The Winter’s Tale First lecture

Shakespeare’s greatest “romance” Late in his career, Sh. wrote four plays that go in a new direction: what we now call the “romances.” Not “romance” in the sense of “romantic,” “true romance” sorts of plays. But romance in a generic sense, plays like the ancient Greek romances that deal with separation, long tracts of time and space, and finally the uniting of families and lovers. And include strange, even unlikely, plot twists. The Odyssey has been called the first romance. And there were a number of later prose romances. Shakespeare’s Pericles, Cymbeline, The Winter’s Tale, and The Tempest follow these patterns. Officially they are comedies in that they end happily. But all contain the material of tragedy. The greatest of these four plays – I insist – is The Winter’s Tale. The Tempest is better known, but WT may be richer.

And maybe his strangest play Contains Shakespeare’s most bizarre stage direction: “Exit pursued by a bear.” And his oddest scene setting: “The seacoast of Bohemia” (Bohemia = the modern Czech Republic; no seacoast!) A man’s sudden onset of jealousy for his pregnant wife. And like all romances, seemingly improbable coincidences – though real life seems to insist on such things. And at the same time, some wonderfully realistic characterization and great roles for actresses: Hermione, Paulina. Even a brief role for a young boy. Singing, dancing, clowning around in Act IV. Plot just seems to stop. And finally, a “recognition scene” in which information that has been kept from the audience is suddenly revealed – -- and is certainly the most daring scene Sh. ever wrote. (Can we give it away?) Which makes demands on our belief – and we have to believe it. What was lost is found, what was cast away is recovered, destroyed friendship is healed, young love is fulfilled. And yet . . .

“Mythic” Many critics have found the play mythic in a variety of ways. The recovery of a loved one from the underworld, from death: Orpheus and Euridice, Ceres and Proserpina. Perhaps mirroring the seasonal recovery of natural life from the death of winter. The first three acts take place in winter (a world of tragedy). And the fourth act celebrates spring time, youth, love (a world of comedy). And certainly the play is about regeneration, both natural and moral. There’s a strangely religious sense to the conclusion, I’ve often felt, as if the play is demanding that the audience accept something almost miraculous.

Dating, text, source,etc. Simon Forman, an astrologer who functioned something like a psychiatrist in Jacobean London (I think we saw him represented in “Shakespeare in Love”), says he saw the play on May 15, 1611. Recounts some of the plot, then takes away this moral: "Beware of trusting feigned beggars or fawning fellows." So the play must have been written shortly before this performance. Making it one of Shakespeare’s last plays (The Tempest was performed at court on 1 Nov. 1611). The text exists only in the Folio of 1623. Its source is a novel by Robert Greene called Pandosto (1588), which didn’t end happily at all. The king’s wife really died (along with his son), and when he meets his daughter, he tries to seduce her. Then after realizing who she is, he commits suicide.

“Ordinary life” in the play’s beginning The little dialogue between Archidamus (from Bohemia) and Camillo (Sicily) is full of courtly compliment. “We’ll not be able to entertain you half so well next summer as you’ve entertained us.” “Oh please, it was our pleasure.” And how splendid that these two kings, friends from boyhood, were finally able to get together. And some compliment, and agreement, about what a fine boy Mamillius is. All very courtly, friendly, ordinary. Echoed by what follows in the attempt to get Polixenes to stay just a little longer – little jokes on both sides. Particularly enlivened by Hermione’s wit: if he said he longed to see his son, we’d whack him away. And I’ll let Leontes stay a month longer in Bohemia next summer. Prisoner or guest – your choice, Polixenes! And what their boyhood was like. Very innocent jokes about the “temptations” of sexual married love. And her teasing about when she spoke “to the purpose” before. “Cram [us] with praise, and make [us]/ As fat as tame things.” And of coures she is “fat” – nine months pregnant! The effect of her stage image – and her rather sweet teasing of her husband?

So the effect of Leontes’ outbreak: All the more shocking in the way it breaks in on the bantering mood. And then comes into his conversation with Mamillius: “neat,” “calf,” “shoots.” And then, in his “angling” spills over and infects the whole theater: “And many a man there is, even at this present,/ Now while I speak this, holds his wife by th’ arm,/ That little thinks she has been sluiced in’s absence/ And his pond fished in by his next neighbor, by/ Sir Smile, his neighbor.” Becomes nastily physical: no barricado for a belly . . .” He’s clearly gone mad. But in a way that seems entirely reasonable to him. Which is exactly what happens in sudden outbreaks of jealousy – there’s no need for an Iago. Camillo tries to talk him out of it: “be cured/ Of this diseased opinion.” But must finally seem to fall in with Leontes and agree to kill Polixenes. The whole episode of course is stylized to fit the condensed character of theater. But isn’t this the way marital splits can seem – at least to those looking on – sudden, crazy, unanticipated, making no sense at all?

Hermione and Mamillius: II.1 Again a scene of utmost normality. Like all Shakespeare’s kids, M. is smart, pert, rather independent. The irony of his wanting to tell a sad tale, “best for winter.” The man dwelling by a churchyard – living amongst the dead. And the “pat” entrance of Leontes! Mamillius snatched away. Hermione’s shock: “sport?” She responds temperately: “You, my lord,/ Do but mistake.” And imagines “some ill planet reigns” (105). No one in the entire court credits Leontes’ suspicions. Antigonus: ll. 155ff.

The child “enfranchised” by “great nature” The comic dilemma of what to do with a child born in prison. The jailer is puzzled, for he has no warrant to allow the child out of the prison. But Paulina assures him that the child was “prisoner to the womb” . . . . . . and therefore “By law and process of great Nature thence/ Freed and enfranchised” (II.2.59-61). Paulina is one tough cookie: “If I prove honey-mouthed, let my tongue blister . . .” Her plan: ll. 37ff. Which follows in the next scene. Like Macbeth, Leontes cannot sleep. Has he in some way violated Nature? He imagines that giving Hermione “to the fire” might bring back some part of his sleep. Leontes’ perverse interpretation of Mamillius’ illness: ll. 12ff.

Paulina’s big scene: II.3 Says she comes to bring him sleep: her words are “medicinal as true.” Leontes “knew she would” come to him. She’s the only one to stand up to him. “Good queen, my lord, Good queen, I say good queen . . .” And commends the child for his blessing. Does Leontes look on the child? She curses anyone who would pick up the child “by that forced baseness/ Which he has put upon’t.” So presumably no one touches the child. Paulina’s demeanor here counters every (male-authored) conduct book for women of the period! And she becomes the spokeswoman for Nature: the child resembles Leontes entirely: ll. 95-102. “Good goddess Nature” She won’t call Leontes “tyrant” but . . . And only after she is off the stage does Antigonus dare to pick up the child.

The scene of Hermione’s “trial” She points out that her testimony can scarcely be credited since she is accused of falsehood. It’s simply “he said”/”she said” – except that everyone knows she is entirely right. “My life stands in the level of your dreams.” And her faith is in “powers divine” that she insists view and judge human affairs. (ll. 27ff). And in the oracle of Apollo. Apollo’s judgment! And immediately another judgment. And another! Leontes vows his change of mind and repentance – all very simple – and confesses his plot with Camillo. But this is a tragedy – and Paulina pronounces the effect: “I say she’s dead; I’ll swear it.” And Leontes cannot expect repentance: “Do not repent these things . . . Nothing but despair. A thousand knees/ Ten thousand years together, naked , fasting,/ Upon a barren mountain, and still winter/ In storm perpetual, could not move the gods/ To look that way thou wert.” Some sins cannot be forgiven. But the play is only half over.