The Winter's Tale arrow Created with Sketch. Appendix

Irregular, Doubtful, and Emended Accidentals in F1

For an explanation of the contents of this list, see here. In the notes, the lemma is the reading of this edition’s text. For emendations, the lemma is followed by the siglum of the edition from which the emendation is drawn and then by the rejected F1 reading and the sigla of the 17th-c. editions reading differently from the lemma. If no source is given for the emendation, the reading adopted is to be found in none of the folios. Doubtful and irregular readings are merely listed. ( | ) indicates that the reading is found in a full line; (?) indicates dubiety or an alternative to the reading adopted, although not a correct one in the judgment of the editor. In notes pertaining to variants in punctuation, a swung dash ( ~ ) shows that a word in the lemma is replaced in substantially the same form, and an inferior caret (‸) calls attention to a lack of punctuation.

42 life,] F2;  ~ . F1
100 o’th’ Clock] o’th’Clock F1
107 seek] F1 ( | ); seeke elsewhere
107 Stars] F1 ( | ); starres elsewhere
166 th’Goale] th’ Goale F1 (?)
227 look] F1 ( | ); looke elsewhere except 1332 Look
423 Leo.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1
453 wil] F1 ( | ); will elsewhere
613 stirs] F1 ( | ); stirre(s) elsewhere except 3274 stir’d
628 Leon.] F1 ( | ); Leo. elsewhere
696 with‸her] F2;  ~ .  ~  F1
724 Highnes] F1 ( | ); Highnesse elsewhere
800 haue] F2 (have); hane F1
845 gracious] F2; gtacious F1
854 you.] F3;  ~ , F1, F2
870 Your] F2; your F1
874 presently] F2; presenrly F1
882 good.] F2;  ~ , F1
902 o’th’cause] second apostrophe indistinct in F1
914 Mother.] F2;  ~ .’ F1
959 me.]  ~ : F1-F4
988 honest.] F2;  ~ : F1
1131 th’Court] th’ Court F1 (?)
1160 successefull] F2; snccessefull F1
1204 then, but] F2; then,but F1 (?)
1284 i’th’ open] i’th’open F1 (?)
1304 shal] F1 ( | ); shall elsewhere
1311 Cleo.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1
1313 chast] F1 ( | ); chaste elsewhere
1331 strike] F2; r inverted F1
1332 Look] F1 ( | ); looke elsewhere except 227 look
1374 much,]  ~ . F1-F4
1388 sweet’st,] F2;  ~ . F1 (?)
1471 Thrower] F2; Thower F1
1502 sleep] F1 ( | ); sleepe elsewhere
1508–9 Mai- | ster] F1; master elsewhere except 2145 Mayster
1512 verie] F1 ( | ); very elsewhere
1512 prettie] F1 ( | ); pretty elsewhere
1548, 1559 olde] F1 ( | ); old elsewhere
1560 Golde] F1 ( | ); gold elsewhere
1577 on’t.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1
1592 th’freshest] F2; th’sreshest F1
1606 daughter] daugh- | (ter (turnunder) F1
1621 allay (or] F2;  ~ ,  ~  F1
1634 punnishes] F1 ( | ); punish(’d) elsewhere
1638 son] F1 ( | ); sonne elsewhere
1656 cottage.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1 ( | )
1662 ’Prethe] F1 ( | ); prethee elsewhere
1663 busines] F1 ( | ); businesse(s) elsewhere
1673 bleaching] F2; bleachiug F1
1690 auouch] F2; auoueh F1
1730 detestable] F2; derestable F1
1745 Doest] F1 ( | ); dost elsewhere
1745 mony . . . mony] F1 ( | ); money elsewhere
1749 anie] F1 ( | ); any elsewhere
1815 ground.] F2;  ~ . F1 (?)
1841 purpose,] pur- | (pose, (turnunder) F1
1860 Fy] F1 ( | ); fie elsewhere
1926 fairst Friend,] fairst | (Friend, (turnover) F1
1947 flours] F1 ( | ); flowres elsewhere
1966 Shepherd] F2; Sphepherd F1
2017 customers] F2; cnstomers F1
2027 Beleeue] F2 (Beleeve); Beleeee F1
2061 then] F2; rhen F1
2067 bear] F1 ( | ); beare elsewhere
2072 promis’d] F2; ptomis’d F1
2076–7 ther- | fore] F1; therefore elsewhere
2078 here.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1 ( | )
2096 things] F2; rhings F1
2121 Mop.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1
2125 Let] F2; Le char created, no entity used per Julie 10/7/04 F1 (foot of type prints)
2126, 2132 Mop:] F2 ( ~ .);  ~ ‸ F1
2135 wee’ll] F1 ( | ); wee’l or wee’le elsewhere
2137 folow] F1 ( | ); follow elsewhere
2138 Aut.] F2;  ~ : F1
2139 Cape] F2; Crpe F1
2145 Mayster] F1 ( | ); master elsewhere except 1508 maister
2147 cal] F1 ( | ); call elsewhere
2191 you out] F2; youout F1
2199 Thereof] F2; The reof F1
2253, 2255 Flo.] F2;  ~ ‸ F1 (?)
2265 But] F2; but F1
2406 Cam.] F2;  ~ , F1
2453 reare’our] reare’ our F1 (?)
2612 like] F2; lke F1
2619 eyther] F1 ( | ); either elsewhere
2658 whistling] F2; whistiing F1
2714 means] F1 ( | ); meanes elsewhere
2717 him. If]  ~ . if F1;  ~ , if F2-F4
2949 speake.] F3;  ~ : F1, F2
3109 answer] F1 ( | ); answere elsewhere
3220 excellence,] F2;  ~ . F1 (?)
3274 stir’d] F1 ( | ); stirre(s) elsewhere except 613 stirs
3338 the] F2; rhe F1 (?)
3341 time] F2; ttme F1

Unadopted Conjectures

3381 Bohemia] Illyria (throughout) Berkenhout (1790)
4–10 Eight verse lines ending visit . . . occasion . . . foot; . . . difference . . . Sicilia. . . . of . . . Bohemia . . . him. mtby4
6 shall] will mF2fl21
11 Wherein] where if Gould (1887, p. 69)
16 will] must mtby3
17–18 insufficience] insufficiency mflV.a.80
26 there] then mtby3 (and withdrawn)
27 which] as mF2fl21
30 attornyed] atourned [with splendid retinue] Becket (1815, 1:349)
32 shooke] shake mtby4
33 embrac’d] embrace mtby4
49 Mamillius] To line 192 Parry (1979, p. 57)
51 haue left] did leave Seymour (1805, 1:157)
63 Or] To mtby4
63–4 blow No . . . to] grow To . . . and Cartwright (1866, p. 14); blow In . . . to Staunton (1874, p. 461)
63 blow‸]  ~ , [blow = blossom] Lambrechts (1965, p. 956)
64 No sneaping] Nose-nipping mcol3 (attrib. to Col. Curwin?)
65 This is] These are hud2
74 (’beseech you) so] so I beseech you mflV.a.80
75 none, none] no none mflV.a.80
76 So . . . me] could win me so soone as yours mflV.a.80
82 Farewell (our Brother.)] Brother farewell mF2fl21
82 our] deare mflV.a.80
91 tell] tell’s mtby3
92 Om. mtby4
98 let] diet or list mtby3; sit Keightley (1867, pp. 197–8)
98 behind] beyond mtby3, Heath (1765, pp. 202–3; in error?)
98 Gest] just theo1; les [time] Becket (1815, 1:349–50); longest Coleridge (1813?; 1960, 1:107)
99 (good-deed)] good mtby3
101 Lady] loving Kellner (1925, p. 140)
101 she] else mtby3
103–5 One verse line mcap2
105 Verely?] Om. mF2fl21
107 would seek] should think mflV.a.80
114 your] our Gould (1884, p. 22)
120 Gaoler] harsh gaoler mstau
127 Boy] boys mtby3
133 ill-doing] ill-doingness Bulloch (1878, pp. 115–16)
133 nor] neither Spedding in cam1
133 dream’d] dream’d then mstau; dream’d we even Keightley (1867, p. 198)
136 blood] food Gould (1887, p. 69)
137–8 Imposition clear’d, Hereditarie] inquisition clear’d, Heaven would be Gould (1884, p. 22)
146 Grace] Heaven’s grace Staunton (1874, p. 461)
146 boot] both Heath (1765, p. 203)
151 fault] faulty Lambrechts (1965, p. 957)
162 deed] Om. Anon. (Discovery, 1853, p. 255)
164 Our] Your mlet
166 With] Wi’th’ mtby2
166 we heat an Acre.] the heat, an acre Nichols (1861, p. 20)
166 heat] tread mtby3; beat mtby4, Cartwright (1866, p. 14); hoop mtby4; hent Schmidt (1875, p. 1452); head [advance] Gould (1887, p. 69)
167 was] was then mtay
175 A] Or oxf2
177 ’Tis] That was Lettsom in dyce2
180 Friend] royal friend mtay
185 free] fair mtby2
186 Bountie] bounties mlong
186 Bountie, fertile Bosome] bounty:—fertile become Jackson (1819, pp. 131–2)
190 Looking-Glasse] glass Walker (1860, 3:91, and withdrawn)
190 sigh] sing mtby4
197–200 Come . . . Neat.] Om. mcol2
198 but] not mbrae
200 all] all alike Lettsom in dyce2; or virginalling still mlet
200 Still] Still, still Staunton (1874, p. 461)
204 pash] bush [tail] Becket (1815, 1:350–1); patch Jervis (1868)
208 o’re-dy’d] oft dyed stau
213 Most] My mtby4
213 Dam, may’t be] Dam’, may’t be? [apostrophe indicating suspension?] mtyr
214–22 Affection . . . Browes.)] Om. colne
214 Intention] Intension [i.e., intensity] Tannenbaum (1928, p. 360)
215 do’st . . . things] makest impossible things or dost make things impossible mtby3; dost make impossible things mtby4
216 with] by mtby4
218 credent] evident mtby2
220 (And . . . it,] Om. capn
221 (And that] Find it Lettsom in dyce2
224–6 Her. He . . . vnsetled. Pol. How? my Lord? Leo. What . . . Brother?] He . . . unsettled. Her. How? My lord! Pol. What . . . brother? Nicholson in cam2
225–6 How . . . cheere?] Continued to Hermione Dey (1900)
225 How?] How i’st mlong
226–9 Four verse lines ending you, . . . brow . . . lord? . . . earnest. Walker (1860, 3:91)
227 Brow] thought mtby4
233 requoyle] recall Grey (1754, 1:246)
240 Egges for Money] ayes for money Becket (1815, 1:351–2); aches from any Bulloch (1878, p. 116)
253–5 We . . . welcome] Her. We . . . lord, | And . . . steps. Leo. How thou | Lovest . . . welcome Dey (1907)
256 deare] dears’t mtby4
267 allowing] all-owing mtby3
270 whose issue] who sees’t mstau
277–80 And . . . will.] Om. mcol2
281 tenth] tenth part mF1fl10
282 Physick] Why, Physick mlet
282 there’s] there is Young (1928, p. 214)
285–9 From . . . not.] Om. mcol2
290 you] you you col1
291–2 One verse line Walker (1860, 3:91)
292 What? Camillo] What Camillo, art Staunton (1874, p. 461)
294 thou’rt . . . man:] to Camillo mtby2 (and withdrawn)
296 his] this mtby3
303 a so-forth] and so forth mal; a sea-froth Jackson (1819, pp. 132–3)
308 so] as mtby4
310 is] in Grey (1754, 1:246)
312 Seueralls] Severall mcol2
313 Messes] nesses [ignorants] Becket (1815, 1:352)
316–19 Verse lines ending ha? . . . why? mcap2
317–19 One verse line Walker (1860, 2:145)
317 Ha?] Ha? Ha? Staunton (1874, p. 461)
318 longer] longer, sir Staunton (1874, p. 461)
319 why?] why, but why? Walker (1860, 2:145); why? why stays? Staunton (1874, p. 461)
327 from thee departed] have departed from thee Walker (1860, 3:92)
330 seemes] seem’d mtby4
334 restrayning] restraining it mtby3, Staunton (1874, p. 863)
335–7 Marked out m1778bl
338 home] false Gould (1887, p. 69)
343–5 But . . . forth] Om. mcol2
349 euer fearefull] over-fearful mtby4
352 non-performance] now-performance Heath (1765, p. 205)
363–4 Cogitation Resides] vegetation Rides mtby3
364 thinke)] think so or think‸ mtby2
369 puts to] puts Toe [tow] mtby2; buts [twists] tow Jackson (1818)
373 My] A mlet
376 that] black mstau
378 meating] meting [measuring] john1 (attrib. to Thirlby)
379 Cariere] Course mlet
381 Honestie] modesty [?] mF2fl48 (trimmed; the reading incorrectly attrib. to Pope)
383 Noone] noon-day or high noon Anon. in cam1
388 haue] are Lettsom in dyce2
400 my Wiues] her mflV.a.80
400–1 Liuer . . . life] life . . . liver Daniel (1870, p. 44)
401 as] as is mflV.a.80
401 would] could mtby4
419 Maliciously] Suspiciously Anon. (Discovery, 1853, p. 255)
421 (So . . . ‸being Honorable.)] ‸ ~  . . . ( ~   ~ ‸) mal
421–3 Verse lines ending have . . . rot. Spedding in cam1
421–2 ] One verse line Walker (1860, 3:92)
421 being Honorable.) I] being honourable, Sir, | I Staunton (1874, p. 863); benign, and honourably To Bulloch (1878, pp. 116–18)
422–3 I haue . . . Leo. Make] Leo. Have I . . . Make mlong
422–3 I . . . rot] Leo. I’ve lov’d thee. Mark this question, and go do’t Heath (1765, pp. 205–6)
423–4 Verse lines ending think . . . unsettled, Walker (1854, p. 7)
423 rot] do’t Jackson (1819, pp. 135–6)
428 Is] Is full of mtay
428 Nettles,] nettles, vipers Walker (1860, 2:16); nettles, pismires Anon. in cam1; stinging nettles Staunton (1874, p. 863)
428 of] of bees of mtby4
432 man] any man mlong
432 blench] flinch mtook
437 thereby] thereto mtby4
437 for sealing] for seeling m1768fl
442–3 One verse line Walker (1854, p. 66)
442 to] t’ Walker (1854, p. 66)
449 all] well mtby2
466 Starre] stars mtby4
480–1 breeding, That . . . Manners.] breeding. What . . . manners. mtby2
482 not] not, do not mF2fl27
483 doe not?] Om. mlong
483–4 doe you . . . not? . . . me,] you do . . . not . . . me? mtby2
483–4 and dare not? . . . me,] and dare not be intelligent?—To me mtby3
488 for] sir mtby2
489 A partie] answered mtby3
493 name the] name’t mlet
502 gentle] gentile or gentil [Fr.] Becket (1815, 1:353)
520 vtter it] utter ’t Walker (1854, p. 102)
523 am appointed him] am appointed for or sir mtby2; appointed am mF2fl48 (and withdrawn), Anon. in hal
529 vice] advise Steevens (v1778); vice [advice or advise] mper
531 my] let my mflV.a.80
533 Best] blest Lambrechts (1965, p. 957)
534 freshest] Om. mflV.a.80
536 shun’d] fear’d mflV.a.80
539 his thought] this thrice mtby2; your thought mtby4; this oath Lettsom in dyce2
539 ouer] over! Jackson (1819, pp. 136–7); erres Gould (1887, p. 69); error Fisher (1985, p. 21)
541 Influences] influence wh1 (5:388 and 1:xlvii)
544 his] this mtby4
546–9 Four verse lines ending body. . . . sure, . . . question . . . born. Walker (1860, 3:95)
561–2 condemnd . . . his] condemned; . . . is As You Like It (1789, p. 711)
561 mouth:] mouth, & Walker (1860, 3:95)
562 Thereon] Thereto mtby4
562 his] the or swift mtby4
565 places] paces mwarb, Malone (1783); paces [It. comforts] or peaces Becket (1815, 1:354)
567 hence departure] hence-departure mtby4
568–71 Four verse lines ending for . . . it . . . it . . . conceive mtby2
568 Iealousie] his jealousy Walker (1860, 2:257, and withdrawn); jealousy, Camillo Cartwright (1866, p. 14)
570, 571 Must it] It must Seymour (1805, 1:160)
573 him: why his] him honour, why’s mstau; love him, why’s Staunton (1874, p. 864)
574–6 me . . . but] my Good expedition. Be my friend, . . . theme; but say or me; With expedition go my friend, &c. mtay
575–7 Lined 576–7, 575 (with consort for comfort) Bulloch (1878, pp. 118–19)
575–6 friend, and comfort‸ . . . Queene,]  ~ ‸  ~   ~ , . . .  ~ ‸ Becket (1815, 1:354–5)
575–6 comfort . . . Theame] consort . . . throne Jackson (1819, pp. 137–8); God comfort . . . theme sing2; conserve . . . throne White (1854); comfort . . . shame Tannenbaum (1928, p. 362)
575–6 comfort . . . nothing] God comfort The gracious queen; and pardon his crime, but offspring Lloyd (1892); comfort! The gracious queen, part of his theme, wot nothing Adams (1892)
576 Queene, part] Queen’s; [a line lost] part john1
576 Queene, . . . nothing] queen (part of his theme ’bout nothing) Morehead (1814, p. 28); queen’s part of this theme, but noting Spence (1890)
576 but nothing] not noting sing1; by his noting Orger (1890, p. 65)
579 my . . . hence:] me alive off. Hence, mtby4
582 Come] Pol. Come mlong
593–4 Verse lines ending still. . . . lord? Walker (1860, 3:97)
594 Lord] good Lord mtby4
595–600 Five verse lines ending yet . . . best; . . . hair there, . . . moon . . . this? mtby4
598 in] like or as mtby4
605 not her] never mtby4
608 seruices] service mlet
615–20 Three verse lines ending be? . . . winter: . . . sir: mcap2
626 Crickets] giglets mtby4
628 his Traine?] Om. mtby4
630 Behind] Beyond mtby4
631–2 them Euen to] them Even unto or Them even to mtby2
633 blest] blessed then steevens (v1793)
637 drinke; depart] drinke deep mlong; drink deep o’t stau; drain it deep Jervis (1860; withdrawn 1861); drink, repeat it or drink a draught Cartwright (1866, p. 14); drink deep on’t mlet
642 Hefts] hests [heats, violent actions] Becket (1815, 1:355)
645 is] was mtby3, Lettsom in dyce2, Keightley (1867, p. 200)
648 pinch’d Thing] pinchin [one who is to be played upon] or pinc’d thing [one who is mocked] Becket (1815, 1:355); perch’d thing Jackson (1819, pp. 138–9)
649 at will] withall mtby2
650–1 easily . . . his] easy ope? By’s a Kellner (1925, p. 171)
653 command] commandement [three syllables] Walker (1854, p. 127)
654 know’t] know it but mtby4
654 too well] too well, too well Anon. in cam1
658 this?]  ~ ‸ mtby3
661 big-with] big Maxwell in ard2
663 Her. But] Ant. Kellner (1925, p. 43)
663 Il’d] I’ll or I mtby4
663 had] has Keightley (1867, p. 200)
664 would] will or do mtby4
665 Nay-ward] wayward mtby4
679 grieue . . . be] grieve’t should be so mtby4
687 Ile] Ild cam3
689 a like] alike mtby3
690 out] off mtby4
694–7 Four verse lines ending her . . . know . . . principal . . . those mtay
694–5 Verse lines ending one . . . herself, Walker (1860, 3:98)
694 Federarie] federate Keightley (1867, p. 200)
694 and] ay, and Walker (1860, 3:98)
694 one] one too mtby4
695–7 Three verse lines ending with . . . principal; . . . those mtby2
695 What] She is what mtay
695 her selfe] herself with none Anon. in cam1
696 that] Om. mtby2
710 is . . . guiltie] afar off [barely insinuates], is guilty Becket (1815, 1:355); has a share of guilt mstau; is so far guilty dyce2; is a fere [accomplice] of guilt Kellner (1925, p. 31)
711 But] By Daniel in cam2
714 Good] Om. Seymour (1805, 1:161)
739 (Sir)] so, mtby4
741 I meane] ye clean mstau
744 my Stables] my stabler or my stablers cam1 (withdrawn cam2); me shackles Bulloch (1878, pp. 119–20); constables Kinnear (1883, p. 179; me constables 1885, pp. 259–60); my shackles Gould (1887, p. 69)
746 farther‸] further, mtby2
755 I . . . him:] And I would damn him; or And I would—damn him;— Mitford (1844, p. 127); I’d geld and damn him Kinnear (1883, pp. 179–80); I would—Lord, damn him! Schmidt (ed. 1870, p. 281)
755 Land-damne him: be] hang him. But be Cartwright (1866, p. 14)
755 Land-damne] half-damn Heath (1765, pp. 208–9); land-dam [bury] Malone (1783); laudanum Farmer in v1793 (Knight, ed. 1841: A joke); langue dam [stop his tongue] Becket (1815, 1:355–6); live-damn Walker (1860, 3:99); Lent-damn Nicholson in cam1 (3:430; withdrawn 1867, p. 435); hand-damn Browne in cam2; land-ram Nicholson (1867, p. 435, and withdrawn); lambaste Keightley (1867, pp. 200–1); land-drum Bulloch (1878, pp. 120–1); lam— damn [lamback broken off] Platt (1906); loud-damn Burton (1970, p. 228)
757 and . . . some] nine, the third is yet but or . . . yet some mtby2
759 gell’d] kill mtby4
760 co-heyres] my heirs mtby4
761 glib] geld mtby3; lib Grey (1754, 1:250); unsib Heath (1765, p. 209); glib them ard2
766 withall] with all mF2fl48
766 touches the forehead of Antigonus with his fore and middle fingers in imitation of a SNAIL’s HORNS Henley in v1793
767–8 that . . . so] of that you feel. Ant. If so Heath (1765, pp. 209–10)
767 feele] work mstau
770 the . . . sweeten] to sweeten the face mflV.a.80
773 Lord] Antigonus Theobald (1729) in Nichols (1817, 2:360)
773 lacke] lack it or lack’t mtby3
780 Cals] Lacks mtby2
783 a truth, like vs:] as truth; like us, mtby2
785–7 Verse lines ending is . . . liege, mstau
785 ord’ring on’t] ordering of it mtby2
786 all] Om. mstau
787 wish] do wish mlet (withdrawn)
800 wilde] wide mtby2
805 well?] well? Say. mstau
810 credulitie] incredulity mtby3
816 vs] our mtby4
820 At the Gate of a Prison. Furness (v1898)
827–45 Thirteen verse lines ending then, . . . contrary . . . ado, . . . from . . . lawful, . . . them? . . . apart . . . forth. . . . madam, . . . conference. . . . make . . . colouring. . . . lady? Bayfield (1920, pp. 348–9)
829–45 Fourteen [?] verse lines ending Queen. . . . contrary . . . ado . . . from then as F until 842–5, which end a-do, . . . colouring. . . . lady? mtby2
853 poore] pure mtby3
856 Lunes] loons or lowns mtby2
871 free] fair mtby4
876 hammered] murmured mwray
877 not tempt] n’t attempt mtby4
903 She] She, she mlet
903 th’Adultresse] th’ adultresse lives Gould (1887, p. 69)
904 Arme] aim mtby3, Field (1847, p. 138)
905 braine] aime Gould (1887, p. 69)
905 plot-proofe] shot proof mtby3, wh1 (if aim in 904)
908–15 Five verse lines ending lord. . . . night; . . . see . . . dishonour . . . deeply; mtby3
910–12 Verse lines ending to-night; . . . discharg’d. mtby2
912–15 Three verse lines ending see . . . dishonour . . . deeply, Walker (1854, p. 23)
915 deeply] heavily or deadlily mtby4; deeply in mstau
917 Spirit] sport mtby4
922 Alliance] allies mtby4
928 Enter Paulina] Enter Paulina, Antigonus and others following after 945 [929–44 within] Tannenbaum (1928, p. 366)
930 Lords] lord mtby3
930 second] seconds Young & Moseley (ed. 1965)
935 hath] has mtby4
945 Who] Ho mtby3; Whose ard2
953 on] of mtby4
964–5 me . . . My] one . . . Her mstau
967 comforting] combating mtby4
973 her] it mtby3, Heath (1765, p. 210)
973 her good so] it good too mlet, Daniel (1870, p. 45)
982 mankinde] vampire mwray
990–2 Bastard, . . . thou‸ art woman-tyr’d: . . . heere.]  ~ — . . .  ~ ,  ~   ~ ? . . .  ~ ? mtyr
991 tyr’d] rid mtby4, mwray
995 hands] hand Walker (1860, 1:252–3)
996 forced] forged mtby3; forg’d mtby4; falsed col3
996 basenesse] base name mtby3
1004 But . . . heere] That’s here but one mtby2
1007 Swords] sword mtby4
1013 beat] bait mper
1017 them] it capn (v.r.)
1021 Matter] mappe [type] mstau
1022 And] A Tannenbaum (1928, p. 363)
1024 Chin, and] Om. Ritson (1792)
1024 Smiles] Smile Tannenbaum (1928, p. 359 n.)
1029 No] Put no mtby2
1030 Her] Om. As you like it (1789, p. 711)
1034–6 Spoken aside Anon. in cam1
1054 Ioue] God Anon. in cam1
1054 her] him Heath (1765, p. 210)
1056 o’re] o’ Anon. in Furness (v1898)
1074 my] First Lord. My Anon. in cam1
1079 of . . . on] us: on Anon. in cam2
1083 We] Lords. We Anon. in cam1
1090 Mid-wife] mad wife mtby2
1092 this] his [Antigonus’s] Theobald (1729) in Nichols (1817, 2:360); your mcol2
1093 this] the [?] mtby3
1104 lewd-tongu’d] loud-tongued mtby2
1123 this] his Roderick (1758, p. 213)
1127 Posts] post mtby4
1129 An houre since:] Om. mtby3
1130 are‸]  ~ , Furness (v1898)
1135–6 fore-tells The] for’t tells That mtby3; it foretells The Keightley (1867, p. 201)
1156 eare] near mtby4
1168 end the] end her mtby4
1177 Euen] Ever Anon. in cam1
1182 the . . . the] her . . . her mtby2
1182 Purgation:]  ~ — Furness (v1898)
1190 with] with him and or with him and with mtby3
1191 pretence] practise Walker (1860, 2:245)
1215 prate] plead Keightley in cam1
1217 Griefe] speech or breath Daniel (1870, p. 45); gifts Kellner (1925, p. 58)
1223 encounter] a counter mtby4
1223–4 vncurrant . . . strayn’d] uncurrent have I Been staind john1; uncredent, have I Been stain’d Becket (1815, 1:357–8); occurrent I Have strain’d wh1
1224 t’appeare] to appare [i.e., appair, make worse or weaken] mstau
1224 thus;]  ~ — Furness (v1898)
1230 bolder] bold mtby4
1230 wanted] vented Bailey (1866, p. 369)
1236 Mistresse of] Mistresse of that mlong; misreport or misprision Anon. in cam1; mistress of [a line om.] Anon. in cam1; my distress Daniel (1870, p. 45); ’m [or I’m] mistress Anon. in Perring (1885); my stress of fortune Anon. in cam2; my share is Kellner (1925, p. 137)
1237 Which] That Seymour (1805, 1:165)
1243 So] Such mtby2
1247 Euen] Ever mtby2
1254–6 Verse lines ending what you . . . Sir, Bayfield (1920, p. 349)
1263 your] the (written ye) mlet
1263 Fact] Sect mlong, Farmer in v1773 (10:Pp5); Pack john1; pact Anon. in cam1
1274 giue] hold mwray
1283 Lastly] Hastily Bucknill (1860, p. 130)
1285 limit] limb john1
1291 proofes] proof mtby4
1293 Your] Mine mF2fl27
1298 his] the mtby4
1300 here‸]  ~ , mtby4, Tannenbaum (1928, p. 365)
1302 flatnesse] blackness mwray
1319 truth] true mtby4, Jervis (1860, p. 13)
1320 Lord] good Lord mlet
1350 being done] doing mtby4
1352 quit] quits mlush
1353 knew] knew to be Anon. in cam1; know mlet
1353 great)] great and growing mtby3
1353 hazard] fearful hazard Malone in v1785; doubtful hazard mal; hazarding Anon. in cam1
1356 Pietie] purity mtby3
1363 Racks? Fires? What] what racks, what fires, what or what racks, what fires mtby3
1363 flaying?] flaying, tearing Walker (1860, 2:13)
1366 To] The mtby4
1371 of] to mcol2
1372 Polixenes, ’twas] Polixenes was mcol2
1373 of] for mtby2; om. mtby4
1374 damnable] damnably mlong
1382 the] thy oxf2
1385 no] now mtby3
1393 her eye] or eye mtby3
1395 would] Om. mtby2
1399 naked] crooked mtby2
1401 In] And mtby3
1413 What’s . . . what’s] She’s . . . so mtby4
1413 and] as mtby2
1414–15 receiue . . . petition] revive affliction By repetition Lettsom in dyce1 (1:cciv); receive affliction At my monition Cartwright (1866, p. 14); receive affliction At my mad passion or revive [withdrawn] affliction At my perdition mstau
1415 At] By Lettsom in dyce1 (errata)
1415 petition] relation Singer (1853, p. 75)
1422–24 (Who . . . well] Verse lines ending and . . . well, Walker (1860, 3:102)
1422 take] take but mlet
1422 you] you and mlet [withdrawn]
1434–5 I . . . sorrowes.] I . . . Come my Lds, | And . . . sorrows. mtby2
1435 these] these untimely mlet
1444 heauens] Gods mtby3
1447 Ile] ’twill mtby4
1459 thing] things mtby4
1462 some] sometimes mlong
1462 another] on other Anon. in cam1
1463–4 vessell . . . fill’d] vestal . . . veil’d Browne in cam2
1464 fill’d] still Cartwright (1866, p. 14)
1464 becomming] o’er-brimming Daniel (1870, p. 45); become it Kinnear (1883, p. 183); beteeming ard1
1467 gasping] gaping or gaping as mtby3
1468 the] their mtby4, Tannenbaum (1928, p. 365)
1472 babe] baby mtby2
1474 weepe] land Cartwright (1866, p. 14); bear’t Gould (1884, p. 22); wrap Deighton (1898); meve [move] Kellner (1925, pp. 92, 119)
1481 so] sooth warb
1490 pretty] pity Gould (1884, p. 22)
1499 Chace] waye or trace mtby4
1501 ten] 19 mtby4, mF2fl27, Gildemeister (1870, pp. 114–15)
1502 youth] our youth mtby4
1505–6 boylde-braines] broild brains mwarb
1506 of] between mtby3
1506 and two] to two mtby3
1512 Childe] girl child mstau
1513 bookish] book-wise mtby4
1514 the] this mtby2
1515 staire-worke] stairs-work [stair-foot and stair-head withdrawn] mtby2
1523 talke . . . art] talk on, when I am or be talk’d on, when thou art mmal1 (p. 34)
1525–8 Four verse lines ending land; . . . sea, . . . firmament . . . point. mtby2
1531 takes] tears Cartwright (1866, p. 15)
1533 not] some not mtby2; sometimes not mtby4
1534 Moone] sun mtby3
1535 you’ld] you should mtby3
1541, 1547 Gentleman] old gentleman mstau
1547 Gentleman] old gentleman mal
1548 the] tho’ [though] Jackson (1819, pp. 141–2)
1550 would] would not Theobald (1729) in Nichols (1817, 2:362)
1556 take . . . take] takt . . . takt Tannenbaum (1928; take’t 1933)
1580 try] tire mtby3
1583 it not a] it not as or it not as a or not as a mtby4
1585 vntride] untold mtby3, Gould (1887, p. 69)
1588 ore-whelme] root up mlet
1595 my Scene] the scenes mtby4
1596–8 betweene: Leontes leauing‸ ‸Th’effects . . . iealousies, . . . himselfe.]  ~ ‸  ~   ~ , ( ~  . . .  ~ ‸ . . .  ~ ) mtyr
1597 iealousies,] jealousie mtby4
1598–9 me . . . I] we . . . we mtby3; we . . . you john1
1599 I] we mtby2
1601 I mentioned] we mentioned or I mention’d ere mtby2; I mention’d here or we mentioned ere mtby3; Mentioned Lettsom in dyce2
1604 wond’ring] worth mstau
1605 prophesie] t’prophesie mtby4
1608 of Time] o’th’ time mtby4
1610 that] then or this mtby4; then Keightley (1867, p. 201)
1617 Countrey:] country and mtby4
1620 feeling] killing mtby4
1623 rest] list mtby4
1632 my] thy mlong
1632 the] thy mtby3
1636 losse] losses mlet
1638 Kings] Fathers mF2fl27
1643 are] is mtby2
1644 missingly] wissenly [attentively] Becket (1815, 1:360); wittingly Tannenbaum (1928, p. 365)
1645 frequent] fervent mtby4
1647 considered] observed mtby4
1648 eyes] spies mtby4
1657 but] that mlet
1665 willingly] will willingly mtby4
1668 Autolicus] Autolycus very ragged wh1 (attrib. to F1)
1669 to peere] t’ appear mtby4, Tannenbaum (1928, p. 365); to ’pear Tannenbaum (1928, p. 365)
1670 Doxy] daisies m1733fl4
1672 raigns . . . winters] runs . . . winter or vein . . . winter’s mtby3; runs . . . winters Mason (1785)
1672 in] o’er m1733fl4
1673 sheete] shift mtby2, mF4tcc
1675 pugging] tugging mF4tcc
1678 heigh] heigh ho Walker (1860, 3:104); hey! the finch Kinnear (1883, p. 185)
1678 the Iay] heigh, the Jay Furness (v1898)
1679 Are] Her or Their mtby2
1679 songs] songsters mtby4
1680 in] on mtby4
1682 seruice] suit and service mtby2
1691 sheetes] ballads Walker (1860, 3:104)
1695 this] my mcol2
1695 silly] shy mF2fl27
1697 Beating and hanging] hanging and beating col3
1698 thought] thoughts mtby4
1701 Leauen-weather toddes] —living wether tods— [blanks indicating numbers not supplied] Malone (1783; withdrawn mal 10:604)
1701 toddes] todde mtyr
1711 three-man] They’re men, or They’re main or thrum-men [weavers] Theobald (1729) in Nichols (1817, 2:208–9)
1711 but] but that mtby4
1715 none] no or no, no mtby3
1719 me] the— [beginning to invoke the Trinity] Theobald (1729) in Nichols (1817, 2:363); om. john1
1725 are] were mtby2
1740 softly,] softly, softly! mtby3
1761 but] bit mstau; jot or whit or bit Perring (1885)
1761 abide] away mtby3
1762 this] the mtby4
1764 (a Bayliffe)] to a bailiff cam1
1764 compast] compos’d mlong
1767 knauish] other knavish mF2fl27
1767 onely in] in only mtby4
1769 for . . . Prig] on . . . a prig mtby4
1789 vnrold] unrogued Lettsom (1853)
1792 hent] hand mtby4; bend Scott (1815, ch. 22)
1792–4 Stile-a . . . Mile-a] stile, o . . . mile, o Playford (1651); stil-e . . . mil-e Lewis in cam1
1799 a] new mtheo1
1805–13 your . . . I] 1808–10 But . . . blush, then Nay, swoon, I think, to see you so attired. then 1805–7 your . . . wearing; then and the poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like, prank’d up. Flor. A glass to shew thyself. I Becket (1815, 1:362–3)
1810–11 I . . . thinke,] (sworne I think) To see you so attired, I should blush Steevens (v1773)
1811–12 sworne . . . glasse] sorely shrink . . . i’ th’ glass Bailey (1862, 1:211); swoon . . . myself. Flo. Ah! lass Daniel (1870, p. 46)
1811 sworne] scorn Mitford (1844, p. 127); frown or more Bailey (1862, 1:210); ’tis worn mtay
1812 glasse] face Hudson in cam2
1815 ground] grounds mtby4
1822 Vildely] So vildly mtby2
1829 the] sea Anon. in cam1
1829 greene] great mtby4
1833 neuer] neither mtby2
1836–8 Verse lines ending your . . . ’tis Malone in v1785 ; withdrawn mal
1840 must be] must-be mstau
1840 be necessities,] be, necessity mtby3; be necessarily or of necessity mtby4
1841 then will] will then or then you’ll mtby4
1842 I] I forfeit mwarb
1843 Thou deer’st] My dearest or Thou dreamest or Hearest thou mtby2
1851 behold] be bold Gould (1884, p. 22)
1873 Come] Pol. Come mtheo1; Pol. or Cam. Come ard2
1876 welcome] welcome hither or welcome to us Keightley (1867, p. 203)
1885 well] Will stau
1885 ages] age mtby4
1887 growing] now growing mflV.a.80
1890 our] your mbrae
1893 get] set mtby2
1901 ouer] ever or e’er Anon. in cam1
1904 wildest] wilder Anon. in cam1
1906 Nobler] noble mtby4
1908 Nature] nature’s mtby2
1910 you] yon ard2
1914 I would] you would mtby4
1917 Hot] gote [goat] cam3
1917 Mints] mint mtby2, Walker (1860, 1:246, and withdrawn)
1925 that] the mtby4
1930 growing] blowing mwarb
1932–4 Three verse lines ending come . . . winds . . . dim, mtby2
1932 From] From dusky mtby4; illegible n. in mtby3 on possible insert before daffadils
1932 Daffadils] brighter or brightest or glorious daffadils Coleridge (1813?; 1960, 1:108)
1935–6 the . . . Or] Om. mflV.a.80
1946 if: not‸]  ~ ‸  ~ : Mendilow (1967, p. 264)
1956 them] that mtby4
1958 still, still] still-still mstau
1958 so:] so, my love or so, my dear’st mstau; so again: mlet
1959 owne] owe mtby4
1959 doing] A word and line or two om. Walker (1860, 1:74); doing [present Exalts your doings past; each past, remember’d] mlet
1961 are] were mstau
1965 which peepes] the which or pee-pes Young (1928, p. 215)
1965 peepes fairely through’t] through it fairly peeps stau
1970 skill] call Daniel (1870, p. 46)
1974–5 Perd. . . . Pol.] Pol. (aside) john1
1974 Ile sweare] Elsewhere Jackson (1819, p. 143)
1974 ’em] me Mason (1785)
1976–7 or . . . But] but . . . Or Daniel (1870, pp. 46–7)
1976 seemes] deems Anon. in cam1
1983–7 Four verse lines ending garlick . . . time. . . . word, a word, . . . up. mtby2
1986–7 Verse lines ending word, a word; . . . up. Walker (1860, 3:105)
1990–1 Verse lines ending swain . . . daughter? Walker (1854, p. 206)
1991 dances] danced mtby3
1992 They call] He calls mtby2
1992 and] ’a Malone (1783)
1994 and] but mtby3
2010 grew] grew hungry mstau
2021 stretch] stretch’d mtby2
2022 gap] jest ard2
2024 slights] flings mtby4
2026 Verse Walker (1854, p. 86)
2026 Pol.] Mop. or Dor. mtby3
2027 Beleeue] Beshrew mtby4
2028 vnbraided] braided john1; embraided Harbottle (1853, p. 96)
2032 Caddysses] cadizes [Cadiz goods] Becket (1815, 1:365)
2033 em ouer] over them mtby4
2035 sleeue-hand] Silesia or sleasie holland Peck (1740, p. 241)
2042 thinke] hear mstau
2048 Amber] of amber mtby3
2054 come:] come: lads or come: come mtby3
2057 it] I mtby4
2064 will] I will mtby4
2071 clamor] clamme [stop, coagulate] Douce (1807, 1:359–60); clam [cover a bell’s clapper with felt] Croft (1810, p. 11; from mal); chamber Jackson (1819, p. 144); chommer [cease, hold] Cornish (1852); clam, clem, or clammer [press, squeeze] Keightley (1853, pp. 44, 615, and 1857, p. 86); chaumbre [restrain] Arrowsmith (1853, p. 567); clemmer [clem] Keightley (1867, p. 205); shame o’ Perring (1885, p. 141); slaken mwray; charm a ard2
2082–3 a life] as I love life or as I love my life mtby3
2085 twenty] twin mtby2
2086 burthen] birth Anon. in cam1
2098 fourescore] first mtby4
2101 cold] cod mF2fl27
2104 it] that mtby4
2113–4 thou shalt heare] they shall hear it mtby4
2142–4 news’t, and fins’t, fins’t . . . doth vtter] newest, and finest . . . utters mF2fl21
2147 Saltiers] Satiers mcol2
2151 bowling] howling mstau
2156 You] We mtby4
2157 Heardsmen] hairy men mtby3; hair-men mtby4
2163 they . . . doore Sir] sir, they . . . door Keightley (1867, p. 205)
2170 handed] hended [dallied with] mwarb; bandied mstau
2172 Treasury] treasure mtby3
2176 straited] straiten’d mtby4
2177 a reply] reply mstau
2186 it] milk mtby4
2187 Ethyopians] Ethiop Lettsom in Walker (1860, 3:108)
2188 ore.]  ~ — Furness (v1898)
2193 professe] protest mtby3
2197 and men] all men mtby4
2200 had] with mtby4
2203 and] or mtby2
2212 puritie] parity sing2
2220 come-on] come, on mtby3
2221 Witnesses] Witness mlet
2224 Swaine] stay mtby4
2225–7 Verse lines ending father? . . . this? mtby2, mcap2
2234 altring] aking Gould (1884, p. 22)
2235–7 Dispute . . . againe, . . . he did] Manage . . . in pain . . . he’s bid Gould (1884, p. 22)
2235 Dispute] compute john1; dispense Anon. in cam1; discern mlet
2240 of] at mtby3
2243 my] the mtby3, dyce2; that the or good my mtby3; ’tis my mlet; any Craik in oxf2
2250 I] I’le mF2fl27
2259 Marke] Make mtby4
2265 shorten] short Walker (1860, 3:109–13)
2272 no more] Om. mlet
2275 Deucalion] Noah mtby4
2278 dead] dread mtby2, cln2
2278 you] thou Anon. in cam1
2283 hope] clip mtheo1 (and withdrawn); cope mtheo1
2286 vndone:]  ~ , stau
2290–1 Cottage, . . . on] Cottages, | But . . . on all mlet
2291 on] on both mtby3, Malone (1780; withdrawn mal 10:606)
2302 dy’de] did mtby3
2310 vpon me] Om. Steevens (v1793)
2314 vnwillingly] willingly m1768fl
2328 faile] fall Anon. in cam1
2330 together] Om. mflV.a.80
2337 sences] fancy mtby4
2340 but] but as mtby3, mtay
2343 for] not for mflV.a.80
2343 or] Om. mlong
2344 wombes] enwombes mflV.a.80
2345 my] mine mflV.a.80
2354 her] yr [your] Proudfoot in oxf2
2358 Concerne] concerns mtby4
2362 Hearke] Deare Gould (1887, p. 69)
2364 irremoueable] irremoveably mtby2; immoveable Anon. in cam1
2372 curious] anxious Gould (1884, p. 58)
2380 thought on] they ought or well as thought on mtby2; they ought. On mtby4
2383 through] thorough mtby2
2389 whom] who or which mtby3
2392 And] I’ll mlong
2392 absence,] absence) I’ll Daniel in cam2
2393 striue] thus strive mtby2
2394 liking] like it mtby4
2402 th’vnthought-on] th’unthinking or the innocent mtby4
2402 guiltie] guide mtby4
2404–5 flyes Of] flies To or flies For or feathers for mtby4; fly with m1768fl
2414–6 asks . . . kisses . . . diuides] ask . . . kisse . . . divide mlong
2414 thee there] there the Ritson in v1793
2416 Princesse; ore and ore‸]  ~ ‸  ~   ~   ~ , mtby4
2424 comforts. Sir,]  ~ ,  ~ . mtby4
2428 sitting] sifting mtby2, Jackson (1819, pp. 144–5)
2436 vndream’d] undeemed [untried] mwarb
2443 heart] heat mtby4
2453 is i’th’ reare’our] is i’th’ rear i’ her mtby3; is, I fear, of Bulloch (1878, pp. 121–2)
2455 lacks] lack’d mtby4
2457 this] this my lack of speech mstau
2468 if] Om. Lettsom in dyce2
2472 Trust] Truth mtby3
2477 fasting] failing [breaking] mtby4
2480 Picture] pictures [cards] mtby3; pasture Anon. in cam1; posture Furness (v1898)
2485–6 that‸ . . . Eares:]  ~ , . . .  ~ , mtby4
2487 a Cod-peece] the codpiece mtby4
2489 hearing, no feeling,] feeling, no hearing, or hearing, no feeling, nothing mtby2
2489 my Sirs] mysers [usurer’s] Gould (1887, p. 69)
2494 the Chaffe] their chaff mtby4
2498–9 Flo. . . . you’le . . . Cam.] Om. . . . I’ll . . . om. mtby3
2519 fled] shed wh1
2524 Vnbuckle, vnbuckle] Unbutton, unbutton mtby4; Come, unbuckle, unbuckle capn
2531 ouer] overt Jervis (1860, p. 13; om. from 1861); oversharp Lambrechts (1965, p. 957)
2547 whose] his Anon. in cam1
2560 extempore] with impunity or hoc tempore or in tempore mtby4
2562–3 honestie . . . would not] dishonesty . . . would mtby3
2563 would not] would—not mstau
2570 See, see] Shee, shee [pshaw] mtby2; sessa [meaning uncertain; cf. Shr. Ind.1.6] mtby3
2579 found] sought mtby4
2584 neither‸]  ~ , mtby4
2591 Beard] head mtby4
2599 Affaires] affair mtby4
2604 A] You or Ye mtby2
2607 with . . . not] not with . . . but Daniel (1870, p. 47)
2607 stamped . . . Steele] stabbing steel, not stamped coin Deighton (ed. 1889, p. 179)
2607 not stabbing] note-stabbing [wound-impressing] mtheo1
2609 vs] your self mtby2
2617 at toaze] or tease mlong; as to axe [ask] Bulloch (1878, pp. 122–3); to learne Gould (1887, p. 69); or ease Spence (1890); or coax mper; to toaze (in order to tease) pen2
2633 be] me Walker (1860, 3:115)
2635 on’s] of’s capn (v.r.)
2650 hand-fast,] band, fast, wh1
2651 Curses] lashes mtby4
2655 heauie . . . bitter] bitter . . . heavy m1768fl
2658–9 Ram-tender] ram-pander mtby4
2672 him] his Death mcole
2677 where . . . aboord] aboard where he is mtby4
2677 is‸]  ~ , mtby4
2682 and] for Daniel (1870, p. 47)
2683 hee is] is he Walker (1860, 2:246)
2684 out-side] inside mtby2
2693 Moitie] money mtby4
2695 sort] case mtby2
2706 looke] leeke [piss] mtheo1
2716 how that . . . backe] both . . . belike Bailey (1866, pp. 241–2); but . . . back Kinnear (1883, p. 188)
2716 backe] Turke mstau
2720 so farre] over mtby2
2739–40 true. Paul.] Paul. True, mtheo1; Paul. ’Tis true mlong
2742 the] them mtby4
2752 time] king Gould (1884, p. 58)
2756 so] too mtby3
2758 little] a little Heath (1765, p. 218)
2760 his] this mtby4
2769 secret] sacred mtby2
2779 Oppose] Oppos’d mtby4
2794–6 and . . . me?] (and . . . appear soul-vex’d,) And begin, why to me? mal
2795 (Where . . . appeare) Soule-vext,] (Where we offenders now appear, soul-vex’d) Steevens (v1773); (Where we offended,) now appear Jackson (1819, pp. 145–6); (Where we offend her) new appear soul-vex’d, Spedding in cam1; Where we offenders show, appear soul-vext, Orger (1890, pp. 64–5); (Where we offenders move) appear Herford (ed. 1916–); Where we offended, new-appear soul-vex’d, A. Walker in ard2
2795 Offendors . . . appeare)] offended,) now appear, Jackson (1819, p. 146)
2795–6 now . . . me?] move) appeare, Soul vext At my sin, to eye me. Rashbrook (1947)
2796 And . . . me?] Appear in white to me mtby2; Beginning, Why to me? mlet; And beckon to me Why? Bulloch (1878, pp. 123–4); And bellow Why to me? Kinnear (1883, pp. 188–9); And begin why? to me. Spence (1890); Demanding, Why to me? Orger (1890, p. 65); And begging Why to me. A. Walker in ard2
2796 why] woe mtby2, mper
2798 iust such] such just Gould (1884, p. 22)
2807 Starres, Starres] Starres, living [or sparkling or heavenly] Starres mlet
2826 bidst] Bridest mgrey
2829–31 Verse lines ending himselfe . . . Florizell. mtby2
2830 Seruant] Servant-poet mcol2
2835 What] What Trayne mtheo1
2849 so;] she— mtby4
2857 This is] This’ Walker (1854, pp. 84–5)
2860 who] them Seymour (1805, 1:170)
2860 but bid] bid but mflV.a.80
2860 follow] follow me mtby4
2873 ’Prethee . . . cease] Prithee no more or I prithee, cease Lettsom in dyce2
2873 ’Prethee] Pray Walker (1860, 3:116)
2886 Princesse (Goddesse)] priceless Goddess mstau
2895 touch’d‸]  ~ , mtby2
2896 friend] friends Seymour (1805, 1:170)
2898 times . . . seiz’d] limbs . . . stay’d Gould (1884, p. 22)
2898 times] time mlet
2916, 2926 Libia] Lydia mtby2; Lycia Douce (1807, 1:362–3)
2916 Smalus] Synalus ard2
2920 his] at mwarb, Heath (1765, p. 219)
2921 friendly] friending mtby2
2929 The blessed] The ever-blessed mal; Oh! [or And] may the Blessed Mitford (1844, p. 128)
2930 whilest] while mflV.a.80
2932 Gentleman] gentle man mcap2
2934 For] Of mtby2
2935 and] Om. Tannenbaum (1928, p. 363)
2961 so] sir mtby4
2973 You are] Then you are not mtby3
2974 Flo.] Per. mF2fl27, Gotch (1900)
2976 Given to Leo. or Lord mtby3
2986 That] Then mtby3
2988 visible an] visibly our or visible as or visible and mtby4
2991 since] when ktly (2:513)
3002 these] those capn (v.r.)
3011–12 Relation] revolution mtby3
3020–9 the changes . . . be.] Om. mcol2
3024 very] every Anon. in cam1
3027 seeing] by seeing mwarb
3045 in] and mtby2
3046 Affection] Affectation mtheo1
3049–100 Did . . . vniuersall.] Om. mcol2
3052 was] wants mtby4
3053 of] oft mtby4
3054 crowne] drown mtby4
3072 with] of capn (v.r.)
3117–20 Four verse lines ending benefit . . . eye . . . us . . . along. Walker (1860, 1:13)
3117 thence] from hence mflV.a.80
3118 winke] winking Walker (1860, 1:13)
3125 he at] being at or he being mtby4
3127–8 continuing] commencing mtby4
3152 there was] these was m1768fl; these were rann
3178 proue] do prove mtby3
3189 Seruices] Seruice mlet
3193 Grace] favour mflV.a.80
3194 may] can mflV.a.80
3204 you] you’ve Anon. in cam1
3206 apart] aperte [L. on purpose] Becket (1815, 1:367–8)
3217 much] Om. mtby4, Seymour (1805, 1:171)
3221 lets . . . makes] let . . . made mtby4
3235 And] A [Ah!] Kellner (1925, p. 128)
3242 Sorrow was] sorrow’s [the color of Leontes’s sorrow] mtby2
3245 no] nor ever Anon. in cam2
3246 But] But it mlet
3253 Would . . . mine)] For the stone is mine, would thus have wrought you mwarb
3253 (for . . . mine)] For the stone i’th’mine Tyrwhitt (1766, pp. 26–7); For a stone o’th’ mine As you like it (1789, p. 712)
3259 I . . . thinkes] ’twere alive, but that methinks t’s mtby3
3259 alreadie.] already | I am in heaven, and looking on an angel. Anon. in Singer (1853, p. 81)
3262 beare] beat mtby3
3301–2 still: On] still On’t Nicholson in cam2
3302 On:] All mcol2; But Gould (1884, p. 22); Oh! Tannenbaum (1928, p. 364)
3308 vpon] upon’t Anon. in cam1
3310 numnesse] dumbness Gould (1884, p. 22)
3315 kill her double] kill her doubly mtby2; double kill her mtby4
3321–2 One verse line mcap2
3322–3 Verse lines ending pertain . . . too. mtby2, Walker (1860, 3:116)
3322–4 She . . . I] Verse lines ending pertain . . . Ay mlet
3346 bough] bower mtby1
3358 worth, and honesty] honesty and worth mtby2
3361 What? . . . vpon‸ . . . Brother:]  ~ ‸ . . .  ~ , . . .  ~ ? [What do you look upon, my brother?] mwarb
3361 my] me m1768fl
3363 This your Son-in-law] Addressed to Shepherd mwarb
3364 heauens] heaven m1768fl
3367 one] other mtby4
3369 disseuer’d: Hastily‸]  ~ ‸  ~ : mstau

The Text

Authenticity

That Sh. was not the author of the entirety of WT was casually suggested by Pope (ed. 1725, 1:xx): I make no doubt to declare that those wretched plays [such as Pericles, added to the canon in F3], cannot be admitted as his. And I should conjecture of some of the others, (particularly Love’s Labour Lost, The Winter’s Tale, and Titus Andronicus) that only some characters, single scenes, or perhaps a few particular passages, were of his hand. Robertson (1930, pp. 133–4), a more dedicated disintegrator, also finds WT unworthy. Time’s prologue (lines 1579–1611) has quite an un-Shakespearean aspect. The I mentioned [1601], further, implies a previous prologue, which has been dropped. Perhaps the clearest ground for suspecting a non-Shakespearean hand is the rhyming of after with daughter, a thing unexampled in Shakespeare’s serious work, but emphatically of a kind of perverse rhyming much affected by Chapman. (For the rhyme, see n. 1606–7.) The chief æsthetic difficulty of the play, Leontes’s sudden jealousy, is not like [134] Shakespeare. . . . It would be a more satisfying solution if . . . the unnaturally rapid action had been imposed by a previous constructor, of whom we seem to find plain traces.

The critical problems Robertson discovers have concerned others (see n. 181–92 for Leontes’s jealousy, for example), but no one else attributes the apparent disparities to a previous constructor. WT is generally regarded as authentically Sh.’s. Some critics who accept this opinion believe, nevertheless, that the play as it stands is a revision of a version in which Hermione really dies. See, for example, Craig (Revisions, 1931, pp. 347–8) and, for a more recent expression of the idea, Mueller (1971).

The 1623 Version of The Winter’s Tale

The printing of the First Folio (1623), in which WT was originally published, has been analyzed by Willoughby (1932), by Shroeder (1956), and, most thoroughly and expertly, by Hinman (1963), on whose work much of this account is based. On 8 November 1623, close to the publication date of Mr. William Shakespeares Comedies, Histories, & Tragedies, sixteen of the plays were entered in the Stationers’ Register to Edward Blount and Isaac Jaggard (Arber, 1875–94, 4:69). Blount, a publisher and bookseller, was the leading member of the syndicate sponsoring publication of the First Folio. Isaac Jaggard, a printer, publisher, and bookseller, had replaced his late father, William, as a principal member of the syndicate. Wilson (1925) believes that because of William’s blindness and failing health in 1622–3, Isaac was the chief overseer of the printing of the collection. The entry covers soe manie of the said Copies as are not formerly entred to other men and lists, according to their order in the Folio, eight comedies, two histories, and six tragedies.

WT is the last of the comedies named in the entry; it is also the last play in the first section of F1 (the Comedies), where it occupies sigs. Aa1–Cc2 (pages 277–303); gathering Cc is a single sheet. The play is preceded by AWW (sigs. V1v–Y1v) and TN (Y2–Z6). The text of WT, which concludes in the top third of Cc2, is followed by The Names of the Actors. Sixteen characters are identified by name, and Other Lords, and Gentlemen, and Seruants. Shepheards, and Shephearddesses covers the rest (3370–88). Among the Comedies, the first, second, and fourth plays—Tmp., TGV, and MM—are equipped with similar dramatis personae, and all were probably typeset from manuscripts in the hand of the scribe Ralph Crane, of whom more below. He may have compiled these lists, although Eccles (ed. MM, 1980, p. 3, n. 2940) points out that in the case of a work by Webster, Crane is more likely to have copied than to have originated the list printed in [The Duchess of Malfi] in 1623 [from another Crane transcript], since it names . . . actors . . . who had died in 1614, and . . . in 1619. Wiv., the third play in the Comedies section and probably another Crane copy, lacks space for such a list.

Beneath The Names of the Actors in WT is the satyr tailpiece, in which a small defect acquired during the course of the F1 printing shows that the last page of Jn. (b5v) was printed before the last page of TN (Z6) and the last page of WT (Hinman, 1:179–80). Sig. Cc2v is blank. Since the play following WT in the Folio is Jn., the first of the history plays, the blank may seem to have been left so that the Histories section of the book could begin on a recto. This nicety, however, was actually compelled by the fact that Jn. and part of R2, which follows Jn., had been printed before the typesetting of WT began (Hinman, 1:37). It is more extraordinary that the first page of WT is preceded by blank Z6v. Hunter (1845, 1:417) suggests that there was some danger of losing this play. In the folio collection there is a blank page following Twelfth Night, as if there the collection of comedies ended, and the histories were about to begin: and my copy of the first folio actually wants the Winter’s Tale. Pollard (1909, p. 135) thought there had been simply a miscalculation of the space required for TN, but the anomaly seems to arise from another and more complicated cause.

As Hinman (2:521) explains—repeating to some extent the conclusions of Willoughby (1932, pp. 34–43)—when AWW was nearly completed, Compositor B, who had been working alone on that play, skipped to the Histories. With Compositor C he set all of Jn., which begins at sig. a1, and then two pages of R2, b6–6v. B at that point returned to the Comedies. By himself he finished AWW and TN, which concluded on Z6. He then set two more pages of R2 and, after an interruption for work on another book, with Compositor A set ten more pages of R2 and proceeded to WT. The blank Z6v is thus a legacy of the excursions from the Comedies into the Histories and back again, sheet Z having been printed before copy for WT was available. (Shroeder, p. 42, notices another minor consequence: In the first sheet of Jn. to be printed, sig. a3 is designated Aa3, in the style of the signature alphabet to be used later for WT.) Hinman continues: For some reason the copy for Twelfth Night was not readily available when quire X was finished (though it evidently became so soon afterward), and . . . the copy for The Winter’s Tale was in like manner unavailable when quire Z was finished (though on this occasion the want was made good even more quickly than before). . . . No difficulty over copyright can be supposed—only some short-lived trouble over the copy itself. He thus puts to rest several earlier speculations, such as that of White (ed. 1857, 5:275): It is possible that in gathering the plays together Heminge and Condell forgot this one [WT] until the folio was nearly in type; but it is more probable that, finding it no more tragical [i.e., less so] in its course or its catastrophe than Cymbeline, they first intended to class it with the Tragedies [as Cym. is], and after it was ready to be struck off restored it to its proper place among the Comedies. Equally groundless is the explanation of Furness (ed. 1898, p. vii) that inasmuch as the sheets were printed off . . . at different presses [he seems to be referring, incorrectly, to printing houses], it was undoubtedly easier to leave a whole page blank at the end of a signature than to transfer a single page of The Winter’s Tale to the press that was striking off Twelfth Night.

According to Hinman (2:496–503), the formes of quires Aa through Cc were set by Compositors A and B in the following sequence:

A B A B A A A A A A A B B B B A B A B A B A B A A - A B
Aa3v: 4 Aa3: 4v Aa2v: 5 Aa2: 5v Aa1v: 6 Aa1: 6v Bb3v: 4 Bb3: 4v Bb2v: 5 Bb2: 5v Bb1v: 6 Bb1: 6v Cc1: 2v Cc1v: 2
His compositor attributions agree with the earlier allocation by Pafford (1961, p. 173) and the later allocation by Wells & Taylor (1987, p. 150). For Howard-Hill (1973, pp. 84–7), however, it is uncertain that the A of the early comedies and the A of WT and the histories [are] the same compositor. . . . The compositor of WT prefers indeed, mistresse, [and in elisions] x’th, and x’le whereas in A’s pages of Tmp., TGV, Wiv., MM and MV the corresponding preferences are indeede, mistris, x’th/xth, and x’ll. Howard-Hill also finds (p. 85) that, with respect to chuse (two instances in WT) / choose (0), deare (2) / deere (2), deuil(l) (2) / diuell (0), graunt (1) / grant (0), grief(ue) (8) / greef (ue) (0), Heauen (11) / heauen (0), howre (0) / houre (1), indeed (10) / indeede (0), mistresse (7) / mistris (2), scarce (1) / scarse (0), suddaine (1) / sodaine (0), yeere (7) / yeare (0), and young (8) / yong (0), Compositor A of R2 and WT preferred the first form and Compositor A of the earlier Comedies the second. As the figures indicate, though, not all of these preferences are expressed powerfully or even at all in WT alone.

Howard-Hill explains his differentiation between the two Compositors A (pp. 86–7): Whereas the comedies compositor would quite often space a fair number of internal commas, occasionally more than were left without spaces, the practice of the [87] histories A is much more pronounced and never, in the plays . . . examined, is there a greater number of spaced commas to unspaced commas. . . . Also, before WT, the compositor A [of the Comedies] was indifferent to whether he set the first word of the speech together with the speech-prefix in a catchword, or the speech-prefix alone, but in the histories his invariable practice was to supply the first word of the dialogue with which the next page started. In WT, catchwords consisting of speech prefix and a word of dialogue are found on Aa3, Aa5v, Bb5v, and Cc1, all attributed to A, whereas abbreviated speech prefixes only are found on Aa4, Bb1v, Bb2, and Bb2v, all attributed to B. The Compositor A of WT thus appears to be the Compositor A of the Histories, not the Compositor A of the earlier Comedies. The latter was designated F by Howard-Hill (1973, p. 87). But Werstine (1984, p. 92), noticing that in the text assigned to Compositor F, portions of prose speeches that mark a change of address or of topic may be given a new line, a characteristic of Compositor D, wonders whether any distinction can be made between the two workmen. (The subject awaits further investigation.) Moreover, the validity of spacing as a compositorial discriminant has been questioned by McKenzie (1984). He found that its apparent testimony in early books printed at the Cambridge University Press does not accord with the work records kept.

The signatures of WT translate into line numbers as follows:

And they translate into sequentially ordered signatures and line numbers as follows:

About the order of composition there is little different from the regular procedure for typesetting F1. The manuscript text would be cast off—that is, before typesetting began, the words of the manuscript would be allotted to specific type pages—so that the two compositors could work more or less simultaneously. Both started with the innermost forme; and then one of them usually worked backward through the page sequence of each quire and the other forward. Since much of the text is regular verse, its casting off amounted to little more than counting the number of verse lines needed to fill the two columns of each page. Even on pages largely of prose (e.g., Bb1–2), white lines left above and below stage directions and scene heads permitted expansion or contraction, so that the typeset words could be fitted into the estimated space. Nothing shows what B did while A set Aa1v–2v, 5v–6 by himself.

The few irregularities are minor. On Aa1, the first page of the play but the last of the Aa gathering set by Compositor A, the white space preceding and following Scœna Secunda, near the foot of column a, is reduced, to allow plenty of room for the ornament, head title, and initial entrance direction at the top of the page and to avoid having the scene head or the initial SD stand alone at the foot of the column. At 467 (Aa2vb), perhaps to gain a couple of lines, an entrance direction, rather than being centered, is set on the same line as the conclusion of a speech—or, if the direction had been overlooked earlier, it could have been inserted there after the column was in type. SDs similarly placed are found at 2005 (Compositor B) and at 3029 (Compositor A). On Bb3a there are about two lines of white space above and below Autolycus’s song (2044–55), but on Bb3b his second song in the scene (2139–44) is crowded into the text: A one-line speech has been run into the concluding line of another speech (2138); the logotype yt is used (2146, its only appearance in WT, although ye is found at 1672); and probably line 2080 has been moved from the head of column b to the foot of column a, where it now occupies the direction line, normally blank in column a. Lines 2145–6 may have been reset. Pafford (1961, p. 173) suspects some mistake in the casting off or else some later insertion, perhaps the song. The latter seems likely, and if the song was overlooked, it may have been written on a piece of paper not a part of the main MS. Pafford suggests, too, that the typesetting of Bb3 was done by Compositor E, supposed to be an apprentice, but Hinman and Howard-Hill disagree. Pafford’s opinion, however, is shared by Cairncross (1972, p. 382).

Harrison (1948, p. 242) argues that in his later plays not only did Shakespeare abandon blank verse in conversation, but in the longer speeches he often substituted for the normal pattern of five feet . . . a much freer short line verse. This opinion is reiterated by Bertram (1981), who urges modern editors to forgo relining as iambic pentameter the apparently irregular verse of the early eds. In doing so, he says, they obscure Sh.’s rhetorical instructions to the actors, instructions that are embodied in the lineation of the early texts. Werstine (1984), investigating whether the line division in the Folio is Sh.’s or the F compositors’, finds that in the late plays, including WT, departures from iambic pentameter are usually caused by the compositors’ need to create or waste space to make cast-off copy fit its typographical allocation. The irregular lineation has nothing to do with rhetorical instructions.

The F1 Copy

According to Greg (1957, 3:1111), There is external evidence of trouble over the copy for this play [WT], for on 19 Aug. 1623 the Master of the Revels relicensed the piece since the allowed booke was missing[e] [see here], though by that time the play must have been already printed. And it probably was; Hinman (1:357) believes that the work on quires c and Aa–Cc may well have taken place in December 1622. (Earlier scholarship, summarized by Greg, 1955, p. 461, arrived at nearly the same date, late November.) Even though the manuscript of WT bearing the original license had been lost, however, at least one other copy existed to provide a basis both for the production with which the Master of the Revels, Sir Henry Herbert, was concerned and for F1 printer’s copy. Willoughby (in J. D. Wilson, ed. 1931, p. 113 n.) suggests that what Herbert actually saw was the printed sheets of WT. This is possible, of course; as Greg (1955, p. 417 n.) points out, though, they would have needed a lot of editing [presumably the addition of bookkeeper’s notes for control of the performance and perhaps the cutting of dialogue] and have provided very little room for it. Knowles (privately) suggests that the company may have retrieved from Jaggard the Crane transcript. That is also a possibility. Manuscript returned by modern letterpress printers may be too marked up and inky for theatrical use, but the copy for the 1591 English translation of Orlando Furioso, as described by Greg (1924), is quite neat. In that case, however, it may have made a difference that the manuscript was being received by Sir John Harington, the translator. Because the F1 text has no theatrical stigmata, there is no support for the opinion, voiced by Lee (1902, p. xxvi), that after being represented on the stage, the MS version of the play licensed by Herbert was sent to press.

In his TGV, Wilson (ed. 1921, p. 78) had argued that the copy for The Two Gentlemen was made up by stringing together players’ parts and arranging them in acts and scenes by the aid of a plot. A plot in this sense was an outline of the action of a play, recording entrances and exits, properties, noises, and other details of performance of which the prompter wanted to be reminded (for further information, see Greg, 1922). Wilson’s idea was quickly adapted to WT. Because, in his opinion, WT has no stage-directions, or very few, Rhodes (1922, pp. 59–60) asserts that the text cannot have been set up by the printer from the prompt-book. It was, instead, (p. 60) assembled from the players’ parts, complete with cue, dialogue, and certain directions, and . . . a detailed extract from the stage-directions to serve as his [the prompter’s] remembrancer—that is, the plot. The plot would furnish a guide for sorting the players’ parts and keeping them in order whilst pasting them together into one continuous text, which would, however, inevitably lack many directions. Rhodes finds that WT bears all the stigmata of an assembled text. The entrances of the players are not, as usual, distributed in the places where they are due to appear, but each scene is headed by a list of characters. . . . In all the five acts there are not more than a dozen incidental entrances and exits, and those are mostly of minor characters.

The same idea is expressed more fully by Rhodes (1923, pp. 98–100), and, after it receives favorable mention by Pollard (1923, p. 8), is reiterated by J. D. Wilson (1924, pp. 72–6). This view, reflecting Johnson’s (1756; 1968, 7:52) opinion that Sh.’s plays were printed . . . from compilations made by chance or by stealth out of the separate parts written for the theatre, was obviously influenced by TGV’s and WT’s massed entries (that is, the lists at the head of a scene not only of the characters who appear at its beginning but also of those who enter later). WT has massed entries at 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, 3.2, 3.3, 4.4, 5.1, and 5.3. The characters are listed according to social rank or importance in the drama in 2.1 (in two groups) and 5.3 but in the approximate order of their speaking in 2.2, 2.3, 3.2, 3.3, and 4.4. In 5.1, those present at the beginning are in order of rank; Florizel and Perdita, named last, enter later. Plays in the Ben Jonson folio (1616) also have massed entries, as do the quartos from which the folio texts derive. In Webster’s Duchess of Malfi (1623), according to Bald (1931–2, pp. 244–6), occasionally a character named in a massed entry fails to appear in the scene; and Greg (1931–2) reports that in Massinger’s autograph MS of Believe as you List, a massed entry includes characters who enter later. In these instances, players’ parts cannot have been involved unless, as in the case of BAYL, the point of entry was specified in another direction or could be deduced from another feature of the text. In any event, parts do not seem to have been involved in WT.

Although it was endorsed by J. D. Wilson in his 1931 ed. of WT (p. 122), the theory of assembled texts was to collapse under its impracticalities. (For a history of its career, see Greg, 1955, pp. 156–8.) Speculation about the fate of WT’s allowed book continued, however. Adams (1917, p. 25, n. 2) guesses that the MS was misplaced by the printer of F1. Such an eventuality would be possible if the allowed book was printer’s copy, for WT probably was printed in December 1622, and the entry in Herbert’s office book was dated 19 Aug. 1623 (see here). In the decade following Adams’s study, though, WT’s textual history began to be understood differently. Greg (1926, p. 154) found that the manuscripts of Fletcher and Massinger’s Barnavelt and Middleton’s The Witch (see here) were in the same handwriting, and F. P. Wilson (1926–7) proved that the hand was that of Ralph Crane, a scrivener associated with the King’s Men, who had signed his name to his transcript of Fletcher’s Demetrius and Enanthe; or, The Humorous Lieutenant (see here). To this signed document, Crane’s other surviving work, some also signed, is linked by distinctive and recurrent stylistic features. Wilson’s attribution of the Folio copy of WT to Crane was attacked unsuccessfuly by Tannenbaum (1933, pp. 75–86), who mistakenly thought the MS was quite possibly Shakespeare’s own manuscript.

F. P. Wilson (1926–7, pp. 211–14) describes some general characteristics of [Crane’s] work. 1. A publisher who came by one of Crane’s transcripts might reasonably expect from the printer an accurate text. . . . 2. All Crane’s transcripts are carefully divided into acts and scenes. . . . [212] 3. Those stage-directions in Barnavelt which are in Crane’s handwriting give little information apart from mere statements of exits and entrances [Fletcher and Massinger’s Barnavelt is preserved in British Library MS Add. 18653; see Fredson Bowers, ed., in The Dramatic Works in the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon, 8:485–501]. . . . In Crane’s other transcripts the directions never smack of the theatre. . . . [214] Statements of entrances are massed together at the head of each scene. Chambers (1930, 1:488–9) finds that the SDs in WT consist of little more than entries and exits, and the latter are often omitted. The entries are normally given in [4.3] and [5.2], but for the other scenes all the characters taking part, whether they are present from the beginning or not, are grouped in the initial entry. This follows the order of their appearance, and in [2.1, 3.2, 5.1, and 5.3], but not elsewhere, the successively appearing characters or [489] groups of characters are marked off by colons in the stage-directions. Howard-Hill (1972, p. 130) points out that the massed directions with colons were typeset by Compositor A, those without by Compositor B, who was apparently unwilling to print the colons from copy.

The entrance directions are of four types. The first, reflecting English tradition, marks entrances as the characters appear (4.3 and 5.2). The second, reflecting neoclassical tradition, includes some of the massed entries discussed earlier (here). In this type, all the characters appearing in the scene are named in the initial SD, although some actually enter later; their entrances are unmarked (2.1, 2.2, and 3.2; the SD for 3.2 omits Paulina, unless she is included among the Ladies, and the Servant who enters at 1323). The third is neutral: all characters who appear in the scene are present from the beginning (1.1, 1.2, 3.1, 4.1, 4.2, and 5.3). The fourth is hybrid: all who appear in the scene are named in the initial entry but some actually enter later, and their entrance is marked (2.3, 3.3 [except for the Shepherd who enters at 1501], 4.4 [except for the Servant who enters at 2145], and 5.1 [except for the Lord who enters at 2940]). Since the stage directions in all the Shn. texts thought to be printed from foul papers are in the English style and since there is no reason to think that Jaggard would have introduced the neoclassical, Crane must be its source and the source of the inconsistencies as well.

Only a few SDs add anything to the bare entrances and exits: as to her Triall (1174–5), pursued by a Beare (1500), the Chorus (1579), singing (1668 and 2043), Heere a Da(u)nce of (1988 and 2164), and like a Statue (3185). Of these, singing is common, of course. As to is unusual; it occurs in only two other Shn. SDs (Trumpets sound as to a charge [TNK 5.3.55.1]; Enter as to the Parliament [R2 4.1.0.1 (1921)] and there in F only, not in Q). WT’s pursued by is unique in Sh. Like is sometimes preceded by a participle—for example, habited like Shepheards (H8 1.4.63 [753]) or drest like Vincentio (Shr. 4.4.0 [2180])—but more often in Sh. it is not—Enter Ariel like a water-Nymph (Tmp. 1.2.316 [453–4]) and like a Harpey (3.3.52 [1583]), like Gentlemen (MM, DP [2946]), and like himselfe (Tim. 1.2.0 [341]). Similar SDs appear in AYLlike Forresters (2.1.0 [606]) and like Out-lawes (2.7.0 [972]); in Tit.like a Cooke (5.3.25 [2525]); and in Cym.like a poore Souldier (5.2.0.4 [2894]). These texts were printed from a variety of sources, according to Wells & Taylor (pp. 145–7), who represent a recent, although not universally shared, opinion: Tmp. from a Crane transcript possibly of foul papers, MM from a Crane transcript of what we now call a promptbook, Tim. from foul papers (Middleton’s and Sh.’s), AYL from a transcript or a promptbook, Tit. from foul papers, and Cym. from a transcript probably by Crane, of a manuscript in two hands. The SDs in WT obviously contribute nothing to our knowledge of Crane’s copy.

Punctuation marks, especially parentheses and apostrophes, provide another approach to the study of the F1 version of WT. Thorndike (1934), having assiduously counted the parentheses in the F1 texts thought not to have been printed from quartos, finds the greatest number in WT (369, 2 short of the number given by a later critic—see below, here), 2H4 (259), Wiv. (219), Cym. (158), and TGV (129). The printer’s copy for all but 2H4 is now believed, with more or less conviction, to have been Crane transcripts. Thorndike also notices that TGV, Wiv., and WT have collective entries of the type found in Crane’s (MS Malone 25) transcript of Thomas Middleton’s A Game at Chess. Pafford (1961, pp. 175–7) notes that, in WT, apostrophes mark—in addition to omitted vowels (as in ’d preterits)—parts of words (cam’t for came it, le’t for let it) and entire words before exclamations or appeals (’Beseech you) or in the middle of a phrase (Who taught ’this). The apostrophe is also used where apparently nothing has been dropped. . . . E.g., has—the verb, not a contraction of he has—is usually printed ha’s. . . . [176] The apostrophe was sometimes perhaps used vaguely, to indicate that writer or compositor realized that a word was abbreviated but did not know how to show it; e.g. Gillyvors, presumably for gillyflowers . . . is first spelt Gilly-vors [line 1890] and then Gilly’vors [1910]. In contrast there are cases where something is dropped but no apostrophe used. Instances include Ile (73, 95, 97, 121, etc.), th for the (1408, 1450, 2375), tane (1730), ha (1743), and fore (2221). Howard-Hill (1972, p. 129) also finds many possessive singulars of nouns with apostrophes after vowels [e.g., Camillo’s (792), Cytherea’s (1936)], it’s with the apostrophe [for its—e.g., 231, 236, 357, 1488], it for the possessive [e.g., 1110, 1279]. To the suggestion by Pafford (p. 176) that the colons punctuating many SDs might be traceable to Edward Knight, at one time bookkeeper to the King’s Men, Howard-Hill (1966) objects that Crane’s MS Malone 25 uses colons in massed entries to separate characters who enter later from those with whom the scene begins, whereas Knight did not use colons for this purpose.

The fundamental study of Crane’s work is Howard-Hill (1972), which superseded such earlier studies as that of Somer (1962). A summary of Howard-Hill’s and other research on Crane is provided by Haas (1989). Eight of Crane’s dramatic manuscripts survive, three being of Middleton’s A Game at Chess. Three additional MS copies of this play, one in Middleton’s hand, also exist, and comparison of Crane’s versions with Middleton’s affords an unusual opportunity to isolate many details attributable to the scribe rather than to the copy from which he worked. Eight nondramatic transcripts in Crane’s hand have also survived, and comparison of these and the dramatic transcripts permits more characteristics of Crane’s work to be identified. Those evident in WT include The Names of the Actors (3370–88) and the massed entrances mentioned above; division of the text into acts and scenes; descriptive stage directions (see here); some characteristic spellings (the very common ’em; see below for many more); the Jonsonian elision at 109 (Verely’is); numerous hyphens linking, for example, prepositions and objects, prefixes and stems, adverbs and adjectives, adjectives and substantives, and stems and suffixes (6, 17, 24, 30, 50, 73, 79, etc.); and, according to Howard-Hill (p. 82), huge quantities of colons and parentheses, 839 of the former and 371 of the latter. He points out (p. 87) that of the possible situations where parentheses [to enclose vocatives] could have been used, 39% of the vocatives in WT have them. Wells & Taylor (p. 601) add parentheses to mark passages spoken aside at 2516–17 and 2520. Crane may not be entirely responsible for the text’s numerous hyphens, however; McKenzie (1959, p. 81) finds that in setting MV Q2 (1619), Compositor B hyphenated such words as bed-fellow and me-thinks 25 times and deleted the hyphen in his copy only 9 times. (While John F. Andrews found that me-thinks was hyphenated only by Compositor B’s fellow-workman on MV [1619] and the other Pavier quartos [The Pavier Quartos of 1619—Evidence for Two Compositors (Vanderbilt diss., 1970)], nonetheless it remains true that Compositor B did introduce hyphens into many words he set in these quartos. There is reason to doubt, however, that Compositor B worked on the Pavier quartos: see R. Knowles, SB 35 [1982], 202.)

A great many of Crane’s characteristic spellings appear in WT, although, as one might expect, there are some exceptions. Howard-Hill’s summary (pp. 64–8) includes, but is not limited to, the following:

  • -ei-, never -ie- (all such spellings in WT accord with modern convention—e.g., perceiue [263] and Heire [1315])
  • -lly, never -ly (the same—e.g., naturally [2595])
  • -ing, never -eing (the same—e.g., mouing [431])
  • -nck (e.g., prancks [2583] and wrinckled [3217], although these are far outnumbered by such -nk forms as ranke [369] and Winke [414])
  • -ll, never -l (Royall [28], wooll [1703], but wil [453] and shal [1304], both full lines)
  • -s, never -es, for plurals of nouns with short vowels (e.g., Gifts [31], things [2939])
  • -es, never -s, for plurals of nouns ending in -th/sh/ch (Oathes [85], blushes [1872], Wenches [2136])
  • -ings, never inges, for words ending in -ing (Fadings [2020] but singes [2008], a full line; the spelling is not found elsewhere)
  • -s or -sse, never -ss (e.g., killes [1750], Presse [74], kisse [3284], but also Princess [2832])
  • b is not doubled before -’d or -ed (e.g., rob’d [past tense of rob; 1729], but crabbed [173]); it is doubled before -ing after short vowels (e.g., stabbing [2607])
  • d is not doubled before -s or -es (but toddes [1701], Goddes [1826], addes [1902], oddes [2976]), before -ing (but bidding [733, 1100, and 1143]); or before -er (e.g., hinder [79])
  • g is not doubled before -ing, -er, -es, but is probably doubled after an unvoiced short vowel (e.g., Egges [206], Dagger [235], pugging [1675])
  • Doubled consonants are retained before -ed, but one -l may be dropped before -d (e.g., crabbed [173], spotted [427], Added [793], muzzel’d [235], and Il’d [462]). An exception to the doubling of l before -ed is (vn)setled (this word only) (224, 424, 1767, 2385, and 3272)
  • m is doubled medially only after short vowels (e.g., (be)comming [8 and 1464], Commission [97], and command [1665]) but not before -es or -s (e.g., lames [3066] and redeemes [3311], plurals in which the vowels are long)
  • n is doubled medially after short vowels (e.g., Sonne(s) [46 and 3136], manner [3093], and winners [3344]) but not after long vowels or before -s (e.g., finer [312] and begins [469])
  • p is generally not doubled medially, but there are exceptions (e.g., Coppy [197], slipperie [365], Lippe [479], Appollo’s [801])
  • r is doubled after short vowels (e.g., Starre [50], morrow [61], and Iarre [100])
  • s is doubled after short vowels (e.g., Hostesse [121], Kisse [165 and 3284], and Glasse [402])
  • t is doubled after short vowels and before -ing (e.g., pitty [670] and committing [1189])
  • w is always single
  • z is always single (reversed in WT: muzzel’d [235] and Chizzell [3279]).

Other Crane preferences are for w in such words as sowr’d (173), Lowt (397), scowre (631), lowd’st (865), Perswades (868), powre (927 and 1586), and howre (1587); for internal a in roab’d (1830), Coarse (1944, 1946), poaking (2052), and coap’st (2267); for -que in Basilisque (496), publique (815), and Heretique (1042); for internal -y- in prayse (18), trayn’d (25), and tyre (66); for blood (20 times; no other spelling occurs). He was elsewhere indifferent to the termination ance/aunce, but in WT aunce is found only in daunce(s) (183 and 1988), whereas dance occurs eight times, once at 1991—two lines from Daunce. Among spellings preferred by Crane and not likely to have been altered to justify lines of type, Howard-Hill (pp. 100–2) lists, for WT, Councels (326; plural noun), Physick (282), powrefull (284, 622), and wayting (163).

Those that also may signify Crane are councell (singular nouns: 2777, 2786), extreames (1804), flowre(s) (1879, 1886, 1889, 1916, 1919, 1927, 1931, 1941), graunt (187, 2994; but also grant [1616]), howre (1587), moneth(s) (98, 173, 2089, 2871, 2998), powr’d (2172), and publique (815). And to these Howard-Hill adds (pp. 171–2) Crane spellings adopted by Compositor B against his preference: Angell (2034), answere (2023), approach (1465, 1857, 2036), choice (2137, 2257), daylie (1434 as dayly), deed (797, 1571), extreames (1804), forth (837, 979, 1606), happie (2178), howre (1587), mightie (921, 1725), moneth (2089), need (1722, 2256; neede, 6 times), old (1860, 2089, 2179, 2263, 3328, 3345; olde, twice), powre (927, 1586, 1839), son (1638, 3363; sonne, 39 times), sun (1717, 1918), wee’ll (2135; wee’l 5 times), yeere(s) (1585, 1617, 1671; yeare(s) [1399, 1887]).

Spellings in Crane’s transcripts that Eccles (ed. MM, 1980) discovered in MM also appear in WT: beleeue (12 times), Coyne (2607), deere (10 times; deare 11 times), (vn)easie (118, 1661, 2662, 3298), medler (2143), meere (901, 1322, 1326), mistris (6 times; mistresse, 7 times), neere (8 times), peece (11 times; pieces once), practise/practis’d (189, 1352), sence (8 times), thether (1662, 2125; thither, 3 times), vertue (7 times), and yong (5 times; young, 9 times). Of all these spellings, Kable (1968, pp. 157–9) found extreames (1804), howre (1587), and moneth (2089) to be contrary to Compositor B’s preference, hence his copy spellings. Kable’s opinion, however, is compromised by R. Knowles’s finding that the work was not Compositor B’s (see here).

The two plays also display some similarities in punctuation. In WT as in MM, colons are preferred to semicolons, although more strongly (1 per 29 words, as opposed to 1 per 140 in MM). The exclamation point does not appear. Sometimes the question mark is exclamatory (at 265, for example), but in many instances its exclamatory function cannot be distinguished clearly from its interrogative one. One difference from MM and the transcripts is that the suffix is nearly always -nesse in WT; only one -nes is found, in 1663, a full line.

Howard-Hill (pp. 66–8) separately categorizes Crane’s spellings of words that have been used to identify the stints of Jaggard’s compositors. His tabulation may be compared with the occurrence of the spellings in WT (see table). Ignoring counts

Crane TranscriptsWT AWT B
no.%no.%no.%
ancient321375
auncient1179125
been015520
beene01448450
ben55
bin1450
byn10895
blood (only)89164
dear(e)351077112
deer(e)5395323788
do359233595
doe34590619725
doo21
n/either511003759100
n/eyther125
goe13010024100315
go1785
greef(e)(ue)11123100
greif(ue)4191
grief(ue)37788
heire (only)1052
here2299629100211
heere941789
here’s481002100686
heeres0114
houre128100150
howre6198150
Ile39143310032100
I’ll24786
indeed4610011100240
indeede360
mistris22851135100
mistresse312787
mistrisse13
note (only)2783
o672717521560
oh1797316481040
shew1113111004100
show7187
traitor17891343100
traytor211266
yeare3041240
yeere43597100360
yong47985100
young129100
below 3, one finds that Compositor A agrees with Crane in preferring blood, doe, n/either, goe, heire, indeed, and note but disagrees in preferring beene, dear, grief, houre, Ile, mistresse, o, shew, yeere, and young; and that Compositor B agrees in preferring blood, n/either, here’s, traitor, yeere, and yong but disagrees in preferring ancient, beene/bin, do, go, greef, heere, Ile, indeede, mistris, o, and shew. Hinman’s (1:180) observation that the spellings in the First Folio . . . are unquestionably printing-house spellings in the main—the spellings of the compositors who set them into type is confirmed by the saving grace of in the main.

Crane’s Copy

Because Crane exerted such a strong influence on the form of the texts he transcribed, it is not surprising that critics find it difficult to penetrate his version of WT as it is represented in F1. Greg (1955, pp. 416–17) believes that WT was late reaching the printer only because of the time required to make for Jaggard a transcript of the foul papers, an opinion with which Evans (ed. 1974, p. 1604) agrees. Howard-Hill (1965, p. 340), having protested against too facile an acceptance of numerous parentheses as indicative of Crane’s transcription, suggests, nevertheless, that the number in WT may indicate that the play was printed from a Crane transcript of his own earlier transcript, an idea developed further by Howard-Hill a year later (1966, p. 140). When, according to Howard-Hill, copy was being gathered for the Folio, Crane was given foul papers for Winter’s Tale with instructions to prepare also the promptbook for playhouse use. Crane prepared the promptbook first before making the transcript for the printer for by so doing he would release the foul papers in the shortest possible time to return to the security of the players’ collection of manuscripts. Had he prepared the Folio copy before the promptbook, we should not have the clean and sophisticated text, showing an unusually large number of parentheses, that we find in the Folio. On the same evidence, Crane apparently retained the promptbook, but probably returned the foul papers, so that he would avoid having to make both transcripts from foul papers. . . . He chose, therefore, to delay delivery of the Folio copy, perhaps thinking, or indeed knowing, that the printers had enough to go on with. [Howard-Hill (1992, p. 128) conjectures that the delay arose from Crane’s occupation with his transcript of Webster’s Duchess of Malfi.] From this order of events, we get a good, clean, literary text, with an unusually high number of parentheses consistent with other Crane transcripts from his own earlier papers, and, of course, a delay which affected the printing of Winter’s Tale in the First Folio. In his major work on Crane, Howard-Hill (1972, p. 131) adds, The massed entries [appearing in F1 and deriving from the printer’s copy] would have been out of place in a copy made for a promptbook but [they] easily could have been compiled from a transcript with conventional entries. Why he [Crane] should choose massed entries when he had a clean manuscript available is not readily explained, but the variety of the directions argues that the copy was prepared in some haste, under conditions which did not allow the scribe to adopt the massed convention completely.

The idea that the WT copy was a transcript of a transcript had appeared earlier in Howard-Hill (1965, pp. 337–8). The number of WT’s parentheses (371, 268), the article indicates, is substantially greater than that in the other Folio Comedies believed to have been set from Crane manuscripts—Tmp. 98 (115), TGV 128 (150), Wiv. 218 (241), and MM 75 (78); the first figure is the actual incidence and the second, the actual adjusted for the length of the plays. Since the Folio compositors did not have an identical fondness for parentheses, the figures adjusted for length become, when further adjusted to allow for Compositor A’s preference, Tmp. 116, TGV 131, Wiv. 308, and MM 62, in contrast to WT’s 415. Moreover, Crane’s several transcripts of A Game at Chess indicate that every time Crane recopied a text, he tended to reproduce the parentheses of his copy, but added to them, and . . . added more parentheses when he was transcribing from his own copy (p. 336). The WT transcript, Howard-Hill (1972, p. 70) observes, must have been made after any other transcripts he made for the Folio. Therefore the scribe’s habits would have been influenced both by the character of the copy before him, and by his increasing familiarity with the kind of material he had to work from.

A question about this theory arises from the massed entries. If they were undesirable in a promptbook, as Howard-Hill says, and if the WT promptbook was created before the printer’s copy, would Crane, having copied in the first transcript the entrances where the play’s action required them, have then taken the trouble to extract and compile these entries for each of the play’s eight scenes they head? The compilation is incomplete, moreover (4.3 and 5.2, which might have been massed, are not), and the style of the massed entries differs (see here). Crane’s motive would have been professional pride or a classical preference (massed stage directions serve no essential literary or dramatic purpose), which he indulged even though, as noted above, the copy was prepared in some haste, under conditions which did not allow the scribe to adopt the massed convention completely (Howard-Hill, 1972, p. 131). In response, Wells & Taylor (p. 601) state that as the Folio had been printed [WT in Dec. 1622] long before Herbert saw the new prompt-book [on 19 Aug. 1623], this [Howard-Hill’s explanation] seems unlikely. The original prompt-book might even have been lost as a result of being copied by Crane for the Folio. They also allude to Thorndike’s idea that the dance of satyrs at 2164 was taken from Jonson’s Oberon (see n. 2164): The passage introducing this dance could be omitted without disturbing the dialogue; no one comments upon the dance afterwards; moreover, the Clown’s comment that My Father, and the Gent. are in sad talke [2134–5] would be naturally followed, after the exit of Autolycus and his clients, by Polixenes’ O Father, you’l know more of that heereafter [2165], which indicates that they have been carrying on a conversation which we have not heard. Polixenes’ comment is not nearly so natural after the satyr dance, since it suggests that he had been talking to the Old Shepherd rather than attending to the dance he had himself insisted upon witnessing [2156–7]. There is no reason to doubt Shakespeare’s authorship of the passage introducing the dance, but it could be a late addition; if so, Crane was copying a prompt-book, and the original composition was earlier than January 1611. (see here.) Regarding the supposed unnaturalness of 2165, however, not one of the acting editions collated for this edition cuts it (see here). Since there are no other traces of Crane’s having copied WT’s promptbook, the apparent anomaly probably arises from an aberration in foul papers, toward which the clothing crux may also point (see n. 2557–8 and here).

The foul papers of one of Sh.’s compositions—147 lines of Sir Thomas More, a play of uncertain date originally by Anthony Munday and Henry Chettle—may have survived. Having been heavily censored by the Master of the Revels for political reasons, the play was parceled out to several playwrights for salvage. The 147 lines are indeed foul—punctuation lacking, SDs absent or incomplete, SPs mistaken or vague, words omitted, and verse mislined—but they have perhaps created too strong an impression of Sh.’s scribal carelessness. It may be true that Jaggard’s initial editorial policy called for scribal transcripts to be given to the printer if quartos were not available (Eccles, ed. MM, 1980, p. 293). Nevertheless, recent critical opinion, as represented by Wells & Taylor (pp. 145–7), is that foul papers more or less certainly were the initial printer’s copy for as many as 17 of the 35 plays included in F1. If this opinion is correct, the foul papers of WT could have served as Crane’s copy as well.

Crane’s Reliability

In about 1625, Crane transcribed Thomas Middleton’s The Witch for a presentation by the author (see Greg, 1941–2). Three of the songs in this transcript are preserved in other versions. In 1625, Crane made a private transcript of Fletcher’s Demetrius and Enanthe, or the Humorous Lieutenant, which may be compared with the independent text of the play published in the Beaumont and Fletcher folio of 1647, a version representing the play as cut for production (see Cyrus Hoy, ed., in The Dramatic Works in the Beaumont and Fletcher Canon, 5:293). Nosworthy (1965, p. 221), having examined these sources, concludes: It is clear that Crane, though an elegant scribe, was at times an extraordinarily perfunctory one. Carelessness, combined with strange orthography, occasionally results in misreadings which would have baffled any compositor. . . . That he was, like many another scribe, occasionally guilty of sins of omission is a ready inference. . . . [Sh.] Folio texts based on Crane transcripts must obviously be viewed with suspicion. He was doubtless responsible for the sprinkling of apparent nonce-words which defy emendation, and there are often grounds for suspecting small omissions. Howard-Hill (1972, p. 133) differs, however: Even when he [Crane] may be suspected of error, the reading of his transcript is at the least plausible. If his sophistication of the texts he transcribed had been less, more could be discovered of the nature of his copy. The goodness of . . . WT means little more than that the printer’s copy was free from obvious error. The general level of Crane’s accuracy was high, but he was not reluctant to interfere with his text, consciously or unconsciously, when its meaning was obscure to him. That the F1 text of WT is not considered word-perfect is evident from the long history of its emendation recorded in this edition’s textual notes; for a contrast of the repairs made by two recent eds., see here below.

The Printer’s Reliability

There is almost no evidence of proofreading. As Pafford (1961, p. 178 n.) notes, Some copies of F1 may have a Bears. [at 1500], but apparently in most it is a Beare. This possible press variant is not mentioned in his ed. 1963, however. Hinman (1:264) reports that page number 281 (sig. Aa3) is 285 in one copy (Folger 24) and that in about a third of the more than fifty copies he collated, a mark appears between the first e and the long s of these in 1880. One cannot be at all exact in judging the accuracy of the compositors, for their errors may have been corrected in an earlier stage of proof than the one that has survived, or they may have faithfully transmitted incorrect readings introduced by Crane. Nevertheless, it is interesting to observe that in a conservatively edited version of the play and a more radically edited version, the rate of error is similar. Evans (ed. 1974) makes twenty substantive emendations:

The Oxford editors (1986) emend in nineteen of these instances (2818–19 excepted) and nineteen more:

Compositor A set 2,046 lines, or 61% of the text; Compositor B, 1,323 lines, or 39%. In Evans’s judgment, 55% of the play’s substantive errors are found in A’s work; in the Oxford editors’, 57%. Compositor A may thus seem to have performed slightly more reliably than B in typesetting WT, but this estimate takes no account of errors made by Crane or resident in the MS he copied.

Subsequent Early Editions

The later history of WT in the 17th c. is told primarily by the entries in the Stationers’ Register, quoted and annotated by Greg (1957, 3:1113–21). After the publication of F1, Isaac Jaggard’s widow transferred her parte in Shackspheere playes to Thomas and Richard Cotes on 19(?) June 1627, and on 16 Nov. 1630 Edward Blount transferred his right to sixteen plays, including WT, to Robert Allot. The publication of F2 (1632) ensued; the work was printed by Thomas Cotes for Allot and four other stationers. This edition was twice reissued. Because Allot’s widow was about to marry Philip Chetwind—who was a clothworker rather than a stationer—she was forced to give up her copies (on 7 November 1636; the Stationers’ Register entry is dated 1 July 1637). Chetwind recovered the copyrights, however, and became the publisher of the two issues of F3 (1663–4), in the manufacture of which three printers participated. Yet the Stationers’ Company continued to regard the copyrights as the property of Richard Cotes, and on 6 August 1674 transferred them (including the right to WT) to John Martin and Henry Herringman; these rights were again transferred by Martin’s widow to Robert Scott, on 21 August 1683. F4 followed in 1685, its three sections (Comedies, Histories, and Tragedies) evidently having been printed simultaneously by three printers. Textual changes made in WT in the three derivative folios and in the principal later versions may be found in the notes of this edition. None of these changes has independent textual authority.

The Date of Composition

External Evidence

Early attempts to date WT were influenced by the opinion that so irregular a play must have been the work of an inexperienced playwright and by the entry dated 22 May 1594 in the Stationers’ Register of a booke entituled a Wynters nightes pastime (Arber, 1875–94, 2:650), which was taken to be WT. Ulrici (1839; trans. 1846, p. 269) wrote, for example, that this is probably the same drama as we now have, which, upon its revision, received a name more suited to its altered form. The equation was not unreasonable, for the Accounts of the Revels at Court record a performance by the King’s Men on 5 November 1611 of A play called ye winters nightes Tayle (see Cunningham, 1842, p. 210, and Streitberger, 1986, p. 48); Chambers (1923, 4:125) identifies this later wintry amusement as WT.

Overly imaginative discoveries of allusions also interfered. Walpole (1768, 2:114–16) thought that WT was certainly intended (in compliment to queen Elizabeth) as an indirect apology for her mother Anne Boleyn. . . . [115] The unreasonable jealousy of Leontes, and his violent conduct in consequence, form a true portrait of Henry the Eighth, who generally made the law the engine of his boisterous passions. . . . Several passages . . . touch the real history nearer than the fable. Hermione on her trial says, [For Honor, ’Tis a deriuatiue from me to mine, And onely that I stand for (1217–19)]. This seems to be taken from the very letter of Anne Boleyn to the king before her execution, where she pleads for the infant princess his daughter. Adding several similar details, Walpole concludes (116): The Winter Evening’s Tale was therefore in reality a second part of Henry the Eighth. For the compliment to have point, Queen Elizabeth must have been alive to receive it; hence, in Walpole’s view, WT preceded her demise, in 1603. The letter to which Walpole alludes is found in The Harleian Miscellany (1808, 1:201–2). According to DNB (s.v. Anne), the letter is a manifest fabrication of the time of Queen Elizabeth; nevertheless, it speaks with pathetic dignity of the foul blots on the most dutiful wife and on the infant princess. A modernized text is in Black (1933, pp. 46–7).

Far-fetched notions abound. Capell (1783, 2.4:176) finds several absurd reasons to think that at the time he wrote WT, Sh. had his mind on a country matter, his retirement (e.g., the mention of th’Grange, or Mill at 2126). The play is a writing for Stratford, or a writing at it. Capell dates the play 1613, after H8 and before Tmp. (1614). Ironically, Capell is nearer current opinion than the more judicious Malone (in Steevens, ed. 1778, 1:285). Influenced by the entry of A Winter Night’s Pastime, which might have been the same play, Malone assigns WT to 1594, although his respect for Walpole, the silence of Francis Meres’s Palladis Tamia: Wit’s Treasury (1598), which mentions a dozen other Shn. titles, and the paucity of couplets in WT (characteristic of Sh.’s early style) make him doubt whether it ought not to be ascribed to the year 1601, or 1602. By the time of his own edition of WT (Malone, ed. 1790), he was convinced that A Winter Night’s Pastime was not WT, and its removal from consideration made Walpole’s conjecture extremely plausible (1.1:350). Meanwhile, Blackstone (in Steevens, ed. 1785) discovered in the lines If I could find example Of thousand’s that had struck anoynted Kings, And flourish’d after, Il’d not do’t: But since Nor Brasse, nor Stone, nor Parchment beares not one, Let Villanie it selfe forswear’t (460–4) an allusion to the death of the queen of Scots. The play therefore was written in king James’s time. His argument is that an allusion to Mary, Queen of Scots, King James’s mother, could never have been made before Queen Elizabeth’s death, for Queen Elizabeth, however reluctantly, had consented to Queen Mary’s execution. Trapped, Malone (1.1:351) attempted to have it both ways: Sh. lay’d the scheme of the play in the very year in which the queen died [1603], and finished it in the next. He discovers, however, in the Stationers’ Register, 2 April 1604, the entry of The Strange Report of a Monstruous Fishe (see n. 2097–103), to which, he believes, Autolycus alludes, and he also finds the Puritan who sings psalms to hornpipes (1712–13) a corroborating detail, because (1.1:352) the precise manners of the puritans was at this time much ridiculed by protestants. As for style, the meter is less easy and flowing than is usual in Sh.’s plays and the phraseology more involved and parenthetical. . . . In this harshness of diction and involution of sentences it [WT] strongly resembles Tro. and H8. The latter play is now dated 1612–13, not long after WT, but Tro. some ten years earlier. Nevertheless, Malone knew that Jonson had alluded to WT, as well as to Tmp., in the Induction to Bartholomew Fair, first produced in 1614 (see n. 0), and so again changed his mind (1.2:286): Jonson joined these plays in the same censure, in consequence of their having been produced at no great distance of time from each other; and . . . The Winter’s Tale ought to have been ascribed to the year 1613.

Hurdis (1792, pp. 22–3), is unconvinced: The faults of its [WT’s] metre and its language are so numerous, that it must be ranked with [Ant., H8, Cor., and Cym.], . . . the earliest efforts of our poet’s muse. The anointed kings passage, Hurdis believes (p. 23), was inserted later. The compliment he has paid to the Queen in the fable of the play . . . affords a strong proof that it was written during her life-time. For it is not likely that he [Sh.] would endeavour to exculpate Anne Bullen in the reign of James. Chalmers (1799, pp. 396–401)—whom F. W. Clarke (in Furnivall, ed. 1908, p. ix) calls the Sir Politick-Would-Be of Shakespearean criticism—observes several historical allusions in WT but not Blackstone’s, for, Chalmers says, Blackstone’s mind was not very amply stored with historical knowledge of the Elizabethan period. He believes that the lines Blackstone cited—If I could find example Of thousand’s that had struck anoynted Kings (460–1)—reflect the public prayers offered for the queen after the failure of Essex’s rebellion; an allusion such as Heire-lesse it hath made my Kingdome (2737) would have been inappropriate in King James’s time, for he had heirs. Thus, Chalmers concludes, WT was written in 1601. Also rejecting Blackstone and his use of the execution of the Queen of Scots as evidence, Douce (1807, 1:347) notes: The perpetrator of that atrocious murder did flourish many years afterwards. Douce therefore thinks the allusion in lines 460–4 is to King James’s escape from the Gowrie conspiracy (1582), an event often brought toi the people’s recollection during his reign.

Opposition to such fanciful guessing was bound to arise. Boswell (ed. 1821, 14:234–5), for example: I confess I am very sceptical as to these supposed allusions by [235] Shakspeare to the history of his own time. If the plots of his plays had been of his own invention, he might possibly have framed them with a view of that kind; but this was unquestionably not the case with the play before us; and if any one had intended a courtly defence of Queen Elizabeth’s mother, it must have been Greene, and not Shakspeare. Garinter, the Mamillius of our poet, dies under the same circumstances, in the novel [see here]; nor is it, as Mr. Walpole seemed to suppose, an unnecessary incident, because it fulfils the declaration of the oracle, that if the child which was lost could not be found, the king would die without an heir [1315–16]. To say that a child resembles her father is surely not so uncommon a remark as to make it evident that it had reference to a particular individual; nor is there any thing very courtly or complimentary in Paulina’s angry allusion to the old proverb.

Moreover, Malone had already found the clue needed to begin working through the early speculations, although he did not immediately recognize its value. In his Historical Account of the Rise and Progress of the English Stage (ed. 1790, 1.2:1–284), Malone first makes use of a document that has since disappeared, the office book of Sir Henry Herbert, Master of the Revels to King James. As Chambers (1930, 2:347) explains, the Office Book of Sir Henry Herbert, Master of the Revels, . . . is now lost, but in 1790 was in the house of Francis Ingram at Ribbesford, Worcestershire, which had belonged to Herbert. Malone (1.2:226) quotes Herbert’s memorandum: For the king’s players. An olde playe called Winters Tale, formerly allowed of by Sir George Bucke, and likewyse by mee on Mr. Hemmings his worde that there was nothing prophane added or reformed, thogh the allowed booke was missinge; and therefore I returned itt without a fee, this 19 of August, 1623. Book in this context is probably the technical term for the prompt copy of the play on which the license to act was inscribed (see Greg, 1931, 1:192–3), although Pollard (1920, p. 67) had thought that the term possibly [referred to] the original manuscript. Bucke, or Buc, was Master of the Revels from 1610 to 1622; Hemmings, or Heminge, was an actor with, and the business manager of, the King’s Men.

George Buc had served as deputy Master from 1603, however, and Chalmers (1799, pp. 200 ff.) prints extracts from the Stationers’ Registers showing Buc as licenser for the printing of plays as early as 1606. Malone may or may not be right that Buc did not license plays for performance before he became Master (see Eccles, 1933, p. 458). Thus critics like Rolfe (ed. 1879, p. 10 n.), who asserts that the Stationers’ Registers show . . . that he [Buc] had practically the control of the office from the year 1607, are saying more than the entries in the Registers prove. The same applies to critics like Wickham (1973, p. 96 n.); they maintain that until his official installation as Master, Buc licensed for printing only. Albright (1927, p. 246), incidentally, asserts that WT was relicensed to prevent its being taken over by another company because it was in print, but Greg (1928, p. 96) points out the obvious—that Buc acted not for Albright’s reason but because the authorised copy had been lost. That copy was apparently on hand when the play was acted at court on 7 April 1618 and perhaps in 1619 as well (see here); as Baldwin (Division, 1965, p. 51) notes, its absence may have been discovered when the company began to prepare for the court performance of 18 January 1624 (see here). Greg (1954, p. 150): The Winter’s Tale is peculiar in that it may have been a late addition to the folio, and that a new prompt-book was licensed by Herbert in August 1623. . . . These facts are probably related, but it is not clear that they have any bearing on the nature of the text.

Drake (1817, 1:504–5), convinced that Tmp. was written towards the close of 1611, argues (1:497) that WT was written towards the close of 1610 and was licensed and performed during the succeeding year. The order of the two plays is assumed to be that in which they were named by Jonson. Without mentioning Drake, Malone (in Boswell, ed. 1821, 2:463) states: I . . . suppose The Winter’s Tale to have been originally licensed by him [Buc] in the latter part of that year [1610] or the beginning of the next. He therefore assigns the play to 1611. Although Dutton (1991, p. 151) finds no cogent evidence that Buc was involved . . . in the censoring of plays for performance, prior to Tilney’s death, critics by and large have accepted Malone’s terminus a quo. According to Halliwell (ed. 1859, 8:40), for example, In the absence of any direct evidence to the contrary, it seems . . . unnecessary to suggest that the Winter’s Tale may have been one of the dramas that passed under Buck’s review during the tenancy of Tylney in the office; and it may fairly, at present, be taken for granted that the comedy was not produced until after the month of August, 1610. Hunter (1845, 1:416) believes that prior to 1610, Buc licensed both for performance and for printing; on the basis of a supposed affinity of WT with TN, he dates WT not later than 1601 or 1602—or, if licensing by Buc must be taken into account, 1606, the year after the Gunpowder Plot, because of the anointed kings passage (see n. 460–4). As for the absence of the allowed copy, Malone suggests that it was destroyed in the Globe fire of 1613, but Chambers (1930, 1:488) disagrees, pointing out that there was a performance in 1618 and probably another about 1619. The former is attested by Cunningham (1842, p. xlv): To John Heminges &c upon a warrant dated 20 April 1618 for presenting two severall Playes before his Maty. on Easter Monday Twelfte night the play soe called and on Easter Tuesday the Winter’s Tale xxli. The latter is inferred from the appearance of The Winters Tale on a piece of waste paper from the Revels Office (see Marcham, 1925, pp. 7, 13).

Important new evidence of WT’s date came to light with the discovery of a passage in Simon Forman’s Bocke of Plaies (Bodleian Library MS Ashmole 208, fols. 201v–202). As Pafford (Forman, 1959, pp. 289–90) remarks, W. H. Black began to catalogue the Ashmole manuscripts in 1830 or 1831, and there is a note by Black on a proof-sheet of the catalogue against [290] the entry of the Bocke of Plaies which reads I made a transcript of this curious article, in 1832, for my friend J. P. Collier. The so-called Book of Plays consists of memoranda made in 1611 by Forman after seeing four plays at the Globe—Macbeth, Cymbeline, Richard II (not Sh.’s), and WT. Of WT he wrote: IN the Winters Talle at the glob 1611 the 15 of maye ☿ [Wednesday]

Obserue ther howe Lyontes the kinge of Cicillia was overcom wth Ielosy of his wife with the kinge of Bohemia his frind that came to see him. and howe he Contriued his death and wold haue had his cup berer to haue poisoned. who gaue the king of bohemia warning therof & fled with him to bohemia/Remēber also howe he sent to the Orakell of appollo & the Aunswer of apollo. that she was giltles. and that the king was Ielouse &c and howe Except the child was found Again that was loste the kinge should die wthout yssue. for the child was caried into bohemia & ther laid in a forrest & brought vp by a sheppard And the kinge of bohemiā his sonn maried that wentch & howe they fled into Cicillia to Leontes. and the sheppard hauing showed the letter of the noble man by whom Leontes sent a was [away? it was?] that child and the Iewells found about her. she was knowen to be leontes daughter and was then 16 yers old

Remember also the Rog that cam in all tottered like coll pixci /. and howe he feyned him sicke & to haue bin Robbed of all that he had and howe he cosoned the por man of all his money. and after cam to the shep sher with a pedlers packe & ther cosoned them Again of all ther money And howe he changed apparrell wth the kinge of bomia his sonn. and then howe he turned Courtiar &c / beware of trustinge feined beggars or fawninge fellouse.

This transcription appears in Evans (ed. 1974, p. 1842). It agrees in all but a few insignificant details with those given by Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. xxi–xxii) and by Chambers (1930, 2:340–1). Coll pixci, or Colt-pixie, means a mischievous sprite or fairy (OED); Quiller-Couch (ed. 1931, p. viii) gives a shaggy goblin-horse (Grose, 1787). About the memorandum, Quiller-Couch observes: If we may draw the inference, Forman’s rather elaborate description of the plot seems to indicate that The Winter’s Tale was in May 1611 a new play. The WT summary is actually no more elaborate than the summaries of Mac. (1606) and Cym. (1609–10?). Bullough (1975, 8:118), commenting on whether there might have been an earlier version of WT: Forman’s summary of what he saw omits the statue, but since his account of Cymbeline omits the dénouement no argument can be drawn that on 15 May 1611 the play lacked the climactic scene.

Forman’s notes were first published by Collier (1836, p. 20), in a somewhat modernized version. As Collier’s forgeries and impostures were revealed, Forman’s Book of Plays also fell under suspicion, but W. H. Black’s note proves it genuine. Further authentication became available with the publication by Cunningham (1842) of extracts from the Revels Accounts, in which the performance of WT on 5 November 1611, mentioned above, is recorded. Collier (ed. 1842, 3:425–6), however: The Tempest and The Winter’s Tale were both acted at Whitehall, and included in Sir George Buc’s account of the expenses of the Revels from October, 1611, to October, 1612. How much older The Tempest might be than The Winter’s Tale, we have no means of determining; but there is a circumstance which shows that the composition of The Tempest was anterior to that of The Winter’s Tale. . . . [426] There is . . . one remarkable variation [between Pandosto and WT]; in the former the infant Fawnia is put into a boat [to be carried into the midst of the sea, and there left to the wind and wave]. Shakespeare . . . describes the way in which the infant [Perdita] was exposed very differently, and probably for this reason:—that in The Tempest he had previously (perhaps not long before) represented Prospero and Miranda turned adrift at sea in the same manner [as Fawnia]. When, therefore, Shakespeare came to write The Winter’s Tale . . . he varied from the original narrative, in order to avoid an objectionable similarity of incident in his two dramas. Although Collier may be mistaken that Tmp. is the earlier play, his opinion carried some weight; it is quoted with approval later, by Hudson (ed. 1852, 4:6), for example, and it reappears in Muir (1957, p. 243): Possibly the first version of The Tempest had been written before The Winter’s Tale, so that Shakespeare could not easily repeat the incident of the babe adrift in a boat. That there was more than one version of Tmp. is a supposition, however, that disappears from Muir (1977). Nevertheless, it is possible that Tmp. antedates WT. According to Orgel (ed. Tmp., 1987, pp. 63–4), There is . . . not . . . any way of determining chronological priority between The Tempest and The Winter’s Tale. . . . [64] The most we can say is that the evidence supports a date of late 1610 to mid-1611 [for Tmp.], and that Shakespeare was writing the play just after, or just before, or at the same time as The Winter’s Tale. Halliwell (ed. 1859, 8:44): With equal probability, it might be conjectured that Shakespeare, having omitted the incident in the construction of the Winter’s Tale, introduced it in the Tempest as one especially suited to a romantic drama of that description.

Another approach is represented by Procter (1844, 1:x–xi), who finds WT too badly written to be a late play: As a general principle, . . . I would say, that the plays in which signs of imitation (particularly imitation of style) are manifest, should be accounted the earliest; and that those wherein the poetry is redundant and far exceeds the necessities and purposes of the story, should be held to have preceded, in point of time, the great and substantial dramas, in which the business of the play is skilfully wrought out, and where the poetry springs out of the passion or humour of the characters, and serves to illustrate and not to oppress them. In conformity with this view, I think that the [xi] Winter’s Tale, although perhaps not actually performed until the year 1611, can never have been the last work of Shakspere. It is far more like the labour of his youth, an idea to be revived seventy-five years later on supposedly scientific as well as impressionistic evidence (see here). Nevertheless, by the time of Hudson (ed. 1852, 4:6), the composition of WT was assigned to the winter of 1610–11. The later limit is 15 May 1611, when Forman saw the play. The earlier limit, Thorndike (1900, pp. 116–17) argues, was shortly after 1 January 1611, the date of the performance at court of Ben Jonson’s Oberon, the action of which opens upon Silenus, a shaggy old forest god, and at least five of the satyrs over whom he presides (the number who speak). For the probable reappearance of three of these satyrs in WT, see n. 2164 and here. The shortly arises from the assumption that the three saltiers who danced before the king (2158–9) must have done so recently in order for the audience, or at least the members of it who knew about courtly amusements, to grasp the allusion and perhaps also in order for the men still to be available to perform in WT. Yet the line is spoken in modern performances, its significance having become that the three will unknowingly dance before the king once more—that is, King Polixenes. It possibly never meant more than this. Moreover, as Nicoll suggests (see n. 2164), the satyr dance could be an interpolation. Thus WT may have no precise anterior limit, but, as Wells & Taylor (1987, p. 601) point out, if the Crane transcript from which the F text was typeset derived from the promptbook, the original composition predates January 1611 (see here).

Two attempts to prove WT an occasional play were made by Wickham (The Winter’s Tale, 1969, and Investiture, 1969), in the second of which the first is summarized: Critical discussion of The Winter’s Tale has centred on the sixteen-year gap dividing the Sicilian court scenes from the Bohemian pastoral scenes bridged only by Time as Chorus. . . . This odd structural pattern may have stemmed from a deliberate emblematic purpose. Since the skeleton of the plot is the fusing of seemingly irreconcilable opposites, and as nowhere in contemporary politics were such opposites more glaringly apparent than in Anglo-Scottish relations . . . Shakespeare deliberately reworked (and altered) . . . Pandosto at a narrative level in order to reflect emblematically the reunion of the British Isles under his master, James I. The datum point was the legend of the division of Britain by King Brutus among his three sons and Merlin’s prophecy of eventual reunion under a descendant of King Arthur. Henry VII had seen himself as that descendant and James viewed his own claim to the crowns of Scotland and England through Henry’s daughter Margaret (James’s great-great- grandmother) as the fulfillment of the prophecy. Wickham continues: The Winter’s Tale may be regarded not only as a figurative compliment to James I, but also Shakespeare’s contribution to the investiture of Henry, Prince of Wales and Heir Apparent, in 1610. The evidence is drawn from two pageants by Anthony Munday, two masques by Ben Jonson, a poem and a masque by Samuel Daniel, three of James I’s own speeches and two statues, the memorial effigies of Queen Elizabeth and Mary, Queen of Scots, commissioned by King James and placed on the queens’ tombs in Westminster Abbey. Examination of this evidence combines to designate The Winter’s Tale as written for performance in the autumn of 1610 before the King and the Heir Apparent . . . ; to reveal it as [figuring] the mystical marriage of Prince Henry (Florizel) to the three kingdoms whose original unity was lost but has been found (Perdita) thanks to Time and King James’ own piaculous action; and finally to show that, by substituting for the dead Queen of Greene’s novel the living statue of Hermione . . . , Shakespeare created a work of art which was as effective an emblem for his court audience as it was enjoyable dramatic romance for his wider public in the city. Everett (1970) supports Wickham’s parallel of Hermione and Mary, Queen of Scots: Hermione’s blend of royal dignity and pathos . . . [is] expressed in The Winter’s Tale by a few phrases so like echoes of Mary’s words [as given by Antonia Fraser in Mary, Queen of Scots, 1969] as to suggest the possibility of a real connexion. Mary told the deputation of lords who came to announce her trial: I am myself a Queen, the daughter of a King. Hermione refers to herself during her trial as a great king’s daughter [1213], and later . . . says, The Emperor of Russia was my father [1299]. Having cited several similar parallels, Everett concludes, There is, in short, enough dignity and pathos in the Jacobean (as distinct from the Elizabethan) image of Mary Stuart, to give an added interest to Shakespeare’s creation of Hermione, perhaps his queenliest heroine.

Apart from Everett, however, Wickham’s topicality seems to have attracted no supporters. Regarding the statues of the two dead queens, Smith (1972, pp. 217–18) observes: If either had anything to do with The Winter’s Tale, it would seem to be Mary’s, not Elizabeth’s; Mary could in some sense be thought to be resurrected by the investiture of her grandson as Prince of Wales. The trouble is that Mary’s statue was not finished until 1612 . . . and by this time The Winter’s Tale had been on the stage for two years. But Wickham, undismayed, says [in Heritage, 1969] the sculptors lived in Southwark . . . and Shakespeare could have dropped in at their studio any time from 1606 to 1610 to see [218] how the statue was coming. On this frail evidence we are asked to believe that Florizel represents Prince Henry. Nevertheless, these ideas are reiterated and further developed in Wickham (1973). Bullough (1975, 8:117) objects, though: It is going too far to suggest that the play figures the mystical marriage of Prince Henry (Florizel) to the three kingdoms whose original unity was lost but had been found (Perdita). . . . If there was such an allegorical intention why did not Shakespeare make Florizel (like Greene’s Dorastus) rule over two kingdoms at the end of the play? To which it might be replied that Florizel, as Perdita’s consort and Mamillius reborn, will reign over two kingdoms, although that fact will hardly save Wickham’s case.

Internal Evidence

As Furness (ed. 1898, p. 316) says, Roderick (1758, p. 225) was apparently the first to observe that the verse lines of H8 more frequently than those of other plays end in a redundant syllable. Malone (in Steevens, ed. 1778, 1:280 n.) adds that a mixture of rhyming lines and blank verse is a circumstance which seems to characterize and distinguish our poet’s earliest performance. From these beginnings developed a close study of Sh.’s style to determine, more exactly than external evidence allows, when he wrote his works.

The earliest critic to divide Sh.’s career into four periods distinguished by stylistic differences was Bathurst (1857). By the third quarter of the 19th c., one of the internal tests of chronology given by Ward (1875, 1:359–63) was versification, subdivided as follows: (a) Rhyme: Progress from more to less rhyme may be held to accompany the general progress of Shakspere as a dramatic writer. (b) Stopped and unstopped lines: A stopped line is one in which the sentence, or clause of the sentence, concludes with the line; but it is not always possible to determine what is to be regarded as the clause of the sentence, whether e.g. and is to be regarded . . . as beginning a new clause. The stopping of the sense is . . . often of more importance than the stopping of the sentence. (c) Feminine endings, or line endings with an eleventh, unaccented, syllable: While it is certain that Shakspere employed the feminine endings sparingly in many of his plays . . . regarded as early, it is certain that in those plays which on other grounds may be regarded as . . . late . . . he employed these endings largely. Ward’s examples, supplied by Fleay, include Shr. (now dated 1593–4), line 260, and WT 639, but also R3 (1592–3), line 570. The tabulations are not adjusted for the length of the plays or the proportions in them of verse and prose. And (d) Other verse tests, such as irregularities in the trimeter couplets of the early plays and, in the late plays, such carelessness as the failure to mark the caesura.

Fleay himself (1876) divides Sh.’s career into periods characterized by more or less distinct metrical features. In the last period (pp. 70–1), doggerel, alternately rhyming lines, and couplets are absent; alexandrines, with considerable variation in the position of the caesura, increase; and so do feminine endings; and so do lines of less than five measures. Fleay assigns WT (p. 136), along with Cym., Cor., Ant., and Tmp., to Sh.’s fourth (and last) period, but in a postscript (p. 138) creates a fifth period for Tmp. and WT alone. The actual date he assigns to WT is 1610–11 (p. 54) or 1611 (p. 130), 1611? having earlier been proposed by Furnivall (1874, p. xlv). Later, Fleay (1886, p. 65) decides that WT was certainly produced early this year [1610], before Jonson’s Alchemist, which was acted and entered S[tationers’] R[egister] October 3. Fleay’s techniques and conclusions raised questions immediately (see the discussion following the reading of his paper before the New Shakspere Society on 13 Mar. 1874, in Fleay, 1874), and he changed his mind as his investigations continued. In any event, his date for WT was not affected; in the 1886 work (p. 247) as in the 1874 volume (p. 10), it is 1610. By introducing this type of analysis, Fleay hoped to apply a scientific technique to the problems of Shn. chronology, but his followers proved capable of wild variations in method and conclusions, and he himself could not count.

The predilection for Shn. statistics, however, extends to Bather’s Table of Plays, According to Number of Puns (1887, p. 74), which shows a decrease in the number of puns per 100 lines from 3.97 in LLL to 0.26 in WT. As a technique for dating, the scheme is demolished by the fact that Tit. contains only 0.15 and 3H6 only 0.14. Bayfield’s (1920, pp. 402–3) verse analysis reveals that WT must have been written some years before the generally received date 1610. . . . It suggests that the performance at the Globe theatre on May 15, 1611 . . . must refer to a revival. . . . [403] [WT’s] versification is in fact of a quite different period [from that of the late plays. WT was written] near Troilus and Cressida, The Taming of the Shrew, and Timon. On the other hand, impressionistic critics who did not conduct verse tests could also reach strange conclusions. Spens (1922, p. 92), for example, suspects that all the Romances . . . were written originally by Shakespeare at the very beginning of his career, and that they were for the most part one or two act pieces forming part of a series. Mathew (1922, p. 41) agrees in part: These Plays were written first when Shakespeare was young and revised when he was mature.

The testimony of internal evidence is usually linked to the historical and practical facts of Sh.’s career, the latter being, for instance, that Sh. could not write more than a certain amount in a certain period, about two plays a year when his known work is distributed over the period during which he is believed to have been active. The distribution may also be colored by assumptions, not necessarily wrong, about Sh.’s development as a man and an artist. As Dowden (1877, pp. 37–41) puts it, We need no scientific test to make us aware that, in passing from Love’s Labour’s Lost to Hamlet, and from Hamlet to The Tempest, we pass from youth to manhood, and again from a manhood of trial and sorrow to a riper manhood of attainment and of calm. Affected by the transitions are (a) style and diction. In the earliest plays . . . the idea is at times hardly sufficient to fill out the language in which it is put; in the middle plays . . . there seems a perfect balance and equality between the thought and its expression[; in the latest] this balance is disturbed by the preponderance or excess of the ideas over the means of giving them utterance. . . . (b) The growth of Shakspere’s taste and judgment. . . . [38] (c) In the structure of the play and grouping of characters there is, in some of the early plays, a tendency to formal symmetry, an artificial setting of character over against character, and group against group. . . . Afterwards the outline of the play is drawn with a freer because a firmer hand. (d) . . . By degrees the characterisation becomes profound and refined. . . . (e) The entire reflective power deepens. . . . (f) The imagination . . . becomes passionately energetic, of daring and all-comprehensive power, as in King Lear, or lofty and sustained, with noble ideality, as in The Tempest. (g) The sympathy with human passion and the power of conceiving and dramatically rendering it in its most massive and most intense [39] forms increases. (h) . . . The humour of the dramatist . . . becomes full of grave significance, and works in conjunction with his (i) Deepening pathos. . . . (j) Finally, in moral reach, in true justice, in charity, in self-control, in all that indicate fortitude of will, the writings of the mature Shakspere excel, in an extraordinary degree, those of his younger self. These characteristics obviously cannot be quantified, but the alteration in Sh.’s verse can be. At first Shakspere has his breaks and pauses at the end of the line—the verse is end-stopt; gradually he more and more [carries] on the sense from one line to another without a pause at the end of the line [but] in some part of the line other than the end. Light and weak endings increase. The first group, in Dowden’s classification, encompasses words on which (p. 41) the voice can to a small extent dwell (am, are, be, can, could; the auxiliaries do, does, has, had; I, they, thou). The weak endings are more fugitive and evanescent . . . , including such words as and, for, from, if, in, of, or. Now weak endings hardly appear in Shakspere’s early or middle plays. . . . Nor do they come in by slow degrees at a later period. . . . In Macbeth light endings appear for the first time in considerable numbers; weak endings in considerable numbers for the first time in Antony and Cleopatra. This test serves perfectly to pick out the plays which form the group belonging to Shakspere’s last period of dramatic authorship; and within that period it probably serves to indicate nearly the precise order in which the plays were written. Dowden reproduces part of a table devised by Ingram (1874, p. 450) showing percentages of light and weak endings, from Mac. through H8, in a sequence that does not quite bear Dowden out, in that it places Tmp. earlier than Cym. and WT. Similarly, Dowden reproduces a table he attributes to Hertzberg; it shows the percentage of double, or feminine, endings increasing from LLL (4) through Tmp. and puts WT (31.09) before Cym. (32) by a whisker. Actually, the table Hertzberg published (1878, p. 252) reverses the sequence (WT 32.5), but in neither accounting is the difference great enough to establish priority. (Similar data from which similar conclusions were drawn persisted; see, for example, Neilson & Thorndike, c. 1913, pp. 69–75.)

The history of stylistic analysis and the efforts of other contributors to it are described in detail by Chambers (1930, 1:242–74). As a prelude to his own assignment of dates, he provides a thorough discussion of the problem of chronology, an evaluation of the evidence of dates, and (in 2:397–408) his own metrical tables, several of them corrected versions of Fleay’s. He believes (1:489) that the style and metre group Winter’s Tale with Cymbeline and Tempest, and it may reasonably be placed between them. A date early in 1611 is suggested by the probability that the bear of iii.3 and the dance of satyrs at [2164] were both inspired by Jonson’s mask of Oberon on 1 January 1611. For the bear, see n. 1500, and for the satyrs, n. 2164. Gray (1931, p. 148) averages the percentages of double [i.e., feminine] endings, run-on lines, and speeches ending with the line and discovers that the results for WT, Tmp., and Cym., though close to those for Cor. on the earlier side and H8 on the later, are also close to each other. Having related independent clauses to verse lines, Langworthy (1931, p. 748) gets similar results for the same plays, although his data order them as Tmp., Cym., and WT. Law (1936, pp. 50–1) tabulates the dates assigned by Adams (1923), Alden (1925), Chambers (1930), Craig (ed. 1931), Campbell (1932), Parrott (1934), and Brooke (ed. 1935). All give 1610 or 1610–11. So does Reinhold (1942, p. 87); like Oras (see below), Reinhold calculates split lines (pentameters shared by two or more speakers) as a percentage of the total lines in each play to show that their number generally increases with time. In an early statistical study, Yardi (1946) uses multiple measurements of metrical data for the discrimination of groups; the results place WT with Cym. and Tmp. but do not provide actual dates. Brainerd’s (1980) statistical study of Shn. chronology has no bearing, for WT, dated 1610.5, is a member of the test set, plays for the most part unambiguously dated.

A few recent critics dissent. Wentersdorf (1951, p. 178), combining such stylistic features as split lines, extra syllables within and at the end of lines, feminine endings, and alexandrines into a metrical index for each play, finds the three last to have been written in Chambers’s (1930) order, but he moves each work back by a year, WT to 1609–10. As Tmp. was performed at court on 1 November 1611, it would have been acted publicly at least by the summer of 1611, since public success presumably preceded the selection of any play for presentation at court. If the dance of satyrs in WT derives from Jonson’s Oberon, WT may nevertheless have been in existence prior to January 1611, when the masque was performed, and the satyrs subsequently added. It has also been suggested that the bear scene in Act iii was borrowed from . . . Mucedorus, which was revived by the King’s Men shortly before 1610. If this was the case (as the bear episode is not in Shakespeare’s source for WT), it points to an upward [i.e., anterior] time limit late in 1609. . . . Finally, the reference at [461] is sufficiently motivated by the story and in any case too general to warrant interpretation to the murder of Henri IV on 14 May 1610 (see Chambers, 1930, 2:489). Having assigned Per. to 1607–8 and Tmp. to 1610–11, Wentersdorf accordingly dates Cym. and WT 1608–9 and 1609–10, respectively. Also dissenting is Oras (1960), who studies three types of pauses in the verse of Sh. and a number of other early writers, under three heads: all pauses indicated by the internal punctuation of the earliest eds. (A-patterns); strong pauses indicated by punctuation heavier than commas (B-patterns); and lines shared by two or more speakers—split lines—(C-patterns). That the punctuation may be scribal or compositorial is recognized, but it is still considered a valid marker because its source is contemporaneous. The data are presented numerically and graphically, and although no actual dates are assigned, the patterns of Cym. and WT resemble each other more strongly than they resemble the patterns of the other works studied.

Alexander (ed. 1951, p. xv), wisely declining to be pinned down to more than an approximate order of composition, places WT, along with Per., Cym., Tmp., and H8, between 1608 and 1613. Maxwell (ed. Cym., 1960, p. xi), commenting on 1609–10 and 1610–11 for the dates of Cym. and WT, respectively: It is reasonable to associate the greater artistic assurance of The Winter’s Tale with a later date [than Cym.’s], which is also supported by the fact that Shakespeare undoubtedly knew the Boccaccio source of Cymbeline when he wrote The Winter’s Tale. I think [the 1610–11] date for The Winter’s Tale may well be a year too late. There is a fairly close verbal parallel between The Winter’s Tale [1941–7] and Philaster [4.6.2–8], which seems to me most easily explained as an echo of the former by the latter; and Philaster is not later than 8 October 1610 [see Chambers, 1923, 3:223]. To Tillyard (1938, pp. 9–10), however, the echoes seem reversed: Sh. is improving Fletcher (see n. 1941–7). In any case, as Pafford (ed. 1963, p. 97 n.) remarks, the strewing of corpses as well as bridal beds with flowers is a common idea.

As for the presence of Cym.’s source in WT, the story in question is the ninth novel of the second day of Boccaccio’s Decameron. Muir (1977, pp. 262–3) summarizes it: Some Italian merchants at an inn in Paris deride the idea of a female chastity and Bernabo of Genoa is provoked by Ambrogiuolo to bet on the chastity of his wife, Ginevra. On going to Genoa, Ambrogiuolo realizes that he cannot seduce Ginevra. Concealed in a chest, he is able to observe the pictures of her bedroom, to steal a ring and other belongings, and to observe a mole on the lady’s breast. Bernabo is convinced that he has lost the wager and he orders his servant to murder Ginevra. The servant, convinced of her innocence, spares her. She dresses in his clothes and takes service with the Soldan. One day she sees her purse and girdle in a stall in the market-place. When the truth comes to light, Ginevra reveals herself to her husband and forgives him. The villain is tortured to death: the verie same day that hee was impaled on the stake, annointed with honey, and fixed in the place appointed, to his no meane tormente: he not onely died, but likewise was deuoured to the bare [263] bones, by Flies, Waspes, and Hornets, whereof the Countrey notoriously aboundeth. As Iachimo is forgiven, this torture is not used in Cymbeline; but in The Winter’s Tale Autolycus tells the Clown [2665–72]. Smith (1972, p. 216) holds that it is generally agreed . . . that The Winter’s Tale is the later of the two [because] the use of the leftover passage about the punishment of the villain . . . suggests that The Winter’s Tale followed Cymbeline.

Earlier, however, Nosworthy (ed. Cym., 1955, pp. xvi–xvii), instead of drawing this conclusion, recognizes the possibility that Shakespeare owed the name Belarius [in Cym.] to the Bellaria of Greene’s Pandosto . . . so that the evidence can point either way. My own guess is that the composition of the two plays was more or less simultaneous or, at any rate, that both had been written, revised and prepared for the stage before either was actually performed, with consequent cross-fertilisation. This view . . . tallies with the attractive theory, put forward by [Bentley, 1948], that the impending acquisition of the Blackfriars private theatre led, in the Spring and Summer of 1608, to discussions among the King’s Players as a result of which Shakespeare was henceforth to write with the Blackfriars in mind, and not the Globe, and that [Cym., WT, and Tmp.,] in that [xvii] order, were the fruits of that decision. Bentley says nothing about their respective dates, but the application of his theory would . . . suggest 1608 for the first play of the series. Recalling that it was at the public theater that Forman saw WT, Nosworthy demurs at and not the Globe, preferring to think that after his company acquired the Blackfriars theater in 1608, Sh. wrote dual-purpose plays, for such, most emphatically and triumphantly, the Romances are. If Cym., the first play of the series, was composed in 1608, 1608–9 would presumably be the date of WT. Although Pafford (ed. 1963, p. xxiii) does not deal explicitly with Nosworthy’s idea, he comments: The language, style, and spirit of the play all point to a late date. The tangled speech, the packed sentences, speeches which begin and end in the middle of a line, and the high percentage of light and weak endings are all marks of Shakespeare’s writing at the end of his career. But of more importance than verse tests is the similarity of the last plays in spirit and themes. . . . Practically all authorities . . . accept, with minor variations, the approximate dates given by Chambers [i.e., 1610–11]. Those who do not follow Chambers may instead favor Wentersdorf—for example, Fitch (1981, p. 300), who, in a revival of sense-pause investigation, decides on 1609–10.

Summary

A comprehensive reexamination of the internal evidence of WT’s date is made by Taylor (in Wells & Taylor, pp. 93–109). Among the data included are the percentage of rhyme to verse and to prose; colloquialisms in verse (e.g., i’th’, ’em, ’ll, I’m), which show that Shakespeare’s reversion to an antiquated dramatic form [the romance] apparently coincides with some backsliding toward a less colloquial poetry (p. 101); and a revision of Wentersdorf’s metrical indices and Oras’s pause patterns. Taylor concludes (p. 107) that although minor ambiguities remain about the order of particular plays, we can be reasonably confident about the shape of the canon after about 1597. Nevertheless, recent eds. differ to some extent, as the following comparison shows (see table).

Chambers (1930) is included because his chronology was accepted by many eds. until recently; all his dates given here are reiterated by McManaway (1950). Lr. is present because Taylor holds that the text of that play included in F1 is a revision of the text that first appeared in the quarto of 1608 substantial enough to constitute a new creation. Cardenio is a play based on a story in Don Quixote and thought to be by Shakespeare and Fletcher (as are H8 and TNK). As Chambers (1930, 1:539) notes: A play of Cardenno or Cardenna was given by the King’s men at court in the winter of 1612–13. It was acted in 1727 under the title Double Falsehood and printed in 1728 as Written Originally by W. Shakespeare; And now Revised and Adapted to the Stage by Mr. Theobald. Bevington’s WT range is an innovation for him; his previous editions of the Works (1973 and 1980) substantially agree with Chambers and with Evans (c. 1610–11). He appears to have extended these dates on the chance that Taylor may be right, a question that critics of Lr. will have to decide. As it now stands, however, c. 1610–11 is as close as one can come to the date of WT.

A Comparison of Four Chronologies

Chambers 1930 Evans ed. 1974 Taylor 1987 Bevington ed. 1992
Per. 1608–9 1607–8 1607 1606–8
Cym. 1609–10 1609–10 1610 c. 1608–10
WT 1610–11 1610–11 1609 c. 1609–11
Lr. rev. 1610
Tmp. 1611–12 1611 1611 c. 1611
H8 1612–13 1612–13 1612–13
Cardenio 1612–13 1612–13
TNK 1612–13 1613 1613–14 1613–16

Sources

Primary Source

Pandosto

The first ed. of WT to quote extensively from Pandosto to illustrate Sh.’s dependence was Malone (ed. 1790). Recognition of WT’s source preceded Malone by a century, however. Langbaine (1691, p. 466): The Plot of this Play may be read in a little Stitch-pamphlet, which is call’d, as I remember, The Delectable History of Dorastus and Fawnia, otherwise Pandosto, by Robert Greene. Rowe (ed. 1709, 1:xxvii–xxviii): The Winter’s Tale . . . contains the space of sixteen or seventeen Years, and the Scene [xxviii] is sometimes laid in Bohemia, and sometimes in Sicily, according to the original Order of the Story. Gildon (1710, p. 336): Whence I suppose the Absurdities are copyed, and the making Bohemia of an Inland, a maritime Country. The opinion of Grey (1754, 1:244) that Dorastus and Faunia is of a more modern date [than WT], and borrow’d from Shakespeare was refuted by Farmer (in Steevens, ed. 1778). Farmer reported a copy of Pandosto with a publication date of 1588, considerably before any date proposed for Sh.’s play.

On 1 July 1588, A booke intitled the complaint of tyme was entered in the Register of the Company of Stationers to Thomas Orwin (Arber, 1875–94, 2:493). Pandosto. The Triumph of Time was printed by Orwin for the stationer Thomas Cadman (RSTC [3:277] 12285); The Historie of Dorastus and Fawnia is its head title. The discrepancy between the title as given in the Register and the title as published creates some uncertainty that the entry pertains to the novel (see Wells, 1988, pp. xxx–xxxi); even so, there is no reason to doubt that the novel appeared in 1588. It was frequently reprinted—in 1592, 1595, 1600 (RSTC 12287.5, a single copy in the Biblioteka Gdanska), 1607, 1609, 1614, 1619, 1621 (a single copy in the Vienna National Library, located by Wells; not in RSTC), 1629, 1632, 1632–6 (date cropped; see Wells, p. xxxviii), 1636, and c. 1640 (date cropped; see Allison, 1975, no. 84). Wells (pp. xl–xlii) identifies eleven more editions of Pandosto, including an abridgment, published from 1648 to the end of the century and seven or eight more complete eds. and abridgments from about 1700 to 1735; uncertainties in the tabulation arise from difficulties in distinguishing the eds. and in dating them. The title pages of eds. 1588 through 1632 carry as a subtitle The Triumph of Time; in eds. 1636 and following, the earlier title and subtitle are replaced by The Pleasant Historie of Dorastus and Fawnia, the title Langbaine was thinking of.

Jusserand (1890; 1966, p. 155): The novel had an immense success, much greater according to appearances than the exquisite drama of a Winter’s Tale, that Shakespeare drew from it. Collier (1836, p. 19 n.) alleges that the 1609 ed. is probably the very one used by our great Dramatist. In a subsequent work, Collier (ed. 1842, 3:476 n.) declares that in eds. of Pandosto published after 1588, the oracle’s words are the king shall live without an heire, whereas in 1588 the word is die. He settled on 1609 rather than an earlier ed. because it is the one that most immediately preceded the writing of WT. The actual situation, according to Wells (1988, p. 128), is that the eds. of 1588, 1592, and 1595 read liue, as Sh. does (WT 1315), whereas 1609 and subsequent eds. read die. Muir (1957, p. 240) asserts that Sh. used the 1588 ed., but, as Wells remarks, Muir evidently did not know that the 1592 and 1595 eds. existed. Since Sh. did not reproduce a unique feature of any of these eds., the specific one he consulted cannot be ascertained. Moreover, Coggins (1980) argues that there seems to have been a 1584 ed., no copies of which are known to have survived.

Later versions of Pandosto are found in Lennox (1753), a paraphrase; Collier, Shakespeare’s Library, vol. 1 (1843; 1875); NUC lists an ed. from the 1840s, possibly a separate issue of the Collier text, which seems not to be noticed elsewhere; an ed. of 1858, according to S. A. Tannenbaum & D. A. Tannenbaum, Elizabethan Bibliographies: Robert Greene [1939], possibly the version in Halliwell (ed. 1859); A. B. Grosart, The Life and Complete Works of Robert Greene, vol. 4 (188?); Morley (ed. 1887), an abridgment; Anon., Pandosto, or The Historie of Dorastus and Fawnia, by Robert Greene (New Rochelle, 1902); Thomas (ed. Pandosto, 1907); James Winny, The Descent of Euphues (Cambridge, 1957); Bullough (1975); and Wells (ed. Pandosto, 1988, but finished in 1962). Eds. of WT containing Pandosto include those of Halliwell, Morley (1887), Furness (ed. 1898), and Pafford (1963).

According to Bolte (Schlussscene, 1891, p. 90), the novel provided material for a French play and a Dutch play: Jean Puget de La Serre’s Pandoste ou la Princesse malheureuse, en deux journées (Paris, 1631), which was performed at the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1631; and Meynert Voskuyl’s Dorastus en Fauniaas (Amsterdam, 1637). The British Library Catalogue also lists Voskuyl’s Bellaria en Pandostos (Amstrelredam, 1637). Thomas (1907, p. xix) reports that a French version by Alexandre Hardy, who wrote several pastoral plays, is now lost. Jusserand (in Lee, ed. 1907, pp. xxviii–xxix) gives further details: The first translation was printed at Paris, chez Guillaume Marette, in 1615, under the title of Histoire tragique de Pandosto roy de Bohême et de Bellaria sa femme. Ensemble les amours de Dorastus et de Faunia. . . . [xxix] Le tout traduit premièrement en Anglois de la langue Bohême, et de nouveau mis en françois par L. Regnault. . . . The translation [takes] a good many liberties . . . with the text (some voluntary, others not). . . . To the supposed Bohemian original there is no further allusion. One adaptation, Le roman d’Albanie et de Sycile par le Sr du Bail gentil-homme Poict[evin], appeared in 1626, and another, Histoire de Pandolphe, roy de Bohême et de Cellaria sa femme, in 1722. Jusserand also supplies (pp. xxxvi–xxxix) the sketches made by the stage decorator [xxxvii] Mahelot for the scenery used in the performance of Hardy’s dramatic version.

A derivative in blank verse, Francis Sabie’s The Fissher-mans Tale (RSTC 21535), appeared in 1595, some copies being issued as a part of Sabie’s Pans Pipe, three eclogues in hexameters; and The Fissher-mans Tale was followed by a second part, Flora’s Fortune (RSTC 21536), also in 1595. These poems were reprinted by Halliwell (ed. 1859, 8:127–60)—possibly from a defective copy, since the extracts, as he calls his text, run from line 632 of The Fissher-mans Tale to the end of Flora’s Fortune.

Pandosto of 1588 collates A–G4. The one surviving copy, located in the British Library, lacks the four leaves of sig. B; the missing text is supplied here by the edition of 1592, Folger Shakespeare Library. In the following reprint, the black letter of these eds. is rendered as roman and the roman as italic. The Epitaph (here) is italic in ed. 1588. Most ornaments are ignored. Macrons and abbreviations of the, and, that, and with have been expanded. The two- and three-line initials beginning certain paragraphs are reduced to regular capitals, turned letters are returned, and the white space preceding and following some lines of dialogue has been removed. Footnotes show the origin of emendations of the 1588 and 1592 texts; the spelling of the emendations has been altered occasionally to accord with that of the copy-text. Asterisks in the text call attention to the footnotes. In the notes, a wavy dash in the variant reading repeats the word of the lemma in the corresponding position; the caret indicates absence of punctuation.

Important points of comparison and contrast between Greene’s novel and Sh.’s play, and representative commentary on them, may be found in the following notes: 3370, 3371, 3378, 3379, 3381, 3382, 3388, 14–16, 50–1, 121–3, 181–92, 234, 269–72, 285–8, 288, 410, 450–1, 455–66, 461, 468–81, 565, 582, 583, 648, 715–19, 798–805, 800, 938–41, 980, 1016–17, 1062, 1111–15, 1134, 1147, 1173, 1191–5, 1202–6, 1219–21, 1222–4, 1263, 1280, 1293, 1299, 1347–8, 1366–85, 1437, 1440, 1486, 1507, 1509–10, 1512, 1559, 1596–8, 1691–2, 1795, 1798–9, 1798, 1799, 1826–36, 1828–32, 2240, 2263, 2408, 2512, 2630, 2724, 2915, 2926, 2995, 2998, 3032, 3061. Passages of the novel referred to in these commentary notes are here preceded by bracketed TLN numbers of those notes, inserted into the text. In addition, TLN numbers for some other lines in WT, which correspond to passages in Pandosto but are not discussed in the notes, are likewise inserted here into the text before the corresponding passages of the novel.

Pandosto.

¶The Triumph

of Time.

Wherein is Discovered

by a pleasant Historie, that although by the meanes

of sinister fortune Truth may be concea­

led, yet by Time in spight of fortune it

is most manifestly reuealed.

Pleasant for age to auoyde drowsie thoughtes,

profitable for youth to eschue other wanton

pastimes, and bringing to both a de­

sired content.

Temporis filia veritas.

Omne tulit punctum qui miscuit vtile dulci.

[ornament]

Imprinted at London by Thomas Orwin for Thomas

Cadman
, dwelling at the Signe of the Bible, neere

vnto the North doore of Paules,

1588.

To the Gentlemen Rea­

ders Health.

[A1v]

The paultring Poet Aphranius being blamed for troublinge the Emperor Traian with so many doting Poems: aduentured notwithstanding, stil to present him with rude and homely verses, excusing himselfe

himselfe]  ~  1595; himfelfe 1588
with the courtesie of the Emperour, which did as friendly accept, as he fondly offerd. So Gentlemen, if any condemne my rashnesse for troubling your eares with so many vnlearned Pamphlets: I will straight shroud my selfe vnder the shadowe of your courtesies, and with Aphranius lay the blame on you aswell for frendly reading them, as on my selfe for fondly penning them: Hoping though fond curious, or rather currish backbiters breathe out slaunderous speeches: yet the courteous Readers (whom I feare to offend) wil requite my trauell, at the least with silence: and in this hope I rest: wishing you health and happines.

Robert Greene.

TO THE RIGHT HO­

norable George Clifford Earle of Cumber­

land, Robert Greene wisheth increase

of honour and vertue.

[A2]

The Rascians (right honorable) when by long gazing against the Sunne, they become halfe blinde, recouer their sightes by looking on the blacke Loade stone. Vnicornes being glutted with brousing on roots of Licquoris, sharpen their stomacks with crushing bitter grasse.

Alexander vouchsafed as well to smile at the croked picture of Vulcan, as to wonder at the curious counterfeite of Venus. The minde is sometimes delighted as much with small trifles as with sumptuous triumphs, and as wel pleased with hearing of Pans homely fancies, as of Hercules renowmed laboures.

Syllie Baucis could not serue Iupiter in a siluer plate, but in a woodden dish. Al that honour Esculapius, decke not his shrine with Iewels. Apollo giues Oracles as wel to the poore man for his mite, as to the rich man for his treasure. The stone Echites is not so much liked for the colour, as for vertue, and giftes are not to be measured by the worth, but by the will. Mison that vnskilfull Painter of Greece, aduentured to giue vnto Darius the shielde of Pallas, so roughlie shadowed, as he smiled more at the follie of the man, then at the imperfection of his arte. So I present vnto your honour the triumph of time, so rudelie finished, as I feare your honour wil rather frowne at my impudencie, then laugh at my ignorancie: But I hope my willing minde shal excuse my slender skill, and your honours curtesie shadowe my rashnes.

[A2v]
They which feare the biting of vipers doe carie in their hands the plumes of a Phœnix. Phydias drewe Vulcan sitting in a chaire of Iuory. Caesars Crow durst neuer cry, Aue, but when she was pearked on the Capitoll. And I seeke to shroude this imperfect Pamphlet vnder your honours patronage, doubting the dint of such inuenomed vipers, as seeke with their slaunderous
slaunderous]  ~  1592; slaunderours 1588
reproches to carpe at al, being oftentims, most vnlearned of all: and assure my selfe, that your honours renowmed valure, and vertuous disposition shall be a sufficient defence to protect me from the Poysoned tongues of such scorning Sycophants, hoping that as Iupiter vouchsafed to lodge in Philemons thatched Cotage: and Phillip of Macedon, to take a bunche of grapes of a country pesant: so I hope your honour, measuring my worke by my will, and wayghing more the mind than the matter, will when you haue cast a glaunce at this toy, with Minerua, vnder your golden Target couer a deformed Owle. And in this hope I rest, wishing vnto you, and the vertuous Countesse your wife: such happy successe as your honours can desire, or I imagine.

Your Lordships most duetifully to com­

maunde
:
Robert Greene.

The Historie of

Dorastus and

Fawnia.

[A3]

Among al the Passions wherewith humane mindes are perplexed, there is none that so galleth with restlesse despight, as that infectious soare of Iealousie: for all other griefes are eyther to bee appeased with sensible perswasions, to be cured with wholesome counsel, to be relieved in want, or by tract of time to be worne out, (Iealousie only excepted) which is so sawsed with suspitious doubtes, and pinching mistrust, that whoso seekes by friendly counsaile to rase out this hellish passion, it foorthwith suspecteth that he geueth this aduise to couer his owne guiltinesse. Yea, who so is payned with this restlesse torment doubteth all, dystrusteth him-selfe, is alwayes frosen with feare, and fired with suspition, hauing that wherein consisteth all his ioy, to be the breeder of his miserie. Yea, it is such a heauy enemy to that holy estate of matrimony, sowing betweene the married couple

couple]  ~  Wells (1988); couples 1588
such deadly seedes of secret hatred, as Loue being once rased out by spightful distrust, there oft ensueth bloudy reuenge, as this ensuing Hystorie manifestly prooueth: wherein Pandosto (furiously incensed by causelesse Iealousie) procured the death of his most louing and loyall wife, and his owne endlesse sorrow and misery.

In the Countrey of Bohemia there raygned a King called Pandosto, whose fortunate successe in warres against his foes, and bountifull curtesie towardes his friendes in peace, made him to be greatly feared and loued of all men. This Pandosto had to Wife a Ladie called Bellaria, by birth royall, learned by education, faire by nature, by vertues famous, so that it was hard to iudge whether her beautie, fortune, or vertue, wanne the greatest

[A3v]
commendations. These two lincked together in perfect loue, led their liues with such fortunate content, that their Subiects greatly reioyced to see their quiet disposition. They had not beene married long, but Fortune (willing to increase their happines) lent them a sonne, so adorned with the gifts of nature, as the perfection of the Childe greatly augmented the loue of the parentes, and the ioy of their commons: in so much that the Bohemians, to shewe their inward ioyes by outwarde actions, made [tln 3032] Bonefires and triumphs throughout all the Kingdome, appointing Iustes and Turneyes for the honour of their young Prince: whether resorted not only his Nobles, but also diuers Kings and Princes which were his neighbours, willing to shewe their friendship they ought to Pandosto, and to win fame and glory by their prowesse and valour. Pandosto, whose minde was fraught with princely liberality, entertayned the Kings, Princes, and noble men with such submisse curtesie, and magnifical bounty, that they all sawe how willing he was to gratifie their good wils, making a generall feast for his Subiects, which continued by the space of twentie dayes: all which time the Iustes and Turneys were kept to the great content both of the Lordes and Ladies there present. This solemne tryumph being once ended, the assembly taking their leaue of Pandosto and Bellaria: the young sonne (who was called [see n. 3382] Garinter) was nursed vp in the house, to the great ioy and content of the parents. Fortune enuious of such happy successe, willing to shewe some signe of her inconstancie, turned her wheele, and darkned their bright sun of prosperitie, with the mistie cloudes of mishap and misery. For it so happened that Egistus King of Sycilia, [tln 25–7] who in his youth had bene brought vp with Pandosto, desirous to shewe that [tln 27–33] neither tracte of time, nor distance of place could diminish their former friendship, prouided a nauie of ships, and [tln 50, 1147, 1440] sayled into Bohemia to visite his old friend and companion, who hearing of his arriuall, went himselfe in person, and his wife Bellaria, accompanied with a great traine of Lords and Ladies, to meet Egistus: and espying him, alighted from his horse, embraced him very louingly, protesting that nothing in the world could haue happened more acceptable to him then his comming, [tln 1238–40] wishing his wife to welcome his olde friend and acquaintance: who (to shewe how she liked him whom her husband loued) inter-
[A4]
tayned him with such familiar curtesie, as Egistus perceiued himselfe to bee verie well welcome. After they had thus saluted and embraced eche other, they mounted againe on horsbacke, and [tln 121–3] rode toward the Citie, deuising and recounting, howe being children they had passed their youth in friendely pastimes: where, by the meanes of the Citizens, Egistus was receyued with triumphs and showes in such sort, that he maruelled how on so small a warning they coulde make such preparation. Passing the streetes thus with such rare sightes, they rode on to the Pallace, where [tln 14–16] Pandosto entertained Egistus and his Sycilians with such banqueting and sumptuous cheare, so royally, as they all had cause to commend his princely liberality, yea, the verie basest slaue that was knowne to come from Sycilia was used with such curtesie, that Egistus might easily perceiue how both hee and his were honored for his friendes sake. [tln 181–92] Bellaria (who in her time was the flower of curtesie)
curtesie)]  ~  1595;  ~ , 1588
willing to show how unfaynedly shee looued her husband by his friends intertainement, used him likewise so familiarly, that her countenance bewraied how her minde was affected towardes him: oftentimes comming her selfe into his bed chamber, to see that nothing should be amis to mislike him. This honest familiarity increased dayly more and more betwixt them; for Bellaria noting in Egistus a princely and bountifull minde, adorned with sundrie and excellent qualities, and Egistus, finding in her a vertuous and curteous disposition, there grew such a secret vniting of their affections, that the one could not well be without the company of the other: in so much that when Pandosto was busied with such vrgent affaires, that hee could not bee present with his friend Egistus, [tln 260] Bellaria would walke with him into the Garden, where they two in priuat and pleasant deuises would passe away the time to both their contents. This custome still continuing betwixt them, a certaine [tln 181–92] melancholy passion entring the minde of Pandosto, draue him into sundry and doubtfull thoughts. First, he called to minde the beauty of his wife Bellaria, the comelines and brauerie of his friend Egistus, thinking that Loue was aboue all Lawes, and therefore to be staied with no Law: that it was hard to put fire and flaxe together without burning: that their open pleasures might breede his secrete displeasures. He considered with himselfe that Egistus was a man, and must needes loue: that his wife was a woman,
[A4v]
and therfore subiect vnto loue, and that where fancy forced, friendship was of no force. These and such like doubtfull thoughtes a long time smoothering in his stomacke, beganne at last to kindle in his minde a secret mistrust, which increased by suspition, grewe at last to a flaming Iealousie, that so tormented him as [tln 900] he could take no rest. He then began to measure all their actions, and to misconstrue of their too priuate familiaritie, iudging that it was not for honest affection, but for disordinate fancy, so that hee began to watch them more narrowely, to see if hee could gette any true or certaine proofe to confirme his doubtfull suspition. While thus he noted their lookes and gestures, and suspected their thoughtes and meaninges, they two seely soules who doubted nothing of this his treacherous intent, frequented daily eache others companie, which draue him into such a franticke passion, that he beganne to beare a secret hate to Egistus, and a lowring countenaunce to Bellaria, [tln 227] who marueiling at such vnaccustomed frowns, began to cast beeyond the Moone, and to enter into a thousand sundrie thoughtes, which way she should offend her husband: but finding in her selfe a cleare conscience, ceassed to muse, vntil such time as she might find fit opportunitie to demaund the cause of his dumps. In the meane time Pandostoes minde was so farre charged with Iealousy, that he did no longer doubt, but was assured (as he thought) that his Friend Egistus had entered a wrong pointe in his tables, and so had [tln 269–72] played him false play: wherupon desirous to reuenge so great an iniury, he thought best to dissemble the grudge with a faire and friendly countenance: and so vnder the shape of a friend, to shew him the tricke of a foe. Deuising with himself a long time how he might best put away Egistus without suspition of treacherous murder, hee concluded at last to poyson him: which opinion pleasing his humour, he became resolute in his determination, and the better to bring the matter to passe he called vnto him [tln 446] his cupbearer, with whom in secret he brake the matter: promising to him for the performance thereof, to geue him a thowsande crownes of yearely reuenues: his cupbearer eyther being of a good conscience, or willing for fashion sake, to deny such a bloudy request, began with great reasons to perswade Pandosto from his determinate mischief: shewing him what an offence murther was to the Gods: how such vnnaturall actions did more displease the heauens, than
[B1, 1592]
men: and that causeles crueltie did seldome or neuer escape without reuenge: he layd before his face, that Egistus was his friend, [tln 461] a king, and one that was come into his kingdome, to confirme a league of perpetuall amitie betwixt them, that he had and did shew him a most friendly countenaunce, how Egistus was not onely honored of his owne people by obedience, but also loued of the Bohemians for his curtesie. And that if now he should without any iust or manifest cause, poyson him, it would not only be a great dishonor to his Maiesty, and a meanes to sow perpetuall enmitie betweene the Sycilians and the Bohemians, but also his owne subiectes would repine at such trecherous crueltie. These and such like perswasions of [tln 410] Franion (for so was his cupbearer called) [tln 371–432] could no whit preuaile to disswade him from his deuilish enterprise, but remaining resolute in his determination, his furie so fiered with rage, as it could not be appeased with reason: he began with bitter taunts to take vp his man, and to lay before him two baytes: preferment, and death: saying that if he would poyson Egistus, he should [tln 459–60] aduaunce him to high dignities: [tln 450–1] if he refused to do it of an obstinate minde, no torture should be to great to requite his disobedience. Franion seeing, that to perswade Pandosto any more, was but to striue against the streame: [tln 433–52] consented as soone as oportunity would giue him leaue to dispatch Egistus, wherewith Pandosto remained somwhat satisfied, hoping now he should be fully reuenged of such mistrusted iniuries, intending also [tln 440–2] assoone as Egistus was dead, to giue his wife a sop of the same sawce, and so be rid of those which were the cause of his restles sorrow. While thus he liued in this hope, Franion beeing secret in his chamber, began to meditate with himselfe in these termes.

Ah Franion, treason is loued of many, but the traitor hated of all: vniust offences may for a time escape without danger, but neuer without reuenge, thou art seruant to a king, and must obey at commaund: yet Franion, against law and conscience, it is not good to resist a tyrant with armes, nor to please an vniust king with obedience. What shalt thou do? Folly refuseth

refuseth]  ~  Wells (1988); refused 1592
[B1v, 1592]
gold, and frensie preferment, wisedome seeketh after dignitie, and counsel looketh for gayne. Egistus is a stranger, to thee, and Pandosto thy soueraigne: thou hast little cause to respect the one, and oughtest to haue great care to obey the other. Thinke this Franion, that a pound of gold is worth a tunne of lead, great gifts are little Gods, and preferment to a meane man, is a whetstone to courage: there is nothing sweeter than promotion, nor lighter than report: care not then though most count thee a traytor, so all cal thee rich. Dignitie (Franion) aduaunceth thy posteritie, and euill report can hurt but thy selfe. Know this, where Eagles build, Faulcons may pray: where Lyons haunt, Foxes may steale. Kings are knowen to commaunde, seruaunts are blamelesse to consent: feare not thou then to lift at Egistus, Pandosto shall beare the burthen. Yea but Franion, conscience is a worme that euer biteth, but neuer ceaseth: that which is rubbed with the stone Galactites will neuer be hot. Flesh dipped in the sea Ægeum, will neuer be sweete: the hearbe Tragion, being once bit with an Aspis neuer groweth, and conscience once stayned with innocent bloud, is alwayes tyed to a guiltie remorse. Preferre thy content before riches, and a cleare mind before dignitie: so being poore thou shalt haue rich peace, or els rich, thou shalt enioy disquiet.

Franion hauing muttered out these or such like words, seeing either he must dye with a cleare minde, or liue with a spotted conscience: he was so [tln 455–66] combered with diuers cogitations that hee could take no rest, vntill at last he determined to breake the matter to Egistus, but fearing that the king should either suspect or heare of such matters, he concealed the deuise till oportunitie would permit him to reueale it. Lingring thus in doubtfull feare, in an euening he went to Egistus lodging, and desirous to breake with him of certaine affaires that touched the king, after all were commaunded out of the chamber: Franion made manifest the whole conspiracie, which Pandosto had deuised against him, desiring Egistus not to accompt him a traytor for bewraying his maisters counsell, but to thinke that he did it for conscience, hoping that although his maister inflamed with rage, or incensed by some sinister reportes, or slaunderous

[B2, 1592]
speaches, had imagined such causelesse mischief: yet when time should pacifie his anger, and trie those talebearers but flattering Parasites, then he would count him as a faithfull seruaunt, that with such care had kept his maisters credit. Egistus had not fully heard Franion tell forth his tale, but [tln 574] a quaking feare possessed all his limmes, thinking that there was some treason wrought, and that Franion did but shadow his craft with these false colours: wherefore he began to waxe in choler, and sayd that [tln 468–81] he doubted not Pandosto, sith he was his friend, and there had neuer as yet bene any breach of amitie: he had not sought to inuade his lands, to conspire with his enemies, to disswade his subiectes from their allegance: but in word and thought he rested his at all times: he knew not therfore any cause that should moue Pandosto to seeke his death, but suspected it to be a compacted knauery of the Bohemians, to bring the king and him at oddes. Franion staying him in the midst of his talke, told him that to dally with Princes was with the swannes to sing agaynst their death, and that if the Bohemians had intended any such secret mischief, it might haue bene better brought to passe then by reuealing the conspiracie: therefore his Maiestie did ill to misconstrue of his good meaning, sith his intent was to hinder treason, not to become a traytor and to confirme his premises, if it please his Maiestie to flee into Sycilia for the safegard of his life, he would goe with him: and if then he found not such a practise to be pretended, let his imagined trecherie be repayed with most monstrous torments. Egistus hearing the solemne protestation of Franion: began to consider, that in loue and kingdomes, neither faith, nor law is to bee respected: doubting that Pandosto thought by his death to destroy his men, and with speedy warre to inuade Sycilia: these and such doubtes throughly weighed, he gaue great thankes to Franion, promising if he might with life returne to Syracusa, that he would create him a Duke in Sycilia: crauing his counsell how he might escape out of the countrey. Franion, who hauing [tln 565] some small skill in Nauigation, was well acquainted with the Portes and Hauens, and knew euery daunger in the Sea, ioyning in counsell with the Maister of Egistus Nauie, rigged all their
[B2v, 1592]
ships, and setting them a floate let them lye at anker, to be in the more readinesse when time and wind should serue. Fortune although blind, yet by chance fauoring this iust cause, sent them [tln 582] within 6. dayes a good gale of wind, which Franion seeing fit for their purpose, to put Pandosto
Pandosto]  ~  1595; Pandasto 1592
out of suspition, the night before they should saile, he went to him and promised, that the next day he would put the deuise in practise, for he had got such a forcible poyson as the very smell thereof should procure sodaine death. Pandosto
Pandosto]  ~  1607; Pandasto 1592
was ioyfull to heare this good newes and thought euery houre a day till he might be glutted with bloudy reuenge, but his suite had but ill successe: for Egistus fearing that delay might breede daunger, and willing that the grasse should not be cut from vnder his feete, taking [tln 285–8, 288] bagge and baggage with the helpe of Franion, [tln 554–5, 649–53] conueyed himself and his men out of a posterne gate of the Citie so secretly, and speedely, that without any suspition they got to the sea shoare, where, with many a bitter curse taking their leaue of Bohemia, they went aboord, weighing their Ancres: and hoysting sayle, they passed as fast as winde and sea would permit towardes Sycilia; Egistus being a ioyfull man, that he had safely past such trecherous perils. But as they were quietly floating
floating]  ~  1607; flouting 1592
on the sea, so Pandosto and his Citizens were in an vprore: for seeing that the Sycilians without taking their leaue were fled away by night, the Bohemians feared some treason, and [tln 628–32] the king thought that without question his suspition was true, seeing his cup-bearer had bewrayed the summe of his secret pretence: whereupon [tln 643–9, 693–4] he began to imagine, that Franion and his wife Bellaria had conspired with Egistus, and that the feruent affection she bare him, was the onely meanes of his secret departure, in so much that incensed with rage, he commaunded that his wife should be carried to straight prison, untill they heard further of his pleasure. The guarde vnwilling to lay their hands on such a vertuous Princesse, and yet fearing the kings furie, went very sorrowfully to fulfill their charge, [tln 583] comming to the Queenes lodging, they found her playing with her young sonne Garinter, vnto whom with teares doing the message: Bellaria astonished at such a hard censure, and finding her cleare conscience a sure aduocate to pleade in her case, went to the prison most willingly: where [tln 715–19] with sighs and teares,
[B3, 1592]
she past away the time till she might come to her triall.

But Pandosto, whose reason was suppressed with rage, and whose vnbridled folly was incensed with furie: seeing Franion had bewrayed his secrets, and that Egistus might wel be rayled on, but not reuenged: [tln 901–8] determined to wreake all his wrath on poore Bellaria, he therfore caused a generall Proclamation to be made through all his Realme, that the Queene and Egistus had by the helpe of Franion not only committed most incestuous adulterie, but also had conspired the Kings death: Wherupon the Traitor Franion was fled away with Egistus, and Bellaria was most iustly imprisoned. This Proclamation being once [tln 1280] blazed through the countrey [tln 1164–5], although the vertuous disposition of the Queene did halfe discredit the contents: yet [tln 583] the sodaine and speedie passage of Egistus, and the secret departure of Franion induced them (the circumstances throughly considered) to thinke that both the Proclamation was true, and the King greatly iniured: yet [tln 734–71] they pitied her case, as sorowful that so good a Ladie should be crossed with such aduerse Fortune. But the King, whose restlesse rage would admit no pity, thought that although he might sufficiently requite his wiues falshood with the bitter plague of [tln 648] pinching penurie, yet his minde should neuer be glutted with reuenge, till he might haue fit time and oportunitie to repay the treacherie of

of]  ~  1607; om. 1592
Egistus with a fatall iniurie. But a curst Cow hath oft times short hornes, and a willing mind, but a weake arme: for Pandosto although he felt, that reuenge was a spurre to warre, and that enuie alwayes proffereth steele, yet he saw, that Egistus was not onely of great puissance, and prowesse to withstand him, but [tln 921–2] had also many Kings of his alliance to ayde him, if neede should serue: for [tln 1299] he married the Emperours
Emperours]  ~  1595; Emperous 1592
daughter of Russia. These and such like considerations something daunted Pandosto his courage, so, that he was content rather to put vp a manifest iniurie with peace, than hunt after reuenge with dishonor and losse: determining since Egistus had escaped scotfree, that Bellaria should pay for all at an vnreasonable price.

Remaining thus resolute in this determination, Bellaria continuing still in prison, and hearing the contents of the Proclamation, knowing that her mind was neuer touched with

[B3v, 1592]
such affection, nor that Egistus had euer offered her such discurtesie, would gladly haue come to her answer, that both she might haue knowne her vniust accusers, and cleared her selfe of that guiltlesse crime.

But Pandosto was so enflamed with rage, and infected with Iealousie as he would not vouchsafe to heare her nor admit any iust excuse, so that she was faine to make a vertue of her neede, and with patience to beare these heauie iniuries. As thus she lay crossed with calamities (a great cause to increase her griefe) she found her selfe quicke with childe: which assoone as she felt stir in her bodie, she burst foorth into bitter teares, exclaiming against fortune in these tearmes.

Alas Bellaria, how infortunate art thou because fortunat, better hadst thou bene borne a begger than a Prince: so shouldest thou haue bridled Fortune with want, where now she sporteth her selfe with thy plentie. Ah happy life where poore thoughts, and meane desires liue in secure content, not fearing Fortune because too low for

low for]  ~  Collier (1843); low. For 1592
fortune, thou seest now Bellaria, that care is a companion to honor, not to pouertie, that high Cædars are frushed [broken, snapped] with tempests, when low shrubs are not toucht with the wind: precious Diamonds are cut with the file, when despised peables lie safe in the sand: Delphos is sought to by Princes, not beggers: and Fortunes altars smoke with Kings presents, not with poore mens gifts. Happy are such Bellaria, that curse Fortune for contempt, not feare, and may wish they were, not sorrow they haue bene. Thou art a Princesse, Bellaria, and yet a prisoner, borne to the one by discent, assigned to the other by despite, accused without cause, and therefore oughtest to die without care: for patience is a shield against Fortune, and a guiltlesse mind yeeldeth not to sorow. Ah, but Infamie galleth vnto death, and liueth after death: Report is plumed with Times feathers, and Enuie oftentimes soundeth Fames trumpet: thy suspected adulterie shall fly in the aire, and thy knowne vertues shall ly hid in the earth: one Moale stayneth a whole face, and what is once spotted with Infamy can hardly be worne out with time. Die then Bellaria, Bellaria die: for if the Gods should say thou art guiltlesse,
[B4, 1592]
yet enuie would heare the Gods, but neuer beleeue the Gods. Ah haplesse wretch, cease these tearmes: desperat thoughts are fit for them that feare shame, not for such as hope for credite. Pandosto hath darkned thy fame, but shal neuer discredit thy vertues. Suspition may enter a false action, but proofe shall neuer put in his plea: care not then for enuie, sith report hath a blister on her tongue: and let sorrow bite them which offend, not touch thee that art faultlesse. But alas poore soule, howe canst thou but sorrow? Thou art with child, and by him that in steed of kind pitie pincheth thee in cold prison. And with that such gasping sighes so stopped her breath, that she could not vtter any mo words, but wringing her hands, and gushing foorth streames of teares, she passed away the time with bitter complaints.

The Iaylor pitying these her heauy passions, thinking that if the king knew she were with child, he would somwhat appease his furie, and release her from prison went in all hast, and certified Pandosto what the effect of Bellarias complaint was: who no sooner heard the Iaylour say she was with child, but as one possessed with a phrensie, he rose vp in a rage, swearing that she and the bastard brat she was withal, should dy, if the gods themselues said no: thinking assuredly by computation of time, that Egistus, and not he, was father to the child. This suspitious thought galled a fresh this halfe healed sore, in so much as he could take no rest, vntil he might mitigate his choler with a iust reuenge, which happened presently after. For Bellaria was brought to bed of a faire and beautiful daughter, which no sooner Pandosto heard, but [tln 1016–17, 1062] he determined that both Bellaria and the yong infant should be burnt with fire. [tln 1077–83] His Nobles hearing of the Kings cruel sentence, sought by perswasions to diuert him from this bloody determination: [tln 980] laying before his face the innocencie of the child, and the vertuous disposition of his wife, how she had continually loued and honored him so tenderly, that without due proof he could not, nor ought not to appeach her of that crime. And if she had faulted, yet it were more honorable to pardon with mercy, then to punish with extremity, and more Kingly, to be commended of pity, than accused of [tln 1293] rigor. And as

[B4v, 1592]
for the child, if he should punish it for the mothers offence, it were to striue against nature and iustice: and that vnnaturall actions do more offend the Gods then men: how causelesse crueltie, nor innocent bloud neuer scapes without reuenge. These and such like reasons could not appease his rage, but he rested resolute in this, that Bellaria being an adulteresse, the child was a bastard, and he would not suffer that such an infamous brat should call him father. [tln 1084–1115] Yet at last (seeing his noble men were importunate vpon him) he was content to spare the childs life, and yet to put it to a worser death. For he found out this deuise, that [tln 1111–15] seeing (as he thought) it came by Fortune, so he would commit it to the charge of Fortune, and therfore he caused a little cock-boate to be prouided, wherein he meant to put the babe, and then send it to the mercie of the seas, and the destinies. From this, his Peeres in no wise could persuade him, but that he sent presently
presently]  ~  1595; presenty 1592
two of his Gard to fetch the child, who being come to the prison, and with weeping teares recounting their maisters message: Bellaria no sooner heard the rigorous resolution of her mercilesse husband, but she fell againe downe in a sound, so that all thought she had bin dead, yet at last being come to her selfe, she cried and scriched out in this wise.

Alas sweete infortunate babe, scarse borne before enuied by fortune: would the day of thy birth had bin the tearme of thy life, then shouldest thou haue made an end to care, and preuented thy fathers rigor. Thy faults cannot yet deserue such hatefull reuenge, thy dayes are too short for so sharpe a doome, but thy vntimely death must pay thy mothers debtes, and her guiltlesse crime must be thy gastly curse. And shalt thou sweete babe be committed to fortune? When thou art alreadie spighted by fortune: shall the seas be thy harbour, and the hard boate thy cradle? Shall thy tender mouth in steede of sweete kisses, be nipped with bitter stormes? Shalt thou haue [tln 1496–7] the whistling winds for thy Lullabie, and the salt sea fome in steed of [tln 1277–80] sweet milke? Alas, what destinies would assigne such hard hap? What father would be so cruell? Or what gods wil not reuenge such rigor? Let me kisse thy lips (sweet infant) and wet thy tender cheekes with my teares, and put this chaine

[C1, 1592]
about thy litle necke, that if fortune saue thee, it may helpe to succour thee. Thus, since thou must go to surge in the gastfull seas, with a sorrowfull kisse I bid thee farewell, and I pray the Gods thou mayst fare well. Such, and so great was her griefe, that her vital spirits being suppressed with sorrow, she fell downe in a traunce, hauing her sences so sotted with care, that after she was reuiued, yet she lost her memorie, and lay for a great time without mouing as one in a traunce. The gard left her in this perplexitie, and caried the child to the king, who quite
[C1, 1588]
deuoide of pity, commanded that without delay it should bee put in the boat, hauing neither saile nor other to guid it, and so to bee carried into the midst of the sea, and there left to the wind and waue as [tln 1115] the destinies please to appoint. The very shipmen seeing the sweete countenance of the yong babe, began to accuse the King of rigor, and to pity the childs hard fortune: but feare constrayned them to that which their nature did abhorre: so that they placed it in one of the ends of the boat, and with a few greene bows made a homely cabben to shroud it as they could from wind and weather: hauing thus trimmed the boat they tied it to a ship, and so haled it into the mayne Sea, and then cut in sunder the coarde, which they had no sooner done, but there arose a mighty tempest, which tossed the little Boate so vehemently in the waues, that the shipmen thought it coulde not continue longe without sincking, yea the storme grewe so great, that with much labour and perill they got to the shoare. But leauing the Childe to her fortunes. Againe to Pandosto, who not yet glutted with sufficient reuenge, deuised which way he should best increase his Wiues calamitie. But first assembling his Nobles and Counsellors, [tln 1173] hee called her for the more reproch into open Court, where it was obiected against her, that she had committed adulterie with Egistus, and conspired with Franion to poyson Pandosto her husband, but [tln 1191–5] their pretence being partely spyed, shee counselled them to flie away by night for their better safety. Bellaria, who standing like a prisoner at the Barre, feeling in her selfe a cleare Conscience to withstand her false accusers: seeing that no lesse then death could pacifie her husbands wrath, waxed bolde, and desired that she might haue Lawe and Iustice, for mercy shee neyther craued nor hoped for, and that those periured wretches, which had falsly accused her to the King, might be brought before her face, to giue in euidence. But Pandosto, whose rage and Iealousie was such, as no reason, nor equitie could appease: tolde her, that for her accusers they were of such credite, as their wordes were sufficient witnesse, and that the sodaine and secret flight of Egistus, and Franion confirmed that which they had confessed: and as for her, it was her parte to deny such a monstrus crime, and to be impudent in forswearing the [tln 1263] fact, since [tln 1229–32] shee had past all shame in committing the fault: but her stale countenaunce should stand for no coyne, for as the Bastard which
[C1v]
she bare was serued, so she should with some cruell death be requited. Bellaria no whit dismayed with this rough reply, [tln 1196–1228] tolde her Husband Pandosto, that he spake vpon choller, and not conscience: for [tln 1207–9] her vertuous life had beene euer such, as no spot of suspition could euer staine. And if she had borne a frendly countenaunce
countenaunce]  ~  1592; countedaunce 1588
to Egistus, it was in respect he was his friende, and not for any lusting affection: therefore if she were condemned without any further proofe, [tln 1293] it was rigour, and not Law. The noble men which sate in iudgement, said that Bellaria spake reason, and intreated the king that the accusers might be openly examined, and sworne, and if then the euidence were such, as the Iury might finde her guilty (for seeing she was a Prince,
Prince,]  ~  1629;  ~ ) 1588
she ought to be tryed by her peeres)
peeres)]  ~  1607;  ~ , 1588
then let her haue such punishment as the extremitie of the Law will assigne to such malefactors. The king presently made answere, that in this case he might, and would dispence with the Law, and that the Iury being once panneld, they should take his word for sufficient euidence, otherwise he would make the proudest of them repent it. The noble men seeing the king in choler were all whist, but Bellaria, whose life then hung in the ballaunce, [tln 1288–90] fearing more perpetuall infamie, then momentarie death, tolde the king, if his furie might stand for a Law, that it were vaine to haue the Iury yeeld their verdit, and therefore she fell downe vpon her knees, and desired the king that for the loue he bare
bare]  ~  1592; hare 1588
to his young sonne Garinter, whome she brought into the world, that hee woulde graunt her [tln 583, 798–805, 800] a request, which was this, that it would please his maiestie to send sixe of his noble men whome he best trusted, to the [tln 1147] Isle of Delphos, there to enquire of the Oracle of Apollo, whether she had committed adultery with Egistus, or conspired to poyson him with Franion: and if the God Apollo, who by his deuine essence knew al secrets, gaue answere that she was guiltie, she were content to suffer any torment, were it neuer so terrible. [tln 1293–8] The request was so reasonable, that Pandosto could not for shame deny it, vnlesse he woulde bee counted of all his subiects more wilfull then wise, he therefore agreed, that with as much speede as might be there should be certaine Embassadores dispatched to the Ile of Delphos: and in the meane season [tln 811–14] he
he]  ~  1592; be 1588
commanded that his wife should be kept in close prison. Bellaria hauing obtained this graunt, was now more
[C2]
carefull for her little babe that floated on the Seas, then sorrowfull for her owne mishap. For of that she doubted: of her selfe shee was assured, knowing if Apollo should giue Oracle according to the thoughts of the hart, yet the sentence should goe one her side, such was the clearenes of her minde in this case. But Pandosto (whose suspitious head still remained in one song) chose out six of his Nobility, whom hee knew were scarse indifferent men in the Queenes behalfe, and prouiding all things fit for their iourney, sent them to Delphos: they willing to fulfill the Kinges commaund, and desirous to see the situation and custome of the Iland, dispatched their affaires with as much speede as might be, and embarked themselues to this voyage, which (the wind and weather seruing fit for their purpose) was soone ended. For [tln 1133, 1134] within three weekes they arriued at Delphos, where they were no sooner set on lande, but with great deuotion they went to the Temple of Apollo, and [tln 1152–8] there offring sacrifice to the GOD, and giftes to the Priest, as the custome was, they humbly craued an aunswere of their demaund: they had not long kneeled at the Altar, but Apollo with a loude voice saide: Bohemians, what you finde behinde the Alter take, and depart. They forthwith obeying the Oracle founde a scroule of parchment, wherein was written these words in letters of Golde.

The Oracle.

Suspition is no proofe: Iealousie is an vnequall iudge: Bellaria is chast: Egistus blameless: Franion a true subiect: Pandosto treacherous: his babe an innocent, and the King shal liue without an heire: if [tln 1313–16, 3378] that which is lost be not founde.

As soone as they had taken out this scroule, the Priest of the God commaunded them that [tln 1168–70, 1304–10] they should not presume to read it, before they came in the presence of Pandosto: vnlesse they would incurre the displeasure of Apollo. The Bohemian Lords carefully obeying his commaund, taking their leaue of the Priest, with great reuerence departed out of the Temple, and went to their ships, and assoone as wind would permit them, sailed toward

[C2v]
[tln 1147] Bohemia, whither in short time they safely arriued, and with great tryumph issuing out of their Ships, went to the Kinges pallace, whom they found in his chamber accompanied with other Noble men: Pandosto no sooner saw them, but with a merrie countenaunce he welcomed them home, asking what newes: they tolde his Maiestie that they had receiued an aunswere of the God written in a scroule, but with this charge, that they should not read the contents before they came in the presence of the King, and with that they deliuered him the parchment: but his Noble men intreated him that sith therein was contayned either the safetie of his Wiues life, and honesty, or her death, and perpetuall infamy, that he would haue his Nobles and Commons assembled in the iudgement Hall, where the Queene brought in as prysoner, should heare the contents: if shee were found guilty by the Oracle of the God, then all should haue cause to thinke his rigour proceeded of due desert: if her Grace were found faultlesse, then shee should bee cleared before all, sith she had bene accused openly. This pleased the King so, that he appointed the day, and assembled al his Lords and Commons, and [tln 1173] caused the Queene to be brought in before the Iudgement seate, commaunding that the inditement shoulde bee read, wherein she was accused of [tln 1187] adultery with Egistus, and of conspiracy with Franion: Bellaria hearing the contentes, was no whit astonished, but made this chearefull aunswer.

[tln 1202–6] If the deuine powers bee priuy to humane actions (as no doubt they are) I hope my patience shall make fortune blushe, and my vnspotted life shall staine spightfull

spightfull]  ~  1607; spightfully 1588
discredit. For although lying Report hath sought to appeach mine honor, and Suspition hath intended to soyle my credit with infamie: yet where Vertue keepeth the Forte, Report and suspition may assayle, but neuer sack: [tln 1219–21] how I haue led my life before Egistus comming, I appeale Pandosto to the Gods, and to thy conscience. [tln 1240] What hath passed betwixt him and me, the Gods onely know, and I hope will presently reueale: [tln 1238–43] that I loued Egistus I can not denie, that I honored him I shame not to confesse: to the one I was forced by his vertues: to the other for his dignities. But as touching lasciuious lust, I say Egistus is honest, and hope my selfe to be found without spot: for Franion, I can neither accuse him, nor excuse him: for [tln 1254–7] I was not
[C3]
priuie to his departure, and that this is true which I haue heere rehearsed, [tln 1294] I referre my self to the deuine Oracle.

Bellaria had no sooner sayd, but the King commaunded that one of his Dukes should reade the contentes of the scroule: which after the commons had heard, they gaue a great showt, reioysing and clapping their hands that the Queene was cleare of that false accusation: but [cf. the contrasting tln 1321–2] the King whose conscience was a witnesse against him of his witlesse furie, and false suspected Iealousie, was so ashamed of his rashe folly, that he intreated his nobles to perswade Bellaria to forgiue, and forget these iniuries: promising not onely to shew himselfe a loyall and louing husband, but also to reconcile himselfe to Egistus, and Franion: reuealing then before them all the cause of their secrete flighte, and how treacherously hee thought to haue practised his death, [cf. tln 1347–8] if the good minde of his Cupbearer had not preuented his purpose. As thus he was relating the whole matter, [tln 1326–7] there was worde brought him that his young sonne Garinter was sodainly dead, which newes so soone as Bellaria heard, surcharged before with

with]  ~  1595; whith 1588
extreame ioy, and now suppressed with heauie sorrowe, her vitall spirites were so stopped, that [tln 1332–3, 1388] she fell downe presently dead, and could be neuer reuiued. This sodaine sight so appalled the Kinges Sences, that he sanck from his seate in a sound so as he was fayne to be carried by his nobles to his Pallace, where hee lay by the space of three dayes without speache: his commons were as men in dispaire, so diuersely distressed: there was nothing but mourning and lamentation to be heard throughout al Bohemia: their young Prince dead, their vertuous Queene bereaued of her life, and their King and Soueraigne in great hazard: this tragicall discourse of fortune so daunted them, as [tln 938–41] they went like shadowes, not men: yet somewhat to comfort their heauie hearts, they heard that Pandosto was come to himselfe, and had recouered his speache, who as in a fury brayed out these bitter speaches.

[tln 1366–85] O miserable Pandosto, what surer witnesse then conscience? What thoughts more sower then suspition? What plague more bad then Iealousie? Vnnaturall actions offend the Gods, more than men, and causelesse crueltie neuer scapes without re-

[C3v]
uenge: I haue committed such a bloudy fact, as repent I may, but recall I cannot. Ah Iealousie, a hell to the minde, and a horror to the conscience, suppressing reason, and inciting rage: a worse passion then phrensie, a greater plague than madnesse. Are the Gods iust? Then let them reuenge such brutishe crueltie: my innocent Babe I haue drowned in the Seas: my louing wife I haue slaine with slaunderous suspition: my trusty friend I haue sought to betray, and yet the Gods are slacke to plague such offences. Ah vniust Apollo, Pandosto is the man that hath committed the faulte: why should Garinter, seely childe, abide the paine? Well sith the Gods meane to prolong my dayes, to increase my dolour, I will offer my guiltie bloud a sacrifice to those sackles soules, whose liues are lost by my rigorous folly. And with that he reached at a Rapier, to haue murdered himselfe, but his Peeres being present, stayed him from such a bloudy acte: perswading him to think, that the Common-wealth consisted on his safetie, and that those sheepe could not but perish, that wanted a sheepheard: wishing, that if hee would not liue for himselfe, yet he should haue care of his subiects, and to put such fancies out of his minde, sith [tln 1413–14] in sores past help, salues doe not heale, but hurt: and in thinges past cure, care is a corrasiue: with these and such like perswasions the Kinge was ouercome, and began somewhat to quiet his minde: so that assoone as hee could goe abroad, hee caused his wife to bee embalmed, and wrapt in lead [tln 1428] with her young sonne Garinter: erecting a rich and famous Sepulchre, wherein hee intombed them both, making such sollemne obsequies at her funeral, as al Bohemia might perceiue he did greatly repent him of his forepassed folly: [tln 1428–30] causing this Epitaph to be ingrauen on her Tombe in letters of Golde:

¶The Epitaph.

Here lyes entombde Bellaria faire,
Falsly accused to be vnchaste:
Cleared by Apollos sacred doome,
Yet slaine by Iealousie at last.
What ere thou be, that passest by,
Cursse him that causde this Queene to die.

[C4]
This Epitaph being ingrauen, [tln 1430–5] Pandosto would once a day repaire to the Tombe, and there with watry plaintes bewaile his misfortune: coueting no other companion but sorrowe, nor no other harmonie, but repentance. But [tln 1596–8] leauing him to his dolorous passions, at last let vs come to shewe the tragicall discourse of the young infant.

Who being tossed with Winde, and Waue, floated two whole daies without succour, readie at euery puffe to bee drowned in the Sea, till at last [tln 1443–5, 1491, 1525–36] the Tempest ceassed, and the little boate was driuen with the tyde [tln 1437, 1440] into the Coast of Sycilia, where sticking vppon the sandes, it rested. [tln 1486] Fortune minding to be wanton, willing to shewe that as she hath wrinckles on her browes: so shee hath dimples in her cheekes: thought after so many sower lookes, to lend a fayned smile, and after a puffing storme, to bring a pretty calme: shee began thus to dally. It fortuned a poore mercenary Sheepheard, that dwelled in Sycilia, who got his liuing by other mens flockes, missed [tln 1507] one of his sheepe, and thinking it had strayed into the couert, that was hard by, sought very diligently to find that which he could not see, fearing either that [tln 1508] the Wolues, or Eagles had vndone him (for hee was so poore, as a sheepe was halfe his substaunce) wandered downe toward the Sea cliffes, to see if perchaunce the sheepe was browsing on [tln 1509–10] the sea Iuy, whereon they greatly doe feede, but not finding her there, as he was ready to returne to his flocke, hee heard a childe crie: but knowing there was no house nere, he thought he had mistaken the sound, and that it was the bleatyng of his Sheepe. Wherefore looking more narrowely, as he cast his eye to the Sea, he spyed a little boate, from whence as he attentiuely listened, he might heare the cry to come: standing a good while in a maze, at last he went to the shoare, and wading to the boate, as he looked in, he saw the little babe lying al alone, ready to die for hunger and colde, wrapped in a Mantle of Scarlet, richely imbrodered with Golde, and hauing a chayne about the necke. The Sheepeheard, who before had neuer seene so faire a Babe, nor so [tln 3043] riche Iewels, [tln 1512] thought assuredly, that it was some little God, and began with great deuocion to knock on his breast. The Babe, who wrythed with the head, to seeke for the pap, began againe to cry a fresh, whereby the poore man knew that it

[C4v]
was a Childe, which by some sinister meanes was driuen thither by distresse of weather: maruailing how such a seely infant, which by the Mantle, and the Chayne, could not [tln 2630] be but borne of Noble Parentage, should be so hardly crossed with deadly mishap. The poore sheepheard perplexed thus with diuers thoughts, tooke pity of the childe, and determined with himselfe to carry it to the King, that there it might be brought vp, according to the worthinesse of birth: for his ability coulde not afforde to foster it, though his good minde was willing to further it. Taking therefore the Chylde in his armes, as he foulded the mantle together, the better to defend it from colde, there fell downe at his foote a very faire and riche purse, wherein he founde [tln 1560–1] a great summe of golde: which sight so reuiued the shepheards spirits, as he was greatly rauished with ioy, and daunted with feare: Ioyfull to see such a summe in his power, and feareful if it should be knowne, that it might breede his further daunger. [tln 455–66] Necessitie wisht him at the least, to retaine the Golde, though he would not keepe the childe: the simplicity of
of]  ~  1592; if 1588
his conscience feared him from such deceiptfull briberie. Thus was the poore manne perplexed with a doubtfull Dilemma, vntil at the last the couetousnesse of the coyne ouercame him: for what will not the greedy desire of Golde cause a man to doe? So that he was resolued in himselfe to foster the child, and with the summe to relieue his want: resting thus resolute in this point, he left seeking of his sheepe, and as couertly, and secretly as he coulde, went by a by-way to his house, least any of his neighbours should perceaue his carriage: assoone as he was got home, entring in at the doore, the childe began to crie, which his wife hearing, and seeing her husband with a yong babe in armes, began to bee somewhat ielousse, yet marueiling that her husband should be so wanton abroad, sith he was so quiet at home: but as women are naturally giuen to beleeue the worste, so his wife thinking it was some bastard: beganne to crow against her goodman, and taking vp a cudgel (for the most maister went breechles) sware solemnly that shee would make clubs trumps, if hee brought any bastard brat within her dores. The goodman seeing his wife in her maiestie with her mace in her hand, thought it was time to bowe for feare of blowes, and desired her to be quiet, for there was non such matter: but if she could holde her peace, they were [tln 1559] made for euer: and with
[D1]
that he told her the whole matter, how he had found the childe in a little boat, without any succour, wrapped in that costly mantle, and hauing that rich chaine about the neck: but at last when he shewed her the purse full of gold, she began to simper something sweetely, and taking her husband about the neck, kissed him after her homely fashion: saying that she hoped God had seene their want, and now ment to relieeue their pouerty, and seeing they could get no children, had sent them this little babe to be their heire. Take heede in any case (quoth the shepherd) that you be secret, and blabbe it not out when you meete with your gossippes, for if you doe, we are like not only to loose the Golde and Iewels, but our other goodes and liues. Tush (quoth his wife) profit is a good hatch before the doore: feare not, I haue other things to talke of then of this: but I pray you let vs lay vp the money surely, and the Iewels, least by any mishap it be spied. After that they had set all things in order, the shepheard went to his sheepe with a merry note, and the good wife learned to sing lullaby at home with her yong babe, wrapping it in a homely blanket in sted of a rich mantle: nourishing it so clenly and carefully as it began to be a iolly girle, in so much that they began both of them to be very fond of it, seeing, as it waxed in age, so it increased in beauty. The shepheard euery night at his comming home, would sing and daunce it on his knee, and prattle, that in a short time it began to speake and call him Dad, and her Mam: at last when it grew to ripe yeeres, that it was about seuen yeares olde, the shepheard left keeping of other mens sheepe, and with the money he found in the purse, he bought him the lease of a pretty farme, and got a smal flocke of sheepe, which when Fawnia (for so they named the child) came to the age of ten yeres, hee set her to keepe, and shee with such diligence performed her charge as the sheepe prospered marueilously vnder her hand. Fawnia thought Porrus had ben her father, and [tln 3388] Mopsa her mother, (for so was the shepheard and his wife called) and
and]  ~  1609; om. 1588
honoured and obeyed them with such reuerence, that all the neighbours praised the duetifull obedience of the child. [tln 1651–3] Porrus grewe in short time to bee a man of some wealth, and credite: for fortune so fauoured him in hauing no charge but Fawnia,
[D1v]
that he began to purchase land, intending after his death to
death to]  ~  1592; 1588 damaged
giue it to his daughter: so that diuerse rich farmers sonnes came as woers to his house: for Fawnia was something clenly attired, beeing of such singular beautie and excellent witte, that whoso sawe her, would haue thought shee had bene some heauenly nymph, and not a mortal creature: in so much, that when she came to the age of [tln 1585, 2240, 3221, 3243] sixteene yeeres, shee so increased with exquisite perfection both of body and minde, as [tln 1976–8] her natural disposition did bewray that she was borne of some high parentage: but the people thinking she was daughter to the shephard Porrus; rested only amazed at hir beauty and wit: yea she won such fauour and commendations in euery mans eye, as her beautie was not onely praysed in the countrey, but also spoken of in the Court: yet such was her submisse modestie, that although her praise daily increased, her mind was no whit puffed vp with pride, but humbled her selfe as became a country mayde and the daughter of a poore sheepheard. Euery day she went forth with her sheepe to the field, keeping them with such care and diligence, as al men thought she was verie painfull, defending her face from the heat of the sunne with no other vale, but with a garland made of bowes and flowers: which atire became her so gallantly, as [tln 1799] shee seemed to bee the Goddesse Flora her selfe for Beauty. Fortune, who al this while had shewed a frendly face, began now to turne her back, and to shewe a lowring countenance, intending as she had giuen Fawnia a slender checke, so she woulde giue her a harder mate: to bring which to passe, she layd her traine on this wise. Egistus had but one only son called Dorastus, about the age of twenty yeeres: a Prince so decked and adorned with the gifts of nature: so fraught with beauty and vertuous qualities, as not onely his father ioyed to haue so good a sonne, and al his commons reioyed that God had lent them such [tln 1806] a noble Prince to succeede in the Kingdom. Egistus placing all his ioy in the perfection of his sonne: seeing that hee was now mariage-able, sent Embassadors to the King of Denmarke, to intreate a mariage betweene him and his daughter, who willingly consenting, made answer, that the next spring, if it please Egistus with his sonne to come into Denmarke, hee doubted
[D2]
not, but they shoulde agree vpon reasonable conditions. Egistus resting satisfied with this friendly answer, thought conuenient in the meane time to breake with his sonne: finding therfore on a day fit oportunity he spake to him in these fatherly tearmes.

Dorastus, thy youth warneth me to preuent the worst, and mine age to prouide the best. Oportunities neglected, are signes of folly: actions measured by time, are seldome bitten with repentance: thou art young, and I olde: age hath taught me that, which thy youth cannot yet conceiue.

I therefore will counsell thee as a father, hoping thou wilt obey as a childe. Thou seest my white hayres are blossomes for the graue, and thy freshe colour fruite for time and fortune, so that it behooueth me to thinke how to dye, and for thee to care how to liue. My crowne I must leaue by death, and thou enioy my Kingdome by succession, wherein I hope thy vertue and prowesse shall bee such, as though my subiectes want my person, yet they shall see in thee my perfection. That nothing either may faile to satisfie thy minde, or increase thy dignities: the onely care I haue, is to see thee well marryed before I die, and thou become olde.

Dorastus who from his infancy, delighted rather to die with Mars in the Fielde, then to dally with Venus in the Chamber: fearing to displease his father, and yet not willing to be wed, made him this reuerent answere.

Sir, there is no greater bond than duetie, nor no straiter law then nature: disobedience in youth is often galled with despight in age. The commaund of the father ought to be a constraint to the childe: so parentes willes are laws, so they passe not all lawes: may it please your Grace therefore to appoint whome I shall loue, rather then by deniall I should be appeached of disobedience: I rest content to loue, though it bee the only thing I hate.

Egistus hearing his sonne to flie so farre from the marke, began to be somewhat chollericke, and therefore made him his hasty aunswere.

[D2v]
What Dorastus canst thou not loue? Commeth this cynicall passion of prone desires, or peeuish frowardnesse?
frowardnesse?]  ~  1607;  ~ . 1588
What doest thou thinke thy selfe to good for all, or none good inough for thee?
thee?]  ~  1607;  ~ . 1588
I tell thee, Dorastus, there is nothing sweeter then youth, nor swifter decreasing, while it is increasing. Time past with folly may bee repented, but not recalled. If thou marrie in age, thy wiues freshe couloures will breede in thee dead thoughtes and suspition, and thy white hayres her lothesomnesse and sorrowe. For Venus affections are not fed with Kingdomes, or treasures, but with youthfull conceits and sweete amours. Vulcan was allotted to shake the tree, but Mars allowed to reape the fruit. Yeelde Dorastus to thy Fathers perswasions, which may preuent thy perils. I haue chosen thee a Wife, faire by nature, royall by birth, by vertues famous, learned by education, and rich by possessions, so that it is hard to iudge whether her bounty, or fortune, her beauty, or vertue, bee of greater force: I meane, Dorastus, Euphania Daughter and heire to the King of Denmarke.

Egistus pausing here a while, looking when his son should make him answere, and seeing that he stoode still as one in a trance, he shooke him vp thus sharply.

Well Dorastus take heede, the tree Alpya wasteth not with fire, but withereth with the dewe: that which loue nourisheth not, perisheth with hate: if thou like Euphania, thou breedest my content, and in louing her thou shalt haue my loue, otherwise; and with that hee flung from his sonne in a rage, leauing him a sorrowfull man, in that he had by deniall displeased his Father, and halfe angrie with him selfe that hee coulde not yeelde to that passion, whereto both reason and his Father perswaded him: but see how fortune is plumed with times feathers, and how shee can minister strange causes to breede straunge effectes.

It happened not long after this, that there was [tln 1795] a meeting of all the Farmers Daughters in Sycilia, whither Fawnia was also bidden as the [tln 1709, 1802, 1873] mistres of the feast, who hauing attired

[D3]
her selfe [tln 1798–9] in her best garments, went among the rest of her companions to the merry meeting: there spending the day in such homely pastimes as shepheards vse. As the euening grew on, and their sportes ceased, ech taking their leaue at other, Fawnia desiring one of her companions to beare her companie, went home by the flocke, to see if they were well folded, and as they returned, it fortuned that Dorastus (who all that daye [tln 1813–15] had bene hawking, and kilde store of game) incountred by the way these two mayds, and casting his eye sodenly on Fawnia, he was halfe afraid, fearing that with Acteon he had seene Diana: for hee thought such exquisite perfection could not be founde in any mortall creature. As thus he stoode in a maze, one of his Pages told him, that the maide with [tln 1798] the garland on her heade was Fawnia the faire shepheard, whose beauty was so much talked of in the Court. Dorastus desirous to see if nature had adorned her minde with any inward qualities, as she had decked her body with outward shape, began to question with her whose daughter she was, of what age and how she had bin trained vp, who answered him with such modest reuerence and sharpnesse of witte, that Dorastus thought her outward beautie was but a counterfait to darken her inward qualities, [tln 2451–3] wondring how so courtly behauiour could be found in so simple a cottage, and cursing fortune that had shadowed wit and beauty with such hard fortune. As thus he held her a long while with chat, Beauty seeing him at discouert, thought not to lose the vantage, but strooke him so deepely with an inuenomed shafte, as he wholy lost his libertie, and became a slaue to Loue, which before contemned Loue, glad now to gaze on a poore shepheard, who before refused the offer of a riche Princesse: for the perfection of Fawnia had so fixed his fancie as he felt his mind greatly chaunged, and his affections altered, cursing Loue that had wrought such a chaunge, and blaming the basenesse of his mind that would make such a choice: but thinking these were but passionat toies that might be thrust out at pleasure, to auoid the Syren that inchaunted him, he put spurs to his horse, and bad this faire shepheard farwell.

Fawnia (who all this while had marked the princely ges-

[D3v]
ture of Dorastus) seeing his face so wel featured, and each lim so perfectly framed, began greatly to praise his perfection, commending him so long, till she found her selfe faultie, [tln 1799] and perceiued that if she waded but a little further, she might slippe ouer her shooes: shee therefore seeking to quench that fire which neuer was put out, went home, and faining her selfe not well at ease, got her to bed: where casting a thousand thoughts in her head, she could take no rest: for if she waked, she began to call to minde his beautie, and thinking to beguile such thoughts with sleepe, she then dreamed of his perfection: pestred thus with these vnacquainted passions, she passed the night as she could in short slumbers.

Dorastus (who all this while rode with a flea in his eare) coulde not by any meanes forget the sweete fauour of Fawnia, but rested so bewitched with her wit and beauty, as hee could take no rest. He felt fancy to giue the assault, and his wounded mind readie to yeeld as vanquished: yet he began with diuers considerations to suppresse this frantick affection, calling to minde, that Fawnia was a shepheard, one not worthy to bee looked at of a Prince, much lesse to bee loued of such a potentate, thinking what a discredite it were to himself, and what a griefe it would be to his father, blaming fortune and accusing his owne follie, that shoulde bee so fond as but once to cast a glaunce at such a country slut. As thus he was raging against him selfe, Loue, fearing if shee dallied long, to loose her champion, stept more nigh, and gaue him such a fresh wounde as it pearst him at the heart, that he was faine to yeeld, maugre his face, and to forsake the companie and gette him to his chamber: where being solemnly set, hee burst into these passionate tearmes.

Ah Dorastus, art thou alone? No not alone, while thou art tired with these vnacquainted passions. Yeld to fancy, thou canst not by thy fathers counsaile, but in a frenzie thou art by iust destinies. Thy father were content, if thou couldest loue, and thou therefore discontent, because thou doest loue. O deuine Loue, feared of men because honoured of the Gods, not to be suppressed by wisdome, because not to be comprehen-

[D4]
ded by reason: without Lawe, and therefore aboue all Law.

How now Dorastus, why doest thou blaze that with praises, which thou hast cause to blaspheme with curses? Yet why should they curse Loue, that are in Loue?

Blush Dorastus at thy fortune, thy choice, thy loue: thy thoughts cannot be vttered without shame, nor thy affections without discredit. Ah Fawnia, sweete Fawnia, thy beautie Fawnia. Shamest not thou Dorastus to name one vnfitte for thy birth, thy dignities, thy Kingdomes? Dye Dorastus, Dorastus die, better hadst thou perish with high desires, then liue in base thoughts. Yea but, beautie must be obeyed, because it is beauty, yet framed of the Gods to feede the eye, not to fetter the heart.

Ah but he that striueth against Loue, shooteth with them of Scyrum against the winde, and with the Cockeatrice pecketh against the steele. I will therefore obey, because I must obey, Fawnia, yea Fawnia shal be my fortune, in spight of fortune. [tln 1826–36] The Gods aboue disdain not to loue women beneath. Phoebus liked Sibilla, Iupiter Io, and why not I then Fawnia, one something inferiour to these in birth, but farre superiour to them in beautie, borne to be a Shepheard, but worthy to be a Goddesse.

Ah Dorastus, wilt thou so forget thy selfe as to suffer affection to suppresse wisedome, and Loue to violate thine honour?

honour]  ~  1592; hononour 1588
How sower will thy choice be to thy Father, sorrowfull to thy Subiects, to thy friends a griefe, most gladsome to thy foes? Subdue then thy affections, and cease to loue her whome thou couldst not loue, vnlesse blinded with too much loue. Tushe I talke to the wind, and in seeking to preuent the causes, I further the effectes. I will yet praise Fawnia, honour, yea and loue Fawnia, and at this day followe content, not counsaile. Doo Dorastus, thou canst but repent: and with that his Page came into the chamber, whereupon hee ceased from his complaints, hoping that time would weare out that which fortune had wrought. As thus he was pained, so poore Fawnia was diuersly perplexed: for the next morning getting vp very earely, shee went to her sheepe, thinking with
[D4v]
hard labours to passe away her new conceiued amours, beginning very busily to driue them to the field, and then to shift the foldes, at last (wearied with toile) she sate her down, where (poore soule) she was more tryed with fond affections: for loue beganne to assault her, in so much that as she sate vpon the side of a hill, she began to accuse her owne folly in these tearmes.

Infortunate Fawnia, and therefore infortunate because Fawnia, thy [tln 2263] shepherds hooke sheweth thy poore state, thy proud desires an aspiring mind: the one declareth thy want, the other thy pride. No bastard hauke must soare so hie as the Hobbie, no Fowle gaze against the Sunne but the Eagle, actions wrought against nature reape despight, and thoughts aboue Fortune disdaine.

Fawnia, thou art a shepheard, daughter to poore Porrus: if thou rest content with this, thou art like to stande, if thou climbe thou art sure to fal. The Herb Anita growing higher then sixe ynches becommeth a weede. Nylus flowing more then twelue cubits procureth a dearth. Daring affections that passe measure, are cut shorte by time or fortune: suppresse then Fawnia those thoughts which thou mayest shame to expresse. But ah Fawnia, loue is a Lord, who will commaund by power, and constraine by force.

Dorastus, ah Dorastus is the man I loue, the woorse is thy hap, and the lesse cause hast thou to hope. Will Eagles catch at flyes, will Cedars stoupe to brambles, or mighty Princes looke at such homely trulles. No, no, thinke this, Dorastus disdaine is greater then thy desire, hee is a Prince respecting his honor, thou a beggars brat forgetting thy calling. Cease then not onely to say, but to thinke to loue Dorastus, and dissemble thy loue Fawnia, for better it were to dye with griefe, then to liue with shame: yet in despight of loue I will sigh, to see if I can sigh out loue. Fawnia somewhat appeasing her griefes with these pithie perswasions, began after her wonted maner to walke about her sheepe, and to keepe them from straying into the corne, suppressing her affection with the due consideration of her base estate, and with the impossibilities of her loue, thinking it were frenzy, not fancy, to couet that which

[E1]
the very destinies did deny her to obteine.

But Dorastus was more impatient in his passions: for loue so fiercely assayled him, that neither companie, nor musicke could mittigate his martirdome, but did rather far the more increase his maladie: shame would not let him craue counsaile in this case, nor feare of his Fathers displeasure reueyle it to any secrete friend: but hee was faine to make a Secretarie of himselfe, and to participate his thoughtes with his owne troubled mind. Lingring thus awhile in doubtfull suspence, at last stealing secretely from the court without either men or Page, hee went to see if hee coulde espie Fawnia walking abroade in the field: but as one hauing a great deale more skill to retriue the partridge with his spaniels, then to hunt after such a straunge pray, he sought, but was little the better: which crosse lucke draue him into a great choler, that he began both to accuse loue and fortune. But as he was readie to retire, he sawe Fawnia sitting all alone vnder the side of a hill, making a garland of such homely flowers as the fields did afoord. This sight so reuiued his spirites that he drewe nigh, with more iudgement to take a view of her singular perfection, which hee found to bee such, as in that countrey attyre shee stained al the courtlie Dames of Sicilia. While thus he stoode gazing with pearcing lookes on her surpassing beautie, Fawnia cast her eye aside, and spyed Dorastus, which

which]  ~  1607; with 1588
sudden sight made the poore girl to blush, and to die her christal cheeks with a vermilion red: which gaue her such a grace, as she seemed farre more beautiful. And with that she rose vp, saluting the Prince with such modest curtesies, as he wondred how a country maid could afoord such courtly behauiour. Dorastus, repaying her curtesie with a smiling countenance, began to parlie with her on this manner.

Faire maide (quoth he) either your want is great, or a shepheards life very sweete, that your delight is in such country labors. I can not conceiue what pleasure you should take, vnlesse you meane to imitate the nymphes, being your selfe

your selfe]  ~  1592; you,selfe 1588
so like a Nymph. To put me out of this doubt, shew me what is to be commended in a shepherdes life, and what
[E1v]
pleasures you haue to counteruaile these drudging laboures. Fawnia with blushing face made him this ready aunswere.

Sir, what richer state then content, or what sweeter life then quiet, we shepheards are not borne to honor, nor beholding vnto beautie, the lesse care we haue to feare fame or fortune: we count our attire braue inough if warme inough, and our foode

foode]  ~  1592; fdode 1588
dainty, if to suffice nature: our greatest enemie is the wolfe: our only care in safe keeping our flock: in stead of courtly ditties we spend the daies with cuntry songs: our amorous conceites are homely thoughtes: delighting as much to talke of Pan and his cuntrey prankes, as Ladies to tell of Venus and her wanton toyes. Our toyle is in shifting the fouldes, and looking to the Lambes,
Lambes,]  ~  1614;  ~ ‸ 1588
easie labours: oft singing and telling tales, homely pleasures: our greatest welth not to couet, our honor not to climbe, our quiet not to care. Enuie looketh not so lowe as shepheards: Shepheards gaze not so high as ambition: we are rich in that we are poore with content, and proud onely in this that we haue no cause to be proud.

This wittie answer of Fawnia so inflamed Dorastus fancy, as he commended him selfe for making so good a choyce, thinking, [tln 2449–53] if her birth were aunswerable to her wit and beauty, that she were a fitte mate for the most famous Prince in the worlde. He therefore beganne to sifte her more narrowely on this manner.

Fawnia, I see thou art content with Country labours, because thou knowest not Courtly pleasures: I commend thy wit, and pitty thy want: but wilt thou leaue thy Fathers Cottage, and serue a Courtlie Mistresse.

Sir (quoth she) beggers ought not to striue against fortune, nor to gaze after honour, least either their fall be greater, or they become blinde. I am borne to toile for the Court, not in the Court, my nature vnfit for their nurture, better liue then in meane degree, than in high disdaine.

Well saide, Fawnia (quoth Dorastus) I gesse at thy thoughtes, thou art in loue with some Countrey Shep-

[E2]
hearde.

No sir (quoth she) shepheards cannot loue, that are so simple, and maides may not loue that are so young.

Nay therefore (quoth Dorastus) maides must loue, because they are young, for Cupid is a child, and Venus, though olde, is painted with fresh coloures.

I graunt (quoth she) age may be painted with new shadowes, and youth may haue imperfect affections: but what arte concealeth in one, ignorance reuealeth in the other. Dorastus seeing Fawnia helde him so harde, thought it was vaine so long to beate about the bush: therefore he thought to haue giuen her a fresh charge: but he was so preuented by certaine of his men, who missing their maister, came posting to seeke him: seeing that he was gone foorth all alone, yet before they drewe so nie that they might heare their talke, he vsed these speeches.

Why Fawnia, perhappes I loue thee, and then thou must needes yeelde, for thou knowest I can commaunde and constraine. Trueth sir (quoth she) but not to loue: for constrained loue is force, not loue: and know this sir, mine honesty is such, as I hadde rather dye then be a Concubine euen to a King, and my birth is so base as I am vnfitte to bee a wife to a poore farmer. Why then (quoth he) thou canst not loue Dorastus? Yes saide Fawnia, when Dorastus becomes a shepheard, and with that the presence of his men broke off their parle, so that he went with them to the palace, and left Fawnia sitting still on the hill side, who seeing that the night drewe on, shifted her fouldes, and busied her selfe about other worke to driue away such fond fancies as began to trouble her braine. But all this could not preuaile, for the beautie of Dorastus had made such a deepe impression in her heart, as it could not be worne out without cracking, so that she was forced to blame her owne folly in this wise.

Ah Fawnia, why doest thou gaze against the Sunne, or catch at the Winde: starres are to be looked at with the eye, not reacht at with the hande: thoughts are to be measured by Fortunes, not by desires: falles come not by sitting low, but by climing too hie: what then shall al feare to fal, because some

[E2v]
happe to fall? No,
No,]  ~  1595;  ~ ‸ 1588
lucke commeth by lot, and fortune windeth those threedes which the destinies spin. Thou art fauored Fawnia of a prince, and yet thou art so fond to reiect desired fauours: thou hast deniall at thy tonges end, and desire at thy hearts bottome: a womans fault, to spurne at that with her foote, which she greedily catcheth at with her hand. Thou louest Dorastus, Fawnia, and yet seemest to lower. Take heede, if hee retire, thou wilt repent: for vnles hee loue, thou canst but dye. Dye then Fawnia: for Dorastus doth but iest: the Lyon neuer prayeth on the mouse, nor Faulcons stoupe not to dead stales [OED, sb.3 1: A decoy-bird]. Sit downe then in sorrow, ceasse to loue, and content thy selfe, that Dorastus will vouchsafe to flatter Fawnia, though not to fancy Fawnia. Heigh ho: Ah foole, it were seemelier for thee to whistle as a Shepheard, then to sigh as a louer, and with that she ceassed from these perplexed passions, folding her sheepe, and hying home to her poore Cottage. But such was the incessant sorrow of Dorastus to thinke on the witte and beautie of Fawnia, and to see how fond hee was being a Prince: and how froward she was being a beggar, that
that]  ~  1607; then 1588
he began to loose his wonted appetite, to looke pale and wan: in stead of mirth, to feede on melancholy: for courtly daunces to vse cold dumpes: in so much that not onely his owne men, but his father and all the court began to maruaile at his sudden change, thinking that some lingring sickenes had brought him into this state: wherefore he caused Phisitions to come, but Dorastus neither would let them minister, nor so much as suffer them to see his vrine: but remained stil so oppressed with these passions, as he feared in him selfe a farther inconuenience. His honor wished him to ceasse from such folly, but Loue forced him to follow fancy: yea and in despight of honour, loue wonne the conquest, so that his hot desires caused him to find new deuises, for hee presently made himselfe a shepheards coate, that he might goe vnknowne, and with the lesse suspition to prattle with Fawnia, and conueied it secretly into a thick groue hard ioyning to the Pallace, whether finding fit time, and oportunity, he went all alone, and putting off his princely apparel, got on those shepheards roabes, and taking [tln 2263] a great hooke in his hand (which he had also gotten) he went very an-
[E3]
ciently [Bullough (1975, 8:184): like an old man . . . anxiously perhaps] to finde out the mistres of his affection: but as he went by the way, seeing himselfe clad in such vnseemely ragges, he began to smile at his owne folly, and to reproue his fondnesse in these tearmes.

Well said Dorastus, thou keepest a right decorum, base desires and homely attires: thy thoughtes are fit for none but a shepheard, and thy apparell such as only become a shepheard. A strang change from a Prince to a pesant? What is it? thy wretched fortune or thy wilful folly? Is it thy cursed destinies? Or thy crooked desires, that appointeth thee this penance? Ah Dorastus thou canst but loue, and vnlesse thou loue, thou art like to perish for loue. Yet fond foole, choose flowers, not weedes: Diamondes, not peables: Ladies which may honour thee, not shepheards which may disgrace thee. Venus is painted in silkes, not in ragges: and Cupid treadeth on disdaine, when he reacheth at dignitie. [tln 1826–36] And yet Dorastus shame not at thy shepheards weede: the heauenly Godes haue sometime earthly thoughtes: [tln 1828–32] Neptune became a Ram, Iupiter a Bul, Apollo a shepheard: they Gods, and yet in loue: and thou a man appointed to loue.

Deuising thus with himselfe, hee drew nigh to the place where Fawnia was keeping her shepe, who casting her eye aside, and seeing such a manerly shepheard, perfectly limmed, and comming with so good a pace, she began halfe to forget Dorastus, and to fauor this prety shepheard, whom she thought shee might both loue and obtaine: but as shee was in these thoughts, she perceiued then, it was the yong prince Dorastus, wherfore she rose vp, and reuerently saluted him. Dorastus taking her by the hand, repaied her curtesie with a sweete kisse, and praying her to sit downe by him, he began thus to lay the batterie.

If thou maruell Fawnia at my strange attyre, thou wouldest more muse at my vnaccustomed thoughtes: the one disgraceth but my outward shape, the other disturbeth my inward sences. I loue Fawnia, and therefore what loue liketh I cannot mislike. Fawnia thou hast promised to loue, and I

[E3v]
hope thou wilt performe no lesse: I haue fulfilled thy request, and now thou canst but graunt my desire. Thou wert content to loue Dorastus when he ceast to be a Prince, and graunted
graunted]  ~  Wells (1988); om. 1588
to become a shepheard, and see I haue made the change, and therefore hope
hope]  ~  Wells (1988); om. 1588
not to misse of my choice.

Trueth, quoth Fawnia, but all that weare Cooles [cowls] are not Monkes: painted Eagles are pictures, not Eagles, Zeusis Grapes were like Grapes, yet shadowes: rich clothing make not princes: nor homely attyre beggers: shepheards are not called shepheardes, because they were [wear] hookes and bagges: but that they are borne poore, and liue to keepe sheepe, so this attire hath not made Dorastus a shepherd, but to seeme like a shepherd.

shepherd]  ~  1592; shephherd 1588

Well Fawnia, answered Dorastus: were I a shepherd, I could not but like thee, and being a prince I am forst to loue thee. Take heed Fawnia, be not proud of beauties painting, for it is a flower that fadeth in the blossome. Those which disdayne in youth are despised in age: Beauties shadowes are trickt vp with times colours, which being set to drie in the sunne are stained with the sunne, scarce pleasing the sight ere they beginne not to be worth the sight, not much vnlike the herbe Ephemeron, which flourisheth in the morning and is withered before the sunne setting: if my desire were against lawe, thou mightest iustly deny me by reason, but I loue thee Fawnia, not to misuse thee as a Concubine, but to vse thee as my wife: I can promise no more, and meane to performe no lesse.

Fawnia hearing this solemne protestation of Dorastus, could no longer withstand the assault, but yeelded vp the forte in these friendly tearmes.

Ah Dorastus, I shame to expresse that thou forcest me with thy sugred speeche to confesse: my base birth causeth the one, and thy high dignities the other. Beggars thoughts ought not to reach so far as Kings, and yet my desires reach as high as Princes, I dare not say Dorastus, I loue thee, be-

[E4]
cause I am a shepherd, but the Gods know I haue honored Dorastus (pardon if I say amisse) yea and loued Dorastus with such dutiful affection as Fawnia can performe, or Dorastus desire: I yeeld, not ouercome with prayers, but with loue, resting Dorastus handmaid ready to obey his wil, if no preiudice at all to his honour, nor to my credit.

Dorastus hearing this freendly conclusion of Fawnia embraced her in his armes, swearing that neither distance, time, nor aduerse fortune should diminish his affection: but that in despight of the destinies he would remaine loyall vnto death. Hauing thus plight their troath each to other, seeing they could not haue the full fruition of their loue in Sycilia for that [tln 1817–20, 1838–49] Egistus consent woulde neuer bee graunted to so meane a match, Dorastus determined assone as time and oportunitie would giue them leaue, to prouide a great masse of money, and many rich and costly iewels, for the easier cariage, and then [tln 2351 ff.] to transporte them selues and their treasure into Italy, where they should leade a contented life, vntil such time as either he could be reconciled to his Father, or els by succession

succession]  ~  1592; sucession 1588
come to the Kingdome. This deuise was greatly praysed of Fawnia, for she feared if the King his father should but heare of the contract, that his furie would be such as no lesse then death would stand for payment: she therefore tould him, that delay bred daunger: that many mishaps did fall out betweene the cup and the lip, and that to auoid danger, it were best with as much speed as might be to pass out of Sycilia, least fortune might preuent their pretence with some newe despight: Dorastus, whom loue pricked forward with desire, promised to dispatch his affaires with as great hast, as either time or oportunitie would geue him leaue: and so resting vpon this point, after many imbracings and sweete kisses they departed. Dorastus hauing taken his leaue of his best beloued Fawnia, went to the Groue where hee had his rich apparel, and there [tln 2512] vncasing himself as secretly as might be, hiding vp his shepheards attire, till occasion should serue againe to vse it: hee went to the pallace, shewing by his merrie countenaunce, that either the state of his body was amended, or the case of his minde
[E4v]
greatly redressed: Fawnia poore soule was no less ioyful, that being a shepheard, fortune had fauoured her so, as to reward her with the loue of a Prince, hoping in time to be aduaunced from the daughter of a poore farmer to be the wife of a riche King: so that she thought euery houre a yeere, till by their departure they might preuent danger, not ceasing still to goe euery daye to her sheepe, not so much for the care of her flock, as for the desire she had to see her loue and Lord Dorastus: who oftentimes, when oportunitie would serrue, repaired thither to feede his fancy with the sweet content of Fawnias
Fawnias‸]  ~  1592;  ~ , 1588
presence: and although he neuer went to visit her, but in his shepheards ragges, yet his ofte repaire made him not onely suspected, but knowne to diuers of their neighbours: who for the good will they bare to old Porrus, tould him secretly of the matter, wishing him to keepe his daughter at home, least she went so oft to the field that she brought him home a yong sonne: for they feared that Fawnia being so beautifull, the yong prince would allure her to folly. Porrus was striken into a dump at these newes, so that thanking his neighboures for their good will hee hyed him home to his wife, and calling her aside, wringing his handes and shedding foorth teares, he brake the matter to her in these tearmes.

I am afraid wife, that my daughter Fawnia hath made her selfe so fine, that she will buy repentance too deare. I heare newes, which if they be true, some will wish they had not proued true. It is tould me by my neighbours, that Dorastus the Kinges sonne begins to looke at our daughter Fawnia: which if it be so, I will not geue her a halfepeny

halfepeny]  ~  1592; halfepenp 1588
for her honestie at
honestie at]  ~  1592; honestiect 1588
the yeeres end. I tell thee wife, nowadaies beauty is a great stale to trap yong men, and faire wordes and sweete promises are two great enemies to a maydens honestie: and thou knowest where poore men intreate, and cannot obtaine, there Princes may commaund, and wil obtaine. Though Kings sonnes daunce in nettes, they may not be seene: but poore mens faultes are spied at a little hole: Well, it is a hard case where Kinges lustes are lawes, and that they should binde poore men to that, which they themselues wilfully breake.

[F1]
Peace husband (quoth his wife) take heede what you say: speake no more then you should, least you heare what you would not: great streames are to be stopped by sleight, not by force: and princes to be perswaded by submission, not by rigor: doe what you can, but no more than you may, least in sauing Fawnias mayden-head, you loose your owne head. Take heede I say, it is ill iesting with edged tooles, and bad sporting with Kinges. The Wolfe had his skinne puld ouer his eares for but looking into the Lions den. Tush wife (quoth he) thou speakest like a foole. If the King should knowe that Dorastus had begotten our daughter with childe (as I feare it will fall out little better) the Kings furie would be such as no doubt we should both loose our goodes and liues: necessitie therefore hath no lawe, and I will preuent this mischiefe with a newe deuise that is come into my head, which shall neither offend the King, nor displease Dorastus. I meane to take the chaine and the iewels that I found with Fawnia, and carrie them to the King, letting him then to vnderstand how she is none of my daughter, but that I found her beaten vp with the water alone in a little boate wrapped in a rich Mantle, wherein was inclosed this treasure. By this meanes I hope the King will take Fawnia into his seruice, and we whatsoeuer chaunceth shal be blamelesse. This deuice pleased the good wife very well, so that they determined assoone as they might know the King at leisure, to make him priuie to this case. In the meane time Dorastus was not slacke in his affaires, but applyed his matters with such diligence, that he prouided all thinges fitte for their iourney. Treasure and Iewels he had gotten great store, thincking there was no better friend than money in a strange countrey: rich attire he had prouided for Fawnia, and, because he could not bring the matter to passe without the helpe and aduice of some one, he made an old seruant of his called Capnio, who had serued him from his childhood, priuie to his affaires: who seeing no perswasions could preuaile to diuert him from his setled determination, gaue his consent and dealt so secretly in the cause, that within short space, hee had gotten a ship ready for their passage: the Mariners seeing a fit gale of winde for their purpose, wished Capnio to make no delayes,
[F1v]
least if they pretermitted this good weather, they might stay long ere they had such a fayre winde. Capnio fearing that his negligence should hinder the iourney, in the night time conueyed the trunckes full of treasure into the shippe, and by secrete meanes let Fawnia vnderstand, that the next morning they meant to depart: she vpon this newes slept verie little that night, but gotte vp very early, and wente to her sheepe, looking euery minute when she should see Dorastus, who taried not long, for fear delay might breede daunger, but came as fast as he could gallop, and without any great circumstance tooke Fawnia vp behinde him and rode to the hauen, where the shippe lay, which was not three quarters of a mile distant from that place. He no sooner came there, but the Marriners were readie with their Cockboate to set them aboard, where being coucht together in a Cabben they past away the time in recounting their old loues, til their man Capnio should come. Porrus who had heard that this morning the King would go abroad to take the ayre, called in haste to his wife to bring him his holyday hose and his best Iacket, that he might goe like an honest substantiall man to tell his tale. His wife, a good cleanly wenche, brought him all things fitte, and spungd him vp very handsomlie, giuing him the chaines and Iewels in a little boxe, which Porrus for the more safety put in his bosom. Hauing thus all his trinkets in a readines, taking his staffe in his hand he bad his wife kisse him for good lucke, and so hee went towards the Pallace. But as he was going, fortune (who meant to showe him a little false play) preuented his purpose in this wise.

He met by chaunce in his way Capnio, who trudging as fast as he could with a little coffer vnder his arme to the ship, and spying Porrus whome he knewe to be Fawnias Father, going towardes the Pallace, being a wylie fellow, began to doubt the worst, and therefore crost him the way, and askt him whither he was going so earely this morning.

Porrus (who knew by his face that he was one of the Court) meaning simply, told him that the Kings son Dorastus dealt hardly with him; for he had but one Daughter who was a little beautifull, and that his neighboures told him the young

[F2]
Prince had allured her to folly, he went therefore now to complaine to the King how greatly he was abused.

Capnio (who straight way smelt the whole matter) began to soothe him in his talke, and said, that Dorastus dealt not like a Prince to spoyle any poore manes daughter in that sort: he therefore would doe the best for him he could, because he knew he was an honest man. But (quoth Capnio) you lose your labour in going to the Pallace, for [tln 2642–5] the King meanes this day to take the aire of the Sea, and to goe aboord of a shippe that lies in the hauen. I am going before, you see, to prouide all things in redinesse, and if you will follow my counsaile, turne back with me to the hauen, where I will set you in such a fitte place as you may speake to the King at your pleasure. Porrus giuing credit to Capnios smooth tale, gaue him a thousand thanks for his friendly aduise, and went with him to the hauen, making all the way his complaintes of Dorastus, yet concealing secretlie the chaine and the Iewels. Assone as they were come to the Sea side, the marriners seeing Capnio, came a land with their cockboate, who still dissembling the matter, demaunded of Porrus if he would go see the ship? who vnwilling and fearing the worst, because he was not well acquainted with Capnio, made his excuse that he could not brooke the Sea, therefore would not trouble him.

Capnio seeing that by faire meanes hee could not get him aboord, commaunded the mariners that by violence they should carrie him into the shippe, who like sturdy knaues hoisted the poore shepheard on their backes, and bearing him to the boate, lanched from the land.

Porrus seeing himselfe so cunningly betraied durst not crie out, for hee sawe it would not preuaile, but began to intreate Capnio and the mariners to be good to him, and to pittie his estate, hee was but a poore man that liued by his labour: they laughing to see the shepheard so afraide, made as much haste as they could, and set him aboorde. Porrus was no sooner in the shippe, but he saw Dorastus walking with Fawnia, yet he scarse knew her: for she had attired her selfe in riche apparell, which

which‸]  ~  1607;  ~ , 1588
so increased her beauty, that shee resembled rather an Angell than a mortall creature.

[F2v]
Dorastus and Fawnia, were halfe astonished to see the olde shepherd, maruailing greatly what wind had brought him thither, til Capnio
Capnio]  ~  1592; Capino 1588
told them al the whole discourse: how Porrus was going to make his complaint to the King, if by pollicie he had not preuented him, and therefore now sith he was aboord, for the auoiding of further danger it were best to carrie him into Italy.

Dorastus praised greatly his mans deuise, and allowed of his counsaile; but Fawnia, (who stil feared Porrus, as her father) began to blush for shame, that by her meanes he should either incure daunger or displeasure.

The old shephard hearing this hard sentence, that he should on such a sodaine be caried from his Wife, his country, and kinsfolke, into a forraine Lande amongst straungers, began with bitter teares to make his complaint, and on his knees to intreate Dorastus, that pardoning his vnaduised folly he would giue him leaue to goe home: swearing that hee would keepe all thinges as secret as they could wish. But these protestations could not preuaile, although Fawnia intreated Dorastus very earnestly, but the mariners hoisting their maine sailes waied ankers, and hailed into the deepe, where we leaue them to the fauour of the wind and seas, and returne to Egistus.

Who hauing appointed this day to hunt in one of his Forrests, called for his sonne Dorastus to go sport himselfe, because hee saw that of late hee began to loure; but his men made answer that hee was gone abroade none knew whither, except he were gone to the groue to walke all alone, as his custome was to doe euery day.

The King willing to waken him out of his dumpes, sent one of his men to goe seeke him, but in vaine, for at last he returned, but finde him he could not, so that the King went himselfe to goe see the sport; where passing away the day, returning at night from hunting, hee asked for his sonne, but he could not be heard of, which draue the King into a great choler: whereupon most of his Noblemen and other Courtiers poasted abroad to seek him, but they could not heare of him through all Sicilia, onely they missed Capnio his man which againe

[F3]
made the King suspect that hee was not gone farre.

Two or three daies being passed, and no newes heard of Dorastus, Egistus began to feare that he was deuoured with some wilde beastes, and vpon that made out a great troupe of men to go seeke him; who coasted through all the Country, and searched in euerie daungerous and secrete place, vntill at last they mette with a Fisherman that was sitting in a little couert hard by the sea side mending his nettes, when Dorastus and Fawnia tooke shipping: who being examined if he either knewe or heard where the Kings Sonne was, without any secrecie at all reuealed the whole matter, how he was sayled two dayes past, had in his company his man Capnio, Porrus and his faire Daughter Fawnia. This heauie newes was presently caryed to the King, who halfe dead for sorrow commaunded Porrus wife to be sent for: she being come to the Pallace, after due examination, confessed that her neighbours had oft told her that the Kings Sonne was too familier with Fawnia, her Daughter: whereuppon, her husband fearing the worst, about two dayes past (hearing the King should goe an hunting) rose earely in the morning and went to make his complaint, but since she neither hearde of him, nor saw him. Egistus perceiuing the womans vnfeyned simplicity, let her depart without incurring further displeasure, conceiuing

conceiuing]  ~  1614; conceiling 1588
such secret greefe for his Sonnes recklesse follie, that he had so forgotten his honour and parentage, by so base a choise to dishonor his father, and discredit himselfe, that with very care and thought he fel into a quartan feuer, which was so vnfit for his aged yeeres and complexion, that he became so weake, as the Phisitions would graunt him no life.

But his sonne Dorastus little regarded either father, countrie, or Kingdome in respect of his Lady Fawnia, for fortune smyling on this young nouice, lent him so lucky a gale of winde, for the space of a day and a night, that the maryners lay and slept vpon the hatches; but on the next morning about the breake of the day, the aire began to be ouercast, the winds to rise, the seas to swel, yea presently [tln 2408] there arose such a fearfull tempest, as the ship was in danger to be swallowed vp with euery sea, the maine mast with the violence of the wind was thrown

[F3v]
ouer boord, the sayles were torne, the tacklings went in sunder, the storme raging still so furiously that poore Fawnia was almost dead for feare, but that she was greatly comforted with the presence of Dorastus. The tempest continued three dayes, al which time the Mariners euerie minute looked for death, and the aire was so darkned with cloudes that the Maister could not tell by his compasse in what Coast they were. But vpon the fourth day about ten of the clocke, the wind began to cease, the sea to waxe calme, and the sky to be cleare, and the Mariners descryed the coast of Bohemia, shooting of their ordnance for ioy that they had escaped such a fearefull tempest.

Dorastus hearing that they were arriued at some harbour, sweetly kissed Fawnia, and bad her be of good cheare: when they tolde him that the port belonged vnto the cheife Cittie of Bohemia where Pandosto kept his Court, Dorastus began to be sad, knowing that his Father hated no man so much as Pandosto, and that the King himself had sought secretly to betray Egistus: this considered, he was halfe afraid to goe on land, but that Capnio counselled him to chaunge his name and his countrey, vntil such time as they could get some other barke to transport them into Italy. Dorastus liking this deuise made his case priuy to the Marriners, rewarding them bountifully for their paines, and charging them to saye that he was a Gentleman of Trapalonia called Meleagrus. The shipmen willing to shew what friendship they could to Dorastus, promised to be as secret as they could, or hee might wish, and vppon this they landed in a little village a mile distant from the Citie, where after they had rested a day, thinking to make prouision for their mariage, the fame of Fawnias beauty was spread throughout all the Citie, so that it came to the eares of Pandosto, who then [tln 2240] being about the age of fifty, had notwithstanding yong and freshe affections: so that he desired greatly to see Fawnia, and to bring this matter the better to passe, hearing they had but one man, and how they rested at a very homely house, he caused them to be apprehended as spies, and sent a dozen of his garde to take them: who being come to their lodging, tolde them the Kings message. Dorastus no

[F4]
whit dismayed, accompanied with Fawnia and Capnio, went to the court (for they left Porrus to keepe the stuffe) who being admitted to the Kings presence,
presence,]  ~  1592;  ~ . 1588
Dorastus and Fawnia with humble obeysance saluted his maiestie.

Pandosto amased at the singular perfection of Fawnia, stood halfe astonished, viewing her beauty, so that he had almost forgot himselfe what hee had to doe: at last with stearne countenance he demaunded their names, and of what countrey they were, and what caused them to land in Bohemia. Sir (quoth Dorastus) know that my name Meleagrus is,

is,]  ~ ‸ 1588–95; reading differs 1601+
a Knight borne and brought vp in Trapalonia, and this gentlewoman, whom I meane to take to my wife is an Italian [tln 2915, 2926] borne in Padua, from whence I haue now brought her. The cause I haue so small a trayne with me is for that, her friends vnwilling to consent, I intended secretly to conuey her into Trapalonia; whither as I was sailing, by distresse of weather I was driuen into these coasts: thus haue you heard my name, my country, and the cause of my voiage. Pandosto starting from his seat as one in choller, made this rough reply.

Meleagrus, I feare this smooth tale hath but small trueth, and that thou couerest a foule skin with faire paintings. No doubt this Ladie by her grace and beauty is of her degree more meete for a mighty Prince, then for a simple knight, and thou like a periured traitour hast bereft her of her parents, to their present griefe, and her insuing sorrow. Till therefore I heare more of her parentage and of thy calling, I wil stay you both here in Bohemia.

Dorastus, in whome rested nothing but Kingly valor, was not able to suffer the reproches of Pandosto, but that he made him this answer.

It is not meete for a King, without due proofe to appeach any man of ill behauiour, nor vpon suspition to inferre beleefe: straungers ought to bee entertained with courtesie, not to bee intreated with crueltie, least being forced by want to put vp iniuries, the Gods reuenge their cause with rigor.

Pandosto hearing Dorastus vtter these wordes, [tln 2998] commaunded that he should straight be committed to prison, vntill such

[F4v]
time as they heard further of his pleasure, but as for Fawnia, he charged that she should be entertained in the Cohrt, with such curtesie as belonged to a straunger and her calling. The rest of the shipmen he put into the Dungeon.

Hauing thus hardly handled the supposed Trapalonians, [tln 2724] Pandosto contrarie to his aged yeares

yeares]  ~  1592; yeaxes 1588
began to be somewhat tickled with the beauty of Fawnia, in so much that hee could take no rest, but cast in his old head a thousand new deuises: at last he fell into these thoughtes.

How art thou pestred Pandosto with fresh affections, and vnfitte fancies, wishing to possesse with an vnwilling mynde, and in

in]  ~  Wells (1988); om. 1588
a hot desire troubled with a could disdaine! Shall thy mynde yeeld in age to that thou hast resisted in youth? Peace Pandosto, blabbe not out that which thou maiest be ashamed to reueale to thy self. Ah, Fawnia is beautifull, and it is not for thine honour (fond foole) to name her that is thy Captiue, and an other mans Concubine. Alas, I reach at that with my hand which my hart would faine refuse: playing like the bird Ibys in Egipt, which hateth Serpents, yet feedeth on their egges.

Tush, hot desires turne oftentimes to colde disdaine: Loue is brittle, where appetite, not reason, beares the sway. Kinges thoughtes ought not to climbe so high as the heauens, but to looke no lower then honour: better it is to pecke at the starres with the young Eagles, then to prey on dead carkasses with the Vulture: tis more honourable for Pandosto to dye by concealing Loue, then to enioy such vnfitte Loue. Dooth Pandosto then loue? Yea. Whome? A maid vnknowne, yea and perhapps, immodest, stragled out of her owne countrie: beautifull, but not therefore chast: comely in bodie, but perhappes crooked in minde. Cease then Pandosto, to looke at Fawnia, much lesse to loue her: be not ouertaken with a womans beauty, whose eyes are framed by arte to inamour, whose hearte is framed by nature to inchaunt, whose false teares knowe their true times, and whose sweete wordes pearce deeper then sharpe swordes. Here Pandosto ceased from his talke, but not from his loue: for although he sought by reason, and wisedome

[G1]
to suppresse this franticke affection, yet he could take no rest, the beautie of Fawnia had made such a deepe impression in his heart. But on a day, walking; abroad into a Parke which was hard adioyning to his house, he sent by one of his seruants for Fawnia, [see n. 2995] vnto whome he vttered these wordes.

Fawnia, I commend thy beauty and wit, and now pittie thy distresse and want: but if you wilt forsake Sir Meleagrus, whose pouerty, though a Knight, is not able to maintaine an estate aunswerable to thy beauty, and yeld thy consent to Pandosto, I wil both increase thee with dignities and riches. No sir, answered Fawnia: Meleagrus is a knight that hath wonne me by loue, and none but he shal [tln 404] weare me: his sinister mischance shall not diminishe my affection, but rather increase my good will. Thinke not though your Grace hath imprisoned him without cause, that feare shall make mee yeeld my consent: I had rather be Meleagrus wife, and a beggar, then liue in plenty, and be Pandostos Concubine. Pandosto, hearing the assured aunswere of Fawnia, would, notwithstanding, prosecute his suite to the vttermost: seeking with faire words and great promises to scale the fort of her chastitie, swearing that if she would graunt to his desire, Meleagrus should not only be set at libertie, but honored in his courte amongst his Nobles: but these alluring baytes could not intise her minde from the loue of her newe betrothed mate Meleagrus: which Pandosto seeing, he left her alone for that time to consider more of the demaund. Fawnia, being alone by her selfe, began to enter into these solitarie meditations.

Ah, infortunate Fawnia, thou seest to desire aboue fortune is to striue against the Gods and Fortune. Who gazeth at the sunne weakeneth his sight: they which stare at the skie, fall oft into deepe pits: haddest thou rested content to haue been a shepheard, thou neededst not to haue feared mischaunce. Better had it bene for thee, by sitting lowe, to haue had quiet, then by climing high to haue fallen into miserie. But alas, I feare not mine owne daunger, but Dorastus displeasure. Ah sweete Dorastus, thou art a Prince, but now a prisoner, by too much

[G1v]
loue procuring thine owne losse. Haddest thou not loued Fawnia thou haddest bene fortunate. Shall I then bee false to him that hath forsaken Kingdomes for my cause? No; would my death might deliuer him, so mine honor might be preserued. With that, fetching a deepe sigh, she ceased from her complaints, and went againe to the Pallace, inioying a libertie without content, and profered pleasure with smal ioy. But poore Dorastus lay all this while in close prison, being pinched with a hard restraint, and pained with the burden of colde, and heauie Irons, sorrowing sometimes that his fond affection had procured him this mishappe, that by the disobedience of his parentes, he had wrought his owne despight: an other while cursing the Gods and fortune, that they should crosse him with such sinister chaunce: vttering at last his passions in these words.

Ah vnfortunate wretch, borne to mishappe, now thy folly hath his desert: Art thou not worthie for thy base minde to haue bad fortune? could the destinies fauour thee, which hast forgot thine honor and dignities? Wil not the Gods plague him with despight that payneth his father with disobedience? Oh Gods, if any fauour or iustice be left, plague me, but fauour poore Fawnia, and shrowd her from the tirannies of wretched Pandosto, but let my death free her from mishap, and then, welcome death! Dorastus payned with these heauie passions, sorrowed and sighed, but in vaine, for which he vsed the more patience. But againe to Pandosto, who broyling at the heat of vnlawfull lust coulde take no rest but still felte his minde disquieted with his new loue, so that his nobles and subiectes marueyled greatly at this sudaine alteration, not being able to coniecture the cause of this his continued care. Pandosto, thinking euery hower a yeare til he had talked once againe with Fawnia, sent for her secretly into his chamber, whither though Fawnia vnwillingly comming, Pandosto entertained her very courteously, vsing these familiar speaches, which Fawnia answered as shortly in this wise.

Pandosto

[G2]
Fawnia, are you become lesse wilfull and more wise, to preferre the loue of a King before the liking of a poore Knight? I thinke ere this you thinke it is better to be fauoured of a King then of a subiect.

Fawnia

Pandosto, [tln 2446–7] the body is subiect to victories, but the mind not to be subdued by conquest: honesty is to be preferred before honour, and a dramme of faith weigheth downe a tunne of gold. I haue promised Meleagrus to loue, and will performe no lesse.

Pandosto

Fawnia, I know thou art not so vnwise in thy choice, as to refuse the offer of a King, nor so ingrateful as to dispise a good turne: thou art now in that place where I may commaunde, and yet thou seest I intreate. My power is such as I may compell by force, and yet I sue by prayers: Yeelde Fawnia thy loue to him which burneth in thy loue. Meleagrus shall be set free, thy countrymen discharged: and thou both loued and honoured.

Fawnia

I see, Pandosto, where lust ruleth it is a miserable thing to be a virgin, but know this, that I will alwaies preferre fame before life, and rather choose death then dishonour.

Pandosto seeing that there was in Fawnia a determinate courage to loue Meleagrus, and a resolution without feare to hate him, flong away from her in a rage: swearing if in shorte time she would not be wonne with reason: he would forget all courtesie, and compel her to graunt by rigour: but [tln 2287] these threatning wordes no whit dismayed Fawnia; but that she still both dispighted and dispised Pandosto. While thus these two louers stroue, the one to winne loue the other to liue in hate: Egistus heard certaine newes by Merchauntes of Bohemia,

[G2v]
that his sonne Dorastus was imprisoned by Pandosto, which made him feare greatly that his sonne should be but hardly intreated: yet considering that Bellaria and hee was cleared by the Oracle of Apollo from that crime wherewith Pandosto had vniustly charged them, hee thought best to send with all speed to Pandosto, that he should set free his sonne Dorastus, and put to death Fawnia and her father Porrus: finding this by the aduise of Counsaile the speediest remedy to release his sonne, he caused presently two of his shippes to be rigged, and thoroughly furnished with prouision of men and victuals, and sent diuers of his nobles Embassadoures into Bohemia; who willing to obey their King, and relieue their yong Prince: made no delayes, for feare of danger, but with as much speed as might be, sailed towards Bohemia: the winde and seas fauored them greatly, which made them hope of some good happe, for within three daies they were landed: which Pandosto no soner heard of their arriuall, but [tln 3006] hee in person went to meete them, intreating them with such sumptuous and familiar courtesie, that they might well perceiue how sory he was for the former iniuries hee had offered to their King, and how willing (if it might be) to make amendes. As Pandosto made report to them, how one Meleagrus, a Knight of Trapolonia, was lately ariued with a Lady called Fawnia in his land, comming very suspitiously, accompanied onely with one seruant, and an olde shepheard. The Embassadours perceiued by the halfe, what the whole tale ment, and began to coniecture, that it was Dorastus, who for feare to bee knowne, had chaunged his name: but dissembling the matter, they shortly ariued at the Court, where after they had bin verie solemnly and sumptuously feasted, the noble men of Sicilia being gathered togither, they made reporte of their Embassage: where they certified Pandosto that Meleagrus was sonne and heire to the King Egistus, and that his name was Dorastus: how contrarie to the Kings minde he had priuily conuaied away that Fawnia, intending to marrie her, being but daughter to that poore shepheard Porrus: wherevpon
wherevpon]  ~  1592 (?); where vpon 1588
[tln 2943–8] the Kings request was that Capnio, Fawnia, and Porrus, might bee murthered and put to death, and that his sonne Dorastus might be sent home in sa-
[G3]
fetie. Pandosto hauing attentiuely and with great meruaile heard their Embassage, willing to reconcile himselfe to Egistus, and to shew him how greatly he esteemed his fauour:
fauour]  ~  1607; labour 1588
although loue and fancy forbad him to hurt Fawnia, yet in despight of loue hee determined to execute Egistus will without mercy; and therefore he presently sent for Dorastus out of prison, who meruailing at this vnlooked for curtesie, found at his comming to the Kings presence, that which he least doubted of, his fathers Embassadours: who no sooner sawe him, but with great reuerence they honored him: and Pandosto embracing Dorastus, set him by him very louingly in a chaire of estate. Dorastus ashamed that his follie was bewraied, sate a long time as one in a muse, til Pandosto told him the summe of his Fathers embassage: which he had no sooner heard, but he was toucht at the quicke, for the cruell sentence that was pronounced against Fawnia: but neither could his sorrow nor perswasions preuaile, for Pandosto commaunded that Fawnia, Porrus, and Capnio, should bee brought to his presence; who were no sooner come, but Pandosto hauing his former loue turned to a disdainfull hate, began to rage against Fawnia in these tearmes.

Thou disdainfull vassal, thou [tln 1691–2] currish kite, assigned by the destinies to base fortune, and yet with an aspiring minde gazing after honour: [tln 2265–70, 2278–85] how durst thou presume, being a beggar, to match with a Prince? By thy alluring lookes to inchant the sonne of a King to leaue his owne countrie to fulfill thy disordinate lusts? O despightfull minde, a proud heart in a beggar is not vnlike to a great fire in a smal cottage, which warmeth not the house, but burneth it: assure thy selfe that thou shalt die, and [tln 2263–5] thou old doating foole, whose follie hath bene such, as to suffer thy daughter to reach aboue thy fortune, looke for no other meede, but the like punishment. But Capnio, thou which hast betrayed the King, and has consented to the vnlawfull lust of thy Lord and maister, I know not how iustly I may plague thee: death is too easie a punishment for thy falsehood, and to liue (if not in extreme miserie) were not to shew thee equitie. I therefore award that thou shall haue thine eyes put out, and

[G3v]
continually while thou diest, grinde in a mil like a brute beast. The feare of death brought a sorrowfull silence vpon Fawnia and Capnio, but Porrus seeing no hope of life, burst forth into these speeches.

Pandosto, and ye noble Embassadours

Embassadours]  ~  1592; Emabassadours 1588
of Sicilia, seeing without cause I am condemned to die; I am yet glad I haue opportunitie to disburden my conscience before my death: I will tel you as much as I know, and yet no more than is true: whereas I am accused that I haue bene a supporter of Fawnias pride, and shee disdained as a vilde begger, so it is that I am neither Father vnto her, nor she daughter vnto me.

For so it happened that I being a poore shepheard in Sicilia, liuing by keeping other

other]  ~  1592; others 1588
mens flockes: one of my sheepe straying downe to the sea side, as I went to seeke her, I saw a little boat driuen vpon the shoare, wherein I found a babe of sixe daies olde, wrapped in a mantle of skarlet, hauing about the necke this chaine: I pittying the child, and desirous of the treasure, carried it home to my wife, who with great care nursed it vp, and set it to keepe sheepe. Here is the chaine and the Iewels, and this Fawnia is the childe whome I found in the boate. What shee is, or of what parentage, I knowe not, but this I am assured that she is none of mine.

Pandosto would scarce suffer him to tell out his tale, but that he enquired the time of the yeere, the manner of the boate, and other circumstaunces, which when he found agreeing to his count, he sodainelie leapt from his seate, and kissed Fawnia, wetting her tender cheeks with his teares, and crying [tln 3061] my daughter Fawnia, ah sweete

sweete]  ~  1592; swtete 1588
Fawnia, I am thy Father, Fawnia. This sodaine passion of the King draue them all into a maze, especially Fawnia and Dorastus. But when the King had breathed himselfe a while in this newe ioy, [tln 3039–49] he rehearsed before the Embassadours the whole matter, how he hadde entreated his wife Bellaria for iealousie, and that this was the childe whome hee sent to floate in the seas.

Fawnia was not more ioyfull that she had found such a Father, then Dorastus was glad he should get such a wife. The

[G4]
Embassadors reioyced that their yong prince had made such a choice, that those Kingdomes which through enmitie had long time bin disseuered, should now through perpetual amitie be vnited and reconciled. The Citizens and subiects of Bohemia (hearing that the King had found againe his Daughter, which was supposed dead, ioyfull that there was an heire apparent to his Kingdome) made [tln 3032] Bonfires and showes throughout the Cittie. The Courtiers and Knights appointed Iusts and Turneis to signifie their willing mindes in gratifying the Kings hap.

Eighteene daies being past in these princely sports, Pandosto, willing to recompence old Porrus, of a shepheard made him a Knight: which done, prouiding a sufficient Nauie to receiue him and his retinue, accompanied with Dorastus, Fawnia, and the Sicilian Embassadours, he sailed towards Sicilia, where he was most princelie entertained by Egistus; who hearing this comicall euent, reioyced greatly at his sonnes good happe, and without delay (to the perpetuall ioy of the two yong Louers) celebrated the marriage: which was no sooner ended, but Pandosto (calling to mind how first he betraied his friend Egistus, how his iealousie was the cause of Bellarias death, that contrarie to the law of nature hee had lusted after his owne Daughter) moued with these desperate thoughts, he fell into a melancholie fit, and to close vp the Comedie with a Tragicall stratageme, hee slewe himselfe, whose death being many daies bewailed of Fawnia, Dorastus, and his deere friend Egistus, Dorastus taking his leaue of his father, went with his wife and the dead corps into Bohemia, where after they were sumptuouslie intombed,

intombed]  ~  1592; 1588 damaged
Dorastus ended his daies in contented quiet.

Finis

Shakespeare’s Use of Pandosto

General Indebtedness

Gollancz (ed. 1894, 41:viii) summarizes the notable refinements due to the dramatist[:] . . . (i.) in the novel Hermione’s prototype actually dies upon hearing of the death of her son; (ii.) her husband destroys himself, after becoming enamoured of his unknown daughter; (iii.) the characters of Paulina, Autolycus, and Antigonus are entirely Shakespeare’s; (iv.) Hermione’s character is ennobled throughout; Shakespeare admits no incautiousness on her part, no unqueenly condescension in meeting the charge [of infidelity]; (v.) Bohemia takes the place of Sicily, and vice versa . . . ; finally, (vi.) the names are changed throughout. To vi., Mopsa is an exception.

Upton (1746, pp. 40–1) finds Sh. culpable for the major error of basing a play on Pandosto and for minor errors of execution. To explain, he invokes the Aristotelian defects of poetry—one arises from itself, <per se,> the other is accidental: <per accidens:> for if it chuses subjects for imitation, out of its power and reach, the fault is from itself; <per se,> but when it chooses ignorantly, the fault is accidental. The defect per se is the [41] making choice of such a story as the Winter’s Tale, &c. . . . The [defect per accidens] is where Shakespeare, not heeding geography, calls Delphi an isle. Warburton (ed. 1747, 3:277) despises the source but praises the play: it is written in the very spirit of its author. . . . This was necessary to observe in mere justice to the Play, as the meanness of the fable, and the extravagant conduct of it, had misled some of great name [Dryden and Pope] into a wrong judgment of its merit; which, as far as it regards sentiment and character, is scarce inferior to any in the whole collection.

Lennox (1753, 2:75–87), however, is of just the opposite opinion: If we compare the Conduct of the Incidents in the Play with the paltry Story on which it is founded, we shall find the Original much less absurd and ridiculous. . . . The King’s Jealousy is the Foundation of all the Adventures that followed, but extravagant as its Consequences are in both, yet the Rise and Progress of this terrible Passion is better accounted for in the Novel than the Play. She recounts the incidents in Pandosto leading to the onset of the King’s jealousy, concluding (p. 76): This Account . . . does not absolutely clash with Probability. She summarizes the action of WT to line 116 approximately. (P. 77): Polixenes complies at her [Hermione’s] Request [to extend his visit], and certainly he must be a very ill bred Monarch had he done otherwise.

All [their] Conversation passes in the Presence of Leontes, who from hence takes Occasion to be jealous, and passes in an Instant from the greatest Confidence, Security, and Friendship imaginable, to the last Extremity of Jealousy and Rage. What wonderful Contrivance is here? To the play’s disadvantage, a comparison of a half dozen more incidents follows, concluding with (p. 85) The Novel makes the Wife of the jealous King die through Affliction for the Loss of her Son; Shakespear seems to have preserved her alive for the sake of her representing her own Statue in the last Scene; a mean and absurd Contrivance; for how can it be imagined that Hermione, a virtuous and affectionate Wife, would conceal herself during sixteen Years in a solitary House, though she was sensible that her repentant Husband was all that Time con-[86]suming away with Grief and Remorse for her Death; . . . how ridiculous also in a great Queen, on so interresting [sic] an Occasion, to submit to such Buffoonery as standing on a Pedestal, motionless, her Eyes fixed, and at last to be conjured down by this magical Command of Paulina [quotes 3306–11]. . . . [87] His Winter’s Tale is greatly inferior to the old paltry Story that furnished him with the Subject of it.

Capell (1783, 3:233–4) disagrees with Lennox, as one might expect: This miserable story [Pandosto]—writ in the days of Euphuism, as appears from the style of it—is not so exactly followed by Shakespeare as some have conceited; Bellaria (his [Greene’s] Hermione) does not come to life again, but dies in good earnest when her son dies; and Pandosto, (his Leontes) when all is over, his daughter found again, and marry’d to her lover, falls into a melancholy, and kills himself. These are the principal differences between him and the story-writer with respect to the fable: the language it is dress’d in, (some expressions excepted, which [234] are of small importance) the characters, the sentiments, are all his own; and he has also enrich’d it with the following additional characters,—Antigonus, and his wife Paulina; the shepherd’s son, & his mistresses; Autolicus, and some others. For the rest,—the story he chose to follow is adher’d to a little too closely, and (namely) without sufficient attention to one capital absurdity respecting the scene of it: some excuse may be made for him, that will be found in another place [see n. 1440]. Among others disagreeing with Lennox is Eschenburg (ed. 1801, 5:210), who defends Sh.’s depiction of the quirks of human nature; the playwright, he says, demonstrates quite profoundly how easily the ember of jealousy may burst into an all-consuming flame.

A more detailed analysis of Sh.’s debt is made by Skottowe (1824, 2:290–300). The novel marks the growth of this passion [jealousy] in the king; in the play it is instantaneous and uncontrollable. . . . With the forlorn hope of saving the infant’s [Perdita’s] life, Anti-[291]gonus . . . consents to carry it to a desert place . . . and there leave it. . . . In the novel, the king exposes the child in an open boat to the mercy of the wind and waves. . . . Greene’s tyrant resolves to burn both the mother and the child; but the queen’s demand for an open trial is warmly seconded by the nobility, and the king prudently consents to send six of his nobility to the Isle of Delphos. . . . In [WT], the embassy originates with Leontes himself. . . . [299] If not a more natural, Shakspeare has certainly substituted a more agreeable conclusion to his drama. Indeed, few scenes of greater interest, and none managed with a more consummate knowledge of stage effect, are to be met with [300] than that which closes the Winter’s Tale. With the exception of this striking scene, Shakspeare has done little towards the improvement of the story he worked from; but he was more successful in his delineation of its principal characters.

Other critics also regard the novel somewhat more favorably than Capell had done. Dyce (ed. Dramatic Works of Greene, 1831, 1:liii), for example: To those who may read the novel for the first time, having a previous acquaintance with the play of Shakespeare . . . the former will appear cold and uninteresting on a recollection of the marvellous truth and reality of the latter. But Pandosto is far from a contemptible production: if portions of it are disfigured by bad taste and coarseness of feeling, there are also portions composed in a very pleasing and affecting manner.

Ulrici (1839; tr. 1846, p. 265), however: Shakspeare has contrived out of a tasteless, affected romance, of at most passing interest, to make a truthful and immortal drama. Collier ([1843], 1:i–iii), similarly: Let any person well acquainted with The Winter’s Tale read the novel of Pandosto, . . . and he will be struck at once with the vast pre-eminence of Shakespeare, and with the admirable manner in which he has converted materials supplied by another to his own use. The bare outline of the story (with the exception of Shakespeare’s miraculous conclusion) is nearly the same in both; but this is all they have in common, and Shakspeare may be said to have scarcely adopted a single hint for his descriptions, [ii] or a line for his dialogue; while in point of passion and sentiment Greene is cold, formal, and artificial: the very opposite of every thing in Shakespeare. . . . [iii] Nothing can well be more lame, unsatisfactory, and even offensive than the winding up of Greene’s novel, where he makes Pandosto first fall desperately and grossly in love with his own daughter, and then, without any adequate motive, commit suicide. . . . Shakespeare . . . saw at once how the preceding incidents might be converted to a great dramatic and moral purpose, the most pathetic and the most beautiful.

Knight (ed. 1841, 2:337–9): In Pandosto the story of the preservation of the deserted infant is prettily told [quotes It fortuned . . . necke (C4)]. Although the circumstances of the child’s exposure are different, Shakspere adopts the shepherd’s discovery pretty literally. . . . The infant in the novel is taken to the shepherd’s home, and is brought up by his wife and himself under the name of Fawnia. In a narrative the lapse of sixteen years may occur without any violation of propriety. The shepherd of Greene . . . would sing to the child and dance it on his knee; then, a few lines onward, the little Fawnia is seven years old; and, very shortly, [quotes when she came . . . parentage here]. These changes, we see, are gradual. But in a drama, whose action depends upon a manifest lapse of time, there must be a sudden transition. Shakspere is perfectly aware of the difficulty; and he diminishes it by the introduction of Time as a Chorus. . . .

[338] Shakspere has exhibited his consummate art in opening the fourth act with Polixenes and Camillo, of whom we have lost sight since the end of the first. Had . . . he brought Autolycus, and Florizel, and Perdita, at once upon the scene . . . the continuity of action would have been destroyed; and the commencement of the fourth act would have appeared as the commencement of a new play. . . . Autolycus and the Clown prepare us for Perdita. . . . There perhaps never was such a union of perfect simplicity and perfect grace as in the character of Perdita. What an exquisite idea of her mere personal appearance is presented in Florizel’s [1956–8]. Greene, in describing the beauties of his shepherdess, deals only in generalities [quotes It happened . . . hard fortune (here)]. But Greene was unequal to conceive the grace of mind which distinguishes Perdita:—[339; quotes 1803–7]. Contrast this with Greene [quotes Fawnia poore soule . . . King (here), stressing hoping in time to be aduaunced]. Here we see a vulgar ambition, rather than a deep affection. Fawnia, in the hour of discovery and danger, was quite incapable of exhibiting the feminine dignity of Perdita [quotes 2287–95]. This is something higher than the sentiment of a queen of curds and cream.

In the novel we have no trace of the interruption by the father of the princely lover, in the disguise of a guest at the shepherd’s cottage [2260 ff.]. Dorastus and Fawnia flee from the country without the knowledge of the king. The ship in which they embark is thrown by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia. Messengers are despatched in search of the lovers; and they arrive in Bohemia with the request of Egistus that the companions in the flight of Dorastus shall be put to death. The secret of Fawnia’s birth is discovered by the shepherd; and her father recognises her. But the previous circumstances exhibit as much grossness of conception on the part of the novelist [Knight probably alludes to Pandosto’s attraction to Fawnia, here.], as the different management of the catastrophe shows the matchless skill and taste of the dramatist. We forgive Leontes for his early folly and wickedness; for during sixteen years has his remorse been bitter and his affection constant.

As Skottowe had noticed, Greene sets the infant Fawnia adrift in an open boat, whereas Sh. employs Antigonus to abandon Perdita in Bohemia. Collier (ed. 1842, 3:426) offers an ingenious, although defective, explanation of the change: In The Tempest he [Sh.] had previously . . . represented Prospero and Miranda turned adrift at sea in the same manner as Greene had stated his heroine to be disposed of [and so] Shakespeare . . . varied from the original narrative, in order to avoid an objectionable similarity. The defect is that WT was written before Tmp. (see here), although the idea that Tmp. in some form may have antedated WT also occurs to Muir (1957, p. 241; see below). White (ed. 1857, 5:270), alternatively: Shakespeare knew—none better—that the dramatic value of an impression produced upon the eye is much greater than that of one produced upon the ear; and on his stage Greene’s disposition of the royal babe could not be represented, while that adopted by him could.

Hudson (ed. 1852, 4:6–13): Greene . . . had indeed much more of learning than of judgment in the use and application thereof; it having been seemingly impossible for him to write without overloading his pages with classical allusion, or [7] to hit upon any thought so trite and commonplace but that he must run it through a series of aphoristic sentences twisted out of Greek and Roman lore. . . . Like all the surviving works of Greene, Pandosto is greatly charged with learned impertinence, and in the annoyance thence resulting one is apt to overlook the real merit of the performance. It is better than Lodge’s Rosalynd [the source of AYL] for this reason, if for no other, that it is shorter. . . . [13] In the novel Paulina and the Clown are wanting altogether, and Capnio yields but a slight hint, if indeed it be so much, towards the part of Autolycus. And, besides the great addition of life and matter in these persons, the play has several other judicious departures from the novel. In Leontes all the revolting features of Pandosto, save his jealousy and the headstrong insolence and tyranny consequent thereon, are purged away; so that while the latter has neither intellect nor generosity to redeem his character, jealousy being the least of his faults, the other has a liberal stock of both. And in Bellaria the Poet had little more than a bare framework of incident wherein to set the noble, lofty womanhood of Hermione,—a conception far, far above the reach of such a mind as Greene’s. In the matter of the painted statue Shakespeare, so far as we know, was altogether without a model. . . . Hermione’s character . . . is the shaping and informing power of the whole drama . . . the prolific germ out of which the entire work is evolved.

White (ed. 1857, 5:271–2), in comparing the two characters, agrees with Lennox (p. 656): Greene gives Pandosto more cause for his jealousy than Shakespeare gives to Leontes. For in the tale Bellaria, though entirely innocent, uses Egistus so familiarly, that her countenance bewraied how her minde was affected towardes him: oftentimes comming her selfe into his bed chamber, to see that nothing should be amis to mislike him [here]; and also there grew such a secret vniting of their affections, that the one could not well be without the company of the other [here]. It [272] may possibly have been Shakespeare’s intention to make its sudden birth and its extravagance characteristic traits of Leontes’ jealousy; but this difference between the play and the novel seems rather due to a necessity for the compression of the latter.

Gervinus (1863, 2:467–8): Shakespeare has done with this narrative, as he usually did with his bad originals, he has done away with some indelicacy in the matter, and some unnatural things in the form; he has given a better foundation to the characters and course of events; but to impart an intrinsic value to the subject as a whole, to bring a double action into unity, and to give the play the character of a regular drama by mere arrangements of matter and alteration of motive, was not possible. The wildness of the fiction, the improbability and contingency of the events, the gap in the time . . . could not be repaired by any art. Shakespeare, therefore, began upon his theme in quite an opposite direction. He increased still more the marvellous and miraculous in the given subject, he disregarded more and more the requirements of the real and probable, and treated time, place, and circumstances with the utmost arbitrariness. . . . [468] The scenic effect, the excellent characterization of certain personages, the beauty of the language of the play were acknowledged [by early critics], but the poet was continually upbraided for those very marvels, which we think he did not introduce as any thing else.

Wigston (1884, p. 3): In borrowing Greene’s story, he [Sh.] took it on account of its title [see here], in relation to its subject matter,—disharmony and separation, followed by reconciliation and heavenly harmony as in Cymbeline and Pericles,—the exposure of an infant and its re-discovery through time.

Morley (ed. 1887, pp. 8–9): To change a real to a supposed death, required invention of means of concealment, and this requirement was met by the creation of the character of Paulina. . . . Shakespeare gives . . . a husband to Paulina, Antigonus, who is of gentle heart, though he obeys the evil bidding of the king, and the infant is committed to the waves, surrounded by the tenderest care until the hour of its exposure upon a coast not found by chance, but chosen at the bidding of a dream. This done, the poet gets rid of the men who are no longer wanted in the story, and who would be in the way if they lived and returned to Sicily. He gives emphasis at the same time to the peril of the child by destroying the ship and its crew in a storm at sea, and giving Antigonus to a wild beast on land, so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were [9] even then lost when it was found [3079–81]. In the following scenes dramatic life could not have been put into the telling of the tale without the addition of the shepherd’s son. His wife, who is in Greene’s tale, could not have been used for the purposes served by Shakespeare’s invention of the clownish son and of the rogue Autolycus. Greene uses the shepherd’s wife as a means for bringing about the solution of the plot, and had the shepherd carried off by force upon the ship of the offended king. Shakespeare removes several improbabilities, and gets rid of incidents that mar the grace of the tale, including Pandosto’s animal love for his unrecognised daughter. His changes in the manner of bringing about the solution of the plot, as far as concerns Florizel and Perdita, are mainly produced by his invention of Autolycus, the merry rogue—a cashiered courtier—who sings his songs at the sheep-shearing, fleeces the rustics, and half in hope to recover favour with the prince, sends the witnesses who can untie the knot of the tale on board the prince’s ship to Sicily. It is enough to suggest playfully that Florizel and Perdita were too full of their affairs to ask many questions of other people, and that they were sea-sick as well as love-sick. The reader who follows attentively Shakespeare’s use of Autolycus as a means of putting dramatic life into the solution of the plot without spoiling the pastoral grace and playfulness of that part of the story, will see that but for his trick in sending the bearers of the fardel to the Prince’s ship instead of to the King, Perdita must have been identified before the persons of the story were about Leontes in the close.

Snider (c. 1890, pp. 502–3): The central fact is that Shakespeare turns Greene’s novel, which is tragic, into a comedy or mediated drama. Both Hermione (Bellaria) and Leontes (Pandosto) perish in the novel; the world of mediation is essentially unknown to Greene. The wife breaks down under her trials, when her boy Garinter (Mamillius) dies; she has not sufferance, which saves herself, her husband, her world. Still, the novelist dwells upon her purity, nay, he speaks of her patience, but it bears no fruit in his work, it is not the triumphant patience of the Poet. In like manner Leontes shows repentance in Greene’s book, but it is not that complete undoing of guilt which bridges the great chasm and brings restoration of wife, child, and world. Through these two ideas—the repentance of the husband and the long-suffering of the wife—the whole play is changed into a purgatorial discipline, with the outlook of salvation; the two characters are me-[503]diated and brought back even into their secular existence.

Neilson (ed. 1906, p. 419): The superb dignity of Hermione which almost lifts her above pity, the plain-spoken loyalty of Paulina, the peculiar poetic charm of the pastoral scenes of which Perdita is the centre, the humor of the rogue and the rustics, the elements, in short, which make the play delightful, are all Shakespeare’s. To Greene belongs the credit of framing an interesting romantic story, the improbabilities and surprises of which Shakespeare seems to have taken no pains to abate, but which, on the contrary, he capped by devising a closing situation, theatrically effective, indeed, but more defiant of likelihood than anything in his source.

Thomas (ed. Pandosto, 1907, pp. xi–xiii): Greene’s style is, of course, characteristic of himself, and his pleasant conceits find no place in Shakespeare’s mature drama. The curious moralizations from natural history, the familiar use of proverbial lore, the dissertations on abstract themes, and the laboured style abounding in antithesis and alliteration combine to place Dorastus in the long line of euphuistic novels, of which Lyly was the originator. Greene is often coarse, but he has that Elizabethan gift of sweetness, which is unmistakable. The pathetic scene, in which [xii] Bellaria laments over the loss of her child [Alas . . . fare well (here)], appealed to Shakespeare, and the lines [1496–7] are reminiscent of Greene’s words [Shalt . . . milke? (here)].

[Sh.’s] changes . . . are due in the main to the exigencies of dramatic form. . . . Long-winded speeches and dreary monologues . . . are either omitted altogether, shortened, or converted into dialogue. . . . Action is concentrated [for] dramatic unity. . . . To dramatic causes, likewise, we owe the creation of Antigonus, Paulina, and Autolycus, in whom respectively are concentrated the nobles, ladies, and clowns of the novel. At other times, Shakespeare enlarges from a brief hint given by Greene. There is no counterpart in the novel of the pathetic scene in The Winter’s Tale, in which the [xiii] character of young Mamillius is developed. . . . In the same way, Greene’s reference to the storm at sea is expanded into Act III. sc. iii of The Winter’s Tale.

Porter & Clarke (ed. 1908, pp. 124–5): There are events in Greene’s plot which Shakespeare altogether discards: The refusal of the prince to marry a Danish princess to suit his father, before he meets the shepherdess; the fear of the shepherd and his wife . . . lest the prince will bring shame upon their daughter. This fear is very important in Greene’s plot, for it causes them,—gossip as to the prince’s familiarity with their foster-daughter being brought to their ears,—to decide to tell the king that she is not their own child. It will be noticed that Shakespeare not only discards this, he invents the king’s presence at the betrothal in its stead, and this in the play frightens the shepherd and his son (who takes the place of the wife in Greene’s story) into confession.

Autolicus is not in Greene; but in Greene’s plot a servant of the prince, named Capnio, plays soberly the part which Autolicus plays humorously in Shakespeare’s plot by intercepting the shepherd on his way to confess to the king, and enticing him on shipboard.

In Act V. the restoration of the castaway daughter and the union of the young lovers are based on the same events as in Greene’s plot, but they are brought about by so different a manipulation of the incidents that there is scarcely anything in common save the arrival in port, in the country of the jealous king, of the eloping lovers and the old shepherd.

All that Camillo and Paulina effect in Act V. is not in Greene. Shakespeare discards an important incident in Greene’s story; i.e., the tyranny of the king on the [125] arrival of the lovers, which causes him to imprison the prince and try to make the shepherdess his concubine, until an embassy arrives from the prince’s father demanding that he free his son and kill the shepherdess and her father. The confession of the old shepherd then following, the king, ashamed of his action toward his own daughter, kills himself.

All that defeats such misery as this, which in Greene’s plot so mars his union of the young lovers, is due to Shakespeare.

According to Stopes (1916, pp. 32–8), the playwright reverses Greene’s emotional geography, sending the hot-blooded Leontes to Sicily, the cooler Polixenes to Bohemia: (p. 33) Shakespeare evolves the character of Antigonus out of one of the Chief Lords . . . (p. 35) but does not allow Antigonus to cast the babe away in a small boat, to find Bohemia. He knew that an infant could not live so long without food. So he makes Antigonus take it in a ship, where, it is to be supposed, he saw the child fed.

Pierce (ed. 1918, p. 129) similarly: By interchanging throughout the parts of Bohemia and Sicily he [Sh.] probably meant to veil the extent of his debt to a book that was still popular, although he may have believed that the suddenness of Leontes’ jealousy would seem truer to life in a hot-blooded Sicilian than in a native of Central Europe.

Kittredge (ed. 1936, p. 432): Some significant variations [from Pandosto] may be noted[:] Apollo is consulted at the request of the queen. The king does not blaspheme when the oracle is read in court; he repents instantly and is making public confession when word is brought that his son is dead. This news is fatal to the queen. . . . The baby is not left on the shore; it is abandoned at sea (like Prospero and Miranda in The Tempest) in a boat without sail or rudder, which comes safe to land by good fortune after a mighty storm. Antigonus and Paulina have no prototypes in the novel and Shakespeare’s Camillo combines the rôles of two of Greene’s characters. The old shepherd comes from the novel, but his son and Dorcas and Mopsa and Autolycus are all new characters. Rustic revels are mentioned in the tale, but not described. . . . The novel has a happy ending, so far as the young people are concerned, but Pandosto . . . is a tragic personage throughout. After years of mourning for his dead wife, he falls in love with Fawnia . . . , whom of course he supposes to be the shepherd’s daughter. When he learns that she is his own child . . . he is overjoyed; but after her marriage he is smitten with remorse for all his sins, falls once more into a melancholie fit [here], and kills himself.

Pruvost (1938, p. 573): Among these [Greene’s romances] his Pandosto seems to occupy a place apart because it offers one of the first uses in England, if not the first, of a theme in which the love of children comes to restore the concord and harmony destroyed by the discords and the defects of parents. It is precisely the theme that Shakespeare handled several times toward the end of his career. Would he have done so if Greene had not written his Pandosto? It is not impossible. But since in The Winter’s Tale he dramatized Greene’s romance, one does not in the least exaggerate the influence of Greene in saying that he furnished Shakespeare the very special formula of the last plays (in Fr.).

Muir (1957, p. 241): Shakespeare follows the earlier part of the source fairly closely. Greene described how the guard was sent to arrest Bellaria [quotes comming . . . sonne (here)]. On this hint Shakespeare constructed the scene . . . in which Mamillius begins his interrupted tale [2.1]. But Leontes himself, not merely the guard, comes in to order Hermione’s arrest. . . . [Pandosto’s] order of events is quite satisfactory in a prose narrative, but it lacks dramatic tension. Shakespeare realized that he would spoil Hermione’s speech at the trial, in which she appeals to the oracle, if he allowed her to appeal to the oracle in a previous scene [as Bellaria does]; so he made Leontes himself decide to send a deputation to Apollo’s temple at Delphos in order to satisfy other people. The substance of the oracle is not known until it is read out at the trial, and the King immediately declares that there is no truth in it. News is brought that Mamillius has died, and we assume, as Leontes himself does, that this is a judgement from Apollo on account of his blasphemy. Hermione faints, and Pauline [sic] brings word that she is dead. Bellaria is indeed dead; but Hermione recovers, unknown to Leontes.

The only substantial passage in the novel which Shakespeare borrows with comparatively little alteration is Bellaria’s speech at the trial [quotes If the deuine . . . Oracle (here)].

Wells (Romance, 1966, pp. 64–5, 69–70): Pandosto is a collection of clichés, the well-worn themes and stock situations of pastoral romance. . . . [65] During the play we are reminded of the old-fashioned nature of the story we are watching. By a sort of alienation technique Shakespeare draws our attention to the nature of the fiction [as at 1590–4, 3070, and 3327–8]. . . . It appears not only that Shakespeare was fully aware of the unrealities of the story, but that he deliberately played upon the audience’s awareness too, inviting them to recall similar situations—even perhaps their memories of the source story itself, and also the centuries of tradition that lie behind it.

Shakespeare’s handling of Pandosto is characterized at once by extreme freedom and by a remarkable willingness to turn to account even minute details of the original. He both takes over the episodic structure and draws attention to it in the long speech of Time as chorus [1580–1611]. This emphasis seems designed to stress the romantic nature of the tale: in the non-dramatic romances, time is commonly the ally of chance and fortune in bringing about the changes of the actions. Time’s speech is pivotal to the play. Shakespeare may have got the idea for it from Greene’s subtitle, which is The Triumph of Time; and Greene’s title-page bears the tag temporis filia veritas [truth is the daughter of time]. Certainly Shakespeare makes of the time element a poetic complex that helps in giving the play a richness of harmony without parallel in the novel. Showing how human beings can achieve at least the illusion of having triumphed over time, Shakespeare creates that illusion for us. . . .

[69] In The Winter’s Tale there are no macrocosmic implications. Emphasis is placed not on the group but on individuals whose suffering we have closely followed. . . . [Leontes’s closing (3366–9)] is not in fact a high romantic climax. The emphasis is not on the lovers, but on the older generation. . . . [70] In his adaptation of Pandosto Shakespeare has produced a work that is far more powerful as a human document . . . not by denying the romance elements in Greene’s book but by readjusting them—sometimes adding to them, sometimes toning them down with a modified realism, and always investing them with a poetic rather than a mundane reality.

Colie (1974, p. 278 n.): Though the statue is not in Greene’s Pandosto, there may be some hints in the source nevertheless. She quotes: painted Eagles are pictures, not Eagles, Zeusis Grapes were like Grapes, yet shadowes: rich clothing make not princes: nor homely attyre beggers: shepheards are not called shepheardes, because they were [wear] hookes and bagges: but that they are borne poore, and liue to keepe sheepe, so this attire hath not made Dorastus a shepherd, but to seeme like a shepherd (here).

Frey (Vast Romance, 1980, pp. 56–60): Whereas Greene couches his opening in euphuistic terms and suggests slyly that his potential critics are oftentimes most unlearned of all, Shakespeare seconds no such attitude, choosing instead to develop through Archidamus, [57] who represents pastoral Bohemia, the hints in his source about the superiority of rude but willing minds and art. Frey continues with comparisons of the two authors’ handling of the mission to Delphos and of the love exchanges—(p. 59) Perdita is much less pert and pithy in her speech than is Fawnia. But Shakespeare expands upon Greene’s hints to suggest her deeply instinctual commitment to the natural as opposed to the artificial way in all things. He concludes, (p. 60) An aspect of Shakespeare’s method, then, is to seize upon certain parts of Pandosto—professed authorial goals, various scenes, particular characters—and to enlarge upon them, challenging from various angles their stereotypic artfulness.

Pilgrim (1983, pp. 9–10): The great scene, in which Paulina brings the baby princess in her arms from the [10] prison to Leontes in the vain attempt to soften his jealous madness [2.3], is developed from Greene’s short mention of the jailor’s pity for Bellaria . . . and hope of securing her release from prison by going to the king and telling him she was with child. Still less was it necessary for Shakespeare to make Paulina not only the fearless accuser of Leontes in his jealousy but also the guide of his actions and keeper of his conscience during the period of remorse. Never, perhaps, in drama has there been so grand an extension of the confidente’s [sic] role. Pilgrim also describes the development of Camillo from Greene’s Franion and of Leontes from Pandosto.

Donawerth (1984, pp. 124–39): In Pandosto the oracle, an exception to the general rule, means simply what it seems to mean, and only the Princess is found. Shakespeare closely follows the wording of the oracle, except for the names; but he does change the story, with the result that the same words, unambiguous in Pandosto, are richly ambiguous in The Winter’s Tale. . . . [139] In Greene’s romance . . . [t]he oracle is fulfilled in one sense only: the lost daughter is found.

Bullough (1975, 8:123–32): Shakespeare’s main departures from Greene are as follows: names and settings are changed; the king’s jealousy is speeded up, with consequent loss of probability; Leontes himself sends to consult the Oracle before his wife’s trial, and does not, like Pandosto, do so only when his wife demands it; unlike Pandosto Leontes rejects the Oracle’s verdict, and his im-[124]mediate bereavements are seen as punishments for blasphemy. Paulina is a new character and her continuing part is original; the child is not cast adrift in a boat but taken to Bohemia by Antigonus, another new character. Shakespeare introduces a bear to kill him, and a storm to sink the ship. Polixenes is present at the shearing-feast, which, with the entertainment offered there, is also new; likewise Autolycus and his tricks. Pandosto lacks the broad humour of The Winter’s Tale, and also the discussion of ethical topics. The emotional intensity and poetic feeling of the piece are of course Shakespeare’s own. . . . [132] The repentance of Pandosto [for his wife’s death] is noted by Greene but not emphasized, and nothing is made of it when he meets his unknown daughter after sixteen years. Instead, he keeps her lover in prison, and tries to seduce her, then, being refused, is willing to have her killed to please Egistus. Leontes, however, aided by that embodied conscience Paulina . . . is made to suffer the torments of remorse until the last moments of the play, and, looking back over the dialogue, it is obvious that from the moment when Paulina brought news of Hermione’s supposed death [1358 ff.] the intention was to bring her back.

Shakespeare’s reasons for this drastic departure from his source were complex. He had already [dealt with recognitions in Per. and reconciliations in Cym.]. If the new play was to have such an ending [as Cym.] it would be impossible to take over Greene’s backsliding Pandosto . . . and to have him mar his daughter’s marriage either by living on or committing suicide. On the other hand, to leave Leontes in penitential misery without any recompense would be both harsh and undramatic. Above all, Shakespeare [wanted not mere entertainment] but a thought-provoking piece with strong ethical and religious overtones. . . . He now invents a variant on [the restoration of Hero in Ado], the living statue of the desired woman.

Mackinnon (1988, p. 139): The last significant action of Greene’s Pandosto . . . is committed by Pandosto himself, who calling to mind all the evil he has done [fell into a melancholie fit, and to close vp the Comedie with a Tragicall stratageme, hee slew himself] [here]. We could not ask for a clearer statement of generic purpose. However, Greene’s syntax is significantly uncertain. We are left in doubt whether the intention of the tragical stratagem is the author’s, who would here interpolate this clause as a breezy aside to his audience, or Pandosto’s, who would then assume an attitude of frozen self-regard. Such unclarity is richly suggestive, for it invites us to speculate on Pandosto’s feelings, but must finally leave us uneasy. If Greene himself is confessing to a stratagem, how tawdry his work must seem. It is also an error of taste to have Pandosto kill himself because the comic reconciliation the subtitle . . . promises is left incomplete. Shakespeare reverses Greene’s direction here, and closes up his tragical drama with a comical stratagem.

Adams (1989, pp. 109–10): Though king Leontes’ abrupt, unmotivated rage in the first act of WT has been amply criticized as a deficiency in the play, not so much attention has been paid to the abrupt, unmotivated rage of king Polixenes in Act IV. In fact, Pandosto provides both monarchs with ample motivation. Bellaria . . . comes close to playing fast and loose with her royal guest; Greene slyly tempts us into thinking it likely. And Egistus’ fury with his son Dorastus flares up for reasons that Elizabethans would have found instantly familiar; the father had arranged a marriage for his son . . . and was not going to see it disrupted by an affair with a common shepherdess. But Shakespeare made no effort to provide credible motives for Leontes/Pandosto, and discarded the motive that Greene had already provided for Polixenes/Egistus. Lacking the sort of specific motivation that would distinguish them, the two [kings] meld practically indistinguishably into identical mechanisms of suspicion, sullen repression, and abrupt fury burst-[110]ing out into fantastic threats of burning, mutilation, and bloody execution.

If the kings are twin bogeys, setting the two halves of the plot into motion, they play little part in the reconciliation. In the course of Act V, Leontes never addresses to his daughter a word that the audience can hear, nor does Polixenes say a word to his son; in fact, Leontes addresses only a brief sentence to Bohemia, perfunctorily begging pardon for his scandalous suspicions and his efforts to murder a sacred guest as well as a dear friend. [Adams apparently alludes to 3361–3. Leontes’s earlier and presumably more copious apology is reported at 3061–2.] Thus . . . the true climax of that last scene rises from the reunion of mother and daughter.

As mentioned above, most critics think that Sh. greatly improved Greene’s romance. The opinion of many is summed up by Sachs (1923, p. 84): One can put one’s finger on the difference between commonplace talent and genius. [Pandosto] is logically correct but nevertheless leaves the reader cold. In [Sh.’s] play, however, the plot is logically absurd and yet we are deeply moved by it because it is built up on deep psychological truth. Like Lennox (see here), though, a few seem less enthusiastic about his changes. Boas (1896, pp. 519–20): Sh.’s ending is far more satisfactory to our moral sense [than Greene’s], and the scene where the living statue steps down from the pedestal into her husband’s arms is one of the most beautiful in the dramatist’s writings. Yet the change is not altogether an artistic improvement. . . . The jealousy of Pandosto towards his queen had been the prologue to the main narrative, of which Fawnia is the centre. In the course of her tangled love-romance, the girl not only secures happiness for herself, but is made by destiny, who is the presiding genius of the story, the instrument of vengeance for her mother’s wrongs. This effective bond between the opening incidents of the tale and its later stages is lost in Shakspere’s version, where the relations between the jealous king and his wife are [520] lifted into the foreground of the action, and the fortunes of their daughter become a subordinate and almost entirely detached episode. Champion (1970, pp. 164–5): The general alterations from . . . Pandosto . . . heighten the fictional tone. Bellaria, for example, is a more credible character than Hermione; her reaction to her husband’s unfounded jealousy is forthright and vocal, and their alienation builds more slowly and predictably. Then, too, the transfer of the action from one kingdom to another is less contrived in Greene. In Champion’s view, Capnio is better motivated than Camillo to accompany the lovers, the conversation of 1.1 sounds hyperbolic, and (p. 165) one device after another confirms [WT’s] fictional tone.

Biswas (1971, pp. 154–65), similarly: Shakespeare has modified the source-story . . . with the result that the story becomes sensational but the action lacks adequate motivation. For example, Leontes’ jealousy is unplausible, and the incidents of Antigonus being eaten up by a bear and of Hermione’s revival . . . are characteristic of romance and tragi-comedy. Even the character of Autolycus, for which Shakespeare may have derived hints from realistic portraits of London rascals, [155] is an item in this fantasia, for he tells absurd stories of fishes that sing ballads, while relieving the rustics of their purses, and his thievery is less a crime than the inspiration of a knavish god. . . . [160] He [Sh.] has introduced the love affair of Perdita and Florizel much later than the corresponding episode in Greene and it is also subordinate to the main story, with which it is imperfectly blended. Shakespeare has not borrowed the horrible suggestion of incest. . . . But he has had to pay a price for this omission, for the two parts of the play fall apart and are less well-knit than Greene’s story. . . . [165] Shakespeare’s manipulation of the source materials in The Sheep-shearing Scene [4.4] confirms the impression that he used the source as merely a starting point for something different . . . the opposition between Fortune and Nature, Nature and Nurture.

Genre

Smith (1897, p. 378 n.): In WT the pastoral element borrowed from Greene’s Pandosto is so completely subordinated that we can hardly say it exists at all. Who would ever speak of Perdita as an Arcadian? In all probability Shakespeare realized how little dramatic power existed in the pastoral theme, and was too wise to risk the experiment of writing a true pastoral drama. Greg (1906, p. 411) agrees: The shepherd scenes of that play [WT] . . . owe nothing of their treatment to pastoral tradition, nothing to convention, nothing to aught save life as it mirrored itself in the magic glass of the poet’s imagination.

Greenlaw (1916, pp. 145–7) does not: Greene’s story is [146] much farther removed from true pastoral than Shakespeare’s; what has really happened is that Shakespeare has transformed a romance of adventure which patronizes the homely pastimes of shepherds . . . into the most exquisite and satisfying pastoral in Elizabethan literature. . . . Fawnia is a Pamela of the Richardsonian type, concerned about her virtue, ambitious yet suspecting the intent of the Prince; her reputed father, a worthy predecessor of Pamela’s father, is wholly different from the old shepherd of The Winter’s Tale, for he suspects that the prince has designs upon his daughter’s virtue. . . . [147] Dorastus does not go to live among the shepherds in order to woo his lady, he merely puts on a shepherd’s coat when he pays his visits, changing back to his riche apparel when the call is over. We are not surprised that after the betrothal Fawnia’s chief thought is joy to have won the love of a Prince, hoping in time to be advaunced from the daughter of a poore farmer to be the wife of a riche King [here]. . . . How completely all this is changed by Shakespeare needs no illustration.

Herford (ed. 1904, 4:265–9): Greene’s execution was evidently controlled by the purest spirit of romance, according to the Sidneian and Lylyan model fashionable in 1588. The Arcadia served as model for the matter, the [266] Euphues for the speech. In the tragic story he framed a pastoral idyll, even outbidding Sidney’s pseudo-classic mise-en-scène by permitting his injured Bohemian queen to appeal, with success, to the oracle of Delphi; while the personages throughout express their passions and their hesitancies with an oppressive appetency, like Lyly’s, for the symmetries of speech and the analogies of nature. . . . [269] It is plain that Shakespeare did not attempt to efface the marks of the old tale in his [source] materials; at certain points he even heightens them. He repeats with perfect gravity Greene’s geographical and historical eccentricities, and caps the oracle of Delphos and the coast of Bohemia with a sculptor, Giulio Romano; see n. 3104–5. On Herford’s last point, Harp (1978, p. 296), however: Old tales in Shakespeare generally means old wives’ tales, that is, lies. . . . But . . . some of the characters . . . are also aware of the improbability of the events in which they participate, and it is this very improbability that forces them to the astonishing conclusion that old tales may . . . help reveal the true nature of experience. For more on the credibility of old tales, see n. 3037–9.

Moorman (ed. 1912, p. xxvii): The pastoral convention, to which Sidney and Spenser had in their day rendered full and frequent obeisance, and to which even such robust intellects as those of Ben Jonson and Cervantes paid loyal homage, had always seemed an unreal and artificial thing in the eyes of Shakespeare. He refers to Sh.’s transformation of Thomas Lodge’s pastoral Rosalynde into AYL; see Knowles (ed. AYL, 1977, pp. 490–4 and 511–27).

Bethell (1947, pp. 34–5): Greene insisted on Bohemia’s coastline to emphasise the fact that his Bohemia was not the Bohemia of contemporary diplomatic reports but a romantic Ruritania or Arcadia where the strangest things might happen. And Shakespeare, who rejected so much of Greene’s story in adapting it to his purpose, deliberately preserved the sea-coast of Bohemia because he was especially anxious to liberate [35] himself from the localisation of his play world in the contemporary map of Europe.

Parrott (1949, pp. 383–4): Shakespeare changes the whole tone of the story. It is not clear that Greene knew very well what he was doing; all he wanted was to write a romantic tale packed with situations giving occasion for his favorite long and euphuistic soliloquies. Shakespeare knew better than to close up a [sic] comedy with a tragical stratagem [here]; in fact he seems to have planned to convert Greene’s story into a tragi-comedy where a near tragic beginning should be brought to a happy close. He retains the general outline of the novel, but he eliminates its most tragic incidents, the death of the Queen, Pandosto’s unnatural passion for his daughter, and his final suicide. . . . In [384] the second part of the play, to give a realistic background to a romantic tale he brings in certain comic characters, the stupid Clown, Perdita’s foster-brother, with his rustic sweethearts, and the rogue, Autolycus. There is no place for such characters in Greene’s artificial pastoral, but they are quite at home in an English rustic festival.

Characters

Autolycus

White (1892, p. 55): The Winter’s Tale probably explains why Shakespeare was called the English Terence in The Scourge of Folly, [c.] 1611. White alludes to the collection of epigrams by John Davies of Hereford (1565?–1618); one is addressed To our English Terence, Mr. Will. Shake-speare. After summarizing Terence’s Andria, however, White concludes that the plays have virtually nothing in common except a generic resemblance shared by Autolycus and Andria’s servant, Davus. Neilson (ed. 1906, p. 419): For [Autolycus], and for his song in IV.iii.1 ff. [1669 ff.,] hints may have been derived from Tom Beggar in Robert Wilson’s Three Ladies of London (1584).

Camillo

Bonjour (1952, p. 197): In 4.4, the double arrival of the lovers and Polixenes . . . is natural and convincing. The fact that so human a sentiment as Camillo’s longing for his native country is so deftly used to motivate the whole proceeding is not the least of Shakespeare’s accomplishments in that matter. Moreover, there is not the slightest doubt that this rôle of Camillo’s, entirely missing in Greene, provides yet another effective link between the two centres of interest in the drama, owing to the conspicuous part he now plays in both stories, of which he is no mean agent de liaison. . . . Shakespeare’s preservation of Hermione, together with his creation of Camillo’s part in the last acts, are two main factors which give the play a unity of theme altogether lacking in Greene’s novel.

Leontes

Schelling (1928, pp. 410–11): Shakespeare’s King Leontes, when his un-[411]reasonable jealousy and his wicked defiance of the oracle have lost him his wife and children, spends years, we are led to infer, in repentance and remains true to the memory of his unparalleled queen. This makes possible the reconciliation in the end and the joy and hope that springs from the restoration of the lost ones and Perdita’s marriage to her Prince Florizel. But it is not only in these and in several minor changes that Shakespeare betters Greene’s plot for dramatic use, but the invention and introduction of new characters. Antigonus, incomparable Paulina, Mopsa, Dorcas, the clown, and above all Autolycus—all these are Shakespeare’s invention.

Lawrence (1960; 1969, pp. 176–7): Sh. altered his source in making the king’s jealousy break forth abruptly, in the midst of gay and playful conversation, but he has left some indecision as to how far these suspicions had already been smouldering beneath the surface. . . . Had Leontes been represented as suspicious from the start, a false idea of the affection of Polixenes and Hermione might well have been created, which it would have been difficult to efface. . . . [177] Sudden and unjustified suspicions were . . . common in popular story-telling. . . . Greene’s novel . . . is set in a framework of romantic commonplaces. Archaic details of the old and widespread Accused Queen motive were occasionally retained by both Shakespeare and by Greene. . . . Sudden and baseless rages are common in romance, and easily became a convention in romantic drama. We are not told why the Usurping Duke [in AYL] suddenly breaks in on Rosalind . . . and incontinently banishes her, nor why Old Capulet [in Rom.] treats his only child . . . with such violently cruel harshness, which even a crossing of his wishes does not seem to explain.

Armstrong (1969, pp. 60–1): Nowhere else does he [Sh.] follow one source throughout, but [61] exchange its quite straightforward central motivation for one so improbable that it has exercised readers ever since. In Greene’s Pandosto . . . Pandosto . . . is provoked to jealousy in the most direct way imaginable: [quotes Bellaria . . . thoughtes (here)]. Under these circumstances, it would have needed all the explanatory resources of depth psychology if Pandosto had not felt angry and jealous.

Schanzer (ed. 1969, p. 25): In the first half of the play Leontes still bears some resemblance to his counterpart in the novel. In the second half the two characters cease to have anything in common. [Pandosto imprisons Dorastus and tries to seduce Fawnia.] When he finds her firm against all promises and threats, his love for her turns to hatred, so that he is quite ready . . . to have her put to death. Nothing could be more of a contrast with Leontes, who, after sixteen years of penance for his crimes, is shown to be all goodness, humility, and courtesy. While Pandosto’s re-enactment of it sixteen years later makes his cruel behaviour towards his queen seem something rooted in his nature, that of Leontes is made to seem a unique and short-lived aberration, a solitary fit of insane delusion during which he becomes utterly transformed, a stranger to his true self.

Mowat (1976, pp. 9–12), a minority view: Instead of emphasizing the love between Leontes and Hermione, he [Sh.] passes over Greene’s account of these two, linked together in perfect love [here], and has Leontes summarize his courtship in the curt lines: Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves to death / Ere I could make thee open thy white hand / And clap thyself my love ([173–5]). The sole references to their affection are Hermione’s playful words: Yet, good-deed, Leontes, / I love thee not a jar o’ th’ clock behind / What lady she her lord ([99–101]) and Leontes’ declaration to the court that the defendant is one of us too much belov’d [1178–9]. In several places [10] where references to their love would seem natural, Shakespeare omits them. In the introductory scene, for instance, the picture drawn of the fortunate Leontes includes no mention of a wife. Yet, in Pandosto, it is largely the ideal love between Pandosto and Bellaria that makes Fortune envious, and causes her to turn her wheel, and darken their bright sun of prosperity with the misty clouds of mishap and misery [p. here]. Again, in the trial scene, where Hermione is listing the joys of her past life, she speaks tenderly of her children, but, of Leontes, she recalls only that she once had his favor [1273]. . . . Throughout the tragic section of The Winter’s Tale, Leontes’ character is in keeping with the pettiness of his passion. . . . [12] Pandosto, before jealousy overtook him, was a courageous warrior and a generous lord. Leontes, in contrast, is a frightened man, afraid to take open revenge on Polixenes [quotes 921–2]. He will instead revenge himself on his helpless wife.

Perdita and Florizel

Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 26–7): The transformation of the novel’s young lovers is less profound than that of Pandosto, but still far-reaching. . . . Dorastus is ashamed of his love for the shepherdess Fawnia and tries his utmost to resist it. Like his father (and Polixenes) he sees it as dishonourable, disgraceful, calamitous. Only because he finds his love stronger than his sense of honour does he finally yield to it and, after Fawnia refuses to become his mistress, offer to make her his wife. Nothing could be further removed from Florizel’s exaltation of Perdita above any princess, his total unconcern about her social station, his declaration that [quotes I was . . . alike (2287–91)].

Fawnia’s thoughts, when she finds herself in love with the Prince, also dwell mainly on the difference of rank between them. Where for Perdita the difference forges dread [1817] because it threatens the continuance of their relationship, Fawnia sees her love for the Prince as a violation of the order of nature, and therefore likely to have dire consequences. As she is preoccupied with social [27] rank, what pleases her most about the projected marriage to Dorastus is the thought of one day becoming queen. Hence it does not come as a surprise that when, at the end of the novel, she discovers the man who has been treating her and her lover in the most villainous fashion to be her father, we are told (apparently without the least touch of irony): Fawnia was not more joyful that she had found such a father than Dorastus was glad he should get such a wife [here]. We are worlds away from Perdita. . . . Much as he has done with Leontes, Shakespeare has made the young lovers far more attractive and lovable than are their counterparts in Pandosto.

Other Sources

Robert Greene’s Cony-Catching Pamphlets

Sh. drew details of Autolycus’s bilking of the Clown (1718 ff.), and perhaps his picking and cutting of the festival purses under the cover of song (2481 ff.), from one, possibly two, of Robert Greene’s cony-catching pamphlets. Sh. was clearly indebted to The Second Part; The Thirde may have provided some suggestions. See also nn. 1718 and 2567–9.

The

Second


and last Part of Conny-catching.

1592.

There walked in the midle walke [of St. Paul’s] a plaine Country farmer, a man of good wealth, who had a well lined purse . . . which a crue of foists [pickpockets] hauing perceiued, their hearts were set on fire to haue it, & euery one had a fling at him, but all in vaine, for he kept his hand close in his pocket, and his purse fast in his fist. . . . At last one of the crue . . . walkt directly before him and next him three or foure turnes, at last standing still, he cried alas honest man helpe me, I am not well, & with that sunck downe suddenly in a sown, the pore Farmer seeing a proper yong Gentleman (as hee thought) fall dead afore him, stept to him, helde him in his armes, rubd him & chaft him: at this there gathered a great multitude of people about him, and the whilest the Foiste drewe the farmers purse and away: by that the other thought the feat was done, he began to come something to himselfe againe, and so halfe staggering, stumbled out of Paules, and went after the crue where they had appointed to meet, and their boasted of his wit and experience.

The

Thirde


and last Part of Conny-

catching.

1592.

. . . Com to Gracious street, wher this villanous pranke was performed. A roging mate, & such another with him, were there got vpon a stal singing of balets which belike was som prety toy, for very many gathered about to heare it, & diuers buying, as their affections serued, drew to their purses & paid the singers for them. The slye mate and his fellowes, who were dispersed among them that stoode to heare the songes: well noted where euerie man that bought, put vp his purse againe, and to such as would not buy, counterfeit warning was sundrie times giuen by the rogue and his associate, to beware of the cut pursse, and looke to their pursses, which made them often feel where their pursses were, either in sleeue, hose, or at girdle, to know whether they were safe or no. Thus the craftie copesmates were acquainted with what they most desired, and as they were scattered, by shouldering, thrusting, feigning to let fall something, and other wilie tricks fit for their purpose: heere one lost his purse, there another had his pocket pickt, and to say all in briefe, at one instant, vpon the complaint of one or two that sawe their pursses were gone, eight more in the same companie, found themselues in like predicament.

Francis Sabie’s Poems

That Sh. may also have been indebted to an offspring of Pandosto was suggested and more or less dismissed by Chambers (1930, 1:489–90): There is not much to suggest that Shakespeare used a derivative from Greene in Francis Sabie’s Fisherman’s Tale (1595). Sabie actually wrote two poems based on Greene’s work, The Fissher-mans Tale and a second part, Flora’s Fortune. The first was entered, on 21 November 1594, to the stationer Richard Jones as a booke intituled, the fisher mans tale conteyninge the storye of Cassander a Gretian knight (Arber, 1875–94, 2:666). The second part, although it has new signatures and an entirely reset title page, does not seem to have been entered; Jones perhaps trusted that one fee would cover both parts. Also in 1595, Jones entered and published Pans Pipe, three pastorall eglogues, to which The printer hath annexed the Fisher-mans tale. Although Flora’s Fortune is unmentioned, RSTC believes the two parts were intended to be issued as sections of Pans Pipe.

The stories told by these poems may be summarized as follows.

The Fissher-mans Tale

Driven ashore by a storm, a fisherman discovers a small stone building strangely decorated with pictures of sea gods; it is evidently a mysterious temple. An apparently aged man, who seems more divine than mortal, welcomes him, and in response to the fisherman’s inquiry, tells his tale. He is Cassander, also a fisherman. He is of noble birth, however, and once sought fame through deeds of arms. After distinguishing himself in the Holy Land and elsewhere, he served the ruler of Bohemia, who led forty thousand men against the Turkish lord who had abducted Bohemia’s beautiful daughter. Cassander’s extraordinary deeds in battle win the day and the daughter, but Cassander modestly declines grateful Bohemia’s offer of his crown and her hand. He departs, having demonstrated that neither wealth nor station interests him.

After many adventures Cassander comes at last to Arcadia, where, among a troop of fair shepherdesses, he sees one whose beauty exceeds Venus’s and whose modesty Diana’s. As she looks at him, she too is affected, and her color comes and goes. Modesty requires the entranced Cassander to depart, but he inquires about her of an aged herdsman. She is, he replies, supposed the daughter of old Thirsis, and she herself doth know no less. Actually, however, the old man reveals, Thirsis found her as a baby, wrapped in a scarlet mantle and lying in a boat. Because of her astonishing beauty, many men now want her, but she rejects them all.

Cassander’s attempts to persuade himself not to love her are fruitless. Can it be that Cassander the Grecian Conqueror is infatuated with a shepherd’s trull? It can, for Apollo, Mars, and mighty Jove himself have been love’s victims. So Cassander disposes of his steed and his weapons and buys country russet and a flock of sheep, content with his lowly estate if he can but see his love. Unknown to him, his love is equally infatuated and also despairing, for how could such a flock-attending drudge as she hope for a famous knight, one perhaps as false as he is fair?

They meet one day while tending their sheep. Mistaking him for a stranger shepherd, she is so attracted that she quite forgets her love for Cassander. He points out that if she grazes her flock alone, she exposes herself to lions and bears and wolves and many other hazards. He offers to marry her so that she can leave behind the dangers and discomforts of single life. When she demurs, he reveals that he is the knight she recently met who now has set aside his fame and dignity to woo her, because Love levels differences in rank. He is eloquent, and she gives him her hand and heart.

Thirsis, having discovered their intimacy, berates her for loving a stranger who will surely desert her when her beauty fades. Henceforth, he will graze the flock and she will remain at home, out of Cassander’s sight. Cassander is frantic when, rather than Flora, a hostile and uncommunicative Thirsis appears in the fields. Disguised as a beggar, Cassander cries for alms at Thirsis’s door, and Flora recognizes him. She needs immediate help; tomorrow she weds Coridon. Stripping off his disguise, Cassander hurries to the port and arranges passage to Greece. That night he comes for Flora and would have escaped with her undetected had not his horse neighed as they mounted. Awakened, Thirsis pursues them. They manage to board, and Thirsis rages from the shore until Cassander, fearing that his angry words will provoke intervention, forces him into the ship. What is about to happen suddenly strikes Thirsis: he will be taken away from his dear old wife, tossed about on the sea, and finally his bones will lie in some vicious foreign land. He begs to be let go, but the ship puts to sea with him aboard.

Envious Fortune frowns. A storm strikes, the wind and sea go mad, rigging snaps, sails are blown to shreds, the ship splits on the rocks. Cassander tries to rescue Flora, but only he reaches the rock upon which the stone temple stands. Here he has been ever since, sometimes believing that Flora and Thirsis survived, sometimes not, but if he could be reunited with her, his white hairs, bent limbs, and ashen complexion would vanish and his youth would return.

Flora’s Fortune

Parted from Cassander, Flora and Thirsis are rescued by a passing ship. After visiting the isle of Delphos, they return to the Greek mainland, where they resume their former life.

The poem now looks backward to Flora’s parents. King Palemon of Greece marries the beautiful Julina, a German princess. After the death of his father-in-law, Palemon goes to Germany to claim its crown; he leaves Julina in the care of Eristo, a grave and senile man, whose integrity is undoubted. Before long, however, Eristo dotes upon the lovely queen and tries to seduce her. In a rage at her indignant refusal, he writes to Palemon that he has seen Julina playing Venus’s games with Lord Alpinor and that they conspire to murder him and take the crown of Greece. Eristo has Alpinor jailed and murdered, reported a suicide.

Raging, Palemon returns to Greece and, on Eristo’s testimony, condemns Julina to a pitchy dungeon until Apollo or Themis, the goddess of law and justice, confirms her treachery. By this time, Julina is great with child—Alpinor’s, Palemon believes. Alone in her cell, she brings forth a daughter sweet, whom Palemon orders to be set adrift. The queen kisses her little girl, consigns her to the gods’ mercy, and sends with her, wrapped in a robe and a scarlet mantle, a ring, a golden chain, and a purse of golden coins. The wherry boat is thrust off, and the babe floats upon the sea.

At Themis’s temple the Greek peers sent to learn the goddess’s judgment receive a sealed scroll, which they deliver to Palemon. Julina is brought to hear what Palemon is sure will be the goddess’s condemnation of her. Instead the goddess proclaims her chaste and adds that if Destiny helps not, Palemon shall die issueless. The nobles unbind the queen, whom maltreatment has made a pale and grisly ghost, assuring her that Palemon repents. It is too late, however; exhausted with grief, she dies. Palemon’s life becomes perpetual grief.

The baby’s boat makes its way into the Humber, an Arcadian river, where it comes to rest in the bulrushes. Thirsis, a poor hired herdsman, finds the child and the rich things sent with her by the queen. His wife, Mopsa, delighted with their miraculous wealth, agrees to keep their discovery a secret lest the king come and take it all away. She pretends to her neighbors that the baby is her own. Thirsis buys a flock and soon grows rich; Flora, raised to be a shepherdess, grows in beauty and has many suitors, all of whom she scorns.

At this point the plot of The Fissher-mans Tale is summarized and then continued. Cassander lives upon his craggy rock, and Flora and Thirsis, from whom Cassander was separated by the storm, having visited Delos, resume their lives as shepherds in Greece, the land of Flora’s father, Palemon. At length Cassander is rescued by a passing ship and brought to Greece also, where, all unknown to him, Flora has caught the eye of young Dryano, the son of the false Eristo who caused her mother’s death. Thinking to command the love of the shepherd wench, Dryano sends his servant for her, but Flora scornfully rejects the proposition, not only because she is virtuous but also because she knows exactly who Dryano is and what his father did to Queen Julina. Perhaps she should have anticipated Dryano’s response to her rejection of him: he has both Flora and Thirsis brought before the king on judgment day. His curiosity having prompted him also to be present, Cassander hears them accused of treason, condemned on Dryano’s perjured testimony, and sentenced by Palemon to death. Although he does not recognize her, Cassander, heavyhearted, watches as Flora is bound to the stake and Thirsis is hauled to the gibbet. Expecting to die, Thirsis reveals everything—his finding Flora in the boat, the token with her, her elopement with Cassander, his pursuit, the shipwreck and separation from Cassander, their return to Greece. As he listens, Cassander’s frosty locks become golden and his pallid face a healthy red. Palemon’s heart leaps as he recognizes the tokens and his daughter, and on her prompting, he has the villains hanged before sweet Flora’s face. Cassander embraces Flora. Even Homer with his quaint Pernassus verse could not express half the joys of old Palemon and indeed all the company.

According to Honigmann (1955), Chambers underestimated Sh.’s debt to Sabie, for some passages of WT are closer to The Fissher-mans Tale and to Flora’s Fortune than to Pandosto. The resemblances are italicized:

  • (a)the heauenly Godes haue sometime earthly thoughtes: Neptune became a Ram, Iupiter a Bul, Apollo a shepheard: they Gods, and yet in loue: and thou a man appointed to loue. (Pan. sig. E3)

    Loue conquers all things: it hath conquered
    Apollo once, it made him be a swaine.
    Yea mightie Mars in armes inuincible,
    It forced hath to lay aside his speare,
    Loue made the sea-god take a Wesils shape,
    Yea mighty Ioue, whose rage makes earth to shake,
    Loue made to take the snow-white shape of Bull:
    (FT sigs. C4–C4v)



    the Goddes themselues

    (Humbling their Deities to loue) haue taken

    The shapes of Beasts vpon them. Iupiter,

    Became a Bull, and bellow’d: the greene Neptune

    A Ram, and bleated: and the Fire-roab’d-God

    Golden Apollo, a poore humble Swaine

    As I seeme now.
    (WT 1826–32)

  • (b)the aire began to be ouercast, the winds to rise, the seas to swel, yea presently there arose such a fearfull tempest, as the ship was in danger to be swallowed vp with euery sea, the maine mast with the violence of the wind was thrown ouer boord, the sayles were torne, the tacklings went in sunder, the storme raging still so furiously that poore Fawnia was almost dead for feare, but that she was greatly comforted with the presence of Dorastus. The tempest continued three dayes, al which time the Mariners euerie minute looked for death, and the aire was so darkned with cloudes that the Maister could not tell by his compasse in what Coast they were. (Pan. sigs. F3–F3v)

    But see what chanc’d, a sudden storme arose,
    Skies looked blacke, clouds ouerwhelmd the skies, . . .
    . . . as once when angrie Iuno
    Sude to the wind-god for Aeneas bane,
    Seas sweld, ropes crackt, sayles rent, shipmen cride out,
    Ay me, poore wretch, my little fleeting barke,
    Leapt like a feather, tost with blastes of wind:
    One while it seemde the loftie skies to touch,
    Straightwaies I thought it went to Plutoes lake, . . .
    (FT sig. B2v)

    . . . Feare not I say, these waues and blustering winds
    . . . the frothy seas.
    (FT sig. B3v)



    the skies looke grimly,

    And threaten present blusters. In my conscience

    The heauens with that we haue in hand, are angry . . .

    Looke to thy barke . . .

    Oh, the most pitteous cry of the poore soules, sometimes to see ’em, and not to see ’em: Now the Shippe boaring the Moone with her maine Mast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth.
    (WT 1442–1535)

  • (c)Pandosto lacks this passage.

    He straightway charg’d him take the bastard brat,
    Throw’t in a boat, and let it flote on seas . . .
    Thrise kist she her sweet babe, and dew’d the face
    With her Chrystalline pearl-resembling teares,
    Impatient, thrise of sorrow she fel downe . . .
    (FF sig. D4v)

    The ruthfull mother when she saw it goe,
    Cride out and scrikt, renting her yellow haire . . .
    (FF sig. E1)

    Her eies which once like glittering Diamonds were,
    Now bleared were with fountaines of her teares.
    (FF sig. E2v)

    I neuer saw a vessell of like sorrow

    So fill’d, and so becomming: in pure white Robes

    Like very sanctity she did approach

    My Cabine where I lay: thrice bow’d before me,

    And (gasping to begin some speech) her eyes

    Became two spouts; the furie spent, anon

    Did this breake from her. Good Antigonus,

    Since Fate (against thy better disposition)

    Hath made thy person for the Thrower-out

    Of my poore babe, according to thine oath,

    Places remote enough are in Bohemia,

    There weepe, and leaue it crying: and for the babe

    Is counted lost for euer, Perdita

    I prethee call’t: For this vngentle businesse

    Put on thee, by my Lord, thou ne’re shalt see

    Thy Wife Paulina more: and so, with shriekes

    She melted into Ayre.
    (WT 1463–79)

  • (d)Apollo with a loude voice saide (Pan. sig. C2)

    these thundering voyces sent
    (FF sig. B3)



    the burst

    And the eare-deaff’ning Voyce o’th’Oracle,

    Kin to Ioues Thunder, so surpriz’d my Sence,

    That I was nothing.
    (WT 1155–8)

  • (e)The following minor coincidences: Two messengers sent to Apollo’s temple (WT 798–802, FF sig. D4v), six (Pan. sig. C2); the oracle is consulted before Perdita’s birth in WT and FF but after in Pan.; the title The Winter’s Tale reminds one of The Fisherman’s Tale: indeed Sabie observes that he wrote his book to expell . . . the acoustomed tediousnes of colde winters nightes [FF sig. A2v], an apology Shakespeare may echo in [618] (Honigmann, 1955, p. 29).

  • (f)The following resemblances of WT to Sabie; there are no corresponding passages in Pandosto:

    • (i)I should leaue grasing, were I of your flocke,

      And onely liue by gazing.
      (WT 1922–3)

      Good Lord, how long could I haue found in heart,
      T’aue gazed on her mind-reioycing shape.
      Whole dayes, whole yeares, my life I could haue spent
      In vewing her.
      (FT sig. C3v)

    • (ii)Fy (daughter) when my old wife liu’d: vpon

      This day, she was both Pantler, Butler, Cooke,

      Both Dame and Seruant: Welcom’d all: seru’d all, . . .

      her face o’fire

      With labour, and the thing she tooke to quench it

      She would to each one sip. You are retyred,

      As if you were a feasted one: and not

      The Hostesse of the meeting: . . .
      (WT 1860–9)

      My mother oft hath told me in a rage,
      That I liue like a Lady vnto her,
      I (saith she) care for all things which be done,
      I serue the Swine, I giue the Pulhens meat:
      I fret, I chide, I neuer am at rest,
      And thou doest nought but walke the pleasant fieldes . . .
      (FT sig. D2v)

    • (iii)

      I (an old Turtle)

      Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there

      My Mate (that’s neuer to be found againe)

      Lament, till I am lost.
      (WT 3345–8)

      And as a Turtle Doue, when she hath lost
      Her louing mate, so seem’d he to lament . . .
      (FF sig. C3v)

Honigmann (p. 30) concludes: Some of the Sabie-Shakespeare parallels could be explained away as natural to their contexts and therefore independent inventions, e.g. (b), (c); others are drawn from different contexts in The Fisherman’s Tale and The Winter’s Tale, e.g. (b), (f, iii). Nevertheless, enough of these parallels can be traced to make it seem quite probable that Shakespeare had read [both parts of] The Fisherman’s Tale—for, after all, they would have been equally natural to the context in Pandosto, where analogous material is lacking.

A few of the collocations apparently derived from Sabie could have come directly from Pandosto:

  • (a) taken The shapes of resembles vnder the shape of (Pan. A4v).
  • (b) sky, barke, and maine mast are closely associated (Pan. F3–F3v)
  • (f,i) Dorastus is glad now to gaze on a poore shepheard (Pan. D3).
These instances are too sparse to impair Honigmann’s argument. Hence, Bullough (1975, 8:130): Sh. may have been encouraged by The Fisherman’s Tale to develop its vignettes of rustic life, for Cassander disguises himself as a real English shepherd, buys sheepe and cotes [C4v], and sets up as a newcomer to the district before wooing the maiden. Later he disguises himself as a crippled beggar to visit Flora’s house, and receives alms. Obviously Cassander enjoys his deceit. Is this the germ of Autolycus?

Possible Sources, Analogues, and Imitations

Amadis de Grecia and Other Romances

Southey (1807, 1:xliv–xlv): One of the Spanish Romances has had the singular fortune to be imitated by the three greatest writers of Elizabeth’s age. In Amadis of Greece [Feliciano de Silva’s continuation of Amadis of Gaul] may be found the Zelmane of the Arcadia, the Masque of Cupid of the Faery [xlv] Queen, and the Florizel of the Winter’s Tale. These resemblances are not imaginary (Florizel indeed is there with the same name)—any person who will examine will be convinced beyond a doubt that Sidney, Spenser, and Shakespere, each of them imitated this book. Thomas (1922, pp. 21–2): Southey had in mind those scenes in which Prince Florizel, obscured with a swain’s wearing, woos Perdita, just as his namesake in Amadis de Grecia turns shepherd [22] to court the temporary shepherdess Silvia. . . . The pastoral scenes in question [were] taken over . . . from [Pandosto] but as in these scenes Greene was clearly inspired by Feliciano de Silva, Shakespeare incurs at least a second-hand indebtedness to Amadis de Grecia. O’Connor (1970, p. 214): René Pruvost . . . believes that the story of Florisel and Silvie in Book IX of Amadis provided Greene with the nucleus for his tale: The books of Amadis gave him the theme of a little princess born in prison and brought up as a shepherdess, who later is wooed by a prince disguised as a shepherd [Pruvost (1938, p. 301)]. [This] might explain Shakespeare’s use of the name Florizel and show Southey right once more. Note: As Mary Patchell points out (The Palmerin Romances in Elizabethan Prose Fiction [New York: Columbia UP, 1947], p. 114), Shakespeare may have derived the name directly from the Amadis.

Browne (1876): As in As You Like It there are traces of the Charlemagne romances[see R. Knowles ed. AYL, 1977, p. 501], so I think in this drama there are evidences of Shakespeare’s familiarity with those of Amadis. Florizel, as Don Florisel, is the hero of the ninth book of the Amadis series, believed to have been written by Don Feliciano de Silva, and originally published at Burgos in 1535. . . . No English version of it is known, but . . . there may be an abstract of his adventures in The Treasury of Amadis of Fraunce, London, 1567. [Amadis, 1572?, is an anthology of orations, each preceded by a headnote describing the occasion and identifying the characters involved. Dom Florisell is mentioned several times (e.g., on 2E2 and 2E3).] . . . It is by no means improbable, however, that Shakespeare knew the story in the French version of Charles Colet, Champenois (1564). . . . There is no mention of Don Florisel in Greene’s book, but he has taken the name of one of his characters (Garinter) from it [Amadis of Fraunce, presumably]. . . . La bella Perdida [occurs in] the original Amadis. Jusserand (in Lee, ed. 1907, pp. xxiii–xxiv) believes that book 8 of Amadis also contributed: Not only are the facts similar in the novel and the romance, but . . . the tone and manner (with an abundance of speeches, dialogues, and monologues, [xxiv] a conspicuous verbosity throughout) offer also striking resemblances.

An imprisoned princess, having given birth to a beautiful daughter, entrusts the child to a faithful servant and his wife, who take it to Alexandria. There she is raised to be a shepherdess; she is called Sylvia. Like Fawnia, she is wooed by rich suitors in whom she has no interest, but one day Prince Florizel sees her and falls in love. Because she will marry only a shepherd as she herself is, Florizel adopts shepherd’s garb, in which he woos her. After this, the stories diverge.

Honigmann (1955, pp. 31–3): WT may owe more to the novel than the name Florizel. Of particular interest are the similarities between the action connected with the statue of Hermione [5.3] and a story [Amadis 9:18–21, quoted from the ed. of Christophle Plantin, Anvers, 1561] of which I give a summary. . . .

Manatiles, King of Epirus, had an only son, Arpilior, who loved Princess Galatée. Manatiles also fell in love with Galatée and killed his wife in order to be able to marry her. One day, finding that Arpilior and Galatée loved each other, Manatiles almost killed his son in his jealousy, father and son being parted by courtiers. There lived at that time vn fort sçauant homme, a magician who, to calm the king and to save the lovers, s’auisa de dresser vn ymage si bien ressemblant au jeune Prince, qu’il ne lui restoit que la parole [decided to have an image made so much like the young prince that only speech was lacking; cf. WT 3108–9], and another image [effigy, statue] of Galatée. These images were beheaded, the prince, the princess and the king coming at a different hour each day to visit the images, Manatiles thinking Arpilior and Galatée both dead, the prince and princess thinking each other dead, and all of them taking the images to be real corpses. Having paid their visits the prince and princess s’en retournent chacun en leur prison, ou ils sont secretement nourris, & entent le sage homme que ceey se face tant que le Roi vivra [each returned to his own prison, where they are secretly fed, and the wise man intends that this continue while the king lives].

This story was told to Florisel and Silvie, who stole into the palace grounds and managed to see the images: contemplerent longuement les cors & les têtes d’icelles ymages, qui se montroyent aussi vermeilles comme si elles eussent été coupees tout fraichement [for a long time they contemplated the bodies and the heads of those images, which appeared as ruddy as if they had just been cut off; cf. WT 3240–1]. When Manatiles later visited the images, Florisel and Silvie heard him soliloquise: O Dieu souverain, ou auoise-ie l’esprit, quand ie permis que telle cruauté fût executee en mon propre enfant. . . . Ah amour, que tu es cause de grandes malheurtés & infortunes, ne m’étoit-ce point assés d’auoir m’êchamment meudry ma femme tant preude & chaste, sans me souiller, [32] & contaminer mes mains de mon sang propre, priuant moy & ce tant riche Royaume de legitime heritier? [O sovereign Lord, where was my mind when I permitted such cruelty to be visited upon my own child. . . . Ah love, who are the cause of great unhappiness and adversity, was it not enough to have wickedly murdered my wife so modest and chaste, without staining myself and dirtying my hands with my own blood, depriving myself and this very rich realm of a legitimate heir? Cf. WT 2733–9 ff.] Manatiles decided, however, that repentance was foolish, and thought that the execution of the two lovers was an act of justice.

When Galatée came to visit the image of Arpilior, Silvie told her that she had been enchanted, and convinced her that the image was not a real body. Florisel, Silvie and Galatée then waited for the real Arpilior to appear. When he arrived, Galatée ran to meet him, & se ietta à son col, le tenant long tems embrassé sans pouvoir faire autre chose que pleurer & soûpirer profondement de grand joye qu’elle auoyt [and threw her arms about his neck, holding him for a long time unable to do anything but weep and sigh profoundly because of the great joy she felt; cf. WT 3322]. Arpilior, however, stood bewildered, forcing Galatée to exclaim: ne soyés plus abusé d’vne statuë composee par art magique & deceptif, voyés la viue image de vôtre amye [don’t be deluded any longer by a statue made by deceptive magic; see the living image of your love]. But Arpilior pensoyt que ce fût quelque fantôme: parquoy demoura tout rauy, & ne sçauoit bonnement que dire ou faire [thought that she was a ghost because she had indeed died, and he hardly knew what to say or do; cf. WT 3209–10]. — Then Galatée le print par la main . . . (et Arpilior) reconnoissant sa fidele amye, l’embrassa amyablement, & baisa par plusieurs fois [took him by the hand . . . (and Arpilior) recognizing his faithful love, embraced her fervently, and kissed her again and again; cf. WT 3315–21]. Later Florisel killed Manatiles, Arpilior married Galatée, and the magician was rewarded for preserving them.

Lastly the magician threw a spell on the garden in which the images had been kept, filling it with statues of the heroes and heroines of the Amadis stories. Florisel entered the magic garden and was overjoyed to see the statues & pensa par plusieurs fois monter sus le trône, pour les aller embrasser, estimant que ce n’étoyt faintise ni enchantement, ains chose vraye [and thought several times to mount the throne in order to embrace them, believing that this was neither fantasy nor enchantment but the real thing; cf. WT 3280–1].

At first sight the resemblances to The Winter’s Tale are not very startling. Manatiles, a jealous tyrant, kills his wife and tries to kill his only child and heir. The heir (Arpilior) is miraculously preserved by the friendly magician (who corresponds to Paulina in Winter’s Tale); and so on. It is the magician’s use of statues, and specifically Arpilior’s reactions when he finds that Galatée is really alive, which seems to have the more immediate bearing on The Winter’s Tale. The repetition that Paulina can make the statue move by magic—[3230, 3293–5, 3302–3, 3319]—could be partly due to the fact that Paulina’s role may be modelled on that of the magician. Similarly the statement that Paulina [hath priuately, twice or thrice a day, euer since the death of Hermione, visited that remoued House (3113–14)], the house being her own home [3192], seems less peculiar—why should the wife of a nobleman live in a removed house, and visit her own home?—when we recall that the magician kept Arpilior and Galatée secretly in prisons. . . . [33] If Shakespeare took the name Florisel from [Amadis 9] there is some likelihood that he had met with Arpilior and Galatée.

Besides the possibility that la bella Perdida suggested Perdita to Shakespeare, as Browne believed [see above, here], a prophecy quoted in the chapter immediately following the end of Manatiles [9:22] could have had the same result: Quiconques cherchera Armide, peut entrer franchement, mais la saillie a deus extrêmes de la gaigner ou pedre, iusques à ce que les perdus soyent trouués par la perduë [Whoever will seek Armide may enter freely, but the undertaking has two extremes of gain or loss, until the lost things are found by the lost one]. Here there is an arresting resemblance to [1315–16], which Shakespeare transcribed from Pandosto [see here]. In The Winter’s Tale that which is lost is Leontes’ daughter: the allusion to la perduë in a similar context in Amadis may have moved Shakespeare to give Leontes’ daughter her name (la perduë = Perdita).

Honigmann’s argument may have been unknown to O’Connor (1970, p. 158): There is not a shred of evidence that Shakespeare ever read so much as a book of Amadis; any apparent influence was derived through Pandosto (see also O’Connor, p. 214).

Bullough (1975, 8:119–22) believes that in addition to Amadis, Greene—hence Sh. indirectly—was influenced by another popular romance, The Mirrour of Knighthood. The complete Mirrour consists of four parts: part 1 (3 books) was written by Diego Ortuñez de Calahorra; part 2 (2 books), by Pedro de la Sierra; and parts 3 and 4 (2 books each), by Marcos Martinez. All were translated into English and published between 1578 and 1597. The name of the young prince Garinter comes from the Ninth Book. . . . [121] Both the lost princess reared by shepherds and the amorous prince disguising himself as a shepherd appear in The Second Part . . . (1583). In Chapter XVI two newly born children are stolen by the Giant Galtenor from the chamber of the Empress Claridiana (f. 87r), and suckled very healthily by a lady and a lioness. The boy is called Claridiano, the girl Rosalvira. At the age of six they are taken by the Giant on his travels in a chariot drawn by griffins. Rosalvira wanders off one day and is found by a shepherd, who (like [122] Greene’s Porrus) consults his wife. . . . They bring up the child as a shepherdess. In Chapter XX Prince Claridiano, enamoured of an unknown Pastora (shepherdess) . . . goes among the King’s shepherds, in his hands a shepheards crooke. Also he carried with him a little lute. . . . He attracts the fair Pastora by his music.

Apuleis

According to Starnes (1945, pp. 1044–6), for this bizarre incident [the death of Antigonus], Shakespeare seems to have been recalling part of a story in The Golden Ass of Apuleius, book 7—from which, Starnes finds, Sh. also drew material for TGV. He summarizes as follows (p. 1045): Shepherds, seeking a stray cow, find an ass, ridden by a stranger, and try to take the beast to the rightful owner—the cruel boy [who earlier had been appointed the ass’s driver]. They find the boy’s body rent and torne in peeces and his members dispersed in divers places, which, Lucius says, I well knew was done by the cruell Beare. . . . Then they gathered together the peeces of his body and buried them [trans. Adlington, rev. Gaselee, Loeb Classical Lib., p. 339]. Starnes comments, In both accounts [WT’s and Asse’s] are shepherds searching for a stray sheep (cow); they are surprised by finding what they are not looking for (an infant, an ass); then they discover the mangled body of a man, partly eaten by a bear; and they resolve to bury what remained of the body. The similarities in characters, in incident, in the bizarre quality of the episode, in the order of details, and in the feeling produced that Antigonus and the cruel boy met a deserved fate can hardly be explained as coincidence.

Another scene in the play seems also to reflect Shakespeare’s recollection of . . . Apuleius. . . . Autolycus, trying to frighten the shepherd, exclaims, the curses he shall have, the torture he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster [2651–2]. For his own purposes, the rogue elaborates his description of the suffering which the shepherd and his son shall endure. (A) He has a son who shall be flayed alive; (B) then nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three (C) quarters and a dram dead . . . then raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall be set against a brick-wall, the sun looking [1046] with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death [2665–72]. With these details, Starnes compares the methods proposed by the thieves to torture Charite and the ass: (A) the fourth said she should be flead alive [6:143, and] (C) Then let us lay this stuffed ass upon a great stone against the broiling heate of the Sunne, so they shall both sustain all the punishments which you have ordained [6:143, and] an account of a master’s ingenious torture of his wicked servant— . . . (B) First, after that he (the master) had put off all his (the servant’s) apparell, he annointed his body with honey, and then bound him sure to a fig-tree, where in a rotten stock a great number of Pismares . . . had builded their neasts,—the Pismares after they had felt the sweetnesse of the honey, came upon his body, and by little and little (in continuance of time) devoured all his flesh, in such sort, that there remained on the tree but his bare bones (8:190).

Tobin (1984, pp. 151–2): The description of the statue of Hermione . . . is itself Apuleian and the attribution of it to Julio Romano additionally so. . . . The action of [5.3 follows] that of Lucius’ meeting with his aunt, Byrrhena, in Book II.

Lucius, newly arrived in Hipata, accidentally meets his aunt Byrrhena who invites him to her house where there is much sculpture so finely carved that Art (is) envying Nature. She shows him beautifully wrought pieces, and then lectures Lucius on the dangers of witchcraft as practiced by Pamphile, an event that Tobin believes is related to Paulina’s you’le thinke (Which I protest against) I am assisted By wicked Powers (3293–5). Tobin finds other thematic parallels of a similar type, as well as the appearance in both works of such words as house, marble, marvel, and wicked.

Aretino

Lothian (1930) tries to show that Shakespeare was very probably familiar with the five comedies of Aretino and his one tragedy, the Orazia, either at first hand, through his own knowledge of Italian, or indirectly through some friendly interpreter. In 1588, four of the comedies—Marescalco, Talanta, Cortigiana, and Hipocrito—had been published in Italian in London. Lothian finds the following resemblances to WT: First, the use of Autolycus as a vendor of knick-knacks and ballads (p. 419). Cortigiana 1.4 has a ballad-monger and Marescalco 3.1, a huckster (who is depicted as a Jew). They have in common with Autolycus only their professions and the crying of their wares, although Furfante in the former does sell alle belle historie. The second similarity is that the term three-pile(d), de tertio pelo in Marescalco, occurs in WT (1681–2), LLL 5.1.407 (2339), and MM 1.2.32 (128) [and MM 4.3.10 (2087)]. As for the third similarity (p. 424), it seems . . . just possible that, in running rapidly through a somewhat uninteresting passage of Marescalco, Shakespeare’s careless reading left him with the impression that Julio Romano was a sculptor and that he was, like Titian, emulus naturae. In the passage (5.3), which is in Italian, Romano and a marble monument are mentioned in adjoining sentences but not otherwise connected. According to Lothian, the 1588 version is as follows: Pedant. Sì pittoribus, un Titiano emulus naturae. Immo magister, sarà certo fra Sebastiano de Venitia divinissimo. Et forse Julio Romano curie, et de lo Urbinate Raphaello allumno. Et ne la marmorarea facultate, che dovea dir prima (benchè non è anchora decisa la preminentia sua). Un mezo Michel Angelo, un Jacopo Sansavino speculum Florentie. (5.3, p. 40v).

In modern Italian (ed. G. B. De Sanctis): Pedante. Si pictoribus, un Tiziano emulus naturæ immo magister, sarà certo Fra Sebastiano de Venetia divinissimo. E forse Julio Romanæ curiæ, e de lo Urbinate Rafaello alumno. E ne la marmorea facultate, che dovea dir prima (benché non è ancora decisa la preminenzia sua), un mezzo Michel Angelo, un Jacopo Sansovino, speculum Florentiæ. [For more on Sh.’s knowledge of Italian, see nn. 2665–7 and 3104–5, as well as Praz (1958, pp. 164–7) and Muir (1977, p. 6).]

In English (trans. Bruce Penman): Pedant. Si pictoribus [As for painters], well, in that case he will be a Titian emulus naturae immo magister [a rival of nature, or rather its master], he will certainly be a fra Sebastiano, the inspired painter of Venice. Or perhaps he’ll be a Giulio Romano of the Pope’s court, and the pupil of Raphael of Urbino. And in sculpture, which I should have mentioned first (though its preeminence is not yet fully decided), he may be half a Michelangelo, or a Jacopo Sansovino, speculum Florentiae [mirror of Florence].

The Bible

Fripp (1938, 2:741–3): In WT we are in the puritan atmosphere of Cymbeline and The Tempest. There are references to Judas Iscariot [533], Jacob and Esau [2604], the Lord’s Prayer [trespas . . . euill . . . forgiue (2730–2)], amendment of life [as in Matt. 3:1 (3162)], and probably to Elijah [1118–19] and Christ before Pilate [867–8; cf. Matt. 27:12]. Biblical language and thought are frequent—hold my peace, verily (repeated again and again), false as water, sin to strike an anointed king, slander sharper than a sword, Jove’s better guiding spirit for a babe, commit adultery, one jot, harden the heart, first-fruits of the body, the sins of youth forgiven, grow in grace, the life to come, pace softly, bring thee on thy way, name put in the Book of Virtue, a merry heart, lift up your countenance, flesh and blood, stoned to death, the Queen well in death, Heaven’s spies, a world ransomed or destroyed. Dorcas is a Biblical name. Once or twice there is a concession to Catholicism [326–7 and 3235–6]; and the Clown, after the manner of the foolish, gibes at the Puritan who sings psalms to hornpipes [1713].

Regarding lines 130–52, the best, and only contemporary, commentary on this passage is Romans v.12 and 14, in the Geneva Version of 1587, with its marginalia: Wherefore as by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin, and so death went over all men (From Adam, in whom all have sinned, both guiltiness and death came upon all), in whom all men have sinned (By Sin is meant that disease which is ours by inheritance, and men commonly call it Original Sin). Death reigned even over them also that sinned not (The very infants, which neither could ever know nor transgress that natural law, are notwithstanding, dead as well as Adam). The last note replaces in the older editions: He meaneth young babes, which neither had the knowledge of the Law, of Nature, nor any motion of concupiscence.

Daphnis and Chloe

Wolff (1912, pp. 452–5) asserts that a predecessor of Pandosto may also have contributed to WT: Shakespeare seems to have desired to employ . . . normal causation and human motive wherever possible, instead of chance. This desire would render him dissatisfied with Greene’s easy fashion of letting mere Fortune cast the child on the coast of the very country where reigns the unjustly suspected friend of her father,—the country where that friend’s son will afterward fall in love with this very child grown to girlhood. . . . For the purpose . . . of getting the child exposed in Bohemia and nowhere else, he [Sh.] invented Antigonus. Leontes commissions Antigonus to expose it somewhere [1105 ff.], and Antigonus’s own belief in Hermione’s guilt—together with the request of Hermione’s phantom . . . —leads him to expose it in Bohemia, the country of the child’s supposed father [1483–8]. . . . Once invented, however, Antigonus must be killed as soon as he has performed his task of exposing Perdita. Moreover, the Shepherd must be got to the beach to discover her. Sh. finds both problems solved in Longus’s pastoral romance Daphnis and Chloe, translated from Jacques Amyot’s French version by Angell Daye in 1587 (RSTC 6400). In that work, the noise of the young Methymnaeans’ hunting . . . frightens the sheep and goats from their upland pastures down to the shore. Sh., Wolff says, borrowed this hunt, and . . . used it both to send the bear that devours Antigonus, and at the same time to frighten the sheep away from the hills so that the shepherd must seek them along the shore and there find the child. In Daphnis and Chloe, however, neither a bear nor a character corresponding to Antigonus appears. Instead, to the griefe of the Methiniens, . . . beeing at their sport, and hauing fastned their boat with a strong oziar [willow] band, the goates of Daphnis by their euill attendaunce and keeping has browzed the same in sunder and set the boat adrift (F3v). No bear, no Antigonus, probably no influence.

John Day

Bullough (1975, 8:131–2): It is possible that Shakespeare took a hint for the presence of Polixenes at the feast [4.4] and his behaviour, at first kindly and then forbidding, from John Day’s comedy Humour out of Breath played by the Children of the King’s Revels in 1607 or 1608, and published in 1608. In this play Octavio Duke of Venice advises his sons Francisco and Hippolito to turn from war to love. . . . Accordingly they dress as shepherds. . . . Their father accompanies them in disguise. . . . He wants them to have experience but not to make bad matches. However, they woo daughters of Octavio’s enemy the exiled Anthonio Duke of Mantua, Hermia and Lucida, [132] who are poorly dressed and fishing with rod and line. Both fathers are against their children marrying beneath them, but when Anthonio knows who the young men are he agrees. In IV.i Octavio throws off his disguise and forbids the marriages, rather like Polixenes.

Esmoreit

Sh. did not know this Middle Dutch play, but Salingar (1974, p. 49) thinks Greene knew some variant form of it. Iwasaki (1984, pp. 23–7) treats it as an example of the Calumniated Wife story, to which type WT also belongs. In Esmoreit the Queen of Sicily is imprisoned for infanticide, the false charge being brought by her husband’s ambitious cousin, who disposes of her baby by selling it to the astrologer of the King of Damascus. The astrologer hopes to forestall an astral prediction that the King’s son of Sicily will be his master’s bane if great care is not taken. The child is raised as a Saracen by the princess Damiette. Eighteen years later, the two are in love, but before they are betrothed, Esmoreit wants to discover who he is. Wearing his swaddling band about his forehead, he arrives in Sicily, where from her window the queen recognizes the cloth, for in her own needlework it bears her husband’s arms. Her innocence is vindicated, Esmoreit is recognized by the king, Damiette and the astrologer arrive in time for the wedding, the villainous cousin is hanged, and the Saracens, including Esmoreit, are converted. The play’s similarity to WT, as one can see, is not close.

Euripides

Lloyd (in Singer, ed. 1856, 4:131–3): The Alcestis of Euripides, both in treatment and incident, has many points of analogy with The Winter’s Tale. . . . [132] The ancient critics noted it [Alcestis] as partaking rather of comedy than tragedy, as it starts from trouble and misfortune, and concludes with general satisfaction; and having regard to the tenor of some portions, the proper effect of comedy was thought to approximate to the satirick tone. Admetus, fated to die, is by favour of Apollo permitted to prolong his life by furnishing Death with a voluntary substitute. He urges the duty upon his aged parents, who repudiate the proposal with very marked reflections on its unreasonableness, and on his coolness in the proposition, but they fail to bring home to him this view of his conduct; and when his wife Alcestis becomes the volunteer, he grieves her fate as he would at an inevitable blow, is inconsolable at his bereavement, would fain accompany her, but, wrapped up in blind selfishness, never once contrasts her conduct, which he so much admires, with his own. His position is placed before him most forcibly by his father, but he can only see his father’s selfishness not his own, and drives on in dark obstinacy upon the path that must end in his being undeceived to humiliation the most degrading.

No word of reproach passes the lips of Alcestis; but her parting appeal to him, to spare her children the unhappiness of a stepmother, speaks expressively. If she says a word to set forth her sacrifice and the contrast of her self-devotion to the coldness of others, it is to urge a claim to this consideration for those she leaves behind, and she places them solemnly in his hands upon formal declaration of the stipulation. There is no mistaking in the comparative coldness of her adieu to him, a sense of the forfeiture he has incurred of that respect without which love lives not. She dies on the stage like Hermione, and her sorrowing husband forthwith prepares her solemn funeral, rejecting his father’s contribution, as he regards him as the impersonation of cowardice and selfishness. It is when he returns from the entombment, and stands before the doors of his widowed household, that his nobler heart recovers, and he passionately avows that too late he learns his wife has the nobler and better fate; he has forfeited happiness and fame together, his dwelling must henceforth be unbearable, and elsewhere he can only hope for the vituperation he utterly deserves. The Chorus comfort him, and urge the reparation of funeral honour. In the meanwhile Hercules brings back Alcestis veiled, rescued by his arm from the already closed clutches of Thanatos, hateful to God and man. Hercules pretends that his companion is a prize won in games, and offering to leave her with Admetus and even referring to renewed wedlock, draws from him expressions soothing to his [133] revived queen, as those that Paulina draws from the penitent Leontes. Yet, like Leontes gazing at the statue, he looks till the force of resemblance raises him to the highest pitch of agitation. At length, by gradation like that in Shakespeare’s play, the form of his wife in unveiled, and he recognizes her and falls on her neck. But she stands speechless; the purifications due to the infernal gods must first be performed, and a three days’ interval elapse before he may hear her voice; and thus in her silent presence the play concludes.

The elevated dignity and majesty thus expressed in the figure of Alcestis, the vindication of the self-devoted womanhood from the selfish neglect of a stronger power but an inferior nature is admirably realized, and is parallel to the reparation accorded to Hermione, who suffers with dignity as well as patience, and preserves herself not from consideration for a husband who has forfeited his nobler title, but for the sake of a daughter lost, but promised by the oracle to be found. The silence of Alcestis is not more satisfactory and expressive than the circumstance that, in the single short speech of Hermione, her words recognize and address alone her recovered daughter. She extends her hand to Leontes, and when he embraces her in joyful astonishment, full forgiveness is sealed by her frank embrace and entire reconciliation. She hangs upon [sic] his neck [3322]; but it is when the recovered Perdita kneels that her mother’s voice is heard again, and then, as if in the same awe of the powers of death from whom Hermione and Perdita seem, like Alcestis, to have been recovered, the scene hastily closes and the play is at an end.

Porter (1891, pp. 279–80): In both stories [WT and Euripides’s Alcestis], a likeness of the lamented wife . . . is proposed as a consolation [to the bereaved husband]. The suggestion of the body without the soul is plain. Leontes and Admetos, too, are both to be tempted to disregard an overweening sorrow for their wives, and the voice of accusing impurity they recognize is to be overwhelmed, so that they may love again . . . for the good of the state. . . . Paulina is the Herakles of The Winter’s Tale, and she scourges Leontes to his honor, till he says [2792–6, 2808–9]. Then, since Paulina can work wonders as well as Herakles, and [280] since Leontes, too, can be faithful to the death, she can address him, as Herakles addresses Admetos, to the true eye, true body of the true live wife.

P. A. C. (1892, pp. 516–17): In Greene and in Shakespeare the King wishes the Queen’s death because he is uncomfortable so long as she lives, and he prefers his comfort to aught else, taking it as his conjugal right and royal prerogative. See [900, 1141–2]. The Queen, understanding this, says, [My Life stands in the leuell of your Dreames (1258)]. To [him] she says, [can Life be no commoditie] when love [The crowne and comfort of my Life] is gone [1272–4]. So Alkestis [would not live on, torn away from thee, . . . wherefore spared I not] to die for him [The gifts of youth still mine, wherein I joyed (ed. Way, 287–9)]. [517] Admetos’ image of his wife, that he would have made by the cunning hands of artists [348–9] is possibly a prototype of the statue of the Queen. . . . Compare, also, Herakles’ trial of Admetos [1008–1120?] with Paulina’s trial of Leontes [5.1]; and Herakles’ restoration of the unknown Alkestis to her husband [1121] with Paulina’s bringing the statue of the Queen to life.

Porter & Clarke (ed. 1908, 34:120–1): It is not known that any English adaptation . . . was at that time extant of the Alkestis; but there is no need to suppose, if Shakespeare’s creative instincts were bent, in the remodelling of this play, toward Euripides’ treatment of the conquest of death, that he would be barred from getting all the suggestion he needed, even if there really were no English translation of it published, from the edition of Euripides published in 1602. . . . [121] [The plays] were all translated into Latin, with the Greek text opposite.

Gollancz (ed. 1894, 41:viii): The Greek element in Shakespeare’s list of names [of WT’s characters] is striking, and should perhaps be considered in connexion with the Alcestis motif of the closing scene of the play. He provides the following translation:

Hercules.

Toward her turn thine eyes,

And say if she resembleth not thy wife.

Rest happy now, and all thy pains forget.



Admetus.

O ye immortal gods! what can I say

At this unhoped, unlooked for miracle?

Do I in truth behold my wife, or doth

Some phantom of delight o’erpower my sense?



Hercules.

This is no phantom but your own true wife.



Admetus.

Art sure she is no ghost from the nether world?



Hercules.

You did not think a sorcerer was your guest.

Thomas (ed. Pandosto, 1907, pp. xvi–xvii): It is in regard to the story of the queen that Shakespeare differs most from Greene, by introducing an Alcestis motif. . . . It is not impossible that Shakespeare read the play in a literal Latin version, such as [H.] Stephens’ [Tragœdiæ selectæ Æschyli . . . Sophoclis, Euripidis (Geneva, 1567)]. Alcestis and Hermione have been several times compared (see Velz, 1968), but there is no evidence that Sh. directly knew any version of Euripides’s play. As Thomas notes, however, the story of Admetus and Alcest is told in A Petite Pallace of Pettie His Pleasure (1576).

Driver (1960, pp. 197–8): If Euripides thought Admetus possessed any internal guilt, he did not dramatize it. Instead, he dramatized the story of a man and wife bound by an external necessity, from which they are released only by an external benevolence. The only internalization is that of the feelings in a situation from which there seems to be no escape. The state of Admetus and Alcestis at the end is therefore not essentially different from that at the beginning. They are released from an imprisonment, but they are not reconciled to anything. This means there is an inherent balance in the [198] work, of which the highly theatrical agons with their frequent use of stichomythia are excellent expressions. . . . However much we may enjoy it technically or because of its emotion, it can never represent to us what the tragi-comedies of Shakespeare do, which utilize the forms of the stage to body forth the images of man’s internal history, with its furor, its disseverances, and its reconciliation.

Nuttall (1972, p. 220): The objective similarity of certain passages (especially Alcestis, 1121–50, and The Winter’s Tale, [3030–130]) is beyond dispute. The Alcestis is early Euripides (438 b.c.) but, with its comic episodes and solemn-happy ending, it anticipates the manner of the late romantic tragedies. And it is the manner which is important. There is a sense in which the correspondences between the Alcestis and The Winter’s Tale are in any case the less striking in virtue of the fact that the story of the Alcestis is the story of The Winter’s Tale. But the congruity of atmosphere between late Shakespeare and late Euripides has a more persistent, if less tangible, interest. If we read, not as source-hunters but as critics, we shall see that late Euripides is like Shakespeare as no other dramatist is.

Collier (1843, 1:8): Sh. had also an eye to [George] Gascoigne’s [and Francis Kinwelmershe’s] paraphrase of the Phœnissæ of Euripides, presented at Gray’s Inn in 1566, and printed in Gascoigne’s Works, 1573, 1575, 1587. In Pandosto the child is set adrift in a boat without sail or rudder, whereas in Jocasta, Gascoigne’s version of Phœnissæ, the infant Oedipus, abandoned because of the prophecy that he will destroy his father, is rescued and raised by a shepherd. Wells (1988, p. lix): This is the full extent of the analog and the situation is of course commonplace.

Folktales

Burton (1988, pp. 176–9): The separation of family members and their eventual reunion forms the basic pattern of events which, being shared by a distinct body of Middle English romances and The Winter’s Tale, links them together. In each work the pattern unfolds in four distinct phases . . . : A woman is separated from the father of her child or children. [177] . . . The child or children are reared away from home. . . . A long time lapse ensues, during which the child or children grow up. . . . The family is reunited. Using the system of classification devised by Stith Thompson in The Folktale (1946), Burton finds that (p. 178) the principal motifs as they appear in The Winter’s Tale are as follows. Hermione, a wife and mother, is persecuted (S410) by being slandered as an adultress (K2112). Her child, Perdita, is driven out by a hostile relative (S322) and abandoned (S301). She is reared by a herdsman (S351.2). The eventual reunion of father and daughter is accidental (N732). Burton also discovers (p. 179) a number of subordinate motifs: difference of social rank between lovers (T91.6); cruel fathers and husbands (S11; S62); episodes of trickery—Hermione’s feigning death (K1860), Florizel’s disguising himself as a shepherd, and Polixenes’s posing as a swain (K1816.6; K1816.9); tokens of royalty left with an abandoned child (S334); and prophecies (M300), including Antigonus’s dream (D1812.3.3). So, as the play itself acknowledges, The Winter’s Tale is indeed like an old tale [3038, 3070, 3328].

Emanuel Ford

Thomas (ed. Pandosto, 1907, p. xviii): Edward [i.e., Emanuel] Ford’s long-forgotten romance, The famous and pleasant History of Parismus, the valiant and renowned Prince of Bohemia [1598], bears little enough resemblance to either Dorastus or The Winter’s Tale, but it is interesting to discover therein certain of the motives employed by both Greene and Shakespeare. These include a royal child raised in the wilderness, a coastal Bohemia, and a bear with a taste for human flesh. A second part entitled Parismenos appeared in 1598, and both parts were reprinted several times. An ursine excerpt from the second part is printed by Bullough (1975, 8:203–4).

Thomas Heywood

The Golden Age, the first of Thomas Heywood’s five Ages plays, is dated 1609–11, thus possibly earlier than WT; Schanzer (1960, p. 23), however, believes it likely that Heywood was the borrower. Schanzer describes (pp. 21–2) the material in question: In the Golden Age there is one scene which it is difficult to read without being reminded of The Winter’s Tale. . . . Saturn’s mother, Vesta, comes to him to plead for the life of the child to which his wife, the Queen, has just given birth, and which he is bound by oath to destroy ([Pearson ed.] p. 13 ff.). Though there are few, if any, close verbal echoes, this scene brings forcibly to mind that in which Paulina visits Leontes with the new-born child to plead for its mother. It is above all a similarity of [22] dramatic situation and incident: the outspoken woman pleading with the King, accusing him of tyranny, his angry outbursts, his wavering mind [quotes 1084], his repentance, followed by his determination to lead a life of penance and sorrow. Among the more detailed resemblances one may compare the Queen’s Sweet Lad, I would thy father saw thee smile, | Thy beauty and thy pretty Infancy, | Would molifie his heart wer’t hew’d from flint (p. 16) with Paulina’s [865–6]; and Vesta’s Tyrant, I will (p. 15 . . . ) with Paulina’s [1362]. Contiguous with this scene, in the one case immediately preceding, in the other directly following upon it, we have in both plays the description of Apollo’s oracle at Delphos. In the Golden Age we find After our Ceremonious Rites perform’d, | And Sacrifice ended with reuerence, | A murmuring thunder hurried through the Temple (p. 13; [italics supplied]). That the italicized words also occur in the corresponding account in The Winter’s Tale (III.i [1146–58]) means little by itself, for they are just the words one would expect in any description of the oracle. It is their juxtaposition with the scene discussed above which makes the resemblance significant.

Greene’s Friar Bacon

Parrott (1949, p. 88): The realism of the scene at Harlston Fair in Friar Bacon is a forerunner of the sheep-shearing feast in The Winter’s Tale. See also n. 1981.

The Jealous Duke

This sad doggrel—which appears in Thomas Jordan, A Royal Arbor of Loyal Poesie [1663], pp. 46–51 (sigs. 2C3v–2D2)—was brought to light by Collier (1836, pp. 41–2) and printed in a modernized version by Collier (1866, 3:123–7). Although it probably condenses Pandosto or Sabie’s poems (see here), it could conceivably descend from WT. Here the shepherdess, actually the daughter of the Duke of Parma, meets the handsome prince.

The jealous Duke, and the injur’d Dutchess: A story.

Tune, The Dream.

7.

At sixteen years of age she was
The prettiest Nimph
That trod on grass;
Once a day when she did keep
(As she suppos’d) Her fathers sheep,
A Gentleman which her fair face lookt upon,
Was strucken straight in love,
And ’twas the Duke of Padua’s Son;
Who from that hour would every day come to see
His Mistress whom he lov’d like life,
Though of a low degree.

8.

Much love there was betwixt them both,
Till they contracted were by oath,
Which when his father came to know,
Then did begin
The Lovers woe;
For with extream outragious words he begun
To bid him leave her,
Or he’d never own him as a son;
The Prince did vow his love he ne’re would withdraw
Although he lost his father,
And the Crown of Padua.

Living Statues

As Halliwell (ed. 1859, 8:269) notes, a living statue is found in Richard Flecknoe’s Erminia (1661)—a play that, according to Langbaine (1691, p. 201), was never acted. In 1.5 a prince assumes the form of Mars’s Statue and speaks to the chaste heroine, whose resistance to his advances has turned him, he says, to frozen marble.

Porter & Clarke (ed. 1908, 34:121): The statue scene as given in Lyly’s Woman in the Moon [1.1] was doubtless known to Shakespeare, and suggested to him his very different treatment. . . . Lyly’s statue that came to life was made by Nature, attended by her handmaidens Concord and Discord, and she created it at the request of shepherds who craved a mate like themselves but of a purer mould. The eds. quote this stage direction: They draw the Curtains from before Natures shop, where stands an Image clad and some vnclad, they bring forth the cloathed image (Works, ed. Bond, 3:243). Concord, a maiden accompanying Nature, embraces the image, which comes to life as Pandora.

Moorman (ed. 1912, pp. xxx–xxxi): The famous Pygmalion and Galatea legend [in Ovid’s Metamorphoses] presents a certain parallel. The story was, of course, well known in Elizabethan England, and as recently as 1598 it had been made the theme of a narrative poem by Marston, entitled The Metamorphosis of Pygmalion’s Image. Kittredge (ed. 1936, p. 432): A poet who wrote Venus and Adonis in 1593 (or earlier) did not need to ask Lyly or Marston in 1611 to lead him to the story of Pygmalion in Ovid’s Metamorphoses (x, 243 ff.). Green (1870, p. 109 n.) had previously observed that the ivory statue changed into a woman, which Ovid describes, . . . is a description of kindred excellence to that of Shakespeare. Bullough (1975, 8:232) calls attention to the desire of both Pygmalion and Leontes (3281) to kiss their images. For more on Ovid, see below (here).

Lancaster (1932) finds living statues in several French plays, including Durval’s Agarite (1633 or 1634) and Alexandre Hardy>’s Inceste supposé (1595–1631), lost but known, to some extent, from the stage decorator’s notebook and from a play by La Caze from what seems to be the same source, L’Inceste supposé (c. 1638). Lancaster suggests that the presently unknown story underlying these plays also furnished Sh. with the idea of Hermione’s statue.

Dismissing this notion with the brevity it perhaps deserves, Taylor (1938, pp. 82–5) argues that Sh. follows Pandosto to about the middle of the third act of WT, where he decides to let Hermione live rather than die as does Bellaria. From this point . . . Greene’s story can be of no use to Shakspere so far as the Hermione story is concerned. . . . The restoration to life of a [83] heroine who had been struck down under almost identically the same circumstances, and in almost identically the same way, he had already handled successfully in Much Ado with the aid of [its source,] the Bandello story [Timbreo and Fenicia, Novella 22 in La Prima Parte de la Novelle del Bandello (Lucca, 1554)]. . . . Hence Much Ado . . . has to be thought of as a source of The Winter’s Tale. He suggests, in addition, (p. 85) that Hermione’s apparent resuscitation may derive from A Larum for London, or The Siege of Antwerp (c. 1594–1600), a play performed by the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Either as actor in the play or producer or merely as one financially interested, Shakspere could hardly fail to be impressed by the remarkable device of the Duke of Alva, being carried as dead through the streets, but once inside the walls coming to life. The other play of decided significance in this connection . . . is The Tryall of Chevalerie (see below).

Medieval stories about living statues are surveyed by Baum (1919).

El Marmol de Felisardo

Morley ed. (1887): It has been said [by Caro (1879) and Boyle (1885)] that it [Pandosto] was founded on a story of the treatment of his wife by a Duke Masovius Zemovitus [see Siemowitsch, below] of which there is an account by Tcharikovski, Archbishop of Gnesen, in the second volume of Sommersberg’s Rerum Silesiarum Scriptores. It has been suggested also that some Latin version of that story had been seen by Lope de Vega as well as by Robert Greene, and that thus points of resemblance between Greene’s Pandosto and Lope de Vega’s El Marmol de Felisardo may have arisen. The suggestion was made by Schack (1854, 2:338): In its plot, Marmol clearly shows a relationship with WT; since the latter is descended primarily from Dorastus and Fawnia, it must be presumed that this novel too availed itself of an unknown older story from which Lope also drew (in Ger.).

Furness (ed. 1898, p. 323), adding that Klein (1874, 10:494) affirms that there is a remarkable similarity between the two dramas, summarizes Lope’s play: Felisardo, who passes as the son of noble parents, and is a student, wins the love of Elisa, the daughter of an Alcalde, and, at last, the consent of her father to their marriage. It turns out, however, that Felisardo is a natural son of the king, who, by the death of his lawful heir, is obliged either to recall Felisardo or to die heirless. Accordingly the King sends an Admiral to bring the young man to Court. It now appears that Elisa has a twin brother, Celio; and the resemblance of these twins to each other is so exact that when the Alcalde wished to fit out Celio as a page to the Court, he takes Elisa by mistake, and dispatches her, dressed in boy’s clothes, as a page to Felisardo. A marriage is arranged between Felisardo and the daughter of the Admiral, but the young prince will not listen to it, and, on the advice of his merry servant, Tristan, feigns himself in love with a marble statue in the garden, and to such an extreme did he carry this feigned fascination that at last, to save him from dropping into his tomb, the King consented that he should wed the statue. Of course, Elisa was dressed up as the statue; whereupon the King was obliged to keep his word and sanction the marriage. Furness adds, In Johnsonian phrase, let us hear no more of El Marmol de Felisardo as a source of The Winter’s Tale.

Mucedorus

Spens (1922, p. 87): Mucedorus himself, a Prince disguised as a Shepherd, reminds us of Prince Florizel [and] has not Mouse the clown much in common both with the Clown . . . and with Autolycus? This popular play was published in 1598 and reprinted in 1606; an augmented version appeared in 1610 and often thereafter. It features a bear that does a comic turn with a clown named Mouse. For more on this subject and dramatic bears in general, see n. 1500.

Bullough (1975, 8:128): A parallel use of imagery has been noted between Mucedorus [ed. Tucker Brooke, 1908] I.i.47, My minde is grafted on a humbler stocke, and WT [ 1903–4]. Shakespeare may have remembered the grafting-image and the ambiguous phrase in Mucedorus when working on the art-nature theme in relation to the Prince’s love for the shepherdess Perdita. . . . Mouse . . . has much in common with the Clown [in WT]. Maybe the same actor played both parts.

Ovid

Lamb (1989, pp. 70–2): Autolycus’s name, obtrusively Ovidian among traditional pastoral names like Dorcas and Mopsa, calls attention to itself and to its source. His description of himself as a snapper up of unconsidered trifles because he was littered under Mercury [1692–4] derives unmistakably from the moral commentaries on Ovid’s Autolycus from book 11 of the Metamorphoses. Fathered by Mercury upon a mortal woman at almost the same time that Apollo engendered his twin brother Philammon, Autolycus . . . appropriately represents [71] false art. While the art of his brother Philammon, who in musicke arte excelled farre all other, / As well in singing as in play [Golding tr., Ovid, 1567; 1965, lines 365–6], delighted without deception as befitted the son of Apollo, Autolycus inherited his father’s unscrupulous nature [quotes lines 360–3]. Lamb also finds Paulina connected with Ovid [72] through the submerged myth of Pygmalion. For more on Autolycus and Ovid, see n. 3385.

George Peele

Edwards (Seeing, 1986, pp. 79–91), noting that winter’s tale is mentioned twice in the induction to The Old Wives Tale (see nn. 0, 627), finds other resemblances: the prominence of references to the passing of the seasons, the appearance of a figure representing Time in the middle of the play, . . . the theme of resurrection [and] more important . . . the sudden shifts of focus in presenting what is proclaimed to be a very unlikely story, and especially the movement between narration and performance. Additional connections with Peele are apparent, Edwards observes: in The Arraignment of Paris (ed. Benbow, 1.3), the goddess Flora prepares for the entry of Pallas, Juno, and Venus by creating a second flowery spring much in Perdita’s manner; (p. 80) framing techniques . . . to suggest different layers and levels in the fiction occur in The Arraignment, The Battle of Alcazar, and David and Bathsabe. In WT (p. 86) Time is the concealed presenter, . . . the tale-teller. Or rather, the tale-teller adopts the guise of Time. . . . He has two subordinates who do some tale-telling for him, the Clown and the Third Gentleman, the first inarticulate in describing the shipwreck and the death of Antigonus (1530–43), the second overarticulate in describing the meeting of the kings and the exchange of information that follows (as at 3090–100). (P. 87): The first episode is entirely new material . . . ; the second a re-working of Greene. . . . To create these incidents and to have them related in a particular way is a single act of free artistic choice.

The arresting coincidence of the bear and the shipwreck is required in order to destroy all the evidence of witnesses to the abandoning of Perdita. . . . This destruction of witnesses is necessary only because Shakespeare has provided the witnesses. . . . Shakespeare seems to have set up the problem in order to produce its far-fetched solution. Similarly the pell-mell of greeting and discoveries [in 3056–63] is entirely Shakespeare’s choice. The point is that Sh., in these instances and in others, emphasizes by narration the absurdity of the fiction at the same time that he makes convincing by performance incidents of equal or greater improbability. (P. 91) The play consists basically of three extended actions: calumny and rejection; love in the younger generation; reunion and restoration. Each of these actions is brilliantly realised before us. But they are brought before us as make-believe, and their status insisted on by those parts of the story that are narrated rather than performed. They are moments in a most improbable tale, moments that a supreme dramatic artist has chosen to make real and convincing. It is not in any way a new thing for Shakespeare to demonstrate how we are mocked by art.

Plutarch

Hales (1876; 1884, p. 109) asserts that all these [WT’s] names, except perhaps Dorcas and Leontes, are found in Plutarch’s Lives. Plutarch actually contains quite a few of the names that appear in WT: Cleomines, Dion, Hermione (as the name of the city on the east coast of the Peloponnesus; see n. 3377 for the person), Leontes (see n. 3371), and Autolycus (see n. 3385). Polyxemus, Camillus, and Paulinius also occur in Plutarch.

The Proserpina Myth

That the myth of Proserpina or Persephone was on Sh.’s mind when he wrote WT is evident from 1930–2. As Golding’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (1567; 1965, 5:485–708) tells the story, Proserpina, the beautiful daughter of Jove and Ceres, is gathering flowers when Dis, god of the Underworld, spies her, loves her, and carries her off to his domain. As Ceres seeks her through land and sea, the worlde did want, for famine fell upon it. Ceres at last learns that Proserpina, though Not meerie [merry], is nevertheless a Queene, . . . of great God Dis the stately Feere [fere, consort]. She appeals to Jove. Although sympathetic, he points out that Dis, his brother and equal in power, is a son-in-law not to be despised. Nevertheless, Proserpina can be rescued if she has eaten nothing while in the Underworld, but this possibility vanishes when it is discovered that she has sucked the juice of seven pomegranate seeds. Even so, Jove effects a compromise: And now the Goddesse Proserpine indifferently doth reigne Above and underneath the Earth, and so doth she remaine One halfe yeare with hir mother and the resdue with hir Feere (701–3)—and thus summer and winter came into being.

For correspondences between the myth and WT, see n. 1930–43. Honigmann (1955, p. 35) quotes Leonard Digges’s translation of Claudian’s Rape of Proserpine (1617) on the significance of the myth: By the person of Ceres is signified Tillage. By Proserpine, the seedes which are sowed, by Pluto [Dis], the earth that receiues them. . . . By the sixe Moneths that Proserpine remained in Hell, are vnderstood, the sixe, in which the seede is vnderground . . . by the other sixe that shee is with her Mother, is set downe, when the corne is ripe. Honigmann adds (pp. 36–8) regarding 2416–19: Kindness and unkindness are equivalents of summer and winter, as throughout the play, and unkindness is chidden to hell because hell stands for . . . the winter months of unkindness; while the verb grow continues the allusion. [At 2330–1] can we doubt that Perdita=Proserpine=the seed in the earth? . . . [37] When Hermione, who still loved Leontes when they were reunited [quotes 3322], declared, in her only speech after her return to life, that she preserved herself in order to see her daughter again, not mentioning any wish to see her husband, it seems that Shakespeare at this point was thinking of her primarily as Ceres (who had lost her daughter) rather than as Hermione (who loves her husband as well as her daughter). . . . [38] Perhaps . . . the switch [in WT of Greene’s two countries and their kings] was not due to heedlessness and geographical ignorance but to the desire to reinforce the Proserpine-Perdita parallel with Ceres-Hermione a Queen of Sicily as in the myth.

Rogue Literature

As indicated above (here), for the conceit of the foist performed at St. Paul’s, Sh. relied mainly on Greene’s Second Part of Conny-catching. Hazlitt (1875, 1:4:10), however: When he created Autolycus, Sh. may have had in his recollection that extraordinarily curious production of Thomas Newberry, The Book of Dives Pragmaticus, 1563. In it, Dives, the great Marchant man (sig. A1), offers wares to all sorts of people, from popes, cardinals, and kings to reapers and mowers and players and minstrels; the purpose was to acquaint Seruauntes and Chyldren with a vocabulary of objects in common use. Dives has no connection with Autolycus, however, except that he, too, is a pedlar.

Sidney

Bullough (1975, 8:125–6): In Sidney’s Arcadia (1590 version, from which Shakespeare took the Edmund–Gloster story in Lear) there are several resemblances to details in The Winter’s Tale. Pyrocles, disguised as the Amazon Zelmane, finds his friend Musidorus disguised as a shepherd. . . . Zelmane is invited by King Basilius to watch some Pastorals enacted in a natural theatre (Ch. 19). Musidorus gets admission too, calling himself Dorus. Zelmane is just speaking to his beloved Philoclea, when sodainely there came out of a wood a monstrous Lion, with a she-Beare not far from him, of litle less fiercenes. Zelmane cuts off the lion’s head and presents it to Philoclea. Musidorus slays [126] the bear and presents one of its paws to his love, Pamela, who tells how he killed the beast and how the foolish Dametas played the coward most comically. After this they have Pastorals in the evening by torchlight, and Dametas acts as director. Analogous to The Winter’s Tale are the mingling of a disguised prince with shepherds, the sudden appearance of a bear, arousing terror and laughter in quick succession, the Pastoral festivity with dancing and singing, its first sports including a leaping dance of shepherds in honour of Pan and his Satyrs.

Shakespeare’s Plays

Similarities between aspects of WT and Sh.’s earlier plays have frequently been noted—for example, by Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 12–13): In dramatizing the resurrection of Hermione, he [Sh.] evidently drew on memories of two of his own previous plays, Much Ado About Nothing and Pericles. The plot-parallels between The Winter’s Tale and Much Ado About Nothing are the more extensive: in both plays the husband (or bridegroom) publicly accuses his wife (or bride) of unchastity; she falls into a swoon and is believed to be dead by all who are present; but she recovers, and is secretly hidden away, while her husband (or bridegroom) continues to believe her to be dead. He discovers her innocence, repents of his actions, devises an epitaph for her tomb setting forth the cause of her death, and vows to visit that tomb as an act of penance (daily in The Winter’s Tale, once a year in Much Ado About Nothing). He promises—and here Shakespeare drew on memories of Bandello’s novella [22 (1554)], his source for Much Ado About Nothing, [13] rather than on the play itself—that when he marries again he will only take a wife chosen for him (by the slandered woman’s father in the one case, her friend in the other). One further hint Shakespeare may have derived from the novella. Describing the slandered woman lying in her swoon, Bandello remarks that she resembled a marble statue rather than a live woman. This may have suggested the idea of making Hermione pose as her own statue. . . .

In the shaping of the statue-scene memories of the finale of Pericles played a major part. In both plays a queen is believed to be dead. . . . But she returns to life and remains in seclusion for many years. . . . The final scene depicts her reunion, after this long gap of time, with husband and daughter, who had both firmly believed her to be dead. In both plays this scene breathes a similar atmosphere of ceremonious solemnity turning to wonder and joy; in both the daughter kneels before her mother, who calls her my own.

Mackail (1911, p. 215): Just as Tmp. is the by-product of AYL and Mac., WT is the by-product of Oth. and Ado.

Siemowitsch (or Semovit or Ziemowit)

Herford (ed. 1904, 4:265) summarizes the findings of Caro (1879) and Boyle (1885): The germ of the romance [Pandosto] was probably an actual incident in the fourteenth-century annals of Poland and Bohemia. A king, Siemowitsch, conceived suspicions of his wife, a lady of the Bohemian court, threw her into prison, where she bore a son, then caused her to be strangled, and the child sent away. The child was finally restored to Siemowitsch, who died, deeply repentant, in 1381—the year in which Anne of Bohemia, a kinswoman of the murdered wife, gave her hand to Richard II. The lively intercourse with Bohemia which ensued upon that marriage may well have set the tradition of this bit of criminal history afloat in England. . . . A faint trace of the original locality perhaps survives in Greene’s Bohemian king and court. A more detailed summary of Caro’s article is given by Furness (ed. 1898, pp. 322–3); see also El Marmol de Felisardo, above. Caro’s study appears to be a continuation of an article published in the Magazin für die Literatur des Auslandes in 1863.

Spenser

Grey (1754, 1:244–62): Several things in this play seem to resemble Spenser’s story of Melibee, Pastorella, and Sir Calidore. He quotes FQ 6.12:3–9, the story of Sir Bellamour’s marriage to Claribel, the birth of Pastorella, the baby’s abandonment, and her discovery by the shepherd, whose honest wife nurses her. With Florizel’s praise of Perdita (1798–1802), Grey compares Calidore’s first meeting with Pastorella (6.9.9, 11); Perdita’s allusion to Florizel’s déclassé costume (1803–12) he likens to Calidore’s shepherd’s weed, adopted for the love of Pastorella (6.9.36). Perdita imagined that the shepherd was her real father. Of the same opinion was Pastorella, with regard to the shepherd Melibee (p. 261).

Kermode (ed. 1963, pp. xxvi–xxvii): For [the most important clue to the nature of WT] we should turn to the greatest works in prose and verse of the period, Sidney’s Arcadia and Spenser’s Faerie Queene. It is no reflection on Greene to say that his novel cannot live with such romances as these; for they are in intention and performance the profoundest and most serious art of the period. . . . They nevertheless use romantic themes. They are concerned less with psychological realism than with supernaturally sanctioned reality under human appearances. Shakespeare knew them both, and used them, especially Spenser. Marina is his Florimel, Perdita his Pastorella; in The Winter’s Tale he transforms Fawnia, Greene’s royal changeling, and does so to make her like Spenser’s noble shepherdess. And insofar as The Winter’s Tale is philosophical it is Spenserian too; like Spenser, Shakespeare is preoccupied by Time as destroyer and renewer, that which ruins the work of men but is the father of truth. Just as the sea appears to be aimlessly destructive, tearing apart father and child, husband and wife, [xxvii] but in the end is seen to be merciful because it finally brings them together and restores their happiness, so Time only seems to change things because it must renew their truth.

Bullough (1975, 8:126): In [FQ 6.4] Calepine is out walking in the woodland To take the ayre, and heare the thrushes song when he sees A cruell Beare, the which an infant bore / Betwixt his bloudie jawes, besprinckled all with gore (17). Chasing the beast[,] Calepine forces it to lay down its spoil,

Wherewith the beast, enrag’d to loose his pray,
Upon him turned, and with greedie force
And furie, to bee crossed in his way,
Gaping full wyde, did thinke without remorse,
To be aveng’d on him, and to devoure his corse. (20)
Calepine kills the bear by thrusting a stone down its throat and fighting it on the ground.
Then tooke he up betwixt his armes twaine
The litle babe, sweet relicke of his pray;
Whom pitying to heare so sore complaine,
From his soft eyes the teares he wypt away,
And from his face the filth that did it ray.
He finds the child to be unharmed, and leaves him with the childless Matilda, wife of Sir Bruin, and the adopted boy becomes a famous knight.

This passage, combining the discovery and cherishing of a baby with danger from a bear may have passed through Shakespeare’s mind when planning the exposure of Perdita.

The Thracian Wonder

This good-natured heroical-pastoral romance was first mentioned in a Stationers’ Register entry dated 29 November (for December?) 1653. It was published in 1661 by the piratical Francis Kirkman; the quarto title page gives the authors as John Webster and William Rowley, an attribution rejected by Harbage et al. (1989). Fleay 1890, p. 409; and 1891, 1:278 assigns the work to Thomas Heywood, asserting (1891, 2:332) that the plot is from Curan and Argentile, William Webster’s poem, 1617, which was an enlargement of Warner’s story in his Albion’s England, 1586, and that the attribution to John Webster was made because Kirkman confused the two Websters. That the source of The Thracian Wonder is actually Greene’s Menaphon, however, was demonstrated almost simultaneously by Brereton (1907) and Adams (1906), and its similarities to WT were accounted for by the similarities between Menaphon and Pandosto. The date was taken to be in the 1590s. Hatcher (1908), however, argues that, in addition to Menaphon, The Thracian Wonder was influenced by other works by Greene such as Orlando Furioso and James the Fourth; he finds that it (p. 19) belong[s] . . . somewhere between 1600 and 1610. Still, Hatcher, like his predecessors, stops short of making it a source of WT. Crupi (1971, p. 347), in fact, believes that The Thracian Wonder is indebted to WT, which would place The Thracian Wonder after 1611.

Marks (1908, pp. 48–9) summarizes the plot of The Thracian Wonder: Ariadne, daughter to King Pheander, has clandestinely married Radagon, who is disguised as a menial at the court of Pheander, and is King of Scicillia. When the marriage is disclosed, the maiden’s father at once begins a course of the most tyrannical cruelty. He banishes Ariadne and the little son Eusanius, putting them to sea in a boat; he then proceeds to banish Radagon in the same fashion. Finally, he exiles his own brother Sophos for pleading the cause of Ariadne. As a punishment for the King’s sins, a terrible plague attacks the court, an oracle revealing that until the monarch makes retribution, the country shall know neither peace nor prosperity. Overcome with remorse, Pheander goes out as a pilgrim seeking Ariadne. In the mean time the daughter and her little son and Radagon have [49] come to shore; Radagon and Ariadne, although mutually attracted, do not recognize each other. In the end a recognition takes place, they are discovered by Pheander, and all return happily homeward. She adds (pp. 49–50): Some of the scenes bespeak at least a smattering of a knowledge of classical idyls [sic], for the pastoral quality is at times closely imitated. The [50] mythological ingredients are further borne out by the appearance of the Goddess Pithia and of a Chorus and Time. Titterus and Pallemon and a Clown afford the merry element, and very merry and full of coarse jests they are. There is, too, a fisherman among the dramatis personæ, an interesting pastoral-piscatory touch, and also the usual religious accompaniment of the pastoral play, a priest.

The Trial of Chivalry

Koeppel (1896) believes that Sh. borrowed the idea of Hermione’s statue from The History of the Trial of Chivalry (1599–1604), an anonymous play published in 1605 as lately acted by the Earl of Derby’s company. In it, the supposed alabaster statue of a kneeling man holding a prayer book is actually a disdained lover whose repentant lady will dayly deck his tombe and statue with sweet flowers (ed. Bullen, 3 [1884], 336). He is indeed a living statue, but beyond that he and Hermione have nothing in common. Bullough (1975, 8:229–32), who prints excerpts, compares the lady’s utterance A certayne softe remorce Creeps to my heart with Leontes’s remorse at 3223–9, but the connection is insignificant. Nevertheless, Velie (1972, p. 108) asserts: The Trial was performed . . . only a half dozen years or so before Shakespeare wrote The Winter’s Tale, and we are certain that Shakespeare was in London during that period. It seems probable, then, that in writing a play with strong elements of melodrama, he consciously borrowed from another Elizabethan melodrama. The date of The Trial is too uncertain, however, to permit certainty about Sh.’s whereabouts when it was acted.

Criticism

General Assessments

Despite the extraordinary regard usually expressed for Sh.’s work, the critical reception of WT reminds us that for particular plays the delight of one critic is often the displeasure of another.

A few critics voice outright disapproval. Dryden (1672; 1978, 11:206): The play is either grounded on impossibilities, or at least, so meanly written, that the Comedy neither caus’d your mirth, nor the serious part your concernment. Lennox (1753, 2:75): If we compare the Conduct of the incidents in [WT] with the paltry Story on which it is founded, we shall find the Original much less absurd and ridiculous. If Shakespear had even improved the Story . . . yet he would still have been accountable for what remained. Bridges (1907, 10:331): It may be that Shakespeare wished to portray this passion [jealousy] in odious nakedness without reason or rein, as might be proper in a low comedy, where its absurdity would have been ridiculed away: but if so, his scheme was artistically as bad as any third-rate melodrama of today: the admixture of tragic incident creates a situation from which recovery is impossible. Quiller-Couch (1917, pp. 260–8) lets pass the gap in time as an honest failure but refuses to absolve Sh. of far less venial flaws: the bungled presentation of Leontes’ jealousy (p. 262); the lack of groundwork for Hermione’s apparent death and real concealment; the exchange of clothes by Florizel and Autolycus, which does nothing to further the plot; that naughty superfluity—the bear (p. 264); the scamping of the recognition scene (p. 265). His final judgment (p. 268): We must admit that the play never lodges in our minds as a whole. Pettet (1949, pp. 166–7): Leontes and Hermione, Polixenes, Florizel and Perdita [are] but names, the names of puppets—speaking some magnificent verse, of course—who dance to the compulsive strings of an extravagant, highly coloured story. . . . Motivation, too, is often weak and thoroughly unplausible [e.g., Leontes’ monstrous and instantaneous jealousy; his readiness to marry a wife of Paulina’s choice; Hermione’s concealment for sixteen long years in order to punish a thoroughly chastened and repentant husband (p. 167)]. . . . As the price that we pay for our far-fetched romantic stories we must accept behaviour and motives that are quite incredible and sometimes, as with Hermione, inconsistent with the disposition of the particular character concerned. Halliday (1954, p. 174): Shakespeare, after the tremendous strain of the tragedies, seems to have welcomed a less exacting dramatic form in which character was of secondary importance, and which afforded him the chance of writing the equivalent of the lyric poetry that he had renounced after The Merchant of Venice, though Halliday calls the poetry of WT abstract and colourless.

Others find little or nothing to criticize and much to admire. Warburton (ed. 1747, 3:277): This play throughout is written in the very spirit of its author. . . . The meanness of the fable, and the extravagant conduct of it, had misled some of great name into a wrong judgment of its merit; which, as far as it regards sentiment and character, is scarce inferior to any in the whole collection. Clarke (1863, p. 345): The general plot and incidental circumstances of The Winter’s Tale are more varied, exciting, and sensuously appealing than perhaps any other of Shakespere’s plays. Dowden (1875; 1877, pp. 403, 406): WT is a work of his period of large, serene wisdom. The play, however mellowed, refined, . . . exquisite, is written with less of passionate concentration than the plays which immediately precede [it], but with more of a spirit of deep or exquisite recreation. . . . [406] His present temper demanded . . . [that] the dissonance must be resolved into a harmony. . . . While grievous errors of the heart are shown to us, and wrongs . . . as cruel as those of the great tragedies, at the end there is . . . reconciliation. Idem (1875; 1890, p. 60): It will be felt that the name which I have given to this last period—Shakspere having ascended out of the turmoil and trouble of action, out of the darkness and tragic mystery, the places haunted by terror and crime, and by love contending with these, to a pure and serene elevation—it will be felt that the name, On the heights, is neither inappropriate nor fanciful. Symons (in Irving & Marshall, ed. 1890, 7:320): For sheer realism, for absolute insight into the most cobwebbed corners of our nature, Shakespeare has rarely surpassed this brief study. . . . We close The Winter’s Tale with a feeling that life is a good thing, worth living. Swinburne (1905; 1909, pp. 52–3) praises the tragedy, the comedy, the pastoral fusion of them both, the heavenly harmony of the close. Somehow ignoring Oth., he adds: WT is the only serious study of jealousy which Shakespeare ever deigned to take of so base a moral infirmity or vice. . . . [53] There is no such pastoral poetry, such pastoral drama, in the world. Masefield (1912, pp. 228–30): WT, perhaps the gentlest of Sh.’s plays, is done with a tenderer hand than [229] the other works, suggesting why the sudden shocks and interruptions of life, which play so big a part in the action of [Per., Cym., WT, Tmp.], have full power here. [Mamillius’s] winter’s tale is interrupted. The rest of the play results from the interruption. . . . [230] [Leontes’s] remorse gives to the last great scene an intense beauty, hardly endurable. Greenlaw (1916, p. 146): Shakespeare has transformed a romance of adventure which patronizes the homely pastimes of shepherds, shepheards ragges, and the garlands woven of shepherds’ homely flowers into the most exquisite and satisfying pastoral in Elizabethan literature. Sachs (1923, p. 84): One can put one’s finger on the difference between commonplace talent and genius. [Pandosto] is logically correct but nevertheless leaves the reader cold. In [WT], however, the plot is logically absurd and yet we are deeply moved by it because it is built up on deep psychological truth. Schelling (1928, p. 411) attributes Sh.’s success to the invention and introduction of new characters. . . . Antigonus, incomparable Paulina, Mopsa, Dorcas, the clown, and above all Autolycus.

Traversi (1938; 1969, 2:320–1): The pattern of reconciliation—the embrace of Leontes and Hermione, Hermione’s blessing of her daughter, and the ratification of marriage for Paulina and Camillo by Leontes and Polixenes, newly rejoined in amity—makes it hard to find, even in Shakespeare, a more pro-[321]found purpose more consistently carried out to its proper artistic conclusion. Idem (1954; 1965, p. 105) also praises the poetic mastery so evident in this play, the extraordinary range of imagery and superb control of rhythm . . . consistently used to clarify character and motive [while] dramatic action [is] perfectly balanced in its several parts. Behind the repeated stress laid on the fact that we are following a fable . . . lies a consistent desire to make this action, this fable, the instrument for a harmonious reading of human experience. Leavis (1942, p. 341): In WT, the relations between character, speech and the main themes of the drama are not such as to invite a psychologizing approach. . . . So large a part of the function of the words spoken by the characters is so plainly something other than to create the speakers or to advance an action. . . . It is enough here to remind the reader of the way in which personal drama is made to move upon a complexity of larger rhythms—birth, maturity, death, birth. . . . This is a striking instance of Shakespeare’s ability to transmute for serious ends what might have seemed irremediably romantic effects.

Craig (1948, pp. 328–9, 331) approves the play’s abundance of life and action . . . accompanied by very great clarity and very definite motivation. . . . The poetic beauty of The Winter’s Tale is comprehensible, great and tangible, not subtle. . . . [329] [WT] has suspense throughout; its events follow in causal sequence. It is not a mere succession of striking single scenes. Its situations are of the greatest dramatic power. . . . [331] In spite of the great gap of time which elapses between the third and fourth acts, the play is a single tale and, in its way, a masterpiece of plot-making. Nicoll (1952, pp. 166–7): WT may be esteemed one of [Sh.’s] most successful plays because, despite a certain naïveté, its characters are endowed with life while they retain an ability to shift their natures and indulge in wholly unmotivated actions. . . . The world of the dream and the vision remains still potent. . . . [167] Although [the poet] has become almost incapable of disassociating in his mind the dream from the reality, [he] yet preserves what can only be called a humorous attitude. Sen Gupta (1961, p. 68): The play is a bold experiment in form, a tour de force. Here Shakespeare is not interested in adequately motivating actions; rather he presents spectacular situations which derive their effectiveness from mutual contrast (as in the reversal of romantic friendship to suddenly frenzied, causeless jealousy). Rowse (1963, pp. 424–6) calls WT a most beautiful and moving play. . . . [425] Though the style is compacted and full of matter . . . the writing is direct and forceful. No-one can say that the poetry is inferior. The play makes a tremendous impact, harmonious and integrated. . . . One is moved to tears. . . . [426] What Shakespeare did was to give it all his genius.

Nuttall (1966, pp. 57–8): Art is reasonable, life is capricious. In [WT] Shakespeare succeeded in giving his wildly improbable story the warmth of actual life; he succeeded in giving it realism. . . . [58] It is the realism . . . that makes it a miracle play; that is, a play about a miracle. . . . [WT] is not indeed like most of life. . . . It is instead like something very rare and sweet. Most of us have never experienced anything so wonderful and never will, but Shakespeare shows us what it might be like if we did. Thorne (1968, pp. 34–6): In no other Shakespearian comedy are the ritual death and the kingly protagonists so real and yet so monumental. . . . [35] The unreality of the sixteen years of ritual penance undergone by [Leontes] . . . and the implausibility of the statue scene vanish in the emotional truth of the fairy tale quality of the play. . . . [36] The play is intensely serious; it is not indulgent in a romantic fairy-tale way to the necessities of an exotic plot. Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 45–6): WT’s construction is coming to be seen not as clumsy and artless but as entirely purposeful and carefully planned, the proper vehicle for the play’s significances. . . . [46] Its intensely moving events, the rich variety of its characters and incidents, and above all, the splendour of its language, put it among [Sh.’s] most masterly creations.

Felperin (1972, p. 244): WT illustrates no cold-blooded interest in dramatic craftsmanship . . . or absorption in play-making for its own sake. The motto for [WT] is not art for art’s sake . . . but art for life’s sake. In a play in which nearly every line is a comment on every other line, Shakespeare creates not only a glittering artifact but one of his most successful representations of this world. Siemon (1972, p. 443): In its vision of the precarious balance between health and decay, good and evil; in its assertion, with the full realization of the possibilities for human misery, of the possibility for human happiness; in its insistence that evil is self-destructive and that good may come out of evil, not inevitably but through the co-operation of Divine Grace and human will, the play is perhaps Shakespeare’s most profoundly optimistic statement of the human condition. Its success is owing to the full exposition of the human condition latent in the pattern of comedy. Egan (1975, p. 56): WT represents Sh.’s richest and most comprehensive use of the tragicomic romance form. . . . [Sh.] fully works out its form’s pattern of movement from error, chaos, and separation toward repentance, regeneration, and reunion, elevating it to the level of an integral and far-reaching work of art. Harp (1978, p. 295): Renaissance thinkers, inheriting the tradition of wonder from a long line of classical and medieval thinkers[,] . . . regarded wonder as both the origin and permanent companion of all rational inquiry. Wonder was not considered merely an inarticulate, emotional response . . . to the glories of nature . . . but was rather considered a truly rational movement of the mind towards fresh knowledge. . . . Wonder is nowhere more conspicuous in Renaissance literature than in Shakespeare’s late romances, and of those most mysterious plays none is more suffused with wonder than [WT].

Jarrell (1961; 1980, p. 328): WT is the best of the plays that come after Antony and Cleopatra; the mastery and objective perfection of the writing remind one of—perhaps helped to produce—Milton’s Comus. Calder-Marshall (1982, 1:249), who acted Hermione: The differences and varieties [of emotions in WT] are those of life itself; the play also creates a strong feeling for the goodness and power of youth and childhood, not just its wholeness, but its power to do good to older people. Adams (1989, pp. 118–19, 121): Verbally, it’s the most rarefied of the romances. . . . Imaginatively, it allows and elicits flights. . . . [119] The Play [is] an artful construct celebrating natural impulses. . . . Remote allusions [are] to be pursued by the individual fancy—intimations, not assertions. They may well be limitless. . . . The seacoast of Bohemia is an ancient joke that at a stroke renders the play’s geography pretend. . . . This sense of airy vacancy in the play contributes to a lack of moral pressure that may well be one of the most precious things about it. . . . [121] The characters breathe the air of an unquestioning eclecticism, but it renders the commonplace luminous. . . . By spelling out little but suggesting much, [WT] manages to be both a very simple play and one on which meditation can linger long and spread widely. Nevo (1987, p. 95): The Winter’s Tale is safely ensconced among the masterpieces.

Nonetheless a number of critics say that the play is genuinely flawed because Sh.’s powers waned at the end of his career. Wendell (1894, pp. 384, 386–7): Tolerably effective in conception, the play is at once too compressed for full effect, and perceptibly less spontaneous, less simple, less plausible, less masterly than the greater work [Oth.] which it instantly recalls. . . . [386] Except in the great pastoral scene, this mastery lacks the final grace of unconscious spontaneity. . . . [387] Conscious deliberation means effort; effort means creative exhaustion . . . and the effort tells the final story,—Shakspere’s old spontaneous power was fatally gone. Boas (1896, pp. 517–18) cites incidents inadequately motivated, as well as subordinate figures lacking in the distinctive vitality of the minor characters in earlier plays. . . . [518] [WT] exhibits, beyond any work of Shakspere, the characteristic defects of Romantic drama, and it could not have been written at the period when he was working with energies strung to their highest intensity. Strachey (1904; 1922, p. 64): With what perversity is the great pastoral scene in The Winter’s Tale interspersed with longwinded intrigues, and disguises, and homilies? For these blemishes are not . . . interesting or delightful in themselves; they are merely necessary to explain the action, and they are sometimes purely irrelevant. Brandes (ed. 1905, 4:xiii) wrongly (see lines 2869–70 2871 2872 2873 2874 and 2887) offers Mamillius’s passing entirely out of everyone’s memory at the end of the play as another proof of . . . Shakespeare’s negligent style of work in these last years of his working life (though Brandes recognizes a certain unity of tone and feeling in this apparently disconnected plot).

James (1937, p. 207): The failure of Shakespeare’s imagination to idealize and unify the world of human experience . . . as he faced it in the tragedies presaged that the last plays would not be among Sh.’s greatest work, for the simple reason that they are not . . . of the order of imagination which is human and dramatic—they are of the order of imagination which is enthusiastic and meditative. . . . It is a platitude of criticism that the later plays are the writings of a man careless of what he is doing. . . . And it is not an accident that Shakespeare’s last plays are tortured by a sense of inexpressiveness and failure. Charlton (1938, pp. 267–9): In no sense are [the last plays] an answer . . . to the great tragedies [which give us Sh.’s] deepest insight into human destiny. . . . [268] The essential truth is that their view of life is less profound and less compelling than the view of it presented either in the tragedies or in the earlier and mature comedies. Though the romances are Shakespeare the man’s last words on humanity and on destiny, they are not therefore his profoundest words. . . . There can scarcely be a shadow of doubt that, in the romances, Shakespeare the dramatist is declining in dramatic power. . . . [He loses] his intuitive sense of the essential stuff of [269] drama, of the impact of man on men and on the things which in the mass make that experience which we call life. . . . There could be no clearer evidence of the weakening of Shakespeare’s dramatic genius. Evans (1948; 1965, p. 63): WT has its own brilliance but lacks the advancing command of Sh.’s earlier achievement. Sewell (1951, p. 137): In Leontes we have very good evidence of the change—it amounts almost to an impairment—in Shakespeare’s vision. . . . We might even feel in the early part of the play . . . that the writing is a little stale, because Shakespeare had done it, or something very like it, before. So much so that there is a certain morbidity in the representation of the state of jealousy, and the effect is one of pastiche.

Equally certain that Sh.’s powers remained unimpaired as the playwright composed WT, other critics praise it as a product of his mature genius. Furnivall (1877, p. xci) praises the last complete play of Shakspere’s as it is [but see here], the golden glow of the sunset of his genius over it, the sweet country air all through it. . . . Of few, if any of his plays, is there a pleasanter picture in the memory than of Winter’s Tale. Baynes (1894, pp. 130–2): In this [final] period of Shakespeare’s dramatic career, years had evidently brought enlarged vision, wider thoughts, and deeper experiences . . . more intense moral struggles, larger and less joyous views of human life. . . . [131] The dramas of this period display an unrivalled power of . . . sounding the most tremendous and perplexing problems of human life and human destiny . . . [and] the great virtues of invincible fidelity and unwearied love. . . . [132] In the three dramas . . . which may be said to close [Sh.’s] dramatic career [Cym., WT, Tmp.] . . . the deeper discords of life are not finally resolved. . . . The virtues of forgiveness and generosity, of forbearance and self-control, are largely illustrated. Ten Brink (1895, pp. 97–9): In WT, Sh.’s passion does not . . . reach the height it attained in the great tragedies; but in psychological truth, in poetical creative power, in profundity of thought, WT is not an inferior play. The earlier (p. 98) brilliant comedies (AYL, Ado, TN) anticipate WT, which appears as the perfectly ripened fruit of a life rich in experience, like gold that emerges [99] tried and proved from the fire after a long process of refinement.

Jusserand (in Lee, ed. 1907, p. xvii): That Sh.’s genius was in no way impaired by age (he was only forty-seven) is shown again and again in WT. Raleigh (1907, p. 209): A pervading sense of quiet and happiness . . . seems to bear witness to a change in the mind of Sh., so that in WT, the forces of destruction do not prevail, and the end brings forgiveness and reunion. . . . This new-found happiness is a happiness wrung from experience. . . . An all-embracing tolerance and kindliness inspires these last plays. Masson (1914, pp. 104–5): Sh. persevered in dramatic production [nearly to the end of his life]. It may be seen also that his power was unabated . . . abundant and [105] complex intellectually, . . . exuberant, and at the same time . . . knotty and corrugated with sheer thought. Schelling (1923, p. 117): Sh., suffering an artistic deterioration under the influence of Fletcher, reached in these latter days the calm of harbor; that the waves no longer heaved with the heavy unrest of tragedy nor danced with the delight of frolicsome comedy, takes nothing from the blue of his later ocean or the quiet depths of those pellucid waters.

Spencer (1940, pp. 367–9): This dramatic romance affords a delightful and comprehensive entertainment. . . . [368] It is a play of abundant energy, written toughly, and brilliant with unique characters. Shakespeare is not repeating himself, he is not played out, his invention is still peerless. Varied as the drama is, there is no lack of unity, for the tone throughout is one of mature confidence in human nature. Few plays offer such a galaxy of lovable personages. . . . Autolycus and the three women [Hermione, Perdita, and Paulina] are the best testimony that [369] Shakespeare is still at the full tide of his powers. Wilson (1945; 1946, pp. 128–9): Critics who feel that Sh. was losing grip upon his theatre and upon his art at the end of his career probably also believe that any change from the high tragedy of a King Lear is a falling off. But there is no need to suppose that Shakespeare was losing grip. Sh.’s drama was not static; from the tragedies he was (p. 129) moving on to an experiment in a new kind.

Bryant (1963, p. 393): Sh. explores the nature of evil by converting the stereotyped conventions of the pastoral drama into highly original instruments which combine to form one of the best of his last plays. Wain (1964, pp. 217, 224) calls WT the first perfectly realized masterpiece among the final group [of plays]. . . . [224] It is a profound lyrical meditation on the theme of forgiveness and renewal, full of delicacy and beauty, yet always close to the earth and the human heart-beat. Shakespeare never wrote a more perfect work.

Hartwig (1970; 1972, pp. 176–7): Criticism which fails to distinguish between Shakespeare’s goals in the tragicomedies and those of his other plays falsifies his achievement. Even in generic criticism, a preference for tragedy, for comedy, or for chronicle plays may encourage the judgment that the late plays reveal a falling off in Shakespeare’s artistic control. Spencer (1970, pp. 72, 77): WT is a product of Sh.’s maturity, a work of ripe accomplishment, beginning a new phase of his writing, rather than the [work] of his balmy old age. . . . Shakespeare shows an audacity in his theatrical representations which he had never, or rarely, shown before, or never to such an extent within a single play. . . . [77] Shakespeare has succeeded in intensifying each moment of the play so that these apparent audacities of construction increase the dramatic excitement rather than reduce our emotional involvement. This success . . . indicates the full maturity of Shakespeare’s art. Viswanathan (1987, pp. 43–4) applauds the abundant experimental vigour of the later plays and Sh.’s remarkable response to, as well as full participation in, his theatrical milieu (neither was he bored with things nor was there a decline in his powers). . . . In Shakespeare’s late plays the virtuoso-like . . . juxtaposition or fusion of the naive and the marvellous—or [44] of the realistic and the idealistic—has a way of evoking at once an attention to (and admiration for) the art of the playwright and a feeling for the human reality of the drama. Miko (1989, p. 260): Shakespeare in these last plays is enjoying a freedom of experimentation, both with new material and with dramatic form, that presupposes most of his previous work. . . . His attitude . . . [is] not merely experimental but playful, especially with the extremes which literary conventions exist to control: death, obsession, contrary or excessive emotional attitudes and . . . [the] ineradicable wish to make the world fit our desires.

Another group of critics acknowledges WT’s blemishes but also notices its special beauties. Lewes (1894, p. 309): One thing is evident in all his works—the truth of his character-drawing. . . . This truth, this presentation of character in harmony with nature, is the mark of a great poet. Before this all other drawbacks and faults entirely disappear. Bulthaupt (1903, 2:378) finds intolerable Leontes’s sudden mental conversion to madness and his rejection of the Delphic oracle in two lines (1321–2); he finds the time gap merely unsettling. But the whole of Act 4 gives evidence of Sh.’s sovereign genius, though the play suffers a relapse in a fifth act that creaks in all its joints (in Ger.). Matthews (1910, p. 153): The playwright must expend his invention, and he must be as ingenious as may be in adroit devices to sustain the interest of his story. On the characters who live and move inside this play, he must . . . breathe life, so that they will exist for us long after we have lost our liking for the kind of story in which they originally figured. . . . The plot of [WT] is a tissue of absurdities, but the young loves of Perdita and Florizel . . . are eternally human.

Herford (1912, pp. 83, 85): The play is full of beauty and charm but it does not harrow nor, in the strict sense, greatly amuse; the pathos of Hermione . . . does not approach that of Desdemona; the humour of Autolycus is a thin beverage compared to the rich wine of Falstaff. The characters, again, are slighter, the action less closely knit than in the other plays, though in WT these (p. 85) slighter profiles are exquisitely fine and true. Brooke (1913, pp. 253–4): The play is so varied in events and characters, and the characters play in and out of one another with such a charm of contrast, that the surprises of intellect and emotion are as numerous as they are pleasant. And these surprises are yet so mellowed by the temperance and beauty of the poetic tongue in which they are given, and so carefully [motivated], that they do not startle us more than noble art permits. . . . [254] [WT has] enough fantasy in it to charm the children, and enough passion to make the elders pensive. . . . Of course, the interval of sixteen years in the middle is awkward. . . . The unity of the action is too rudely broken. But there is, at the end, the impression of a spiritual unity. Mackenzie (1924, pp. 428, 444): Though [WT] is less satisfactory from the structural point of view than the middle comedies, it is written both carefully and beautifully, and its lapses are not due to heedlessness so much as to the sheer technical difficulty of arranging its action in a pattern suitable for dramatic representation in little more than two hours’ time. As for character drawing (p. 444): It is not ineffective, by any means, especially in the portrayal of the women. . . . They are drawn masterly, in a few clear lovely strokes that make them come alive, but neither they nor their experience are studied, analysed, lived into, as had been Shakespeare’s custom: and the same is true even more of their accompanying men. They are . . . but symbols . . . seen in relation to something that matters more than themselves. It is as if he had ceased now to explore life . . . and had set himself simply to express what he had found it, in the long run.

Modifying his initial disapproval, Wilson (ed. 1931, pp. xxiv–xxvi): On the whole . . . we must grant that the many critics who detect evidence of failing powers in his later plays . . . say it with particular effect about [xxv] [WT]. . . . For in this play the tragedy and comedy are not woven. . . . This play never fits into our mind as a whole. . . . [xxvi] When The Winter’s Tale comes to our mind, nine out of ten of us forget its shreds and patches, and think, with a glance at Autolycus, mainly of that Sicilian [sic] scene and Perdita. . . . The beauty of that setting, and of its language, must always redeem this play for the reader, as the slow descent of Hermione from her pedestal must ever hold the breath of a spectator. The one effect comes of sheer poetry, the other belongs to the art of the theatre: in both of which Shakespeare, spite of any drawback or difficulty, had learnt, with a careless ease, to excel. Leech (1950, pp. 133, 135): Though Sh. was not indifferent to the plays he was writing, we can admit that in certain places he relaxed visibly at his task. WT may have more vitality and joy than Cym. or Tmp.; Autolycus may be (p. 135) the last of Shakespeare’s comic figures to win our sympathy; the sheep-shearing scene may be in its lyrical kind unmatched. Yet WT has a haphazard structure, exemplified notoriously in the convenient devouring of Antigonus, with the craftsmanship of individual scenes varying from the highest to almost the lowest, with lyrics and lyrical blank verse finer than ever before. Colie (1974, pp. 266–7) sees a play conspicuously ill-made, . . . in which our attention is withdrawn from verisimilitude; in which motivations are not to be inquired into; in which the marvelous, the incredible, the impossible are so insisted upon . . . that they force themselves to become subjects of critical consideration. . . . [This] truncated torso of a play pays no tribute to demands for classical [267] modulation. . . . Shakespeare’s play simply forces us to face what is tragic and what is comic in life and in plays, forces questions of genre and decorum. . . . [The play] flaunts its artfulness and its sublime contempt for mere art.

Some critics assert that these blemishes go unnoticed in performance. H. Coleridge (1851, 2:150): The progressive interest of the play, malgré the vast hiatus for which Shakspeare himself thought it necessary to apologise, is well sustained. . . . The whole is pleasing and effective on the stage. Price (1890, pp. 195–6, 207): The play seems to lack all the marks of what is called artistic unity, defies dramatic law, and is a mere medley of diversified effects. . . . [196] And yet, when the play was put upon the stage, well-mounted and well-acted, it became . . . the darling of the public. . . . [207] This play marks the final phase of [Sh.’s] skill in dramatic construction; Sh. combines a perfect tragedy with a perfect comedy. Matthews (1913; 1970, p. 337): The story is abnormal and far-fetched. . . . The hot jealousy of Leontes . . . impossible. . . . [WT] has the full flavor of the dramatic romance, yet its story is not so artificially involved. Its plot is simpler and clearer in the performance, and more appealing, in spite of the arbitrariness of the motiveless jealousy. Ridley (1937, p. 208): The sudden frantic blazing up of Leontes’ jealousy seems unnatural to the point of absurdity. . . . He seems not so much too bad as too silly to be true, and, as we read, his falsity tinges the whole of the first three acts with unreality. . . . But when we see the play on the stage the actor . . . can make Leontes credible . . . so that the play is no longer founded on an unreality, and our appreciation is greatly increased. . . . The first three acts take on a quite unexpected force. Brown (1962; 1968, p. 235): The most astonishing fact [during performance] is the subtlety of the audience’s involvement: the audience responds to a widely and minutely considered dramatic world, and, because nothing is circumscribed by explicit statement or judgement, responds with ease, concern and delight. The theatrical life of The Winter’s Tale . . . derives unity, subtlety, and force from a comprehensive attitude to personal relationships and society which is never stated yet always formative.

Coghill (1958, p. 31): Despite the critical commonplace that WT is an ill made play or a conscious return to a naïve and outmoded technique, Leontes’s jealousy, the bear (a tour-de-force), Time’s years-spanning speech, the recounting of Perdita’s recovery and the statue scene are all gripping and memorable on stage. Purdom (1963, pp. 180–2): The play does not have the rationality of natural life, nor should that be expected. On the other hand, (p. 182) the poetry is so delicious, yet much of it so complex and concentrated, that it asks for the perfection of art from the players; and the play’s action is so thrilling, yet so touching, that it demands the most faithful devotion to the text from producers. Cottrell (1964, pp. 71, 73): The Winter’s Tale is not an easy play to accept at first reading, though audiences viewing the work have always found it more acceptable as theatre. . . . [73] Especially may it be said of [WT] that the play in production is the thing. . . . [Sh.] used some of his most intensified poetry to convey truths about human beings and to create believable people. And he evolved a structure which, though broken and widespread, offers firm support for the total meaning of the play. These are characteristics present in all of Shakespeare’s best plays, but their presence in The Winter’s Tale allows it to emerge as a fascinating, compelling, and strangely memorable work.

Kermode (ed. 1963, p. xxxv): WT has a natural energy that supports all it says about natural power; its scheme is deep-laid and its language fertile in suggestion. It will not be trapped by the historian [nor] caught in the net of allegory. . . . We value it not for some hidden truth, but for its power to show . . . something of life that could only be shown by the intense activity of intellect and imagination in the medium of a theatrical form. It is not a great allegory or a great argument, but a great play. Idem (1963, p. 39): The greatness of the play is self-evident; it does not need the prestige of covert meanings. Nuttall (1966, p. 9): WT is less intelligent than Ham., less profound than Lr., less elegant than LLL, much more disturbing than MND, and not at all a pretty play, of merely aesthetic appeal. It does not so much charm the eye as pierce the viscera. It does not divert the spectator; it turns him inside out. Grene (1967, pp. 68–9): However one may judge the play most truly—as tragedy, ironic comedy, or fantasy—one knows firmly and immediately that it is entirely successful in producing its effect. . . . [69] It is intensely theatrical. . . . We seem to be seeing real life transformed into a fairy tale that exposes human roots. Collins (1982, p. 59): Insofar as we are made aware that in Shakespeare’s last plays it is the playwright who directs the action, we are also made aware that the power to arrange such happy endings in the midst of such threatening circumstances is confined to the playhouse. Our double awareness makes it quite clear that what appears to be is not; the illusion of an earthly paradise is at once granted and taken away. . . . What we feel will not be so much the purgation of melancholy as its accentuation. Davison (1982, pp. 65–6): Possibly the idea of a winter’s tale . . . provides the fundamental element of illusion which helps a company and an audience to come to terms with the play and to respond to it in its parts as a whole. . . . The manner in which Shakespeare holds over the various actions of the play so that the eventual fulfillment of each reflects one upon another in part [66] explains the success of the play in performance. . . . [WT is] a multi-faceted jewel which suddenly comes into our view.

As might be expected, however, some critics accept WT as better reading than acting material. Gentleman (1774, 5:151) finds beauty even in wildness; it [WT] is a parterre of poetical flowers sadly choked with weeds. . . . The present copy . . . studiously prun’d and regulated, by the ingenious Mr. Hull, of Covent-Garden, [is] certainly made much . . . more bearable than the author left it; however we think [the play will never] do great matters on the stage. Inchbald (ed. 1808, 3:3): WT is among those dramas that charm more in perusal than in representation. The long absence from the scene of the two most important characters, Leontes and his wife, and the introduction of various other persons to fill their places, divert, in some measure, the attention of an audience; and they do not so feelingly unite all they see and hear into a single story, as he who, with a book in his hand, and neither his eye nor ear distracted, combines, and enjoys the whole grand variety. Luserke (1957, p. 196): WT is the draft of a Shakespearean masterpiece, though it never became one onstage because the theatrical conventions, musical capabilities, stage shape, and actors of Sh.’s time held the playwright and his piece to a conservative realization; thus it remained a torso, unrealized in its full potential, because it had to effect a compromise with the audience and the latter’s expectations (in Ger.).

One blemish that critics weigh against WT’s beauties is its neglect of the unities (surprisingly, of concern through the 19th century). Hudson (1848, 1:319): Winter’s Tale outdoes all the rest of Shakspeare’s fictions in disregard of the far-famed Unities of time and place. With geography and chronology [Sh.] plays the wildest tricks imaginable. . . . Notwithstanding which, the play is pervaded with the strictest unity of interest and purpose; the violations of local and chronological order being forgotten in the far higher order which is everywhere preserved. Idem (1872; 1973, 1:453–4): The neglect of the unities is not troublesome until one goes to viewing the parts of the work with reference to ends not contemplated in the use made of them here. . . . It is enough that the materials . . . agree in working out the issue proposed, the end thus regulating the use of [454] the means. H. Coleridge (1851, 2:148–9) praises this wild drama for its comedic excellence and exquisite pastoral; he cares as little for the (p. 149) improbability of events . . . as for the violation of the unities and the outrages on geography. Gervinus (1863, 2:485): Sh. wished purposely to brave the narrow-minded upholders of the unities of time and place; Boodle (Theory, 1885, p. 318): A unity given by character-development is the principle of Shakespeare’s art. Lang (1894, p. 710): The topic and theme of Winter’s Tale entirely lack unity. . . . [Sh.] was wholly indifferent to the unities of Aristotle. The Clarkes (1879, p. 107): Sh. ignores the classical conventions in favor of an original and admirable system of Dramatic Time, which permits his adopting a story that demands scope of period to properly delineate its various incidents, to develop its different characters, and to depict the multiform emotions elicited by successive events and situations. This system is so ingenious in itself, and is put into operation with so masterly a skill, that it enables the reader or spectator to see a long course of time, or a limited space of time, or even a simultaneous progress of protracted time and current time both together, without a violation of probability or injury to naturalness of effect. Boas (1882, p. 40): Sh. disregards the dramatic unities in WT because he sets about to demonstrate a higher law of art through an ennobling imitation of nature and the beautiful representation of truth with the aid of fantasy (in Ger.).

Gollancz (ed. 1894, 41:x): WT, with its interval of sixteen years between two acts, may be said, too, to mark the final overthrow of Time—the hallowed Unity of Time—by its natural adversary, the Romantic Drama. The play recalls Sir Philip Sidney’s criticism, in his Apologie for Poetrie [1581–3?], anent the crude romantic plays popular about 1580, . . . of the abuse of dramatic decorum by lawless playwrights, who . . . neglected both time and place. [WT], perhaps the very last of Shakespeare’s comedies, appropriately emphasises, as it were, the essential elements of the triumph of the New over the Old. Sidney could not foresee, in 1580, the glorious future in store for the despised Cinderella of the playhouses. Brandes (1898, 2:60): As if in defiance of those classically cultivated people who demanded unity of time and place, [Sh.] allowed sixteen years to elapse between two acts. In other words, he freely improvised . . . upon a given poetic theme . . . content with a general harmony of colour and unity of tone, without giving much thought to any ultimate meaning.

Kilbourne (1906; 1973, p. 89): Modern audiences who are not enslaved by the rules of pseudo-classicism and who accept the spirit and method of the romantic drama regard the lapse of time between acts as a perfectly legitimate dramatic convention. . . . In this case it was necessary to the dramatic purpose. Chambers (ed. 1907, pp. 8–9): Sh. sets the unities at nought in a way which it would be difficult not to regard as deliberate; if he (p. 9) lacked art in Ben Jonson’s . . . sense, it is clear that the lack arose from no incomplete mastery, but from an effort, unintelligible to Ben’s more rigid mind, after an unlimited freedom of technique. Bethell (1947, p. 67): In WT, Sh. employs not only a method of dramatic presentation but also a statement, complex and profound, of the nature of reality. This fusion of method and statement is the last degree of organic unity. Traversi (1959, p. 20): The successive stages of [WT] constitute a closely knit and homogenous development. Between the jealous obsession of Leontes, which the gods expose and punish, and his final reconciliation to Hermione, the delicate beauty of the pastoral episode stands, not as an escape into make-believe, but as a perfectly-timed affirmation of rebirth, there and there only appropriate. When the Shepherd takes up the infant Perdita, he binds the past to the future in a way highly characteristic of this beautifully constructed and unified play. The things dying . . . belong to the past . . . ; the things new-born, tangibly revealed in the person of the helpless child, look forward to the future, to the final restoration . . . of the values of life in fertility and grace. Schanzer (1975, p. 61): Sh.’s device of making Father Time himself disparage [the neoclassical demand for unity of time] as a passing fashion (1583–8) is simply one of the various ways in which, in the course of his dramatic career, Shakespeare expressed his sense of the absurdity of the convention. Hassel (1980, pp. 219–20) reviews the preposterous death of Antigonus, the quick leap from tragedy to comedy and the (p. 220) spanning of 16 years in 32 lines: Only a playwright well-practiced in playing with the fragile, foolish conventions of his art would try so audacious a thing. Only a Shakespeare who has already discovered and exploited the humbling but joyous connections between the insubstantial pageants of lovers and playwrights would risk such aesthetic folly. That it works again is eloquent testimony to the coherence of Shakespeare’s dramatic vision. Nichols (1981, p. 178): Without sacrificing artistic unity, Sh. violates the traditional dramatic unities in order to present a fuller vision of human life.

Many critics acknowledge but overlook—or justify—the anachronisms and other anomalies in WT. Muir (1951, pp. 529, 532–3) defends them by claiming that Sh.’s anachronisms were deliberate and calculated. . . . [532] Shakespeare made use of topical allusions and of ideas that were in the air . . . for the purpose of suggesting the abiding significance of his plays by infusing them with the spirit of the age. Thus the dramatic function of anachronism: to show that beneath the changes of manners, customs, and institutions the people of a past century are not essentially different from ourselves (p. 533).

Douce (1807, 1:364): In point of fine writing [WT] may be ranked among Shakspeare’s best efforts. The absurdities pointed at by Warburton, together with the whimsical anachronisms of Whitsun pastorals, Christian burial, an emperor of Russia, and an Italian painter of the fifteenth century, are no real drawbacks on the superlative merits of this charming drama. He neglects to mention the seacoast of Bohemia, but for a discussion of that, see n. 1440. Schlegel (1808; 1846, p. 396): The calculation of probabilities has nothing to do with such wonderful and fleeting adventures, ending at last in general joy; and accordingly Shakespeare has here taken the greatest liberties with anachronisms and geographical errors. Halliwell (1850; 1966, p. 102, n. 2, 103): Some English critics would smile at the idea of Shakespeare voluntarily falling into a geographical error, since (p. 103) the seacoast of Bohemia is an error rather suited to the fabulous nature of the story, which runs into the region of fable and the age of poesy, better than the most accurate geographical definition. Idem (ed. 1859, p. 37): Sh.’s best defence, if any apology be desired for an error of detail in a legendary drama in which all exactitude in particulars of localities and manners are intentionally disregarded, consists in the comparative neglect of geographical education in his time.

Lloyd (in Singer, ed. 1856, 4:2): What parts of this drama could be attributed to any even of the most skilful of [Sh.’s] contemporaries? It was perhaps the descrepancies of the plot . . . and the anachronisms which made Dryden and Pope overlook the beauties of execution in this enchanting play. The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:721): To those who perceive how the poet can adhere to the strictest accuracy where accuracy is needful to art-verity and can also make accuracy subservient to typical truth in productions purely romantic, there is no more violence offered to imaginative credence by assembling together in The Winter’s Tale Apollo’s oracle, an allusion to Judas Iscariot, an Emperor of Russia, a Puritan who sings psalms to hornpipes, one Mistress Tale-Porter, Whitsun-pastorals, a baptismal bearing-cloth, Bohemia as a maritime country, Delphos as an island [for the idea that Delphos is not an anachronism at all, see n. 1147], and Julio Romano as flourishing in times when pagan gods were oracularly consulted, than by congregating in a poetical forest [in AYL] lions, goats, serpents, lambs, oaks, olives, palm-trees, osiers, &c., where all these things, each in their several introduction, serve the art-purpose of vividly idealising the subject treated. Snider (1875, p. 80): Sh. violates history, chronology, and geography with an audacity which has often called forth the sneers and the ire of pedantic erudition. Scoffing at such criticism, Snider praises the play, suggesting that probability, as a canon of Shakspearian criticism, is wholly meaningless and inapplicable; . . . it ought to be eschewed altogether. Furnivall (1877, p. xci): We accept the medley and anachronisms of this play and ignore its confusions because Sh.’s version of his source was informed by a new spirit, instinct with a new life. Lewes (1894, p. 309) rejects the notion that ignorance [was] the source of these historical and geographical blunders, or that Shakespeare really was not aware that he was mixing up time and place in such a manner. This hypothesis does not agree with the deep . . . knowledge and insight he shows.

Lounsbury (1901, pp. 105–6): Sh. mixes ancient times and customs and countries with modern in a way that (p. 106) would tend to make the conventional classicist shudder. . . . The disgust which these violations of rules caused the professional critics prevented them from doing justice to the skill with which the whole piece had been constructed. . . . Whether well or ill done, [WT] was done as deliberately as it was audaciously. An examination of it leaves no doubt on that point. In his own mind the dramatist was clearly satisfied with the wisdom of his proceeding. Kilbourne (1906; 1973, p. 90): Even if he [Sh.] knew Greene to be wrong on these points [whether Bohemia had a seacoast or Delphos was an island], he probably thought it not worth while to correct them for they are far too trivial to raise such a pother about. Bethell (1947, pp. 34–5, 37): Greene insisted on Bohemia’s coastline to emphasise the fact that his Bohemia was not the Bohemia of contemporary diplomatic reports but a romantic Ruritania or Arcadia where the strangest things might happen. And Shakespeare, who rejected so much of Greene’s story in adapting it to his purpose, deliberately preserved the sea-coast of Bohemia because he was especially anxious to liberate [35] himself from the localisation of his play world in the contemporary map of Europe. . . . [37] Anachronism such as [ascribing Hermione’s statue to Julio Romano] is clearly not due to the writer’s ignorance; in a sense it is quite deliberate. But it is not self-conscious, since there is no evidence that Shakespeare ever considered the alternative of writing in historical perspective. Knight (1947; 1966, p. 128): WT may seem a rambling, perhaps an untidy, play; its anachronisms are vivid, its geography disturbing. And yet Shakespeare offers nothing greater in tragic psychology, humour, pastoral, romance. . . . The more profound passages are . . . evidence of what is beating behind or within the creative genius at work. . . . A vague, numinous, sense of mighty powers, working through both the natural order and man’s religious consciousness . . . to preserve, in spite of all appearance, the good [Life itself]. Rusev (1982, pp. 59–60): Sh. showed such an accurate knowledge of geography in many plays (TN, MM, Wiv., Oth., e.g.) that—considering the availability of Mercator’s map of Europe and Ortelius’ atlas and considering Sh.’s knowledge that (p. 60) the Black Sea is one with no ebb and flow of the tide, a fact not generally known even today—we cannot accept that Bohemia’s seacoast is born of Sh.’s ignorance. Sh.’s creative purposes are served by bestowing a sea-coast on Bohemia, even if that meant running counter to the facts of geography.

In summation, Marsh (1962; 1980, pp. 160–1): WT is a serious poetic statement of the nature of good and evil, of life and death. It does provide what someone has said all great poetry should provide, a momentary clarification of life. Here Shakespeare is at grips with the ultimate problems of human existence; his conclusions are the play, and any attempt to boil them down into an easily assimilable philosophy of life is sure to fail. But . . . certain generalizations can perhaps be advanced. . . . The value of life is that it is life, and not death, even if to be alive is to be exposed to countless dangers and pains. The problem of evil . . . [161] can only be opposed by a belief in qualities like love, honesty, justice [that] . . . have power to liberate the individual from the prison of self. . . . The play suggests that to live until one dies is the great affirmation that man is called upon to make, and that it carries its own reward.

Succinct overviews of criticism and critical theory are offered in Overton (1989, An Introduction to the Variety of Criticism) and Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. xxxvii–xliv).

Genre

Critics discuss WT’s use of the features of one genre or another without actually placing it wholly in any, because it is a hybrid, borrowing from many genres without belonging primarily to one.

Mézières (1860; 1882, p. 518): Although WT is not pastoral, comedy, or tragedy, Sh. touches on all three genres, rather than fixing on one, [to produce] . . . a rapid sketch of three kinds, none of which is perfect. Hall (1871, p. 245), however: WT may truly be termed a tragic-comic pastoral, for the oracle of Delphi decides the tragic catastrophe and prepares the reader for the happy conclusion of the piece. Gervinus (1849–50; 1863, 2:469) agrees. Like Ristine (1910, p. 113), Adams (1923, p. 417) calls WT a tragicomedy embodying, as its title suggests, the qualities of a romance. Kermode (ed. Tmp., 1954, p. lix): The pastoral romance gave [Sh.] the opportunity for a very complex comparison between the worlds of Art and Nature; and the tragicomic form enabled him to concentrate the whole story of apparent disaster, penitence, and forgiveness into one happy misfortune, controlled by a divine Art. Idem (1963, p. xxiv): The last plays could well be called Romantic tragicomedies. Bentley (1964, p. 94) suggests romances, tragicomedies, or simply the plays of the fourth period. To Velie (1972, pp. 61, 91, 112–13), the combining of the happy ending of comedy with the serious tone and action of tragedy produces elements of melodrama, which Sh. makes sophisticated through (p. 91) his rigorous psychological examination of Leontes and (p. 112) an ending that does not resurrect Antigonus and Mamillius. Sh. combines (p. 113) psychological realism, complication comedy, and romance to achieve a dramatic form that is excellently suited to convey the theme of repentance. Krier (1982, pp. 343–4), however: WT gives us a complete and highly compressed tragedy, with deaths and a sea of blood, with real evil, not the appearance of it only, and with real, far-reaching and ruinous consequences. WT gives us enough tragic catastrophes in three acts . . . for a full tragedy. . . . [344] Yet it is precisely at this nadir that Shakespeare chooses to make a comedy of the play. . . . The switch in tone is certainly unexpected. . . . But comedy here is allowed to be as dominant a tone as tragedy is. . . . [Both] are sustained in the play as a paradox of two apparently incompatible genres . . . which do in reality exist together, unblended, each with its characteristic atmosphere.

A few critics offer singular notions of genre. Hugo (1868, 4:38): From its earliest publication this play has been the subject of a mistake; placed by the editors of [F1] in the list of Comedies, it has been accepted according to its label, and held to be . . . a light and fanciful improvisation. . . . [WT] is no comedy; it is a tragedy. . . . It is so by its general composition, by its impassioned tone, and by the ascending scale of its chief scenes (in Fr.). Williams (1967, p. 19): The abstract form [of Time, the Chorus] harks back to the morality plays. Wincor (1950, pp. 219–26) vacillates: WT may derive from the old festival plays that celebrate the return of spring after a barren winter in drama that grows (p. 220) out of seasonal rites and worship. . . . [226] If Shakespeare did not conceive this as a festival play, he at least was conscious of working in terms of allegorical winter and spring. Hoy (1973, pp. 64–5): WT may be said to come into its own on the Jacobean stage with the advent of tragi-comedy, which is the mannerist dramatic form par excellence. . . . [65] The mannerist features of [WT] are particularly prominent. The process of temporal foreshortening, whereby Leontes’ jealousy . . . is full grown within the space of some sixty lines, is as violent as any spatial foreshadowing in Tintoretto. The Chorus of Time . . . fulfills its purpose by the familiar mannerist device of directly signalling to the audience; omitting Perdita’s recognition scene (3010–100) has its analogy in the tendency in mannerist painting to relegate the principal scene or figure from the foreground or centre to the background or side, and the statue scene reveals the mannerist fondness for securing bizarre and somewhat equivocal effects from mixing figures on pedestals with living figures.

Thompson (1971, pp. 154–5): WT may be regarded as the final romanticization of revenge tragedy, in which the hero searches for a cause and interprets all evidence in light of his own belief that his honor has been besmirched. He then fancies himself free to plot, threaten, devise punishments, and ensnare his enemies, all in the name of [155] his cherished honor. But (p. 156) tragedy is countered and revenge purged by employing romantic conventions to unravel the plot. Hartwig (in Kay & Jacobs, 1978, pp. 98–101): Sh. experiment[s] with the possibilities of parody by substituting an onstage Autolycus for the absent Leontes. The (p. 100) false plea Autolycus makes as victim [1729–68] literalizes Leontes’ false plea as cuckold. . . . Autolycus is both his own attacker and victim; so is Leontes. . . . [101] By containing disorder through comic inconsequence, he [Autolycus] provides an undersong which contrasts with and makes more credible Leontes’ release from false illusion. Pilkington (1981, p. 79) anticipates Nevo (1987, pp. 18, 96), who finds the literary model for WT in fantasy—a processing of symbolic elements and of episodes into ordered and coherent narratives, possessing purposive characters and consequential occurrences, beginnings, middles and teleological ends, but which are also capable of evoking the tremors, in consciousness, of unconscious pressures and desires enmeshed in a network of tentacular roots. Fantasy (p. 96) animates, unifies, and shapes WT, and from it the play derives its power to move us, if the audience is receptive to the resonances of deep-level fantasy and willing to get beyond traditional explications of the play.

A number of critics associate WT with allegory or emblem. Harbage (1961, p. 442): The exchange of banter [121–52] between Hermione and Polixenes is, through imagery and allusion, an allegory of the fall of Man, a commentary upon Genesis, 3:1–5; though Muir (1969, p. 101) asserts that Sh. never indulged in allegory as such, he acknowledges allegorical and emblematic undertones in the play. Hoeniger (1950, pp. 13–15): The whole tone of the play with its repeated allusion to supernatural forces and its at times unearthly serenity suggests allegory, in which (p. 14) the precise meaning of words depends on speaker as well as listener. It then follows that if the poet desires to convey a profound vision of reality, he will seek to break away from . . . words which have become chained. . . . [15] Therefore [allegory] is one of the most poetic forms of speech, for in it words are loaded with the greatest possible symbolic suggestion. It is not surprising, then, if a great poet resorts to allegory to express his vision. Nuttall (1966, p. 38) calls Time an unashamedly allegorical figure who has stepped out of an altogether older type of drama, while Salingar (1966, p. 3) notes Time’s emblematic function, bringing out the significance of the action he foreshadows. Mahood (1992, p. 35): Time is an allegorical abstraction who is at once outside the action and, by his very nature, operative within it . . . [since] all events under the sun are the products of Time.

Clubb (1972, pp. 24–6): Traditionally, as a fact of natural history, as literary subject, and as simile, the bear, unformed [at birth, to be licked into shape by its mother], and therefore potentially tragic or comic, must have seemed almost emblematically appropriate to WT in suggesting that (p. 26) human nature [is] primitive but promising, somewhat amenable to refining influences or, as Hardman (1985, p. 233) would have it, in suggesting the superiority of art over nature. Wickham (1973, pp. 97–8): In an emblem . . . both narrative and characters need do no more than reflect a particular situation. . . . [WT] reflects the surprising, if not miraculous, reunification of the British Isles in the person of the heir-apparent, Prince Henry (see here). The emblematic structure represents Union . . . followed by . . . Disintegration or Discord, followed by Reunion and future happiness. . . . [98] There is now a strong case regarding the curious structure of [WT] as having been deliberately engineered to contain an emblematic device. Fowler (1978, pp. 41–2, 49) finds in Leontes’s sin an allegory about harmony, with Hermione representing a state of mind lost and recovered; and an allegory about guilt’s virtual death, with Hermione as the soul that dies. These meanings are not logically compatible. But then, [the play] is not [42] simple allegory. . . . [49] The last three acts of [WT] are allegorical romance . . . [and] in such a form, continuity sometimes depends entirely on the . . . allegory. Grantley (1986, pp. 19–36): Emblematic characterization in WT devolves from the foregrounded moral dichotomy producing choice and/or conflict in medieval allegorical drama and its successor, the Tudor interlude. In Leontes we see (p. 21) the corrupting process of life and the necessity for spiritual rebirth, in Paulina (p. 26), Leontes’s conscience, and in Autolycus (p. 26), something of the Vice, though Sh. was attempting neither a (p. 36) straightforward moral allegory of the fall and redemption of man, nor a 17th-c. version of earlier scriptural plays. Rather, he draws on themes central to the religious drama of his youth and traditional images of enormous dramatic and mythic power . . . [which] effectively constitute the tradition of which [WT] can be regarded as part. Davidson (1982, pp. 73–83), Fabiny (1984, pp. 89–92), and Iwasaki (1984, pp. 68–71, 90) also consider the play emblematic.

Some critics see in WT the traits of fable, fairy tale, or folk tale. Snider ([c. 1890], p. 463): All the characters are given up to the sport of circumstances; but over this realm of contingency hovers an order. . . . Life has some secret principle which controls Space and Time, controls what seems to be accident, controls even falsehood and wrong. This is, in literature, the domain of the Fairy Tale. Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. lxiii–lxiv): WT inextricably mingles realistic characters with fable and fairy story, but Sh. (p. lxiv) has taken pains to turn improbabilities, even impossibilities, in the fable, into possibilities. Hartwig (1970; 1972, p. 31) echoes both critics: The deaths [of Mamillius and Antigonus] are . . . an encroachment of the actual upon the illusionary world of fairy tale. . . . Shakespeare did not want to create a world that could float free of actuality or escape from life’s meaningful issues, yet his choice of a fabulous plot increases the expectation that actions are under a control which operates beyond man’s power. Mills (1966, pp. 110–11) contends: We do not look for psychological realism in . . . plays [like WT]. Instead, we expect to find whimsical and impulsive behavior on the part of the leading characters, sudden reversals and surprises in the action, and magical or supernatural forces shaping the outcome. . . . We must respect the genres. . . . [111] Perhaps one reason [Sh.] chose the fairy tale genre was to spare himself the necessity of psychologizing. Happé (1969, p. 11): The fairy story is suggested by Perdita’s miraculous rescue and growth into a remarkably beautiful princess, whose distinction of manner reveals her true nobility, which is unknown to herself and to those around her. Bullough (1975, 8:367): It is surprising and significant . . . that so much of [Sh.’s] source-material contains strong folk-elements which anthropologists have traced in oral story and legend. Among these we may note: the long-lost child and/or wife motif . . . the calumniated wife . . . the prince and the shepherdess. Maitra (1960, p. 83) alludes to Sh.’s prolific use of folklore, Laroque (1982, p. 25) to Sh.’s blending of folk-custom and other traditions.

Other critics find WT masque-like. Welsford (1927; 1962, pp. 288–9): People demanded variety entertainments . . . which combined the attraction of masque and drama, [and Sh.] supplied them with romances in which even the darker aspects of life were [289] invested with an enigmatic beauty. . . . Underneath the incongruous medley, there runs a kind of enchanted tune . . . which atones for all the surface discords and inconsistencies. . . . The romantic tendencies in drama seem always to have been strengthened when the influence of the masque was particularly potent. Long (1961, pp. 68–9): The almost inexhaustible mine of elements the Stuart masque provided for Sh. are primarily musical—(p. 69) declamations, dialogue songs, dance songs, choral songs, motets, and closing songs. Leech (in Kay & Jacobs, 1978, pp. 40–1, 53) offers a list of features—a presenter’s speech; the appearance of the masquers; the masquing dance; (p. 41) the revels (taking into the masque persons of the opposite sex who had previously been among the audience); a withdrawal of the masquers from the great hall into which they had come as alleged strangers; and the antimasque, which commonly came right at the beginning or after the presenter’s speech—to suggest that (p. 53) Shakespeare had the masque very much in mind when he wrote [WT]. Studing (1970, pp. 56–60) points to the appearance of the goddess Flora, the floral beauty of the sheepshearing, the antimasque satyrs’ dance, the transformation of Hermione in the statue scene and other spectacular visual effects as belonging to the sphere of the masque. . . . [57] Aside from the obvious masque influence . . . the whole play is textured with sensational and spectacular elements—pageantry, ceremony, and ritual—which . . . [58] overwhelm us visually. . . . [59] Moreover . . . as the play progresses the visual and spectacular volume increases, along with, of course, dramatic tensions. . . . [60] Spectacular stagecraft is fused, dramatically and visually, with theme, character, plot, and symbol. Jacquot (in Leech & Margeson, 1972, pp. 164–5) lists the affinities between [WT] and the masque as recourse to the supernatural, and the happy ending after unbelievable adventures; the fundamental difference is that WT’s reconciliations and reunions are obtained only after the trial and repentance of Leontes through long years in which the force of evil has first to exhaust itself. . . . A number of masques, it is true, imply a reversal of condition, the breaking of a spell and the freeing of captives. But in [WT] the events leading to a happier state and a brighter vision are set in a much broader perspective. Bradbrook (Monument, 1976, p. 210): The audience’s foreknowledge of the secret of the statue scene is in itself . . . in the tradition of the masque rather than the theatre, for in masques an element of shock and wonder was integral to the effect. Frye (in Kay & Jacobs, 1978, p. 30): The structure of the romance . . . approximates the complete polarity of the antimasque and masque. . . . In the romances, the blocking worlds are an intense contrast to the comic spirit, often forming tragic actions in themselves, as in [WT] particularly. Something in these worlds has to be condemned and annihilated, not simply reconciled or won over, before the festive conclusion can take place. What is annihilated is the state of mind [e.g. Leontes’s jealousy] rather than the people in those states, though some of the people get annihilated too. Spender (1982, 1:235) also discusses the play’s use of conventions of the masque.

Many critics accept F1’s designation of WT as comedy, though comedy with a difference. Mowat (1969, p. 46): The play offers an expansion of Sh.’s comic vision. The first half is grotesque, rather warped comedy, issuing into purer comedy in the second half of the play. . . . By patterning the first part of this comedy along superficially tragic lines, Shakespeare offers us a view of man hardly to be achieved in more straightforward comedy. Mowat (1976, p. 99) adds: WT offers a new open form drama, specifically, in which cause-and-effect patterns are broken, generic conventions abandoned . . . and dramatic illusion repeatedly broken through narrative intrusion, spectacle, and other sudden disturbances of the aesthetic distance. Champion (1971, p. 447): By literally touching the emotional strings of tragedy, yet maintaining audience detachment or even disallowing the spectator’s total emotional commitment, Sh. produces an art form which on occasion resembles tragedy in terms of narrative but is quite distinct from it in terms of the relationship between the character and the spectator. The result is . . . Shakespeare’s most complex comedy. Foakes (1971, pp. 94–5): Designations other than comedy are misleading when in fact [the] drive to establish what [Giovanni Battista] Guarini called the comic order is clear from the start. However, the dispassionate, primarily psychological treatment of character noticed in the [95] late tragedies feeds into the last plays, in which characters tend to be given, not explained or motivated. Siemon (1972, p. 442): The readjustment of comic form to accommodate a penetrating analysis of the nature of evil and of its effect on society reaches fruition in WT’s efficient conflation of villain and hero in Leontes. Latimer (1984, p. 127): Those surrounding him take action to steer Leontes from his disastrous course. . . . That response, shared by all the members of the Sicilian court, but centered in Camillo, Paulina, Antigonus, and Hermione, is predominantly a comic one. They work to deflect Leontes’ rage . . . from his intended victims and to prevent his potentially tragic action from becoming fully developed. They form a community which . . . protects him from his own worst deeds. . . . This comic action . . . begins the moment Leontes’ suspicions are first aired and forms a continuous line of action that unifies the entire play.

Other critics are more interested in the play’s pastoral elements. Chambers (ed. 1907, pp. 10–11): Act 4 of WT marks the first time Sh. has given himself up to any full indulgence in the pastoral tradition—the idealization of the shepherd’s life which the imagination of the Renascence poets, first on the continent and then in England, had built up upon the eclogues of Theocritus and of Virgil, and upon certain chansons of love-adventure between knights and village maidens. . . . The poetry of the reaction from civilization . . . [exalts] the simplicity and content of the meadows above the pomps of mortal state, though the pastoral tradition is (p. 11) never to be mistaken for a transcript of rustic life. Its significance resides, not in any fidelity to the fact of the peasant, but in its relation to the state of mind of the world-wearied courtier or scholar who writes it. Bernard (1979, pp. 219–20), however: Failure to go beyond the conventional bucolic features of the fourth act to explore the pastoralism of the play as a whole results in a reading not so much wrong as it is incomplete. . . . [220] [Sh.] fully appropriates the spirit of Renaissance pastoralism and embodies it in an organically, even definitively pastoral work. Bryant (1963, pp. 387–93): Sh. uses conventions from the Greek pastoral eclogue (humor and realism), its Roman adaptation (satire of the court), the Greek romance (seeming disparities of birth between the male and female protagonists), and earlier Italian and English versions of these forms (Autolycus-like characters) to transform the conventions of the pastoral into an involved, subtle commentary on appearance and reality. He nonetheless writes (p. 393) within a well-defined tradition and the material he used was chosen consciously from that tradition. . . . In [WT], the evil lies not in appearance itself but in the royal mind which insists that appearance is reality. To explore this premise, Shakespeare converts the stereotyped conventions of the pastoral drama into highly original instruments which combine to form one of the best of his last plays.

Tinkler (1937, pp. 349, 351–2): Sh. recognizes the essential values of the pastoral life . . . and there is no attempt to falsify these by presenting them in a sentimental light. . . . [351] The limitations of the shepherd community are readily recognized, but they do not necessarily invalidate the essential values of that mode. . . . [352] Continual twisting of a seemingly simple attitude is achieved in an amazing variety of ways, as for example when the ballad singing is used, not only to reinforce the fertility aspect of the rural mode . . . but also to expose the credulity of the rustics. Doran (1954, p. 215) agrees: Sh.’s last three romances are all to some degree affected by pastoralism. . . . [WT], especially, is informed by the whole complex tradition. On the one hand, the charm of the Golden Age becomes the charm of youth and a restoration of hope and goodness to older people who have spoiled their lives with suspicion and discord; but, on the other hand, we are not allowed to grow sentimental over Perdita’s sheepcote. Cooper (1977, pp. 175, 178): The modern association of pastoral with the beauty of the natural world is given almost its first expression here in an (p. 178) affirmation of the golden world within the fallen, presented not as a piece of romantic optimism but as a counterweight to a tragic view of the human condition.

Some criticism focuses on pastoralism with a difference. Snider (1877, 2:71): Bohemia . . . is a poor, mountainous, uncivilized region, inhabited by shepherds. But it is free from the strife and calamity of Sicilia; its people are simple and humble, yet at the same time they are joyous and humane. . . . Such a society is transitory. . . . It develops contradictions within itself by which it is destroyed. Its destiny is to return to Sicilia, which has passed through such difficulties and harmonized them, an idea he repeats (1890, p. 493). Rosenmeyer (1969, pp. 21, 24–5): The Hesiodic tradition is activist, critical, and realistic, the Hesiodic code of country living is one of discipline and foresight, and the British pastoral tradition, including WT, (p. 24) has some of the Hesiodic in it. The (p. 25) grimness and absurdities of the Hesiodic world are emphasized in order to free the imagination for the perception of pastoral beauty and pastoral freedom. . . . The use of the Hesiodic strain as a deflector . . . often has the effect of putting the pastoral in a humorous light. Lerner (1970; 1972, pp. 128–9): Sh. seems to be pushing his pastoral towards radicalism by having Florizel fall in love with a shepherdess who (p. 129) expresses fear but no guilt over the possibility that she is an unfit mate for a prince. Though this seems democratic, the catch . . . is so obvious that we can easily miss it: Perdita is not a shepherdess after all, but a king’s daughter, as we have known all the time. . . . Shakespeare has shown the democratic implications of pastoral and then betrayed them by offering a glow of satisfaction at the brushing aside of degree and wealth, of delight that true worth and beauty can be recognised in a cottage but, at the same time, setting up a rule that quite clearly stops cottage lasses from getting ideas.

Jarrell (1980, p. 328): WT is a sexual pastoral the real subject of which is the emotional connection between one generation and the next: the Oedipus complex. This deliberately improbable pastoral combines a concentrated, altogether incomparable treatment of jealousy with the most idealized and Arcadian of love affairs. The perilous stuff with which Hamlet and so many other plays had been charged is no longer perilous in WT. It is, so to speak, neurosis recollected in tranquillity. Studing (1982, pp. 218, 224–6): WT uses the pastoral mode not as convention but, rather, as a vehicle to develop and forward the story. . . . Instead of pastoral . . . conventions, we have pastoral devices that function to mirror courtly values and echo Leontes’ sinful passion. Especially in [the] context of the first three acts of the play, the situations of pastoralism often cast a negative aura on country life: Polixenes succumbs to a Leontes-like passion; Perdita faces a king’s wrath as her mother did; Florizel’s escape parallels Mamillius’s death; the shepherds succumb to the riches of the corrupt Sicilian court; (p. 224) the satyrs’ dance, lusty and bawdy, is itself a property of court values and entertainment. . . . [226] The country scenes counter the nature of pastoralism. Bohemia is not a refuge offering a serious value contrast to another society. See also Lascelles (1959, pp. 85–6), Weinstein (1971, pp. 97–9), and McFarland (1972, pp. 123–4).

For one group of critics, tragicomedy is the term that best describes the play. Semon (1974, p. 89): It can . . . [make] a statement about the world which expresses neither an essentially comic nor . . . an essentially tragic point of view; tragicomedy is not subject to the common generic conceptions. Hirst (1984, pp. 26, 29): Sh. came under the influence of Fletcher, and through him Guarini, and thus contributed to the tragicomic genre. The final plays, including WT, reveal (p. 29) a struggle to find a theatrical form, a dramatic structure which could not only contain the diversity of genres he was treating, but give them unity, coherence and meaning. Greenblatt (1988, p. 125): The close of a tragicomedy frequently requires the audience to will imaginatively a miraculous turn of events, often against the evidence of its senses (as when . . . at the close of [WT] the audience accepts the fiction that Hermione is an unbreathing statue in order to experience the wonder of her resurrection). A few critics suggest a mingling of tragicomedy and romance. Thorndike (1901; 1965, p. 163): In its mixture of tragic and idyllic, in ingeniously dramatic situations and dénouement, in weakened characterization, and in a more dramatic style, [WT] belongs to the romance type of Beaumont and Fletcher. Ristine (1910, p. 113) anticipates and Adams (1923, pp. 411, 417) and Frye (1970, p. 123) follow Herford (ed. 1916–, p. vii) in putting WT in that particular class of [tragicomedies] which have been known in England latterly as Romances, marked by . . . a deliberately unreal use of space and time. Frye (p. 125) adds: Young lovers share center stage with older generations, their problems are directly connected to the problems of mature love, and the play points to a more encompassing reconciliation between generations within the total human community. Abartis (1977, pp. 44–7) acknowledges that certain tragicomic incidentals (e.g., an ambiguous oracular pronouncement, one or more pastoral scenes, a disguised maiden, a lost child, an absolute villain or villainess, a perfect hero or heroine, a love which is threatened, and a heroine who is calumniated) derive from narrative romance. Sh. then adapts these elements to a dramatic medium, the essentials of which are character and conflict. Along the way, he provides that which is (p. 46) specific to tragicomedy as a dramatic form—the manipulation of surprises, reversals, recognitions, and the sine qua non, the happy change. Sh. also explores (p. 47) serious moral issues. . . . The surprises and happy reversals have an ethical point. Edwards (Progress, 1986, pp. 161, 173): Romance is a useful term in Shakespeare criticism, but it is not confined to the last comedies and it does not explain them. It is better to take the late romances as a sub-group of particular importance within the wider category of tragicomedy, in the Shakespearean version of which (p. 173) the consequences of the tragic crisis are evaded through extraordinary interventions which often seem to belong to another level or kind of drama.

Romance seems the most fitting designation to other critics. Nuttall (1966, pp. 9–10) explains: WT is closely associated, in time and in genre, with [Per., Cym., and Tmp.]; that is to say, . . . the group of plays which Coleridge termed the Romances [see Coleridge, 1960, 1:117–18]. These plays conform to a loose Elizabethan definition of comedy in that the principal persons of the drama, though they may fall into great distress, are ultimately spared for a happy ending in love and reunion. Thus it is perfectly fair to call them comedies. . . . The reason why most critics and commentators have been unwilling to rest content with the designation comedy is that without being actually inaccurate it fails to convey any hint of what is distinctive about these plays [their pattern of loss and renewal, their special sense of myth]. . . . [10] A term was needed sufficiently comprehensive to cover all four plays, sufficiently narrow to exclude the rest of the comedies. Romance . . . has proved useful. Childress (1974, pp. 45–7, 51–4) disagrees: Romance became a popular label because of the breadth of interpretation it permits. It is not a generic term at all. . . . [46] The discrepancy between romance—the medieval genre—and the modern meanings of romantic is enormous; yet Northrop Frye, E. C. Pettet, R. G. Hunter, and others use it apparently as an adjective for . . . Shakespearean romance. . . . [47] If we do not try to define romance too narrowly, then it is easy enough to apply the term to the later plays despite unusual elements such as (p. 51) Sh.’s use of the grotesque, alien to romance [but] especially effective in distancing the spectator from the action. . . . [52] Antigonus, by romance standards, is cowardly and unfeeling, and his loyalties are misplaced. But the punishment that follows his misdeed is too swift, too cruel and too comic. . . . His death is not tragic, nor comic, nor satiric: it is grotesque. The distance between romance and [WT] is greatest in this scene. . . . [54] Clearly a new terminology is needed. . . . We must recognize that . . . these final plays are something other than romances. He does not say what. Orgel (ed. 1996, p. 3) also maintains that notions of genre have changed radically since the Renaissance. Genres for us are exclusive and definitive, whereas for the Renaissance they tended to be inclusive and relational. . . . Attempts to move beyond the circularity of the definition, refine its terms, [and] establish the genre within a tradition, have revealed a good deal about the history of romance, but perhaps nothing so much as its ultimate inadequacy as a critical category for Shakespearean drama. Despite these arguments, many critics adopt the designation.

Among those who do, many focus on the play’s classical associations. Chambers (ed. 1907, pp. 5–6): What Aristotle distinguished under the name of Anagnorisis, as a typical element of classical tragedy . . . in the process of time has generally borne a romantic handling, and has gathered about itself all the associations of romantic interest, found in specific elements like (p. 6) truth that will out through disguises, wrongs that in the end become rights again, wanderings that lead homewards in the eventide. Wilson (ed. 1931, p. xv): Oracles, shipwrecks, royal infants exposed on mountain-sides or cast adrift on perilous seas to be rescued by poor folk and nurtured as shepherd boys and cottage maids; pastoral love-making, daisy-chains, sheepfold prowled about by bear . . . search by desolated or repentant parents, rescue and recognition by the aid of tokens . . . all these belong to the outfit of classical romance which the Renaissance brought back into fashion, superseding the romances of Chivalry. Craig (1948, p. 337), acknowledging the same constituents, suggests that the play combines two sorts of Greek romance, the one full of adventure, passion, and danger; the other gentle and pastoral. Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 12–16) suggests a combination of Greek Romance and Shn. comedy: The happy ending of WT makes the plot conform not only to the conventions of Greek romance but also to those of Shakespeare’s comedies. . . . None of [the comedies] includes the death of a central character who is a model of virtue. . . . The Queen had to be kept alive if the play was to conform to the pattern. . . . [16] The romance motif of a statue impersonated by a living woman believed dead, the sacrifice of psychological verisimilitude to theatrical effect[,] . . . the subordination of everything else to the rousing of a feeling of wonder—all this is characteristic of Greek romance. And though Gesner (1970, pp. 81–2) calls WT an almost separate genre—a kind of special academic discipline within the Shakespearean canon, a romance genre which frequently disregards narrative or psychological reality and moves its way with sweeping metrical freedom from states of prosperity through tragic upheaval, loss, and destruction, to restored order and tranquillity—she concludes that (p. 82) this separate subdivision of the Shakespeare canon . . . belongs to the tradition of the Greek romances. Dean (1979, pp. 11–13) also finds a Hellenistic pattern in these elements, noting that the complexity itself stands out in the dramatic foreground as one of the most powerful impressions received by the audience from the romance experience. . . . [13] The complete work of romance will eventually unify disunified action by first creating the impression of disorder, then retrieving our sense of an ordered universe (through the recovery of whomever was thought to be lost, for example).

Others emphasize the surprises and improbabilities of Romance. Symons (in Irving & Marshall, ed. 1890, 7:318) calls WT a typically romantic drama because it is constructed in defiance of probabilities, which it rides over happily. It has all the license and it has all the charm of a fairy tale; while the matters of which it treats are often serious enough, ready to become tragic at any moment. Matthews (1913; 1970, pp. 336–7) specifically mentions WT’s time gap, lack of emotional unity, mingling of disparate scenes, use of extraneous spectacular effects (the bear, the dances), and (p. 337) the final series of discoveries and recognitions culminating in the shock of surprise at the statue scene. Wendell (1894, p. 385): One touch . . . [which] tends to show that Shakspere would deliberately guard against any impression of reality . . . [is his] wanton departure from geographic fact, thus placing the Romance in no real world, but rather in such a world just beyond the limits of reality. Chambers (1925, pp. 296–7): In WT, the course of human affairs is swathed and interpreted by the enigmatic utterances of an oracle. . . . For the philosophy of the universe, that in Shakespeare’s later moods lies behind and determines romance, the amazement is converted into the symbol and manifestation of an overruling force working by hidden ways to bring the ends of man to good. . . . [297] Romance, indeed, will not have you apply too searching a psychology. . . . But art may take its standpoint at more than one degree of remoteness from real life. Mincoff (1941, pp. 14, 18): Sh. probably sacrificed his integrity deliberately, choosing, in the new fashion of writing introduced by Beaumont and Fletcher, to exploit surprise as a definite dramatic effect to be aimed at. . . . [18] [WT] belongs to the genre of romance or melodrama that was finally to establish the use of the unexpected on the stage. Pettet (1949, pp. 163–4) summarizes: The play’s mass of incident, its vigour and excitement of narrative . . . [are] quite unhampered by considerations of verisimilitude. . . . The romances aim deliberately at the far-fetched, the astounding and the incredible. With realism jettisoned, extravagance becomes a virtue. . . . Strictures based on the criterion of realism are quite irrelevant . . . and they would certainly have meant nothing to Shakespeare, who was content to satisfy the tastes of an audience that had been conditioned by centuries of romantic verse and [164] prose to enjoy a story of fantastic make-believe. Edwards (1958, p. 15) and Holland (1964, p. 285) also find the romances marked by the farfetched and the fantastic. (Holland adds: This can be fairly trashy stuff, all things considered.)

Other critics, like Hunter (1965, pp. 137–8), accept the special atmosphere in which miracle is constantly possible and finally occurs but also maintain that the miraculous, such as Hermione’s statue coming to life, (p. 138) can usually be explained naturalistically. Wells (Romance, 1966, pp. 65, 70): Leontes’s personal responsibility for the deaths and misfortunes of other characters in the play diminishes to some extent the part played in the action by those typical romance agents, chance, fate, fortune, etc. Shakespeare is humanizing his source, giving it greater relevance to normal life, making it a story of human beings rather than of puppets. . . . [70] In [WT] there are no macrocosmic implications. . . . Shakespeare has produced a work that is far more powerful as a human document . . . not by denying the romance elements in Greene’s book but by readjusting them—sometimes adding to them, sometimes toning them down with a modified realism, and always investing them with a poetic rather than a mundane reality. Peterson (1973, pp. 153–4): WT exploits the license of romance to focus upon a reality beyond the level of physical and psychological verisimilitude. . . . [154] Shakespeare’s concerns here are not with realistic illusion. . . . He is concerned to rehearse the ways in which the past may affect the present and shape the future. Hattori (1982, p. 87): Sh. is engaged in an almost overly conscientious application of realism. As if he feels indebted to his fabulous plot, he toils over lining every action of every character with realism.

Williams (1967, pp. 1–2, 38) espouses a critical viewpoint that centers on the human experience within the context of the Romance: Shakespearean romance can be defined as a poetic solution to the metaphysical problem, in Elizabethan terms, of the place of Mutability and Nature in human life. . . . [2] Romance, then, involves both a special manipulation of natural law and a peculiar sort of experience in response to the workings of that law. . . . [38] While controlling the laws of his romantic universe from above . . . Shakespeare has avoided an abstract discussion of his philosophical point of view. His metaphysics are translated into human sensibilities. Felperin (1972, pp. 61, 66): The natural and social orders are seen not as essentially good in the romances, but at best as not good enough. For in these plays . . . a recalcitrance to human desire [is] built into the universe itself. Yet the romances end with (p. 66) the recovery of spiritual integrity as well as personal and social identity. Richmond (1977–8, pp. 339, 341): In the Renaissance the romance was systematically attacked by humanists . . . because it distracted from proper masculine concerns. But the poets . . . did not reject the wisdom of romance. . . . Shakespeare evolves from the tragedy of Othello . . . to [WT], where he tells the same story with a happy ending because in the world of romance . . . everything is possible. The play is a triumph, but the values are traditionally more feminine than masculine. . . . [341] In Shakespeare, then, humanity’s future lies in the feminine principle, for which his respect and admiration are so vast. . . . This is the ultimate feminism, though it is a variety shunned by most feminists.

Genre is also discussed by Nicoll (1958, p. 51), Driver (1960, pp. 179–80), Cutts (1968, Introduction), Langman (1976, p. 195), Eggers (1979, p. 455), and Hale (1985, pp. 147–51).

Themes and Significance

Time’s Mutability

Wigston ([1884], p. 12) observes that Time as Chorus points to something serious, and beyond the mere surface of the play—nothing less, according to Waller (1970, p. 135), than the thematic justification of the play’s intention and meaning. . . . Time is established as the medium of all human growth and fulfillment, and the play itself is now seen as the unfolding of events by Father Time himself. Cosgrove (1977, p. 178) also makes this point. Ewbank (1964, p. 84): Sh. makes the Triumph of Time into a controlling theme of his tale; in doing so he transforms what the conventional motto suggests—a simple victory of Time, the Father of Truth—into a dramatic exploration of the manifold meanings of Time, one of which critics like Kermode (ed. 1963, pp. xxvi–xxvii) find in the juxtaposition of Time as destroyer and renewer, that which ruins the work of men but is the father of truth, . . . [and that which seems] aimlessly destructive . . . [xxvii] but is in the end seen to be merciful because it finally . . . must renew truth. Young (1972, p. 134) agrees: Sh. makes linear time the irrevocable enemy to human aspirations, cyclical time a restorative in harmony with man’s hopes.

A number of critics find greater significance in the way Time connects the world of the audience to the world onstage. Bethell (ed. 1956, p. 25) notes that one theme of the play juxtaposes various planes of reality—the timeless imaginative world of the play as seen against the real world of time, for example. Time tells us that even this present—the now of the audience—will itself become an old tale: our own lives are given the same degree of reality or unreality as the tale of Leontes, and only Time is timeless. Felperin (1972, pp. 227, 230): The natural cycles of birth, death, and rebirth . . . are existentially realized on stage. . . . The seasons change in the world of this play just as they do in the real world. . . . The imagery faithfully reflects not only the world outside the play but the world inside the play as well. . . . [230] By soliciting our imaginative cooperation in the dramatic process . . . the Chorus of Time also works to make us aware of the play as a play. . . . Time mediates between the worlds of life and art and plays upon our sense of their separateness and their continuity, their dissimilarity and their resemblance. He reminds us, that is, that his powers of destruction and recreation (his speech [1580–1611] is the apotheosis of the play’s imagery of natural process) extend beyond the play world into the real world, and that the principals [of the play] are subject to the same laws as we. Dean (1979, pp. 252–4) finds in Time’s appearance one of the most serious moments in the play—for our ruler is speaking, the ruler of nature and art. . . . We are entertained and informed by a power we are subject to in the very moment we watch its ingratiating performance. . . . [253] We are forced to recognize the ineluctable motions governing life, . . . the common process . . . in which both audience and actors grow fresh and wax stale. . . . [254] Time’s appearance in [WT] brings out the idea of an entity which is both ruthless and ceaseless, pleasing and informative. Garner (1985, pp. 347–50) concurs: In drama, time is a theme by necessity, for in the medium of performance it stands as an inescapable backdrop to dramatic action, as well as a fundamental condition of theatrical life. Sh.’s (p. 349) investigation of the relationship between the present and its temporal contexts extends to (p. 350) his audience’s temporal experience of the play in performance.

Some critics think the theme of Time the destroyer predominates. Traversi (1969, 2:300): The action of time, as seen at this stage of the play [124–45], is a corrupting action; experience, as it enters into the life of innocence, destroys the foundations of spontaneous friendship. Orgel (ed. 1996, p. 17) is less restrictive: WT’s realities are not the facts of history but the terrifying truths of the inner life—the destructiveness of jealousy, the creations of sexual fear, the complexities of love, the imponderable unpredictability of family relationships and deep, long-lasting friendships, the divided loyalties inherent in even the most devoted service. The insistent theme is time; but a time removed from history and located within the family, time as defined by generations, by youth and age, by the relations between parents and children, and by the blood-brotherhood of male bonding starting in early childhood. Like Holland (1964, p. 291), Edwards (1968, pp. 148–9) sees as meaningful Sh.’s suggestion of the inevitable decay of whatever is fresh and new. If spring comes, can winter be far behind? When Time enters as Chorus, he is not only a device to bridge a long gap in the narrative [149] of the story: he is inexorable time, whose hand is upon Perdita and Florizel. Yet Lindenbaum (1986, pp. 126–7) concludes: [WT] is a celebration of life . . . [127] as it exists in . . . a world governed by time. It is Shakespeare’s considerable achievement in this play . . . that he can bring us to accept the view of time as constantly moving forward and hence eroding and destructive, and to accept it not merely with resignation but with equanimity and even enthusiasm.

Other critics, including Arthos (1964, p. 161), assert that the main point of the play is the power of time to redeem. Smith (1966, p. 46): Time changes all things, but it is the regenerative rather than the destructive aspects of mutability which are stressed. Without change and decay there can be no continuance of life. Ansari (1979, p. 131) also calls attention to the triumph of the choric Time over the tangle of events in the play. Rundus (1974, p. 123) regards Time’s speech as a tribute to the . . . dynamic force which will soon restore and sanctify, through the processes of regeneration (Perdita and Hermione) and unceasing penance (Leontes), a harmony and ethos earlier destroyed by . . . Leontes’ jealousy. Foakes (1971, p. 131), however, finds that Time is merely an observer. . . . This figure of Time seems to claim his independence from human affairs. . . . He is not concerned to bring truth to light or vindicate innocence. . . . Time focuses our attention on events, and . . . remains, like providence, inscrutable. Additional discussion can be found in Chew (1947, p. 90), Nuttall (1966, p. 38), Peterson (Time, 1973, pp. 155–7), Kamachi (1979, pp. 28, 35), Lloyd Evans (1982, pp. 367–74), Edwards (Seeing, 1986, p. 86), Lenz (1986, pp. 102–5), Wilders (1988, pp. 264–6), Adams (1989, p. 115).

Nature (and Art)

For a few critics—Leavis (1942, p. 345) is one—the Nature which gives depth and richness of significance to the play is equated with nature at large, a force associated with the concrete presence of time in its rhythmic processes and all forms of growth, decay and rebirth. Hillman (1979, pp. 16–17): Perdita’s flowers symbolize the richness and beauty of nature’s creations, on the one hand, their fragility and transience on the other. . . . [17] She shows herself highly conscious of the changing seasons (and mortality), but she counters by affirming life and love . . . in a way which implies that death, too, is a part of nature and that love can flourish in its shadow. Some critics also recognize, with Frye (1962, p. 246), that nature is associated, not with the credible, but with the incredible: nature as an order is subordinated to the nature that yearly confronts us with the impossible miracle of renewed life, in the (Idem, Nature, 1965, p. 56) world of higher nature which romance approaches, a world not of time but of the fulfillment of time. Knight (1947; 1966, pp. 90–1): Nature rules our play and is responsible for the miraculous perpetuation and re-creation of worn and sinful man. The miraculous can have (p. 91) Christian impact, though the natural majesty explored is also in part Hellenic. In the play’s descriptions of Nature, Sen Gupta (1950, p. 223) discerns the workings of a superhuman agency from whom proceed life and beauty; Bush (1956, pp. 130–2) sees a Nature that is the source of life and love, a seen and unseen lesson in goodness, and a creator of innocence and bounty—a perfect image, undoubted, unconfined and unquestioned. . . . [132] Nature and art are gentle rivals in the creation of the beautiful and wonderful, but art can never match the miracle of natural things. For additional criticism, see Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 36–8), Nicoll (1952, pp. 171–2), Holbrook (1964, pp. 134–5), and Williams (1967, pp. 21–38).

Of more particular significance is the critics’ identification of, first, the Perdita-Polixenes debate over gardening [1887–1921] and, second, the statue scene [3183 ff.] as the primary loci of WT’s juxtaposition of nature and art. Examining and taking up Perdita’s side, Cooper (1977, p. 141) reminds us that since the demise of the Golden Age . . . [the] life of pure Nature was damaged by the invention of arts, of building, of commerce. Thus when Perdita rejects grafting, she is insisting on the integrity of Nature before the improving influences of Art. Love itself must be simple and whole . . . and she will have as little to do with the art of make-up to attract Florizel as with the false breeding of flowers. Dolan (1993, pp. 227–8): Perdita rejects the conflation of nature and art . . . espoused in the play by Polixenes. Perdita will not regard nature—or, by extension, herself—as impotent and defective, as in need of improvement. In her view, the art that produces the gillyflower does not embellish nature but competes with and effaces it. . . . [228] Aligning great creating nature with her own ability to breed, Perdita disdains those who prefer the gillyflower and the painted face, denouncing their taste as corrupt and insulting to nature.

Other critics assume a position that transcends both Perdita’s and Polixenes’s. Knight (1947; 1966, p. 105): The speakers are at cross purposes, since one is referring to art, the other to artificiality. . . . Human civilization, art and religion are clearly in one sense part of great creating nature, and so is everything else. But Perdita takes her stand on natural simplicity, growing from the unforced integrity of her own country up-bringing in opposition to the artificialities of . . . the court: she is horrified at dishonouring nature by human trickery. Observe that both alike reverence great creating nature, though differing in their conclusions. Frye (1962, p. 244): What happens in [WT] is the opposite of the art of the gardener as Polixenes describes it [the gardener (p. 241) may help or change nature . . . but can do so only through nature’s power]. A society which is artificial in a limited sense at the beginning of the play becomes at the end still artificial, but natural as well. Nature provides the means for the regeneration of artifice. But still it is true that The art itself is nature [1908], a customary disclaimer, according to Kermode (ed. 1963, pp. xxxiii–xxxiv), when the art of the gardener in improving wild natural stocks was treated as a figure of the distinctive human power to improve and civilize the environment. Perdita, however, makes the case that the gardener is not an improver of nature but a pander. . . . Shakespeare’s purpose is not to identify himself with one or other side so much as to tell the audience that the great topic of the relations between art and nature are relevant to his purposes; to establish [xxxiv] . . . the better nature of Perdita, and to prepare the way for a climactic [statue] scene in which . . . we shall see finally the incomparable work of great creating Nature.

Nonetheless critics attempt to establish which side of the art-nature antithesis Sh. takes. Most put him on the side of art, some making Julio Romano the representative figure of the artist. Waage (1980, pp. 65–6): WT owes something to Italian Renaissance art theory as well as art practice. Sh. displays a certain boldness in citing Romano, whose morally lascivious illustrations of Aretino were well-known in England, as the artist capable of rendering life beautifully enough to engender the miracle of divine (and connubial) love. More to the point, Sh.’s allusion (p. 66) at a most solemn moment to a painter whose name had such unattractive connotations might reveal that this provocative use of a specific artist’s name illustrates a theme of WT and contemporary works—the power of art not merely to imitate nature but to transcend and transform it. Gurr (1982, pp. 57–60): The only instance anywhere of Shakespeare referring to a real, known artist suggests that Sh. knew exactly what he was doing with the Romano reference. . . . That the reference is to the Romano who drew the erotic pictures for which Aretino wrote his sonnetti lussuriosi and which became known as Aretino’s postures . . . [58] would certainly give a point, not merely to the otherwise pointless specification of this rare Italian master . . . but also to the . . . exclamation with which Leontes greets the sight of the statue—Her natural posture! [3212]. . . . [59] Shakespeare in this final act of the play is emphasising the unnatural, nonrealistic nature of Leontes’ redemption. . . . [60] If we see Hermione truly restored to life . . . we obscure the essential point that art is not life, and that restoration and redemption are functions of an art which, however lawful, is precisely unnatural. Homan (1973, p. 73), however, puts Sh. on the side of nature: the excellence of Romano’s statue results solely from the fact that a real-life woman has assumed a position on the pedestal. . . . This moment when [Sh.] supposedly reveals his deepest thoughts about art is actually a tribute to life rather than to art. (Comment on the relationship between art, nature, and the natural work of art may be found in n. 3104–5 on Julio Romano.)

More often, however, critics focus on Sh.’s commitment to his own art. Farrell (1983, pp. 94–5) states the case generally: Shakespeare’s conspicuous humility as an artist disguises striving for autonomy. . . . The extremes of the artist’s role parallel the ambivalent valuation of art in the Renaissance. . . . Like the artist, art is nothing and yet supreme. . . . Immediately self-effacing, the dramatist may nevertheless be godlike in the larger transaction which is the play, since the communal experience of playwright, actor, and audience as sharers in the drama being played out onstage (p. 95) allows the artist to achieve autonomy even as he honors the bonds of community. Of WT specifically, Wigston (1884, pp. 13, 16–17) says: The play may be the self-reflecting portrait of Shakespeare’s own art in conflict with Time; he (p. 16) reconciles not only the divorce and disharmony of his own art . . . but that of classical and present times also. . . . [17] Does Hermione represent Ceres, and by reflection Shakespeare’s own art . . . ? Is Proserpina the lost unity of Shakespeare’s art, and as summer, the full glory of its spiritual light? Foakes (1971, pp. 134, 143–4): The disguises assumed by Polixenes, Camillo, and Florizel say that clothes seem to make the man, and art in this way conceals, alters, sometimes mends nature. . . . [Disguises] also indicate various possibilities for deceit and sharp practice. . . . It would be . . . a partial view that finds only a pattern of lies and deceptions, and of art affecting nature for the worse. Instead, WT (p. 143) focuses on the contradictions in the relation of art to nature, showing us art as, at one end of the spectrum, artifice, trickery, deception, disguise, cheating. . . . At the other end of the spectrum, . . . deception and [144] disguise may be used to bring about restoration and harmony. These ends lead Watson (1981, p. 13) to cite cutting and pruning references (1359–60, 1903–6) in claiming that Leontes is restored by Art. . . . Such cuttings have paradoxically healed rather than rent the flaws in not just one person, but the infected society that he leads. . . . Cutting abounds in the world . . . of nature and that of the play. When what is truly of noble stock, having fallen into disgrace in fortune and men’s eyes, is restored to its rightful place through some kind of Art . . . everyone breathes easier. Alexander (1979, p. 242): With the statue scene Sh. acknowledges that one way to satisfy the longing to immortalize what is immediately perfect is through art. Barkan (1981, p. 661): The scene gives us a definition of the power of art, characteristically expressed by Sh. in terms of mystery, madness, and inspiration. White (1985, p. 155): Shakespeare achieves a resurrection that art can bring on various levels. He retrieves Greene’s story from obscurity by placing its fable in a medium that demands performance by living people and, in reviving Hermione, brings life in a literal sense to a story which . . . had closed with death, but which now concludes every performance on a note of hard-won hope. Honigmann (1982, pp. 112–14): Where Jonson invoked Cicero’s definition to condemn art that runs away from nature and truth, Shakespeare falls back on the customary Renaissance defence, that art is the agent of nature and operates within nature’s domain. By Ciceronian definition, comedy should imitate life, be an image of truth. But in WT, both Time and Polixenes argue that nature must not be seen as unchangeable,—so why call it a crime when the dramatist adjusts custom and nature to suit his purposes? . . . [113] Shakespeare saw an opening [cites Mopsa, Dorcas, and Autolycus discussing true ballads, 2082–106], and mercilessly derided those who insist on truth in literature. . . . [114] The play’s questioning of Nature, Life and Truth climaxes in the statue-scene. . . . In a play in which Shakespeare defends the dramatist’s right to disregard law and custom, it is surely no accident that everything converges upon a marvel that defies all rational explanation.

A number of critics refashion the traditional Renaissance opposition of art to nature into an opposition of illusion to reality, putting Sh. and WT on the side of theatrical illusion and artificiality. As Driver (1960, p. 179) points out, the theme of truth opposed to illusion is natural in plays because theater itself is based upon illusion and pretense as inherent properties in its form, but the theme of truth and illusion is accentuated in tragi-comedy because . . . it relies so frankly on theatrical pretense. Rabkin (1967, p. 220) adds: We find ourselves believing in imaginary characters as if they were real. . . . Much of the power of [WT] is generated by our sense of the elusive but compelling analogy between the art with which it imitates life and the life that it imitates. Egan (1975, p. 1) agrees. Goldman (1972, pp. 124–7): To understand the vision of Sh.’s last plays, we must understand that the great destructive forces of Time and Nature are indifferently restorative, [but] restorative enough to keep growth happening. WT makes an effort to find dramatic equivalents for this endless superhuman recreation . . . [127] by striking reminders of theatricality, by devices that make us specially conscious that as an audience we are partisans of the happy ending, that we admire the working out of intricate plots or the reunion of scattered families as we enjoy the recurrence of spring. Rose (1972, pp. 169, 171): Art itself becomes a dominant theme of the play. But with the (p. 171) figure of Time in the center of the play as the image of an artificer who is also a force of nature [and] thus an emblem of the play’s central concern . . . we can perhaps understand why Sh. ascribes to great creating nature the authorship of one of his most plainly artificial plays. Collins (1982, pp. 57–9): At crucial points in the action when our connivance in the illusion of real life is most necessary if we are to be emotionally affected by the plight of the characters, we are reminded by the use of stage-metaphors [e.g., 2794–5] that (p. 58) we are in a theatre where the laws which ordinarily govern men’s lives are conveniently suspended. . . . [59] Our emotional response will be qualified by the intellectual recognition that the delight we experience is the result of illusion. Tayler (1964, pp. 121–33), however, maintains that in the traditional art-nature antithesis, Sh. is associated with nature or life rather than art: The conjunction of traditional pastoral elements and Sh.’s explicit interest in the philosophical problem of Nature versus Art creates (p. 127) a pattern . . . of harmony and alienation, of integration and disruption. . . . [133] In the cycle of disruption and integration the moments of . . . pastoral integrity provide . . . visions of ideal order. . . . Perdita’s royal blood manifests itself despite her surroundings and not because of them. For Shakespeare, then, shepherds may serve as exemplars of virtue if they are royal shepherds, and Nature may do without the civilizing influence of Art if it is royal Nature. Others who discuss this opposition: Fiedler (1949, p. 80), Grene (1967, p. 68), Holt (1969, pp. 47–50), Ortego (1970, pp. 31–2), Curtis (1980, p. 436), Lenz (1986, p. 90).

Some critics interpret the play as resolving the dichotomy between art and nature that it presents. Bethell (1947, p. 27): The generalisation about Art and Nature is . . . put into the mouth of the most illustrious representative of the court [Polixenes]. Does it not, then, hint at the opposition of court and country . . . , suggesting that a worthy culture must consist in the marriage of urban and rural virtues and that that aspect of civilisation which mends or improves our natural condition . . . is itself part of the natural order? Reese (1953, p. 494) so affirms: Shakespeare was insisting [1887–1908] that art, as the interpreter of Nature’s laws and therefore a means whereby man may fulfil his proper function, often added to Nature by elucidating mysteries which life itself left dark. . . . The superiority of art over Nature would be dangerous doctrine . . . were it not safely qualified by the belief that art itself is of Nature’s making. Ludwig (1974, pp. 393–6): The idea that art and nature can coalesce, be identical, figures importantly in the immediate context of the moment of Hermione’s return. . . . [394] The statue is and is not Hermione. . . . [395] No theater, . . . no makeup expert, . . . no actor, however well-controlled, can [396] fool the members of an audience into believing that what they are seeing is a statue. . . . The audience must hold in its mind two contradictory ideas about what is going on in the play at the moment after the statue is unveiled. And the double attitude the audience must take is consonant with . . . the scene’s insistence on the pattern of the merging of art and nature. Iwasaki (1984, p. 85) sees no merger, but only that Nature and Art, once viewed as opposing each other, are reconciled and collaborate with each other by the end of WT. Hawkins (1976, p. 127): Paulina’s art, like Shakespeare’s, so glorifies the wonder-working, life-giving power of nature that when the majestic but coldly standing statue of Hermione is infused with warm life one cannot but marvel at the miracle. . . . In Shakespeare the experience of human love . . . finally wins over life itself as the greatest wonder, the most high miracle, the final mystery. Holland (1964, pp. 292, 300–1) figures the dichotomy in terms of gender: In WT, woman is (p. 301) the repository of nature, man the creator of art. To the Elizabethan, (p. 292) the word art meant all human activities . . . which added to or in some way went beyond natural processes. In the play, Sh. sets off against . . . nature, all kinds of human contrivances. . . . [This] cluster of things [is] associated with ceremonies, with clothing, with words, with playacting, with all kinds of artificial formalities. On the other hand, Perdita’s loss leaves Sicilia wintry, infertile, despairing, without an heir, [but] she makes of Bohemia . . . a kind of green world. In the play, (p. 300) men are associated with the superficial, women with (p. 301) true grace.

Others regard any perceived resolution of the nature-art opposition as illusory and refuse to follow critical tradition in celebrating the function of art in the play. Newton (1986, p. 150): In the statue scene, a ceremony which overcomes the divisions and distortions of the past is created by art, trickery and manipulation, yet it appears to all the participants that nature triumphs over art. But necessity for such a ceremony indicates that no fundamental change has taken place in the relations of husband and wife, king and state. . . . The only change that has been effected is a psychological one in which both ruler and ruled recover from the traumatic events of the past. . . . But nothing has happened to prevent the authority figure from acting as he has done in the past. Williamson (1986, p. 152) agrees: Hermione’s forgiveness once again signals . . . the acceptance by women of an asymmetrical relationship in the greater male privilege to err with impunity. Thus, with much relief, Leontes can immediately start ordering people about once again. WT alerts the audience to the process . . . [of] art using nature to mythologize power. The more aware the audience becomes that it is watching a work of art, the more conscious it will be that what is made to seem natural and inevitable is really artifice conforming to human authority. Lamb (1989, pp. 69, 76–83): Through Autolycus (the artist who seeks self-amusement and financial reward) and Paulina (the artist who teaches lessons of moral worth), WT (p. 76) examines the very problems surfacing in the debate over theater. . . . It explores the morality of the theater, especially as measured by its effect on an audience; it explores the kinds of truth [77] available to the old tales and dramatic performances; it explores the effect of perceiving language and reality solely in terms of literal rather than complex truth. . . . [83] Not only does [WT] refuse to resolve the contradictory views of the artist presented through Paulina and Autolycus, but the play further complicates each of the two attitudes towards Art. According to Riemer (1980, pp. 10–11), however, Sh.’s detailed and sustained treatment of the function and nature of art reveals art as [11] essentially devoid of extractable meanings or significances, while Colie (1974, pp. 277–9) cites the unnatural confluence of the themes of art and nature, reality and imitation, to claim that the whole art-nature debate turns out to have been totally irrelevant. . . . [278] The scene of Hermione’s statue . . . similarly cheats our expectation—since Hermione (p. 279) has been only figuratively turned to stone, her statue’s returning to life confers upon [Leontes] his full life again. The illusion here is not that art is an illusion but that life is.

Others discussing the nature-art dichotomy: Wain (1964, p. 224), Salingar (1966, p. 30; 1984, pp. 2, 19), Mueller (1971, pp. 232–8), Rabkin (1971, p. 39; 1981, pp. 118–40), Hartwig (1972, pp. 5–6), Young (1972, p. 121), Kernan (1975, pp. 448–50), Berek (1978, pp. 289–98), McIver (1979, pp. 342–50), Estrin (1985, pp. 178–9), Rico (1985, pp. 287–8), and Barkan (1986, pp. 283–6).

The nature theme is further developed, according to Knight (1947; 1966, p. 76), in the strong suggestion throughout of season-myth, with a balance of summer against winter . . . [and] maturity and death . . . against birth and resurrection. Muir (1974, pp. 37–9): There is also, as critics have pointed out, a curious suggestion that underneath the conscious level of the play is a vegetation myth. Ansari (1979, p. 141) is one of those critics: The restorative and regenerative function of Perdita as a vegetation deity is one crucial theme of the play, inseparably intertwined with a second, the coalescence between art and nature. Tinkler (1937, p. 358) is another: The significance of the tale begun by Mamillius is stressed by frequent reference to the pregnancy of the queen, and this association with ideas of vegetation myths and rites is reinforced . . . throughout the play. To one living in a vital agricultural community the association between the idea of a divine king and the rhythm of the seasons, which is indeed the larger rhythm of this play, is natural. The play opens just before winter . . . and passes through it to the spring festivities of the shepherds. Perdita and Florizel are almost vegetation deities (Mamillius, whose place they take, died at the beginning of Winter) and are welcome as the Spring to the earth [2908–9]. Frye (1957, p. 138) and Scott (1963) also belong to this group.

For many critics, the only nature myth to discuss involves Persephone and Demeter: Muir (1969, p. 101), for one, has no doubt that Sh. is attempting, among other things, to reinterpret the story; Davies (1986, p. 154) believes that Sh. was giving us his fullest exploration of the relationship between the Eleusinian myth and the shapes and meanings of human life. Obviously unaware of Wigston (1884, pp. 5, 13), Caldecott (1891, pp. 27 ff.) expresses surprise that no one has read the play as a nature or solar myth clearly referring to Demeter-Ceres and her sacred island, Sicily. But Wigston was already surprised that (p. 5) no one has as yet called attention to these parallels: Hermione falls like Winter into her death-sleep, or art sleep, with the exposure of Perdita. Hermione is restored to life, through the restoration and re-discovery of Perdita. Perdita, like Persephone, is a lost child. . . . [13] The central Myth of the Eleusinian Mysteries, as typified in the wanderings of Ceres, . . . is the phenomenal one of the alternation of summer and winter, upon which was hung the doctrine of immortality of the soul, of light and darkness, of matter and mind, of conflict and reconciliation. A mythological reading . . . entirely consistent with the principles of Renaissance mythopoeia is pursued by Guj (1983, pp. 6–20): The rites of Eleusis were known to, and understood by, cultivated persons in the sixteenth and seventeeth centuries. . . . [8] Shakespeare had in mind the Eleusinian mysteries, which are often alluded to in Renaissance mythographical manuals. . . . [19] The injunction to depart and the exclusion of the uninitiated from the rituals were a characteristic feature of the Eleusinian mysteries [the courtiers are commanded out of the chamber at the reunion of Leontes and Perdita (3013–17) and the command is repeated more forcefully in the last scene by Paulina]. . . . [20] Shakespeare, through the work of the mythographers, if not by a direct knowledge of classical sources, knew of this important detail and used it to suggest that the inspiration for his play rested on the myth of the Eleusinian . . . mysteries.

Leimberg (1988, pp. 130–1) adds details: The name Hermione is, in the non-Homeric, chthonic [infernal] field of Greek mythology, the surname of Demeter as well as, by analogy, of Persephone. Hermione is also the name of the town where the rape of Persephone is said to have happened. . . . Within the Homeric tradition, Hermione is the daughter of Helen who, for her part, resembles an archaic fertility-goddess as Persephone does. According to another tradition, Hermione was the mother of the Graces, i.e., she is another Harmonia and called by that name. . . . Hermione-Harmonia was a goddess of fertility and, consequently, a goddess of life as well as a goddess of death. Her being raped by the god of the nether world sometimes was followed by the story of her redemption, of the finding and home-coming of the victim. . . . [131] Nearly all of these motifs or themes reappear in [WT]: pregnancy denoting fertility, a happy marriage and its tragic destruction, or, contrary to both marriage and fertility, the denial of marriage and children for the supposedly widowed king; the allusion to Proserpina; the near identity of mother and daughter; the subject of death and rebirth; the appearance of Autolycus as a deputy of his father Hermes; the homonymity of Polixenes and Polyxenos (another name for Hades); the stress on Hermione’s sisterly relation with grace [169]; a happy mother being tragically bereft of her children; and, ultimately, the finding of her who was lost, the re-awakening of her who had descended into the realm of death, and her redemption. Arnold (1953, pp. 504–5) claims that not even Pluto is missing from the play: The ravisher of the spirit, the seducer of the body, the corrupter of virginal innocence, the Tempter, is present in Sh’s (p. 505) Autolycus, whose winter is the season of forced, unwilling chastity, summer the time he celebrates . . . earthy delights. Mincoff (1992, p. 79) cautions that to convert the play into a nature myth results in distorting and impoverishing it. . . . Too much insistence on the supposed nature myth has tended to obscure the traditional pastoral contrast between the confined life of the court, which breeds such sophistications as destructive jealousy (and, as a parallel, social restrictions in the second part) and the happy, uncomplicated life of the country, where love follows its natural impulses and the blows that fall come only from the sophisticated life outside. That view has not deterred Wigston (1888, p. 146), Knight (1936, p. 155), Armstrong (1969, pp. 64–76), Laroque (1974, p. 12; 1982, p. 26), Ansari (1979, p. 136), Frey (Vast Romance, 1980, pp. 61–2), Honigmann (1982, p. 117), Neely (1985, p. 198), and Bate (1993, pp. 220–40) from associating Perdita and Hermione with the myth of Ceres and Proserpine or with other mothers and daughters of myth. The idea that WT reflects esoteric Renaissance knowledge of mythology is further pursued by Mueller (1971, p. 229), Tavera (1974, p. 20; in Fr.), and Gourlay (1975, pp. 376–95).

Repentance and Renewal

Snider ([c. 1890], pp. 463–4) says that repentance is the controlling principle which holds [WT] together. . . . [464] The whole phenomenal world is brought into dependency upon repentance. Velie (1972, p. 107) agrees: In WT, Sh. makes a serious study of the mental processes of a man who sins and repents, because he was vitally interested in any doctrine that interested his contemporaries and, as the principal means of thwarting eternal damnation, repentance was of major concern to the Elizabethans. Horowitz (1965, pp. 73–4): This concern is illustrated in Leontes’s restoration to humanity and reason, a major movement of the play achieved (p. 74) after the elaborate purgatorial experience that atones for those he has cast out or destroyed, though Adamson (1986, p. 63) says there is no possibility of ever taking away Leontes’ kind of guilt for mad acts generated by the doctrinally authoritative stigma on human sexuality. Other critics suggest only that Leontes’s penitence is imperfect. Sewell (1951, pp. 138–9) thinks Hermione’s forgiveness . . . has little compassion in it because Leontes shows remorse, but no humility. . . . [139] What has happened within the repentant spirit is made altogether subordinate to the mere fact of repentance. Frye (Perspective, 1965, p. 111) agrees: The forgiveness is structural, not moral, and Sh. gives the penitence a technical emphasis rather than an oozing through of personal benevolence. Considering Leontes’s reaction to Perdita (2995–3002), Melchiori (1960, p. 64) suggests that Leontes is not so much redeemed through suffering, as . . . he has ceased to suffer. Wright (1979, p. 149) has Sh. slyly undercut the reformation theme: Leontes not only imagines himself the murderer of a second, hypothetical wife (2791–5, 2799–800) but is highly attracted to Perdita (2995–3002). There is something disconcerting about this penitent, in the full flush of his remorse, energetically contemplating both murder and incest, though Happé (1969, p. 18) finds the response innocent: Leontes merely sees his wife in Perdita, who thus induces a feeling of tenderness which is the right basis for the reunion. Sanders (1987, pp. 53–4) concludes: The trouble with [Leontes’s] penitence . . . is that it cannot alter what has been done. It is, in its essence, self-regarding and therefore, in the presence of the larger troubles it has [54] created, impertinent. . . . It is possible to find [Leontes’s penitence] perfectly just, sincere, honest . . . yet still distasteful. Davison (1982, p. 66) speculates that what cannot be undone is, perhaps, an attempt by Shakespeare to present his audience with the whole gamut of experience and emotion, so that we can realise that reconciliation is meaningless unless it comprehends not only real loss but the awful grotesquerie sometimes attendant upon death.

Novy (1984, p. 178) instead stresses the mutuality between repentance and forgiveness, a reminder that other critics, including Traversi (1969, 2:314), have found that Sh.’s intuition about the necessary relation between the mutability of life and the infinite value of human experience which it conditions but which is finally incommensurate with it is integrated into the wider framework of penitence and reconciliation. Similarly Hoy (1964, pp. 270–1) seems to discern that WT celebrates the mysterious and beatific wonders which patience under affliction and a hearty repentance for past sins can accomplish. It celebrates as well the human capacity to forgive all injuries and the wrongs which innocence might ever have been made to suffer at the hands of the guilty. . . . [271] A harsh and threatening actuality is miraculously transformed by . . . repentance, faith, and forbearance. McFarland (1972, p. 140) mentions the exalted tone of wonder and renewed joy evoked by the final reconciliations which, Muir (1974, p. 43) says, could not happen without positive virtuous action or repentance by the main characters. . . . The happy endings depend on repentance and forgiveness. Abartis (1977, p. 88) concurs: WT offers the purest statement of the theme latent in tragicomedy—that after tragedy there is comedy, after error there is forgiveness and renewal. Thaler (1927, p. 761), Stauffer (1949, pp. 294–5), Bonjour (1952, p. 208), Driver (1960, pp. 191–4), Mendl (1964, p. 200), Josephs (1967, p. 20), Barber & Wheeler (1986, p. 328), Greenblatt (1988, pp. 132–3), and Wexler (1988, pp. 116–17) also discuss repentance, forgiveness, and reconciliation.

To Barber (1964, pp. 244–9), the key theme of the play is clear enough. Shakespeare envisages a reconciliation . . . in which renewal will be brought to the court from below, while the inhabitants of the cottage will be refined by the influence of the court. . . . [248] The continuity of human history, the way life goes on generation after generation despite all conflicts and disturbances, and the sense of (p. 249) human generations stretching back and forward are part of this theme. Holbrook (1964, p. 156) agrees with Knights (1976, p. 611), who contends that the renewal of life is the main theme of the play, and Sacks (1980, p. 87): The single reality in the romances is the survival of humanity through generation. For Marsh (1962; 1980, p. 126), this point is made in the play’s recognition that life does not die, it goes on, passing from father to son; for Gajdusek (1974, p. 151), in its emphasis on the finding of the heir or successor who can rid the land of the curse or enchantment or spell of death; for Happé (1969, p. 16), Young (1992, p. 187), and Thorne (1982, pp. 91–2), in the medicinal influence [the young] exert on the older generation. Youth is presented as (p. 92) a renewer of life and antagonist to death; the young are able to purge King and country . . . of error, and sin, as the generations merge in significance. According to Traversi (1955, pp. 125–6), Sh. demonstrates the importance of generation in the function of new-born innocence as a healing power in redressing the excesses that [126] spring from the distortions of sexual feeling.

While Hoy (1978, pp. 78, 84), Mark Taylor (1982, p. 51), and Schotz (1980, p. 51) agree that the rejuvenation of the King/Father . . . and the kingdom as a whole depends on the banished daughter returned, perhaps because, as Quinones (1972, p. 438) says, Perdita supplants Hermione in the human chain of repeated birth, or as Lindenbaum (1972, p. 14) suggests, Perdita is the repository of Hermione’s thoughts in the next generation. Schotz (pp. 52–3) also stresses the importance of Leontes’s embracing of the female mysteries . . . essential to the renewal of the male. . . . [53] Leontes is the only Shn. male to embrace woman-as-mother in a life-enhancing way, and [WT] the only play in which the restoration of the mother-daughter cathexis [investment of libidinal energy] is perceived as necessary for male psychic health and welcomed in all of its power. Harding (1979, p. 60): Although Leontes finds the statue more wrinkled than the Hermione he remembers, he retains the capacity to respond to the mature woman as a development of the girl she had been. . . . His capacity to love her occurs simultaneously with the recovery of his effectiveness as a ruler and with the establishment of the succession. Engel (1980, p. 9) views Hermione’s supposed statue as the means by which Leontes and his generation may partake of the regeneration otherwise available only to the young. . . . Only with her restoration, unheralded and wholly unexpected, does Shakespeare allow a . . . renewal unparalleled in Renaissance drama. Garber (1981, pp. 178–9) calls Leontes’s capacity to compare, contrast and discriminate between the Hermione that was and her wrinkled statue (p. 179) a trial or test, which marks the initiate as successful—or not—in his relationships . . . with history.

Frey (Vast Romance, 1980, p. 165) says: The whole drama flows into the two climactic moments of Hermione’s reunion with Leontes and their joint reunion with Perdita. Earlier, he (Interpreting, 1978, pp. 300–3) emphatically states: The daughter’s choice of a husband who is independent of her father’s influence proves a catalyst, though a bitter one, for the changes necessary to a revitalization of the home society. . . . Only daughters are looked to for continuation of the central family, and even Florizel, the husband Perdita brings home, is meant (p. 303) to teach or permit her father a newfound love and forgiveness made possible and believable amid the restored patriarchal security. Frey is anticipated by Bethell (1947, pp. 94–5), who finds Perdita’s marriage the assurance of social regeneration because Florizel and Perdita are (p. 95) a younger generation, unsophisticated, and life-affirming; Leontes and Hermione are an older generation, sophisticated, and life-denying, and followed by Ettin (1984, p. 80), for whom Perdita’s ease with the natural order of life, despite her firm belief in the proper order of nature and society, promises a fresh start through the fusion of natural and social values. Boose (1982, p. 338): Leontes is punished by the . . . death of the son he imagines will carry his lineal posterity. Only when he comes to value that which has been lost—the daughter Perdita, who is a matrilineal rather than a patrilineal extension—is Leontes allowed the partial restitution implicit in his adoption of Florizel. And even this compensation is made possible only through the return and affirmation of the hitherto unvalued daughter. Faas (1984, p. 146), however: Sh., while elaborating upon the rebirth theme, puts increasing emphasis on the continuance of death and suffering. Almasy (1981, pp. 121, 124) objects to those who slight the centrality of Leontes . . . by overemphasizing the importance of the younger generation. . . . It is Leontes’ life that . . . affords the audience a focus to unite the various structural and thematic elements; this is established when (p. 124) he reappears as the center of attention in the fifth act.

Discussion of generational renewal is also found in Wilson (ed. 1931, p. xix), Idem (1932, p. 140), Tillyard (1938, pp. 44–6), Spencer (1942, pp. 268–9), Desai (1952, p. 84), Bland (1953, pp. 42–3), Traversi (1955, p. 174), Leech (1958, p. 30), Williams (1967, pp. 12–15), Edwards (1968, p. 144), Thorne (1968, pp. 42–3), Swinden (1973, pp. 156–7), Colman (1974, p. 144), Wheeler (1980, pp. 163–6), Taylor (Purpose, 1982, p. 51), Kastan (1982, pp. 126–8), and Traub (1987, pp. 228–30).

Religious renewal interests Furnivall (1877, p. xci), for whom Christian tenets underlie the whole of WT. Pilgrim (1983, pp. 27, 78) finds in Leontes’s spiritual progress, with its three stages of sin, repentance and restoration, the central theme of the play. Presented (p. 78) in dramatic terms . . . whether consciously or unconsciously on the part of the author it is impossible to say, [is] the essential character of the doctrine of the Body of Christ. Barber (1964, pp. 236–7) and Bethell (1947, pp. 14, 38–9) also believe that the interpretation of life that Shakespeare presents is . . . profoundly Christian. . . . [38] The play, in fact, has as many obviously Christian references as pagan. . . . [39] The importance attached to moral attitudes is especially Christian, even the hints of Leontes’s and Polixenes’s early reluctance to deal with their sinful natures at all, for, as Lindenbaum (1972, p. 13) points out, the desire to be Boy eternall [124–7] suggests a yearning for a prelapsarian existence which implies that sexual love could be no part of man’s experience in his unfallen condition; the latter point is also made by Neely (1978, p. 183; 1985, pp. 194–5) and Stockholder (1987, p. 185). Bass (1977, pp. 16–17), however: If Polixenes imagines that, had he and Leontes continued as boys eternal, they might somehow (p. 17) have been guiltless of original sin, he fails to recognize the necessary role of grace after the Fall. Watson (1984, p. 276) concludes: Leontes is torn between the heritage of Adam, which makes him a sinner, and the heritage of God, which obliges him to purity. In learning to acknowledge the limiting father Adam, Leontes learns . . . through a penitent recognition of the natural grace that still inhabits the fallen world . . . [that he may gain] through the greatest humility . . . an identity at once filial and perfect.

Though Smith (1964, p. 280) objects that overt religious references in the play are predominantly pagan, and it takes considerable straining of the language, structure, and atmosphere of the play to make a specifically Christian doctrinal statement out of it, few critics have problems discussing the play’s attention to spiritual renewal and the redeeming grace most often associated with Hermione, Perdita, or both. Bryant (1955; 1961, pp. 209–10): Only a very devious dialectician would ever attempt to disprove the connection between Hermione and . . . Christian grace. . . . [210] The manifestation of grace in her is so discernible as an imperfect realization of that quality which is perfectly manifested in the Son of God that we are led to see in her simple acts of forgiveness the pale but unmistakable reflection of His mercy and redeeming love. Mendilow & Shalvi (1967, p. 252) affirm that for all its pagan or classical or fairy-tale source, setting or theme, [WT is] essentially and triumphantly Christian in tone and philosophy. . . . [Its] Christianity seems to be even further emphasised by the fact that the instruments of salvation are none other than the people who have been sinned against. In Milward’s (1964, pp. 31–2, 35) view these people include both Hermione, who maintains, both in . . . words and in her later example, that women may . . . be the means of grace and redemption to men, and Perdita, whose nature is shown as ordered to the grace which grows in her with the passing of Time. Milward (1973, p. 270) adds: Mother and daughter may be said to represent two stages of grace for Leontes—before and after its loss by sin. Evidence of this grace for both McManus (1988) and Erickson (1985, p. 162) comes with the miraculous change in Leontes when he relinquishes his view of women as degraded and learns to see them as sanctified.

Marshall (1986, pp. 294–302) offers an interesting, somewhat off-beat discussion of parallels between the play and the vision of human destiny associated with mortalism, a widespread heresy in post-Reformation England, but for more traditional discussions of religious or moral renewal see Knight (1933, pp. 124–5), Mahood (1957, pp. 150–1), Maveety (1966, pp. 273–9), Meldrum (1968, p. 52), Traversi (1969, 2:313), Siemon (1972, pp. 442–3), Speaight (1977, pp. 349–50), Kahn (1980, pp. 219–35), Barber & Wheeler (1986, p. 299), and Sanders (1987, p. 40).

Drame à Clef

Some critics imply the play is a form of drame à clef. Bentley (1948, pp. 48–9): The character of Shakespeare’s last plays is in accord with the known facts of theatrical history; it accords with the biographical evidence of Shakespeare’s long and close association with all the enterprises of the [49] Lord Chamberlain’s–King’s men for twenty years; it is in accord with his fabulously acute sense of the theatre and the problems of the actor. . . . The company was experienced and theatre-wise—as was Sh. He could not fail to produce a play that reflected the theatrical circumstances of his life.

Thus Rowse (1963, p. 278): The Sh. who wrote WT is now fulfilled and successful, well off and in harbour, unlike the early Sh. who expressed resentment against his profession in Sonnet 111. Holland (1964, p. 301): WT is Sh. at the end of his career. He must have known that he was going to retire within a year or so, and he takes this chance to look back on his own art, an art of disguise and fakery akin to the ballads of Autolycus. Holbrook (1964, pp. 145, 175): WT reflects Shakespeare’s own life approaching winter. . . . [175] Time might be the composite figure Prospero-Shakespeare himself—or, according to Bateson (1978, p. 74), the playwright confronting dramatically the arrival of his own old man’s age. White (1985, p. 146) thinks Time speaks explicitly [in] the voice of the dramatist himself; Rose (1972, p. 170) finds that idea tempting. Turner (1971, p. 150) adds that the role was perhaps acted by Shakespeare when WT was first performed. Hardy (1989, p. 25) concludes that the chorus as a narrator-figure stand[s] closer to the author than the dramatic characters.

Nuttall (1966, p. 39): Those in the audience who recognised that Shakespeare himself was playing the part of Time caught on to an in-joke. Wiles (1987, p. 156), however: Autolycus conceals the real in-joke; in the character who humbles himself to accept patronage from the Shepherd and Clown, we see Robert Armin, who published a specimen of his own balladry in an apparent bid for court patronage. Armin’s own multiple identities—as writer of ballads, tradesman, fool, King’s servant, would-be courtier—are refracted through the assumed role or alias of Autolycus. Adams (1989, pp. 102–3), however, identifies Autolycus with Shakespeare himself as a figure in and behind the playhouse. . . . In Autolycus we have an instance, exceptional mainly in its pointedness, of Shakespeare larking with his entire relation to the theater. . . . [103] In the person of Autolycus Shakespeare gives away the whole show to anyone witty enough to get his point.

Strachey (1906; 1922, pp. 64–5): Looking at WT and the other romances as the product of Sh.’s retirement years in Stratford, it is difficult to resist the conclusion that he was getting bored. . . . Bored with people . . . with real life . . . with everything except poetry and poetical dreams. . . . [65] If we are to learn anything of his mind from his last works, it is surely this. But Chambers (ed. 1907, pp. 13–14) warns against the dangerous pastime of tracing reflections of Sh.’s personal circumstances upon the mirror of his art. Yet he succumbs to the approach himself: WT pictures (p. 14) the surroundings, familiar to [Sh.] in boyhood, to which he had come back in all the freshness of recovered liberty and peace. Knight (ed. 1843, 8:71) associates the sheepshearing episode with the keen and prying observation of a boy occupied and interested with such details, Dowden (1875; 1890, p. 151) with the mature poet now returned to Stratford . . . [and] in a happy spirit renew[ing] his acquaintance with his boyhood home. Clark (1930, pp. 175–6) agrees with Knight, Brink (1895, p. 95) with Dowden. Jusserand (in Lee, ed. 1907, [15:] xix): The whole play teem[s] with allusions to fondly remembered, and sometimes ironically recalled, experiences of boyhood, though the (Idem, Winter’s Tale, 1925, p. 229) quieting influence of resumed country life leaves Sh. increasingly indifferent to facts and probabilities. He had never cared much whether any Bohemia had any seashore; he cared even less now.

Critics also associate WT with members of Sh.’s family. Knight (ed. 1843, 8:112) equates Mary Shakespeare with Hermione, William with Mamillius. Furnivall (ed. [1877], p. xcii): WT and Sh.’s part of H8 make us believe that this twice-repeated reunion of husband and wife, in their daughter, late in life, this twice repeated forgiveness of sinning husbands by sinned-against wives, have somewhat to do with Shakspere’s reunion with his wife, and his renewed family life at Stratford. Swinburne (1880; ed. 1925, 11:222) finds in Mamillius the suggestion that Shakespeare as he wrote had in mind his own dead little son still fresh and living at his heart. Masson (1914, p. 118) also thinks that audiences seeing Leontes and Mamillius onstage will see Sh. remembering his own fireside and his play and prattle there once with his dead boy Hamnet. Jusserand (in Lee, ed. 1907, [15]:xvii), however: Sh. found the inspiration for Mamillius in his granddaughter Elizabeth. Harris (1909, pp. 337–8): His health broken, Sh. writes WT when he is too tired to invent or even to annex; his own story is the only one that interests him. Thus his daughter Judith becomes Perdita and Hermione is the result of Sh.’s speculative (p. 338) what if—what if the faithless Mary Fitton had been true?

Smeaton (1911, p. 505): The whole scene of the sheepshearing festival is a picture of rural Warwickshire in the early seventeenth century. . . . In the flowers which Perdita scatters before the guests at the feast, we seem to catch a glimpse of some such scene, which had taken place . . . years before, when young William Shakespeare, then unmarried, had seen the beautiful Anne Hathaway as queen of the feast of that day, and had straightway fallen in love with her. So graphic a picture as is drawn in [WT] . . . must surely have been sketched from the life. Sachs (1923, p. 80): It is not necessary to point out in detail how well [Leontes’s disappointment with Hermione’s aged and wrinkled statue (3217–18)] corresponds with the case of Shakespeare himself who on returning home would have to resume life together with his wife who was several years older than he. Fripp (1938, 2:740, 436): Sh. may have known a female Autolycus, one Avice Clarke, the inventory of whose belongings on her death in the summer of 1624 . . . bear a striking resemblance to those of Sh.’s delightful vagabond. Fripp writes with more assurance that (p. 436) Leontes suffers from a physical malady. A muscle or blood-vessel breaks and he is no longer himself. . . . This is medical, a matter which doubtless the Poet discussed with his son in law, Doctor Hall. Ward (1987, p. 547) too: In his semi-retirement [Sh.] had the pleasure of many conversations with his son-in-law John Hall, the physician, and this may be one reason why [WT] is so full of references to physic, infection, disease, and cure.

Critics who do not see personal connections make court ones. Inchbald (ed. 1808, 3:5) and Barber (1964, p. 239): Sh. alludes to Anne Boleyn in the character of Hermione. Though Foss (1932, p. 137) thinks so too, he believes Sh. tries to cloak his design of writing a fanciful account of the scandal of his Sovereign’s parents. (Also see here.) Milward (1973, pp. 82–3): Leontes, who corresponds to Henry VIII, confesses his former injustice to Polixenes. . . . Here it is enough to point out that . . . [WT seems] to look forward to a reconciliation between England and Rome, as expressed [83] in the reunion of Leontes with Polixenes. Everett (1970) and Edwards (1976, p. 52) identify Hermione with Mary Stuart. Edwards, however: That the identification is sympathetic is almost beyond dispute. Chambers (ed. 1907, p. 14): There is a temptation to trace the lineaments of the gallant and too early lost Prince Henry in Florizel. Allen (1936): Experiences in the lives of Lord and Lady Oxford—particularly Oxford’s conviction that the Lady Elizabeth deVere was not his daughter—suggest that Lord and Lady Oxford are the models for Leontes and Hermione, their daughter Elizabeth for Perdita, the Duchess of Suffolk for Paulina, and Lady Mary Vere for Emilia. Bethell (1947, p. 87) connects the dangers of an uncertain succession at the end of Elizabeth’s long reign with Leontes’s situation in WT.

Harrison (ed. 1947, p. 133) sees parallels between the circumstances of Paulina’s entry to the Court and the Gunpowder Plot, for complicity in which the Earl of Northumberland was condemned and imprisoned in the Tower in 1606. His countess (notorious for her violent and forceful personality) gained access to the King and openly and violently accused the Earl of Salisbury of unjust dealing. She was so clamorous in her abuse of Salisbury that he was obliged to write to the Earl of Northumberland to ask him to restrain his wife’s fury. Kuhl (1952): Sh. has in mind England’s plight, her lean years under a jealous king who, with the aid of Cecil, attempted to thwart the expansionist group led by Sandys, Southampton, and Pembroke. The entire play seems conceived in this spirit . . . [of] . . . concern over England’s fate in a time of austerity. Greg (1955, p. 417): It has . . . been suggested with some plausibility that the last act as we have it is not the original conclusion of the play. . . . The most likely occasion for the alteration would be the performance in connection with Princess Elizabeth’s marriage festivities in the winter of 1612–13. Sternfeld (1956, p. 328): The sixteen-year-old Prince of Wales took an active part in discussions of his own possible Spanish or French alliance and more than once was in disagreement with his father and his father’s counsellors. Moreover, the hand of fifteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth was sought by many candidates. Since that time the significance of the marriage of Florizel and Perdita . . . became obvious (in Fr.).

Bergeron (1978, p. 127): Civic pageants featuring Time speaking doggerel, a developing taste for masques, Princess Elizabeth’s wedding (14 February 1613) within two months of the funeral procession of Prince Henry (7 December 1612)—whose extremely life-like, flexible effigy was displayed both in the funeral chariot and in Westminster Abbey when the prince was buried—connect the play and the real world (the two latter items suggesting the shepherd’s things dying and new borne, 1553–4). Idem (1985, p. 178): Shakespeare opened the book of kings, the text of the Stuart royal family, read it, closed it, and opened his fiction to its interpenetrating presence. In the years immediately before [WT], the royal family had experienced domestic family strife, the . . . Gunpowder Plot, the births and deaths of two royal children, the coming to court of Princess Elizabeth, the investiture of Prince Henry, and marriage negotiations for the royal children. If not these precise events, then surely the general pattern of the intertwined nature of royal family and politics . . . finds its way into the intertextual nature of [WT]. Williamson (1986, p. 112): The last plays relate to the political discourse of Jacobean England. Bethell (ed. 1956, p. 257) and Hotine (1983, pp. 129–30): A performance of WT occurred on 5 November 1611, the anniversary of the Gunpowder Plot.

See also Harris (1911, pp. 337–8), Murry (1936, p. 408), Williams (1941, pp. 70–1), Edwards (1975, pp. 37–9), Yates (1975, p. 35).

Technique

Structure

Many critics think of the play as bipartite even while disagreeing on the purpose and effect of such a division.

Lloyd (1875; 1894, p. 157): The peculiarity of [WT’s] composition . . . in the abstract appears like an experiment and a dangerous one; it is rare, if not unprecedented in any art, to find an effective whole resulting from the blank opposition of two precisely counterbalanced halves when not united by common reference to some declared third magnitude. Nor is such a uniting power wanting in the present instance. . . . The leading masses [the halves] are contrasted with a breadth and boldness that strain the very limits of coherence, but it [the structure] still holds . . . to the perfect and rounded conclusion. Price (1890, pp. 199, 203–6): The play is . . . a genuine diptych in construction. . . . To bring the two parts into artistic union, the characters . . . [form] three symmetrical groups: . . . (9) characters that belong altogether to the tragedy; . . . (12) characters that belong altogether to the comedy; and . . . (7) characters that belong in common to tragedy and to comedy. . . . [203] The expiring movement of the tragedy is made the birth of the comedy [at 1500]. . . . [204] The climax of the comic action comes in its right place, [in 4.4]. . . . As the climax of the tragedy was the culmination of hatred in Leontes for Hermione, so the climax of the comedy is the culmination of love in Florizel for Perdita. . . . [205] At this point comes that feature of the double play which forms its chief divergence from dramatic usage. In general, after the climax there comes a catabasis [falling action] that is equal in number of stages to [or shorter than] the epitasis [the rising action or complication]. But here [in the comic half of the play, unlike the tragic half where they are equal] . . . the catabasis is carried on . . . to the enormous length of 800 lines [from Camillo’s resolve to help the young lovers to Paulina’s exhibition of Hermione’s statue before Leontes]. . . . In length and in fulness of contrivance, it far transcends the norm of dramatic usage. . . . It carries on the action not only of Florizel’s love but also of Leontes’ [206] folly. . . . Hence, serving a double purpose, the catabasis is here carried . . . to a double length . . . ; and what seemed at first a careless blemish turns out to be a bold and original stroke of art.

Herford (ed. 1904, 4:269): Two sharply-marked phases, each occupying almost exactly half the play . . . [create a] wasp-like structure nowhere else in [Sh.] approached. The drama owes its beautiful harmony of effect very little to mechanical coherence of plot. Mackenzie (1924, p. 429): The structure suffers at times from the telescoping of the action made necessary by the fact that it [WT] is really two plays in one. But it is lucid, shapely, in its way even compact. Van Doren (1939; 1953, pp. 313, 319): The time which goes unchronicled between the third and fourth acts might seem to give us two plays instead of one, but there is only one . . . dedicated to . . . the opposition between age and youth, cruelty and goodness, jealousy and faith. . . . [319] The play is one but its halves are two, and each of them underlines the other. Craig (1948, p. 328): The very splitting of [the play] makes it easier to follow and, since events and motives are simple, makes its characters stand out more clearly. Heims (1988, p. 6): Two devices (one dramatic, the other narrative) create the harmonious unity of the play. . . . Of the dramatic element, there are two components. . . . Perdita’s presence in both parts of the play . . . helps to unify it [as does] the significance of her presence. The narrative device is the introduction of the playwright himself as the choral figure, Time.

Though Jusserand (1925, p. 229) thinks Sh. is indifferent to an accurate joining of his story’s several parts, other critics disagree and readily explain how he joins them. Mincoff (1941, pp. 37–9): Since WT’s two parts were divided in time . . . and the interest shifts to an entirely fresh set of characters who were not even in existence during the opening scenes, the join could only be effected by running the first part into the second as far as possible. For this purpose the figure of Camillo was retained as a link . . . [along with] the continued interest in the older generation. When the same characters appear in two consecutive scenes where locale or time clash with one another, Sh. seeks (p. 39) to wedge the two scenes apart by some short interlude that did not necessarily form an integral part of the plot (e.g. 1144–72, showing Cleomines and Dion returning from Delphos). Pyle (1969, p. 88): Sh. uses Polixenes’s explosion of temper at Florizel, Perdita, and the Shepherd to afford fleeting but impressive parallels with Leontes in the earlier part of the play, reminding us of his rage, his sudden cruelties, his vacillation. . . . Just as Leontes’ rage and cruelty caused Polixenes and Camillo to run for their lives and his infant daughter to be cast out . . . so now both the kings’ children will have to fly. . . . The parallelism produces a sense not only of unity in diversity but also of controlling purpose behind the seemingly haphazard and accidental. Siemon (1974, p. 15): Parallel actions enable Shakespeare to explore the possibilities for good and evil in society. In the first part, Leontes’s community is made sterile . . . through a mistaking of the appearance of truth for truth itself; in the second part, Polixenes’s community is threatened with death, loss of its heir, and the lovers’ separation through a mistaking of true value. . . . The values and dangers of each extend into the other and neither can be completed without bringing the other to completion.

Knights (1976, pp. 608–9): Acts 1–3 are mainly given to creating a sense of Leontes’ unbalanced self-enclosure. . . . The play’s second movement has given us a state of being that offered the strongest possible contrast to the [609] state displayed by Leontes in the opening acts—a spring and summer opposed to Leontes’ winter. Dean (1979, p. 251) agrees: WT ultimately succeeds as a romance drama because of its efficient balance of opposing personalities and themes. . . . [Sh.’s] creation of contrasting forces in [WT] does make for a wintry first half and a spring-like second half to the play. . . . [WT] is well-balanced in large proportions. Spender (1982, pp. 234–7): The two parts of the play are deeply interwoven, perhaps musically and thematically rather [235] than by story-line or plot. . . . Although this play seems fragmented, threatening even to fall apart in the middle when considered as action or plot, it has a great symphonic unity. . . . [237] The second half of the play reflects back on the first like criticism of it. Male (1984, pp. 7–8): The two parts of the play consist of a series of sequences. In part one, the first sequence leads to Hermione’s trial, the second covers the rapid and overlapping events that follow the message from the oracle, and the final sequence concludes with Perdita’s discovery by the Shepherd and Clown. Time’s speech, a self-contained sequence, marks the conclusion of the tragic elements and initiates a new, more hopeful phase. . . . It comes precisely at the centre of the play, although in the text it begins Act 4. The first sequence of part two introduces Autolycus to establish (p. 8) a lively, light-hearted tone and ends with Polixenes throwing off his disguise and revealing his true identity. A new sequence begins with the denunciation of Florizel and Perdita by Polixenes. . . . The first part of Act 5 provides the next sequence, ending with Leontes’s promise to intercede on behalf of the young lovers, and the final sequence consists of a series of reunions and reconciliations culminating in the statue scene. . . . The formal pattern of this sequence is completed by the pairing of the two trusty councillors, Paulina and Camillo. . . . By tracing this sequence of scenes, a clear and logical dramatic pattern emerges: the first concerned with discord and separation and death, the second with love, reunion and reconciliation. The formal act and scene divisions have largely been ignored.

Holbrook (1964, p. 172) labels 3.3 (1436–1577) the pivot of the play, as does Frye (1970; 1982, p. 131): WT’s great structural problem . . . is solved by using as a hinge on which both parts of this tale can move in unison . . . [the] spectacular entrance and exit of the bear, followed by the Clown’s spectacular description of how the bear ate the man and how the mariners drowned, [marking] finis to one portion of the plot . . . and [preparing] for a fresh development and progression in the last two acts. Hirsh (1981, pp. 201–4): For a brief moment at the center of this central, pivotal scene, the stage is occupied only by the infant Perdita, who was falsely assumed by Leontes in the tragic first half of the play to be the product of his wife’s adultery and who as an adult is restored and reconciled to her father in the comic second half. The segments following this moment strangely mirror the segments that precede it. Antigonus, (p. 202) believing the baby a bastard, abandons her while the Shepherd, arriving at the same conclusion, takes her up, (p. 204) grateful for his lucky day (1575–6) even though he decided to take care of the forsaken child before he discovered the gold, and the Clown intends to bury the remains of Antigonus despite the storm. . . . Antigonus and the Mariner have done their ungentle business in an ill time and have been punished. . . . The Shepherd and the Clown have done their good deeds and are rewarded. R. P. Knowles (1982, p. 274): WT carries farther the movement in the last plays away from the intimation of providential control toward full identification with artistic control by employing Apollo, the god of, among other things, music, poetry, and the healing arts, as the presiding deity of the play, and by relegating the deity as deity to a more minor place in the story. The oracle, nevertheless, plays an important role in effecting the shift from the Dionysian first half of the play, with its confusion, noise, and pain, to the the Apollonian second half of harmony and healing.

Williams (1941, pp. 279–80), however: Perhaps the most masterly use of prologue is . . . to knit together the two uneven parts of [WT]. . . . [280] Old Father Time is allowed his power, but his senile humour lightens the discourse and leads naturally into the rustic comedy scenes that follow. Berry (1965, p. 93): The purpose of Time, the Chorus is copulative—to prevent one play becoming two plays. . . . If Time succeeds, and it is a critical point whether he does, then an audience, which for all of three Acts has been experiencing a heady and violent here and now, thrusting towards its apparent satisfaction in tragedy, have [sic] to adjust the perspective and perceive the Bohemia scenes . . . through the lens of the tragedy-determined first half. If Time does succeed . . . the audience is confronted by a pastoral romance [4.4] in Bohemia which is judged in one way by the lovers and in a very different way by themselves. Smith (1966, pp. 48–51): WT has two halves encompassing three movements. The first movement culminates with (p. 49) the Bohemian storm, the second begins with the appearance of the Clown and Shepherd. But the ambiguous figure of Time . . . accentuates and bridges the division between the two halves of the play. The second movement (p. 50) culminates in Perdita’s flower-speech (1876 ff). The two dances and the (p. 51) interlude of the entrance of Autolycus create an antimasque pattern which forms the bridge to the third movement. In this, many of the motifs of the first movement are repeated. . . . All estrangements and oppositions [are brought] to a reunion, restoration, and reconciliation.

Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 32–8): The creative, restorative second half of the play offers parallels and contrasts with the predominantly destructive first half. Sh. (p. 35) uses Time and his hourglass to mark the break but also our sense of the similarity of the two parts (see n. 1595, pp. 298–9). This parallelism or (p. 38) pattern of repetition increases our sense of the fragility, the precariousness of human happiness. Turner (1971, p. 148): Time’s speech comes at the pivot of the whole play, and must bring into relationship the two extremes of black tragedy and bucolic comedy—the widest range Shakespeare has ever attempted in one play. Young (1972, pp. 116–18): By introducing Time, Sh. emphatically exposes the bifurcation to create (p. 117) a deliberately naive structure as a joke on those who took their categories too seriously and who would not or could not question the rules. But the joke has justifications that go to the heart of the play’s vision, stressing the arbitrary aspects of genre, the polarizing of elements—good and evil, life and death, loss and restoration . . . youth and age, and throwing the tradi-[118]tional pastoral oppositions—court and country . . . complexity and simplicity—into vivid relief. Van Laan (1978, pp. 223, 226, 232): The whole of WT is governed by the internal dramatist—a figure originating in the stage Machiavel or Vice. In the first part, Leontes is the (p. 226) prominent internal dramatist. The second half of the play (p. 232) is also governed by an internal dramatist, but this one is not a fallible human being; it is, instead, Time, who enters to mend the plot so that, despite Leontes, it can have a happy ending. Krier (1982, pp. 346–9): Time might be called the great hinge on which the play and its paradoxes turn. . . . Clearly it [Time’s speech] is the junction between the first half of the play, in which (p. 347) all has been rush, haste, pressure, clock time, frenzy and (p. 349) the second, which reverses the time sense, so that the dominant tone is leisurely, spacious, and seasonal, while the urgency of time’s press is contained within it.

Hardman (1985, p. 235): To express the passage of time through a speaking personification is a very obvious reminder that we are witnessing a stage performance, and thus the joint between the two parts is forced upon our attention . . . by reference to dramatic theory, by use of traditional romance motif, and by emblem, by stagecraft, and by dramatic device. The change of mode is thus not naturalistic, but self-consciously literary and artful; Hardy (1989, pp. 24–5) agrees, though he thinks the self-conscious address serves dramatic form, telling the audience just enough, linking the past with present, and urging attention towards the future. . . . [25] Time’s levity, profundity, thrilling seriousness and humour are also right for the two times and two tones of the play. . . . Time is authorial and authoritarian. But then, as Mahood (1992, p. 35) points out, since all events under the sun are the products of Time, he can legitimately consider himself the originator of the entire action.

Smeaton (1911, p. 506) is not smitten with the divided plot: It can scarcely be called a perfect technical success. The two parts, the Hermione and the Perdita, do not fit in very closely to one another. And though Wilson (1932; 1937, p. 140) finds the two worlds of the play, corresponding to London and Stratford, brought together cunningly in the reconciliation scene of the living statue, he suggests the resolution did not satisfy Sh. himself: Two separate worlds [one blessed, one bitter] even when reconciled in a finale do not make one world or one play. . . . The problem was both a technical and a spiritual one. Carrington (1956, pp. 12–14): The lack of cohesion and unity in the play is a (p. 13) major weakness of overall construction even though individual scenes in the two halves . . . [14] are well linked together. Taylor (1973, pp. 344–50): In the tragic movement of WT, the climax must necessarily be delayed, stimulating our impatience. The second half (p. 348) has nearly the opposite effect. . . . [349] We learn patience. . . . The movement . . . is spasmodic, . . . [350] the action has lost its greatness and urgency. The overall rhetorical structure of the play consists of peaks and lulls.

Dissatisfaction with this structure leads Hieatt (1978, pp. 239–42) to declare: The similarity between the first three and the fourth Acts suggests that a two-part view of the play accounts for only a portion of a larger, more complicated scheme. As for the alleged unifying function of parallel action, the linear development of [WT] denies that its structural segments are linked primarily by cross-reference. Events are arranged chronologically throughout and, unlike those of the double plot, bear not only a comparative but a sequential, cause-and-effect relationship. Thus, despite their disjunctive nature, the structural segments will cohere on the basis of an over-all shaping principle, while their parallel action will have the secondary function of underscoring and redefining this principle in terms of theme. In the first movement, (p. 242) a king’s passion runs its dreadful course; young love is the subject of the second movement, followed by a major shift in time and place, which in turn precipitates [the third] organic action ending with the return of Hermione[,] . . . each part having its separate setting and grouping of characters, its individual reversals of fortune and mood, its discrete increment of fictional time.

Other critics also declare the play a triptych. Snider (1877, 2:58–9): The play has three grand movements or divisions. . . . The first portrays the guilt of the King of Sicilia; . . . [Sicilia] is the world of strife, contradiction, and wrong. . . . The second movement shows . . . the simple pastoral realm that is free from the tragic conflicts of Sicilia. But it, too, will ultimately develop a collision within itself. . . . The third movement is the penitent world, in which the King . . . sees those who were dispersed brought back, and those who were lost restored to himself. The logical thought of the action, therefore, is that guilt produces the second or pastoral world, and repentance the third or restoration. . . . All the special or mediated dramas [the Romances] of Shakespeare, as distinguished from his tragedies and pure comedies, have three movements of a similar character. For [59] the guilt of man can be atoned for only by repentance; and Art, the representation of man, must employ the same instrumentality. Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. liv–lv): It is better to give it three parts [1.1–3.2, 3.3–4.4, and 5]. . . . But [WT] is not [lv] a dramatic curiosity consisting of separate parts; it is a whole. . . . Not only does the middle part stir the mind and heart of itself, but by the contrast of its beauty, love, youth . . . and venial roguery, it intensifies the dramatic effect of the ugliness, the oppressive adult madness, hatred and murderous crime at court in the first part and the sober serenity of the last. It is so essential to the plot that, if it were removed, the last part also could not exist. Kermode (ed. 1963, pp. xxvii, xxx) also divides the play in three parts, of which the ending is an act of recognition . . . nowhere more daringly conceived and the whole of the play as (p. xxx) unorthodox structurally as the final scene. Swinden (1973, p. 164): WT is, in everything but its plotting, three separate works of art; the first is an almost complete tragic action in three acts; Act 4 is completely divorced from everything around it; Act 5 is equally unconnected to the other segments.

Happé (1969, p. 13): Destructive and fatal aspects of WT are confined to Acts 1 and 2 and the first part of Act 3. A lengthy pastoral episode provides complete contrast. Finally the play moves back to Sicilia where the effects of the pastoral are worked out. . . . The different aspects of the story are concentrated at length so that the contrast is massive, simple and powerful. Nelson (1972, pp. 58–9): The play features two levels of experience (the apocalyptic vision of Leontes’s palace; the idyllic vision of the pastoral world) on which Sh. constructs a cyclical structure which reinforces the prevailing theme of rebirth. To suggest the rebirth cycle, the three-part structure moves the action from Sicilia to Bohemia and back to Sicilia for the final reordering of society. Sh. also lends his ending an irrevocable unity through a skillful use of contrasts and parallels: two tyrannically unjust monarchs create disorder in their kingdoms, mother and daughter are identified with perfection and reconciliatory powers, and two loyal servants help to bring about the final reconciliation. The (p. 59) cyclical action, parallels, and contrasts achieve a sense of an all-inclusive harmony, where one generation is united with another, where man is in harmony with nature, where all levels of humanity are brought into social cohesion, and where all these actions are directed and reinforced by an artistic vision of spiritual inviolability at the end. Lenz (1986, pp. 93–6, 110) divides [WT] into three distinct sections [part one consisting of acts 1–3, part two of act 4, part three of act 5], each associated with a specific genre and with (p. 96) a set formula consisting of a prophetic statement; a series of remarks, actions and events that substantiate the prophecy; and the ironic fulfillment of the original statement. This pattern . . . can be found in the play’s plot skeleton. There is the oracle about finding that which is lost, the scenes devoted to the lost one, Perdita, and her eventual restoration to her father, each step corresponding to a section of the play as [Lenz has] divided it: prediction (Part One), substantiation (Part Two), fulfillment (Part Three). With the final change of locale that brings the characters together in Sicilia, (p. 110) we should recognize the legitimacy of the three part division. . . . The play that begins as a tragedy . . . and turns to pastoral . . . finishes as a romance.

Critics occasionally discuss models for the triptych. Martz (1980, pp. 123–4, 131): WT is a trilogy of redemption on the Aeschylean model. Though he is not prepared to press this idea very hard, he finds the analogy useful in revealing the play’s essential tripartite division of tragedy, comedy, and miracle. To accommodate this division, (p. 124) the second play begins not with Time (4.1) but with the change of scene from Sicilia to Bohemia (3.3), showing the movement from (p. 131) the ancient tragedy of blood through the cyclical, pagan world of great creating nature, and on now to the present time when, in humanist terms, faith, nourished by art and grace, may witness a triumphant restoration of the world to goodness. Cohen (1982, p. 128): Sh.’s entire theatrical career can be seen as one vast dialectical structure, in which the comedies engender their own antithesis in the subsequent tragedies, which are in turn negated and superseded by the synthetic vision of the romances. In the structure of each [romance] . . . Shakespeare internally recapitulates the general progression of two decades. Nowhere is this clearer than in [WT’s] self-consciously disjunctive structure.

Traversi (1955, pp. 106–7) suggests a four-part division, a beautifully balanced construction, analogous to four musical movements. The first deals with the tragic breakdown of . . . unity; the second is the turning-point of the whole action since it sets the destructive tempest [symbol of divine displeasure] against the Shepherd’s discovery and rescue of the abandoned baby in a single episode that connects the tragic past with the happy future in an anticipation of the final reconciliation. The third is an evocation of spring in the pastoral scene, which also exposes Perdita to the maturing influence of adverse circumstances. The fourth (p. 107) shows penitence as prelude to restoration of harmony between Leontes and Polixenes, and Leontes and Hermione, at the last restored in all her gracious perfection. Leech (1958, pp. 25, 30) and Vyvyan (1960, p. 17): The play is Terentian. Each act corresponds to a phase of the story.

Several other unique views of structure are explored. Driver (1960, pp. 181–3): The pattern is circular, with the pastoral scenes enveloped by those of court life. The idea of roundedness and enveloping is suggested early in the play by Hermione’s pregnancy. . . . [182] The image of the pregnant circle comes in also through the idea of the blessed island . . . of Apollo [quotes 1146–8]. The earth itself is also imagined as a sphere in the center of other spheres [refers to 708–9]. Perhaps the most important occasion of the encircling idea, however, is in the famous speech which Polixenes delivers to Perdita [1899–1908]. . . . [183] The form of the play contains the meaning, yet the meaning is that which stands above and controls the form. Garber (1974, p. 163): The large structural units of the play are the four seasons of the year: winter in the opening jealousy scene at Leontes’ court; spring with the finding of the child in Bohemia; summer in the great pastoral scene of the sheepshearing; and autumn or harvest in the return to Sicilia and the restoration of the king’s wife and child, assuring order and fertility. This cyclical movement is occasionally cut, or halted by moments of . . . [timelessness], when the world of dream and the irrational intersects with the ongoing world which surrounds it. Hale (1985, pp. 152–3): A balancing of the effects of evil and good is an organizing principle of Shakespeare’s treatment of romances . . . [153] bound up with its time-span of two generations, corroborated by its seasonal progression through winter to spring and onwards. Battenhouse (1980, p. 133): The structure emerges as a manifestation of faith balanced against the threefold manifestation of faithlessness in prodigal Leontes, Polixenes and Autolycus. Of the four guardians, the old Shepherd and his son are rustics while Camillo and Paulina are courtiers. But all four have shepherding roles which develop progressively in the drama’s action. Peyré (1984, p. 155): In the midst of the play there are several tableaux of a theatrical nature: the Polixenes/Hermione dumb show . . . ; the vision of Antigonus; the reunion of Leontes and Perdita . . . ; the statue of Hermione, the resurrection of which is . . . like an old tale [3328] and could not happen without the cooperation of the spectators [quotes It . . . Faith (3300–1)]. The play employs its own mirrors and sets onto the stage situations that reflect the theatrical situation itself (in Fr.).

Others who comment on structure: Ristine (1910; 1963, p. 113), Welsford (1927; 1962, p. 288), Grose & Oxley (1965; 1969, p. 82), Muir (1968, p. 14), Bonjour (1969, p. 209), Blissett (1971, pp. 53–6), Jones (1971, pp. 68, 85), Rees (1971), Evans (ed. 1974, p. 1564), Preston (1978, p. 422), Uphaus (1981, p. 70), Draper (1985, p. 14), Frye (1986), Castrop (1987, p. 75), and Toliver (1989, p. 154).

Language and Style

Kennedy (1942, p. 111): With Sh.’s maturity comes an enriching in expression, an increasing ease with which an outline is worked out, and a subduing of outline in the attainment of the total ultimate effect. The language and style are vehicles of Sh.’s achievement, although his handling of them in WT is not universally admired.

The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:678, citing 777–86) think the entirely confused constructions and imperfectly expressed sentences result in incoherent ideas huddling one upon another; parenthetical and ill-sequent. Latham (1887–92, p. 424) also notes Leontes’s unclearness of style, an idea Pyle (1969, p. 21 n.) develops: In framing the spectacle of Leontes’ unsettlement in incoherent monologue [Sh.] makes the incoherence at least somewhat informative. . . . But incoherence it remains. Wendell (1894, pp. 379–81): In both substance and style the Winter’s Tale is overcrowded . . . [380] obscure and crabbed. The verse is more licentiously free than ever before, and at the same time overpacked with [381] meaning. . . . He [Sh.] cares about substance rather than style. Thoughts crowd upon him. . . . He disdainfully neglects both the amenity of regular form, and the capacity of human audiences. In [WT] Shakspere’s style is surely more decadent than ever before. Snider (c. 1890, p. 459): The versification of [WT], while not so fluent and harmonious as in his earlier works, nonetheless has a sweep and flexibility, showing indeed an orchestral variety and strength. Carrington (1956, p. 28, quoting 1347–50 through done:) also has some reservations: Dramatically such a style is inferior, as it is difficult to understand the thought at the speed at which it is spoken. But the form of Shakespeare’s mature verse [makes] the dialogue more natural and more adapted to different characters because of run-on lines, feminine endings, and rich, vivid imagery.

More often, however, critics praise the fluidity, the appropriateness of WT’s verse. Herford (ed. 1916–, p. vii) admires the bold and often exceedingly beautiful subordination of the line to the sentence or the paragraph in verse-rhythm. Corson (1889, pp. 75–7): As the poet advances in dramatic identification, the metre of his blank verse yields more and more to the movement of the thought, a view Brink (1895, p. 98) echoes enthusiastically: His verse . . . has become an instrument which he treats with a royal arbitrariness . . . but which still resounds with the irresistible torrent of his thoughts. Saintsbury (1923, 2:36) explains: Sh. not only indulges in the redundant syllable [an eleventh syllable added at the end of a pentameter] freely, but is particularly fond of making his coupling foot with the next line redundant [cites 2413–14 where -ing is redundant]. . . . So, too, he is also fond of fashioning this union out of the conjunction and [as in 1939–40]—a perfectly justifiable thing . . . but . . . a dangerous one in unskilful hands. Kermode (ed. 1963, p. xxii): The turbulence both in the action and in the language of WT is reflected in the verse, which frequently registers not a gentle detachment but rather a remarkable activity of mind. Thus the jealousy of Leontes may . . . be a less complex matter than that of Othello; but it is less simply expressed. Vickers (1971, p. 97): What modern critics describe as the texture of verse is in fact the product of a skilful use of rhetoric, especially such schemes of construction as parallelism, antithesis, anaphora, and epanalepsis, though McDonald (1985, pp. 316, 328–9) stresses the periodic organization of Sh.’s verse: Convoluted sentences or difficult speeches become coherent and meaningful only in their final clauses . . . [just as] the shape and meaning of events become apparent only in [WT’s] final moments. . . . [328] Correspondence of language, form, and dramatic universe suggests an identification among speaker, dramatist, and Providence that clarifies the meaning not only of the play in question but of the tragicomic universe as well. If Leontes’ verse does not immediately make itself clear, neither does Sh.’s construction of events, nor does the divine architect’s of events, nor . . . of man’s experience. . . . [329] The grammatical delays and obstacles that temporarily obscure meaning in the middle of a protracted sentence are parts of a larger whole that is eventually elucidated. Something similar may be said of the particular happening in the action of [WT].

Bethell (1947, pp. 22–3) claims that Sh. makes little attempt to indicate character by giving a particular type of verse permanently to a particular stage personage, that there is (p. 23) less difference in the quality of the verse between Leontes and Perdita than between Leontes jealous and Leontes penitent, and that to have differentiated character by means of the verse would have meant sacrificing complexity . . . and what [the characters] are is much less important than what they say. Many critics are convinced otherwise. Knight (1947, p. 83) first issues a warning—One must beware of regarding tormented rhythms as a poetical goal. Possibly we over-rate Shakespeare’s rough-handling of language to correspond to the twists and jerks of psychic experience. . . . One can often approve a poet’s disrespect to the tyrannies of rhythm and syntax; but there are dangers. . . . Such a crammed, often cramped . . . style is certainly most effective when expressing nightmare or disintegration. . . . Where no especial disorder . . . is concerned, the result can irritate. Knight finally asserts: With Leontes, however, the purpose has been patent; the disrupted style not merely fits, it explores and exposes, the anguish depicted. As Smith (1968, p. 318) says: It is not that Shakespeare is presenting his character purely in terms of language rather than action, but that in Leontes the language is very pertinent indeed.

Hardinge (1818, 3:50): If you mark the words [in the opening dialogue between Leontes and Polixenes (50–82)], you will find how infinitely more quaint and forced are the Sicilian ones, which is the nature and genius of all counterfeited affections. They overshoot the object of their aim, by determining not to be short of it. The sentences of Leontes are short, and are evidently constrained,—those of Polyxenes natural and flowing, easy and careless. Hudson (1848, 1:324, citing 181–92): Leontes’s speech seems to have caught the distemper of the character: crabbed, knotty, harsh, oblique, enigmatical, vague, full of violent jerks, and stops, and starts, and ending neither here nor there, it betrays at every turn the monster of the thought. Tinkler (1937, pp. 355, 361) says of the complex disorganization of 377–83: Leontes’s speech rapidly becomes more inclusive and more suggestive. This acceleration is seen in the jerky movement, the telescoping of phrases which become more and more elliptical, and the progressive repetition. . . . [361] The deaths of his son and wife are purges for the king and there is a sudden, daring modulation in the feeling. The crude coarseness and spasmodic movement give way to a calm resignation. The difference may be seen in comparing the verse of the Jealousy Speeches with that of the repentant ones [1338–57, 1424–35]. Thorne (1971, pp. 56–63) describes Leontes’s early incoherence as highly idiosyncratic, his grammar revealing unusual features not to be found . . . elsewhere in the play, including awkard syntax which (p. 57) serves to underline the absurdity of Leontes’s assertion that To mingle friendship farre, is mingling bloods (182); the use made of conjunction to turn his sentences into lists . . . of synonyms or near synonyms [e.g. 185–6, 188–91]; (p. 58) the use of words from one sentence expressing [Leontes’s] morbid imaginings to suggest the words of the next (320–4), by which means he convinces himself that he is dealing with a mass of objective evidence; (p. 59) the use of semantically empty pronouns—those referring to other pronouns or lacking clear referents (283–5)—to suggest Leontes’s tragic capacity to take his own expressions of jealousy as reports of states of affairs actually existing in the outside world; (p. 61) a reduction in connections between parts of sentences (328–30) that isolates the sentence from its context to make one part an ironic commentary on the other. To Thorne, the compression and confusion of Leontes’ style of speech convey the qualities of his mind, to Frey (Vast Romance, 1980, p. 124), his isolation and constriction does so, and Draper (1985, p. 19) also notes this isolation: Leontes’s language turns inward, ceasing to be a means of communication, though Sh.’s deliberate obscurity is highly effective in dramatic terms. Knights (1976, pp. 601–2): It is impossible to make Leontes’s speech conform to ordinary syntactical forms: the point is its disjointedness. The marked caesuras and the frequent parentheses produce a panting, heaving movement which tells you what to think of the appearance of argument with which Leontes tries to establish his belief. . . . [602] Fissures in the deep structure of the sentences are used to express a distortion . . . in the preverbal levels of Leontes’s thought.

At this same level—a pre-linguistic state of consciousness where, according to Neely (1975, p. 324), Leontes’s emotions originate—the inchoate emotion seeks shape and expression in words, and words in their turn give it substance and definition. Michael Taylor (1982, p. 233): Leontes seems unable to prevent his words . . . from [becoming] acts of semantic treachery, possibly because, as Hunt (Standing, 1984, pp. 20–1) says, Leontes believes his autocratic words create their own private contexts for understanding. . . . In their truth, they need no accompanying contexts for interpretation. . . . [21] In Leontes’s opinion, the act of speech fixes character forever. Wexler (1988, pp. 109–10) agrees: Leontes’ accusations require no corroboration because he has the power of assertion. Language supplies all the proof he needs. . . . [110] Meaning is self-present in words and his words, he believes, correspond to external reality. Holbrook (1964, pp. 147, 151): Leontes’s words are coarse and inchoate. . . . Sensual imagery of coition mingled with disgust push him into using (p. 151) the crudely emotive language of the London street [359–70]. Nuttall (1966, p. 26): Leontes indulges in equivocation and sexual double-entendres . . . [in] such numbers that the conscientious annotator could fill pages with them [quotes 190–1, 197–8, 269–71]. Knight (1947, p. 81): The spasmodic jerks of his language reflect Leontes’ unease: he is, as it were, being sick; ejecting a poison, which yet grows stronger; something he has failed to digest, assimilate. . . . Our most virulent speech of disgust involves the much-loathed spider [quotes 636–42], the words of which, Barton (1980, p. 133) states, involuntarily but quite explicitly inform us that Leontes has poisoned his own mind. Marsh (1962; 1980, pp. 128–30): Because [Leontes’s] concern is with [129] self there is even a note of grim enjoyment in my heart dances [183], . . . [and] something akin to enjoyment in the realization of his own importance as a wronged husband. . . . [130] In words of the greatest crudity and bitterness he describes what appears to him as the absolute lack of virtue in the sexual relationship, which perpetuates life [quotes 274–86]. Hussey (1992, p. 232): Sh. lets Leontes play with the different sense of words, but Leontes always chooses the worst sense, the deliberately, revoltingly obscene sense.

Also commenting on Leontes’s language: Lawrence (1937, p. 46), Goddard (1951, p. 651), Evans (1952, p. 181), Smith (Affectio, 1963, p. 163), Foakes (1971, p. 121), Trousdale (1976, pp. 31–2), Bellette (1978, pp. 67–8), David (1978, p. 33), Ansari (1979, p. 125), Spender (1982, p. 236), Ornstein (1986, p. 221), Sanders (1987, p. 24).

Some of Hermione’s conversation with Polixenes, Nathan (1968, p. 19) claims, is actually provocative, while French (1972, pp. 138–42) says the lines she uses to get Polixenes to stay (104–15) are almost crude. The (p. 141) obvious sexual connotations and overtones of her dialogue, given Hermione’s advanced pregnancy, (p. 142) must jangle in the ears of a man already thinking about married sexuality. Felperin (Tongue-Tied, 1985, p. 9): The more carefully we look at Hermione’s lines (149–80), the less conclusive of her innocence the verbal evidence is, since her language may be construed either within or outside the bounds of royal hospitality and wifely decorum. Her emphasis on greater warmth in persuasion may signify flirtation; the indefinite antecedents of her royal pronouns, self-incrimination; her earthy wit, bawdry; and her rhetorical juxtapositions of husband and friend, a fatal identification of the two. Michael Taylor (1982, p. 232), however, maintains the opposite: Hermione speaks a language everyone understands. . . . Guileless, exuberant, colloquial, varied in tone and structure, studded with exclamations and questions, her language, with its innocent fervor and wit, is that of a good woman in a fallen world. Fripp (1938, 2:745) thinks Hermione’s defence in the Court of Justice should be noted for . . . the broken metre of a troubled speaker. Kennedy (1942, p. 162), however, notes her skills—Her forensic achieves the introduction of rhetoric in poetic according to the best classical tradition—as does Bellette (1978, pp. 69–70): The weight of the [trial] scene is carried by Hermione. . . . Her sense of occasion and her timing are impeccable. . . . [70] Her case rests upon such plain and unadorned words as honour [1215–17], love [1241 etc.], free [1290], friend [1246]. Pitt (1981, p. 128), however, suggests that her language never seems to bring us close to her suffering. . . . The cadences of her long speeches contesting Leontes’ indictment [1196–1295] are eloquent and measured, but their very logic and polish encourages us to approach Hermione intellectually rather than through the language of the heart.

Perdita’s verse evokes a similar reaction. Hunter (1954, p. 286): We see in her unmistakably the quality of a princess because Sh. has written into her speech a most remarkable expression of her personality. It is delicate, dainty, maidenly speech, coy and sweet, and though spoken with the freshness of the springtime meadows, yet still girlishly precise and proper with the dignity of a princess to the manner born. Pafford (ed. 1963, p. lxxvii) does not find her quite so delicate: Perdita is a shepherdess and her speech is frank and outspoken, like that of all Shakespeare’s women. There is little spiritual and nothing sentimental in the expression of her love for Florizel, though Hobson (1972, p. 204) praises her beautifully realized love-language (e.g., 1945–50). Like Pafford, Swinden (1973, p. 158) says Perdita’s language is full of references to breeding and bastards, impregnated with knowledge of the body, of sexuality, of the physicality of being. . . . Perdita’s conversation with Polixenes is . . . full and frank, though consistent with her undoubted spiritual and technical ignorance. Pitt (1981, p. 129): Her language sparkles with energy and colour, reflecting her close association with nature and the fresh, warm innocence and playful sexuality of her relationship with Florizel.

Time’s language and style get almost as much attention as Leontes’s language does. Many critics find the speech (1580–1611) inferior. Ridley (1937, p. 208): One hopes not Shakespeare’s. White (ed. 1857, 5:397): There could hardly be a greater difference in style than that between Time’s speech as Chorus and the rest of the verse in this play. The former is direct, simple, composed of the commonest words used in their commonest signification, but bald and tame, and in its versification very constrained and ungraceful: the latter is involved, parenthetical, having a vocabulary of its own, but rich in beauties of thought and expression, and entirely untrammelled by the form in which it is written. . . . The Chorus I believe not to have been written by Shakespeare. Rolfe (ed. 1879, p. 181) rejects it because not only the style of the speech, but its being in rhyme, may lead us to doubt whether S. wrote it. Hudson (ed. 1880, 7:282): The authorship . . . is, to say the least, exceedingly doubtful. . . . The workmanship is at once clumsy, languid, and obscure. Shakespeare indeed is often obscure; but his obscurity almost always results from compression of thought, not from clumsiness of tongue or brain. Wilson (ed. 1931, p. 159): The style of this Chorus, with its rhyming couplets, its forced rhymes, its jerky rhythms and its obscure emptiness, is exactly that of the verse in [MM and AWW] which I attribute to a collaborator.

Greg (1955, p. 417), however: It is no great achievement . . . but not all readers will agree with [Wilson’s] denigration of the style or refuse to find in it some Shakespearian turns of phrase. Stapfer (1879; 1880, p. 60) does: It would be impossible to speak in a quieter and prouder tone than this, and nothing is more striking in Time’s speech than its dignified calmness and serenity. Kittredge (ed. 1936, p. 432): Time should speak in character. And that is precisely how he does speak—as old Father Time—a doddering, toothless ancient, halting but fluent, senile but self-assured, ridiculous but triumphant [character]. . . . If the speech were better, it would not be so good. Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. lxxxvi–lxxxvii, 168): The language of Time befits the character in its rather naive simplicity and befits the scene as being an episode quite distinct from the course of the play. . . . [lxxxvii] This pageant language was probably as conventional as stage dialect and is precisely the language which an audience would expect from old Father Time, perhaps because it is (p. 168) the conventional language used in contemporary Lord Mayor’s pageants, and entirely befits the character of Time and the purpose of the speech. It acts as a bridge, gives information, and distinguishes Time from the other characters. Turner (1971, pp. 147–9): Time’s speech is obscure. . . . It is very difficult to get anything of significance out of these short, ambiguous phrases. The words in the speech are impenetrable: generalized and impassive, very different from the concrete and particular language Shakespeare seems to use even for his most universal philosophy. . . . Various points, however, should lead us to a realization of the importance of the speech of Time. First of all we note its dense and complex grammar, with the syntactical ambiguities which often appear when Shakespeare is bent on conveying difficult and important ideas. . . . [148] The simplicity and impenetrability of the words are deliberate. . . . [149] It is enough to put Time on the stage, give him a speech of oracular obscurity, and let the play itself fill his words with particular meaning. Lloyd Evans (1982, p. 369): Despite the fact that [Time’s] words are neither stirring, philosophical, memorable or lyrical, his actual intervention at this point has a powerful influence on our experience of the play. There is no other play which at any given point offers such a tremendous sense that what has happened prior to the point is not only literally in the past but, as it were, historically and dramatically so. Ludwig (1974, p. 380): The style of the speech is perfectly suited to its description of time as a force which brings together in itself all kinds of opposites. Time’s couplets contrast with patrician blank verse on the one hand and plebeian prose on the other.

Tinkler (1937, p. 350) takes note of an exception: Unlike the other rustics, who all speak in prose, the Shepherd speaks in verse which is yet very close to prose: it has a remarkably concrete quality, which at one level might be discussed in terms of a realism which is concerned with the depiction of a precise visual impression in the style of Dutch paintings. . . . The movement of the verse enacts the gestures of the speaking peasant, slow heavy gesture—pantler, butler, cook . . . welcomed all, served all [1861–2]—which are never quite clumsy, and seem to bring remarkable weight behind each point as if the whole body were speaking. Cooper (1977, pp. 141, 143): When the Old Shepherd does speak in blank verse it is still in a naturalistic low style, not elevated beyond his rank [cites 1865–6]. . . . The integrity of pastoral life comes from its realism . . . and from the art that is rooted in nature. . . . [143] Moral value and linguistic simplicity are equated; the poetic theory reinforces the moral statement implicit in the world of pastoral.

In discussing the language of shepherds, clowns, and servants, however, critics are usually talking about Sh.’s prose, despite Steiner’s (1961, p. 249) feeling that though the clown, the servants, and the shepherd speak in prose, . . . poetry knocks at every door. Delius (1870, pp. 228–9, 250–1) assigns Sh.’s prose to three different levels: The lowest befits Sh.’s clowns, though not only clowns speak it. Direct, unadorned, syntactically simple, it is natural for dialogue, less natural for monologue. At a higher level is the conversational prose of characters from upper social strata, marked by (p. 229) structured expressions and fairly complicated syntax and serving as a vehicle for intentional, subtle humor and wit. The highest level—euphuistic prose used in formal situations by the aristocrats and characterized by elegantly turned phrases and complicated metaphors and syntactic structures (antithesis especially)—is employed in the last plays to report on specific events or to establish a festive, ceremonial tone. Both (p. 250) 1.1 and 4.2 are euphuistic; 3.3 uses levels one and two (the Clown’s description of the shipwreck [1530–43] demonstrates Sh.’s virtuosity); (p. 251) 5.2 combines levels one and three (in Ger.).

Crane (1951, p. 122) finds that the use of prose in exposition-scenes suggests Shakespeare’s desire to render his exposition more natural by introducing it into casual conversation, but Champion (1970, p. 165) finds the exposition of lines 44–7 anything but natural: In describing the entertainment . . . and the long-lived and powerful bond of friendship between the two kings, Camillo and Archidamus use terms so extravagant as to suggest artificiality. Felperin (1972, p. 223) calls the idiom of these lines perfectly colloquial but adds: To the extent that their figures of speech play on the impossible and conjure up the miraculous, their language is . . . oracular, reflective of the romantic nature of the play as a whole. French (1972, pp. 135–6) believes that the two courtiers, more than half-aware of the absurdity of their speech, themselves burlesque it, thus raising implicit questions about what words the voice of true feeling could ever find in [Leontes’s] court. Toliver (1989, p. 159): Camillo and Archidamus manage to suggest an opera buffa with their attempts at urbanity and their use of unwieldy language to describe supposedly powerful and enduring sentiments. Harbage (1961, p. 444) insists, however, that Camillo’s speech, consistently straightforward and lucid, is the normal language of the play. It is wonderfully quick, compact, expressive, an expressiveness also noted in his use of the language of disease (e.g., 353–4, 491–4) by Moulton (1903, p. 66) and Clemen (1951, p. 198). Adams (1989, pp. 93–4): Camillo exercises greater suavity and dexterity in courtly compliment than Archidamus, whose less urbane diction and ruder [94] notions of entertainment suggest that Sh. thought of Bohemia as a more natural and genuine society—less sophisticated than Italy but more authentic.

Dissecting the language of the other inhabitants of Bohemia, Borinski (1955, pp. 64–5) finds the prose of the Shepherd and Clown basically . . . naturalistic . . . because these clowns are real peasants. . . . Their images are of the homeliest kind [cites as you’ld thrust a Corke into a hogshead (1535–6)]. Yet their speech is nevertheless stylized. In such a passage as [the men are not yet cold vnder water, nor the Beare halfe din’d on the Gentleman: he’s at it now (1546–7)] the effect is produced by means which might be deemed overdone in a purely realistic comedy; here it is stylization with poetic overtones. Vickers (1968, pp. 413, 420), pleased to discover more energy and invention in the lower medium [in WT] than in any of the late comedies, notes that the Clown (p. 420), in promising to bury any scraps of Antigonus left behind after the bear finishes feeding, refers to Antigonus as it (1570), making left-overs of a human being and even further reducing Antigonus to a pronoun, and neuter at that. . . . By the clever manipulation of the sequence of [the Clown’s] speech and his use of imagery and rhetorical structure, Shakespeare has succeeded in completely dehumanizing the sailors and Antigonus (no deaths move us less), turning the potentially tragic into the comic. . . . This is surely the most creative adaptation of prose in all the last plays. Hardy (1989, pp. 21–2) also calls this great comic narrative. . . . The naive Clown is used to mimic maladroit telling. . . . [22] This is a rare instance of present tense, or nearly present-tense, narrative . . . up-to-date and immediate. . . . Its presentness has a special comic grisly vivacity. . . . The narration creates an emotional collision, comic and grotesque.

The pastoral world also has its scoundrel. Borinski (1955, p. 65): Autolycus is also differentiated from the peasants. . . . He is a clever rogue, and accordingly his speech is more intellectual, with a higher proportion of nouns and abstracts, even learned allusions and especially metaphors, always the surest sign of intellectuality. He is full of irony, but his irony is different from Falstaff’s; it is finer, gentler. . . . There is poetry in his roguery.

Traversi (1955, pp. 181–4): Another segment of grave and involved prose [3011–182] is seen, on closer reading, not to be mere decoration, but to belong to the spirit of the play, in forming which it plays its own distinctive part. . . . The Gentleman’s account of the finding of the child Perdita, as related by the Shepherd, and the manner of the telling, far from being an excursion into literary artifice, is admirably calculated both to maintain the necessary legendary quality of the episode . . . and to further the symbolic unity of the whole. . . . [183] The prose, at once carefully elaborated and finely evocative, is . . . a factor of primary importance. . . . The words of the Gentleman are charged with symbolic undertones [quotes 3053–6]. . . . [184] The apparently contrary emotions of joy and sorrow have become fused. . . . The wrapping of this description in carefully elaborated forms of expression, coupled with the stressing of its similarity to an old tale, contributes to removing the action from common modes of feeling, and thus to the creation of the necessary symbolic atmosphere.

Paradoxically, the conclusion (3184 ff.) interests critics not for its dialogue but for its silences. Adams (1989, p. 105) finds it chilling that Leontes never addresses to his daughter a word that the audience can hear, nor does Polixenes say a word to his son; in fact, Leontes addresses only a brief sentence to Bohemia, perfunctorily begging pardon for his scandalous suspicions and his efforts to murder a sacred guest as well as a dear friend [3361–3]. Matchett (1969, p. 104): The statue scene, climaxing not in a burst of impassioned verse, but in a silent embrace, suggests not just a curious circumstance but a reflection of the play’s attention to the limitations of language. Silence, then, becomes the final language, the language of love and forgiveness which all can understand, the wordless communion in which the exchange is most complete. Dusinberre (1975, p. 221): Words, especially those which give shape to Leontes’ imaginings, seem in the end suspect and inexpressive; Hermione and Leontes, reunited after sixteen years . . . embrace silently. The trial scene desecrated words between them.

Characters

Regarding WT’s characters, Felperin (1972, pp. 218–20): Sh. endows his major characters with a life that extends beyond the confines of the immediate action, and of which we catch fleeting glimpses as they speak or are spoken of by others. . . . [219] It is a striking feature of [WT] that it reveals much more of the vital information concerning the principals than is, strictly speaking, required by the plot or usual even in a Shakespearean play [e.g., Hermione’s recollection of her father, Polixenes’s of his and Leontes’s childhood, Leontes’s of his courtship]. . . . The world of this play is populated with characters . . . who bear an extraordinary resemblance . . . to the men and women we know in the real world. . . . [220] [WT] presents the archetypal aspect of human experience, but it does so by making the part suggest the whole, the personal suggest the universal, the momentary self-revelation of a character evoke a complete offstage existence.

Antigonus

Not all critics treat Antigonus kindly. Clarke (1863, p. 357): We scarcely regret his [Antigonus’s] fate since he lent himself to the king’s cruelty by consenting to expose the infant Perdita. The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:677, n. 22): In the very first words Antigonus utters (735–6), he admits the possibility that Hermione may be guilty [actually he uses Iustice ironically]. . . . Antigonus at once proclaims himself the courtier, the man who points out to his royal master the expediency and policy of what he is about to do as touches his own person, his consort, and his heir-apparent. . . . Antigonus, with his courtier pliancy and lack of earnest faith—having a glimpse of the better, yet following the worser path—becomes the agent for the king’s cruelty to his infant daughter, and loses his own life in the unworthy act. Farrell (1975, p. 215): When Camillo flees, Antigonus replaces him as counselor, however briefly. Symbolically, Leontes’ madness drives out good counsel, leaving a henpecked and irresolute old man whose weakness mirrors the King’s. Fowler (1978, p. 45): Antigonus has a conventional inclination to obey his sovereign right or wrong. . . . In a sense he is even accessory to Leontes’ crimes. . . . Antigonus acts against generation—and against faith in Hermione’s innocence—when a vision convinces him of her guilt. Mark Taylor (1982, pp. 20–3): Antigonus harbors nearly unspeakable incestuous desires as he offers to geld his daughters if Hermione is adulterous (cites lines 758–60). When he swears to Leontes that he will do anything to prevent the immediate death of Perdita, Antigonus commits himself to the repugnant act of exposing the baby. On the journey, his dream of Hermione convinces him she was unchaste. He says so twice (quotes 1483–8, 1491–3) and seems to believe it. Since, on reaching Sicilia again, he could geld his daughters, Antigonus’s death is both punishment and prevention: he has acted against one innocent, and he would act against three more. . . . Incest (including mutilation as a symbol of incest) is an unimaginably severe threat to the moral order, and it is forestalled by Antigonus’s death (p. 23). Taylor alone seems to think so.

Other critics view Antigonus favorably. Happé (1969, pp. 20–1): Antigonus, like Paulina and Camillo, is a representative of the forces of reconciliation and common [21] sense. . . . Each seeks to put right the wrongs done by Leontes. Paulina stands out for her sharp tongue, Camillo for his balanced judgment and resourcefulness and Antigonus for his loyalty to Hermione. Schanzer (ed. 1969, p. 18): Antigonus does not die for allowing himself to become an accessory to the crime [of exposing the infant]. . . . This is not how Shakespeare presents the matter. He depicts Antigonus as an entirely upright, humane, and honourable old courtier, who carries out the command in fulfillment of a solemn oath, and as an alternative to seeing the child instantly consumed with fire [1062]. . . . Shakespeare could not have been more careful to keep Antigonus free from guilt in the exposure of the child. Whatever the case, Barton (1980, p. 143) notes, Antigonus pays heavily for misinterpreting his dream about Hermione.

Autolycus

This skillfully created character, Sh.’s own invention, pleases many critics. Johnson (ed. 1765, 2:349), tersely: Autolycus is very naturally conceived, and strongly represented. Price (1890, p. 204): The character took on a life of its own as Sh. developed it, and the excessive length of development simply mirrors Sh.’s own delight in the character itself. Hudson (1848, 1:336): The most amiable and ingenious thieving rogue we shall anywhere find. . . . The sight, or smell, or suspicion of money, transforms him into an artist; and he cheats almost as divinely as those about him love. In [a]cuteness, he outyankees the Yankees altogether. Clarke (1863, p. 361): That inexhaustible wag of a pedlar. . . . What a zest, what intense relish he has in trickery! . . . With what a twinkle of the eye, and irrepressible drollery beneath all, he shows the humour of the thing. Giles (1868; 1887, pp. 199–200): But for Autolycus, the ideal world would have wanted its most admirable rascal—the actual world . . . a type for characters that are like him in everything but his brilliancy. For he is a brilliant scapegrace; a knave of many faculties; of sparkling versatility of parts; with wit equal to his thievery; quick, sharp, and changeable. . . . He never loses his self-respect being detected, or by failure. . . . [200] Autolycus is the generic charlatan . . . consummate in . . . lying, fraud, and imposition.

Herford (ed. 1904, 4:271): Autolycus, the source of almost all the humour in the play, is conceived with the finest congruity to his surroundings. Instead of being a court-jester adrift . . . he is the embodiment of rustic knavery, shrewdness and gaiety. Chandler (1907, 1:237): The sprightly and witty Autolycus excels all the beggar-book crew or the rogues of reality. . . . [He] can no more repent and reform than Falstaff. Smeaton (1911, p. 513): Autolycus, the ancestor of all the glorious picaroons that were to follow him, of the line and lineage of Gil Blas, . . . [is] unquestionably the most delightful of all Shakespeare’s rogues. Gifted with a glib tongue, he is never at a loss for a plausible story. Aydelotte (1913, p. 33): Autolycus is compounded of many simples and mellowed by a touch of poetry which magically transforms the realism of the picture into something still more real. . . . He has the carefree spirit of the real vagabond as he trudges gaily on his knavish road. Matthews (1913; 1970, p. 338): Autolycus is unscrupulous, friendly, rascally, wily. But with his sense of humor, all the scenes in which he appears ring true. Craig (1948, p. 340): The character is a unique creation whose appeal lies not so much in the cleverness of his roguery as in its lack of malice and in its congeniality with poetry.

Nuttall (1966, p. 40): Autolycus, with all his cunning, is as free from real sophistication as his victims. His first song [1669–90] sets a tone which never needs to be modified [in its] . . . joy and rapacity. Autolycus is as innocent as a magpie or a kite . . . utterly innocent, and utterly dishonest. His type of innocence . . . is not amenable to sentimental treatment. Seng (1967, p. 231): Autolycus is more than a clowning peddler, ballad-singer and rogue, and he is more than an incidental character in the play. . . . Time as a Chorus . . . may advance the action of the play sixteen years, but it is not until Autolycus bursts onto the stage with song at [1668] that the change in time—and mood—becomes believable. With his entrance the dark and tragic winter of Leontes’ jealousy melts into a spring of promise and young love. Frey (Vast Romance, 1980, pp. 148–9): Autolycus mediates humorously between the claims of Polixenes and those of Perdita and Florizel. He excites a laughter whose result is always to lessen the tension between opposing forces: age and youth, pretension and reality, greed and charity, wrath and forgiveness. . . . [149] The Autolycan scene . . . generates the energy of laughter and carries the action forward. Trewin (1978, p. 265): Autolycus is not to be seen merely as an expansive variety act. He may be a vagrant rich in ballads, songs, and snatches; but he is also a fellow sharp of mind and eye.

Autolycus’s sharp practices, however, lead some critics to discuss his flaws—along with mitigation for them. Roffe (1872, p. 14): Autolycus is morally indefensible but must be allowed to have a grain of geniality about him, which . . . has made it possible for him to be . . . artistically fitted into his position in [WT]. . . . He is indeed a most roguish Pedlar, but he is also right willing to sing, even for singing’s sake. Snider (1877, pp. 487–9): Autolycus is . . . not wholly a product of shepherd life, but apparently of the court also. . . . He is, moreover, negative only to the honesty of the pastoral character, while he par-[488]ticipates in its free joyousness and sportive nature. He is one [of] Shakespeare’s higher efforts in comic delineation. . . . He is a rogue not so much from malice as from pleasure; he takes delight in thievery for its own sake rather than for its gains. He is aware of his misdeeds, and laughs at them. . . . His cunning is a source of continuous chuckling to himself. . . . He . . . belongs to the class of consciously comic characters, who make fun and enact folly chiefly for themselves. He celebrates his vagabond life and thievish disposition in verse. . . . He will assist in [489] breaking up the pastoral world and transferring it to Sicilia, where he will repent.

Knight (1947; 1966, pp. 100, 111–12): Autolycus, at first a figure of absolute comedy[,] . . . Spring incarnate, carefree, unmoral, happy, . . . sets the note for a spring-like turn in our drama; but he also serves (p. 111) to elaborate the vein of court satire already suggested by Polixenes’ behaviour [2665–74]; it is almost a parody of that behaviour. The pick-pocket pedlar, now himself disguised as a great courtier [2630], becomes absurdly superior. . . . His elaborate description of torments is extremely cruel; but then the court—Polixenes’ harshness fresh in our minds—is cruel. . . . [112] After donning courtier’s clothes, his humour takes an unnecessarily cruel turn. . . . His vice becomes less amusing as he indulges his lust for power; as his egotism expands, a cruel strain . . . is revealed; and he is at once recognized as inferior to the society on which, as a happy-go-lucky ragamuffin, he formerly preyed for our amusement. . . . Autolycus’s last entry . . . is peculiarly revealing: we see him now bowing and scraping to his former gull [the Clown]. . . . The romance is to survive; not so Autolycus, who is to lose dramatic dignity.

Marsh (1962; 1980, pp. 143–4): Set against the chill of winter is the red blood [144] of vigorous life, and in the robustness of this life is perhaps the clue to the way Autolycus should be taken. He is clearly not wholly admirable, for he preys on the credulity of the simple country folk. On the other hand, his crimes are not crimes against life, in the sense that he is never guilty of the cruelties of Leontes or Polixenes, and he does serve a useful purpose in exposing pretension and vanity. Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. lxxx–lxxxi): As a thief, cheat, and pickpocket, Autolycus could be unpleasant but isn’t, because his crimes are primarily tricks, while he is (p. lxxxi) an intelligent rogue, a schemer of ability [who] excites admiration and provokes laughter at the same time. Cazamian (1965, pp. 295–6): Autolycus’s daily sinning is no more than a round of cheats, lies, thefts, and every fleshly excess. Autolycus may be more cheeky than many rogues in the English literature of the Renaissance; but none [is] more convincing, more brazen, and tricky than [he]. . . . [296] Still, the main source of his appeal is conscious, sly roguery. Vickers (1968, p. 414): Though we may admire the resourceful guller, Autolycus’s attitudes and especially his images reveal a boasting superiority which is less attractive. . . . He is a cross between Chaucer’s Pardoner and Falstaff. . . . But although Autolycus has the dissembler’s power to adopt styles and is therefore potentially evil, he remains within a comic frame. . . . We are sure that no harm will come to anyone. Pyle (1969, p. 78): Autolycus, who bursts upon the play unannounced, altering its tone, its point of view, enlarging its scope, at least for a time, may be a scoundrel, but his thievery is all the best of fun.

McFarland (1972, p. 132): Autolycus is not a cerebral critic of the pastoral world, but a kind of life-force . . . that prevents us from wholly forgetting the troubles that accompany remembrance of the past. Though benign, he is nonetheless a thief, which is not socially acceptable; so his role confirms the hint of malaise found in the conception of winter, rather than spring, as the pastoral matrix. However, Ornstein (1986, p. 227): Autolycus is a born entertainer . . . too cowardly to rob and not especially greedy; he is not, therefore, very dangerous to the commonweal.

Sanders (1987, p. 95): There are many reasons—and satisfying ones—why Autolycus is in this play: unimpeded by scruple, he [gives] us the amorality of the natural . . . de-romanticised . . . country life. . . . He is the ubiquitous spirit . . . at once parasitic and creative. Brown (Shakespeare’s Plays, 1966, pp. 104–5): Autolycus’s actions evoke from the audience laughter, connivance and appreciation, relaxation and admiration. . . . In a drama about the influences of time, he provides a timeless artistry and remains unchanged at the conclusion. He brings topicality to a fantastic tale, an escape from the consequences of knavery to a moral confrontation, and a grotesque embodiment of irresponsible fears and aggressions, of vigorous and sexual activity, to a shapely and often refined romance. Autolycus heightens the mirth of the sheepshearing by his (p. 105) instinctive and irresponsible enjoyment of it, and when he finally exits at 3182, the audience’s contentment at the invincible humour and roguery of Autolycus disposes it to accept the strange, severe and sweetened theatricality of the concluding scene.

Fripp (1938, 2:739–40): Autolycus is the vehicle (or, to Bethell, 1947, p. 41, the chief instrument) for criticizing the court of James I. Shakespeare cared for Autolycus infinitely more than for the corrupt official, and the costly, parasitic, often syphilitic young blood, who gathered from many parts about the King at Whitehall, for, intentionally or not, Autolycus (p. 740) renders real service to the prince. Armstrong (1969, p. 73): The great thieves of myth are felt to be godlike and to have an important poetic function to fulfill in relation to idyllic pastoral. Autolycus, as Sh.’s version of the type, is everywhere the agent of anti-systematic change. Kaula (1976, p. 292), questionably: Autolycus’s peddling of counterfeit goods and references to his trumpery, wares, and hallowed trinkets appear to indicate that one of Autolycus’ several roles is that of the cunning merchant of popish wares. . . . As this kind of merchant Autolycus would be a vehicle for satirizing the well-publicized activities of the missionary priests in England.

Critics look at the work [Autolycus has] to do in the plot (Harbage, 1961, p. 455) in order to discern qualities of his character. He introduces most of the songs. Gosse (in Gollancz, ed. 1916, p. 53): Autolycus’s rogue songs (Daffadils [1669 ff.] and Lawn [2044 ff.]) are not merely intensely human and pointedly Shakespearean, but . . . an integral part of the drama. They complete the revelation of the complex temperament of Autolycus . . . [including] his impish mendacity, his sudden sentimentality. Noble (1923, p. 94): Autolycus’s entrance song is used as a soliloquy, whereby the audience can have intimate information as to Autolycus’s point of view, and never has any man been limned more tersely and vividly. Traversi (1954; 1965, pp. 138–9): Autolycus’s songs indicate an impatience with all social restraint. . . . [139] In Autolycus the sense of freedom takes the form of an abandonment of all normal social forms and restraints, the positively valuable. McPeek (1969, pp. 238, 241–3): In him all the ingredients of roguery and vagabondage blend except violence and malice. He is an amiable outlaw [and] . . . [241] ballad singer. . . . [242] Autolycus, like Hermes, has magical qualities as a musician; his songs penetrate to the bright mystery at the heart of all things . . . [243] marvels in themselves.

The songs also introduce a sexual element sustained through the sheepshearing. Riemer (1980, pp. 83, 179, 181, 185): The astonishing Autolycus, in the artificial world of the pastoral, is both an essential element in this philosophical conceit of Platonic optimism . . . [and] an emblem, though an unruly and amoral one, of the freedom of pastoral. Renaissance Platonism found its (p. 179) intellectual and emotional inspiration in images of the antique world; thus when Autolycus (p. 181) invades the play, with him comes an image of the antique world in its truly elemental, pagan quality. Beyond the essentially witty allusion to his namesake and to the ancient image of misrule (lines 1692–6), Sh. establishes Autolycus as a priapic figure par excellence with (p. 185) some characteristics of the great god Pan. Garber (1981, p. 158): It is not until the arrival of Autolycus that sexual energies are fully acknowledged or accepted in the world of the sheepshearing feast. Neely (1985, p. 204): Autolycus, the parodic double of Leontes, transmutes the conflicts and motives of the first three acts into comedy: that is, Leontes’s sexual revulsion is reversed by the cheerful comic grotesqueries of Autolycus’s ballads.

He is also the criminal element in the second half of the play. Foakes (1968, pp. 125–6): Autolycus seems a figure from a real world, and stands out from the artificial pastoral world of romance to make an especially strong [126] impact on an audience by his very solidity; this affords a basis for giving some emphasis to what he is and does. . . . His roguery is itself substantial and . . . represents a real element of subversion. . . . He is a born rogue, whose ingrained habit is to be corrupt, and to seek to corrupt others. Idem (1971, pp. 138, 140): If he does no real harm, it is not altogether for want of trying. . . . [140] He is naturally addicted to the deceptions and disguises which others in Bohemia adopt for special purposes; but these others, Florizel, Camillo, Polixenes, even Perdita, are linked with him in practising arts which are natural to him . . . arts not in themselves good, and closely allied to vice. Cox (1969, pp. 286, 298), however: Sh. uses Autolycus as an agent of a power for good, although the agency is not necessary since the revelations about Perdita’s birth could take place without him. According to Cox (p. 298), Shakespeare, then, through the agency of the rogue shows how Providence, working through falsehood and seeming falsehood, elicits truth and increases the store of good.

Hartwig (1970; 1972, p. 120): Autolycus is a corrupt version of the dramatic force that Apollo manifests in the first half of the play; he is also (Idem, 1978, pp. 98, 100) a parodic onstage substitute for the absent Leontes, since like the King, Autolycus is (p. 100) both his own attacker and victim. . . . The difference between the original and the imitation is that Autolycus knows he is playing both parts. Leontes has to learn that he is. So too Battenhouse (1980, pp. 127, 130–1): Autolycus mirrors, with comic exaggeration, Polixenes’s attitudes manifested in his treatment of Perdita; furthermore, an Autolycus dressed in Florizel’s garments while at heart still roguish is an emblem of the court’s superficial concept. Autolycus provides (p. 130) a comic version of the code of Leontes and (p. 131) several obvious points of analogy with a Leontes who wanders into communicating with dreams, makes a pack of scandals of his nothings, and hawks them for public approval. The self-victimization of Leontes is parodied by Autolycus’s fiction of having taken a beating from an outsider, who in fact is Autolycus’s undivulged self.

Felperin (1972, p. 217): Autolycus is Sh’s most tempting rogue next to Falstaff and, in a phrase . . . a wondrous necessary man in the action of romance. . . . [By] sowing confusion in pursuit of self-interest he ultimately promotes the interest and felicity of the principals. Peterson (Time, 1973, pp. 183, 190): Autolycus is a master of deception and exploiter of unsanctioned sensuality. . . . His role as Perdita’s foil is unmistakable; he is also an (p. 190) extemporizer and opportunist whose motives are as selfish as Camillo’s are benevolent. Yet in seeking to use time to his own advantage he unwittingly becomes an instrument of renewing time. . . . Autolycus’ knavery serves the ends of renewal. Abartis (1977, pp. 105, 107): Autolycus focuses the audience on Leontes’s generically required release. . . . [107] Autolycus is the summer agent of an escape from punishment, of mercy, and he is never punished despite all his cheating, lying and stealing. Leontes’ punishment occurs in the winter world of Paulina, but his salvation is brought along with Autolycus.

Barton (1980, p. 148): Autolycus, genial mover of the plot, may first seem a hypocrite and dissembler; his real association, however, is with fictions rather than with genuine evil. Certainly his decision not to take the obviously profitable step of [betraying Florizel to Polixenes]—because to do so would be an honest action, and Autolycus prefers to remain true to his own falsehood—is scarcely that of a man whose villainy we can take seriously. Since even the Clown, his chief victim, defends him, it is impossible for us to regard him as anything but what he is: a creator of fictions who, by not betraying Florizel to Polixenes, and by inventing a tale which frightens the Old Shepherd and the Clown into Sicily with the all-important fardel, is in fact the agent of the happy ending.

However, Lloyd Evans (1982, p. 373): Autolycus is Sh.’s reminder to us that the world of commodity has not been and cannot be forgotten. In this respect, he may represent the extent of Shakespeare’s sensitivity to audience-reaction, for only so much romance can be absorbed.

Nevertheless, some critics see little or no reason for Autolycus’s presence in the play at all. Wright (Extraneous Song, 1927, p. 264): Autolycus’s songs have no dramatic value outside the clown scenes which are themselves extraneous. Wilson (ed. 1931, p. xx): As a factor in the plot, though from the moment of his appearance [Autolycus] seems to be constantly and deliberately intriguing, in effect he does nothing at all. As a part of the story he is . . . negligible. Sen Gupta (1950, p. 223): Autolycus is unnecessary to the plot of the drama but organic to the play in a much deeper sense. The dreamland of [WT] becomes fully convincing only when we find that even its rogue and vagabond is an imaginative genius. Frye (1962, p. 235): In many comedies, though never in Sh., the cognitio is brought about through the ingenuity of a tricky servant. Autolycus has this role in [WT], for though out of service he still regards Florizel as his master, and he has also the rascality and the complacent soliloquies about his own cleverness that go with the role. He gains possession of the secret of Perdita’s birth, but somehow or other the denouement takes place without him, and he remains superfluous to the plot. Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 19–20): Autolycus’s part in advancing the plot (getting the Shepherd and the Clown aboard the ship to Sicilia) is so minimal that Sh. could easily have devised some other means of getting them on to the ship. He wanted Autolycus above all as a purveyor of the laughter and songs which . . . serve as a contrast to the wintry gloom which the actions of Leontes have created at his court—and for his attractive qualities of (p. 20) sprightliness, volatility, a ready wit, a love of music, and an aptitude for commerce. . . . Autolycus is . . . one of Shakespeare’s most vivid and entertaining creations. Champion (1970, pp. 169–70): Autolycus, the most conventionally comic character in the play, is, (p. 170) unlike Paulina, who is essential to the narrative, entirely peripheral. But to the story as drama, the two serve the same function as comic pointers.

Others who comment on this character: Furnivall (1877, p. xcii), Hastings (1940), Parrott (1949, pp. 81–91), MacNeice (1967, p. 234), Farnham (1971, pp. 168–9), and Paulin (1983, in Fr.).

Camillo

Sleeth (1936, pp. 97–8, 110–11) draws from sources of Sh.’s time (including Bacon and More) a description of the ideal Elizabethan counselor, applying to Camillo (but not to that other faithful servant, Paulina) the best qualities: noble blood, good name, prudence, wisdom, high standards of morality, concern for the common good, honesty, imperviousness to flattery, and so forth. Naturally, other critics debate whether Camillo measures up.

A few find him objectionably self-serving, especially in his flight to Bohemia. Lennox (1753, 2:82): Camillo, a treacher[ous] and self-interested creature, insinuates himself into the service of Polixenes to avoid the wrath of Leontes, then betrays Florizel’s confidences when he wishes to end his exile. Birch (1848, p. 521): Camillo is guilty of dissembling and falsehood, though his perfidies ultimately lead to a happy issue and the fulfilment of the oracle. Foakes (1971, p. 122): He first protests, but then goes along with Leontes and accepts the task of poisoning Polixenes, and finally runs away, simply abandoning the loved master who had brought him from meaner form . . . to worship (410–11). Adams (1989, pp. 98–9): Though consistently labelled honest, and given to asserting things on his honor, [Camillo] is not, in the moment of crisis, much of a paragon. After feigning docile obedience to Leontes, he easily moves to conniving at the escape of Polixenes, while barely considering the fate to which he is abandoning Hermione; after promising to help Florizel against [Polixenes’s] bilious rage, he instantly goes back on his promise, and for the least loyal of reasons, his own desire to see Sicily again. . . . [99] Camillo, though a man of some rank and pretensions to honor, directly and unhesitatingly betrays his word given to Florizel.

Generally, however, Camillo is admired. Hudson (1848, 1:335): A venerable and amusing character, Camillo never deceives but when honesty requires it; and then he deceives to perfection. . . . He tries to do good or prevent evil by telling the truth, till he sees there is no hope, and then he effects his purpose by telling downright falsehoods . . . as if he were willing to be lost himself, provided he may thereby save others. . . . His integrity and wisdom [make] him a light to the councils and a guide to the footsteps of the greatest around him. . . . [Camillo is] the salt of society and the strength of government. Lloyd (1894, pp. 165–6): Camillo’s virtue, which is his character, is the very growth of the trying circumstances by which he is surrounded. He is frank and bold to the fullest extent that is consistent with prudence and usefulness; he carries prudence and management to the fullest extent that consists with self-respect and honour. In truth he is as virtuous and direct as a man can be who is fain to live among the hard conditions of a court. . . . We must approve and admire the sagacity with which he proves the strength of unreasoning prejudice, and hoodwinks and eludes [166] the power he can neither disabuse nor contend against.

Tinkler (1937, p. 356) notes the integrated balance of Camillo, the sane man of good sense. The impression of the latter is produced in the first scene. . . . He never lets impulsive action lead him astray. Hibbard (1964, pp. 110, 112–13): In the character of Camillo, Sh. creates a counselor and servant who exercises a profound influence for good. . . . [112] The Elizabethan doctrine of the sanctity of Kingship, so prominent in the histories and the tragedies, has here been combined with the idea set out by Castiglione that the courtier should not commit [113] treason, even when commanded to do so by his lord. . . . It is fitting that at the end of the play Camillo should be married to Paulina, for she is his female counterpart and virtually takes over the office of good counsellor and plain speaker in Sicily after Camillo leaves with Polixenes. Pyle (1969, pp. 25–6): Camillo is a man of honour, good, wise, reliable, a perfect counsellor, perhaps because he (p. 26) interprets duty in the spirit rather than the letter of what is required of him. Battenhouse (1980, p. 135): Camillo is a diplomat of real courage . . . a gardener who uses art to mend nature in Sicilia and Bohemia. Camillo advises Florizel to seek refuge in Sicilia, putting into play a strategy that accords with his love for Polixenes and Leontes alike.

Camillo’s motivation and its results interest many critics. The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:677, n. 22): Camillo is the faithful counsellor, the honest friend, the loyal servant, who strives to preserve the intrinsic honour of his king, rather than to maintain himself in his [king’s] favour. He, who cannot violate his honourable nature and integrity of purpose, becomes the ultimate bond of reconciliation and union between the two kings and their respective children. Snider (c. 1890, p. 491): Camillo’s actions are guided by his strongest wish . . . to be restored to his country, especially since that which separated him from it [Leontes’s aberrant behavior] has been wholly removed. He is the great manager—he will find some means of accomplishing his end. . . . He expressly declares that the repentance of the King of Sicilia is what motives his return. Bonjour (1952, p. 197): So human a sentiment as Camillo’s longing for his native country is . . . deftly used to motivate the whole proceeding [the return to Sicilia]. . . . Moreover, there is not the slightest doubt that this rôle of Camillo’s . . . provides yet another effective link between the two centres of interest in the drama, owing to the conspicuous part he now plays in both stories, of which he is no mean agent de liaison. Pafford (ed. 1963, p. lxxvi): Camillo is brave, loyal, intelligent, understanding, able and devoted to the right rather than to persons. Aronson (1972, pp. 284, 287): Any interpretation of WT begins with the archetypal image of the physician, or healer, who suffers in spirit along with the patient; all healing is a rebirth, a kind of incubation during which the physician remained in the background and the patient sought . . . to bring out the cure whose elements he bore within himself; in WT, the healer is Camillo, whose insight makes him (p. 287) the first . . . to recognize the existence of the disease. It is also he alone who attempts to make the patient realize the perils to his soul should he refuse the remedy. However, Leontes’s cure is not effected by Camillo. Rockas (1975, p. 3): Camillo, despite his many speeches and appearances, serves primarily as an agent of the plot and the generalized ethos of the play: his character is simply a composite of what keeps the play on its ethical track. Similarly Trewin (1978, p. 263) thinks of Camillo as merely a functionary of the plot. White (1985, pp. 148, 150): Camillo acts as an anchor of decency. . . . [He becomes] a quiet monitor for our responses. Through him especially we comprehend that a terrible injustice is being perpetrated by Leontes. Furthermore in Polixenes’s court, he serves as (p. 150) plotter when the story gets tangled [and] also as a firm guide for our moral sympathies.

Florizel

One critic expresses dismay at Florizel’s behavior. Birch (1848, p. 521): Florizel is one of those sons who is made to look forward to his father’s death, even in his hearing. Like Camillo, the young man has no great regard for truth.

Others are resolute champions. Inchbald (ed. 1808, 3:6): The idea that Florizel should introduce himself to the court of Sicilia, by speaking arrant falsehoods is a disgraceful improbability; she makes sure that it is by adopting Kemble’s cuts of troublesome lines (see Text on the Stage, here). Hudson (1848, 1:333–4): Unless he were willing to give up all the rest of the world for her, Florizel is not worthy of Perdita. But in fact, the prince shows himself abundantly worthy of her in the sacrifices he makes, and the dangers he confronts for her sake. . . . Prizing his love before the crown . . . prizing truth and honour above all things . . . [334] Florizel is every way the peer of Perdita: none but the best of men could have felt the perfections of such a woman. . . . Alive and glowing with the fire of noble passions, himself the very sum and abstract of true manliness, of honour, purity, intelligence, and dignity, he seems at once the flower of princes, and the prince of gentlemen. Pafford (ed. 1963, p. lxxix): Florizel’s lovemaking is ardent, manly, and animated. . . . His resolution and courage are of vital importance in the play. . . . He will sacrifice everything for his love and can see no obstacle as insuperable. Schanzer (ed. 1969, p. 26): Greene’s Dorastus proposes marriage only after Fawnia refuses to become his mistress. Nothing could be further removed from Florizel’s exaltation of Perdita above any princess, his total unconcern about her social station. Pilgrim (1983, p. 40): The splendour of Florizel lies in great part . . . in his confidence and in his fearlessness. He reminds us of a knight of chivalric romance.

Holbrook (1964, p. 156) suggests that Mamillius and Florizel are linked in the first scene, presumably by an allusion to Mamillius by Bohemian Archidamus (line 37), so that while Mamillius is not reborn, it is Florizel who replaces him, as the promise of the inheritance restored. Uphaus (1981, p. 73) agrees that Florizel replaces Mamillius.

Hermione

Not even Hermione earns uniform critical praise. For Lennox’s (1753, 2:75) opinion of the Queen’s ridiculous posing as a statue, see here. Hardinge (1818, 3:45): Hermione’s long concealment from her thoroughly repentant husband is neither compassionate, nor just, or natural. . . . Nothing will or can justify the absurdity of it. Sherman (1902, p. 115): As Leontes urges Hermione and Polixenes to walk off together (254–8), we have just been regretting the lengthening moments of her complaisance to Polyxenes, and now this seeming neglect [Hermione’s failure to wipe Mamillius’s smutch’d nose (196)] has palpable influence with us to her disadvantage. The doubts of Leontes, voiced openly concerning the lad’s paternity, have by no means an idealising effect upon her wifehood. Matthews (1913; 1970, p. 338): Her noble eloquence in the trial scene does not proceed from the mouth of the same woman whose witty banter has enlivened the opening episodes. Frankly unfeminine also is the forgiveness of her husband without one word of reproach. Dean (1979, p. 288): The cause of Leontes’ torture is not only his own guilt and the wilfulness of Paulina, but a strain of cruelty in the character of Hermione. She expresses the natural fury of a mother revenging a mortally wounded child, compounded with an excessively passionate Sicilian nature [Sh., of course, tells us she is by birth Russian (1299)]. It is perhaps difficult for the reader to think of Hermione in negative terms, yet her cruel response to her husband’s merciless actions attests to a dark kinship between the spirits of Leontes and his wife.

Most critics, however, countenance her behavior. Jameson (1833; 1889, pp. 188, 190): The character of Hermione is considered open to criticism on one point. . . . She secludes herself from the world for sixteen years . . . and is not won to relent from her resolve by [Leontes’s] sorrow, his remorse, his constancy to her memory: such conduct, argues the critic, is unfeeling as it is inconceivable in a tender and virtuous woman. . . . [190] Would his repentance suffice to restore him at once to his place in her heart, to efface from her strong and reflecting mind the recollection of his miserable weakness? . . . Methinks that the want of feeling . . . and [lack of] consistency would lie in such an exhibition as this. Hudson (1848, 1:326–8): As afflictions thicken upon her, until she appears truly sublime, Hermione evinces a most deep, intense feeling of the awful indignity put upon her, and a lofty self-respect that scorns alike to resent it and to succumb to it. . . . Her conscious innocence can thus sustain her against the world. . . . [327] The firmness with which she persists for sixteen years in hiding her life from the king . . . [328] is all in perfect keeping with her character. Dowden (1875; 1877, pp. 412–13): From the first Hermione, whose clear-sightedness is equal to her courage, had perceived that her husband laboured under a delusion which was cruel and calamitous to himself. From the first she transcends all blind resentment, and has true pity for the man who wrongs her. But if she has fortitude for her own uses, she also is able to accept for her husband the inevitable pain which is needful to restore him to his better mind. She will not shorten the term of his suffering, because that suffering is beneficent. And at the last her silent embrace carries with it—and justly—a portion of that truth she had uttered long before: [quotes how . . . mistake, 701–5]. [413] The calm and complete comprehension of the fact is a possession painful yet precious to Hermione, and it lifts her above all vulgar confusion of heart or temper, and above all unjust resentment. Lloyd (1894, pp. 159–60): Our ancestors admired the conduct and character of patient Griselda, the married woman who would cast away . . . and abdicate all self-respect and independence. But Hermione illustrates that prudence in the face of overwhelming odds may not, with self-respect, be tame beyond a certain point, and submissiveness afterwards . . . is mere slavishness. . . . [160] The true theme of highest admiration is that tone and temper that touches the exact mean, . . . never too indulgent to tyranny on the one hand, nor too indignant at it on the other, simply because personal suffering is in question. . . . To give in to [such tyranny] is little less than to be an accomplice as well as a victim. Therefore Hermione, with nobleness of heart . . . asserts her innocence with firmness [as she] justly denounces the tyranny and lawless rigour of her accuser and judge who, when he has filled up the measure of his wrong[,] gives way to no weak and insufficient suggestions to relieve the penalty he justly suffers, until . . . a conjuncture of circumstances . . . invite and allow her to raise up the penitent guilty, without degrading her own dignity and injured innocence. . . . With clear and steady intellectual light [Hermione] illuminates every perversity in her husband’s course. Lewes (1894, pp. 304–5): Feminine tears and lamentations do not accord with this character. . . . [Hermione] defends herself eloquently and gravely, in the full consciousness of her innocence. . . . She speaks not with anger or bitterness, but like a queen, who defends her children’s honour in her own. She cannot be reproached for (p. 305) allowing her husband and the world to believe her dead. . . . Her husband’s momentary remorse is not enough to win back his lost place in her heart.

Clark (1936, p. 76): Hermione has . . . plenty of innate strength, courage, and endurance. . . . She possesses a quiet distinction and noble bearing which, allied to a saint-like patience, enable her to suffer stoically the cruel injustice of her husband. . . . [Her self-imposed seclusion] would, indeed, only be possible to the type of woman Shakespeare has purposely shown Hermione to be. . . . Her strong, reflective mind would not be able to efface the recollection of her husband’s contemptible weakness. In what masterly fashion Shakespeare has portrayed the complete self-possession necessary to meet so extraordinary a situation! Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. lxxiii–lxxiv): Hermione is beautiful, witty, spirited, happy, frank, and secure in Leontes’s love right to the moment when his jealousy is first made known to her. After that she can never be gay and vivacious again. . . . [lxxiv] In the final scene she speaks only to [Perdita] . . . [and] the only reason she gives to explain why she has remained apart from her husband is that the Oracle gave her hope that Perdita lived. Greer (1986, p. 112): Hermione by a living death . . . expiates her husband’s crimes of jealousy, yet she is not one of Sh.’s stereotypical redemptive women, passively upholding a double standard of sexual morality. Hermione is not rejected by her husband, who repents when he learns of the oracle and of his son’s death as foretold by it. Rather, she refuses to live by his side in a tainted union and chooses to be buried alive, as it were, for sixteen years.

A few critics find Hermione bland. Desai (1952, p. 49): Compared with most of the women in Sh.’s comedies, Hermione is uninspiring, dull, and vapid. Not all the defence of her character by Mrs. Jameson [see here] can reconcile us to her, after she leaves the court and goes into oblivion from which, not she, but her wraith, a statue almost like her, seems to have been brought and palmed off as Hermione. She is what she is required to be—a mere statue, beautiful and well cut. Champion (1970, pp. 162–3): Most of the characters surrounding Leontes are highly stylized[,] . . . flat or one-dimensional and, consequently, artificial; Hermione is perhaps the most striking illustration [of this]. . . . [163] Although a character of infinite dignity, [she] is frankly a passive pawn who is acted upon but who exerts no positive force. Norvell (1984, pp. 8, 11): So severe is Leontes in his sin that Hermione cannot be resigned to reunion with him even at the point of his confession and repentance. . . . So, if Hermione is not necessarily weak, she is forced to show her strength and express her cause in passive decorum. . . . [11] In the hierarchical decorum of [Sh.’s] day women were ideally passive and silent.

But critics usually heap praise on the character. Inchbald (ed. 1808, 3:4): This injured queen ranks high in virtue and every endearing quality. . . . The mad conduct of Leontes is . . . the occasion of such noble, yet such humble and forbearing demeanour on the part of his wife, that his phrenzy is rendered interesting by the sufferings it draws upon her: and the extravagance of the first is soon forgotten, through the deep impression made by the last. Jameson (1833; 1889, pp. 182–4): Hermione is most distinguished by her magnanimity and her fortitude. . . . [183] The most vivid impression of life and internal power . . . renders the character of Hermione one of [Sh.’s] masterpieces. . . . A grand and gracious simplicity, an easy, unforced, yet dignified self-possession, are in all her deportment and in every word she utters. . . . [184] The boundless devotion and respect of those around her, and their confidence in her goodness and innocence, are so many additional strokes in the portrait. Clarke (1863, pp. 347, 350): Hermione is a worthy heroine of a tragic drama . . . a perfectly regal woman. . . . Forgetting her own individual affliction . . . [she falls] senseless at the news of the death of her son, Mamillius. The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:687): Her mute succumbence when she hears of Mamillius’s death is profoundly true to character. . . . She is not a woman prone to weeping [715], one who can so ease her heart of that which burns worse than tears drown [718–19]: she can command her voice to utter that dignified defence of her honour, and bear the revulsion of thanksgiving at the divine intervention on her behalf with the single ejaculation of Praisèd! [1318] but at the abrupt announcement of her boy’s death she drops, without a word, stricken to the earth by the weight of her tearless woe. Green (1890, pp. 10–11): Fair, beautiful, heroic queen! Would your spirit could be spread abroad, that every mother, wife and daughter might catch but a breath [11] and rejoice to claim you as their own. It is the feminine element in Shakespeare which, beyond all others, insures the immortality of his genius. For as woman is closer to nature than man, so a literature that would endure must combine the masculine and feminine.

Thaler (1947; 1970, p. 21): Shakspere’s test and definition of what is feminine is not circumscribed by the bubbling vivacities, charming as they are, of Beatrice and Rosalind. . . . Queen Hermione’s silence, far from being unfeminine, is surely a credit to her womanliness, her humanity, and to the artistry of Shakspere. Nuttall (1966, pp. 24–5): There is no doubt of Hermione’s essential fidelity to her husband. The question is: does she flirt with Polixenes? It certainly looks as if she does. . . . [25] [Yet] to stress this aspect is to falsify; or at least to distort, since it transforms what is essentially background into foreground. . . . For, ultimately, it is Hermione’s loving chastity which is dominant in the scene, not her flirtatiousness.

Richmond (1977–8, pp. 340–1): A being more poised than Hermione is hard to imagine; firm but tactful, she knows that humanity cannot survive through the assertion of rights and prerogatives. . . . [341] There is no self-immolation in Hermione. . . . The passive feminine role is here a creative one, infinitely superior to male assertiveness. Dash (1980, pp. 276–7): Hermione does not, on her first appearance, impress the reader or auditor as an independent, strong, [277] self-confident person. She belongs to that race of human beings whose inner strength surfaces only during periods of trial. Thus, when we first meet her, she is happy, complacent, relaxed, and utterly womanly. . . . Large with child, . . . she expresses visually as well as in her words a dependent, sexist role. . . . Not until her life is challenged does Hermione reveal the core of strength that is to sustain her . . . through the trial, then through sixteen years in seclusion. Summers (1984, pp. 29–30), however: In WT, Hermione is the most clearly noble character. She neither falters nor lapses into shrillness [quotes 701–5, 731–2] when threatened but, (p. 30) completely unafraid . . . , [she] firmly asserts her honour [and] denounces injustice. Richman (1990, p. 115): Hermione is all three of the things that she has seemed to be. As work of art, work of magic and work of nature, she embodies the principal elements that surprise and delight audiences. It is appropriate that the scene of which she is the center should be one of Shakespeare’s most profoundly amazing.

Other critics discussing Hermione: Hazlitt (1817, p. 280), Furnivall (1877, p. xcii), Winter (1892; 1893, p. 109), Foakes (1971, p. 128), Kamachi (1983, pp. 61–3), Pilgrim (1983, pp. 53–9).

Leontes

Gardner (1980, p. 63): Leontes is not merely the central figure in the play’s pattern of tragedy-and-reconciliation. We respond to him as a realized personality . . . a focus for, and an animating participant in, those values and meanings and fulfilments which gather in the final scenes.

Some critics, however, find him less rounded than this. Sen Gupta (1950, p. 241): Leontes is merely a theatrical tool who seems to be less a human being than a mechanical contrivance that sets the plot going. Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. lxxi ff.): Leontes is primarily an agent to bring an evil force rapidly into play rather than a character to be examined closely as a man; he is more important as a vehicle. . . . He is not shown as achieving humility, and his growth seems to be what may be described as an unavoidable minimum in the circumstances.

Many critics incline to this view, saying little about Leontes’s abiding personal and ethical nature but much about the single, aberrant trait that dominates the character’s development and behavior in the first segment of WT—the violent jealousy.

A few readers see it as innate. The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:665): He is a susceptible, irritable, jealous-natured man. . . . With the injustice of a man naturally prone to jealousy, [he] urges his wife to entreat their guest, and then resents her success in prevailing with him; encourages and induces her to use persuasive language, and then pervertedly deems it a sinful allurement. Sherman (1902, p. 117): Leontes is jealous because he is Sicilian, and exhibits somewhat of the intense and summary hatred peculiar to his race. Mackenzie (1924, p. 430): Leontes’ sudden jealousy was a little difficult to make convincing in any case, so Shakespeare burkes the question of its motivation altogether, leaving us to assume him simply a moody, constitutionally jealous man. Foakes (1971, p. 95): The jealousy of Leontes is presented as a given fact about his nature, something he cannot help rather than a morally blameworthy condition of mind.

Other critics believe that Leontes’s jealousy is meant to be inexplicable. Hudson (1848, 1:322–3, 325): It is purely self-begotten, and fed by its own surmises. . . . The why, the how, and the whence, do not exist; it is there simply because it is there; has no grounds whatever, and would not be jealousy if it had. . . . [323] Altogether a matter of fantasy and will, groundless in its origin, fanatical in its nature, no facts, oaths, or arguments can at all prevail against it. . . . [325] The king is of course tenacious and confident of his opinion in exact proportion as he lacks means whereby to justify it; he substitutes his own suspicions for facts, his own surmises for proof. Idem (ed. 1852, 4:13–14): Jealousy is so unprovided for in the general ordering of [Leontes’s] character that it even (p. 14) takes him by surprise, and finds him totally unprepared; insomuch that he forthwith loses all self-control. Martin (1891, pp. 6–7): A sudden access of madness can alone account for the debasing change in the nature of Leontes. . . . Such inexplicable outbreaks of jealousy . . . do occasionally occur in real life. While they last, the very nature of their victims is transformed, and their imagination, wholesome and cleanly till then, becomes . . . foul. . . . Shakespeare has dealt with Leontes as a man in whom the passion of jealousy is inherent[,] . . . breaking out suddenly with a force that is deaf to reason, and which, stimulated by an imagination tainted to the core, finds evidences of guilt in actions the most innocent. . . . [7] This is the jealousy . . . portrayed in Leontes,—a jealousy without excuse,—cruel, vindictive, and remorseless almost beyond belief.

Parrott (1949, p. 384): It is causeless, self-centered and recognized by all others in the action as morbid self-delusion. The reader, like the spectator, is expected to take it as such and not to argue about it. Stauffer (1949, p. 293): Leontes’s jealousy is a degrading, fearful blight . . . almost without external support of any kind. Doran (1954, p. 215): The very suddenness with which Leontes’ jealousy begins is a way of revealing . . . that it is a diseased state of mind, without external motivation. Yet it is the most important motivating element in the dramatic situation [Sh.] chooses to develop. It must be accepted as given, just as are the fairy-tale elements of romantic comedy. . . . There is a difference from these conditions, of course, in that Shakespeare uses with great accuracy all the symptoms of psychopathic jealousy, and so denies us the mood of fairy tale. Marsh (1962; 1980, pp. 128–30): Leontes’s jealousy comes unmotivated, quite unreasonably. . . . [129] Little better than a beast himself, [Leontes] sees the world around him as beastly. . . . [130] Soon he will see himself as the only honest man in it, with the mission of performing justice, for he is so imprisoned in the self that he believes that what he thinks and wants must be right. Harbage (1961, p. 442): Leontes’s jealousy must be unmotivated in view of its function in the play as symbol of mysterious evil; none of Sh.’s other plays has a larger proportion of well-disposed characters, and this gives to the malady of Leontes an interesting definition. Evil is treated as an inner growth . . . restricted to a single character, and restricted even in him, so that the overall impression is of the health of human tissue.

Barber (1964, p. 235): Leontes’s jealousy is a datum, one of the postulates of the play, and Shakespeare is only concerned to convince us that Leontes in fact is jealous, not to show us how he became so. Holbrook (1964, pp. 136–7): The whole form and mode of the play implies that we shall not overcome such instability as Leontes’s by knowing the causes. . . . Through Leontes’ jealousy and envy the poetic drama explores . . . controlling the sexual impulses within the moral pattern of life, and the acceptance of the lusts of the flesh and their decay with age as part of the irrevocable make-[137]up of the human being. Mills (1966, p. 108): Leontes’s jealousy is a mental and emotional aberration without immediate effective cause, requiring no corroboration and impervious to contradictory evidence or testimony. Williams (1967, p. 16): The depth to which Leontes sinks in his madness is indicated not only by the way he denies the external creations of nature that sustain nobility through time but also by the way he submits the rule of his soul to affection, thus making possible things not so held, and fellowing nothing [cites 214–18]. Smith (1972, pp. 101–2): WT is not, like . . . Pandosto, in any important way a treatment of jealousy. . . . [102] The interest in the play is not focused upon how Leontes was persuaded to entertain the awful and mistaken distrust of his wife and friend; the important thing is its consequences. Peterson (Time, 1973, pp. 165, 168): Among Shakespeare’s victims of jealousy and mistrust, Leontes is unique. . . . [His] affliction is self-generated. Its origins are in hereditary guilt. Leontes (p. 168) very nearly destroys . . . the values . . . upon which [communal man] has grounded his civilization: love, marriage, friendship, family, the law, justice. Gourlay (1975, p. 380): Leontes moves rapidly from specific distrust of Hermione to a general distrust of women’s truth. . . . Faith seems to him mere stupidity. . . . He chooses a negative certainty rather than the ambiguity of appearances; then he makes a law of it. Hawkins (1976, p. 81): Leontes, persuaded in a lightning flash of insight that Hermione has been unfaithful with Polixenes, and absolutely convinced of the validity of his knowledge, does not attempt to judge his own conviction critically. Instead, he concentrates on proving Hermione guilty. . . . He therefore admits every shred of evidence which confirms his theory, and imperiously dismisses all efforts to refute it. Fowler (1978, p. 37): Leontes commits the sins of jealousy and of self-righteousness. . . . [Jealousy] seems to figure mainly as a representative sin to be repented. The focus is less on the experience of jealousy itself . . . than on its consequences. Wright (1989, p. 226): Sh.’s own dramatic emphasis is not on how and when the jealousy comes into being but on the moment of its triumph—the moment when Leontes’s rational nature collapses.

Several critics suggest that the period in which Sh. lived offers insights into Leontes’s jealousy. Tinkler (1937, p. 354): In WT, the problem, the usual Jacobean one of the breach between Reason and Desire, is given a wide context of related emotions. There is an almost pathological study of the birth and growth of jealousy, regarded as an integral part of adolescent experience and made part of a whole mode of apprehension. Craig (1948, p. 332): When Sh. wrote WT, many books were being issued which taught that reason was dethroned by jealousy and other feral passions and that unbridled folly was suffused with fury.unbridled folly was suffused with fury. Greene had learned this in the university. . . . Shakespeare simply accepted his source. . . . The psychology of the passions known to Shakespeare and his age provided not only for obsession but for the obtrusion of all the evil passions. Maveety (1966, p. 266), however: Why did Shakespeare deviate from his source, making Leontes’ jealousy unmotivated? The answer lies in the particular view of life Shakespeare is here presenting. . . . We sometimes suffer through no human or predictable agency, but rather, it would seem, by the will of the gods. Apparently, it was Shakespeare’s intention to base the jealousy of Leontes on this . . . possibility. Lawrence (1960; 1969, pp. 176–7): Sh. altered his source in making the king’s jealousy break forth abruptly, in the midst of gay and playful conversation, but he has left us in some indecision as to how far these suspicions had already been smouldering beneath the surface. . . . [177] Sudden and unjustified suspicions were . . . common in popular story-telling. . . . Greene’s novel . . . is set in a framework of romantic commonplaces. Archaic details of the old and widespread Accused Queen motive were occasionally retained by both Shakespeare and by Greene. . . . Sudden and baseless rages are common in romance, and easily became a convention in romantic drama. Tayler (1964, p. 128): Sh.’s audience, well aware that the harmony of Eden had been lost to man so that his stronger blood was no longer free of hereditary imposition . . . was better prepared than modern critics for Leontes’ sudden and unmotivated jealousy, the towering excess of passion that . . . introduces the chaos and death for which Leontes is finally to do penance. McFarland (1972, p. 129): Leontes’s mysterious rage expresses the persisting view in Sh.’s era on the probability of baseness in human relationships. The dual potentiality of man, either to be like animals or like the angels, was often insisted on by Shakespeare’s philosophically minded predecessors in the Renaissance. Felperin (1972, p. 216): If the jealousy of Leontes mirrors that passion as it exists in living men, . . . it also comes literally out of the blue—the kind of heaven-sent, or rather hell-sent, madness . . . which . . . conventionally afflict[s] the protagonists of [earlier] dramatic romances. . . . The point is that it is . . . psychologically convincing that Leontes’ jealousy is sudden and inexplicable (do we really understand any better than the Elizabethans the causes of destructive behavior?).

Critics try, implying that to understand Leontes’s aberrations is to understand Leontes. H. Coleridge (1851, 2:148–9): Though unaccountable, [Leontes’s jealousy] is not impossible. . . . How slight a spark may cause explosion in the foul atmosphere of a despot’s heart it is hard to say. . . . The grossness of Leontes’ imaginations, [149] his murderous suggestions, and inaccessibility to reason, remorse, or religion, is naturally consequent on the base passion, say rather the unclean dæmon, that possesses him. And Knight (1947; 1965, p. 96): Leontes’s evil is self-born and unmotivated; yet commentators vainly search for motives to explain his actions without realizing that the poet is concerned not with trivialities, but with evil itself, whose cause remains as dark as theology: given a sufficient motive, the thing to be studied vanishes. In Leontes we have a . . . coherent, realistic and compact . . . study of almost demonic possession. Mahood (1957, p. 148): Because his audience would not demand it, Sh. would not have to show logically clear motivation of character for Leontes; rather they would accept the seemingly incalculable in human behavior by attributing it to demonic possession.

Gauger (1987, p. 28) alone suggests that Leontes’s overwhelming jealousy stems not from a character trait or flaw but from a philosophical attitude wherein normal and normally accepted opposites and contrasts seem suspended, and a course of action is allowed that can only be explained by extreme indifference to the dictates of a balanced course of action. Causality becomes unreliable; paradoxes prevail. Great effort is expended to explain Leontes’s jealousy, but the indifference phenomenon explains the equivocalness of Leontes’s attitude and is accepting of its inherent incongruities (in Ger.).

Other critics suggest that Leontes is simply weak and unstable. Clarke (1863, p. 346): The abrupt and violent antagonisms in character, produced by casual and slight inducement, nearly always take place in highly excitable and impulsive natures. . . . [His] every action betrays the weak and unstable man. Dowden (1875; 1877, pp. 407–8): Leontes’s passion is not a terrible chaos of soul [but] . . . a gross personal resentment. He does not suffer sorrowful, judicial, indignation but rather displays a (p. 408) hideously grotesque passion of a kind which Bryant (1955; 1961, p. 214) calls undisguised pharisaical pride. Granville-Barker (1912; 1974, p. 20): Leontes’s jealousy is a nervous weakness, a mere hysteria. . . . Only in the passion of anger or cruelty, cold or hot, can he be sure of himself at all. Let him relax, and he is, as he says, a feather for each wind that blows [1084]. Brooke (1913, pp. 258–9): Leontes, naturally noble . . . is also weak. . . . Violence, it is said, goes with weakness; and the more furious the violence, the greater the weakness. . . . [259] In the end . . . his native jealousy . . . has been worked through. It cannot occur again.

Mowat (1969, pp. 40–1, 44): Leontes’s character is in keeping with the pettiness of his passion. . . . Shakespeare omits all mention of courage in Leontes, and has him actually [41] fear to take open revenge on Polixenes. . . . Even his method [slow-working poison] is a cowardly one. . . . His one burst of courage, his defiance of the oracle, [is] crushed immediately by the news of his son’s death. . . . And the single dramatization of his bounteous courtesy is the scene of his too-persistent urging of Polixenes to delay his departure. . . . Shakespeare leaves us little to admire in Leontes. . . . [44] That his reason was so weak . . . indicates to us a basic defectiveness . . . a basic rottenness in the character. Idem (1976, pp. 10–20): Jealousy which does not spring from deep love or passion . . . is more selfish, more nearly related to envy and greed than to love. . . . [11] It is such petty, selfish jealousy that afflicts Leontes. His chief worry is that They’re here with me already; whisp’ring . . . / Sicilia is a so-forth! [302–3]. His greatest torment is that he is being laughed at [quotes 924–7]. Leontes’s (p. 15) ready acceptance of his common lot with the typical cuckold might lead us to ask (p. 17) what kind of pettiness, of self-hatred, must lie in the soul of one who can thus imagine, thus display, himself as an object of scorn? . . . [20] [Leontes] is so distorted away from greatness and nobility that audience identification with him repeatedly breaks down.

Sanders (1987, pp. 24–5): Leontes has located and begun to relish the pleasure that [his jealous] self-appointed vexation contains. Yes . . . pleasure. Nobody embarks on a course of gratuitous self-torment without promising himself some perverse satisfactions along the way. . . . [25] The instinct touched is very primitive and very powerful. The sentiments . . . require no explanation at all. They rise from a perennial stratum of the male mind . . . (I think this is the impression conveyed by Leontes’ tone of gloomy relish) . . . which seems, utterly incongruously, to have a ring of gratified exultation about it: Physic for’t there’s none [282]—as if the thing that torments him is also a source of unholy jubilation. Nay, there’s comfort in’t [278] has an irony beyond the fact that the fellowship of cuckolds would seem to provide scant comfort for poor Leontes. The darker irony is that the comfort he is discovering is real and deep. . . . Jealousy consoles the man who believes himself to be merely its victim. Mincoff (1992, p. 89): Leontes’s jealous reaction is that of a weakling who needs every outward support to protect his ego. . . . He is, in fact, a rather ignoble figure, though not without some saving features, especially his family affections before his insane jealousy destroys most of them and the evident respect, affection, and loyalty he inspires in those about him.

But Morley (1887, p. 10): The jealousy of Leontes is painted throughout as an insane delusion. Symons (in Irving & Marshall, ed. 1890, 7:320): He is meanly, miserably, degradedly jealous, with a sort of mental alienation or distortion—a disease of the brain like some disease of vision. Lewes (1894, p. 303): Leontes’s jealousy robs him of clearness of understanding, makes him deaf to all pleadings . . . and causes everything to appear to him as false and insincere. The mad visions of his blinded brain alone seem to him true and real. Armstrong (1913; 1969, pp. 61, 116): Sh. may have been interested in an unusual psychological type . . . a mind insulated from all evidence, running on its own involuted circuit which nothing can break. Leontes becomes (p. 116) a jealous, insane scoundrel. . . . It is really fortunate for [Hermione’s] sake that the crash comes, and she is relieved of the monster until he is chastened and more fit to come near her. Lenz (1986, pp. 94–5): The sheer irrationality of Leontes’ behavior tells us he is mistaken. . . . Shakespeare sets jealousy against a background of long-established mutual amity [quotes 25–7]. The eruption of Leontes’ jealousy in the face of such affection shocks us. . . . [95] What surprises us about Leontes’ jealousy is that it makes sense, despite its sharp contrast to former friendship and love.

Scott (1920, pp. 145, 148): Although not suffering from a depressive illness as understood in modern terminology, Leontes presents a typical example of the jealous melancholy described by Elizabethan writers which Sh. makes into a (p. 148) brilliant exposition of the basis of a mental disease—in this case paranoia. . . . It is useless to object that Shakespeare could not himself have had such precocious knowledge either. It is all there, and what is more astonishing is that so much understanding of morbid psychology has been packed into so few words—and in a poetic metre. Cuvelier (1983, pp. 35–9): Since unmotivated does not mean causeless, Sh.’s audience might find in contemporary theories regarding mental pathology—particularly those on melancholy—the clue to Leontes’s behavior. Jealousy was generally defined as a melancholy passion . . . involving both fear and suspicion, so that the underlying humour would be readily identified. Yet in the case of Leontes, Shakespeare takes great pains to display as many signs of it as possible, including Leontes’s aggressive monosyllabic language, satirical turn of mind, dismal images, and (p. 36) symbolic references such as his rejection of the oracle, which indicates a horror of the sun, one of the main symptoms of melancholy. Leontes’s (p. 38) chaotic, cryptic utterance [cites 214–22] . . . [39] and shattered elocution reflect . . . his perception of the outer world. . . . Adust melancholy makes disgusting and horrifying images form in the patient’s fancy: thus the vision of a spider in his cup (636–42) appears to Leontes as the embodiment of the venomous knowledge he now possesses.

Schwartz (1973, pp. 258–72): Leontes is paranoid. He idealizes boyhood in the interest of clinging to a paradisal version of pre-Oedipal existence when confronted by the temptation toward sexual contact. . . . [259] The maternal nourisher [becomes] a malevolent seductress when Leontes feels deprived of signs of love. . . . [260] In his paranoid delusions of betrayal, Leontes acts out the whole range of pathological boundary violations. . . . [268] Hermione becomes the object of Leontes’ obstinate substitution of projection for perception. . . . [270] Psychoanalysis has shown that the spider [636–42] . . . represents the sexually threatening mother, contact with whom signifies incest. On a deeper level, it signifies the horror of maternal engulfment. . . . [272] He would sacrifice Hermione, paradoxically, to recreate the image of his sacred ideal, and to reclaim his own repose. Idem (1975, pp. 198–9): In the trial scene Leontes’ vow to recreate himself derives from his ambivalent desire for [199] feminine powers. . . . Shakespeare transforms the fear of loss into socially viable ways of coping with masculine anxieties.

Van Doren (1939; 1953, pp. 313–14, 317): Leontes infects the whole of the first three acts with the angry sore of his obsession. There is no more jealous man in literature; his jealousy has (p. 314) a curious way of feeding on itself. . . . The expression of it gives him in some perverse way a horrible pleasure. . . . [317] Leontes is an artist of jealousy, an expert in self-hurt. Strong (1954, p. 202): Leontes suffers from the form of inferiority complex commonest in Shakespeare, that of readily believing the woman he loves to be unfaithful to him. . . . The picture presented by his obsession is so powerful that it is unchecked by reality. . . . Violent and unreasonable though his behaviour has been, the obsession is . . . a neurosis, not a psychosis. Holbrook (1964, p. 165): At the height of his violent rage against his infant daughter and any who seeks to defend her, Leontes is in a neurotic state of unbalance[,] . . . ineffectual in his disordered reason, impotent in the face of reality. Grene (1967, pp. 74–5): Leontes’s certainty that he has been cuckolded covers his whole life, as father, husband, king. . . . [75] For his obsession to run its course, reality must be challenged. . . . He is bent on warping reality to his will. Stewart (1983, pp. 251, 258), having acted the part of Leontes, believes that the character (and behaviour) is firmly rooted in reality and psychologically coherent to the extent that a modern audience can follow step by step his desperate descent into obsessional behaviour, persecution, cruelty and self-torture. . . . [258] The very ambiguity, the increasing sensuality of the scene, establish a context in which Leontes’ breakdown is going to occur. The breakdown is sudden, massive, and entirely overwhelming.

Leontes’s ego interests critics. Horowitz (1965, p. 73): King Leontes is possessed by a passion that infects his judgement, deals out dooms that are the province of gods, and remains deaf to the voices of human reason. . . . Nothing can alter his outlook. . . . Leontes sets his judgement above that of mere humanity. When Leontes rejects the oracle, he reaches the ultimate length to which he can go in imposing his own will upon reality and bending it, tyrannically, to the shape of his passions. Burton (1970, p. 220): Leontes’s jealousy springs from a sense of insecurity which in turn springs from a guilty sense of unworthiness that justifies its fears by distorting what it sees. Bass (1977, pp. 17–19): To assuage his own ego, Leontes looks on young Mamillius as the model of himself, before corruption; Leontes (p. 18) can see no other self than his own . . . (i.e. no rival for himself become young again). But when Leontes denies the oracle, (p. 19) his very image, Mamillius, is stricken dead. Byles (1979, pp. 81, 84, 90–1): The relationship between narcissistic dependency or fixation and superego aggression provides the dynamics for intense disillusion in love—though less intense for Leontes because he has no ideal view of love. . . . [84] Leontes does not suffer from guilt so much as from shame at his failure to perceive Hermione adequately. Shame is far less destructive than guilt. . . . [90] Leontes comes to realize he is absolutely mistaken in his suspicions, but . . . this realization does not make him feel worthless. . . . [91] Leontes’ narcissism sustains him.

Calder-Marshall (1982, p. 248): Quite simply, Leontes has never grown up. Perhaps his jealousy of Polixenes stems from a childhood envy which he had never got over. . . . It is childish, therefore not totally unsympathetic. Lande (1986, pp. 57–8): Polixenes’s refusal to extend his visit (akin to Hermione’s delay in accepting Leontes’s marriage proposal) is a direct assault on [Leontes’s] authority and his capacity to impose his way on his world. . . . [58] He is outraged when they [Hermione and Polixenes] do not immediately comply with his wishes. . . . He can only wonder if perhaps he is not as great and powerful as he believes himself to be. Doubt is steadily intensifying within him and threatening to overwhelm and destroy what he values most above all else: his sense of himself as king. Cohen (1987, pp. 207, 220–1): Leontes transforms his sexual agony into an instrument of passionate blame in a king of narcissistic adventure. Through a (p. 220) self-torturing voyeurism, Leontes provides himself with (p. 221) a desperately needed motive for putting into words what he both loves and fears—the image of [his wife] making love to other men.

Other critics speculate on Leontes’s possible homosexuality. Stewart (1949, pp. 35–6): Leontes’s jealousy is derived from his own actual unfaithfulness in real life. . . . Camillo, the text hints to us, has been Leontes’s assistant in covert immoralities. . . . An early fixation of his affections upon his friend, long dormant, is reawakened in Leontes—though without being brought to conscious focus—by that friend’s actual presence for the first time since their twyn’d [130] boyhood. An unconscious conflict ensues and the issue is behaviour having as its object the violent repudiation of the newly reactivated homosexual component in his character. In other words, Leontes projects upon his wife the desires he has to repudiate in himself. . . . The catastrophic suddenness as well as the obsessional [36] force of Leontes’s jealousy, stunning alike to his court and to ourselves as we read, is also described by Freud as typical, as is the sufferer’s complete loss of all sense of evidence. Auden (1961, p. 11): Leontes offers a classical case of paranoid sexual jealousy due to repressed homosexual feelings. Ellis (1964, pp. 546–7): Leontes’ behavior is classically projective. . . . For it is Leontes and not Hermione who loves, or has loved, Polixenes. Such guilt demands punishment. . . . [Leontes] desperately needs a victim whose sacrifice will carry away his own sin, and it doesn’t matter much who the victim is. . . . [547] His frenzy departs as suddenly as it appeared. Not inexplicably, however. It departs at the shock of hearing of his son’s death. But it would seem not merely the shock which brings him to his senses, for now he also has sacrificed his victim. His sin has been carried away, and his sanity returns. Nuttall (1966, pp. 17–22): If we supply [Leontes] with the sort of good reason for jealousy some critics seem to want, he instantly ceases to be a villain. . . . [18] We have seen enough to realise that the abruptness of Leontes’ emotion, so far from being awkwardly artificial, is really close to the apparent capriciousness of real life. It is only in works of fiction that everyone has a good reason for everything he does. . . . [20] Leontes’ strange jealousy coincides with the visit of his dearest friend . . . [and] erupts at the emotionally laden moment of parting from this friend. The human intelligence, faced with a coincidence, naturally tries to transform it into a causal relation. . . . Shakespeare has not only given us the correlation but has left a trail of clues as well. These clues take the form of the merest innuendo, and the reader must estimate for himself the weight of inference which they may properly be called upon to bear. The sequence of innuendo works . . . by first stressing the special strength of the attachment between Leontes and Polixenes, and the associating it with sexuality. . . . [22] The theory that [Leontes’s] jealousy is a cloak for guilt felt at a childhood love has at least the merit of placing [lines 153–60] in a coherent framework of explanation.

Barber (1969, p. 65) agrees: Leontes exhibits projective or paranoid jealousy as a defence against homosexual attraction. . . . The primary motive is the affection of Leontes for Polixenes, whatever name one gives it. The resolution becomes possible because the affection is consummated . . . through Perdita and Florizel—a variation on ideas advanced by Schlegel in 1808 (see n. 59–60). Reid (1970, pp. 271–4): Mamillius dies because he represents the masculinity in Leontes which is under an absolute eclipse in his delusional jealousy of Polixenes. . . . [273] Mamillius . . . represents—or . . . is—Leontes’ masculine self. Perdita is Leontes’ feminine self. The exaggerated evaluation of Mamillius in the opening scene is the defensive cover for the threatened masculinity of Leontes. The pointed avoidance of mention of the expected second heir is the absolute denial of his feminine self. Only by accepting—not denying—one’s feminine impulses is one free to employ [274] one’s masculine impulses. . . . The union of Florizel and Perdita is the fulfillment of the intolerable homosexual wish of Leontes. . . . It is resolved and order is reinstated. Fiedler (1972, pp. 151–2): Leontes’s unacknowledged homosexual desires for Polixenes are disguised as nostalgia for the innocence of their childhood; Polixenes shares this covert passion and thus carries on (p. 152) a disguised flirtation with Leontes through his courtly banter with the Queen. Mark Taylor (1982, p. 43): Leontes is blocked by time from returning to the alliance the two boys once enjoyed. . . . [H]e reacts by imagining the adultery of Polixenes and Hermione . . . a psychologically convincing displacement of a feeling that appears as jealousy because his friend is enjoying his wife but is, actually, subconscious jealousy that his wife is enjoying his friend. Garner (1989, p. 144): Leontes’s ugly remarks about women and sex (188, 286, 368, etc.) indicate that on the surface all of these fantasies express disgust with women, which is provoked by fear and hate; beneath it they may manifest suppressed homosexual feelings of the men who experience and share the fantasies.

Lande (1986, p. 59) objects: The overwhelming threat, in the face of which Leontes . . . disintegrates is a sexual one only on the surface. There is nothing within the text to support the claim . . . of an unconscious homosexual conflict. Orgel (ed. 1996, pp. 24, 26–7, 29) also rejects such readings: Stewart’s theory of a guilty reaction to an adolescent homosexual love is rather quaint, and quite anachronistic: there is no evidence that suppressed guilt over adolescent homosexuality was a Renaissance problem. . . . [26] The Jacobean family, like the Jacobean state, is a patriarchy, and Shakespearian drama reflects a deep cultural ambivalence about the place of women in it. . . . [27] Leontes’ fears . . . are merely the cultural currency of the age, articulated continually in sermons and pamphlets. . . . [29] Leontes’ paranoia . . . has clear cultural co-ordinates. . . . [I]t registers the fears of a patriarchal society about the power of women, exemplified in sexual power.

Finally, critics comment on Leontes’s rehabilitation. Burton (1970, pp. 231–2): The fact that all the people whom [232] Leontes injured strive hard to make him forget their injuries must be our guarantee that he is worthy of the love of Hermione. Champion (1970, pp. 156, 159–61, 170–1): Only Leontes is developed on the level of transformation from the gracious host whose jealousy, once he becomes suspicious of his wife’s fidelity and his friend’s integrity, grows through the first half of the play to overwhelming and frightening proportions to the tyrant whose (p. 159) mental perturbations have . . . destroyed his ability to rule either himself or his kingdom to the contrite king who (p. 160) becomes painfully aware of his folly and stupidity to the confirmed repentant whose (p. 161) crowning achievement of his love is articulated by Paulina as she brings Hermione’s alleged statue to life. The (p. 170) transformed character is what he is not because he has lived through, escaped, and forgotten his past experiences, but because he has been molded and transfigured by them. His past suffering has provided a kind of wisdom by purging his vision and by making him aware of true values, especially of redemptive and forgiving [171] love. . . . [Leontes] cannot recapture totally what his folly has cost him. . . . The consequences have been inescapable, and he faces a future tinged with the waste of past years. Enright (1970, p. 178): Leontes is not the nasty little horror that some critics have held him to be; however wrongly he suffers . . . he does suffer. There is no chance that we shall weep over him. . . . [But] the mere idea of Hermione ever being reunited to the Leontes of some interpretations—bitter, foul-minded, impotent, senilely rotten—is utterly repellent. . . . It is true though, and plain enough, that Leontes will have to pay a very high price to regain the Hermione [of the trial scene]. Wheeler (1980, pp. 165–6): In Leontes, Shakespeare allows the richness of relations grounded in mutual trust to flow back into the life of a character who has fearfully transformed those riches into a nightmare of violent jealousy. . . . [166] Leontes, restored fully to himself in the arms of Hermione, presides over the ending of The Winter’s Tale with kingly power and autonomy. Colley (1983, pp. 43, 45–6, 51–2): Leontes’s rage develops from his moral ignorance. His deliverance from the consequence of that rage depends upon his painful and prolonged education about the nature of time, change, and sexual maturity. He is driven to irrationality when he recalls his prepubescent (p. 45) sexual innocence and the loss of that innocence when he took Hermione as his wife. In arousing (p. 46) his love and his sexual passions, she leads him to embrace time, mortality and the promise of death. . . . [51] The knowledge of love, and the awareness of passing time, that his [52] marriage to Hermione and his life with her should have revealed to him [does not occur]. . . . It takes him sixteen years to live and to experience his debt to time and his responsibilities of married love. . . . The quest for what he lost, however, does not send Leontes on a search for Perdita. His quest does send him into an extended exploration of his inner self. Stockholder (1987, p. 193): Under the guise of submission to the process of spiritual regeneration, Leontes satisfies his desire for maternal nurturing. That nurturing, however, retains sexual overtones, and thereby betrays his association of sexuality with incest, because of the concealed identification of the now maternal Paulina with Hermione, and it acquires masochistic dimensions from being placed in a context that fuses it with punishment.

For additional discussions of Leontes and jealousy: Herford (ed. 1904, 4:272), Mackenzie (1924, p. 431), Hearn (1928, p. 102), Craig (1948, p. 332), Siegel (1950, pp. 304–6), Geyer (1955, pp. 188–9), Frye (1962, p. 243), Ellis (1964), Frye (Perspective, 1965, pp. 114–15), Holland (1966, pp. 280–2), Rabkin (1967, p. 221), Reid (1970, pp. 266–77), Hofling (1971), Hellenga (1976, p. 13), Langman (1976, p. 199), Nagata (1977, p. 49), Suhamy (1984), Fuzier (1984), Barber & Wheeler (1986, pp. 329–31), Cavell (1987, pp. 196, 199), Sanders (1987, pp. 21–2), Stockholder (1987, p. 185), Canfield (1989, pp. 60–1).

Mamillius

The child delights some critics. Swinburne (1880; ed. 1925, 11:159–60): By giving us our last glimpse of Mamillius as he laughs and chats with his mother, it is almost certain that at the very end [of WT] . . . we remember him all the better because the father whose jealousy killed him and the mother for love of whom he died would seem to have forgotten the little brave sweet spirit with all its truth of love and tender sense of shame. Brandes (1898, 2:348): Mamillius is one of the gems of the play; a finer sketch of a gifted, large-hearted child could not be. Terry (1932, p. 27), who debuted in the part in 1856 (see here): It is easy to recognize in Mamillius that imaginative, philosophic, poetic temperament which in its maturity is so frequently studied by Shakespeare [e.g., Romeo and Hamlet]. Cruttwell (1955, p. 129): High birth on one hand, and on the other an inherent superiority which was (or ought to be) the consequence of high birth accounts for the inherent nobleness [913] which broke the boy Mamillius’ heart when he heard of his mother’s disgrace.

Others, however, find Sh.’s child creations unsuccessful. Kellett (1923; 1969, pp. 81, 86–9): The children in [Sh.’s] plays are not child-like at all. . . . We notice in these children the unfailing symptoms of the thorough prig. They are all forward and pedantic. . . . [86] [Mamillius is] pert as well as shrewd and over-sharp; he differs from young Macduff, for example, (p. 87) in the degree, but not in the kind, of his precocious pertness. . . . [88] Amid the impertinences of his little lecture to the waiting-ladies he contrives to show off a good deal of mature observation. . . . It is notable that [Hermione] finds the boy so troublesome that tis past enduring [587]. Even the tale . . . of the man who dwelt by a churchyard is introduced by a cynical and adult-like gibe at yond crickets [626], the women. . . . [89] In fact, only the astonishing breadth of Sh’s treatment of older people makes us notice the narrowness that marks his treatment of children. . . . His children are colourless . . . and are drawn with vastly less penetration. Enright (1970, p. 171) concurs: Mamillius is almost as trying as Macduff’s son.

Tinkler (1937, pp. 346–7): Mamillius is unimpressive as a personal, tragic figure. . . . It is only when one becomes aware of the immense importance of his rôle for the effect on, the part played in, other people, that he becomes interesting. . . . [347] The burden of Scapegoat and Tragic Hero is shifted from Leontes to his son as the latter becomes the concrete symbol of the spiritual health of his father.

Paulina

Griffith (1775, p. 108) anticipates many critics: Paulina’s strong passions and ungovernable temper deserve praise and reproof. Hudson (1848, 1:329–30): Paulina is perhaps the noblest termagant that we have any portrait of. . . . Furious, hot-tempered, headstrong, and reckless, in the full assurance that her ends are just, she stops not to consider the fit-[330]ness of her means; and thus does injury from her very willingness to suffer it. But, though we cannot help regretting her conduct, inasmuch as it tends to hinder where she means to help; neither can we help respecting and honouring her for it, inasmuch as it obviously springs from the noblest impulses. . . . Loud, voluble, violent, and viraginous, with a tongue that seems sharper than a sword, and an eloquence that seems enough to raise a blister, she has, however, too much honour and good sense to use them without good cause, and at the same time too much generous impulsiveness not to use them at all hazards when she has good cause. Jameson (1889; 1967, pp. 194–5, 197–8): Paulina is one of the striking beauties of the play[,] . . . strongly drawn from real and common life; a clever, generous, strong-minded, warm-hearted woman, fearless in asserting the truth, firm in her sense of right, enthusiastic in all her affections; quick in thought, resolute in word, and energetic in action but also (p. 195) heedless, hot-tempered, impatient, loud, bold, voluble, and turbulent of tongue; regardless of the feelings of those for whom she would sacrifice her life, and injuring from excess of zeal those whom she most wishes to serve. . . . [197] While we honour her courage and her affection, we cannot help regretting her violence. . . . [198] We can only excuse Paulina by recollecting that it is a part of her purpose to keep alive in the heart of Leontes the remembrance of his queen’s perfections, and of his own cruel injustice. Jameson’s observations influenced later critics; for example, Clark (1936, pp. 76–7) repeats many of them, sometimes verbatim. Clarke (1863, p. 356): Paulina is a specimen of those headstrong women who, taking up . . . a cause, allow no minor point to sway or interfere with their course of action. . . . There is another point in the female character that Shakespeare has exemplified with his usual felicity, in the conduct of Paulina. . . . When Leontes . . . is wallowing in the very slough of mean despondency, Paulina cannot forego the gratification of punching him in his maundering distress. The Clarkes (ed. 1865, 1:682, n. 49): In Paulina the poet has given us a perfect picture of one of those ardent friends whose warmth of temper and want of judgment injure the cause they strive to benefit. Snider (1875, p. 89): She is a courageous, strong-worded woman who is a little too free with her tongue over a penitent wrongdoer; Idem (1877, 2:63): Her husband is Antigonus, who was the boldest of the courtiers in defense of Hermione; yet he has submitted to his wife, who must, therefore, be still bolder than he.

Critical admiration mixed with censure continues. Brandes (1898, 2:351): She has more courage than ten men, and possesses that natural eloquence and power of pathos which determined honesty and sound common sense can bestow upon a woman. . . . She is untouched by sentimentality; there is as little of the erotic as there is of repugnance in her attitude towards her husband. Bethell (1947, p. 60): Paulina has something of a morality flavour; she symbolises conscience, always at Leontes’ right shoulder to prompt him to right conduct. Yet she is a scold, presented as a comic figure, for the conscience in its nagging persistence can be both comic and serious at the same time. Simpson (1950, p. 122): The task of making her at once attractive and convincing is not rendered easier by the fact that she is a matron. . . . [Yet] all who have met the type can vouch for her genuineness. Impulsive alike in admiration of nobleness as in condemnation of meanness, she shows herself a . . . courageous and disinterested [champion] of Hermione. . . . From the moment she hears of the king’s conduct to his queen, she makes it her business to reveal to him the injustice of his charge. . . . Never does Paulina waver in her decision and determination to achieve this. . . . Nothing daunts her. Nuttall (1966, p. 35): In Paulina’s ferocious castigation (1362–89) of Leontes following his repentance (1335–57), we must either find Paulina’s behaviour grotesquely unnecessary or else find something thin and only half-convincing in Leontes’ breast-beating. I think the second alternative is the right one. The king’s proposal to new-woo my queen, recall the good Camillo [1341], has too facile a confidence. Nevertheless there is something unpalatable in Paulina’s [response]. She is a goblin-figure, a little larger than life. Her ways and speech have something monstrous about them, alternately alarming and somehow enormously good. Grene (1967, p. 79): Paulina acts bravely and with good intentions—but, of course, does harm. In confronting Leontes with his infant daughter, Paulina only forces Leontes over the brink to direct action and brings about the exposure of the child. Bellette (1978, pp. 68–9): In many ways she is a counterpart of Camillo—a subject forced into disloyalty yet guardian of the truth and loyal to what the King himself has destroyed. It is true she is often injudicious, in the traditional manner of the outspoken servant. . . . [69] However[,] . . . she comes to Leontes as physician, with words as medicinal as true [942]. Battenhouse (1980, pp. 136–7): Paulina immaturely dares to tonguelash a distraught king, though Sh. later shows her growing in wisdom and skill. In her (p. 137) hasty belief that Hermione truly has died, her moral sensibilities are so shocked at this seemingly irreparable disaster that her bitter anger is released against Leontes; but once Paulina’s sense of mission shifts from denunciation to the aiding of Leontes . . . she manifests arts characteristic of a mature pastor. Sanders (1987, pp. 51–2): Critics have contrived to defend, even to admire (in a theoretical kind of way) the spiritual therapist that Paulina now—and rather suddenly!—becomes. . . . But I’ve found none that actually likes what she does to her patient. [52] To be so often resuscitating distress . . . smacks rather of sadism.

Some critics find no fault with Paulina at all. Inchbald (ed. 1808, 3:5): Paulina, all tenderness united with spirit, has such power over the scenes in which she is engaged for the protection of the new-born child, that, like the queen, she confers honour and interest upon Leontes, merely by his keeping such excellent company. Lloyd (1894, p. 161): She is a necessity to the play; without the support derived from her constant presence, it would not be intelligible how such a mind as that of Leontes could have the force and freshness of feeling, after sixteen years elapsed, that are required . . . to satisfy our sympathies with the honour of Hermione. Martin (1891, pp. 12, 19): She is a woman of no ordinary sagacity, with a warm heart, a vigorous brain, and an ardent temper. Her love for Hermione has its roots in admiration and reverence for all the good and gracious qualities of which the queen’s daily life has given witness. She has been much about her royal mistress, and much esteemed and trusted by her. Leontes, knowing this, obviously anticipates that she will not remain quiet when she hears of the charge he has brought against the queen, and he has thrust her into prison. Accordingly he has given express orders that Paulina is not to be admitted to the prison, and this fresh act of cruelty she learns from the governor only when she arrives there in hope of being of some comfort to her much-wronged mistress. Sh. uses Paulina to deliver (p. 19) the concentrated judgment of every man and woman in Leontes’ kingdom that Hermione is innocent.

Cazamian (1931; 1965, pp. 293–4): Paulina is a worthy lady, a genuine creation, true in every feature to the slightly heightened life that drama demands. A courtier’s wife, she awes not only her husband, but the king’s officers and the royal person; she bears down all resistance—a triumph won by transparent honesty, courage, and the power of a biting tongue. The lively force of her railing is due to a robust hold [294] upon the paradoxes of an absurd situation; indignation carries her forward, but shrewd sense guides her to victory. She is the instrument of the kindly fate that soothes, and finally heals, the souls poisoned or crushed by the madness of one selfish man. Wilson (ed. 1931, pp. xxiv, xxvi): She can hardly be praised too highly. . . . [xxvi] We remember [the play] by the full-charactered Paulina, fit companion for any woman, young or old. . . . She [stands] out by her tenacious courage and cunning. Parsons (1950, p. 228): Paulina stands out as essentially human, kind, true, loyal, courageous, impetuous, hot-tempered and outspoken. . . . She risks great danger for her love of a friend—without a shred of self-interest. Holbrook (1964, pp. 162–4): Paulina is the embodiment of commonsense maturity and honesty in the court. . . . The several loyalties throughout the play are a subtle presentation of differing human sensibilites and their modes of behaviour in a situation where loyalty is called to act on its own responsibility, even at risk to life itself, so that the frail values of human relationship are given the ultimate test. Paulina represents (p. 163) a loyalty to the kingdom, and a desire to cure the community. Thus she never ceases to oppose Leontes but instead (p. 164) insists on the firm and normal reality of sound relationships and governing values, though she knows in this insistence that she faces death from the psychotic dictator. Yet she knows, too, that to insist on the norms is the only way to expose the aberration. Hurd (1983, p. 303): Whether Paulina is functioning as the voice of moral justice, as the skillful stage manager who provides the perspective for our major insights about the play, or, in the last act, as the agent of reconciliation who, even more than the oracle, makes things work in this play, she is not only a pivotal character but the most admirable . . . in this, one of Shakespeare’s most beautiful plays. Others who unreservedly admire Paulina are: Smeaton (1911, p. 513), Harbage (1961, p. 447), Hibbard (1964, p. 113).

Some criticism focuses on gender. Sherman (1902, p. 124): Sh. creates Paulina to temper Hermione’s self-sufficiency and strength and, by displaying mannish behavior herself, to remove all hint of mannishness from our perception of Hermione. Pyle (1969, pp. 41, 43): In Sh.’s time there were exceptional women, from Queen Elizabeth down, and for them allowance had to be made by the rest of society. Paulina, of conspicuous goodness, is actually capable of exercising a man’s determination of character . . . in the service of the right. She is (p. 43) unmannerly only when the king is mad, and to the king’s true self . . . a loyal servant and obedient counsellor [965–6], speaking out for his own good. Dusinberre (1975, pp. 220–1): Paulina’s conscience, like Hermione’s innocence, compels speech, but Paulina bows to femininity with an orator’s subtlety, talking incessantly of subjects on which she protests womanly silence [e.g., at 1409–23]; her eloquence (p. 221) contrasts with the cowardly silence of Leontes’ courtiers. Asp (1978, pp. 147–56) finds in Paulina a likeness of the Renaissance counterpart of the female consolatio figure found in many medieval works. . . . There are striking parallels between the two that would explain Paulina’s dominance within the action of the play and her unique function vis-à-vis Leontes. For example, the female advisor (p. 150) is always dominant in the relationship and seems to possess part of the divine numen, a fact that gives her words authority and a certain infallibility within the limits of her nature. She is usually a solitary figure so that her preeminence is not compromised by . . . conflicting authorities. . . . She rebukes and shames her subject. . . . Then she uses reasoned arguments to prove her points. . . . Finally, she encourages him to persevere in his new wisdom. Having been willingly accepted as Leontes’s advisor [1424–6], Paulina leads him (p. 154) through the steps of purgation—guilt, contrition, repentance, confession, and amendment—to a (p. 156) reunion with the goodness and grace emanating from Hermione. All the ensuing reunions are symbolic expressions of that union with divine love which is the final end of medieval consolation literature. England (1982, p. 75) also suggests that Paulina’s name is not only intentionally Christian but may even suggest her role as a healer in the Pauline tradition. Berggren (1980, pp. 29–30): Paulina seals the image of feminine power in the late plays by preserving the maternal heroine and perhaps by being introduced to us as the mother of three girls, sufficient recommendation in a world where boy children die of shock while infant girls survive far [30] worse. . . . Paulina seems the most selfless of all Shakespeare’s women, ruthless in a cause that offers no personal profit whatsoever. When Leontes calls her a mankind witch (982), the adjective perfectly encapsulates the spirit of [WT], which exorcises the violence of masculine jealousy and redeems it through the kind of patience Penelope achieved. Dash (1980, pp. 275–6): Paulina exhibits a fearlessness and self-confidence that suggest her later role as the scourge of Leontes. . . . [In the jail scene] her brilliance, wit, and sophistication sparkle. Thus introduced, neither as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen nor as a member of Hermione’s staff, Paulina functions as an independent, a woman with a staff of her own. . . . [276] Although the range of her capacities is still a mystery to us—and will remain so until the play’s closing scene—we know that her challenge to the men to be second [930] to them in courage and imaginative action is not empty ranting. The line actually reads be second to me. Calder-Marshall (1982, p. 246): Paulina probably talks too much, but she is the only person who confronts Leontes with what he’s done and what kind of person he’s becoming. . . . Paulina has no tact. She’s very much a woman of today, dare one say a feminist in the best sense of the word? She’s the sort of friend that everyone would like to have when things are going badly. She’s loyal and fights like a tiger. She’s the kind of woman who would look after battered wives and give the husband hell if he deserved it, as Leontes does. Novy (1984, pp. 176–7): In Paulina’s confrontation with Leontes the issue of female subordination is raised and resolved in a way that, while unorthodox, leaves no doubt of Paulina’s autonomy [cites 955–9]. Throughout the play she takes on Leontes as an equal, undaunted by his tyranny. When she speaks of herself as a foolish woman [1418], it is plainly only a rhetorical gesture. She (p. 177) restores Hermione to Leontes’ esteem and finally to his presence and then accepts Leontes’s marital arrangements, seemingly designed to place her back in a patriarchal framework: but of course she has already demonstrated unambiguously how little marriage subordinates her. Neely (1985, pp. 199–200): Though she absorbs the most brutal of the verbal and physical expressions of Leontes’ repudiation of Hermione and his daughter . . . [Paulina] believes [200] Leontes is salvageable—and worth saving for [Hermione]. . . . Her attacks on Leontes . . . are calculated, judicious, positive.

Though Carrington (1956, p. 25) calls Paulina an inconsistent and undeveloped character, most critics think otherwise; they apparently feel, however, that she cannot be discussed or judged in a vacuum, so they often look at the roles, traditional and otherwise, that she plays in WT. Matthews (1913; 1970, p. 338): Paulina plays her part, urged by her own individuality; she never becomes a mere creature of the story, a puppet pulled to and fro by the playwright to compel the forward movement of the plot. Herford (ed. 1916–, p. xxiii): Paulina plays the part of an earthly providence, intervening in the action at its most critical point to forestall disaster and turn the menacing perils to a happy issue. Davies (1939, p. 147): Paulina is carefully and vigorously drawn, and has the sympathy of the audience from her first appearance. . . . She gets the better of Leontes in a very brisk quarrel [963– 1058] and has a fine exit in the same scene. After the supposed death of Hermione . . . she brings Leontes to his senses in a scene of remarkably eloquent verse [1362–1423]. . . . Paulina has remarkable vitality and freshness, and has a part of first-rate importance in the action of the play. Champion (1970, pp. 167–9): Paulina serves . . . to provoke laughter (even during Leontes’ bitterest moments). . . . [168] [She is] angry and indignant . . . a termagant, infuriated by the masculine tyrant who dispenses judgment with such preposterous casuistry. The result is a character totally functional in the narrative itself, but also one who, by her loquacity, provides for the spectator a release from tension in the midst of Leontes’ wrath. . . . [169] Shakespeare creates emotional distance [in the final act] by forcing us to observe the emotions through Paulina, as she, like a puppet-master, stages her greatest scene. Smith (in Evans, ed. 1974, p. 1565): Hermione’s dignified patience requires Sh. to create a Paulina to resist Leontes’s tyranny and defend her mistress’ innocence: In her later manipulation of affairs toward a happy ending, [Paulina] recalls the capable women in the problem comedies. Abartis (1977, pp. 106–7): Paulina is Leontes’s purge, and her guilt-inflicting speeches draw off the anger of the audience from Leontes, whose remorse is so thorough that it has almost [107] become a disease; finally, Paulina’s constant goading makes the audience wish for the complete absolution of Leontes, for his rejection of that neurotic self-punishment.

She sometimes plays the good shrew. Enright (1970, pp. 173, 176): Paulina is formidable, more than a bit of a shrew. . . . [176] Lest we should conceive of her as a termagant wholly and solely, Paulina is given, among her plain speaking, a faint touch of that gentleness and temperate tone which she preserves throughout. Hartwig (1970; 1972, pp. 105, 116, 134): Paulina plays the shrew to Leontes’s tyrant in the first half of the play, confessor to Leontes’s penitent in the last; in the statue scene (p. 116), Paulina achieves, with the confident skill of a good stage director, or a good playwright, the fusion of illusion and reality into joyful truth. . . . [134] Since Antigonus had earlier been a surrogate victim for Camillo, absorbing the blame and the duty that Leontes would have cast upon Camillo, it is now the best of all comic conclusions to allow Camillo the opportunity to replace Antigonus. Paulina’s tongue has a new victim and Leontes is free at last. Summers (1984, pp. 30–1): Paulina is the choral, fearless truth-teller who denounces abused authority and madness. . . . [31] [She descends] from a long line of comic stage shrews who reduce to absurdity masculine claims to superior authority. Paulina, however, is not simply the wilful shrew, but the good shrew who happily takes on the duty of stating truth [see 855 ff.]. Wayne (1985, p. 182): Paulina is Sh.’s refashioning of the shrew. The transformation from unregenerate agent of discord . . . to a regenerative agent for concord occurs because Sh. permits her to upset the marital hierarchy and . . . create concord through discord. If Paulina destroys her own husband and marriage, that is not as important as what she creates—a concord that is also marital . . . even familial, and well worth saving. Davies (1986, pp. 169–71): Paulina is a central and little understood figure . . . who both delivers the child and mediates between male and female figures. . . . [170] Paulina is Hermione’s attendant, her shadow, her voice, her devoted follower. Only to the unseeing Leontes is Paulina a mankind witch [982] though . . . we do see, or rather hear, what he means. . . . [171] As shrew [Paulina] invites derision; as the haranguing voice of conscience . . . she claims our respect. . . . In the latter phase of action, she provides the initiate with the means of final enlightenment.

Pearson (1979, pp. 195–210) offers a dark, but questionable, interpretation: Leontes superimposes upon the character of Paulina that of the urban witch who provides (p. 196) refuge for young ladies of good family whose amorous adventures had led to pregnancy and preserves their chaste image by disposing of the evidence against it, often by abandoning the babes on doorsteps. . . . Most frequently, she was old or middle-aged; her functions as bawd, madame and matchmaker were a natural development of youthful prostitution. Leontes reviles Paulina (p. 201) as a mankind witch and a most intelligencing bawd [982–3]. . . . [202] Leontes’ acceptance of his single state, except Paulina find him a wife . . . places Paulina in the role of procuress. . . . [204] In accepting Paulina’s condition—that only she can procure a wife for him—Leontes himself prepares the way for the role she assumes in the final scene . . . [in which] a necromantic conjuring is an archetypal possibility. . . . [210] Paulina as urban witch functions as the most sustained example in [WT] of mankind’s universal propensity to make wrong judgments. By introducing the archetype and building it to a climax in the final scene, only to eliminate it completely, Shakespeare has forced his audience to participate in the misconception of taking appearance for reality.

Roberts (1991, pp. 161, 163): Paulina claims special consideration as the voice of truth [who] insists on the . . . falsity of Leontes’s accusations. Through the sixteen years that follow on Leontes’s (p. 163) fatal rejection of wife and daughter, Paulina . . . has become [his] unquestioned mentor and subjected him to a long process of reeducation.

Perdita

Perdita is occasionally treated as one of a foursome, along with Marina (Per.), Imogen (Cym.), and Miranda (Tmp.). Brandes (1898, 2:272): Perdita and the other young women of the romances suffer grievous wrongs, and are in no case cherished as they deserve; but their charm, purity and nobility of nature triumph over everything. . . . The foulness of life has no power to defile them. Wilson (ed. 1931, p. xxvi): Perdita stands out—as all the maidens in these later plays stand out—in a simple, almost divine dignity. Cook (1991, pp. 37–8): To assume that the vulnerable young heroines of Shakespeare’s late plays are entering upon courtship, marriage, or sexual activity at the usual age inevitably lessens the sense of wonder and distance the romances should evoke. But even modern audiences need only consider the effect of a twenty-five-year-old Marina or Perdita or Miranda to see the shattering difference that would result. Could a grown woman convincingly preside, like Perdita, as an innocent virginal queen over sheepshearing rites where [38] earthy hanky-panky provides half the fun? Webster (1942; 1955, p. 278) thinks not: She [Perdita] is sixteen or she is nothing.

In discussing Perdita specifically, critics focus not on her youth but on other estimable qualities that destine her to remain for ages unrivalled as a character (Douce, 1807, 1:364). Furnivall (1877, p. xcii): Perdita is endowed with all that is pure and holy. . . . The mind delights to linger [on her], and does so with happiness. Jameson (1889; 1967, pp. 141–4): She possesses a beautiful combination of the pastoral with the elegant, of simplicity with elevation, of spirit with sweetness. . . . [142] The impression of her perfect beauty and airy elegance of demeanour is conveyed in two exquisite passages [cites 1951–9 and 2185–8]. The artless manner in which her innate nobility of soul shines forth through her pastoral disguise is brought before us at once [cites 1975–9]. Her natural loftiness of spirit breaks out where she is menaced and reviled by the king as one whom [143] his son has degraded himself by merely looking on. . . . Perdita has another characteristic, which lends to the poetical delicacy of the delineation a certain strength and moral elevation which is peculiarly striking. It is that sense of truth and rectitude, that upright simplicity of mind, which disdain all crooked and indirect [144] means, which would not stoop for an instant to dissemblance, and is mingled with a noble confidence in her love and in her lover. Clark (1936, p. 71) repeats Jameson’s observations. Bryant (1955; 1961, p. 218): From the beginning there is more to Perdita than meets the eye. . . . [She] is herself the fairy gold that transforms all who come within her range. Marsh (1962; 1980, p. 143): Perdita’s beauty, her vitality, and her freshness and honesty are at once suggested by the image of Spring with which she is introduced by Florizel [quotes 1799–1800]. She is the bringer of Spring, the renewer of life and . . . she is invested with the freshness and delicate beauty of the daffodils. Pyle (1969, p. 82): Perdita has that clearness of judgement with which Shakespeare customarily endows his girl-lovers. . . . Shakespeare has an unfailing sense of the fitness of things. . . . The inequality of their rank troubles her, not because she feels herself unworthy of Florizel, but because it must incline the king against their marriage. It is plain that if she had felt herself unworthy her common sense would itself have opposed all thoughts of the match.

Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 26–7): In Pandosto, Fawnia’s thoughts, when she finds herself in love with the Prince, . . . dwell mainly on the difference of rank between them. Where for Perdita the difference forges dread [1817] because it threatens the continuance of their relationship, Fawnia sees her love for the Prince as a violation of the order of nature, and therefore likely to have dire consequences. As she is preoccupied with social [27] rank, what pleases her most about the projected marriage to Dorastus is the thought of one day becoming queen. . . . We are worlds away from Perdita. Peterson (Time, 1973, pp. 172, 174): Perdita resists Florizel’s request that she enter and enjoy the world of illusion. . . . She may wear the robes of Flora, but she refuses to assume the goddess’s identity. Her refusal is initial proof of the innocence and integrity of her love. . . . [174] Her refusal to surrender to holiday folly confirms that she is not, as Polixenes fears, an angler for his son’s affections. Harding (1979, p. 59): Perdita has such qualities as tenderness, sympathy, creativeness, faithful love. Through her, the play affirms that these qualities are among the possibilities of human nature, and further that they may be united with sexual attraction and life-enhancing freshness. . . . We can take [Sh.] to assert that these qualities . . . are part of the human potential and, in the convention of European culture, to be looked for especially in women. Cook (1980, pp. 54, 58): Perdita’s most single striking quality is her true innocence, which is not to be confused with ignorance. Perdita positively [shines] with goodness. . . . [She is] never prissy, never dull. . . . [58] Perdita is a delight. She is loved and loving, she is the queen of the shepherds’ feast day, a true and natural princess.

Natural, for some critics, refers primarily to her country upbringing. Smeaton (1911, p. 509): In Perdita, sincerity, sweetness, beauty, and graciousness meet. Absolutely unsophisticated, because she has always lived face to face with the grand elemental verities of nature, so sincere and guileless, moreover, that she hates false colours in men and women, and false (or forced) hues in flowers, Perdita delights in the sight of general happiness. Stoll (1937; 1966, p. 102): Perdita is innocently familiar with the ways of great creating nature [1898], sprightly and humorous, exquisite and tender! She is also earthy, joyous, girlishly charming, buoyant, resilient, and so forth. Mahood (1957, p. 163): If Perdita is full of grace in every meaning of the word, she owes that upbringing to the two old peasants. Polixenes’ praise of the custom of grafting a gentler Sien, to the wildest stocke [1904] is vivid dramatic irony, not only because he is shortly going to repudiate his theory when his son seeks to marry a shepherdess, but because Perdita’s upbringing has been just such a fruitful grafting. Pafford (ed. 1963, p. lxxviii): She is peasant, matter-of-fact, and down-to-earth. . . . Perdita has plenty of natural good sense; she is by no means stupid or vacant, for there can be no true charm where there is no understanding vitality in the eyes.

Other critics use the term natural in reference to Perdita’s intrinsic superiority. Armstrong (1969, p. 67): Full grown, Perdita, Queen of the feast, her royal origin proclaiming itself even in rural exile, is an intensely attractive figure, partly because of spontaneity and warm generous sensuality. Berkeley & Karimipour (1985, pp. 90–3): Perdita, a princess of the best blood raised in low condition, illustrates that good blood is obviously the essence, the transmitter of human excellence. Perdita’s royal blood ensures the retention of (p. 91) all her wonderful characteristics even in deprivation; it is further indicated by her beauty, (p. 92) angelic intelligence, sweet and refined speech, highly developed sense of tact, (p. 93) lack of condescension to her supposed family, and disdain of indecencies. Adams (1989, pp. 107–8): The daughter of royalty, Perdita is instinctively, naturally, recognized as superior to her humble adopted environment. By genetic inheritance, presumably, she talks a different dialect than her brother. . . . Though the audience bravely agrees, for the moment, that the sun shines on rich and poor alike, it would not be satisfied if this peerless [108] piece of earth married a common shepherd-clown. It will not be satisfied until, recognized socially as an authentic princess, she is united with her natural social equal, an authentic prince who proves his passion for her by being willing to give up his princedom.

For a few critics, no such distinctions are possible. Hudson (1848, 1:331–2): Perdita has native intelligence as distinguished from artificial acquirements, and inborn dignity bursting through all the disadvantages of the humblest station. . . . [332] The graces of the princely and the simplicities of the pastoral character seem striving which shall express her loveliest. Schücking (1922; 1948, p. 246): Perdita is a child of nature, a king’s daughter who has grown up among simple shepherd folk. But she keeps within the limits of realism, and is, moreover, endowed with the whole wealth of personal touches which go to make up a Shakespearean character. She is modest, unassuming, not submissive, however, but independent, full of natural dignity, frank, gay, adroit, sparkling with youthful vivacity, intelligent, with all sorts of carefully cultivated little interests, possessed of that instinctive knowledge of the world which is so truly feminine, profound, sincere, full of genuine feeling and tender reverence, confident and brave. What an intense and exuberant vitality! Cohen (in Greenblatt, ed. 1982, p. 130): Perdita serves . . . [to unite] court with country and upper class with lower because she is the product of her innate nobility but also of sixteen years of life with the Shepherd and the Clown.

Many critics think Perdita’s virtues reflect Hermione’s part in her. Hudson (1848, 1:332–3): With the same delicacy and chastity of honour as her mother, she has less sternness and severity of carriage. . . . [333] With her mother’s depth, intensity and calmness of feeling, no perturbations can reach her. Nor does he later (ed. 1852, 4:18–19) see reason to change his mind. Hall (1871, p. 245): Perdita possesses fully the nature of her mother. She has the same calm dignity, the same repose, the same resignation and power of self-denial. Both mentally and in her physical aspect, she is a true copy of the wronged Hermione. Snider (c. 1890, pp. 489–90): We may see in her conduct, flashes of the supreme maternal characteristic—long-suffering; she is always the possibility of an Hermione. She would be able to endure to the last, were the call made upon her; whenever the flint of trial strikes upon her simple girl-life, sparkles of courage fill the air. . . . She is her mother as a young maiden. . . . With the quiet strength and deep ethical feeling of Hermione, she combines all the warmth and simplicity of youthful love. . . . [490] Perdita . . . is thus the connecting link between the two main groups. Brooke (1905; 1913, p. 274): Perdita has admirable native intellect. . . . [The] sight of the knot of a difficulty is always clear, and so is her solution of it. This is the mother’s intellect in the child. . . . In this handing down of similarity of character, Shakespere is perhaps scientifically and certainly poetically right; and he supports this idea of his throughout the rest of the play. Perdita, with a difference, descends from her mother. Tillyard (1938; 1962, pp. 46–7): Other parts of her character are a deep-seated [47] strength and ruthless common sense. . . . It is through Perdita’s magnificence that we accept as valuable the new life into which the play is made to issue. . . . She is Hermione’s true daughter and prolongs in herself those regenerative processes which in her mother have suffered a temporary eclipse. Only Webster (1942; 1955, p. 278) disagrees: The fact that Perdita is the image of her mother is the least important thing about her. She brings with her a new world, as far from Leontes’ Sicily as May from December.

Some critics, tempted to dwell on possible flaws in Perdita, easily find reason not to, leaving the perfect princess intact. Inchbald (ed. 1808, 3:6): Quite as improbable as the unprovoked jealousy of Leontes is that the gentle, the amiable, the tender Perdita, should be an unconcerned spectator of the doom which menaced her father; and carelessly forsake him in the midst of his calamities. Lloyd (1894, p. 167): The eagerness of the Shepherd and the Clown to avoid Polixenes’s wrath by disclaiming responsibility for Perdita acquits her of ingratitude as well as presumption in moving easily towards the superior rank due to her nature as to her descent. Her own courage and collectedness at once place her in contrast to the bewildered and frightened hinds, and bring her worthily into sympathy with the patience and self-support of her brave mother Hermione. Matthews (1913; 1970, pp. 339–40): Perdita is more than the story requires. She is one of Shakespeare’s most enchanting heroines. She may be lauded by other characters in the play and her beauty may be praised by all who gaze upon it. But she is not dependent for her charm upon any eulogy from others. She speaks for herself; she is what she is . . . an ideal of ineffable maidenhood. Though she (p. 340) falls from grace once, in deserting her supposed father when he is threatened with death, this is only what one must expect in a dramatic-romance.

Polixenes

Polixenes does not create much of a critical stir. Occasionally he is treated lightly. Wigston ([1884?], p. 13): Polixenes includes in himself a great element of Time; for he unites through his issue, the circle he unwittingly broke. A few critics nearly dismiss him. Smeaton (1911, p. 508): Polixenes is altogether a slighter character [than Leontes], one of these amorous, kindly-dispositioned men who can refuse nothing to a woman. Carrington (1956, p. 21): He does not make so strong an impression as Leontes even though he is Leontes in reverse—getting worse as Leontes gets better.

Critics see a major flaw in his character when they fix on his behavior at Leontes’s court. Mark Taylor (1982, pp. 37–8): Polixenes’s speech to Hermione about the days before he and Leontes met their wives (141–5) is ill-mannered and boorish. . . . Polixenes’ rudeness in blaming her and his own wife for his and Leontes’ fall from grace is nearly inexcusable, while the implication that [Polixenes] could have remained sexually indifferent forever had not his wife grown into womanhood is strange and unnatural. Polixenes (p. 38) reveals a profound fear and loathing of female sexuality, before which he is humanly inadequate. Keeton (1930; 1967, p. 153) cannot altogether acquit Polixenes of cowardice, for he thinks only of his own skin and does not consider the probable effect of his flight upon Hermione. Pyle (1969, p. 25): The action of the play depends on [Hermione] being left to face the music alone, and Polixenes must therefore be lowered in our esteem. . . . But in view of his respect and admiration for Hermione we are bound to make excuses for him, and to remind ourselves that in flying for his life he does what we have blamed Leontes for not doing—he takes the advice of the wise Camillo. Enright (1970, pp. 170–1): That Polixenes and Camillo should make their escape so expeditiously, leaving Hermione merely because it is difficult to see how their continued presence would help her at all and Polixenes is in mortal danger in Sicilia, (p. 171) does not induce us to admire him.

Yet his violent behavior at the sheepshearing is not seen as seriously detrimental to the audience’s view of him. Long (1961, pp. 75–8): Polixenes’s anger grows in opposition to the revelry of the scene. . . . [76] As he watches Florizel and Perdita dancing together [1988–9], Polixenes sees their mutual interest only as light dalliance between a prince and an unusually attractive girl. . . . And when Autolycus sings his first peddler’s cry, Polixenes is strengthened in his belief that Florizel is . . . interested in a light love that can be purchased with trinkets [2044–55, 2169–78]. . . . [77] As he observes [the satyrs], time out of mind the symbols of unbridled lust and carnality, Polixenes is struck by another thought. . . . [Perdita] desires [Florizel’s] body as well as his money. . . . Now Perdita becomes in his mind a seductress with stark sexual cravings as her motivation and Prince Florizel as her victim. . . . [78] Well might Polixenes turn savagely on her [cites 2265–70]. Bonjour (1969, pp. 208, 211): Such misbehaviour as Florizel’s [attempted betrothal without Polixenes’s approval] is so unexpected on the part of Polixenes that he cannot explain it rationally; in his eyes his son has not only been seduced by Perdita’s beauty, but in a way bewitched. Hence the very violence of his attack against that bewitching beauty which is the prime cause of all his troubles. But Polixenes’s corresponding threats against Perdita’s beauty (p. 211) remain entirely hypothetical, and we never have the impression that Perdita’s death is imminent, or really at stake. Williamson (1986, p. 151): At the sheepshearing, Polixenes is forced to deal with the problem of the obedience of an adult child, a special burden to the father who is king because on the child’s marriage depends the future of the realm. . . . [Polixenes is] deeply shaken by his son’s behavior, both because Florizel casually anticipates his father’s death (an oedipal wish for power without rivalry for the mother’s love) and because he refuses to consider revealing his match with Perdita to his father.

Shepherd and Clown

These two characters are sometimes dismissed succinctly. Douce (1807, 1:363): The Clown is a mere country booby. Schlegel (1808; 1846, p. 397): Perdita’s foster-father and his son are both made simple boors, that we may the more distinctly see how all that ennobles her belongs only to herself. Williams (1967, p. 7): The shepherd and his son are what the Elizabethans called natural, that is, mentally incapable of any art.

Other critics are less terse if no more admiring. Lloyd (1894, p. 167): The unhesitating selfishness of the old man and his son at the approach of danger, though otherwise they are creditable rustics enough, the singleness of their anxiety to save their own skins from royal vengeance, by proving the foundling none of their blood, without any thought of her fate and fortune, belongs to the revulsions that characterize the play. Schanzer (ed. 1969, pp. 20–1): The Clown, though a masterpiece of comic portraiture, provides a contrast between the two generations . . . by no means favourable to the young. The response of father and son to the good fortune that befalls both at the end of the play shows that (p. 21) the old Shepherd [represents] traditional rustic virtues . . . while his son . . . is shown to be made of a much cheaper metal. Nelson (1973, p. 57): An element of greed in the Shepherd is a dark quality, but it is not sustained enough to produce tragedy and is finally subsumed by the . . . overpowering activity of the idealized Perdita.

Some critics admire the old Shepherd. Marsh (1962; 1980, p. 141): The Shepherd takes up the abandoned baby for pity [1517] and obviously has what Leontes lacks—common humanity, a respect for life, and a joy in seeing it perpetuated. Berry (1965, pp. 96–7): The old Shepherd’s speech about his late wife as hostess of the sheepshearing (1860–67) provides a particularly penetrative insight into the Shepherd’s character . . . his humanity . . . and also something about his history. . . . He sound[s] the golden tradition of the Bohemian-Arcadia myth when he remembers the (p. 97) golden past. Lindenbaum (1972, p. 19): This old man is endowed by Sh. with nearly as much dignity as Perdita herself. Battenhouse (1980, p. 134): The Shepherd’s half-prophetic insight leads both Shepherd and Clown to take the fardel to Polixenes. In this action, they reflect St Paul’s idea that freedom from the law is possible by sights that transcend human custom, and though they are only dimly aware of a higher mystery, they travel with a faith that the tokens will reveal it and they are willing to offer Autolycus their gold, and even put the clown in pawn, in pursuit of this hope. . . . By their service of patient good will they prove their own inner gentility. Cohen (in Greenblatt, ed. 1982, p. 130): To the extent that [Perdita] sums up the movement of the play, [the Shepherd and the Clown] bear half the meaning of [WT]. . . . They assert or practice a series of values that link them to nature and to Perdita, in this way providing a commentary on the court. Finally, their thinking reveals a synthetic [coalescing] impulse that anticipates Perdita’s role and that is socially ratified in their elevation to courtiers at the end of the play.

The Winter’s Tale on the Stage

Performances

Six performances of WT in the 17th c. can be identified with certainty. On 15 May 1611 Simon Forman visited the Globe Th. to see WT acted by the King’s Men (Chambers, 1923, 2:216). Court records attest to a further five performances by the King’s Men at the First and Second Banqueting Houses, Whitehall: 5 Nov. 1611, in the presence of King James (4:177); 1612–13, in a season of 14 plays in honor of the marriage of Princess Elizabeth and the Elector Palatine and in the presence of Prince Charles, the Princess, and the Elector (4:180); Easter Tuesday, 7 Apr. 1618, in the presence of King James (Chambers, 1930, 2:346); 18 Jan. 1623/4, in the presence of the Duchess of Richmond (2:347); and 16 Jan. 1633/4 (2:352). Chambers suggests that the inclusion of WT in a 1619 MS list of plays drawn up in the Revels Office (see here) may indicate that it was among the plays being considered for performance at Court, c. 1619–20 (2:346); Bentley (1941, 1:95, n. C) calls this suggestion plausible. On 19 Aug. 1623 Sir Henry Herbert, Master of the Revels, issued a license, which may have been for the performance of 18 Jan. 1623/4 (Chambers, 1930, 1:488, 2:347).

Baldwin (1927, ch. 9, chart 4) assigns the parts for the play’s initial performance: Leontes = Richard Burbadge (or Burbage), Autolycus = John Lowin, Shepherd = Henry Cundall (or Condell), Polixenes = William Ostler, Camillo = John Heminges, Florizel = John Underwood, Clown = Robert Armin, Antigonus = Alexander Cooke, Paulina = John Rice, Hermione = James Sands, Perdita = Richard Robinson, Mamillius = Armin’s apprentice. Bartholomeusz (1982, pp. 13, 244, n. 11) accepts Baldwin’s assignment of Leontes, but assigns Autolycus to Armin, Hermione possibly to John Rice, and Paulina to Robinson.

The only contemporary comments on 17th-c. performances are the entry in Forman’s diary and the entry in the court record for 1633–4, which notes that the performance was likt (Chambers, 1930, 2:352). Bartholomeusz (1982, pp. 12–27 passim) conjectures details of early staging and performance (1611–34). He suggests, for example, that in accordance with 379 Polixenes and Hermione actually kiss (p. 18) and that the satyrs would be costumed as were those in Jonson’s Oberon (p. 16); see also n. 2159 and here.

After the Restoration WT was among the 108 Blackfriars plays assigned c. 12 Jan. 1668/9 to Thomas Killigrew’s company (Nicoll, 1923, p. 315). Shattuck (1965, p. 495) catalogs one promptbook, known as the Padua promptbook (anon., c. 1640), and a preparation copy (1670s) attributed to actor-director Joseph Ashbury, Smock Alley, Dublin. Evans (1963, 2.1:23) describes the Padua WT as an unfinished cutting of the play, one which could never have reached production. Earlier (1960, 1.1:8–9) he had suggested assigning it to Sir Edward Dering and his group of amateur actors, who performed in the 1620s; subsequently (1967, p. 239), however, he considered the Dering provenience questionable, though still not impossible and suggested (p. 242) that the promptbook might have belonged to some kind of splinter group touring the provinces or abroad shortly before the closing of the theatres in 1642 or during the interregnum. Bartholomeusz (1982, p. 14) discusses the Padua promptbook as the first in the traditions of cutting away the fat from WT yet also of embellishing it with music cues.

WT and its adaptations, chiefly those by Macnamara Morgan and David Garrick, were performed in London 112 times in the 18th c. In the period 1701–50, WT played 14 times in two seasons. Between 1751 and 1800, adaptations dominated; they account for all but two of the 98 performances in 29 seasons. The revivals and adaptations were popular choices for benefits (45 performances), and they were played at the command of their majesties twice and of the Prince of Wales thrice (Van Lennep et al., 1960–8, passim; Schneider, 1979). Shattuck (1987, 2:120) lists one anonymous, late-18th-c. promptbook, made on Tonson’s 1758 ed. of Garrick’s alteration.

It is not always possible to determine whose adaptation was performed. For example, the performance at Covent Garden 12 Mar. 1774 has been described both as altered by Garrick (Hogan, 1957, 2:682) and as seem[ing] to be some adaptation of Garrick’s Florizel and Perdita (Stone, 1962, 4:1792). Dash (1971) and Pedicord (1981) speculate about the adapter of versions performed from the late 1750s to the early 1770s, including an abbreviated Garrick version that eliminates Hermione. Dash (p. 154, n. 13) lists performances of versions attributed to more than one adapter.

Before Garrick’s version captured the stage, an unadapted WT, announced as Not Acted these Hundred Years, was revived at Goodman’s Fields on 15 Jan. 1741 between two parts of a concert; it played 8 times in January and once in April. Manager Henry Giffard, as Leontes, led the cast (Scouten, 1961, 3:847, 881). The next season Covent Garden revived WT for a further five performances, the first at the command of the Prince and Princess of Wales (Scouten, 1961, 3:942). The final performance, on 21 Jan. 1742, presages the next chapter in WT’s stage history: A New Grand Ballet call’d the Rural Assembly was presented with all new habits and other decorations proper to the entertainment and with an expanded cast: Chasseur, Pastors, Shepherdesses, Nymph of the Plain, Old Herdsman, Cottage Nymph, Two Nymphs of the Vale, and a Sylvan (Scouten, 1961, 3:961). This elaboration of the sheepshearing scene anticipated the adaptations that would dominate the second half of the century.

The first of these was Morgan’s popular Florizel and Perdita; or, The Sheep Shearing, an afterpiece in two acts with music by Thomas Arne, which played at Covent Garden and Drury Lane for approximately 25 performances in 12 seasons over a span of 44 years, from its premiere, 25 Mar. 1754, to its last performance, 12 May 1798. Morgan’s adaptation cuts the Sicilian scenes. He introduces Pan to sing Shepherds hear the voice of Pan at the rural feast and a priest to solemnize the marriage of Florizel and Perdita. Writing about the performance at Covent Garden on 24 March 1761, Genest (1832, 4:626) observes that this piece seems to have been turned into an Opera to suit the prevailing taste of this theatre. More bluntly, Archer (1887, p. 512) describes it as nothing but the fourth act [of WT], torn from its context and written up by a forgotten playwright.

More popular than Morgan’s adaptation, Garrick’s version in three acts, originally announced as The Winter’s Tale but also known as Florizel and Perdita, played over 60 times in 18 seasons between 1756 and 1795. During its first season it was performed 13 times; during the season of 1779–80, it was the second most popular show in the repertoire, playing 15 times, just three fewer than Sheridan’s hit The School for Scandal. Garrick based his adaptation on Acts 3, 4, and 5; conflated several gentlemen to create Rogero, taking the name from WT 3031; truncated the statue scene; and added speeches (see here). Michael Arne wrote The Sheep-Shearing Song for Susanna Cibber, who created Garrick’s Perdita. In many productions thereafter, Perdita, another character, or a vocalist performed Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear. William Charles Macready cut the song in 1837 (Shattuck, 1965, no. 8).

Garrick’s masterly (Davies, 1808, 1:314) Leontes introduced the business of stepping back when Hermione comes down from the pedestal. Descending from the temple, Hannah Pritchard’s inimitable Hermione presented a countenance . . . serene and composed (Universal Museum, Feb. 1762). The reference to the temple and the engraving based on Robert Edge Pine’s portrait of Pritchard in which she wears a cross in 5.3 (see below) associate Hermione for the first time with Christian iconography. Cibber’s delightful grace (Murphy, 1801, 1:286) and neat simplicity in singing (Genest, 1832, 4:446) created a Perdita unrivaled until 1845. Margaret Martyr, who had played Mopsa (May 1785), was the first actress to play Florizel as a breeches part.

Less successful were The Sheep-Shearing; or, Florizel and Perdita, an adaptation by George Colman the Elder, which was performed in summer seasons at the Haymarket, once in 1777 and twice in 1783, and a revival of Sh.’s unaltered WT, not acted for 30 years, which played twice at Covent Garden, 24 Apr. 1771 and 4 May 1772, for the benefit of Thomas Hull, who prepared the text and first doubled Camillo and Time (Stone, 1962, 4:1543). Adaptations played in such provincial cities as Dublin as early as 1754 (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 29). The first American performance was at the John St. Th., New York, 1795 (Odell, 1927, 1:391–2).

Eighteenth-century illustrations reveal details of possible costuming and stage design; portraits and engravings of actresses as Hermione may shed light on the performers’ interpretations of the role. John Zoffany painted Elizabeth Farren as Hermione (c. 1780; see Highfill et al., 1978, 5:163). Engravings portray Pritchard as Hermione in 5.3 (1765; see Highfill et al., 1987, 12:178), Elizabeth Hartley as Hermione in 5.3 (Gentleman, 2nd ed., 1775), Isabella Mattocks as Hermione in 717–19 (Hull, in Gentleman, ed. 1774), Richard Yates as Autolycus in 4.3 (Garrick, ed. 1785), and the discovery of Perdita in 3.3 (Gent, ed. 1773). See also Merchant (1959, pp. 208–20).

In the first half of the 19th c., actor-managers gradually restored much of Sh.’s text (see here), attempted historical accuracy in costume and scenic design, and filled out the stage picture in scenes such as 1.1 and 3.2 with numerous silent characters. Kemble, who had included Garrick’s adaptation in his first season as manager of Drury Lane (1788) and then dropped the adaptation from the repertoire, produced WT at Drury Lane on 25 Mar. 1802 (11 performances) and revived the production at Covent Garden in 1807 (6 performances) and 1811 (several performances [Shattuck, 1974, 9.3:1; Genest, 1832, 8:286–97 passim lists five performances in 1811–12]). Shattuck (1974, 9.3:iii) catalogs five promptbooks for the production, in which Kemble played Leontes and Sarah Siddons Hermione.

Kemble’s only uncomplimentary critic, Anon. (1802), complains about the visual confusion caused by the designers, who mixed historical periods in the properties and costumes for the newly restored Sicilian scenes. Kemble’s staging of 3.2, which introduced properties emblematic of regal power and more than 40 extras, became the dominant model imitated or modified by 19th-c. actor-managers. By making Leontes and his court the focus of a formal stage picture and by placing Hermione and her three female attendants at the greatest possible distance from Leontes, Kemble intensified the emotional distance between the king and his falsely accused queen. To reinforce visually the shift from the public trial to Leontes’s private remorse, Kemble broke 3.2 after Hermione is borne off by the women (1334 approximately) and played the rest of 3.2 as a new scene in Leontes’s closet.

Kemble’s production influenced Charles Young (Covent Garden, 1819), William Charles Macready (Drury Lane, 1823), John Vandenhoff (Drury Lane, 1834), Samuel Phelps and Amelia Warner (Sadler’s Wells, 1845), and Warner (Marylebone Th., 1847). Warner had played Hermione for Macready at Drury Lane and for Phelps at Sadler’s Wells, and her WT was one of the most successful productions of her management of the Marylebone (Odell, 1931, 6:123). The Theatre Royal Bristol also based its productions of 1819 and 1824 on Kemble’s version.

Between 3 Nov. 1823 and 30 May 1843, Macready, who had first played Leontes in Bath in 1815 (Pollock, 1875, 1:113), revived WT for seven seasons at Drury Lane and three at Covent Garden. In 1837 Macready altered Kemble’s staging of 3.2 to make the stage picture less formal and more appropriate to Macready’s interpretation of Leontes (see here). In 1837 he also excised Garrick’s additions to the text and introduced Helen Faucit, who would become the most acclaimed Hermione since Siddons.

Phelps and Warner’s revival, which opened 29 Nov. 1845 for a season of 45 performances, played a total of 137 times in nine seasons at Sadler’s Wells, where it closed on 29 Sept. 1862 (Allen, 1971, pp. 314–15). Indebted to Kemble’s production as modified by Macready in 1837, Phelps was evidently the first to give WT a wholly Grecian setting (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 65). More significantly, Phelps was the first producer to demonstrate the advantages of staging WT in a theater smaller than Covent Garden and Drury Lane. In the more intimate Sadler’s Wells Th., actors conveyed more effectively the thoughts and emotions in Sh.’s poetry (pp. 78–9).

The tradition of substituting a poetry of scenery for the poetry of language in WT (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 98), which was to dominate the second half of the 19th c., began with Charles Kean at the Princess Th. on 28 Apr. 1856. Kean (1856, p. ix) claims that the text had been carefully preserved throughout; in fact, he omitted 62% of Sh.’s script (Wilson, 1985, p. 2), presented the Sicilian scenes as tableaux vivants of the private and public life of the ancient Greeks (Kean, p. vi), and set the Bohemian scenes in the more barbaric and primitive splendours of . . . Asia Minor (Merchant, 1959, p. 211). A popular success, Kean’s production ran for 102 consecutive performances. The cast included Kean as Leontes, Ellen Terry as Mamillius, and Ellen Kean as Hermione.

Kean’s tableaux vivants included a sumptuous farewell banquet in honor of Polixenes (1.2), at which 36 youths performed a Pyrrhic dance. Kean set 3.2 in the theater at Syracuse and filled the stage with more than 170 extras, including 45 children. Time, last seen in London productions in 1771 carrying his scythe and glass, was transformed into Cronus; Cronus, Luna, the stars, and Phoebus presented an elaborate, three-part allegory of the passage of time. The statue scene opened with a procession by torchlight (Standard, 1 May 1856) including six principals and more than 100 extras. Kean intensified Garrick’s response to the moving statue (see above here): in his more public scene, As she slowly raises her hand, all shrink backwards (Shattuck, 1965, no. 19).

Kean’s influence spread to the provinces, where it was greater than in London, and to the US. Faint echoes (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 185) of the banquet in 1.2 can be discerned as late as 1958 (see below, here). Wells (1962, p. 78) discusses two theatrical burlesques [of 1856] both aimed, to some extent, at this production. William Burton’s were the first significant productions in the US. His first (Burton’s Th., New York, 1851), about which little is known, featured Warner as Hermione. His next (Burton’s Th., 1856) achieved a measure of independence from London. Anticipating by two months Kean’s restoration of Time, Burton staged him as the traditional figure, carrying a scythe and hour glass. Burton was the first to stage Act 1 before a backdrop of Mt. Etna, which erupted along with Leontes’s jealousy. At least one other production (that of the Saxe-Meiningen Co., which performed WT in London in 1881) provided a view of Etna to locate the play in Sicilia (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 115). In 1857, reviving WT at the larger New Th., Broadway, Burton retained some elements from 1856 (Mt. Etna and an English setting for the Bohemian scenes, for example), incorporated elements from Kean’s production (such as the Pyrrhic dance and the theater at Syracuse), and expanded Kean’s allegory of the passage of time by adding such spectacle as a display of the zodiacal signs and the personification of the Four Seasons (Playbill).

Charles and Adelaide Calvert (Prince’s Th., Manchester, 1869) borrowed from and adapted Kean’s version and introduced spectacle and effects that their successors would in turn borrow from them. Leontes’s defiance of the oracle as meere falsehood (1322) provoked a sudden storm, with thunder, &c.—great consternation (Calvert, ed. 1869). The Calverts’ most important contribution was to extend to the entire 5th act the religious tone that Pritchard had introduced into Garrick’s statue scene. Accompanied by an incense-bearing attendant and mourners singing a hymn in praise of the dead, Leontes offered oblations of incense and flowers at the mausoleum of Hermione and Mamillius, set in a sacred grove. The Calverts placed 5.3 in a small temple and ended the production with a paean, sung by the court. At Booth’s, New York, Lawrence Barrett presented in 1871 40 performances of WT derivative of Kean and the Calverts (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 111).

In the preface to his 1876 ed. (p. v), Edward Saker (Alexander Th., Liverpool, 1876), who had been an exceedingly humourous Clown in Kean’s production (Times, 1 May 1856), thanks Ellen Kean, who had lent Kean’s promptbook, and Calvert, who had volunteered suggestions. Saker’s revival was an elaboration of Kean’s version, with less text and more spectacle (Jackson, 1978, p. 102). To Kean’s Bithynia (Bohemia), with its sheep and goats, he introduced real trees . . . real water (p. 102); to the Calverts’ thunderbolt he added a weird lighting effect, a pale, steel-blue radiance . . . [of] ghastly but intense light at the point from which the thunderbolt had come (p. 103).

In 1878, 22 years after Kean’s production, WT returned to London with effects borrowed from Kean, Calvert, and Saker. F. B. Chatterton’s magnificent and instructive spectacle (Times, 30 Sept. 1878) at Drury Lane, however, was neither a critical nor a financial success.

The last major production of WT of the 19th c., by the American actress Mary Anderson, opened in Nottingham, was transferred to the Lyceum (1887), and toured the US (1888). Although it was unpopular with the critics, it was the longest-running production of the 19th c., including 164 nights in London (Bartholomeusz, 1982, pp. 116–17). It influenced the first WT at Stratford-upon-Avon (1895; see below) and Viola Allen’s production in New York (1904). Forbes-Robertson was Leontes. Anderson’s heavily cut text reduced the running time to 2 hours, 8 minutes, and five acts to thirteen scenes. The chief novelty of the production was her decision to play both Hermione and Perdita, roles she was the first to double. Anderson retained the Calverts’ storm and Saker’s lighting effect; she modified the religious tone the Calverts had introduced into 5.3.

For the first production at Stratford-upon-Avon, Ben Greet borrowed the music composed for Anderson’s and staged the shepherds’ dance, as nearly as possible a reproduction of Anderson’s (Birmingham Daily Post, 24 Apr. 1895). As had Anderson, Greet excised Kean’s spectacle, such as the allegory of the passage of time, and borrowed the storm introduced by Calvert and enhanced by Saker.

Kemble’s restoration of the Sicilian scenes opened the way for reinterpretation of Leontes and Hermione. Kemble and Siddons established standards by which their successors would be judged, and introduced business their successors would continue or sometimes modify. The 19th-c. actor was expected to retain Leontes’s regal bearing (the dignity of the King) while revealing his jealousy (the emotions of the man) (Daily Advertiser, 12 May 1807). On the occasion of Kemble’s retirement, Hazlitt (Times, 25 June 1817, in Howe, 1930, 5:377) recalled his fine playing of the growing jealousy of the King, and the exclusive possession which this passion gradually obtains over his mind. Kemble’s delivery of 377–89 marked the development of Leontes’s conviction of and despair at Hermione’s adultery. Leontes’s entrance in 2.1 with 17 men shattered the domestic atmosphere; a courtier named Thasius, not one of the anonymous officers or guards, obeyed Leontes’s order to remove Mamillius (Shattuck, 1965, no. 3); and a chilling annotation directs Leontes to throw Mamillius over to Thasius (Shattuck, 1965, no. 4).

Although some reviewers in 1823 complained about Macready’s giving Leontes an inappropriate stammer, about his rewriting of lines, and about his incomprehensibly rapid delivery, the assessment was predominantly complimentary. In Macready’s performance, which gave the king less of dignity than Kemble had done, the incipient jealousy . . . gradually ripening into a conviction of his consort’s guilt, and finally terminating in bitter hatred, was traced through all its tortuous ramifications (Times, 4 Nov. 1823). Macready’s numerous changes in stage position in 1.2, recorded in James R. Anderson’s partbook for Florizel and for Leontes (for whom he was understudy), testify to Macready’s restless energy (Shattuck, 1965, no. 8). His energy and fire (Times, 4 Nov. 1823) illuminated, especially, the statue scene, which reviewers applauded unanimously. His burst of emotion on recovering his long-lost Hermione . . . was very finely conceived and executed, observed The Examiner (1823). Modifying Garrick’s business, Macready retreated from the statue when Paulina said she could awaken it. When the statue seemed to move, he appeared for a time annihilated; lost in amazement, and love, and joy. But when she descended from the pedestal and moved forward a few paces, the persuasion that she is a thing of life becomes irresistible, and . . . he rushes convulsively into her embraces (Morning Post, 2 Oct. 1837). Looking back on the statue scene, Helen Faucit, by then Lady Martin, recalled Macready’s passionate joy [that] seemed beyond control (Blackwood’s Edinburgh Mag., 1891).

In contrast with Macready, who made rapid transitions, Phelps made a gradual transition from one state of mind to another, with an underlying struggle of emotions (Allen, 1971, p. 178). Phelps’s major contribution was to embody Coleridge’s interpretation of Leontes as a man with a genuine jealousy of disposition . . . having certain well known and well defined effects and concomitants (see n. 181–92). Phelps’s creation was not . . . a sympathetic character, and yet it was so convincing on the stage that spectators were held in the grip of the emotions displayed. They felt the climax of the statue scene with a palpable shock (Allen, 1971, pp. 177–8). Bartholomeusz (1982, p. 78): By 1858 . . . Phelps had begun to play Leontes as an ancient Greek king, accommodating his interpretation to the Grecian design.

Kean, the first actor to establish Leontes’s jealousy from the very beginning of 1.2, relied on elaborate visual effects to convey it (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 87). To mark the transition from the irascible tyrant to the dejected sufferer, Kean fainted when Paulina announced Hermione’s death (Shattuck, 1965, no. 21).

As had Kean, Henry B. Irving, in the first production of WT at Stratford-upon-Avon, portrayed Leontes’s jealousy from the moment he stepped on the stage, a gloomy, restless, and irritable man who lacked some degree of dignity (Daily Chronicle, 25 Apr. 1895). At the trial, when he sat upon the throne of Justice, stern, immovable, pitiless, and powerful, he looked the picture of an imperious tyrant whose sole being was actuated by a revengeful spirit (The Sunday Chronicle, 28 Apr. 1895).

A major challenge to the 19th-c. actress was to portray the lighter side of Hermione. The outstanding tragic actress of her generation, Siddons, was not well suited to the playful elegance with which Hermione urges Polixenes (Times, 12 Nov. 1807) and conveyed too much of unbending and freezing dignity in the scene (Times, 29 Nov. 1811). Her performance in the trial scene, in contrast, was praised for her indignation at the groundless charge (Daily Advertiser and Oracle, 26 Mar. 1802) as well as for the eloquence of dignified and insulted innocence with which she defended herself (Morning Advertiser, 12 Nov. 1807). Siddons is best remembered for the statue scene, in which she introduced Grecian drapery and pose and signaled that she was alive by suddenly moving her head when Paulina called for music to awaken her (Boaden, 1825, 2:314).

Helena Faucit, the consummate Victorian Hermione and the most successful of Macready’s four Hermiones, was the first actress to win praise for all of Hermione’s scenes. She conveyed in 1.2 a confiding openness of disposition, frank in its spotless purity, and loving her lord so entirely that she loves nothing else but for his sake. When she rose to defend herself in the trial scene, she forgot all physical weakness in the earnestness of her emotion. As was Macready, Faucit was most celebrated in the statue scene: she descended from the pedestal, with a slow and gliding motion, and wearing the look of a being consecrated by long years of prayer and sorrow and seclusion (The Scotsman, 3 Mar. 1847, in Williamson & Person, 1991, 15:411). Faucit’s innovative costume for this scene, which she describes in her 1 Nov. 1890 letter to Lord Tennyson (Blackwood’s Edinburgh Mag., Jan. 1891, in Williamson & Person, 1991, 15:414–15), dressed Hermione as a living queen, not a marble statue, unlike actresses since Siddons.

Warner introduced to New York (Burton’s Th., 1851) her Victorian interpretation [of Hermione], decorous and subdued (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 101). In the trial scene she conveyed physical weakness and moral power . . . injured innocence and gentlest submission to the hard decrees of fate (Albion, 27 Sept. 1851, in Odell, 1931, 6:124). Undeterred by her husband’s exhaustive historical research, Ellen Kean concealed layers of starched petticoats beneath her Grecian costume (Terry, 1932, p. 15) and, as Faucit and Warner had done, modeled Hermione on an idealized Victorian heroine.

In her memoirs Mary Anderson (1896, p. 244) recalls that she had sought to keep alive the sympathies of the audience with both Hermione and Perdita from beginning to end. Whereas Kemble, Macready, and Kean had added stage business to establish Leontes’s fondness for Mamillius, Anderson added business, such as Hermione’s greeting Mamillius with a kiss and Mamillius’s attempt to present her with flowers, to call attention to the affection shared by Hermione and her son (Shattuck, 1965, no. 28). Anderson also reshaped the text to highlight Hermione’s plight and introduced stunning effects in the trial scene. Her Hermione crouched at the altar during the thunderstorm, and with a grand gesture covered her face with her cloak and collapsed at 1329 (Illustrated London News, 17 Sept. 1887). The scene closed at 1389, with Paulina moaning over the lifeless body of Hermione until the curtain dropped (Shattuck, 1965, no. 28). The London critics, however, were not impressed by Anderson’s doubling of the mother and the daughter, which called more attention to the actor than to the roles, or by the unsatisfactory solution to the problem of presenting both characters in 5.3. Anderson simply cut Perdita’s lines and introduced a strange, veiled, speechless figure, who keeps her back to the audience and who is addressed as Perdita (Times, 12 Sept. 1887).

Freed from the visual tradition represented by Kean and seizing the option of playing a full text, 20th-c. directors gradually developed their own traditions. Sicilian scenes were often set in winter, lighting effects frequently signaled the onset of Leontes’s jealousy, and visual images—such as Mamillius’s nursery toys and the bear—reinforced motifs explored by the production. Seeking a unifying device, some directors introduced characters such as the three gentlemen (5.2) or Time into several scenes; called attention to a phrase, such as A sad Tale’s best for Winter (618) or It is requir’d You doe awake your Faith (3300–1); or created a dominant visual image, such as the change of seasons or the zodiacal signs. Unlike the many directors who contrasted the dominant tones of Sicilia and Bohemia, some, such as Peter Hall (1988) and Adrian Noble (1992), stressed analagous themes and situations. By playing WT in repertoire with other late Shn. works, artistic directors at the Royal Shakespeare Company (1969), the Stratford (Ont.) Shakespeare Festival (1986), and the National Theatre (1988) invited audiences to reexamine individual late plays in the broader context of Sh.’s other late plays. By relocating Sicilia to a society outside the typical audience’s experience, to a place such as a tribal court in the Arctic Circle (1976), directors seemed to suggest that Leontes’s jealousy was alien to the audience’s cultural norms. By locating the action near to the historical era or the geographical location of the audience, other directors, such as Terry Hands (1986), sought an immediacy of action for the emotionally charged issues. Several directors, most notably Robin Phillips (1978) and Hall (1988), questioned the reconciliation of Hermione and Leontes. In the second half of the 20th c. in productions such as David Thacker’s (Young Vic, 1991), Leontes’s private, domestic life overshadowed his public, royal role. As the century wore on, actresses playing Hermione, Paulina, and Perdita had the advantage of working with a fuller text than had their predecessors, whose lines had been reduced. By the end of the 20th c., WT was firmly established in the theatrical canon.

Working in the pictorial tradition of 19th-c. productions, Herbert Beerbohm Tree (His Majesty’s Th., 1906) staged a heavily cut script and reached the limits of spectacular realism . . . on the picture-frame stage (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 130). Unscripted stage business helped to establish location, such as springtime in Bohemia (4.3): Perdita sang at the cottage window; Florizel listened and threw her a posy; Autolycus awakened, hummed Will you buy (2139–44), and washed in the stream; and the Clown entered leading a donkey to drink from the brook (Shattuck, 1965, no. 35), which covered so much of the stage that it seems the merrymakers had chosen a somewhat inconvenient spot for their gambols (Tribune, 3 Sept. 1906). Tree introduced three unifying devices: theme music for Perdita; theme music for interpolated allusions to Apollo as well as at 1312; and additional thunder to mark the stages of Leontes’s jealousy (Bartholomeusz, 1982, pp. 127, 130). Moreover, he took advantage of a special circumstance affecting his female lead. Ellen Terry made her theatrical debut as Mamillius in Charles Kean’s production of The Winter’s Tale in 1856. . . . Tree hit upon the idea of having Miss Terry appear again . . . , this time in the role of Hermione. . . . Tree not only secured a star but created an occasion for his production (Schmitt, 1970, p. 21).

Six years later Harley Granville-Barker (Savoy Th., 1912) played almost a full text (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 139) and explored conventions of Renaissance staging. Granville-Barker altered the Savoy stage to create a platform with a discovery space and replaced the elaborate scenery and properties favored by the 19th c. with simple scene changes and minimal properties (Kennedy, 1993, pp. 71–3). Granville-Barker’s staging innovations allowed continuous action and encouraged an Elizabethan intimacy between actor and audience (Styan, 1977, p. 83). Kennedy (1985, p. 136) ranks the production as one of the four or five most important Shakespearian productions of the 20th century. Granville-Barker recognized the structural importance and stage-worthiness of small roles, such as those of the three gentlemen, whose lines had been reduced or reassigned in the 19th c. and whom he successfully restored (p. 133; Daily Chronicle, 23 Sept. 1912); Time, who had sometimes been cut and sometimes, as in Kean’s production (1856), been part of an allegorical presentation; and the bear, which many 19th-c. productions had cut (see here). The decor was simple: Norman Wilkinson designed two sets—the interior of Leontes’s palace and the exterior of the Old Shepherd’s cottage—and Albert Rothenstein painted drop curtains, which provided varying depths of stage, and which were suggestive of time and place but were not scenically realistic. Rothenstein’s eclectic costumes placed the play in the world of fancy, fantasy, and romance (Kennedy, 1985, pp. 125, 128). Granville-Barker used traditional English music and authentic English country dances only when Sh. called for music or dance (Standard, 21 Sept. 1912). Unlike 19th-c. producers, Granville-Barker directed WT as a human drama concerning ordinary and not semi-heroic creatures (Westminster Gazette, 23 Sept. 1912). For more on this production, see Dymkowski (1986, pp. 39–45).

Directing the first major production after World War II, Anthony Quayle (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1948) owed more to Kean and Tree than to Granville-Barker. Quayle opened his 1.1 during the final moments of a sumptuous entertainment (Shattuck, 1965, no. 51) and closed the scene with a Kean-like Bacchanalia of barbaric intensity (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 203), played a heavily cut text, and closed with a procession and a song in praise of Apollo. A veteran of the Eastern European front, Quayle gave the Sicilian scenes a contemporary resonance by placing them behind the Iron Curtain and introducing a tyrannical ruler. Motley (Sophia Harris, Margaret F. Harris, and Elizabeth Montgomery) designed a blighted landscape and a dimly lit palace decorated with geometrical displays of spears, a celestial globe, and representations of supernatural creatures. The Bohemian scenes were set in the Cotswolds.

In the early 1950s two productions of WT were part of a trend that sought to incorporate Elizabethan staging practices, such as fluid action, into performances of Sh. (Venezky, Productions, 1951, p. 335). At the Comédie Française (1951) a simple, artistic setting of poles and curtains, rearranged to indicate change of place, kept the action in continuous flow (pp. 335, 337). Peter Brook’s landmark production (Phoenix Th., 1951) played on Sophie Fedorovitch’s set of modified upper and inner stages, which assure[d] continuous scenes (p. 335). Brook was influenced by, but made a number of significant departures from, Granville-Barker. For example, he used direct address sparingly (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 172), cut the text (pp. 170, 178), and read 5.3 as the truth of the play, not, like Granville-Barker, as a stage effect (Trewin, 1971, p. 60). Brook’s staging of the transition from 3.3 to 4.2 was acclaimed: the highly effective storm on the seacoast of Bohemia turned into a heavy snowstorm, from which Time emerged. As he spoke, the storm abated and gave way to springtime (Bartholomeuz, 1982, p. 176; see also Rylands, 1953, p. 143, and Trewin, 1951).

On successive days in July 1958, productions in two quite different styles opened at summer festivals in Stratford, Connecticut, co-directed by John Houseman and Jack Landau, and in Stratford, Ontario, directed by Douglas Campbell. Houseman, seeking a style sufficiently formal to give the characters their fairy-tale quality, yet not so remote from life as to negate the human emotions, chose ancient semipolitical, semireligious symbols of the Mediterranean tarot card pack (Houseman, 1983, p. 140).

Campbell’s version, with Tanya Moiseiwitsch’s Rubenesque costumes and props (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 187), included faint echoes of Charles Kean’s celebrated banquet (p. 185) and other business for which there is no textual basis (p. 188). To unify Acts 1–3 with 4–5, Campbell expanded the role of Time, who opened and closed the production and read several minor roles (Christian Century, 29 Oct. 1958; see also Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 188).

Peter Wood’s production (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1960) compared favorably with Brook’s, especially in regard to the strength of the casting of major roles, Wood’s attention to minor roles, and Jacques Noel’s uncluttered stage (Financial Times, 31 Aug. 1960). Color—the red of passion, the purple of repentance, and the gold of celebration—marked three dominant moods of the production (Speaight, 1960, p. 452). Presenting the three gentlemen (Ian Richardson, Roy Dotrice, and Peter Jeffery) as aged scholars, Wood expanded their parts to make them a unifying device; they were tutors to Mamillius and witnesses to Leontes’s accusation of Hermione and to her trial; one announced Mamillius’s death (Bartholomeusz, 1982, pp. 204–5).

Trevor Nunn’s production (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1969) was one of the most influential of the late 20th c. Christopher Morley’s design, which broke with the tradition represented by the exquisite pictures of Wood and Noel, drew instead on the work of Granville-Barker (Bartholomeusz, 1982, pp. 210, 212). Morley’s designs for the Sicilian scenes introduced one strong visual image, a three-sided white box representing Mamillius’s nursery, and two special effects, strobe lights and a rectangular box with mirrored walls. Dominating the sparsely furnished white box, an oversized hobby horse was used as a visual symbol at 368 (promptbook, SCL) and seemed symbolic both of innocence and lust (Speaight, 1969, p. 437). Other nursery toys assumed symbolic values when, for example, in 1.2 Mamillius and Leontes (Barrie Ingham) took turns peering through a kaleidoscope, and at the close of 1.2 Polixenes (Richard Pasco) played with a yo-yo (promptbook). Strobe lights signaled the onset of Leontes’s jealousy, arrested the action, and forced the audience to see the blameless Hermione [Judi Dench] and Polixenes as they appear in the King’s feverish dream (New York Times, 17 May 1969). The other special effect, the box, became a glittering symbol, reflecting light, linking the anguished Leontes, [who appeared within the box as] Time’s prisoner, and the cold statue, which was presented within it (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 213). By setting the Bohemian scenes in rural 1960s England, Nunn attempted, as had Frank Dunlop (Edinburgh, 1966; see also here below), to make Bohemia meaningful to contemporary audiences. Having cast Judi Dench as Hermione and as Perdita, he solved the technical problem in 5.3 by having Dench and her stand-in make a mechanical quick-change after 3238 (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 220). Anderson had solved the problem by cutting Perdita’s lines (see here)

John Barton with Trevor Nunn (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1976) set WT within the Arctic Circle. Having created an appropriate set, designer Di Seymour costumed Leontes and his subjects in Scandinavian furs and folk-woven materials, hot reds and oranges predominating (Warren, 1977, p. 173). The drapery featured strange signs resembling runes and figurative scenes, such as reindeer hunting (Laroque, 1976, p. 91). The design concept did not easily accommodate the trial (3.2), which was staged in far too tribal and nomadic a court (David, 1978, p. 224), and the shearing of sheep [which] was implausible in a landscape where no sheep could have pastured, and the flowers . . . would hardly have bloomed (Speaight, 1977, p. 188). The bear and Time were dominant motifs. Bears figured prominently in the decor; the bear (John Nettles) reappeared as Time, in effect transforming the bear into an allegory of Death and making Antigonus a victim of Time (Laroque, 1976, p. 91); and the satyrs’ dance became a ritual hunt-ballet in which the main dancer was the bear (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 222).

Among the productions that set WT in a society familiar to late 20th-c. audiences are those by Robin Phillips and Adrian Noble. Seeking an autocratic period within the historical memory of their audiences (R. P. Knowles, 1985, p. 26), Phillips and his designer, Daphne Dare (Stratford, Ont., 1978), placed Leontes’s court in Czarist Russia, 1880, and Bohemia in the Ukraine, 1896 (Knowles, 1985, p. 27). The Sicilian scenes revealed an uneasy relationship between Brian Bedford’s Leontes, a superbly repressed autocrat . . . [with] a festering passion, and Margot Dionne’s gracious Hermione, . . . composed yet suggesting pre-existent tensions between herself and Leontes (Berry, 1979, pp. 168–9). Phillips’s handling of 5.3 was superb with Hermione at first shrouded in darkness and gradually being illuminated through the lighting of innumerable candles (Guardian, 15 June 1978). Phillips made the reunion of Hermione and Leontes tentative and secondary to the reunion of Hermione and Perdita (Berry, 1979, p. 169). He cut 3321–2 and the match of Paulina and Camillo. Berry (p. 170) finds the result a fascinating design: but it is not precisely Shakespeare’s.

For the RSC’s small-scale tour (UK, 1984; Poland, 1985), Adrian Noble set the Sicilian scenes in the frock-coated, bemeddaled [sic] world (Guardian, 12 Dec. 1984) of postwar Italy, and Bohemia in the raucous pop world of . . . Carnaby Street (Financial Times, 22 Oct. 1984). The touring production played in venues ranging from a cattle shed to Lincoln Cathedral; with only limited seating available, most members of the audience were promenaders. Reviewers applauded Noble’s achievement. Ratcliffe (1984): The apparently spontaneous tumble of players and punters produces confrontations and images which few who see them will quickly forget: Leontes in his anger ([Alun] Armstrong) scatters spectators to one side as he runs up the steps to poison the nursery calm; the messengers from Delphi (William Haden and Graham Turner) stand in light at the top of a sprawl of people, like immigrant survivors on a raft, stunned and humbled by the momentous nature of what they have just seen. At Lincoln Cathedral Hermione’s [trial] was breathtakingly staged, with the innocent queen and jealous king facing each other across half a mile of carpet cordoned off by officious ushers (Times, 27 Oct. 1984).

Two years later on the main stage at Stratford-upon-Avon, design overpowered Terry Hands’s production, which based its reading on the notion that political tyranny reenacts the egotism of a spoilt childhood (Shrimpton, 1987, p. 177). Large polished panels upstage and a glass floor hazily reflected Leontes’s nursery-kingdom and, by also reflecting parts of the auditorium, seemed to transform the audience into subjects of the immature king. Hands drew on the productions of his RSC colleagues (Nunn, 1969, and Barton and Nunn, 1976) in, for example, the doubling of Hermione and Perdita (which Shrimpton, p. 178, finds pointless), the white Regency costumes, the wintry Sicilia, staging Sicilian scenes in a nursery, and introducing the bear as a design motif. But, especially in the use of the nursery and the bear, Hands paraded his theatrical devices and exaggerated the play’s theatrical self-consciousness (Warren, 1987, p. 86). Mamillius’s nursery floor was covered with an oversized bearskin, with head and flashing eyes; the bearskin was lifted dramatically to devour Antigonus; in Bohemia, Perdita and Florizel rested on it; Mamillius had a white teddy bear; Autolycus entered masquerading as a bear. Hands’s 1986 production was rethought and redesigned for London (Barbican Th., 1987), where it emphasized vanished innocence (Guardian, 16 Oct. 1987).

David William (Stratford, Ont., 1986) made design serve the script rather than compete with it, as Hands had done. Setting Sicilia in an 1830s European court and Bohemia in a Hardyesque rural community, he focused on the public and private relationships in those societies, not on period authenticity (Warren, 1988, pp. 163, 165–6). William’s treatment of Leontes and Paulina was original. By directing Leontes as a weaker person than Polixenes, Hermione, or Paulina, William suggested a reason for Leontes’s sudden explosive insecurity (Weil, 1987, p. 234).

With the same company of actors, Peter Hall staged WT, Cym., and Tmp. (National Th., 1988) on a permanent set evocative of a Jacobean indoor playhouse and in Carolingian costumes (design: Alison Chitty). Hall’s reading of WT found a dark emotional unity that binds the two halves of the play together (Guardian, 20 May 1988). The onset of Leontes’s (Tim Pigott-Smith’s) jealousy altered other characters: Basil Henson’s . . . Camillo discovers his talent for deception. Peter Woodward’s boyish Polixenes loses his innocence in a flash . . . . Sally Dexter’s radiantly confident Hermione takes on an aloof dignity (Times, 20 May 1988). The revelry in Bohemia was astringent (Guardian, 20 May 1988). Wells (1990, p. 144): There was a wolfish menace in Ken Stott’s overloud Autolycus, contemptuous of those he fooled; an elaborate, ferocious dance of half-naked, phallus-bedecked satyrs brought before a scared Florizel [Steven Mackintosh] and Perdita [Shirley Henderson] an image of the wilder forces of nature and sexuality, and Polixenes’ angry disowning of Florizel visibly paralleled Leontes’ rejection of the baby Perdita.

Hall’s staging of 5.3 reversed the usual stage picture: Hermione’s back was to the audience; Leontes and the court faced Hermione and the audience behind her. When Hermione turned, her face, lined with hurt as well as age, conveyed the cost of Leontes’ psychotic jealousy (Spectator, 28 May 1988). The reunion of Hermione and Perdita was joyous; the reconciliation of Leontes and Hermione was extremely tentative.

Luc Bondy’s production opened in Paris in April 1988 and played at the Avignon Festival in July (Laroque, 1988, pp. 97–9). Leontes (Michel Piccoli) and Polixenes (Bernard Ballet) were not matched physically, were approaching 50, and gave a sinister, hollow ring to their memories of boyhood (Campos, 1990, pp. 41–2). Three years later Bondy’s magnificent new production (Berlin, 1991) of Peter Handke’s translation contrasted an orderly Sicily, its architecture characterized by harsh angles, with the dreamy disorder of Bohemia (Times, 3 Jan. 1991). Costumes and set were contemporary. In a variation of the theme struck by Phillips and Hall, 5.3 returned Hermione to a world irremediably poisoned by the events of 16 years before and to a husband who has lost the capacity to give and receive love (Times, 3 Jan. 1991).

With a company of 14, David Thacker (Young Vic, 1991) staged a small-scale, minimalist production in the round and stripped Leontes of the accoutrements of absolute monarchy. He had no court, no system of power, no trappings of authority (Plays and Players, Nov. 1991, p. 31). Sheelagh Keegan’s sunken circle within a larger circle—a spare, flexible set—provided a visual counterpoint to the embrace of Leontes and Polixenes at the opening and of Hermione and Leontes at the close (Spectator, 14 Sept. 1991) and to the tight family circle (Sunday Telegraph, 22 Sept. 1991).

Théâtre de Complicité, a British touring company whose earliest work was the staging of company-devised plays, selected WT for its second text-based production. Complicité incorporated images familiar from recent productions (a desolate, wintry Sicily; Mamillius’s nursery toys). Its methods drew enthusiastic reviews, such as Paul Taylor’s praise of its enactment of unscripted scenes: I have never, for example, seen the transition from pastoral Bohemia back to the wintry penitential world of Leontes’ Sicilia effected as magically or as arrestingly as here. Holding model galleons aloft, the people making the trip start a progress round the stage. Then, snow starts to fall and, as this is a production where the actors play more than one role, the group of travellers slowly transforms itself, before your very eyes, into the funereal procession that trudges after Leontes in his daily circuits of repentance. It’s a haunting, unforgettable sequence (Independent, 4 Apr. 1992; see also Independent, 2 Mar. 1994).

Noble set his second production for the RSC (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1992) in some nonspecific, early-twentieth-century aristocratic world (Smallwood, 1993, p. 349) and stressed, as Hall had done, an emotional unity binding the two halves of the play. Unlike Hall, Noble celebrated an emotional warmth in the reconciliation of Hermione (Samantha Bond) and Leontes (John Nettles) and Polixenes (Paul Jesson) and a communal warmth in the sheepshearing scenes, staged as a village fête reminiscent of Stanley Spencer’s Cookham.

With a company of 10, Stéphane Braunschweig (Centre Dramatique National Orléons-Loiret, Edinburgh Festival, 1994) opt[ed] throughout for minimalist austerity (Guardian, 25 Aug. 1994). He brought out the private, not the public, effects of Leontes’s jealousy (Guardian) and made the scenery itself [design: Giorgio Barberio Corsetti] a symbol of the play’s often distorted emotional perspectives (Financial Times, 25 Aug. 1994). Hermione appeared in 3.3, remained on stage, and became Time. In 5.3 the dead Mamillius’s tunic hangs in silent reminder of just what has been destroyed, the resurrected queen and her reunited king intone their ostensibly joyous lines in halting monotone: no happy ending, but an intimation that life goes on, at bitter cost (Scotsman, 25 Aug. 1994). Although it was often perceptive and ingenious, reviewers found that the production lacked imaginative sympathy (Sunday Telegraph, 28 Aug. 1994).

Ingmar Bergman (Royal Dramatic Theatre of Sweden, 1994) staged WT as a play within a play. By staging his production on a set that mirrored the shape of the auditorium (design: Lennart Mork) and by placing an audience on stage, Bergman attempted to break down the barrier between stage and auditorium, between actor and audience (Törnqvist, 1995, pp. 83–5). Lighting indicated the stages in Leontes’s inner development. When his jealousy was kindled, the windows were lit deep red. Later, when his love for Hermione had died, or rather lay dormant, a cold winter night with a starry sky and a frosty moon above snow-clad trees could be glimpsed outside the windows (p. 85). The play and the play within the play had a Christian frame of reference. For example, Bergman set 5.1 in a cloister and made Leontes a flagellant (p. 89). As the statue, Hermione lay on a catafalque (p. 90).

For Method and Madness’s small-scale tour (Lyric Th., Hammersmith, 1997) director Mike Alfreds relied on effective doubling by his cast of eight, an uncluttered set, and minimal props, music, and sound effects. The production opened with Mamillius (Fergus O’donnell) announcing A sad Tale’s best for Winter (618) as behind him the actors [were] literally cloaking themselves in the world of the play, dressing each other in simply-draped coloured cloths edged in fur (Financial Times, 16 June 1997).

For the inaugural season of Sh.’s Globe (1997) director David Freeman and designer Tom Phillips, R.A., set WT in an African society that worshipped primitive deities. Leontes’s (Mark Lewis Jones’s) throne and one permanent prop, the shrine, to which characters made obeisance, were constructed from abandoned tractor tires (aid from the UN?). Freeman introduced black magic, practiced chiefly by Paulina, and made anger, expressed by shouting and eruption into uncivil—and unscripted—behavior, the predominant tone.

In 20th-c. productions of WT, especially those in which directors played a fairly full text and collaborated with their designers on a controlling concept, performances are best seen in relation to other aspects of the production. In the case of Leontes, for example, performances by Esmond Knight (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1948) and Jeremy Irons (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1986) were complemented by the stage picture; performances by Barrie Ingham (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1969), Ian McKellen (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1976), Borje Ahlstedt (Sweden, 1994), and others were indebted to the lighting designer; and other performances, such as Colm Feore’s (Stratford, Ont., 1986), are best understood in context with, in Feore’s case, the decision to play Leontes as weaker than Polixenes, Hermione, and Paulina. In these and other productions, actors had, of course, to decide how best to convey the source and expression of Leontes’s jealousy.

Henry Ainley (Savoy Th., 1912) broke with the tradition of making Leontes dignified, noble. Blurring some of Leontes’s sentences, Ainley conveyed the King’s fevered, irrational, or . . . neurotic mood and temperament (The Nation, 28 Sept. 1912). Ainley’s displays of physical frenzy, which were fascinatingly ugly . . . powerful, rather horrible, and his disagreeable-looking appearance made it possible to understand why it had taken Lillah McCarthy’s Hermione three months to make up her mind and why in the Statue scene she exhibited a comparative coldness (Westminster Gazette, 23 Sept. 1912).

Well suited to the Eastern European design of Quayle’s production (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1948), Esmond Knight’s full-voiced and passionate Leontes (Birmingham Evening Despatch, 5 June 1948) possessed a mind wholly distorted by his strange obsession (Leamington Spa Courier, 11 June 1948). The tradition of playing Leontes as a man singled out for destruction by a power outside himself was continued at, for example, Stratford, Ont. (1958), by Christopher Plummer (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 187).

Two performances in Britain set the course for the second half of the century. After John Gielgud’s Leontes (Phoenix Th., 1951), Trewin (15 Sept. 1951) claimed it would no longer be possible to label Leontes unplayable. Gielgud appears to have given the jealousy . . . a romantic dignity (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 170). He turned [the] gnarled verse (Trewin, 21 July 1951) to a wild-hurtling music (Trewin, 1971, p. 60) and wept romantic tears (Times, 28 June 1951). With Mamillius, Leontes showed his only touch of warmth and humanity; at the trial he was cold cruelty itself, refusing to look at Hermione and betraying emotion only by a slight nervous gesture of the fingers (Venezky, Productions, 1951, p. 338); as the king repentant, [he] used all his emotional grandeur in the remembrance of his queen (Trewin, 1971, p. 60); Gielgud retreated from the moving statue, as had Garrick and Macready (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 172). In a performance (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1960) that, according to some reviewers, matched the acting standards set by Gielgud, Eric Porter’s self-pitying Leontes (Yorkshire Post, 31 Aug. 1960) was a sick man, . . . his mind racing with the tremor cordis that finds its natural expression in the feverishly disjointed verse (Observer, 4 Sept. 1960).

In Ian McKellen’s (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1976) exquisitely sensitive reading (David, 1978, p. 223), Leontes suddenly switche[d] from demonic tyranny . . . to the pathos of a man destroyed by his own sexual fantasies (Guardian, 5 June 1976). In contrast with McKellen’s Scandinavian fairy prince spell-struck (David, 1978, p. 223), Alun Armstrong’s 1950s Sicilian Leontes (RSC tour, 1984) had a craggy, raw-edged emotional directness (Financial Times, 13 Dec. 1984). Ratcliffe (1984): It is terrible to watch Mr Armstrong weep, because he does not look the weeping kind (Observer, 16 Dec. 1984).

Jeremy Irons (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1986) and Paul Shelley, who replaced Irons when the production was transferred to London (Barbican Th., 1987), offered two different interpretations. Irons’s Leontes, a monster of the nursery, a fractious brat whose jealousy expressed itself in tears and tantrums, . . . spoke . . . with infantile exaggeration (Shrimpton, 1987, p. 177) and, seeking laughter, turned WT into a trivial domestic comedy in which adultery was a topic for smutty jokes (Warren, 1987, p. 86). Shelley played a tortured fantasist who both dreams of his wife’s adultery and is haunted by a memory of some idyllic, sexless past (Guardian, 16 Oct. 1987).

Tim Pigott-Smith (National Th., 1988) played the tremor cordis . . . and the twinges of his jealousy [as] a physical symptom, recurring later in the action at moments of especial stress (Wells, 1990, p. 144). Insecure, Leontes teased and bullied courtiers, sought reassurance from the audience, and allowed Paulina (Eileen Atkins) to scold him and, later, to comfort him.

In Bondy’s first production of WT (Paris, 1988), Michel Piccoli’s middle-aged Leontes quickly established an oddness in which everything he says can be dangerous (Campos, 1990, p. 43). Three years later (Berlin, 1991) the Leontes of Hans Christian Rudolph, whose jealousy [was] a physical pain burning his heart (Times, 3 Jan. 1991), recalled Pigott-Smith’s performance.

Simon McBurney’s brilliant and unnerving Leontes (Théâtre de Complicité, 1992) was impossible for the audience comfortably to control and pigeon-hole. Unquestionably a tyrant, this Leontes could be turned by the deaths of his son and queen into a twitching heap with staring eyes, demanding Paulina’s tenderness as well as her ferocity, exiting to great shouts of sorrows (1435; Holland, 1994, p. 171).

At Stratford-upon-Avon in 1992 Leontes’s (John Nettles’s) jealousy sprang from his misreading of Hermione’s innocent sensuousness. In a series of freezes of the others [in 1.2], he hovered round the fringes of the group, an isolated and furtive figure, peeping and spying and sharing his desperate imaginings with the audience in a dislocated, clipped, staccato delivery, with angry changes of rhythm surging through the lines, a delivery that seemed . . . highly effective in suggesting a mind almost audibly cracking up (Smallwood, 1993, p. 349).

Especially in the first half of the century, actresses playing Hermione followed in the 19th-c. tradition. Ellen Terry (His Majesty’s Th., 1906), who had played Mamillius in Kean’s production (1856), distinguished between [Hermione’s] deep, passionate love for Leontes and her frank comradeship for Polixenes (Morning Post, 3 Sept. 1906; see here). When accused of adultery, Terry’s Hermione was heart-broken, and . . . made it seem that she was sorely grieved that [Leontes’s] mind was thrown out of balance (Daily News, 3 Sept. 1906). Diana Wynyard (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1948), who with Ena Burrill (Paulina) introduced a civilizing tone to Quayle’s barbaric Eastern European Sicilia, evoked reviews similar to those given 19th-c. actresses; she portrayed, for example, the dignity of a gracious goddess . . . [and] the rich humanity of a wife and mother (Stage, 10 June 1948). Wynyard gave a similar interpretation when she repeated the role in Brook’s production (Phoenix Th., 1951).

A number of 20th-c. productions questioned the nature of the reconciliation of Hermione and Leontes. In 5.3 Lillah McCarthy’s Hermione (Savoy Th., 1912) exhibited a comparative coldness. Indeed, Camillo’s phrase She hangs about his neck [3322] was hardly realised in the acting (Westminster Gazette, 23 Sept. 1912). Breaking her pose as the statue, Sally Dexter’s Hermione (National Th., 1988) moved forward unsmiling. . . . There was a world of unspoken emotion between husband and wife as, left alone together, they sombrely joined hands again (Wells, 1990, p. 144). Productions including Stratford, Ont., 1978; Berlin, 1991; and Edinburgh, 1994, also reunited a dysfunctional couple. (see above, here, here, here.)

In other productions Hermione provided a motive for Leontes’s jealousy. Penny Downie (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1986) was an exceptionally flirtatious and ingratiating Hermione, and Paul Greenwood’s Polixenes lavished cuddles, back-rubs, and love-lorn gazes upon her (Shrimpton, 1987, p. 178). When the production was transferred (Barbican Th., 1987), Downie’s Hermione and Martin Jacobs’s Polixenes gave Leontes no cause for jealousy but did, nevertheless, suggest that had things been different, these two might have loved each other with all the reckless carnal passion of which they are falsely accused (Plays and Players, Feb. 1988, p. 21). Bulle Ogier’s Hermione (Paris, 1988) provoked Leontes’s jealousy, and at times her almost exaggeratedly pure Hermione seemed to be drawn to Ballet’s unattractive Polixenes (Campos, 1990, pp. 42–3).

Exploring many aspects of Hermione’s character, Judi Dench (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1969) was a bewitching queen, as rare and precious as the text suggests, with a tart wit which gives way . . . to a sombre strength and dignity (Spectator, 23 May 1969). Many recent depictions have called attention to Hermione’s human qualities rather than her regal status. They include Marilyn Taylerson’s (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1976), Lynn Farleigh’s (RSC tour, 1984), and Samantha Bond’s (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1992).

In the 20th c. Paulina has most often been presented as a woman whose admirable strength tempers Leontes. Brook (Phoenix Th., 1951) directed Flora Robson to play her as a force for sanity in the insane world created by Leontes (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 173). Eileen Herlie’s (Stratford, Ont., 1958) Paulina was a fearless woman of moral passion (New York Times, 23 July 1958). Peggy Ashcroft (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1960) seemed to combine an iron strength of character with mature grace and sweetness (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 209). Brenda Bruce (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1969), who portrayed a practical, witty great lady, was succeeded when the show was transferred (Aldwych Th., 1970) by Elizabeth Spriggs, who gave Paulina a spiritual dimension (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 217). Barbara Leigh-Hunt (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1976) was triumphantly forceful (David, 1978, p. 224). Janet Dale’s (RSC tour, 1984) notable Paulina, elegant and beautifully spoken (Financial Times, 22 Oct. 1984) gave a thrilling denunciation of Leontes (Times, 27 Oct. 1984) but was also good-hearted (Financial Times, 13 Dec. 1984). Eileen Atkins’s (National Th., 1988) strong, compassionate Paulina also guided Leontes’s penance. Other treatments departed from the dominant one. The near-crazed grief of Susan Wright’s (Stratford, Ont., 1986) Paulina after Hermione fainted indicated that she thought Hermione dead. . . . Moved by his [Leontes’s] genuine anguish, she decided then and there to help him (Warren, 1988, p. 166). Instead of aiding Leontes, Gemma Jones’s (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1992) bossy Paulina, a county lady . . . forever doing good works and opening bazaars, [who] was far from the moral power the text can reveal (Holland, 1994, p. 175), seemed to leave Leontes to draw on his own inner resources. At another extreme (Paris, 1988), Leontes and Paulina (Nada Strancar) were manipulators, falsifiers, showmen, at opposite ends of the play (Campos, 1990, p. 43).

Staging the Bear and Time

The bear, restored by Kemble in 1802, asks two major questions of the director: what effect should the bear create and how should the effect be achieved? On theatrical bears in Sh.’s time, see n. 1500. Nineteenth-century promptbooks and theater reviews yield little information about staging the bear. In the 20th c. bears have been frightening (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1969; Spectator, 23 May 1969); ludicrous (Chicago, 1994; Brailow, 1995, p. 15); humorous (New York, 1985; Deiter, 1985); pantomime-type (St. George’s Th., 1980; Pearce, 1981, p. 130; and Young Vic Th., 1981; Guardian, 27 Nov. 1981); and even cuddly (Alabama, 1976; Kay, 1977, p. 221). Technical effects have evoked the bear: shadows (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1960; Illustrated London News, 17 Sept. 1960); noise and thunder (Young Vic, 1991; Spectator, 14 Sept. 1991). Human bears have appeared as an unclear, muffled figure (San Diego, 1963; Prosser, 1963, p. 447); in running shorts and track shoes (Venice Beach, Calif., 1979; Stodder & Wilds, 1980, p. 267); and in a dancer’s practice clothes (Washington, D.C., 1987; Tocci, 1987, p. 10). The bear has been a symbolic feature (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1986; Warren, 1987, p. 86), and has been presaged by Mamillius’s teddy bear (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1969; promptbook, SCL; and 1986, Fuzier & Maguin, 1986, p. 94). Bears have been diverted from Perdita by Antigonus (Oregon, 1984; Dessen, 1985, pp. 604–5) and by Hermione (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1992; Smallwood, 1993, p. 350). By augmentation of the fur on Leontes’s costume, the BBC (1980) linked Leontes with the bear (Pearce, 1981, p. 98). At Sh.’s Globe Th. (1997) Hermione, who [had] been hovering in spirit over the abandoned Perdita, drew on claws and became the bear (Times, 6 June 1997).

Although some directors treat the Chorus simply or reassign the lines to another character, such as Camillo (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1992; promptbook, SCL), others have used Sh.’s choric figure to explore themes and motifs. At Stratford, Ont., 1958, Campbell, whose production examined the importance of Time to the repentance of the sinner and the return of the lost, expanded the role of Chorus by introducing Time into some scenes as a silent participant and into other scenes as the speaker of a minor role (Christian Century, 29 Oct. 1958, p. 1240). In other productions the role has been expanded either by absorbing other parts, such as Archidamus, gaoler, mariner, and the bear (Birmingham, 1986; Cochrane, 1987, p. 90) or by introducing Time as a silent witness or participant: Schenectady, N.Y., and Williamstown, Mass., 1981 (Littlefield, 1982, p. 207); Washington, D.C., 1987 (Tocci, 1987, p. 9); Boston, 1987 (Biggs, 1988, p. 20). Time has been an unsuitably resurrected Mamillius (New York, 1985; Alter & Long, 1985, p. 22); a gardener (Complicité, 1992; Independent on Sunday, 5 Apr. 1992); a young cricketer (Chicago, 1994; Brailow, 1995, p. 15); and a foreshadowing of Autolycus (Sh.’s Globe Th., 1997), with whom he was doubled. Entering from the Globe’s yard, Time (Nicholas Le Prevost), a cider-swilling beggar, engaged the audience and sought help onto the platform. Time has stage-managed dumbshows (Los Angeles, 1981), spotlighting each character he mentions (Wilds, 1982, p. 388); has given some of his lines to other members of the company (Method and Madness, 1997); has participated in a masque as a carnival monster . . . [which] gave birth to the child Mamillius (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1981; Times, 1 July 1981, p. 13); and has appeared to some extent a baroque allegorical figure, flying on in flapping, fluffy wings (Stratford-upon-Avon, 1986; Warren, 1987, p. 86).

Screen and Sound Recordings

Rothwell & Melzer (1990, pp. 313–16) catalog eight versions on film: three abridgements (USA, 1910; Italy, 1913; Germany, 1914); three transmissions by the British Broadcasting Corporation (in 1962, with Leontes = Robert Shaw, Hermione = Rosalie Crutchley, Florizel = Brian Smith, Perdita = Sarah Badel; Frank Dunlop’s 1966 production for the Edinburgh Festival, broadcast in 1968, with Leontes = Laurence Harvey, Hermione = Moira Redmond, Paulina = Diana Churchill; and the BBC Shakespeare, broadcast in 1980); two USA productions (scenes from the Berkeley Shakespeare Festival, 1982, and a workshop production at the Lincoln Center Institute, 1985). McKernan and Terris’s (1994, pp. 179–82) filmography of the National Film and Television Archive (NFTVA) lists two UK arts shows that feature segments of Hall’s 1988 and Noble’s 1992 productions.

The National Sound Archive of the British Library holds audio recordings:

  • 1.full text with William Squire as Leontes, Margaretta Scott as Hermione, Michael Bates as Autolycus, and the Marlowe Dramatic Society (Decca Record Co., 1960);
  • 2.full text with John Gielgud as Leontes, Rachel Gurney as Hermione, and Peggy Ashcroft as Paulina (Caedmon, 1961);
  • 3.abridged text, with Eric Portman as Leontes, Diana Wynyard as Hermione, and Wendy Hiller as Paulina (Odhams Books Ltd., 1963);
  • 4.abridged text, with the Folio Theatre Players, dir. Christopher Casson and William Styles (Spoken Arts Inc., New Rochelle, n.d.);
  • 5.1.2, Too hot, too hot, [181] with Gielgud (Caedmon, 1979);
  • 6.2.1 with Ellen Terry, recorded 1911 (Delta Record Co., 1963);
  • 7.3.2 with Gielgud, Gurney, Ashcroft (1961; HarperCollins, 1996);
  • 8.3.2 with Eric Porter as Leontes, Elizabeth Sellars as Hermione, and Paul Hardwick as Officer (from Stratford-upon-Avon, 160, Argo, n.d.);
  • 9.4.4 (1926–62) with Judi Dench as Perdita and Peter McEnery as Florizel (Argo, [1964]);
  • 10.off-the-air recording with Edith Evans as Paulina, Gurney as Hermione, and Jill Bennett as Perdita (BBC, 25 Mar. 1966);
  • 11.off-the-air recording with Ronald Pickup as Leontes, Hannah Gordon as Hermione, Barbara Jefford as Paulina, and Gielgud as Time (BBC, 14 Oct. 1981);
  • 12.theater performance by RSC (dir. Trevor Nunn, recorded 1971);
  • 13.theater performance by RSC (dir. Terry Hands, recorded 1988);
  • 14.theater performance by National Theatre (dir. Peter Hall, recorded 1988);
  • 15.theater performance by RSC (dir. Adrian Noble, recorded 1993);
  • 16.theater performance by RSC (dir. Gregory Doran, recorded 1999).
Scores of operas, ballets, rock musicals, etc., based on the play are listed by Gooch & Thatcher (1991, 3:1940–2). Incidental music composed for productions is also listed (3:1908–40).

The Text on the Stage

Productions of WT, like those of Sh.’s other plays, reflect tastes, biases, and interpretive ideas of actors, directors, managers, and critics and their times. Susceptible to these fluctuating ideas, the play in some versions has been reshaped quite freely. Alterations have been made by cutting, adding, transposing, and substituting.

The Versions

This survey analyzes theatrical texts of WT in acting versions, typescripts marked as promptbooks, some actors’ partbooks, and preparation copies used in production, primarily those listed in Shattuck (1965, pp. 495–506), with some additions. Omitted from discussion are incomplete promptbooks and partbooks, some duplicates of versions included in the survey, and versions that were not staged (Shattuck nos. 1–4, 6, 7, 9, 12, 13, 15–17, 19, 20, 22–7, 29–31, 36–8, 40, 41, 44, 45, 54). Several adaptations are also omitted from consideration: Charles Marsh’s (1756), as Furness (ed. 1898, p. 413) notes, is a gallimaufry of the original, and as it was never acted, . . . I think we can dismiss it without lasting regret or more space; Macnamara Morgan’s adaptation (1762) bears little resemblance to Sh.’s play and had no influence on subsequent productions of WT; the adaptation by George Colman the Elder (1777) draws as heavily on Garrick as on Sh. By contrast, Garrick’s extremely popular abridgment, Florizel and Perdita, is given a place in this survey because it influenced subsequent productions. The following are the versions analyzed:

  • 1.Garrick: Florizel and Perdita. A Dramatic Pastoral, In Three Acts. Alter’d from The Winter’s Tale of Shakespear By David Garrick. As it is performed at the Theatre Royal in Drury-Lane. London: Printed for J. and R. Tonson, in the Strand. 1758. (Cornmarket Press Facsimile, 1969.)

    Presented on 21 Jan. 1756, Garrick’s version summarizes the events of Sh.’s Acts 1–3 in opening dialogue between Camillo and a courtier of Bohemia, then continues with the basic events of Acts 4 and 5. The Garrick alterations adopted in subsequent productions occur in the art vs. nature debate, the revels of the sheepshearing, some of Autolycus’s scenes, and the statue scene.

  • 2.Bell’s Sh.: The Winter’s Tale, A Tragedy, by Shakespeare, As Performed at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden: Regulated from the Prompt-Book, With Permission of the Managers, By Mr. Younger, Prompter. An Introduction, and Notes Critical and Illustrative, are added, by the Authors of the Dramatic Censor [Gentleman and Derrick]. London: Printed for John Bell, near Exeter-Exchange, in the Strand; and C. Etherington, at York, 1773. In vol. 5 of Bell’s Edition of Shakespeare’s Plays. London, 1774. (Cornmarket Press Facsimile, 1969.)

    Adhering closely to the original, Thomas Hull prepared this text for production on 24 Apr. 1771 (Odell, 1920, 1:381–2), and it was probably the version performed in 1773 at Covent Garden. Though not a popular success (Bartholomeusz, 1982, pp. 245–6), it represents an attempt to present nearly the whole play, something not done since 1742 (see WT on the Stage, here). Gentleman & Derrick (p. 151) laud Hull’s studiously pruned and regulated text but argue in footnotes for both retentions and further cuts.

  • 3.Kemble: Shakspear’s Winter’s Tale, A Play; With Alterations By J. P. Kemble; Now first published, as it is acted by Their Majesties Servants of The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, Thursday, March 25, 1802. London: Printed by C. Lowndes, No. 66, Drury Lane.

    Kemble, preparing to assume the management of Covent Garden, chose WT for his final production at Drury Lane where, from the beginning of his tenure, he had determined to strike a valiant blow . . . for the restoration of great drama, carefully and authentically produced (Baker, 1942, p. 124). Kemble cuts several major speeches, subtly alters characterization, and replaces Sh.’s ending with Garrick’s statue scene from Florizel and Perdita.

  • 4.Inchbald’s Sh.: The Winter’s Tale; A Play, In Five Acts; By William Shakspeare. As Performed at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Printed Under the Authority of the Managers From the Prompt Book. With Remarks by Mrs. Inchbald. London: Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Paternoster Row. [1807]. In The British Theatre; or A Collection of Plays, Which Are Acted at The Theatres Royal, Drury Lane, Covent Garden and Haymarket. . . . In Twenty-Five Volumes. Vol. 3. 1808. (Rpt. New York: Hildesheim, 1970.)

    Inchbald reprints Kemble’s 1802 text, making some minor changes primarily in stage directions and business. This edition provides text for the partbook of Macready’s production (no. 7) and the promptbook for Burton’s (no. 9).

  • 5.Kemble: Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale; A Play; Adapted to the Stage by J. P. Kemble; And Now First Published As It Is Acted at the Theatre Royal In Covent Garden. London: Printed For The Theatre. 1811. (In The Folger Facsimile Promptbooks. Series I. Charlottesville, 1974.)

    The acting ed. of 1811 offers substantially the same text as the acting ed. of 1802, but when Kemble revived WT for several performances beginning on November 28, 1811 . . . midway in Mrs. Siddons’s [Hermione] farewell season (Shattuck, 1974, 9:i), he made some new cuts, additions, and alterations to create the promptbook discussed here. This promptbook in the Wister Collection . . . is at once a thorough record of the Covent Garden production and Kemble’s rehearsal book for the play he regarded as of the tragic genre (p. iii).

  • 6.Cumberland’s Sh.: The Winter’s Tale: A Play. In Five Acts. By William Shakspeare. Printed from the Acting Copy, With Remarks, Biographical and Critical, By D—G. [George Daniel]. . . . As Now Performed at The Theatres Royal, London. Embellished With A Portrait of Mrs. Bunn, In The Character of Hermione. Engraved on Steel by Mr. Woolnoth, From an Original Drawing by Mr. Wageman. London: John Cumberland, 2, Cumberland Terrace. In Cumberland’s British Theatre. Vol. 5. [1830?]

    The text of this acting version adheres closely though not completely to Kemble’s acting ed. of 1802 (no. 3). This production opened at Drury Lane on 3 Nov. 1823. William Charles Macready starred as Leontes.

  • 7.Macready: A copy of Inchbald’s Sh., marked by J[ames] R. Anderson for his role as Florizel and as understudy to Macready’s Leontes, dated 2 Oct. 1837. [Shattuck no. 8; Folger Library, WT 2.]

    Anderson’s partbook, created for Macready’s production at Covent Garden, 30 Sept. 1837, illustrates Macready’s debt to Kemble through the many virtually identical duplications in Anderson’s hand of handwritten prompt markings by Kemble that appear in no. 5. (Another copy of the 1811 acting ed. [Shattuck no. 5; Sh. Centre Library 50.37/1811] has some notations that mention Macready and give the date 22 May 1837. Shattuck (1965, pp. 495–6) attributes those earlier 1837 entries to John Willmot, Macready’s prompter.) Anderson’s partbook is extensively marked and shows the restoration of Sh.’s statue scene in preference to the Garrick alteration.

    /
  • 8.Phelps: A copy of Cumberland’s ed. [no. 6, c. 1829–31] marked by Samuel W. Phelps and William C. Williams for Phelps’s Sadler’s Wells production of 19 Nov. 1845. Later production years are noted on blank front pages: 1846, 1848 to 1851, 1855, 1856, 1858, and 1860 to 1862. [Shattuck no. 10; Folger Library, WT 14.]

    In using the Cumberland text, Phelps perpetuates the basic Kemble acting version (no. 3), particularly its handling of the roles of Leontes and Perdita. Phelps follows Macready (no. 7) in restoring some original lines as well as the statue scene.

  • 9.Burton: A copy of Inchbald’s Sh. marked by John Moore, stage manager for William Burton, for the New York production at Burton’s Theater, Wednesday, 13 Feb. 1856. [Shattuck no. 14; Folger Library, WT 13.]

    Moore, whose signature appears across the cover of this copy, brought from England a transcription of Macready’s promptbook: thus Burton had before him a well-worked version upon which to found his own (Shattuck, 1976, p. 114). A playbill (dated for the opening performance of 13 Feb. 1856) inserted in Burton’s copy lists H. Jordan in the role of Time, as Chorus and announces New Scenery, including the Appearance of Time, surrounded by Clouds; the New York Daily Tribune review of 14 Feb. 1856 also notes the restoration of Time, though Folger WT 13 does not show it.

  • 10.Kean: The Winter’s Tale with manuscript alterations for Charles Kean’s revival at The Princess’s Theatre on 28 Apr. 1856. [Shattuck no. 18; Folger Library WT 7.]

    Pages cut from Charles Knight, The Pictorial Edition of the Works of Shakspere, Comedies [1841], 2:333–93, and bound in a brown paper cover serve as preparation copy for this production. George Ellis, stage manager, contributes production notes; J. W. Cole marks cuts and offers marginal comment, sometimes on Kemble’s staging. Cuts are substantial, other alterations more sparing. Many of the changes seem to have been influenced by Kemble’s texts (nos. 3, 5).

  • 11.Kean: Shakespeare’s Play of The Winter’s Tale, arranged for representation at The Princess’s Theatre, with Historical and Explanatory notes, by Charles Kean. As first performed on Monday, April 28th, 1856. Entered at Stationers’ Hall. London: Printed by John K. Chapman and Co., 5, Shoe Lane, and Peterborough Court, Fleet Street. Price One Shilling. To Be Had In The Theatre. (Cornmarket Press Facsimile, 1970.)

    This printed acting ed. cuts fewer lines than the preparation copy (no. 10) for the same production. SDs are exceptionally detailed, fleshing out for the reader Kean’s conception of a Greek setting and describing his elaborate presentation of Time. Punch (17 May 1856) comments that Kean never allows the play to get in the way of spectacle, the so-called poetry being cut down to the scantiest dimensions, and delivered with the utmost rapidity, and with no intrusive attempt at acting. Some of the alterations to Florizel’s part may be attributed to Kean’s decision to use an actress in the role. Copious notes follow each act.

  • 12.French’s Standard Drama, no. 317: The Winter’s Tale. A Play in Five Acts. Written by William Shakspeare. With original casts, costumes, and the whole of the stage business, correctly marked and arranged, by Mr. J. B. Wright, Assistant Manager of the Boston Theatre. Samuel French, New York. [1860?]

    Wright offers a synopsis of scenery and incidents of The Winter’s Tale as produced at Burton’s Theatre, New York, 1857, under the direction of Mr. W. E. Burton, aided by Mr. John Moore, stage manager (p. 4). Burton’s 1856 production (no. 9) opened in New York a little over two months before Kean achieved a great success in London with his extravagantly staged WT (nos. 10 and 11). The next year Burton opened WT at his New Theater, Broadway, on 6 April 1857. An advertisement that ran on that day in the New York Daily Tribune indicates, as clearly as does the synopsis, that Burton, aware of Kean’s success, adopted elements of Kean’s spectacle: Greek scenery, a Pyrrhic Dance, by sixteen Grecian Youths (Kean had used thirty-six), and a classical allegory of the Course of Time (p. 4). The text owes more to Kemble (no. 3) and Burton (no. 9) than to Kean.

  • 13.Calvert: A Winter’s Tale. By William Shakespere. Arranged for Representation at the Prince’s Theatre, Manchester, By Charles Calvert. Entered at Stationers’ Hall. Manchester: John Heywood, 141 and 143, Deansgate. [1869.]

    Calvert’s introduction to this acting edition is dated 1 Sept. 1869. In it he proclaims his debt to his illustrious predecessors Macready, Phelps, and Kean, while rejecting the singular delusion that a Shakesperian play is injured by what is called too much attention to the embellishment of its stage setting (iv). As one might expect from this declaration, his text harks back to Kemble’s (through Macready and Phelps) while the elaborate additions to SDs reflect Kean’s production ideas.

  • 14.Anderson: Shakespeare’s Winter’s Tale As Performed by Miss Mary Anderson and Company. Under the Direction of Mr. Henry E. Abbey. Acting Edition with Illustrations By Edwin John Ellis and Joseph Anderson. New York: Scribner and Welford. 1888.

    The preface to Anderson’s acting ed. of WT, as produced at Palmer’s Theater, New York, 14 Nov. 1888, claims fidelity to F as far as possible but argues that the needs of the stage and demands of modern tastes make large excisions unavoidable; in fact, a literal adhesion to the text as it has been handed down to us would . . . savour of superstition. A number of alterations can be attributed to decisions she had previously made about the text for her 1887 season in London. A major one was the doubling of Hermione and Perdita, which had not been conspicuously done until it was done by her (Winter, 1892, p. 105); indeed Kennedy (1985, p. 123) credits Anderson with doubling the parts for the first time in history.

  • 15.Allen: The Viola Allen Acting Version of The Winter’s Tale, A Play in Four Acts by William Shakespeare. This version was arranged by Mr. Frank Vernon and presented by Miss Viola Allen and her Company of Players on The Stage of The Knickerbocker Theatre, December 26, 1904. New York: McClure, Phillips & Co., 1905.

    Vernon’s production notes explain that Allen curtailed her text only after consulting the opinions of eminent English and American scholars (p. vii). She alters the sequence of a few scenes and abandons Greek costume and settings in favor of Byzantine ones in an effort to eliminate anachronisms. Vernon admits no indebtedness to Anderson (no. 14), but clearly it exists: Allen doubles Perdita and Hermione and adopts many of Anderson’s other changes, including the altered conclusion.

  • 16.Allen: A promptbook made on a copy of Allen’s acting ed. (no. 15). [Shattuck no. 32; New York Public Library, Lincoln Center, Theatre Collection: ∗NCP.330694B.]

    Allen’s acting ed. differs slightly from Anderson’s (no. 14) but further changes in this promptbook eliminate many of those differences, making Anderson and Allen virtually identical.

  • 17.Ames: A copy of a reading ed. (Thomas Crown & Company, 1902) marked by Winthrop Ames and John Corbin for the promptbook of the Ames production that opened in New York on 28 Mar. 1910 at the New Theater [Shattuck no. 42; New York Public Library, Lincoln Center, Theatre Collection: ∗NCP + .42607B].

    Corbin (the stage manager) and Ames both contributed to the final form of the promptbook. Corbin’s cuts and other changes often follow Kean (no. 11). Ames’s changes, queries, and suggestions are added marginally but are sometimes rejected by Corbin. Additions are usually typed out and pasted in the ed. Corbin notes that he cuts 350 lines, and playing time is 2 hours 54 minutes.

  • 18.Granville-Barker: Shakespeare: The Winter’s Tale. With a Producer’s Preface by Granville-Barker. London. William Heinemann, [1912].

    This book reflects the production that opened at the Savoy Theatre, London, on 21 Sept. 1912. Convinced that every Elizabethan play should be delivered as swiftly and uninterruptedly as possible, Granville-Barker divides the play into two parts. He eliminates act and scene designations from this edition, adds and alters sparingly, and cuts only 20 lines (Wells, Modern Stage, 1967, p. 177), making this, according to Dymkowski (1986, p. 44), probably the first performance in England of a play by Shakespeare that the author could himself have recognized for his own. Trewin (1964, p. 54) cites an admirer of this version: It must electrify people to find that a Shakespeare play makes sense when not gutted of vital parts. The play was nonetheless withdrawn after six weeks.

  • 19.Woolfe: A copy of Gollancz’s Temple ed. (1894) marked for Frank Woolfe’s promptbook of the Memorial Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 11 July 1932. [Shattuck no. 47; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/ 1932W.]

    A note (p. 1v) says that Woolfe prepared his version using the 1931 prompt book for the [William] Bridges-Adams production (not available at the Sh. Centre Library). Thus Woolfe presumably subscribed to the Bridges-Adams conception of pleasing the real average play-going public [by doing] . . . whatever will most quickly and unobtrusively make the majority of your audience feel at home in the play (Bartholomeusz, 1982, p. 200)—in this case, primarily cutting.

  • 20.Payne: A copy of the New Eversley Sh. (1935) marked for B. Iden Payne’s promptbook of the Memorial Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 23 Apr. 1937. [Shattuck no. 48; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1937W.]

    Payne creates a subtly altered text by changing single lines and phrases rather than complete speeches or scenes. Bartholomeusz notes: The main lines of interpretation, the cuts in the text, do not appear to have changed much between Stratford and New York [see no. 21] (p. 202). This version retains the art vs. nature debate in 4.4, however, whereas the New York production does not.

  • 21.Payne: A 1945 typescript marked for B. Iden Payne’s promptbook of the Theater Guild production, which opened at the Cort Theater, New York, 15 Jan. 1946. [Shattuck no. 50; ∗NCP .347022B.]

    Not merely a duplicate of no. 20, though they often correspond, this version has many affinities with Kemble, particularly in its cuts, the most obvious of which is of Perdita’s debate with Polixenes, as Bartholomeusz notes (p. 169).

  • 22.Quayle: A copy of an unidentified Sh. ed. marked for Anthony Quayle’s promptbook of the Memorial Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 4 June 1948. [Shattuck no. 51; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1948W.]

    Quayle adds nothing, alters just once, but cuts about 975 lines. According to stage manager Robert Gaston, Quayle’s production on 25 Oct. 1948 ran 2 hours 50 minutes, nearly the same playing time given for the Ames (no. 17) version.

  • 23.Wood: A copy of the Cambridge Pocket Shakespeare (1959) marked for Peter Wood’s promptbook of the Memorial Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 30 Aug. 1960. [Shattuck no. 57; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1960W.]

    Wood’s cuts are moderate, his substitutions and alterations sparing. A few changes are independent of other versions; those that are not indicate no reliance on any single earlier text.

  • 24.Nunn: A copy of Kermode’s Signet Classic ed. (1963) marked for Trevor Nunn’s promptbook of the Royal Sh. Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 15 May 1969. [Not in Shattuck; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1969WIN.]

    Nunn rearranges lines in the sheepshearing scene and occasionally substitutes synonyms for words that could be unclear to an audience. Like Anderson (no. 14), he doubles Hermione and Perdita, though he had no idea that the doubling had been done by Mary Anderson at the end of the nineteenth century. Where her production devised a successful, if not critically pleasing, strategy for accommodating both characters on stage in the last scene, Nunn’s did not, according to Bartholomeusz (p. 219).

  • 25.Barton: A copy of Wilson’s New [Cambridge] Ed. (1959) marked for John Barton’s promptbook of his and Trevor Nunn’s Royal Sh. Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 1 June 1976. [Not in Shattuck; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1976W.]

    One might expect this text to be a simple replication of Nunn (no. 24), but it is not. Barton, for example, does not double Hermione and Perdita, nor does he rearrange lines in the sheepshearing scene according to Nunn. He makes a number of independent changes.

  • 26.Eyre: A copy of Schanzer’s New Penguin ed. (1969) marked for Ronald Eyre’s promptbook of the Royal Sh. Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 25 June 1981. The book was also used in 1982 at both the Theatre Royal, Newcastle, and the Barbican. [Not in Shattuck; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1981W.]

    Eyre cuts and substitutes moderately, reorders lines in the sheepshearing scene (though not according to Nunn), and occasionally replaces words or phrases that could seem obscure to an audience. He does not perpetuate the doubling of Hermione and Perdita. His text reflects no single early version throughout, but he does duplicate Anderson’s (no. 14) unusual cut of the Clown’s comic description of the deaths of Antigonus and the Mariners.

  • 27.Hands: Schanzer’s New Penguin ed. (1969) marked for Terry Hands’s promptbook of the Royal Sh. Theatre production, Stratford-upon-Avon, 30 Apr. 1986. [Not in Shattuck; Sh. Centre Library 71.21/1986W.]

    Hands cuts, alters, and substitutes sparingly. He revives the doubling of Hermione and Perdita and makes a few independent alterations.

Reshaping the Text

While Granville-Barker comes close, no production of WT fully meets Shaw’s (1919; 1961, pp. 267–8) challenge to present any Sh. play in its original version, thereby making Shakespear, and not the producer, the ultimate authority, since experience remorselessly proves that Shakespear making a fool of himself is more [268] interesting than the judicious producer correcting him. After Garrick’s adaptation, structural change begins with the reduction of F’s five acts (retained from Bell through Calvert) to four acts in Anderson and Allen (nos. 15 and 16) and two in Granville-Barker and succeeding versions. F’s 15 scene divisions are completely eliminated in Granville-Barker. Bell has eight scenes, Quayle eleven, Wood thirteen, Kemble and derivative versions fourteen. Only two scenes (3.1 [1145–72] and 4.1 [1579–1611], Delphos and Time) are ever omitted entirely, and no version omits both. Scenes are transposed, as are smaller units. Verbal substitutions usually occur when diction seems offensive or unclear. Additions are rare. Cutting of blocks of dialogue and thinning (removing words or lines within speeches, presumably to make the text more accessible and more intelligible) are the means most often used to shape the play. Alterations are prompted by everything from the supposed indecency and incoherence of the text to the leading lady’s doubling the roles of Hermione and Perdita to the presumption that brevity and speed of action will please the audience.

Most productions of WT have some affinity with others, but many are independent artistic efforts and get independent treatment here. Garrick’s adaptation of WT (Florizel and Perdita) is a special case: it is the source of some significant alterations that are cited when other productions adopt them. Since Granville-Barker’s version stages nearly the whole text, unless it is specifically mentioned below it reads with F. Kemble (no. 3) is the direct ancestor of Inchbald (no. 4), Kemble (no. 5), Cumberland (no. 6) and, through Inchbald or Cumberland, of Macready (no. 7), Phelps (no. 8), Burton (no. 9), and French (no. 12). Kean (no. 10) is the direct ancestor of Kean (no. 11), and Anderson (no. 14) of Allen (nos. 15, 16). Of the versions from Woolfe (no. 19) to Hands (no. 27), only Payne (no. 20) is directly related to Payne (no. 21). The others are independent versions despite obvious borrowings. In the following discussion, the first text of the groupings above represents all others in that group, and only differences are noted.

Cuts

1.1 The Ritual Exchange of Compliments

Camillo and Archidamus introduce Leontes and Polixenes, touch on their past, and note that the kingdom has a beloved heir. Pyle (1969, p. 11, n. 1) rejects the search in this initial scene for double meanings that allegedly prepare the audience for the estrangement of the two kings (see n. 1), claiming it would be the extreme of literary as distinct from dramatic interpretation of drama. . . . It would be a poor playwright who would start his play with double meanings before even a single meaning had been imparted. Yet something in this first scene must be troublesome in the staging—perhaps the atmosphere of excess . . . dotted throughout with ironies (Hartwig, 1972, p. 121)—because, as Sanders (1987, p. 4) remarks, the opening conversation between Archidamus and Camillo has perplexed directors, and the usual consequence has been that the scene gets cut liberally by Bell, Payne, and Quayle, all of whom omit mention of Mamillius, and substantially by Kean, Anderson, Ames, Woolfe, Nunn, Barton, Eyre, and Hands. Like Granville-Barker, however, Kemble, Calvert, and Wood decline to cut a single word.

1.2 The Invitation

Polixenes refuses Leontes’s request to extend his nine-month stay in Sicilia, agreeing to remain only after Hermione asks him. All versions but French cut the sneaping winds (64–5), probably because nothing is lost in the omission, but Polixenes’s lines should not be as easy to excise since, as Coleridge (1813; 1960, 1:110) notes, Polixenes’ obstinate refusal to Leontes . . . and yet his after-yielding to Hermione . . . is at once perfectly natural . . . and yet so well calculated to set in nascent action the jealousy of Leontes. Yet Payne (no. 21) cuts Polixenes’s assurance that no one but Leontes could move him to stay (75–8), and all other versions except Kean (no. 11), Calvert, and Payne (no. 20) cut from three to seven lines of Polixenes’s rationale for going. His reflections on the sinless childhood he shared with Leontes, and Hermione’s speculation about whether the men have tript since they met their queens (130–52), is important to some literary critics: Pyle (1969, p. 15), for example, following Wilson (ed. 1931, p. 133), believes that Sh. intended Leontes to be seen as overhearing Hermione’s last words [Th’offences . . . vs (149–52)], and . . . misinterpreting them, . . . enough in the shorthand of stage psychology to constitute the seeds of jealousy. Some theatrical producers interpret otherwise. The editors of Bell—believing that tho’ curtailed, this scene of invitation is still too long, quibbling and flat, concerned in terms, on the Queen’s side, rather childishly low, than maturely royal—repair the alleged defect by cutting 134–52, with subsequent versions through Woolfe cutting some of her lines (e.g., 150–2, labeled a bit broad by Ames). Perhaps unappreciative of what White (1981, p. 102) calls Hermione’s amply relaxed sensuality of language, Bell, Kemble, Anderson, Payne, Woolfe, and Nunn delete 161–2 (cram’s . . . things), while Bell and Kean eliminate 164–5 (You . . . Acre).

1.2 The Onset of Jealousy

As Leontes becomes irrational and obsessed, Bell disposes of thirty lines (192–222) of his inchoate suspicions about Hermione’s fidelity and Mamillius’s legitimacy, explaining (p. 156): We have never met with so strange a picture as this exhibited by Leontes, who, from what he himself has desired, picks out suspicion; indeed some passages which follow this speech, in the original, show his majesty to be little better than a bedlamite. . . . They are properly omitted. Other productions may also want to save Leontes from being seen this way: Quayle cuts heavily (197–211; 217–22). Anderson, Woolfe, and Hands cut the pun involving horns (199–200). Kemble, Anderson, Ames, Payne (no. 21), and Wood omit Affection? thy Intention stabs the Center (214), probably because the line puzzles but has no particular dramatic impact. In concession to the squeamish, Bell prunes 272–91incoherent indecent lines, unfit for both stage and closet (p. 158)—while Calvert cuts 272–89. In these lines, Leontes voices nasty thoughts about Hermione to his uncomprehending child, and condemns widespread infidelity and one’s wife being sluiced by one’s neighbor. The last reference is cut by Kemble, Anderson, Ames (276–80), Payne (no. 21; 278–82), and Quayle (278–80). Kemble (285–8) and Anderson (283–91) cut more of Leontes’s rant (no Barricado for a belly), but French does not; Ames calls 283–8 obscure and cuts; Payne (no. 20) cuts the same lines, while Payne (no. 21) cuts 283–5 only. Granville-Barker, who spares the rest of the bawdry, cuts as Ames does.

1.2 The Alienation of Camillo

Though he pays tribute to Camillo’s past service (324–8), Leontes also charges the courtier with deception, negligence, and cowardice (328–39), charges against which Camillo naturally defends himself (340–58). Taming the exchange considerably, Payne (no. 20) cuts the entire incident (324–58), Anderson nearly all of it (331–55). Eliminating fifteen or more of these discomfortable lines: Kean, Ames, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Quayle, Wood, Nunn, Barton, and Eyre. All versions except Woolfe, Quayle, Wood, Nunn, Eyre, and Hands cut the reference to a cuckold’s horn (361). Leontes’s attendants are offended when Leontes calls Hermione a Holy-Horse (see n. 368): Bell, Kean, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), and Eyre cut it. Continuing to derogate the absent Hermione, Leontes claims the whole court knows that the Queen puts to like a flax-wench [b]efore her troth-plight (369–70): Bell, Kean, Calvert, Allen, Payne (no. 21), and Woolfe cut the lines. Payne (no. 21) and Nunn are consistent in also cutting Camillo’s objection at 371–3 (I . . . taken). Perhaps aware of the sexual connotations of nothing (382–9), Ames exults in a marginal comment, This is one of Leontes’ big chances. Corbin’s vehement No! No! No! is written under Ames’s note. Corbin prevails and cuts.

1.2 The Defection of Camillo

Dialogue leading up to Camillo’s revelation—that Leontes, believing Polixenes has toucht Hermione [f]orbiddenly, wants Polixenes dead (468–530)—merits cutting in some productions. Approximately one-third of the lines are eliminated in Bell, Ames, Payne, Barton, and Eyre. Kean (532–5) and Payne (no. 21, 532–46) cut Polixenes’s hyperbolic mention of Judas. Ames, marking 534–6 (Turne . . . shun’d) obscure and 539–41 not coherent, cuts, but when Corbin makes a longer cut (550–62, omitting Camillo’s plan of escape, further assurance of his honesty, and a warning not to reveal anything to Leontes), Ames suggests in a marginal comment that So much cutting makes the Scene too deadly. Apparently not. Cutting goes on in all versions between 534 (the lines immediately following the allusion to the betrayal of Christ) and the end of the scene (582). Bell, Kemble, Kean, and Payne (no. 21) delete all or most of 568–79, thereby eliminating lines which, in praising Hermione, condemning Leontes’s jealousy, and expressing fear for Hermione’s safety, sympathetically establish Polixenes’s concern for the consequences of his visit.

2.1 Confronting Hermione

Macready, Burton, Phelps, Kean, French, Anderson, and Woolfe cut two relatively innocuous references to Hermione’s pregnant bulk (607, 611–12). Calvert cuts the first; Bell, Kemble (nos. 3 and 5), Inchbald, Cumberland, Ames, Quayle, and Hands, the second. Sh.’s metaphoric Spider in the Cup speech (636–42) is expendable to Kemble, Kean, Anderson, Payne (no. 21), and Woolfe. Phelps restores the speech, and Allen, in one of her few divergences from Anderson, does not cut it.

Literary critics have sometimes deplored Leontes’s crude treatment of Hermione (see Characters, Leontes, here), so perhaps it is not surprising to find stage productions that eliminate instances of it. Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Ames, Woolfe, and Hands cut Leontes’s nasty let . . . thus (660–2). Perhaps conscious of the sexual connotations of the word Thing and the associated charge that Hermione is a Bed-swaruer, euen as bad as those | That Vulgars giue bold’st Titles, Bell prints Hull’s text as cut (686–91, 694–8) but reproduces Sh.’s lines (686–98) in a footnote, explaining: We think these lines, which we preserve for the reader, should also be spoken (p. 167), a feeling not shared by Burton, Kean (no. 10), Anderson, Woolfe, Quayle, Barton, Eyre, and Hands, who cut approximately the lines Bell cuts. Payne and Nunn make the first cut (686–91), Kean (no. 11) and Calvert the second.

2.1. Ignoring Good Counsel

After Hermione’s dignified exit to prison, the rest of the scene (733–818) is taken up with Leontes’s courtiers vigorously defending Hermione and with Leontes just as vigorously rejecting their counsel. Anderson and Allen, who double Hermione and Perdita for their theatrical companies, choose to make Hermione the center of the scene, ending it with her exit by cutting 733–818 (Anderson) and 733–4, and 740–818 (Allen). Other versions do not excise Leontes but perhaps lead the audience toward a sympathetic view of him by cutting some of his stubborn insistence on infallibility, and his courtiers’ arguments against it. Kean cuts 738–49, in which Antigonus and a Lord defend Hermione, and Nunn even more of their defense of her in the face of Leontes’s anger (738–55). Bell, Calvert, Ames, Woolfe, Payne, and Quayle omit 754–76, in which Antigonus damns Hermione’s detractor, mentions gelding his daughters, and agrees with the nameless Lord that he would rather Leontes lacked credit in this matter than the rest of the court. All other versions cut about half of these lines. Sh.’s Leontes continues to behave as if he is now almost a god (Marsh, 1980, p. 133), claiming that he needs no advice from his courtiers but consults them because of his natural goodnesse (777–86). Cutting all or nearly all of these lines are Bell, Kemble, Kean, Woolfe, Quayle, Wood, Nunn, Barton, and Eyre. Bell and Quayle also cut more than half the remaining lines (787–818), in which Leontes continues to berate his courtiers but also admits that he has sent to the Oracle, not because he doubts but because others—Whose ignorant credulitie, will not | Come vp to th’truth (810–11)—do.

2.2, 2.3 The Appearance of Paulina

Productions that feature a more sympathetic Leontes than the one Sh. creates, directors who find Paulina as overwhelming as some literary critics do (see Characters, here), or stage versions that center on Hermione may not need—perhaps cannot tolerate—the forceful, outspoken woman who becomes the dominant presence in many scenes. Paulina boldly declares she will tell Leontes how dangerous his behavior is (855–61): Anderson and Kean cut. Emilia says no one but Paulina could do the job (869–81): Anderson, Kean, and Eyre cut the lines; Woolfe, Nunn, Barton, Wood, and Hands omit half or more of them. Paulina’s explanation of the baby’s status as prisoner, meant to reassure the jailer (888–94), is cut by Bell, Calvert, Anderson, and Quayle. Here, however, Allen makes none of the cuts Anderson does.

When Paulina challenges the courtiers, confronts Leontes with his infant daughter, and insists he acknowledge the child (928–1058), no audience can doubt her lack of self-interest and fearlessness. Anderson, Payne (no. 21), and Nunn cut some of it (937–44), though Allen does not follow Anderson in eliminating 963–8, Paulina’s offer to be Leontes’s physician and heal him of his evils. Bell, Kean, Ames, Woolfe, Quayle, Wood, Barton, and Eyre cut some of the lines (966–8). Paulina calls Leontes mad for slandering his family with rotten opinions: Allen now cuts as Anderson does (981–1014). Ames cuts 983–8, finding the lines obscure; Payne (no. 20), Woolfe, and Eyre also cut. All versions except Ames and Nunn omit much of the rest (1004–14). Kemble, Kean, Calvert, and Anderson (but not Allen) cut Leontes’s charge that Perdita is the Issue of Polixenes (1015) and, with Bell, his cruel order to burn mother and child (1016–17). Both Anderson and Allen cut 1020–52. In this segment, Paulina points out how alike Leontes and his child are (1020–30): Phelps and French cut half these lines, diverging from Kemble who, with Kean, Woolfe, and Payne, cuts only a few. Paulina also expresses contempt for Leontes’s threats to burn her at the stake and force her from his presence (1040–52): Phelps, Kean, and Quayle cut this passage the most; Kemble, Payne (no. 21), and Wood cut a few lines.

The changes in Paulina’s part require further modification of Leontes’s role. In Sh.’s text, Leontes continues to behave (1059–1143), Bell notes, with hare-brained barbarity. . . . He storms, ’tis true, but in a most laughable manner (pp. 174–5). Little of the behavior here ridiculed survives the cut in Anderson (1062–99). Bell omits Leontes’s harsh alternatives (commit the baby to the fire or he will bash its brains out, 1063–71): Payne, Quayle, Wood, Nunn, Barton, and Eyre omit the first threat (1063–6), Kemble, Kean, and Calvert the second (1066–9). In cutting 1090–2, Bell, Kean, and Calvert omit Leontes’s twice calling the child a bastard. Leontes further threatens Paulina and Antigonus with death (1102–5) and torture (1113–15): Barton and Eyre cut both threats; Nunn cuts the first only; Bell, Anderson, Payne, and Wood cut the second. The remainder of the scene (1116–43) has Antigonus expressing pity for the child (but nonetheless willing to abandon it as ordered) and the announcement that the messengers have returned with the oracle’s response: Wood eliminates nearly all the lines (1121–43). Quayle cuts 1129–35. All other versions except Calvert, Ames, Payne (no. 20), and Nunn thin this segment.

3.1 Delphos

According to Bell’s ed. (p. 176), this short scene (1144–72) is unnecessary [and] justly left out, and Bell, followed by Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Woolfe, and Quayle, omits it. It is blocked for cutting in Burton but is restored, though French cuts the whole scene. Ames and Payne (no. 21) cut lines that establish the scene’s locale (1146–9). Nunn cuts 1164–72, while Payne (no. 21), Barton, Hands, and Eyre do some thinning.

3.2 The Trial

This scene contrasts Hermione’s rationality with Leontes’s obsessiveness. Yet Kemble, Kean, and Anderson (Allen retains about four more lines than Anderson) eliminate Hermione’s first rebuttal of the charges, which illustrate Leontes’s warped judgment (1235–62). Calvert cuts quite a few of Hermione’s lines (1236–48) and omits, as does Bell, a reference to Hermione’s bastard (1261–2). By cutting a few packed lines (1281–5), Anderson gets rid of the word strumpet—but also eliminates Hermione’s objections to being called one and to the immodest hatred that spurs Leontes to deny her normal childbed privileges. Bell, Kean, and Calvert cut the childbed charge (1281–3). Kean (no. 11), Calvert, and Anderson (but not Allen) cut 1299–1303, Calvert noting that it must certainly jar unpleasantly on the ear of a student of history to hear Hermione speaking of herself as the daughter of the Emperor of Russia (preface, p. iii). Phelps diverges from Kemble to cut this phrase only; Kean (no. 10) also cuts it.

In the aftermath of his perverse rejection of the Oracle, Leontes assures Paulina that Hermione will recover from her swoon, admits his sins, assumes that reconciliation will be taken care of easily, accepts Paulina’s disdain for his inadequate attempts at repentance, and vows to do daily penance (1334–1435). However, Anderson and Allen shift the focus of attention from Leontes to Hermione; except for retaining part of 1387–9 (the Queene . . . yet), Anderson ends the scene at 1333, and Allen differs only slightly in retaining for Paulina part of 1332 (This newes is mortall to the Queene) and part of 1388 (The sweet’st, deer’st creature’s dead) but otherwise excising Leontes and Paulina as Anderson does. All versions make cuts in this section: Bell, Kean, Calvert, Woolfe, Quayle, and Wood cut half or more of the lines.

3.3 Perdita Abandoned and Rescued

In soliloquy (1457–1500), Antigonus recounts the dream in which Hermione tells him he will not survive the vngentle businesse of abandoning Perdita (1476–8). Since Antigonus now declares his belief that Perdita is Polixenes’s bastard (1483–8), he must also believe Hermione is an adulteress. Stauffer (1949, p. 353, n. 44) and Nicoll (1952, p. 169) think this failure of trust and faith inevitably dooms Antigonus; Woolfe and Payne (no. 21) may think so too, since they cut both passages. Woolfe alone follows Bell in omitting the famous SD pursued by a Beare (1500), an omission that Bell explains this way (p. 105): Shakespeare had here introduced a bear—a most fit actor for pantomimes or puppet-shows; but blushing criticism has excluded the rough Gentleman. Blushing criticism also excludes a few mildly suggestive lines from the rest of the scene (1501–77). The Shepherd touches on young men who do nothing but get wenches with child (1503–5): Phelps, Burton, Kean, Calvert, and Anderson cut. The Shepherd may read Waiting-Gentlewoman into the escapade that results in an abandoned baby (1511–17), but the audiences of Phelps, Kean, Calvert, and Anderson do not hear him do it. The Clown’s seemingly insensitive description of the deaths of Antigonus and the mariners (1524–54) is the pivotal point of the play for some critics (see Technique, Structure, here), yet Anderson cuts 1524–54, Eyre 1521–54. Anderson and Quayle also cut a final reference to the bear and Antigonus (1567–77).

4.1 Time

Relying on the conversation between Polixenes and Camillo in 4.2 to establish the passage of time, Kemble, Anderson, and Ames cut Time’s soliloquy (1579–1611). Though Burton’s promptbook does not indicate the restoration, playbills for his first production make note of it, as does the New York Daily Tribune review of 14 Feb. 1856. French also restores the scene and, like Kean (no. 10), Payne (no. 20), Wood, and Hands, cuts no lines at all. Among lines that Calvert omits are the only ones to mention Florizel by name before he appears (1600–2).

4.2 Polixenes and Camillo

Reminiscent of 59–116 (in which Polixenes is dissuaded from leaving Sicilia), this scene (1612–66) shows Polixenes using praise, claims of his own need, and promises of rewards to come in order to delay Camillo’s departure from Bohemia and to get him to join in spying on Florizel. Stage versions apparently cannot reconcile the Camillo swayed by Polixenes’s blandishments with the Camillo of exceptional integrity and virtue whom literary critics write of (see Characters, here), since each version cuts all or most of the flattery (1623–32). All versions except Bell, Calvert, Ames, and Quayle thin between 1633 and 1666. Specific cuts remove Polixenes’s reference to Florizel’s neglect of duty (1638–41) and also Camillo’s similar reference (1642–6): Kemble and Kean (no. 10) cut both references; Kean (no. 11), Anderson, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Eyre, and Hands cut the first; Nunn cuts all of the second, while Anderson, Woolfe, Wood, Nunn, Barton, Eyre, and Hands cut some of Camillo’s criticism of the Prince (1644–5). Kean (no. 10) is the only version to boost Polixenes’s image slightly by deleting part of his admission (1648–9) that he has set spies on his own son.

4.3 Autolycus and the Clown

Part of Autolycus’s vitality lies in the raffish career he sketches for the audience, and though his sins are relatively tame, some are cut. Garrick omits the tumbling in the hay stanza (1677–80) of Autolycus’s entry song, as do Kean and Anderson. Garrick leads in cutting Autolycus’s honest admission that fear keeps him from anything more dangerous than petty theft (1696–7). Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, and Hands follow. Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, and Anderson cut Autolycus’s disregard for the life to come (but see n. 1698). Kean and Anderson remove references to Autolycus’s association with loose women (1754–5), Anderson to his questionable job history (1759–66). Garrick probably improves clarity by removing 1711–13 (lines which Woolfe and Hands also cut): the Clown’s three-man song-men, Meanes and Bases, and the lone Puritan who sings Psalmes to horne-pipes produce little agreement on meaning (see n. 1711 ff.). Omitting these lines and more are Bell, Calvert, and Payne, who cut 1709–13; Kemble and Kean, 1709–14; and Anderson, 1711–17.

Time-saving seems to motivate other cuts. Kemble, Kean, Anderson, Woolfe, Payne, Wood, Nunn, Barton, and Eyre cut from two to ten lines of the twenty-nine that cover stage business involved in Autolycus’s picking the Clown’s pocket (1718–46). Sh. has Autolycus repeat that he was once in service to Prince Florizel (1681–2, 1755–6); Calvert cuts the first statement. Nunn cuts the seemingly important lines (1778–90) that bring the sheepshearing—and the possibility of more profit—to Autolycus’s attention. Autolycus has, however, overheard the Clown talking to himself about the sheepshearing as he enters (1705).

4.4 Florizel and Perdita

When Perdita expresses to him her misgivings about their romance, Florizel refers to the gods’ lustful pursuit of lovely female mortals in order to proclaim the virtue of his feelings about Perdita. Kemble and Kean (no. 10) omit all these lines (1820–42); Kean (no. 11), Anderson, and Allen (no. 16) cut most of Florizel’s speech (1826–36); Bell omits all of Perdita’s contention that Florizel will be forced to break with her (1837–42); Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Quayle, Wood, Eyre, and Hands cut some lines from each character’s dialogue. All versions except Calvert, Allen, Ames, Payne (no. 20), and Quayle save some time by cutting or thinning Florizel’s repetitious assurance that he will not desert Perdita (1843–54).

Though Perdita is a princess unaware, several versions emphasize her royalty rather than her ignorance. The Shepherd, noting how his late wife served as mistress of the feast, encourages Perdita to emulate her by welcoming and serving all, singing, dancing, and toasting each guest as she moves from table to table, though she might get as flushed and tipsy as his wife did (1860–7). Kemble (nos. 3 and 5), Cumberland, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, and Woolfe cut most of this description of unregal behavior; Bell, French, and Wood cut the lines suggesting the wife’s tipsiness (1865–7).

4.4 Art vs. Nature

The debate between Perdita and Polixenes (1887–1921) is sometimes viewed as the central statement of theme in the play (see Criticism, Themes and Significance, here); it also shapes audience perception of Perdita, for if, as Pafford (ed. 1963, p. lxxviii, n. 3) says, We are nowhere directed to think that Perdita is particularly intelligent, these lines indicate that we are not meant to think her a fool either. Yet as important as the debate seems to be in the reading, several productions omit it. French (differing from Kemble), Calvert, Allen, and Quayle cut exactly as Garrick does (1887–1916). Kemble, Kean, Anderson only, and Payne (no. 21) cut a bit more (1887–1921). Bell cuts 1892–1916. Wood cuts Perdita’s distaste for painted flowers and painted women (1912–16). Garrick may have cut to make Perdita suitably deferential and docile for 18th-c. audiences (Dash, 1980, p. 281); even Bell observes (p. 94) that Perdita’s modest humility is the trait that recommends the supposed shepherdess exceedingly to [the audience’s] favour. Kemble defers only to the powers of his actors (Boaden, 1825, 2:2)—or in this case, a lack of power—in cutting the debate completely. The Times review of 26 Mar. 1802 reveals that Kemble’s Perdita (Catherine Hicks) is attractive but almost destitute of sensibility, with a voice so weak that it is almost impossible to hear her distinctly, even at a short distance from the stage. Instead of attending to the speeches addressed to her, or the business of the scene . . . [Hicks] was frequently employed in adjusting her dress. In later productions, Kemble could and did change actresses, but he did not change his text, and productions that derive from his, as well as some that do not, deprive Perdita of much of her spirit as well as some wonderful lines. Kemble and Kean (no. 10) further diminish Perdita’s stage presence by cutting Florizel’s too large praise of her, and her response (1947–74); Wood also cuts most of these lines (1947–52, 1959–71). Anderson cuts twenty-eight, Calvert twenty-four lines—mostly from Florizel’s dialogue. Cutting more evenhandedly between both characters, Wood deletes eighteen lines, Bell and Payne (no. 21) sixteen lines. Perdita’s reference to maidenheads (1929–30) is cut by Kean and Anderson. Perdita’s allusion to Proserpina and Dis (1930–2), considered significant (see Themes and Significance, here), is deleted by Garrick, Kemble, and Kean; Anderson (but not Allen) deletes Bright Phœbus (1938). Garrick, followed by Kemble, Kean, and Anderson only, cuts a reference to maiden maladies (1938–9).

4.4 Songs and Dances

Though all but Hands omit Perdita’s injunction that Autolycus’s songs will contain no scurrilous words (2038–9), many versions try to make sure they do not. The servant’s ironic assurance that Autolycus’s songs are free of bawdry (2016–25) is omitted by Kemble (but not French), Kean, Calvert, and Anderson. Garrick, Bell, and Payne cut of Dildo’s and Fadings (2019–20). Autolycus enters singing Lawn as white (2044–55); the song may not be ribald, but Kean and Anderson cut all but the refrain, Payne cuts nearly as much (2046–53), and all of them omit the questionable poaking-stickes (see n. 2052), which Woolfe and Nunn also cut. Anderson and Wood cut the entire ballad of the usurer’s wife (possibly bawdy; see n. 2084–103); Kean and Calvert omit the reference to birth (2085–6) and, followed by Barton and Eyre, cut Autolycus’s speech containing a reference to Midwiues (2091–3). The ballad of a Fish (2097–103) contains reference to sexual intercourse (see n. 2101–2): Anderson cuts it entirely, while Kemble, Kean, and Calvert cut the two offending lines. Bell and Anderson cut Autolycus’s reference to copulation (see n. 2116–17) and the sexual rivalry of the part song, Two maids wooing a man (2118–33). Garrick, Kemble, Kean, and Eyre omit Autolycus’s lines (2116–17); Phelps, diverging from Kemble, restores them. Though apparently free of anything scurrilous, Will you buy (2139–44) is omitted completely by Kean (no. 10), Calvert, Anderson, Nunn, and Hands. Garrick, Bell, Kemble, Anderson, Woolfe, Payne, and Wood cut the description and the dance of the satyrs (2145–64), but French does not.

4.4 The Aborted Betrothal and Its Results

Audience perception of Polixenes is affected as he moves to prevent Florizel and Perdita from a binding betrothal (2165–285), for while Polixenes might accept the casual coupling . . . expected from country folk, matrimony with their betters seems out of the question (Cook, 1991, p. 201), despite his stance to the contrary in the art vs. nature debate. Several stage versions reduce Polixenes’s ranting—intentionally or not, the cuts make him more consistent in his views, less violent and repugnant in his behavior—and some of them parallel the change in Polixenes with a reduction in the determination and devotion of the young lovers. Polixenes hints that Florizel missed a chance to buy Perdita’s favor when he did not buy any of Autolycus’s trinkets (2174–8); Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Woolfe, Payne, Quayle, Wood, and Barton cut this suggestion. Florizel repudiates the idea (2181–3), but Kemble, Anderson, Payne, Woolfe, and Barton cut his gallantry. Polixenes, berating Doricles for not having his father at the betrothal, seems to grow more agitated each time Doricles spurns arguments about a father’s rightful place in his son’s life (2225–58): Polixenes is considerably more tranquil after Anderson cuts almost all of this section (2231–51), Woolfe more than half (2231–40, 2243–7), Kemble, Kean, and Calvert only a little less (2231–43). Bell, Payne, Barton, and Eyre get rid of all or most of Polixenes’s abrasive questions (2233–7). Polixenes threatens Perdita with disfigurement (2269–70) and a generally cruel death (2281–5). Kean may feel one threat is enough, since he cuts Polixenes’s vindictive idea of ruining Perdita’s beauty (2265–70). Polixenes also threatens to bar Florizel from the succession (2273) and to deny kinship with him (2274–5). Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Barton, and Eyre omit only the latter, with its denial of kinship emphasized by the reference to Deucalion (see n. 2275). Quayle omits that reference only (2275).

Bell notes that despite the five pages that Hull cut out of [this] scene, it is still too long and may be charged with unessential intricacy; what follows [after Polixenes’s exit at 2285], to the end of the act [2723], we think might be spared one half, it is harping too much on one string; the ear and taste must both pall (p. 208). Most succeeding versions spare some, if not half. Florizel voices his commitment to Perdita quite clearly at 2310–12, so the elaboration that begins at 2313 and continues through the hyperbole of 2328–31 is not essential: Kemble and Kean cut 2313–31; Anderson cuts nearly all of this; other versions thin or cut from two to twelve lines. In a terse exchange (2399–401), Camillo asks if Florizel has thought on a place to go, and the Prince replies Not any yet. Far more wordily, they have already said something like this (2381–98): Bell, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Payne (no. 21), and Wood cut the whole segment, Woolfe all but one line (2382), Kemble all but three (2392–4); Payne (no. 20), Quayle, Nunn, Barton, Eyre, and Hands cut a number of these lines. The basic story Florizel is to tell Leontes, some questions from Florizel, and a few compliments to Perdita take up forty-eight lines (2423–70), which are sometimes repetitive: cutting large segments of dialogue are Hands (44 lines), Nunn (41), Bell, Anderson, Quayle, and Wood (39 each), Woolfe (37), Calvert (33), Payne (32 lines), Kemble (29), and Kean (27). Cutting less than half are Ames, Barton, and Eyre. Quayle and Payne omit Autolycus’s self-satisfied speech about having sold all his trumpery (2472–95); Anderson omits most of it (2472–90). Cutting and thinning by fifteen lines or less are Garrick, Bell, Kemble, Calvert, Kean, Woolfe, Nunn, Barton, Eyre, and Hands. Florizel, Perdita, and Camillo exit (2552) after Autolycus and Florizel exchange clothes, a piece of business that critics find puzzling, if not superfluous (see n. 2511–12). Kemble deletes the exchange, cutting 2496–519 and 2521–43; all versions except Ames cut some of these lines. With consistency, Kemble also cuts lines that contain a reference to the clothing exchange (2553–60): Woolfe, Wood, Nunn, and Barton also cut them.

Anderson ends the scene at 2552; other versions omit some of the remaining lines (2553–723), primarily cutting Autolycus at his best (or worst). Garrick is the first to delete Autolycus’s stated intent to do Florizel a good turn (2592–3): Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Payne (no. 21), Quayle, Wood, and Eyre follow. Autolycus’s posturing as a courtier before the Shepherd and Clown (2599–635) is cut heavily by Bell, Kemble, Kean, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), and Quayle. Wood, Nunn, Barton, and Hands cut this section moderately. Parts of 2605–10 provoke critical concerns (see n. 2607–8). While it seems unlikely that they would bother an audience watching a performance, these are among the few lines that Granville-Barker cuts, following Garrick’s cut, as do Calvert, Nunn, and Hands.

Autolycus creates a vivid description of the torments the Clown will suffer (2665–72); Bell cuts this funny (if mean-spirited) display (2668–72). Quayle cuts Autolycus’s misleading offer to bring the Shepherd and Clown to the King and into his favor (2675–80), while Calvert, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Nunn, Barton, and Eyre omit one or the other of Autolycus’s promises. Some redundant information is offered (2688–705), and Wood saves playing time by cutting all of these lines, while Woolfe, Quayle, Hands, and Nunn cut a dozen or more lines. Bell, Kemble, Kean, Payne, Barton, and Eyre omit about six lines. Only Bell and Kean eliminate Autolycus’s reference to urinating on the hedge (2706–7). Autolycus once again says he will try to do Florizel a good turn (2713–23): Calvert, seemingly intent on eliminating any suggestion that Autolycus once served Florizel, cuts these lines. Phelps diverges from Kemble to cut as Calvert does, and Nunn and Barton follow. Kemble, Kean, and Woolfe cut a bit less (2716–22) but retain the connection between Florizel and Autolycus.

5.1 Leontes and Paulina

To remind the audience of Leontes’s situation after the long fourth act, Sh. has him return to the stage expressing regret for his sins and praising his lost queen. Paulina’s objections to Leontes’s suggested remarriage are couched in dialogue that reminds Leontes, the court, and the audience of Hermione’s perfections, Sicilia’s losses, and the unfulfilled Oracle (2740–82). Garrick, who opens his adaptation with a summary of these events, and Anderson, who consistently truncates the major roles except those of Hermione and Perdita, cut 2750–82. All other versions cut from eight to twenty-eight of these forty-three lines, perhaps to save time, perhaps to eliminate Leontes’s reacting to Paulina’s characteristic bluntness with the whimpering of a beaten dog (Pilgrim, 1983, p. 35).

In speculating that Hermione’s sainted spirit will haunt him and drive him to murder a new wife (2783–809), Leontes twice promises unconditionally not to take one (2792 and 2809). Garrick, Quayle, Barton, and Eyre cut the first promise and the emotionally overwrought dialogue that follows it. Anderson cuts the dialogue and the last promise. Kemble, Kean, and Ames retain both promises but cut the intervening dialogue. Bell and Woolfe omit the idea of Hermione’s spirit driving Leontes to murder (2797–800); Calvert and Payne (no. 21) adopt F3’s omission at 2798, changing the reading from just such cause to just cause.

Paulina gains remarkable control over Leontes’s life (2810–29) by twice getting him to promise never to marry without her consent. Hands, however, eliminates that control entirely, cutting 2810–17 and 2826–9. No other version omits the first promise (2812), but one is enough for Kemble, Kean, Ames, Anderson, Payne (no. 21), Barton, and Eyre, who cut the second (2826). Bell and Hands cut half, and every other version except Ames and Payne (no. 20) cuts all or most, of the irritable exchange between Paulina and a servant who praises Perdita’s beauty (2843–64). Paulina next reminds Leontes of Mamillius’s death, and he responds with appropriate pain (2867–77): Quayle and Woolfe spare him this.

5.1 The Arrival of Florizel and Perdita

Subsequent stagings prune F’s version of the young lovers’ arrival at the Sicilian court. Kemble, Kean, and Anderson fail to appreciate the irony of Leontes’s telling Florizel, Your Mother was most true to Wedlock, Prince, | For she did print your Royall Father off, | Conceiuing you (2879–81); they cut. Lines 2885–940 contain Leontes’s self-pitying laments for his past follies and losses, as well as the disgraceful improbability that Florizel should introduce himself to the court of Sicilia, by speaking arrant falsehoods (Inchbald, ed. 1808, 3:6). Bell, Kean, Anderson, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Quayle, Barton, and Hands cut two-thirds or more of this segment. Ames cuts a little more than half the lines but echoes Kemble, who cuts a selective half (2886–93, 2897–901, 2906–8, 2919–23, 2931–7) that lets Florizel tell as much truth as possible. Nunn eliminates twenty-three various lines of courtly language, Wood and Eyre about fifteen.

Polixenes is made to behave less like the Leontes of Acts 1–3 when Hands deletes nearly all lines revealing that the Shepherd and Clown are also in Sicilia and are still the objects of Polixenes’s fury (2950–70). Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Woolfe, Payne (no. 21), Quayle, and Nunn also cut any mention of the terror Polixenes causes the two men (2959–69).

Leontes obviously agrees with Polixenes’s expectation that Florizel’s wife will be of noble birth, since he expresses regret that Florizel has broken with his father in choosing a wife of unsuitable station (2982–6); Anderson, Woolfe, Quayle, and Wood cut the lines, however, giving Leontes a tolerance with which Sh. did not endow him. Kemble, Kean, and Calvert cut Leontes’s regret over the break (2983–4); Payne (no. 21), Nunn, Barton, and Eyre cut his regret that Perdita is not well-born (2984–6). All these versions, as well as Kean and Hands, cut the possibly erotic line about Florizel enjoying Perdita (2986).

At 1845 ff. and 2340 ff. Florizel vows that his feelings for Perdita will not change or be thwarted: Bell, Anderson, Wood, Nunn, Barton, and Eyre cut a repetition at 2987–90. Quayle alone cuts Leontes’s unknowingly incestuous interest in Perdita, Paulina’s sharp reminder of Hermione, and Leontes’s instant excuse for his interest (2995–3000).

5.2 The Fulfillment of the Oracle’s Prophecy

Sh. has the discovery of Perdita’s identity and the ensuing joyful reunions revealed in a talky onstage narrative (3010–120) that Bell (p. 218) labels a flat but acceptable means of maintaining the drama of the statue scene. Bell, in fact, retains all but fifteen of these lines, one of its few cuts—3104–9, also cut by Kean and Hands—ridding the play of Iulio Romano, a reference with a long critical history (see n. 3104–5). Woolfe and Anderson, by contrast, apparently find this narration flat and unacceptable: Woolfe cuts the whole sequence; Anderson cuts all but about thirty-five lines (retaining only the information that Perdita and proof of her identity have been found). Garrick omits the mention of the deaths of Antigonus and the mariners, as well as the joy that stimulates Paulina’s notable eye movement (3068–84). No one else cuts Antigonus’s death, but Burton diverges from Kemble (French does not) to cut the loss of the mariners and Paulina’s eye movements, as do Ames, Nunn, and Barton. Quayle, Eyre, and Hands cut only the loss of the mariners. Kean, Calvert, and Payne (no. 21) omit only Paulina’s unusual eye movement. Burton makes other cuts that Kemble does not (3023–4, 3037–9, 3042–9, and 3053–67), but in each of these instances, French reads with Kemble.

Bell does cut from 3121 to the end of the scene (3182); Kean follows. Apparently finding no delight in the somewhat repetitive dialogue, they eliminate Autolycus’s soliloquy and his subsequent humbling at the hands of the newly ennobled Shepherd and Clown. Cumberland, French, Calvert, and Wood delete the entire soliloquy (3121–34), Nunn most of it (3122–30, 3133–4). In the remainder of the scene, Garrick and Wood cut 3137–8; Garrick, Payne (no. 21), Nunn, Barton, and Eyre cut 3140–1. In particular, Garrick cuts 3175–80, which has three repetitions of tall fellow, and in this cut he is followed by Kemble, Kean, Calvert, and Anderson, while Nunn and Barton cut 3178–80.

5.3 The Statue Scene

Payne (no. 21), Nunn, Barton, and Hands omit most of the preliminary courtly ritual (3186–201), cutting as quickly as possible to Paulina’s revelation of the statue (3208). Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Woolfe, Quayle, Nunn, Barton, and Eyre think it better to omit Leontes’s tactless exclamation that his queen was not so wrinkled with age as her statue is (3216–18) and, with Wood and Kean (no. 10), the self-recrimination of 3223–5, instances of which are also cut by Garrick, Kemble, Anderson, Payne (no. 21), and Barton (3228–9) and by Anderson and Payne (no. 21) at 3230–1.

Perdita has a mere seven lines in this scene (3234–8, 3287–8), a number that could easily be handled by an understudy. This fact suggests to Partridge (1982, p. 4) that Sh.’s intention may have been to double the roles of Hermione and Perdita as a way of overcoming the difficulty of casting separately the roles of mother and daughter who must markedly resemble each other. Webster (1942, p. 282) feels that doubling does great violence to Shakespeare’s intention, and [has] nothing to recommend it save the possibility that the audience may want to see one woman star through the whole play instead of two in half the play each. Only four of the versions under consideration double the roles. Of those, Anderson and Allen use here a silent double, cutting 3230–50. Nunn keeps Perdita’s first speech only, Hands two lines of it (3237–8). Some of the versions not doubling the roles still find Perdita’s lines unimportant enough to cut: Calvert omits both little speeches, Kean the first, Woolfe the second, and Garrick part of the first. The rest of the dialogue preceding the reanimation of Hermione (3239–305) can be cut to save playing time. All versions except Ames, Payne (no. 20), and Wood omit from two (Garrick) to thirty-five (Payne, no. 21) lines.

Though Simon Forman ignores the statue scene entirely and some critics find it contrived, forced, and flat, others—Coghill (1958, pp. 39–40), for example—view it as a deeply satisfying, astonishing, magical, and daring piece of theater (see n. 3321–3). In production, however, despite the mere thirty-five lines (3306–40) that Sh. uses to take the audience from the first indication of Hermione’s return to her last words in the play (and the only ones she has spoken since 1318), Garrick, Bell, Kemble, Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Payne (no. 21), Quayle, Nunn, and Barton cut from four to fourteen of the lines. Bell omits half of Hermione’s short speech (3337–40). Anderson cuts the last twenty-nine lines of the play (3341–69)—a move that eliminates, among other things, Leontes’s making a match for Paulina—and then introduces two lines from another play for the conclusion (see below, here). Payne (no. 21) cuts nearly as much (3244–65), as do Kean, Calvert, and Woolfe (3345–60), who also eliminate the matchmaking (3349–59). Other versions cutting this material include Kemble (who omits 3350–7 and uses alterations and additions to change what he does not cut). French does not follow Kemble or Burton in cutting. Garrick, Quayle, Barton, Wood, Eyre, and Hands all cut a few lines from the end of this scene.

Substitutions, Transpositions, and Additions

A few original substitutions occur in stage versions, some affecting plot and characterization but most involving no more than a word or two employed to replace language deemed lewd, archaic, or obscure. Alterations adopted from reading editions are generally not discussed here. An exception is the substitution throughout of Bithynia for Bohemia in Bell, Kean (no. 11), and Calvert. Kean alone explains his adoption of Hanmer’s emendation: the oracle of Delphi (Delphos in the original but changed throughout in Kean) points to a period when Syracuse is the equivalent of Athens at the summit of her political prosperity [and] . . . assuming that the civilization of Athens was reflected by Syracuse, [then] . . . to connect the country known as Bohemia with an age so remote would be impossible (p. vi).

Additions account for the smallest body of change to the text. Payne (no. 21) adds a short prologue stressing the folk-tale nature of WT. Opening SDs in Kean (no. 11), adopted in principle by Calvert, reflect Kean’s conception of place (Syracuse) and time (739 b.c.), as well as his desire to keep the entire play free of what he believes to be disrupting anachronisms. Corbin, in preparing Ames’s version, opens on—and sets many later scenes in—the alcove: the General Notes on Decoration, appended to the prompt copy, explain that he thinks the alcove an authentic feature of the Elizabethan stage within which locality is established at a glance by properties, the main stage being neutral ground from which the idea of locality is absent. Since Corbin believes that much of the early action of WT is possible only when we assume the alcove appears as an apartment, removed from the main stage which thus becomes a sort of anteroom (p. 1), his handling of the text is guided by his conception of staging.

1.2. The Invitation, etc.

A number of substitutions clarify language: Barton changes Gest (98) to Time, and Eyre follows. Eyre substitutes to come for behind (125), though both mean the same thing. Cumberland changes hoxes (334) to boxes, but Phelps restores the original reading in his promptbook; Calvert alters to hoaxes. Holy-Horse (368) becomes hobby-horse in Kemble, Allen (no. 15), Ames, Granville-Barker, Payne (no. 20), and Barton; Calvert and Allen (no. 16) alter to wanton. Bell alters Potion (417) to portion. Another group of substitutions eliminates perceived indecencies or provocative language. French avoids sexual connotations by having Hermione instead of ride’s (164) say ride in, Calvert drive us. In Phelps Cuckolds (273) becomes false ones. Anderson, though not Allen, keeps Leontes from degrading Hermione entirely by substituting My Wife’s not honest for My Wife’s a Holy-Horse, deserues a Name | As ranke as any Flax-Wench, that puts to | Before her troth-plight (368–70). His distaste for the sullying of his marital Sheetes (426) because Polixenes has illicitly toucht Hermione (529) is downplayed in Kean, where Leontes’s honour is tainted because Polixenes approach’d the Queen.

2.1 Confronting Hermione

Substitutions are few here. In the teasing that Mamillius endures, Kean changes a lady-in-waiting’s already mild wanton with us to the innocuous play with us (609). Kean’s unsubtle foreshadowing changes the Church-yard in Mamillius’s story (625) into a prophetic grave-yard. Barton reduces 631–2 (on . . . ships) to the single word hence. Quayle uses the Spider in the Cup speech (633–42) in place of 900–3 (It . . . Adultresse), where it works well but no better than in its original location. Nunn adopts the glosses of Kermode (ed. 1963), replacing pinch’d Thing and Tricke (648) with puppet and toy. Anderson substitutes false for an Adultresse (692), but Allen does not. Kemble adopts Malone’s (ed. 1790) feodary for Federarie (694): the change can make little difference to an audience, but it does reflect Kemble’s friendship with the notable editors of his day (Malone, Reed, and Steevens) and his practice of consulting them on the texts. Kemble considered Malone his most respected advisor on scholarly points (Baker, 1942, p. 212).

2.1 Ignoring Good Counsel

Having cut much of the sensible advice offered to—but ignored by—Leontes, stage versions have little of importance remaining to alter. Kemble makes several transpositions affecting Antigonus’s role. He assigns to Antigonus the Lord’s speech at 738–40 (For her [my Lord] | I dare my life lay downe, and will do’t . . . the Queene is spotlesse), thus letting Antigonus ironically foreshadow his own fate. He strengthens Antigonus’s resistance to Leontes’s folly by assigning him another lord’s bold defiance of the king (774–6: more . . . might), and in this Kean and Hands follow Kemble. Finally, Kemble moves 784–9 to follow 814, thus ending his scene not with Antigonus’s impertinence but with his regret that Leontes has made his accusations so public a matter. French, however, does not transpose.

2.3 Confronting Leontes

The substitutions that occur here generally seek to improve Leontes’s image: his bastard becomes brat at 992 in Kean and Calvert, creature at 1085 in Kemble (but not French), Kean, and Calvert, hateful issue of Polixenes (in Kemble) and infant (in Kean and Calvert) at 1107. Sh. has Leontes say he will burne his infant daughter (1086); Kemble has Leontes merely end the baby’s life. Paulina becomes loud-tongu’d rather than lewd-tongu’d (1104) in Kean and Anderson only. Perhaps seeking a more logical chronology, Payne (no. 21) rearranges the abandonment of Perdita so that it precedes Hermione’s trial. After Leontes’s No: Ile not reare Anothers Issue (1125–6), the order is: 1437 (to Babe); 1439–56 (Ant. . . . business); 1491–3 (The . . . cannot); the addition of Act One, Scene 7; 1457; 1437–8 (Enter Sheepeheard, and Clowne.); 1459–61 (thy . . . waking); 1464–6 (in . . . lay); 1467–1577 (And . . . Exeunt); the addition of Act One, Scene 8; 1126 (Enter a Seruant is altered to Leo. R with 3rd & 4th Lords, 2nd Lord enters L. and speaks); 1127–41 (Please. . . . Triall); 1143 (Exeunt); 1145 on.

Kean’s stage version is alone in changing Delphos to Delphi at 1130, but to support his transposition of 3.1, Kemble alters 1130–1. Cleomenes and Dion, having returned safely from Delphos, now are both landed, | Hasting to th’ Court in F; Kemble has them even now | Entering the court. Kean and Calvert cut 3.1 but adopt Kemble’s change to let the audience know that the Oracle’s response will be introduced at the trial.

3.1 Delphos

In Kemble, as noted, 1144–72 follows 897, the scene thus coming between 2.2 and 2.3. This staging elicits a written comment in the margin of Kean (no. 10), where the scene is cut: I [J. W. Coles] see nothing gained by the alteration. French does not transpose.

3.2 The Trial

During her trial, Hermione details the terrible things that have been done to her. One of them is that her infant daughter has been Hal’d out to murther (1280). By transposing 3.2 and 3.3, Anderson shows the baby’s abandonment before the audience hears about it from Hermione. Substitutions generally offer an innocuous word for an original that might be deemed offensive: the body of Hermione’s first Fruits of my body (1276) becomes affection in Bell, our marriage in Kemble (but not French) and Kean, my marriage in Anderson (but not Allen). Strumpet (1281) becomes wanton in Kean, Calvert, and Anderson, though the difference seems negligible. In F, an officer of the court reads the oracle (1313–16); Barton distributes the lines between Dion, Cleomenes, and other courtiers and ladies, appropriately reserving the last two highly dramatic lines (the King shall liue without an Heire, if that which is lost, be not found) for Paulina. Kemble gives her 1317, the cry of multiple lords: Now blessed be the great Apollo; French does not follow Kemble or Burton in this. By substituting dead for the euphemistic gone (1327, 1328), Bell and Kemble eliminate the minor suspense that Sh. creates, but this change gives Kemble a chance to let Leontes moan, at the end of 1328, Oh, oh, oh!—My son!—.

At least two versions offer additions to SDs that bear directly on the interpretation of the text. At 1185 Calvert has Hermione brought in on a Lectica [defined by him as a couch for carrying persons in a lying position, from one place to another] by her Female Attendants), a matter of staging that would be incongruous if Calvert neglected to cut Hermione’s complaints about her poor treatment in childbirth. Kemble (though not French) unfortunately destroys the power of the original scene, in keeping with the general subduing of Leontes’s behavior and, consequently, Paulina’s: Kemble presents as nearly private what F presents as public spectacle—Paulina enters at 1358 to confront Leontes with news of Hermione’s death and to accuse him of being responsible for it. A line added for Leontes after 1338Break up the court—clears the stage of trial spectators; Kemble then closes the public setting (The Court of Justice) on Leontes’s dismal behavior and distances him from this embarrassing performance by having him discovered in the privacy of The King’s Closet, attended by only two courtiers. In this diminished setting, before this attenuated audience, Paulina plays out her weakened role. George Ellis, stage manager for Kean (see no. 10), thinks that J. Kemble makes what follows [1338] take place in a front scene, probably for the convenience of setting a back scene for the next scene on the seacoast of Bohemia. J. W. Cole, who marked Kean’s promptbook and often commented on Kemble’s staging, crosses out Ellis’s note.

4.1 Time

Bell admits the necessity of the chorus for transmitting essential information but cannot much compliment Time on his speech here, preferring instead the lines with which Hull replaces If . . . may (1609–11): And grant to Time your free indulgence now;

Time, who doth all for you; on whom depend

Your hopes and fears, your chiefest foe or friend

As he is us’d; if well, he on his wings,

Delicious transport to the lover brings,

Comforts the mourner, sets the captive free,

And to the Bard gives immortality.

Think well on this; grant then what Time requires,

So may Time grant each honest heart’s desire.

Kean (no. 11) alters Sh.’s simple SD: Enter Time, the Chorus (1579) becomes the gem of the spectacle . . . for which MR. KEAN is in no way indebted to SHAKSPEARE, according to a caustic review in Punch (10 May 1856). The acting ed. describes what theatergoers saw: A classical allegory representing the course of time. Luna in her car, accompanied by the stars (personified), sinking before the approach of Phoebus. Chronos as time, surmounting the globe, describes the events of the sixteen years supposed to have elapsed. Ascent of Phoebus in the Chariot of the Sun. Kean provides the model for the extravagant staging in Burton’s production of 1857 (as recorded in French) and in Calvert’s of 1869.

4.2 Polixenes’s Intervention

A significant reordering of material occurs in Payne (no. 21) with the transposing of 4.2 (1612–66) and 4.3 (1667–1794). The scene with Autolycus separates the exchange at Court, in which Polixenes orders Camillo to accompany him to the Shepherd’s cottage to spy on Florizel, and the sheepshearing, at which Polixenes confronts his son. Payne (no. 21) eliminates the separation of Polixenes’s scenes, though the dialogue between Florizel and Perdita is kept intact to provide the time for Camillo and Polixenes to enter at 1863 in disguises simple enough to be eliminated in one grand gesture at 2260 (in most versions). Kemble, Kean, Woolfe, and Eyre alter Camillo’s statement (1617) about the years of his exile: Kemble, Kean, and Eyre change fifteen to sixteen, Woolfe changes to eighteen. These changes, of course, affect Perdita’s age (see n. 1617).

4.4 The Sheepshearing

Garrick inserts a song for Perdita after 1974. Kemble adopts stanzas I, IV, and V, inserting them after 1878. A stage direction in Kemble (no. 5) indicates a song, probably the same one, since succeeding versions also show this Garrick interpolation. Phelps notes that This [song] is sometimes omitted: Macready, Burton, and French do, in fact, omit it; Phelps does not. The song is especially appropriate to a submissive Perdita:

I
Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear;
In your holy-day suits, with your lasses appear:
The happiest of folk, are the guiltless and free,
And who are so guiltless, so happy as we?
II
We harbour no passions, by luxury taught;
We practice no arts, with hypocrisy fraught;
What we think in our hearts, you may read in our eyes;
For the roses will bloom, when there’s peace in the breast.
III
By mode and caprice are the city dames led,
But we, as the children of nature are bred.
By her hand alone, we are painted and dress’d;
For the roses will bloom, when there’s peace in the breast.
IV
That giant, ambition, we never can dread;
Our roofs are too low, for so lofty a head;
Content and sweet chearfulness open our door,
They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.
V
When love has possess’d us, that love we reveal;
Like the flocks that we feed, are the passions we feel;
So harmless and simple we sport, and we play,
And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray.

A few directors rearrange lines in this scene quite freely, satisfying perceptions of the play that might not be apparent to an audience. Kemble switches 1980–1 (Good . . . Creame.) to follow Perdita’s interpolated song (1878); French lacks the song but moves the line. Burton restores it to F position, as he does Kemble’s insertion of Is . . . maids (2066) and Is . . . whispring (2068–71) at the start of the Clown’s speech at 1986. French, however, reads with Kemble. Payne (no. 21) follows Kemble’s move of 2013–15 (I. . . . lamentably) to follow singing at 2037. Though the bawdry of Lawne as white (2043–55) is uncertain, the possibility of it may contribute to Kemble’s replacing this song with Will you buy (2139–44), which he then closes with 2072–3, Come . . . gloues. French substitutes 2072–3 for 2056–60. Kemble earlier follows Garrick in changing Maiden-heads growing (1930) to honours growing; French retains the F reading; Bell makes it blushes glowing and changes Lusts (at 1835) to wishes. Kean puts 1971–4 (But . . . ’em.) after The Queene of Curds and Creame (1981) and replaces the whole of Will you buy (2139–44) with the two-line refrain (2054–5) of Lawne as white, indicating repetition as necessary to cover Autolycus’s exit. Payne (no. 21) transposes the Clown’s folow me girles (2137–8) and Autolycus’s And you shall pay well for ’em (2138); Wood puts 2136–7 (Wenches . . . both) after girles (2138).

Like Kean, Nunn moves 1971–4, but in this case to follow 2163; he then puts 2161–3 (the Shepherd telling a servant to let the twelve dancing satyrs enter) after 2152, the last line of the servant’s description of the dance and dancers, though he also moves 2145–52 (in which he inexplicably makes all instances of they and them into we) to follow 1981 (The Queene of Curds and Creame). He puts the SD of 1988–9 after ’em (1974); puts He . . . best (1995–2000), lines from one of the Shepherd’s speeches, into his next speech instead (following silent, 2003); reduces 2006–11 (if . . . Tunes) to one line (There’s a pedlar at the gate); and rearranges Polixenes’s threatening speech, moving 2270–6 (For . . . Court) to follow 2285. After all the rearranging in which Nunn indulges, his resulting text is not an obvious improvement over F, and no succeeding version, including that of his collaborator Barton, adopts these changes.

4.4 The Elopement Plot

When it is not cut, the clothing crux (2496–552; see n. 2511–12) is attacked through alterations, substitutions, and additions. Bell offers a complicated solution that no one else adopts, first changing Camillo’s exclamation on seeing Autolycus (2503–4) from Wee’le . . . aide to How chance oft hits the mark, when wisdom fails! | Now, my best lord, if you dare trust your course, | Intirely to my skill—. Camillo has in mind the exchange of the Prince’s garments for the out-side of [Autolycus’s] pouertie (2511), an exchange that presumably helps Florizel look even less like a prince than he already does; but if he is obscur’d With a Swaines wearing (1806–7), the exchange does not meet the other necessity—that Florizel’s clothes make Autolycus look like a courtier to the Shepherd and Clown (and not stretch credulity by appearing in clothing recognizable as Florizel’s). To make the exchange logical, Bell earlier (2312) has Florizel reveal rich clothes under his shepherd’s vest, then alters F’s dis-case . . . boot (2512–15) to read retire with us to the next covert, change garments with this gentleman, (thou must think there’s necessity in it) and tho’ the bargain on his side be worst, yet thou shalt have gold to boot. Finally, to emphasize the action and take Perdita into account, Bell substitutes the following for F’s 2521–43:

Cam.

There’s earnest to prove it. [Gives him a purse.]

The business dispatched, thou shalt have as much more.



Flor.

I partly guess your drift.



Cam.

You must exchange

Your costly garment for this rustic’s rag.

You, my sweet lady, take your lover’s hat,

And shepherd’s habit, so shall we deceive

Each prying eye, till we are safe aboard.



Perd.

Alack the shame on’t, that a lowly maid

Should to such peril and unworthy shifts,

Reduce your greatness!



Flor.

Sweetest Perdita,

Fear not, but list my words.

Kemble, as we have seen, cuts the clothing exchange but explains Autolycus’s costume by substituting for to . . . extempore (2553–60) Well, I am transform’d courtier again—four silken gamesters, who attended the king, and were revelling by themselves, at some distance from the shepherds, have drank so plentifully, that their weak brains are turn’d topsy-turvy—I found one of ’em, retir’d from the rest, sobering himself with sleep under the shade of a hawthorn; I made profit of occasion, and exchang’d garments with him. The pedler’s clothes are on his back, and the pack by his side, as empty as his pockets, and following with most of the rest of his speech (2473–7, 2481–6, 2488–95) as well as 2567–9 from a later speech. Kean, Calvert, Anderson, Ames, Granville-Barker, and Payne (no. 21) deal with the problem by leaving intact Sh.’s change Garments | with this Gentleman (2513–14) but directing an exchange of cloaks between Florizel and Autolycus. At 2535–6 Barton has Perdita pick up Autolycus’s coat, hat, and fake beard (not mentioned in F until 2596–7), presumably for Florizel to wear. Quayle, Eyre, and Hands also transpose a few phrases and lines but do not create significant changes.

5.2 The Fulfillment of the Oracle

As several critics note, the first reunion (3010 ff.) can be played without Autolycus; Kemble, Kean, and Calvert reassign his lines to various courtiers and have him enter later. Quayle and Barton, by contrast, increase Autolycus’s importance by letting him take credit for bringing the Shepherd and Clown to Florizel’s ship—not in soliloquy but before the courtiers leave the stage (in Quayle, 3121–30 precedes Autolycus’s first line [3010]; in Barton, 3121–8 follows the second [3011]). Payne (no. 21), who names the two gentlemen Cleomenes and Dion, also draws attention to Autolycus at 3035 by directing that Dion anticipates [Autolycus’s] grab for Cleomenes’ pocket.

Kemble follows Garrick as the latter creates, with additions and alterations, the Clown’s idea that gentlemanly behavior must be corrupt. After the newly made gentleman says to Autolycus, Giue me thy hand (3164), he complains of finding it empty: Hast nothing in it?—Am I not a courtier? | —I must be gently consider’d. Autolycus’s earlier lines—Seest thou not the ayre of the Court, in these enfoldings? Hath not my gate in it, the measure of the Court? (2612–14)—are then inserted into the Clown’s speech, while Autolycus replies with the Shepherd’s line from 2688, Here is what gold I have, sir.

Sh. allows the Clown and Shepherd a small triumph over Autolycus that Garrick and Kemble do not, for after the last line of the scene (3182), they let Autolycus exult: O, sweet sir!; I have brib’d him with his own money. Barton also lets Autolycus best the Clown and Shepherd, adding SDs in which Autolycus steals their purses (3166), takes chains from their pockets (3178), pilfers their handkerchiefs (3180), and removes additional chains off their backs (3181).

5.3 The Statue

Only in this scene do additions and alterations change the text as much as cutting does, though not necessarily for the better. Garrick alters 3236–41 (Lady . . . dry) as follows:

Flor.

Rise not yet;

I join me in the same religious duty;

Bow to the shadow of that royal dame,

Who, dying, gave my Perdita to life,

And plead an equal right to blessing.



Leon.

O, Master-piece of art! nature’s deceiv’d

By thy perfection, and at every look

My penitence is all afloat again.

Kemble, aware of the popularity of Garrick’s adaptation, uses Leontes’s lines in place of 3236–46 (in which Perdita, Paulina, and Camillo all speak). Burton marks these lines but does not indicate a cut; French reads with Kemble.

At 3258–9, Leontes says, Let be, let be: | Would I were dead, but that me thinkes alreadie. Perhaps for clarity, Kean (no. 11) adds to the line, I am but dead, stone looking upon stone (noting that this line is introduced from [J.P.] Collier’s emendations).

F is quite restrained as the statue comes to life (3316–23). Kemble offers this modified but still effusive variation of Garrick’s alterations and additions:

Leon.

Support me, Heaven!—

If this be more than visionary bliss,

My reason cannot hold.—My queen? my wife?—

But speak to me, and turn me wild with transport.—

I cannot hold me longer from those arms.

She is warm,—she lives!



Per.

O Florizel!



Leon.

Her beating heart meets mine, and fluttering owns

Its long-lost half: these tears that choke her voice

Are hot and moist,—it is Hermione!

Macready and Phelps cut the interpolation and restore the original reading; Burton marks the interpolation for possible cutting. French follows Kemble’s version except for Perdita’s interjection.

Following Paulina’s line, Our Perdita is found (3332), Kemble adopts Garrick’s addition: And with her found

A princely husband whose instinct of royalty

From under the low thatch

Where she was bred,

Took his untutor’d queen.

Macready and Phelps cut it from their texts; Burton marks it for cutting; French does not print it. Consistency allows Garrick’s alteration of my daughters head (3335) to their princely heads, a change that Kemble adopts but Macready and French reject.

Sh. makes the reunion of Leontes and Hermione wordless. In that scene he shows his awareness, as a dramatist, of realities which language cannot get at, not even the subtle tool of his own poetry (Ewbank, 1971, p. 104). Hermione’s words (3333–40) are directed solely to her daughter. Garrick is the first to shift the emphasis of the reunion to Hermione and Leontes (with more matter but surely less art). Kemble follows with a modified version:

Leon.

Hark, hark! she speaks—

O, pipe, through sixteen winters dumb! then deem’d

Harsh as the raven’s throat; now musical

As nature’s song, tun’d to the according spheres!



Herm.

My lord, my king,—there’s distance in those names,—

My husband!—



Leon.

O, my Hermione! have I deserv’d

That tender name? Be witness, holy powers,

If penitence may cleanse the soul from guilt,

Leontes’ tears have wash’d his crimes away.

If thanks unfeign’d be all that you require

Most bounteous gods, for happiness like mine,

Read in my heart, your mercy’s not in vain.



Herm.

No more my best lov’d lord; be all that’s past

Buried in this enfolding, and forgiven.



Leon.

Thou matchless saint!—Thou paragon of virtue!



Perd.

Thus let me bow, and kiss that honour’d hand.



Herm.

Thou, Perdita, my long-lost child, that fill’st

My measure up of bliss.

Macready and Burton restore the original ending (3349–69); Phelps gets rid of the interpolation and restores most of 3359–64. French dispenses with Leontes’s first and Hermione’s last speech of Kemble’s modification, returning to the F text with Hermione’s line at 3333. Garrick’s alteration for 3349, O peace Paulina, becomes No, no Paulina; | Live bless’d with blessing others.—My Polixenes! Kemble adopts it; Macready and Burton restore F’s reading; French reads as Kemble does. Bell does not cut Leontes’s matchmaking but alters it away, substituting for 3350–61 (Thou . . . Brother) the following: Thou must partake our bliss. Be a king’s gratitude

A holy charm to witch inquietude,

From all thy hours to come! my royal brother,

Join here with me, and my redeem’d Hermione,

O! how those eyes reproach me! pardon, pardon.

Kemble, having cut the matchmaking, is obliged to alter 3358–9 and does so by following Garrick. F has Leontes tell Camillo to take [Paulina] by the hand: whose worth, and honesty | Is richly noted; Garrick turns the compliment to Camillo with, Now pay thy duty here—thy worth, and honesty | Are richly noted. Macready and Burton, but not French, restore the F reading.

After daughter at 3365, Garrick keeps Perdita docile and humble with an added speech in which she acknowledges her common upbringing but promises to learn to be a princess; he follows this with cloying reassurance from Florizel. Since Kemble does not adopt all of Garrick’s changes in the last act, it is easier to understand why Macready and Burton restore the original reading than it is to forgive Kemble for adapting from Garrick in the first place to produce this:

Per.

I am all shame,

And ignorance itself, how to put on

This novel garment of gentility;

And yield a patch’d behaviour,

That ill becomes this presence. I shall learn,

I trust I shall, with meekness—but I feel—

Ah, happy that I do!—a love, a heart,

Unalter’d to my prince, my Florizel.



Flor.

Be still my queen of May, my shepherdess;

Rule in my heart; my wishes be thy subjects,

And harmless as thy sheep.

Having left not a line of the original after Hermione’s dialogue ends at 3340, Anderson imports the concluding couplet from AWW (All yet seems well if it ends so meet, (sic) | The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet) to round off the abrupt ending. Anderson explains (Preface, n.p.): this couplet offers a more effective climax than the general conversation with which the Winter’s Tale comes to an end—and a more appropriate one, since no alien hand . . . was called in to add these closing lines, particularly if the alien hand is as obvious as it is execrable in Garrick, Bell, and Kemble.

In Garrick, whose revision is adopted by Kemble but restored by Macready, Leontes’s simple directive to Paulina—Hastily lead away (3369)—becomes —then thank the righteous gods,

Who, after tossing in a frightful storm

Guide us to port, and chearful beams display,

To gild the happy evening of our day.

Bell substitutes for Leontes’s brisk and practical concluding lines (3363–9) these obvious utterances:

Leo.

. . . join with us to bless

These comforts of our age.



Pol.

Deign, gracious heaven,

To ratify this benediction, given

By our imperial breath.



Leo.

Stand forth, Hermione,

A shining proof that innocence can bear

Affliction’s sharpest tortures, unimpair’d;

And from the trial to the wond’ring sight,

Come forth more pure, more amiably bright.

The Winter’s Tale, in its original form, was for years ignored as a theatrical vehicle, but Frey (Vast Romance, 1980, p. 166) fairly observes that now, when we examine the stage and critical histories of The Winter’s Tale, we see, no doubt, some of the same or similar errors, misconceptions, and stock responses propagating themselves afresh in each age.

In fact, the errors and misconceptions of the Morgan and Garrick adaptations, as summarized by Dash (1980, p. 274), describe equally well the restored versions of Hull, Kemble, and the other actor-managers who modeled their productions on Kemble’s for some fifty years: they cut out Leontes’ passion-wracked passages, his intense spurts of jealousy, and his arrogance. Since characters in drama are defined by their interaction with other characters, the omission of the early scenes affected not only the portrait of Leontes but also those of Hermione and Paulina. . . . Hermione’s strength becomes unnecessary if there is no challenge, no contest, for her to face. And Paulina’s role as the voice of conscience also loses its meaning. By revising, excising, and emending . . . Garrick [and many subsequent stage versions] substituted weak women for strong, and strong men for weak.

Indeed, the play’s resurrection onstage, like Hermione’s in the statue scene, has not been achieved without some effort, as the preceding examination shows. We also see, however, an advancing interest in the wholeness of the play. We may now be coming closer to a respect for the entire artifact. After two centuries of redactions, the full text [of WT] flourishes upon our stage (Frey, Vast Romance, 1980, p. 166)—or on most of our stages most of the time. At the very least it seems that the sometimes startling revisions and reshapings that characterize 18th- and 19th-century versions have given way to a circumspect admiration for the Shakespearean text, which still accommodates a wide—if no longer infinite—variety of interpretations.

Music in The Winter’s Tale

By Sh.’s time songs and dances in both their popular and their sophisticated guises had become virtually indispensable complements of the spoken drama. Inheritors of many of the artistic traditions of the morality plays and interludes of preceding centuries, the dramatists of the Renaissance inevitably made use of incidental music, and they discovered that songs and even dances could heighten and sometimes transform dramatic situations.

Moore (1916, pp. 81, 101) notes that Sh. made highly original use of music in his plays, combining a love of odd song-words and song-music with his keen sense of dramatic structure. His stage songs were of three principal kinds: ballads, popular favorites, and dramatic songs written or adapted expressly for his plays. The first two categories indicate Sh.’s familiarity with a vast popular tradition upon which he freely drew to supplement songs of his own composition. Lathrop (1908, pp. 1–2): In Sh.’s plays snatches and scraps of song . . . [2] are . . . like conversation. . . . A frequent form taken by a trivial contest of wit . . . is the pert application of bits of familiar songs. . . . Popular songs or improvisations to familiar tunes are employed as quips and jeers. . . . Men of vacant minds at ease troll snatches of song. . . . Evans [in Wiv.] covers his fear by singing. Men who are exhilarated by drinking sing. . . . Fools . . . and mad persons betray their lightheadedness by irrelevant scraps of melody. Sh. may have read Wager’s The Longer Thou Livest the More Fool Thou Art (1569), in which Moros sings the foot of many songs cited in a long list of incipits (ed. Benbow, ll. 70.2–101), and Sh. could also have seen Beaumont’s The Knight of the Burning Pestle (1607) in which Old Matthew Merrythought sings almost three dozen fragments of popular songs to give point to his dialogue. In the third category, by contrast, are the song lyrics of Sh.’s own composition, of which Noble (1923, p. 12) comments: It was he who first grasped all the possibilities afforded by song for forwarding the action and who made it a vital part in his dramatic scheme. Still another category, nonvocal music in the spoken drama, is most effectively displayed at the climax of WT, when the revivification of Hermione takes place (3306 ff.).

Ingram (1966, p. 244): The second half of The Winter’s Tale is suffused with music as the ceremonies of love and forgiveness and reconciliation are celebrated. Pafford (ed. 1963, p. 172): It is the singing voice in [4.3] and the first part of [4.4] which is the chief musical element in the play. WT includes six songs to be sung by the remarkable Autolycus, four as solo songs to the accompaniment of his plucked string instrument within a 475-line section of Act 4 (1669–2144). Since their exuberant lyrics contain interwoven phrases and refrains drawn largely from popular folk songs and ballads, they may have been sung to popular tunes. By contrast, Autolycus is assigned a more demanding singing part in the sixth (2118–33), which is a striking art song for three solo voices—its lyric most likely Sh.’s creation—to be sung by him in dialogue with Mopsa and Dorcas. While for Knight (1947, pp. 100–1) Autolycus is a blend of burly comedian and lyrical jester, who is also (p. 101) a sweet, smooth-voiced rogue, for Smith (1972, p. 109) he is more rogue than minstrel, but his merriment is the means by which the winter part of the play is transformed into the spring part. Lathrop (1908, p. 4): Autolycus . . . through his songs expresses the delights of irresponsible living sweetly and perfectly. Indirectly they summon up to Polixenes no less than to a theater audience several reactions to well-known variations on the subject of amorous trifling. Quoting Rylands (1934, p. 112) to the effect that Sh.’s success [with songs] lies in a fusion of the natural with the artificial, Pafford (p. 173) notes that in these songs there is much more of the natural than of the artificial, much more of the traditional and unaffected singing of tavern and field and much less of delicate artifice and charming affectation than is the case with most of Shakespeare’s earlier songs. Frye (Perspective, 1965, pp. 144–5), speaking of WT’s pastoral society: No mysterious music is heard in this world except the ballads of Autolycus, although Autolycus complacently notes the Orpheus-like influence of his songs [quotes 2484–6]. But it is music that awakens Hermione in another area of the [145] natural society, the chapel of Paulina.

Mellers (1965, pp. 136–52) regards the country dances of shepherds and shepherdesses in WT no less than the ceremonial courtly dances in the more sophisticated contexts of Sh.’s earlier comedies as representing human togetherness (p. 137) through their patterned steps and turns. They thus could be seen as providing an artistic picture of the well-ordered society whose members sustain their existences creatively and harmoniously through their social interchanges. For him (p. 152) the song speech is the drama of the personal life; the dance music is the communal values of the public life. Brissenden (1981, p. 76): Dancing is . . . associated with harmony as it had been in the comedies but it is now also related to discord. . . . By this connection with both concord and disorder the dance contributes to the distinctive tone of the play, in which the apparently tragic is transmuted into a state that, while not always of serene and utter joy, nevertheless holds optimistic promise for the future. For Renaissance attitudes to social dancing, see Howard (1996, pp. 33–44).

Following the early work of Greenhill et al. (1884), Gooch & Thatcher (1991, 3:1908–61) describe the incidental music for WT, dating from the late Elizabethan and the early Jacobean periods up to the present, and list the depositories in which a number of these items can be found. There are 490 listed under five main headings, the most comprehensive entitled simply Incidental Music. Theater directors reviewing the lists of surviving WT scores from the 20th c. alone will perhaps be surprised to discover that on rare occasions eminent composers have contributed settings, including Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco (for a 1935 Vienna production), Darius Milhaud (Paris, 1950), and Aram Khachaturian (Erevan, USSR, 1956). In many instances their settings, surviving sometimes in print, sometimes only in manuscript, are available for examination and presumably for use, though whether they were copyrighted Gooch & Thatcher do not always say. Among such recognizable names, however, are those of dozens of lesser known music devisers and arrangers whose contributions have often attained remarkable dramatic effectiveness.

The following songs and dances appear in WT:

  • 1.When Daffadils begin to peere 1669–80 (4.3.1–12)
  • 2.But shall I go mourne for that 1683–90 (4.3.15–22)
  • 3.Iog-on, Iog-on, the foot-path way 1791–4 (4.3.123–6)
  • 4.A Daunce of Shepheards and Shephearddesses 1988–9 (4.4.165)
  • 5.Whoop, doe mee no harme good man 2023–5 (4.4.198–200)
  • 6.Lawne as white as driuen Snow 2044–55 (4.4.218–30)
  • 7.Get you hence, for I must goe 2118–33 (4.4.297–308)
  • 8.Will you buy any Tape? 2139–44 (4.4.315–23)
  • 9.A Dance of Twelue Satyres 2164 (4.4.342)
  • 10.Music strikes to awaken Hermione 3306 (5.3.98)

As for the music itself, we provide transcriptions below of settings that could have been heard in Sh.’s own day. Seng (1967, pp. xi–xii) comments on the discovery since 1900 of a surprising amount of new material. As a result, modern producers and stage directors [xii] can now avail themselves of reasonably authentic melodies; and rather than regarding the songs in Shakespeare’s play as mere divertissements from the dramatic action, they can begin to regard them as integral parts of the plays. Of the ten songs and dances in WT, five (nos. 1, 2, 3, 6, and 8) are solos sung by Autolycus; one (no. 7) is the trio he shares with the girls. Five (nos. 1, 2, 3, 5, and 8) have ditties cast as quatrains whose marked anapestic movement in all but the first spells out an almost inevitable metrical complement for each in 6/4 or 6/8 time. Appended to one of these (no. 6) is the extended burden of a pedlar hawking the feminine adornments he has for sale, but for another (no. 5) only the closing climactic line of its quatrain survives (Whoop, doe me no harme good man), reported by the Shepherd’s servant as he informs the Clown that the wide range of the prettiest love-songs which Autolycus has in his repertory includes one whose burden makes a maid to answer with this phrase to keep some stretch-mouth’d Rascall (2021) at bay. Fortunately the entire tune for the quatrain has survived under the title of its final line, but not with its preceding lines, which may have described an offensive assault. All five were presumably intended to be set to traditional popular broadside ballad tunes, and such tunes are here transcribed as settings to enable listeners no less than performers of today to realize how the nature of a performance of this play in the dramatist’s own day could be essentially re-created in our own. (See Sabol, 1982, no. 398 n.)

Complementing these five songs are two relatively extended and sophisticated lyrics (nos. 6 and 7) also sung by Autolycus, and their surviving tunes are apparently original settings by composers of Sh.’s day. The special setting for the first of these two lyrics, demanding no little artistry from the vocalist, is preserved in the printed songs of John Wilson (1595–1677), who late in his career was the learned Doctor of Music at Oxford but who in his younger years was actively engaged in writing music for the stage and even performing it there. The second of these two—Get you hence—is a dialogue song, a more complicated type usually scored for two or three singers whose interchanges sometimes verge on the melodramatic. The lyric of this highly dramatic seventh was presumably written by Sh. for this play and its surviving setting probably devised by Robert Johnson, a composer of several stage songs of the period.

Ward (1957) deals with the process of compiling ballad tunes of the late 16th and early 17th centuries for the lyrics mentioned by title in A Handefull of pleasant delites (1584). He shows that modern eds. of Sh.’s lyrics for singing must recognize that while several Elizabethan and Jacobean ballad tunes may each at first have been a specifically composed setting for a particular poetic text, many such musical settings were subsequently used by dramatists as well as by performers seeking satisfactory musical frames for other lyrics. When Richard Jones printed the texts of sundrie new sonets and delectable Histories in A Handefull, he included no music, but the modern editor of that collection, Hyder Rollins, cites the tune that he thinks is needed for an individual lyric’s presentation. All Handefull tunes that achieved some measure of distinction are examples of such Gebrauchsmusik or, as 16th-c. Italians called comparable pieces, arie per cantar, airs for singing, appropriate to any poetry having the requisite meter and stanzaic form. Sh.’s lyrics are here provided with contemporaneous rather than later settings, for even those of the mid-17th c. display a considerable difference in popular music styles from those prevalent in Sh.’s lifetime.

The standard sources of the broadside ballad tunes of Sh.’s day are Chappell (1859), Wooldridge (1893), and Simpson (1966). Ward (1967) amplifies the new material Wooldridge brought to light. To these collections may be added the facsimiles (1961) of Ravenscroft’s Pammelia (1609), Deuteromelia (1609), and Melismata (1611), three collections of popular music largely for the theater. Many such familiar tunes would naturally have been in the repertory of Autolycus, who might accompany himself on a lute; although the play does not mention his doing so, the one of his seven songs most recently recovered (no. 7 below) includes a lute accompaniment for its vocal score. All six settings—excluding, of course, Whoop, doe me no harme good man (2023–5), a lyric outcry merely mentioned as being in his repertory—doubtless were self-accompanied. Dialogue songs also are often represented in Melismata. The piece sung by Autolycus conversing with Dorcas and Mopsa—Get you hence (2118–33)—would have prompted a complex special setting, presumably an assignment for a composer for the theater like Robert Johnson or John Wilson.

The three items of nonvocal instrumental music (nos. 4, 9, and 10) are all instrumental dances scored for treble and bassus, pieces which appear in short scores in the first two sections of British Museum Additional MS 10,444, a famous collection of dance music for the English court masque compiled late in the Jacobean period by Sir Nicholas L’Estrange. Virtually all the significant masque dances are transcribed in Sabol (1982) from this source, together with many of their contemporaneous cognate versions from other sources. The two-part settings for treble and bassus which appear in Add. MS 10,444 are especially useful for performances requiring short score arrangements, such as the dances in WT.

Since the tune entitled The Shepherds’ Dance, which appears in Add. MS 10, 444 as no. 118, possesses the spirited flavor of a piece that might originally have been used for the dance of the Arcadians in Jonson’s Pan’s Anniversary (1620), it has been suggested by J. P. Cutts and others as the ideal setting for A Daunce of Shepheards and Shephearddesses (no. 4) in WT. However, a more suitable choice may be the piece entitled The Maypole (no. 123), the treble on fol. 37v and the bassus on fol. 86v, since, after an extended opening episode featuring an entire group of dancers, its contrasting and constantly shifting strains from duple to triple rhythm and back again more fittingly underscore the contrasting pairs of dancers—a May Lord and a May Lady, a country clown and a country wench, and, leading them, a host and a hostess—and even solo figures are given an opportunity to display aspects of their particular callings. Ward (1986), discussing the widespread use in the contemporary drama of the national dance of England, the morris, shows a family of musical variants branching from a common morris tune. One such branch, possibly the first to establish its independence, is Staines Morris (p. 303); The Maypole belongs to another. To The Maypole here are added two short pieces both entitled Staynes Morris, the first in William Ballet’s Lute Book from Trinity College, Dublin (MS D.1.21/1), and the second from Playford (1651, p. 87). Each of these two, after an opening company dance, may be used for short, separate dances of individual duos. The Maypole was originally used for the second antimasque of Francis Beaumont’s Masque of the Inner Temple and Gray’s Inn and then possibly for the dance in the outdoor scene of The Two Noble Kinsmen (3.3), each of which features a dramatic episode providing a description of a group of company dancers followed by a series of pairs of participants who essentially serve as counterparts to the various pairs subsequently seen in action in WT 4.4. And likewise, no. 150 in Add. MS 10,444, entitled simply A Masque, also presents musical characteristics especially effective for underscoring the awakening of Hermione in 5.3.

For two of these three nonvocal compositions, suitable settings are available in four and five parts for a company of instruments, chiefly strings. The expense accounts from the Pell Order Book (as recorded in C. H. Herford and P. E. Simpson, eds., Ben Jonson, 10:521) for the Satyrs’ Dance and related music pieces first used in Oberon attribute its two-part setting to Robert Johnson and its four-part setting to Thomas Lupo (see Sabol, 1982, nos. 107, 249). The two-part setting for treble and bassus, from British Library Add. MS. 10,444, is included here. While the surviving contemporary five-part setting for The Maypole appearing in Wilhelm Brade’s Newe Ausserlesene liebliche Branden (1617) and not included here expands the simple treble and bassus parts of Add. MS 10,444, it does so needlessly, since the morris dance was often performed outdoors to music traditionally provided simply by a piper and a taborer, and this accompaniment was ordinarily embellished by the tiny bells attached to the costumes as well as to the limbs of the dancers. These jingling bells were frequently tuned to harmonize with each other. Since the third of the items included here from Add. MS 10,444—the short piece entitled simply A Masque to accompany the awakening of Hermione in 5.3—consists solely of a version for treble and bassus, two additional inner parts have been editorially provided here in the event that for this quieter indoor setting a string quartet could be used to provide a contrast to the music of the preceding outdoor scenes. The whole of the two sections of Add. MS 10,444, consisting of Jacobean masque and antimasque dances, has been transcribed and edited in Sabol (1982).

Further information about the use of music in Sh. may be found in Auden (1957), Bontoux (1936), Bridge (1899?), Brooke (1929), Chambers (1957), Champion (1970), Cox (1969), Cutts (Rôle, 1956), Draper (1985), Duckles (1954), Ewbank (1980), Felperin (1972), Finney (1962), Goddard (1951), Gooch & Thatcher (1991), Hollander (1961), Howard (1994), Kimmins (1911), Lamson (1936), Lawrence (1924), Marder (1950), Moore (1922), Muir & Schoenbaum (1971), Neilson & Thorndike (1913), Nicoll (1938 and 1958), Orgel & Strong (1973), Overton (1989), Palmer (1971), Robinson (1584; ed. 1924), Sternfeld (1956 and 1962), Thorndike (1916), Tillyard (1938), Van Doren (1939), Williams (1967), and Wilson (1660).

Songs and Dances Introduced in The Winter’s Tale

1. When Daffadils begin to peere 1669–80 (4.3.1–12)

F1 has three stanzas of four lines each, all tetrameter: 4/4/4/4.

Musical score for When Daffadils begin to peere.

Music: Ritson (1813, 3:281–3) gives a tune not printed before and not obtained without some difficulty. A setting composed by William Boyce around 1759 is reprinted in Caulfield (1864?, 2:49). Long (1961, p. 72) sets the words to Row well, ye mariners from Thomas Robinson’s Schoole of Musicke (1603), which is reprinted in Wooldridge (1893, 1:127). Considerably smoother than the tune from Robinson is a closely related item entitled Lusty Gallant, which is reproduced in Simpson (1966, pp. 476–8). Simpson’s presentation is based on sources cited in Chappell (1859, pp. 476–8) and in Wooldridge (1893, 1:234–6). The latter also cites William Ballet’s Lute Book (Trinity College Dublin, MS 408\2) as one of the earliest sources of the tune and notes its use in Nicholas Breton’s The Workes of a Young Wyt (1577) and in Thomas Nashe’s The Terrors of the Night (1594). In Thomas Proctor’s A Gorgious Gallery of Gallant Inventions (1578, sig. D1v), there is a propper Dittie that is also to be sung to the tune of lusty Gallant. Ward (1968, p. 22) provides a photofacsimile of p. 83 of the second part of Ballet’s Lute Book, an early lute setting of Lusty Gallant, which has been transcribed for keyboard as the first of the items comprising the surviving settings of Autolycus’s lyrics. Ward (1967, p. 58) cites additional sources for Lusty Gallant, including the cantus part of Thomas Ravenscroft’s Round of three Country dances in one appearing in Pammelia (1609, no. 74), whose lyric text begins thus: Now foote it as I do, Tomboy Tom. Vlasto (1954, p. 234, ex. 13) finds a second source for this round in the library of King’s College, Cambridge, MS KC 1.

2. But shall I go mourne for that 1683–90 (4.3.15–22)

Musical score for But shall I go mourne for that.

The original lyric contains 8 lines of alternating tetrameter and trimeter: 4/3/4/3/4/3/4/3 (the trimeter lines are indented). Greenhill et al. (1884, p. 75) record a setting by J. Lampe in 1748, and there is an anon. setting in Caulfield (1864?, 2:52). Long (1961, p. 73) has set the words to a tune entitled The Noble Shirve in Wooldridge (1893, 1:126). A period setting of a ballad tune that aptly accommodates this lyric text is reproduced in Simpson (1966, no. 516), Who List to Lead a Soldier’s Life (see pp. 773–850). This setting is reproduced here, even though the sources of the tune date largely from the mid-17th c., including every ed. of Playford from 1651 to c. 1728 and several keyboard settings of that period.

As Chappell (1859, p. 227) observes, Soldier’s Life is but another version of Tomorrow is St. Valentine’s Day, one of Ophelia’s songs in Hamlet. Wooldridge (1893, 1:303–4) transcribes the version from Playford (1651) but notes that several ballads dating from the late 16th c. are directed to be sung to this tune, which indeed may have been a different tune from that first used but perhaps still satisfies the metrical pattern of Sh.’s lyric.

3. Iog-on, Iog-on, the foot-path way1791–4 (4.3.123–6)

Musical score for Iog-on, Iog-on, the foot-path way.

The original tune is preserved in a number of early settings. The lyric, not of Sh.’s composition, under the title Hanskin, appears in Maitland & Squire (1899; 1979, 2:494–500) in a set of variations by Richard Farnaby (c. 1590?). Under the title Jog on it appears in every ed. of Playford from 1651 to 1698. The tune reappears—this time as a song with three stanzas—in An Antidote Against Melancholy: Made up in Pills (1661, sigs. L1–1v) and in Playford’s Catch that Catch Can or The Musical Companion (1667, sig. M3) in an arrangement by John Hilton for three voices. There are many popular copies of the tune: Chappell (1859, p. 212), Elson (1901, p. 248), and Gibbon (1930, p. 104), as well as Naylor (1931, p. 185), Pafford (1959, p. 173), and Kines (1964, p. 27). Hardy (1930, p. 77) gives both the Maitland & Squire and the Playford versions. Long (1961, p. 74) reprints the Hilton setting as if the three parts were a single melody. The occasional attachment of the names Farnaby or Hilton does not mean that either was the composer. Verses 2 and 3—in An Antidote and Catch that Catch Can—were not necessarily composed at the same time as verse 1. The Hilton arrangement appears in Orgel (ed. 1996, p. 277).

4. A Daunce of Shepheards and Shephearddesses 1988–9 (4.4.165)

Setting A: The Maypole

Musical score for Setting A of A Daunce of Shepheards and Shephearddesses.

Setting B: Staynes Morris

Musical score for Setting B of A Daunce of Shepheards and Shephearddesses.

Music: Because a dance in Jonson’s masque Oberon may reappear in WT (see here), the manuscript in which it is found, Add. MS 10,444, could well be the repository of other contemporary theatrical pieces. Hence, The Maypole is transcribed here from it, in treble and bassus parts only, found respectively on fol. 35v and fol. 85v. In Sabol (1982), it appears anonymously as item 123. As Cutts (1954, p. 197) points out, the music may have been used as well for the dance of shepherd boys in Jonson’s Pan’s Anniversary (1620). A five-part version from Wilhelm Brade’s Newes Ausserlesene liebliche Branden (1617) may be found in Sabol (1982) as item 272. Bartholomeusz (1982, p. 15), noting that the Shepherd’s Servant remarks to his master that if you did but heare the Pedler at the doore, you would neuer dance againe after a Tabor and Pipe: no, the Bag-pipe could not moue you (2006–8), points out that these instruments were used to accompany the morris dance, which was traditionally performed on Whitsunday (see H5 2.4.25 [913]). The present festivities are Whitson-Pastorals (1949). Thus two versions of Staynes Morris are also included here.

5. Whoop, doe mee no harme good man 2023–5 (4.4.198–200)

Musical score for Whoop, doe mee no harme good man.

Pafford (ed. 1963, pp. 101–2): Although no more words of this song have been found, there is a contemporary tune with the name—with goodman as one word—by William Corkine in Ayres, to Sing and Play to the Lute and Basse Viol, 1610, fo. 11b. (Because no words are given this is not included in the reprint by E. H. Fellowes [in The English School of Lutenist Song Writers. 2nd ser. 1926?].) This version gives the tune with variations. [Wooldridge (1893, 1:96–7) reproduces the tune alone from Corkine’s Ayres (1610), and Chappell (pp. 208 and 774) also reproduces and comments on it.] The tune may have been used for a ballad called Jockey and Jenny, entered in Stationers’ Register, 9 Dec. 1615 (iii. 579) (see Rollins, Analytical Index to the Ballad-Entries, 1924, p. 112, item 1291), [102] which presumably reappears as Johnny and Jinny in Westminster Drollery, 1672. Chappell (1859, p. 208): A song with this burden will be found in Fry’s Ancient Poetry, but it would not be desirable for republication. See n. 2023–4, however, and Sabol (1982, no. 398 n.).

6. Lawne as white as driuen Snow 2044–55 (4.4.218–30)

First part of the musical score for Lawne as white as driuen Snow.

Second part of the musical score for Lawne as white as driuen Snow.

The earliest known setting, for three voices, appears in John Wilson’s Cheerfull Ayres or Ballads (1660, sigs. L4v–K1v). The transcript given here of Lawne as white joins together in a compact setting its three voice parts—the Cantus Primus and Secundus with the Bassus supported by a bass viol part. It is set a minor third below that of Wilson’s lyric text on the assumption that the melody in middle voice range would best suit most actors assigned the Autolycus role. A lute accompaniment may easily be devised from the three voice parts. Facsimiles of the Cantus Primus appear in Furness (ed. 1898, pp. 388–9) and in Long (1961, pp. 142–3). Reprints of the song or tune are given by Vincent (1906, pp. 30–1), Hardy (1930, pp. 78–9), Gibbon (1930, p. 121), Pafford (1959, p. 174), Cutts (1959, pp. 128–30), Long (1961, p. 80), and Kines (1964, pp. 29–31). Seng (1967, p. 240) notes that Wilson’s version can hardly have been the original music setting since he was only 15 years old at the time of the song’s first performance. Nosworthy (1958, p. 65) and Cutts (1959, p. 129) conjecture that Wilson was merely providing his arrangement of the original tune by an earlier composer. A transcript by Michelle Dulak appears in Orgel (ed. 1996, pp. 278–9).

7. Get you hence, for I must goe 2118–33 (4.4.297–308)

First part of Version 1 of the musical score for Get you hence, for I must goe.

Second part of Version 1 of the musical score for Get you hence, for I must goe.

Version 2 of the musical score for Get you hence, for I must goe.

In this dialogue song, which is set to a tune in the play called Two Maids Wooing a Man (2110–11), the complexity of scoring has required a setting for alternating voices in rapid interchange far more demanding in ingenuity than that provided by the usual workaday ballad tune. What clearly seems to be the original music, composed probably by Robert Johnson, was discovered by J. P. Cutts in the New York Public Library MS Drexel 4175, a mid-17th c. MS designated as Anne Twice Her Booke. Robert Johnson’s association with the King’s Men is well established, and the two dances listed below as Nos. 9a and 9b, both of which were introduced in Oberon, appear to be his work. Words and music for this song are found in Cutts (Setting, 1956, and 1959, pp. 17–18). There is a fragmentary version of the same song for three voices in Drexel MS 4041 (fols. 127–9); this second version is also in Cutts (1959, p. 19). Seng (1967, p. 244), noting at least six errors in Cutts’s transcripts, points to a more reliable edition by Spink (1961, pp. 62–3), reprinted in Orgel (ed. 1996, pp. 279–81), and an edition by Long (1961, pp. 82–3), who also provides a facsimile of the Drexel 4175 version. The fragmentary version of Drexel 4041 includes a second stanza that may have been part of Autolycus’s original song. Autolycus implies that his rendition is incomplete, for he later says: Wee’l haue this song out anon by our selues (2134).

Jorgens (1987, vols. 9, 10) reproduces in facsimile the two early 17th-c. settings of this song. Drexel 4175, item lix, is set in D minor with lute accompaniment scored for three alternating voices in successive bass and treble clefs over an unfigured bass enclosing a text of one stanza. In its present transcript, Version 1, the lyric text from Drexel 4175 appears under the lyric from F1. Drexel 4175 reads vow’de and sworne in 2131 and 2132 where F1 reads sworne in both. Drexel 4041, here transcribed as Version 2, is set in C minor, and the twelve tetrameter lines in each of two stanzas are given completely, the second verse following at the close of the first. The last line in each verse, intended to be sung as a part song by the trio, is appropriately spaced, the text for the unlabeled Treble 1 (for Mopsa) being placed over that of similarly unlabeled Treble 2 (for Dorcas), and both over the lyric text for the bass vocalist. For some reason the copyist extends his musical notation only to the middle of measure 17 of the 26 measures comprising the whole dialogue, and the words of the lyric alone continue for the last four lines of the twelve. The placement of the words of the final line of the lyric for each voice part—those for Voices 2 and 3 being immediately beneath those for Voice 1—makes it clear that the original consisted of a duo for Verse 1 and a trio of voices in the last line of Verse 2. Suitable musical notation for the last 10 measures is here supplied editorially, in brackets; it is derived from Version 1 with appropriate adjustment of key and time values. Virtually all dialogue songs conclude with a duo if not a trio, and for the inner voice in the closing measures a suitable part has been supplied here.

8. Will you buy any Tape? 2139–44 (4.4.315–23)

Musical score for Will you buy any Tape?.

The original tune for Autolycus’s final song has come to light in relatively recent times. The earliest setting given by Greenhill et al. (1884, p. 75) seems to be one by William Boyce (1710–79), composed about 1769 and reprinted in Linley (1816, 1:29). There is an anonymous setting in Caulfield (1864?, 2:58–9) that might conceivably be one of the traditional stage versions which Caulfield says he is collecting. If so, his setting may be even earlier than the one by Boyce, but Caulfield is not, as Seng (1967, p. xi) points out, a reliable editor. Long (1961, p. 85) has set the song to a contemporary tune, Sellenger’s Round (see Wooldridge, 1893, 1:256–8).

To these popular tunes may be added from Thomas Ravenscroft’s Pammelia (1609) the setting for item 74, whose general title, A Round of three Country dances in one, indicates that the whole consists of three dances joined with a Basse or Ground, which can serve each of the three. The Cantus, the Medius, and the Tenor may be performed individually with the Basse or Ground, or presumably together as a piece for 4 Voc. Each of the three has an individual text. That of the Medius part, which has been named The Cramp, has long been identified and discussed by the principal editors of popular ballad and dance tunes: see Chappell (1859, p. 89), Wooldridge (1893, 1:143–4), and Simpson (1966, pp. 138–9). The sentiments of its lyric text, beginning [The] crampe is in my purse full sore, are very much like those of Autolycus as he sings of money as a medler (2143), and the jaunty tune in 6/4 time serves as a fitting vehicle to express his views. For fuller details see also Ward (1967, p. 35), and for another early appearance Wilhelm Brade, Newe Ausserlesene liebliche Branden (Hamburg, 1617). The setting of the Pammelia no. 74 Medius part here follows Chappell.

9. A Dance of Twelue Satyres 2164 (4.4.342)

First part of the musical score for A Dance of Twelue Satyres.

Second part of the musical score for A Dance of Twelue Satyres.

(a) The setting, for treble and bassus, is from British Library Add. MS 10,444, where it is entitled The Satyrs’ Masque and attributed to Robert Johnson. The present version is reproduced from Sabol (1982, no. 118); Orgel (ed. 1996, pp. 282–3) reprints it from Sabol (1978, no. 107, pp. 209–10).

(b) A second setting, also entitled The Satyrs’ Masque, for consort in four parts—cantus, altus, tenor, and bassus, with bassus generalis—appears in Thomas Simpson’s Taffel-Consort (Hamburg, 1621) as item 24, attributed to Robert Johnson. It is transcribed in Sabol (1982) as no. 249. As indicated in n. 2164, Brissenden (1981, p. 92) believes that the appearance here of satyrs, who were identified with disorder and sexual licence, together with (p. 94) the trickery of Autolycus and the bawdry of the two girls, motivates Polixenes to turn on Florizel and Perdita with emotional wildness. Autolycus’s efforts to sell his wares are hardly trickery, however, and bawdry is not the word for the girls’ contention over the Clown, which has already been decided in favor of Mopsa. The love triangle is given light-hearted musical expression in the trio sung by Autolycus and the two girls (2118–33), which is followed by Autolycus’s exit song, Will you buy any Tape? (2139–44). The satyr dance seems unrelated except as another expression of rustic high spirits.

It is also held (see n. 2147) that the music was composed by Robert Johnson for Ben Jonson’s masque of Oberon, performed at Whitehall on 1 January 1611 as part of the celebration of Prince Henry’s investiture as Prince of Wales. Since one three of the twelve participants in The Satyrs’ Dance hath danc’d before the king (2159), it is thought they did so as dancers in Oberon. These men not only may have trained the footwork of their new fellow dancers but also may have seen to it that Robert Johnson’s music was used. The recreation of an episode of a royal theatrical show would no doubt have proved a rare delight for a popular audience, but some critics are skeptical. Bullough (1975, 8:115), for example: Perhaps some of Jonson’s dancers were King’s Men, and repeated their antics in Shakespeare’s play. There is no proof that Robert Johnson’s music for Oberon was used again in The Winter’s Tale.

10. Music strikes to awaken Hermione 3306 (5.3.98)

Musical score for Music strikes to awaken Hermione.

Sanders (1987, p. 122): At this point of exquisite equipoise, he [Sh.] summons his last resource, the metamorphic miracle-worker, music—coactive with what’s unreal, it’s true, but not in the nightmare fashion of jealous delusion. Only music can make real the unreal in a way that reintegrates it with the creative continuum, awakening, uniting, redeeming. It will be slow, halting, painful—this musical summoning of the numbed soul out of the great frost of matter—but it is the miracle of miracles. The anonymous setting entitled A Masque for treble and bassus appears in two voices in British Library Add. MS 10,444, the treble on fol. 43v and the bassus on fol. 93r. A modern transcript of these two parts appears in Sabol (1982, no. 150). Originally used as a formal dance for an unidentified Jacobean masque, it here serves as accompaniment for a dramatic transformation scene. It consists of three strains; the opening chords of the first two strains, over which are superimposed fermatas followed by brief rapidly moving passages, supply a fitting musical response by a group of performers who have been directly ordered to waken Hermione (3306), and then in the third strain, which suddenly shifts to triple meter, the slow duple rhythm of the closing measures of the first strain suddenly changes to accompany even more positively this wondrous metamorphosis. Sternfeld (1971, pp. 166–7): The belief that heavenly music rewards the good, punishes the bad, heals the sick, and foretells divine plans to anguished mortals operates. . . . On the stage this heavenly music is usually repre-[167]sented by the soft music of strings. Pyle (1969, p. 177): In the statue scene Shakespeare gained an effect in dramatic terms comparable to that of a transformation scene in a masque, achieving the masque-inventor’s object to merge spectator and actor in a single mimetic illusion (quoting Orgel [1965, p. 188]).