1.1.87, 139, 261).  King John tells him he can still inherit as the first-born son of his mother's marriage, i.e., as Faulconbridge's "calf, bred from his cow" (1.1.127).  But Philip renounces his inheritance and embraces his status as a royal bastard, complete with leonine imagery.  Indeed, he tells his mother she is not to blame for allowing Richard Coeur de Lion to seduce her, as "He that perforce robs lions of their hearts / May easily win a woman’s" (1.1.276-77).


Act II opens with the following stage direction:  "Enter, before Angiers, at one side, with Forces, Philip King of France, Louis the Dauphin, Constance, Arthur, and Attendants; at the other side, with Forces, Austria, wearing a lion’s skin."  This is perhaps a bit strange.  For example, although these two forces enter from opposite sides of the stage, they are in league; the Dauphin explains to Arthur that the Duke is on his (Arthur's) side to make amends to Richard Coeur de Lion's posterity (i.e., Arthur) by "rebuk[ing] the usurpation / Of thy unnatural uncle, English John" (2.1.9-10).  But for present purposes, let's be sure to zoom in on one very special aspect of the stage direction: It specifies Austria's costume.  He is "wearing a lion's skin."  This seems odd, but perhaps he is trying to channel Heracles/Hercules?  (Gallic shrug.)

Once King John and his forces enter, the Bastard immediately takes issue with Austria, razzing him after his first line for no apparent reason.  Faced with Austria's understandable bafflement, the Bastard reveals that he takes umbrage at his having the temerity to wear a lion's skin.

AUSTRIA: What the devil art thou? 

BASTARD: One that will play the devil, sir, with you,
An he may catch your hide and you alone.
You are the hare of whom the proverb goes,
Whose valor plucks dead lions by the beard.
I’ll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right.
Sirrah, look to ’t. I’ faith, I will, i’ faith! 

BLANCHE: O, well did he become that lion’s robe
That did disrobe the lion of that robe. 

BASTARD: It lies as sightly on the back of him
As great Alcides’ shoes upon an ass.—
But, ass, I’ll take that burden from your back
Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack.  (2.1.137-49)

So in these few lines, he calls Austria a coward and an ass, and threatens to take the lion's skin from him and/or beat him up.  He refers to the skin several times (as Austria's hide, skin-coat, and burden), suggesting both the lion skin and a threat upon Austria's person.

Still later in the same scene, when King Philip issues his call to arms, the Bastard briefly responds to Philip ... and then gratuitously pivots to poke at Austria again, now telling him he'd cuckold him (give him ox horns and make him a monster) if he were at Austria's home.  Once again, he is ringing changes on the lion skin theme (with the lion's hide standing ever more clearly for Austria's own skin, and referring to Austria's lady as his "lioness"):

BASTARD: Sirrah, were I at home
At your den, sirrah, with your lioness,
I would set an ox head to your lion’s hide
And make a monster of you. 

AUSTRIA:                            Peace! No more. 

BASTARD: O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar.  (2.1.300-06).

We see here that the Bastard also turns Austria's half-line into the first half of a rhyming couplet, a little poetic trick in Shakespeare which often seems to show dominance on the part of the one completing the couplet.


Finally, in Act III, an alliance is brokered between the warring kings; Austria supports it.  Constance, enraged by Austria's betrayal (he is no longer supporting her son Arthur against King John), exhorts him to "Doff [the lion's hide] for shame, / And hang a calfskin on those recreant limbs."  Austria is beside himself at the insult and responds like a boastful fool, suggesting it's only Constance's status as a woman that protects her from his righteous vengeance; so the Bastard immediately calls his bluff.

AUSTRIA: O, that a man should speak those words to me! 

BASTARD: "And hang a calfskin on those recreant limbs." 

AUSTRIA: Thou durst not say so, villain, for thy life! 

BASTARD: "And hang a calfskin on those recreant limbs." (3.1.137-39).

But Austria does nothing about it.  From that point on, Austria never speaks again without the Bastard shooting him down, even though his remarks are addressed to King Philip.

AUSTRIA: King Philip, listen to the Cardinal. 

BASTARD: And hang a calfskin on his recreant limbs. 

AUSTRIA: Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,
Because — 

BASTARD: Your breeches best may carry them. (3.1.205-09)

The Bastard again interjects to cut him off with a rhymed couplet here:

AUSTRIA: Do so, King Philip. Hang no more in doubt. 

BASTARD: Hang nothing but a calfskin, most sweet lout. (3.1.229-30)

And a third time, when Austria criticizes King Philip's adherence to the alliance he's made rather than disavowing it as instructed by the Pope's legate:

AUSTRIA: Rebellion, flat rebellion! 

BASTARD:                                          Will ’t not be?
Will not a calfskin stop that mouth of thine? (3.1.309-11)

Off-stage, immediately after Act III, Scene 1, the Bastard finishes the job; he re-enters in Scene 2 with Austria's head.

Constancy: The Star to Every Wand'ring Bark

Julius Caesar, 3.1.64-71:

CAESAR (after CASSIUS joins his plea to that of METELLUS and BRUTUS):

I could be well moved, if I were as you:
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fix'd and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks,
They are all fire and every one doth shine,
But there's but one in all doth hold his place:

Sonnet 116, ll. 2-8:

... Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark 
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. 

Naming: Romeo and Juliet vs Julius Caesar

Romeo and Juliet 2.2:

Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.

Julius Caesar 1.2:

Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that 'Caesar'?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Caesar.

And of course, Mercutio tries to conjure Romeo with his beloved's name in Act II, Scene 1.  Of course, he's using the wrong name since he doesn't know Juliet has supplanted Rosaline in Romeo's affections.

P.S. The problem with posting these things as I encounter them in the text...  Another naming passage has cropped up in Julius Caesar 3.3.27-36:

THIRD PLEBEIAN: Your name, sir, truly.
CINNA: Truly, my name is Cinna.
FIRST PLEBEIAN: Tear him to pieces! He’s a conspirator.
CINNA: I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet!
FOURTH PLEBEIAN: Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses!
CINNA: I am not Cinna the conspirator.
FOURTH PLEBEIAN: It is no matter. His name’s Cinna. Pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going.

(Text in first two quotes from MIT digital Shakespeare.  Text and line numbers in the third from Folger Digital Texts.)

Hamlet: Lost in Translation and Citation

I recently re-read Madeleine L'Engle's Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art (Wheaton, Illinois: Harold Shaw Publishers, 1980).  On page 29, she explains why she provides no more than the author (if known) for her quotations:

most of the writers I want to quote in this book are writers whose words I've copied down in [...] a commonplace book.  I copy down words and thoughts on which I want to meditate, and footnoting is not my purpose; this is a devotional, not a scholarly notebook. [...] I am only now beginning to see the usefulness of noting book title and page, rather than simply jotting down [the author's name].

On page 41, L'Engle refers to "a French translation of Hamlet, in which the famous words Hamlet utters when he first sees the ghost of his father, 'Angels and ministers of grace defend us,' are rendered, 'Tiens, qu'est[-ce] que c'est que ça?'" 

I found this intriguing, but she did not name the translator or her source.

In my initial google searches for French translations of Hamlet, I came up with:

• "Anges du ciel, à moi! le voilà! le voilà!" (1847 verse adaptation by Alexandre Dumas père and Paul Meurice) 
• "Anges, ministres de grâce, défendez-nous!" (1862 translation by Guizot and François-Victor Hugo) 
• "Anges du ciel, à moi dans cet instant suprême!" (1876 verse translation by Alcide Cayrou)

All perfectly defensible, but of course I was really looking for a far less satisfactory translation.  

So I re-instated the grammatical fault and searched for "Tiens, qu'est que c'est que ça" -- and hit pay dirt.  It appears in an unsigned review/article called "Mme. Sarah Bernhardt's Lady Macbeth," published in 1884:*

Here we come to a dead end, as the author does not further identify "the gentleman who undertook to transfer 'Hamlet' into French vernacular prose." (My google searches on Partridge did not suggest any noted Shakespearean scholar or translator by that name; instead, they led me to Tom Jones, in which Benjamin Partridge goes to see Hamlet and has all the wrong reactions.)  

Now, we might ask, why is L'Engle quoting and criticizing a non-standard translation of Hamlet into 19th century French vernacular prose, which (even assuming it exists) she probably never read for herself but only encountered in this article (given that she faithfully reproduced the article's ungrammatical French)?

Well, she's talking about what has been lost in updating or modernizing the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.  She acknowledges that the older book "needed changing," but fears "[w]hat has been gained in strength of structure has been lost in poverty of language" -- and also, in theological imprecisions that can encourage certain heresies.  

So I'm inclined to agree that even an apocryphal vernacular translation of Hamlet can be used as an illustration in this context.  But I'd actually still love to read the whole thing, as it sounds hilarious -- whether or not so intended.

FN* I found it on p 8  of The Critic: A Literary Weekly, Critical and Eclectic, Vol. II (New Series), July to December 1884, edited by Jeannette Leonard Gilder and Joseph Benson Gilder (New York: The Critic Company, 1884).  Volume II appears to be devoted to "The Critic and Good Literature." The review/article appears in the first section of the volume, denominated No. 27 (July 5, 1884).  It seems to have been published originally in The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art, Vol. 57 (June 14, 1884) at 777.

3 Henry VI: Opening Boasts

So it starts out with boasting by six named characters in the York faction:
(1) the Duke of YORK, aka Richard Plantagenet;
         (a) his eldest* son EDWARD, Earl of March;
         (b) his fourth* son RICHARD;
(2) his wife's brother's two elder sons:
         (a) the Earl of WARWICK, aka Richard Neville;
         (b) the Marquess of MONTAGUE, aka John Neville;
(3) the Duke of NORFOLK, aka John Mowbray (seemingly a Lancastrian by birth).

Edward and Montague show York their bloody swords; Richard one-ups them by showing him the Duke of Somerset's head.  Rough jests and boasting ensue.

But I thought this one was pretty fun – Warwick starts with a hawking/falconry metaphor and then goes straight to ... gardening?

WARWICK:
Neither the King, nor he that loves him best,
The proudest he that holds up Lancaster,
Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells.
I'll plant Plantagenet, root him up who dares.
Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English crown.
(1.1.45-49)

Oh, great – now the Lancasters have come in.  Time for a rematch?  Yes, but not on the crass physical plane, since Henry VI doesn't want to make a shambles of the Parliament House!

KING HENRY:
[...] frowns, words, and threats
Shall be the war that Henry means to use.–
Thou factious Duke of York, descend my throne
And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet!
I am thy sovereign.

YORK:
                                  I am thine.
[...]

KING HENRY:
And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne?

YORK:
It must and shall be so.  Content thyself.
(1.1.72-76, 84-85)

Hmm.  How's that whole war of words thing workin' out for you, Henry?


* Of his 7 "surviving" children (i.e., those who did not "die young").  Apparently Richard Plantagenet and Cecily Neville produced 13 children, but nearly half died in infancy.  Of the surviving children, the birth order was: Anne, Edward, Edmund, Elizabeth, Margaret, George, and Richard.  Both Edward and Richard became kings (Edward IV and Richard III), George became a duke, while poor Edmund – who died at age 17½  – only ever got to be an earl.

Note for future reference: Duke > Marquess > Earl

Vying for Control by Creating/Completing Rhyming Couplets

This is something I've noticed before, in Richard II.   Here, in 1 Henry VI 4.5, it is a contest of wills between Talbot and his son.

Talbot's first speech (ll. 1-11) is entirely unrhymed.  It ends as follows:

Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest horse,
And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape
By sudden flight.  Come, dally not, begone. 

John's six-line response (ll. 12-17) plays off this with a rhyming line, and ends with a completed rhyming couplet (giving his father no opening to complete a rhyme):

Is my name Talbot, and I am your son,
And shall I fly? O, if you love my mother,
Dishonor not her honorable name
To make a bastard and a slave of me!
The world will say he is not Talbot's blood
That basely fled when noble Talbot stood.

The next four lines (ll. 18-21) are a back-and-forth where each of Talbot's lines is countered in rhyme by his son:

TALBOT: Fly to revenge my death if I be slain.
JOHN: He that flies so will ne'er return again.
TALBOT: If we both stay, we both are sure to die.
JOHN: Then let me stay, and, Father, do you fly.  

And indeed John's rejoinder in l. 21 is the start of a 13-line speech with six rhyming couplets ll. 22-33.  Thus, John again ends with a rhyming couplet that gives his father no purchase to complete a rhyme ("Here on my knee I beg mortality, / Rather than life preserved with infamy.").

The next ten lines (ll. 34-43) are once again a back-and-forth where John counters each of his father's lines in rhyme:

TALBOT: Shall all thy mother's hopes lie in one tomb?
JOHN: Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's womb.
TALBOT: Upon my blessing I command thee go.
JOHN: To fight I will, but not to fly the foe.
TALBOT: Part of thy father may be saved in thee.
JOHN: No part of him but will be shame in me.
TALBOT: Thou never hadst renown, nor canst not lose it.
JOHN: Yes, your renownèd name. Shall flight abuse it?
TALBOT: Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain.
JOHN: You cannot witness for me, being slain. 

But at this point John's own unrhymed couplet (ll. 43-44) finally gives an opening for his father to complete the rhyme (ll. 45-46) -- the one and only instance in this scene.  Indeed, Talbot immediately wastes his chance for verbal one-upmanship, yet again leaving an opening for his willful son to complete the rhyme (l. 47):

JOHN:
You cannot witness for me, being slain.
If death be so apparent, then both fly.
TALBOT:
And leave my followers here to fight and die?
My age was never tainted with such shame.
JOHN:
And shall my youth be guilty of such blame?

John's last speech in this scene (ll. 47-51) is rhymed, ending with a rhyming couplet (foreclosing any further verbal jiujitsu).  His father's last speech -- likewise in rhyming couplets -- thus bows to the inevitable as he realizes he cannot persuade or overmaster his son (ll. 52-55):

There here I take my leave of thee, fair son,
Born to eclipse thy life this afternoon.
Come, side by side together live and die,
And soul with soul from France to heaven fly.

Exeunt.

Shakespeare 2020 Reading Schedule

My first direct encounter with Shakespeare was probably when I was about 9 or 10 years old.*  I went through Hamlet easily enough since I didn't really sweat comprehension.  My mom was impressed, until she asked me to tell her what the story was about.  My brilliant answer: "Something about a prince?"  But I liked our old pocket-sized Folger General Reader editions of Hamlet and King Lear, and I like to think I came back to them more than once.

When I was in 6th grade, my class did a few scenes from Macbeth.  All the girls had to audition with the sleepwalking scene; I think the boys had the dagger scene.  While everyone else was talking about how mystified they were by Lady Macbeth's speech, I wandered off by myself to solve the puzzle.  And then I got it.  Clearly she was remembering different things, experiencing different moods, from moment to moment! That insight informed my reading of the lines, and I became one of our three Lady Macbeths.  (I got the sleepwalking scene and Banquo's ghost scene, both of which I love to this day.)**

In college, I probably took three courses featuring Shakespeare on the syllabus -- one was an entire semester on Hamlet and its manifestations or influence in later works of literature.  I'm fairly sure my first viewing of Kenneth Branagh's Henry V was at the campus movie theatre.  I also remember schlepping out to the Folger Theatre in D.C. one time to see a dazzling production of Othello.***  There was a lot of serendipity in that evening, which only heightened the effect.

Since moving to NYC, I've rather wantonly indulged my Shakespeare cravings.  I particularly remember a revelatory performance of Romeo and Juliet at the Delacorte in 2007 (with Lauren Ambrose and Oscar Isaac), a really fun production of Henry V in which Governor's Island played the part of France (NY Classical Theatre 2011), and many more.  In 2017, I took a class on Shakespeare and the Middle Ages with Signum/Mythgard and read another 10 plays along with some of the medieval works that informed or underlay them.

So I've read and seen many of the plays over time - but not all.  And I certainly haven't read through all or even most of the poems (just a handful of sonnets, including the one I memorized for a friend's wedding in 1999, and "The Rape of Lucrece" in 2018).

It's time to remedy that, so I'm going to use Ian Doescher's Shakespeare 2020 Project reading schedule as a rough guide, though I'm starting late and will skip the four I've read or re-read since September 2019.

Twelfth Night 📚: January 2-8 ✔ (2/12/20)
Henry VI Part 1: January 10-16 ✔ (2/16/20)
Henry VI Part 2: January 18-25 ✔ (2/23/20)
Henry VI Part 3: January 27-February 2 ✔ (2/26/20)
Comedy of Errors 📚: February 4-8 ✔ (10/19/19)
Taming of the Shrew: February 10-15 ✔ (3/1/20)
Titus Andronicus: February 17-22 ✔ (3/8/20 - first encounter)
Romeo and Juliet 📚: February 24-March 2 ✔ (3/22/20)
Richard III 📚: March 4-12 ✔ (3/28/20)
Julius Caesar 📚: March 14-19 ✔ (3/29/20)
Two Gentlemen of Verona: March 21-25 ✔ (4/1/20 - first encounter)
King John 📚: March 27-April 1 ✔ (4/5/20 - possibly first encounter)
Richard II 📚: April 3-9 ✔ (4/12/20)
Venus and Adonis 📚: April 13-17 ✔ (4/12/20)
Hamlet 📚: April 19-28 ✔ 📚 (4/19/20)
The Rape of Lucrece 📚: April 30-May 4 ✔ (4/22/20)
Sonnets 1-80 📚: May 6-8 ✔ (5/7/20 - first encounter)
Othello 📚: May 11-18  ✔ (5/16/20)
Sonnets 81-154 📚: May 20-22 ✔ (5/24/20)
Love’s Labour’s Lost 📚: May 26-June 2 ✔ (5/31/20)
Pericles 📚: June 4-9 ✔ (6/14/20 - first encounter)
Cymbeline: June 11-18 ✔ (7/3/20)
A Midsummer Night’s Dream 📚: June 19-21 ✔ (7/1/20)
King Lear 📚: June 22-30 ✔ (7/4/20)
A Lover’s Complaint: July 2  ✔ (7/2/20 - first encounter)
The Passionate Pilgrim: July 3 ✔ (7/2/20 - first encounter)
The Merchant of Venice: July 12-16 ✔ (7/21/20)
Much Ado About Nothing 📚: July 20-26 ✔ (7/12/20)
As You Like It: July 28-August 3 ✔ (7/30/20)
Macbeth 📚: August 5-10 ✔ (8/6/20)
Troilus and Cressida 📚: August 12-20 ✔ (8/10/20 - possibly first encounter)
Antony and Cleopatra 📚: August 22-29 ✔ (11/10/19 - first encounter)
Coriolanus: August 31-September 10 ✔ (8/16/20 - first encounter)
All’s Well That Ends Well 📚: September 12-19 ✔ (10/8/19)
Measure for Measure 📚: September 21-27 ✔ (8/30/20)
Henry IV Part 1 📚: September 29-October 5 ✔ (9/23/19)
The Merry Wives of Windsor: October 7-13 ✔ (9/6/20)
Henry IV Part 2 📚: October 15-22 ✔ (9/7/20)
Henry V 📚: October 24-31 ✔ (9/7/20)
Henry VIII 📚: November 2-9 ✔ (9/9/20 - first encounter)
Edward III: November 11-17 ✔ (9/10/20 - first encounter)
Timon of Athens: November 19-24 ✔ (9/15/20 - first encounter)
The Winter’s Tale 📚: December 1-7 ✔ (9/20/20)
The Tempest 📚: December 9-14 ✔ (9/21/20)
The Two Noble Kinsmen 📚: December 16-23 ✔ (9/29/20)
The Phoenix and Turtle 📚: December 27 ✔ (9/6/20 - first encounter)
A Funeral Elegy: December 29-30 ✔ (9/9/20 - first encounter)

UPDATE: As of September 29, 2020, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! Essentially a 13-month program, because I gave myself credit for works read in September - November 2019.

FN * At some point, my maternal grandmother gave me a children's book called Tales From Shakespeare, by Charles and Mary Lamb.  I'm not sure the timing of this gift, and I don't remember connecting it to the individual Shakespeare plays in my parents' bookcase when I was a child.  By the time I made the connection, as a teenager, I was dismissive of the mere children's version.

FN **  I think everyone got the parts they most desired; we probably weren't as subtle as we may have imagined.  Tina wanted to be a witch, and deliberately read the sleepwalking scene badly; Emily wanted to be the doctor (appropriately enough, as she's the only one of us with a PhD); Annie more modestly wanted to be the nurse (although in real life she did, in fact, accomplish her ambition of becoming a physician).

FN *** It was probably January 1991, perhaps even the very last night of the production.  The curtains opened on a large, empty bed.  Othello and Desdemona silently entered, cast off their robes in a single moment, and passionately embraced.  Blackout.  Their sudden and complete nudity was shocking and dramatic in such a small theatre; it established in a matter of heartbeats both the connection between those two and the contrast in their skin color.  The rest of the play proceeded as usual, except that both Iago and Emilia were played by Black actors.

Hamlet and the Loss of Fathers

Claudius on filial grief (I.ii):

'Tis sweet and commendable in your nature, Hamlet,
To give these mourning duties to your father:
But, you must know, your father lost a father;
That father lost, lost his, and the survivor bound
In filial obligation for some term
To do obsequious sorrow...

But of course, when he says "your father lost a father," he is also speaking quite literally of his own father.  He thus could have made this personal -- e.g., "your father and I lost a father" -- acknowledging his own past share in such grief.  Instead, he seeks refuge in the cold, impersonal, generic pattern of death, its inevitability, as if to distance himself from his own personal involvement in this particular and not-so-inevitable death.

* * *

And this focus on the inexorable workings of time (death comes to us all) suddenly reminds me of Macbeth, on receiving the news of his wife's death (V.v):

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time...

Her death, too, has been hastened by human hand -- albeit her own.

Laconic/Understated Repartee in Macbeth

Here's something that apparently caught my attention in my last read-through of Macbeth back in March 2017.  Yet another reminder that our modern and post-modern authors did not invent irony/deliberate understatement/litotes/snappy comebacks.

From Act 2, Scene 3:

LENNOX:

The night has been unruly: where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down; and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i' the air; strange screams of death,
And prophesying with accents terrible
Of dire combustion and confused events
New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird
Clamour'd the livelong night: some say, the earth
Was feverous and did shake.

MACBETH:  'Twas a rough night.


From Act 4, Scene 1:

Second Apparition: Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!

MACBETH: Had I three ears, I'ld hear thee.


From Act 4, Scene 2:

LADY MACDUFF:  Yes, he is dead; how wilt thou do for a father?

Son:  Nay, how will you do for a husband?

LADY MACDUFF:  Why, I can buy me twenty at any market.

Son:  Then you'll buy 'em to sell again.

Grice in Othello III.3

After listening to Lingthusiasm episode 11, it seems to me that Iago nicely deploys the Gricean maxims of relevance and manner in gulling Othello (e.g. III.3.94-104).

1.  Manner

Here, Iago's manner draws attention to his words; he breaks himself off, as if he were uncertain about whether or not to speak:

IAGO:  My noble lord--
OTHELLO:  What dost thou say, Iago?

And of course, Othello immediately asks about it (as most people will in such circumstances).

Some 20-25 lines later, Othello also comments on Iago's halting speech, essentially laying bare his presumptions about Gricean cooperation in his good friend Iago -- even while manifesting awareness that "false disloyal knaves" might counterfeit such starts:

And, for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty,
And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath,
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:
For such things in a false disloyal knave
Are tricks of custom, but in a man that's just
They are close delations, working from the heart
That passion cannot rule...

2.  Relevance (and possibly quality and quantity)

Here is relevance at work, as Iago takes an irrelevant fact (and one he already knows) and gives it a seeming weight or significance (while pretending to be uncertain of it, cf. quality):

IAGO:  Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, / Know of your love?
OTHELLO:  He did, from first to last: why dost thou ask?
IAGO:  But for a satisfaction of my thought; / No further harm.

The slight over-assurance ("No further harm") may trigger the maxim of quantity.  In any event, Othello falls for it and follows up to discover the relevance, asking:

OTHELLO: Why of thy thought, Iago?
IAGO:  I did not think he had been acquainted with her.

3.  Manner 

And here Iago starts echoing Othello's words, as if he were stalling for time and trying not to answer his questions (i.e., as if he were trying to conceal unpleasant answers).

OTHELLO:  Indeed! ay, indeed: discern'st thou aught in that?  / Is he not honest?
IAGO: Honest, my lord!
OTHELLO:  Honest! ay, honest.
* * *
OTHELLO: What dost thou think?
IAGO:  Think, my lord!
OTHELLO:  Think, my lord!

Othello again presumes "cooperative" speech on Iago's part, and comments on it:

OTHELLO: By heaven, he echoes me,
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something...

King Lear

I saw the RSC's performance of King Lear at a local playhouse this past weekend.  It was well done, of course, and they made some interesting choices.

They went heavy on the pageantry, highlighting the sense of pre-Christian times.  For example, Lear is carried on stage ceremoniously aloft in a large glass box.  He is wearing ostentatiously bulky furs, which set him apart from the others.  Two of his courtiers carry large gilded disks on poles, reminiscent of the moon and sun (although unexplained).  Another courtier holds a crown out sort of near or above Cordelia's head.  Every time Lear curses someone, there is a portentous pause and low percussive sounds punctuate his speech.  When he curses Cordelia and Kent in open court, everyone turns to him, bowing their heads and freezing, as if in terror of his wrath, suggesting his word is absolute.

They tried to humanize the villains, which is certainly supported by the text to some extent.  Edmund does, indeed, suffer through his father's cavalier and jocular description of his conception, and it is surely not the first time.  It works for us to see his reaction (even though it will never justify his amoral ambitions).  But did Edgar, the elder, have to be a man-child who is kicking a ball around with friends indoors?    I think it's effective to show Goneril's and Regan's purported concerns ambiguously supported in the beginning; we should not be entirely sure if they were mostly pretextual ab initio. But here, Goneril is acutely distressed, genuinely anguished, by her father's harsh words and his abusive knights; I think this goes too far.

The glass box was an interesting device, but they pulled it out many times, to diminishing returns.  Having Gloucester blinded inside the box provided a sense of distance which left the scene merely gory, rather than heart-wrenching.  (I was also a little disappointed in the cursory portrayal of First Servant, but that's probably not RSC's fault.*)

I liked Cordelia, and I liked their race-conscious casting.  It gave a general impression of race-blindness, but I think it was actually carefully thought out.  In the opening scene you have white-Gloucester, white-Kent and black-Edmund, leaving the audience to wonder about the role of race here.  (Is there an implication about Edmund's mother's socio-economic class?  Will race be aligned with villainy?)  Then Lear et al. enter.  The various courtiers are white and black.  Lear and his two wicked elder daughters are white; Cordelia is black.  Gloucester and his decent elder son are white; Edmund is black.  Cordelia's suitors are black, and Regan's husband is white, but Goneril has married across racial lines and both sisters go gaga for Edmund.  So overall, there is no clear alignment of virtue, villainy, or victimhood along racial lines:

I enjoyed the piece overall, but it really had only one truly heart-breaking moment.  It comes at the very end, when Albany urges Edgar and Kent to rule the kingdom jointly, and Kent replies:

I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;
My master calls me, I must not say no.

His delivery of these lines was understated and devastating.


FN* “In King Lear (III:vii) there is a man who is such a minor character that Shakespeare has not given him even a name: he is merely 'First Servant.'  All the characters around him – Regan, Cornwall, and Edmund – have fine long-term plans.  They think they know how the story is going to end, and they are quite wrong.  The servant has no such delusions.  He has no notion how the play is going to go.  But he understands the present scene.  He sees an abomination (the blinding of old Gloucester) taking place.  He will not stand it.  His sword is out and pointed at his master’s breast in a moment: then Regan stabs him dead from behind.  That is his whole part: eight lines all told.  But if it were real life and not a play, that is the part it would be best to have acted.”

 – C.S. Lewis, “The World’s Last Night” in The World's Last Night and Other Essays, San Diego, New York, and London: Harcourt, Inc., 1987, at 104-105.

Not Too Shabby

Got a head-start on the weekend with a re-run of the National Theatre production of Hamlet featuring Benedict Cumberbatch in the title role.  (My friend scored tickets to it from relatives who see pretty much everything that comes to NYC; I think it conflicted with their bridge game.)

There were some interesting choices from the very beginning, including the decision to start with Hamlet sitting on the floor going through his father's old record collection rather than, oh say, for example, Francisco and Bernardo on watch, to be joined shortly by Horatio and Marcellus.  We could almost say the production out-Hamleted Hamlet, an impression only bolstered by Hamlet jumping up on banquet tables and whatnot to deliver monologues without anyone else noticing – they were too busy moving in slow motion in the background, apparently.  When he decides to play at being mad, he dresses up as a toy soldier and goes off to play? mope? in a child's toy castle.  

I can't comment on the entire production, since I fell asleep for bits of it, but one artistic choice that really failed for me was the decision to fill the floor of Elsinore castle with ashes or rubble at the end of the first half, and leave it that way for the rest of the show.  It made the place look like a complete wreck, which fatally undercut Ophelia's descent into madness.  It's already difficult for a sturdy young woman to play Ophelia, whose psychological frailty is more plausible on a physically frail frame.  But to have her do this in a castle that seems to have suffered its own devastation seems pointless.  There's no remnant of cleanness and sanity to contrast with her own pathetic state.  

Although it was a nice touch for Gertrude to open up Ophelia's abandoned suitcase, see Ophelia's prized possession (a camera, perhaps in homage to the 2000 Hamlet with Ethan Hawke), realize with horror that Ophelia was headed for her death, and run after her.  This was done silently and effectively – somewhat like the wonderful scene in the first Hobbit movie where Martin Freeman decides to go on the adventure after all, moving from relief at being off the hook to realization of how empty his tidy little life is to a sudden conviction that this is his Chance.  With nothing more than subtle facial expressions, he lets us see that he has chosen to give life a shot, rather than remaining in stultifying stasis and sleepwalking to his grave.  

But I digress.  One other thing worth mentioning from the production: Hamberbatch wears a Bowie t-shirt.  This is important because....

Saturday started with a visit to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden – hope springs eternal for the crocuses – followed by a tour of the Brooklyn Museum with a friend from the Tolkien world.  We cooled our heels at an exhibit of blue stuff, Korean art, and Egyptian artifacts (one take-away: Hieratic is apparently cursive writing for hieroglyphs),  before we gained admittance to ... the David Bowie exhibition!  It was quite interesting and extensive.  I won't say exhaustive, since my friend thought of a few things that were missing, but they were certainly thorough enough to display a tissue purportedly used to wipe the lipstick off Bowie's face after a concert (cf. Weird Al Yankovic's "Ebay").  Bowie's filmography was more extensive than I'd have guessed (it's a lot more than Labyrinth, which I also haven't seen), but we got to see snippets of many of them.  There were abundant costumes and music videos, sketches for publicity, set design, choreography, lots of displays and discussions about his influences and collaborations, and even a concert experience room.    There were many fascinating details, including an almost gushing thank-you letter from his mother for something or other he'd done for her – but in a postscript, she asked him not to show the letter to anyone because she didn't want to be deluged with fan mail!  A woman after my own heart.

But it was also somewhat funny at times to see a pop icon described in museumspeak.  They made a point of mentioning more than once that Bowie remained productive during the worst of his drug addiction (it seemed like the early 1970's in Los Angeles), though they were more than vague about medical details such as how and when he kicked his habit(s).   

There's probably more to say about the exhibition, but I was glad they played "Diamond Dogs" and "Rebel Rebel" while I was in the concert area.


Sunday was productive – I prepared a presentation and slideshow on "King Sheave" and finalized my abstract for Paper 2 just in time for a festive birthday celebration at Kunjip in K-town with some friends.  I'd already celebrated this friend's birthday last weekend with brunch at Maialino near Grammercy Park, but it was great to get together again for Korean barbecue.  We all tried soju, as well, sipping the plain and peach versions from little shot glasses.  

Pushkin, The Gypsies and Other Narrative Poems (trans. Antony Wood)

Of the five narrative poems in this volume, I particularly enjoyed "The Bridegroom" (a hauntingly familiar folk-tale about a woman who narrowly escapes a fateful marriage), "The Tale of the Dead Princess and the Seven Champions" (a retelling of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves), and "Count Nulin" (a parodic re-imagining of Shakespeare's "Lucrece").

"The Gypsies" (written 1824, first published anonymously 1827)

Wood notes that "both Mérimée's Carmen (1845), the acknowledged source for the libretto of Bizet's opera, and the opera libretto itself (1875), owe much to ['The Gypsies'], which has always gone unacknowledged" (xxvi).

Freedom is a recurring theme in the poem, but it is most curiously applied to the bear that travels with the gypsies.  As the scene opens on the gypsies' encampment, we learn that "behind one tent / A bear lies fast asleep and free" (3).  Wood's word choice suggests that the bear is essentially a willing fellow-traveler with the gypsies, or perhaps that it has become habituated to handouts and is thus almost domesticated, trusting and trustworthy.

After the young lovers' first night together, the gypsies clamorously move on, "din everywhere, / Songs, the roaring of the bear, / The jingling of its iron tether" (6).  One might wonder: is the bear really free, as initially stated, or is it tethered in irons?  Later evidence (12) further supports a view that the bear is, in fact, a captive:

"His [Aleko's] shelter's shaggy guest, the bear,
A vagrant from its native lair,
Roves the Moldavian villages,
Performs its clumsy dances, gnaws
Its irritating chain, and roars
Before the wary villagers;
The bent old man is not averse
To beating on the tambourine,
Aleko leads the bear and sings,
Zemfira goes about to glean
The voluntary offerings."

This puts everything in a different light; the bonds chafe or otherwise irritate the poor bear, which bootlessly gnaws at the iron.   So in what sense was the bear "free" in the opening scene?  Perhaps merely in the freedom of the temporary oblivion of sleep (it "lies fast asleep and free") -- a purely primitive or animal freedom which is unknown to Aleko, whose own sleep is troubled by jealousy and fears of losing Zemfira's love.

Of course, Aleko also conspicuously lacks the freedom of Zemfira's father, who was content to receive the love of Zemfira's mother Mariyule as long as she chose to bestow it and thereafter cherish the daughter she left behind without trying to constrain her either.  (Both men lack the freedom of Zemfira and Mariyule, in that they seem to give their hearts only once; but Zemfira's father - unlike Aleko - is free of the burden of anger, jealousy, or grief.)

(Or to take it from the other direction, Aleko lacks the freedom of Zemfira, in that he seems to be able to give his heart only once.  While Zemfira's father shares this particular constraint, never moving on from Mariyule, he is still more free than Aleko because he bears his loss lightly and loves what is, rather than some idea of what should be.)

"The Dead Princess"

The Snow White retelling does away with some of the more morally dubious elements of the more familiar story.  The prince who eventually rescues the princess is already her betrothed, not a stranger, and he is looking for her.  He awakens her from the glass coffin not by kissing her supposed corpse, but by beating and banging the coffin in grief!  The "seven champions" (not dwarves here) are all in love with her, but respectful and courteous once they learn that she is already betrothed.

There are other changes as well.  For example, it's not a nameless huntsman, but a named female servant, Chernavka, who is ordered to "bind [the princess] up and leave her / For wolves to eat alive" (68).  She leaves the princess alive and unbound, but lies to the evil queen that she left her "Bound firmly by the elbows" (69).  When the mirror reveals that the princess is still alive and beautiful, the queen threatens Chernavka with an "iron penal collar" and vows that either Chernavka or the princess must die (75).  The prince not only gets a name (Yelisey) but also a quest, in which he asks the sun, moon, and wind for help.  As it turns out, only the wind knows where the princess is.    

I noticed that the king, queen and princess are referred to only by title (no name given).  The seven champions are also not named.  So the only names we get in the entire poem are the prince Yelisey and the servant-girl Chernavka.

I'm sure it would have been a tremendous disappointment to Pushkin to learn that his failure to come up with another female name would cause his poem to fail the Bechdel test, even though both the queen and the princess speak with Chernavka about something other than a man.

"Count Nulin"

Origins 

Wood notes that Pushkin wrote "Count Nulin" after wondering what would have happened  in Shakespeare's poem, had Lucrece slapped Tarquin (xxix).

Perhaps this line of thought was inspired by lines 1034-36, in which Lucrece urges her hand to assist her in suicide:

Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame
And wast affeard to scratch her wicked foe,
Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.

Especially as we later learn that, had Lucrece been able to cry out at the time, her maid would have come quickly:

With untuned tongue she hoarsely calls her maid,
Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies,
For fleet-winged duty with thought's feathers flies.

(ll. 1214-16).

A Simile, Deflation, and Some Points of Comparison with "Lucrece"

I particularly liked this passage from "Count Nulin":

Donning his striped silk dressing gown,
The count is speedily abroad.
In the dark a chair goes down;
Tarquin, in hope of sweet reward,
Once more sets forth to seek Lucretia,
Resolved to go through fire to reach her. 

Thus you may see a cunning tom,
The mincing darling of the house,
Slip from the stove to stalk a mouse,
Creep stealthily and slowly on
Towards his victim, grow slit-eyed
And wave his tail from side to side,
Coil to a ball, extend his claws
And snap! the wretch is in his paws.

(57).  So here, Pushkin explicitly compares Nulin and Natalya to Tarquin and Lucrece.  There's some excellent deflation going on there -- tripping over a chair in the dark is like going through fire! -- especially since, in this poem, the intended mouse slaps the cat and thwarts him.  (Still, the count might have taken a dark revenge on Natalya Pavlovna for the shameful slap, the poem suggests, "Had not the barking of the pom / Woken Parasha [Natalya's servant] from her sleep." The sound of Parasha's "footsteps drawing close" sends Count Nulin "To take shamefaced and rapid flight" [59].)

"Lucrece" also contains a cat simile, though not as extended.  It occurs after Tarquin gives Lucrece a choice between (a) saying Yes to him as a secret lover and (b) getting raped and murdered and left with a murdered servant in her arms to make it look like she was untrue.   She desperately pleads with him, but her words only buy her a little time:

So his unhallowed haste her words delays,
And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays. 

Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally,
While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth. [...]
His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth
No penetrable entrance to her plaining [...].

(ll. 552-55, 558-59).

Another point of contact between the poems -- a comic contrast -- is Count Nulin's tripping over a chair in the dark.  Shakepeare's Tarquin does not face that particular risk to his enterprise, because he lights a torch to find his way; indeed, he chillingly addresses the flame: "As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, / So Lucrece must I force to my desire" (ll. 181-82).

Shakespeare actually expends rather a lot of verse on this torch.  Tarquin debates with himself about whether to proceed, urging "Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not / To darken her whose light excelleth thine" (ll. 190-91) but proceeds with lit torch nonetheless:

As each unwilling portal yields him way,
Through little vents and crannies of the place
The wind wars with his torch to make him stay
And blows the smoke of it into his face,
Extinguishing his conduct in this case;
But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch,
Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch. 

And being lighted, by the light he spies
Lucretia's glove

(ll. 309-17).

Retelling of the Incident 

After she escapes Count Nulin's nefarious attentions, Natalya regales her friends and neighbors with the tale.  The poem ends with a comment that it was Natalya's 23-year-old male neighbor Lidin -- rather than her husband -- who found the story most amusing.  Her unnamed husband is "the least amused by far" and swears "he'd make [Count Nulin] yelp" (61).  

Lidin's amusement here suggests to me that he is Natalya's established lover. In that case, he would rejoice in both the story of Count Nulin's failure to seduce Natalya and the husband's impotent vows of revenge.  What better jest for a young buck than to know he has usurped both the husband and a would-be rival lover -- with the husband not only none the wiser but also wrongly irate with the thwarted count?  

If so, Pushkin's closing quatrain is nicely ironic.

Alternative Translation

While preparing this post, I came across a loose, breezy translation by Betsy Hulick, which I'm guessing probably captures the tone of the original rather well.

In both translations, we get the names of our "heroine" Natalya Pavlovna (48), our "hero" Count Nulin (56, 61), the count's manservant Picard, Natalya's maidservant Parasha, the 23-year old neighbor Lidin, and two other servants, Filka and Vash.

In Wood's translation, the husband remains unnamed like the non-entity he is; in Hulick's, Natasha addresses him as Seryozha.

Revisiting the Tomcat Analogy

Hulick renders the passage as:

Even so, a snoozing tom,
the darling of the help, will rouse
from sleep, apprised that there's a mouse
nearby, and track it to its doom.
With narrowed eyes, on silent paws,
he closes in with untaught skill,
crouches, leaps, and sinks his claws
in flesh that twitches, then is still.

In Alexander Pushkin: A Critical Study, Briggs (106) gives us:

A sly cat sometimes set off thus.
A maid's spoilt pet, of mincing walk,
Down mousing from the stove he'll stalk.
Slow-moving, inconspicuous,
Eyes screwed in half a squint, advancing,
He'll coil into a ball, tail dancing,
Spread paws from sly pads, and anon
Some poor, poor mite is pounced upon!

And Wood's version (57), as previously seen:

Thus you may see a cunning tom,
The mincing darling of the house,
Slip from the stove to stalk a mouse,
Creep stealthily and slowly on
Towards his victim, grow slit-eyed
And wave his tail from side to side,
Coil to a ball, extend his claws
And snap! the wretch is in his paws. 

====

Briggs, A. D. P. Alexander Pushkin: A Critical Study. Croom Helm ; Barnes & Noble Books, 1983.
Pushkin, Alexander.  "Count Nulin."  Translated by Betsy Hulick, Cardinal Points Journal, vol. 12, no. 3, July 2011, pp. 112-126.  Stosvet Press, 15 January, 2018.  
Pushkin, Alexander.  The Gypsies and Other Narrative Poems.  Translated by Antony Wood, 1st ed, David R. Godine, 2006.
Shakespeare, William.  "Lucrece" from Folger Digital Texts.  Ed. Barbara Mowat, Paul Werstine, Michael Poston, and Rebecca Niles.  Folger Shakespeare Library, 15 January, 2018.