Tuesday, September 09, 2025

Journeys of Pericles, Prince of Tyre

 


Journeyings of Pericles, Thaisa and Marina in William Shakespeare's Pericles, Prince of Tyre.

"Pentapolis" just means an association of five cities, and there were several of these in the ancient world. On the map I've placed Pentapolis in Cyrenaica, as explicitly stated in the earliest extant version of the story, the Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri (Latin, 5th-6th century CE). The tale's six locations (Antioch, Tyre, Tarsus, Pentapolis, Ephesus, Mytilene) are reverently preserved in all the subsequent renderings relevant to Shakespeare's play, though these later authors may have had a different idea, or no idea at all, where Pentapolis was supposed to be.

William Shakespeare and his putative co-author George Wilkins strictly maintained the locations too, though they changed quite a few of the characters' names: e.g. Pericles had previously been Apollonius; Marina had previously been "Thaise" (Gower); Thaisa wasn't named at all by Gower and was "Lucina" in Twine.

*

(In the map and below, the scenes in brackets are those in which Pericles himself doesn't appear.)

Journey #0.

Before the play begins. Pericles has travelled from Tyre to Antioch. 

Act I Scene 1: Antioch, where Pericles discovers the king Antiochus's secret incest, and realizes that he's a marked man.

Journey #1. 

Pericles returns swiftly to Tyre. 

Act I Scenes 2 and 3: Tyre. Pericles appoints Helicanus his regent, and sails off quickly enough to just miss the assassin Thaliard, commissioned by Antiochus.

Journey #2.

Pericles sails to Tarsus. 

Act I Scene 4: Tarsus, where Pericles relieves the famine and earns the gratitude of Cleon and Dionyza (as he believes).

Journey #3.

Advised by Helicanus' letter that it isn't safe to prolong his stay in Tarsus, Pericles takes to the high seas again, is driven before a storm and shipwrecked off the coast of Pentapolis. 

Act II Scenes 1,2,3 and 5 take place in Pentapolis, where Pericles wins the hand of the king's daughter Thaisa.

(Act II Scene 4 brings us up to date with the regent Helicanus in Tyre.)

Journey #4. Pericles and his heavily-pregnant wife Thaisa set off for Tyre. Act III Scene 1, on the ship: they run into a storm, are blown off course, Thaisa gives birth to Marina and dies in childbirth. After placing Thaisa in a coffin and throwing it overboard (urged by the superstitious sailors), Pericles proceeds with the newborn Marina to Tarsus, because it's near to where the ship has ended up. 

Journey #5. Meanwhile, Thaisa's coffin is carried by the waves to Ephesus. 

(Act III Scenes 2 and 4: Ephesus, where Thaisa is restored to life by Cerimon, and goes to live in the temple of Diana.)

Act III Scene 3: Tarsus, where Pericles asks Cleon and Dionyza to take care of Marina.

Journey #6. See the end of III.3, and the beginning of IV.Prologue. After leaving Marina to be brought up in Tarsus, Pericles returns to Tyre.

About fourteen years pass....

(Act IV Scene 1: Tarsus. Dionyza, jealous of Marina outshining her own daughter, orders her murder.)

Journey #7.

In the nick of time, Marina is captured by pirates and taken to Mytilene. 

(Act IV Scene 2: Mytilene, where Marina is purchased for a brothel.)

(Act IV Scene 3: Tarsus, where Cleon and Dionyza argue about her wicked order, which they believe has been carried out.)

Journey #8.

Pericles sails from Tyre to Tarsus. 

Act IV Scene 4: Tarsus, where Pericles is told of his daughter's death and breaks down in despair.

(Act IV Scenes 5 and 6: Mytilene. More brothel scenes, the meeting with Lysimachus, Marina's eventual release to a virtuous life.)

Journey #9.

Pericles in despair is "driven by the winds" to Mytilene.

Act V Scene 1: on the ship, moored at Mytilene. Pericles is reunited with Marina.

Journey #10.

Pericles and Marina (with Lysimachus, her husband-to-be) sail to Ephesus, as instructed by Diana in a dream. 

Act V Scenes 2 and 3: Ephesus. Pericles and Marina are reunited with Thaisa. 

Journey #11.

After the play is over: Pericles, Thaisa and Marina (with Lysimachus) return to Tyre. 


*

The 1609 quarto title page tells us that the author was William Shakespeare and that the play had been performed "divers and sundry times" at the Globe by His Majesty's Servants.

The play is usually dated 1607-1608. Despite the plain statement on the title page, there are stretches of the play that contain little hint of Shakespeare's distinctive late style (especially in the first two acts) and most scholars have concluded that the play is co-authored. 

Shakespeare was the lead dramatist of the most prestigious company, but he was apparently returning to co-authorship after many years of not needing it; e.g. the never-finished (?) Timon of Athens (1606?) with Middleton (?). His own productivity was starting to decline. 

A defence of Shakespeare's sole authorship would need to argue that he deliberately wrote much of the play in an alien and primitive manner. It's possible. The choruses by the character Gower are definitely written in a quaint quasi-medieval style; a similar approach could extend to the scenes in between. F. David Hoeniger did a good job of arguing this:

F. David Hoeniger, "Gower and Shakespeare in Pericles," Shakespeare Quarterly Vol 33 No 4 (Winter 1982), pp. 461-479.

https://www.jstor.org/stable/2870126

Hoeniger knew what he was ignoring, but it was a provocative and persuasive vision. And in practice most commentators on the play's meaning, once their thesis gathers momentum, find the play remarkably unified and are apt to speak loosely about Shakespeare as its creator, tacitly ignoring the co-authorship.

*

The tale of Apollonius of Tyre exists in numerous versions though its ultimate origins (Greek, 3rd century CE?) are lost. 

Most of the relevant texts for a study of Pericles are, happily for us amateurs, available online. I've labelled them chronologically from T to Z (I was trying to avoid letters like F and Q that usually have other meanings when it comes to Shakespeare texts). 

T. Historia Apollonii Regis Tyri (Latin, 5th-6th century CE). The primary extant source. 

https://www.thelatinlibrary.com/histapoll.html

U. In Godfrey of Viterbo's Pantheon aka Liber Universalis (Latin, c. 1185). Not available online.

V. In the Latin collection Gesta Romanorum (Latin, 13th-early 14th c.). In the Oesterley presentation linked below it's No 153, subtitled "De tribulacione temporali que in gaudium sempiternum postremo commutabitur".

https://la.m.wikisource.org/wiki/Gesta_Romanorum_(Oesterley)/153

W. John Gower, Confessio Amantis (English, c. 1390). The tale of Apollonius is in Book VIII, lines 268-2008. 

https://quod.lib.umich.edu/c/cme/Confessio/1:9?rgn=div1;view=fulltext

[Gower says that his source for the tale is Godfrey of Viterbo's Pantheon (U). It was certainly one of his sources, but he also seems to have used the Gesta Romanorum (V) and other sources, as well as introducing his own creative changes. See Thari L. Zweers, "Godfrey of Viterbo’s Pantheon and John Gower’s Confessio Amantis: The Story of Apollonius Retold," Accessus Vol. 5 Iss. 1 , Article 3 (2019):  https://scholarworks.wmich.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1045&context=accessus .]

X. Laurence Twine's Patterne of Painefull Aduentures (English, 1576, reprinted in 1594(5?) and in 1607). 

https://internetshakespeare.uvic.ca/doc/Twine_Q1/complete/index.html

This is an English prose rendering of the tale of Apollonius (it wasn't the first); it was translated from a French version of the Gesta Romanorum (V).

Y. William Shakespeare (and perhaps another author; currently the most favoured candidate is George Wilkins): Pericles, Prince of Tyre (English, written and performed c. 1607). It was a big hit. It was printed in 1609 in an unauthorised quarto. The quarto text is very poor, but it's all we've got. Was it scribbled down in shorthand by someone in the audience who then struggled to make sense of their notes, regularly mistook words ("to" for "too", "will" for "ill"...) and inserted full stops in the wrong place? I'm trying to describe the impression the quarto text makes, not seriously offering this as an explanation (though I think it's been mooted before). [When I need to I'll distinguish the lost original ("YO") from the extant quarto ("YQ").]

The quarto text (YQ):
A basic modern edition divided into Acts and Scenes:
The Folger Shakespeare Library edition, edited by Barbara Mowat and Paul Werstine, which supplies the line references I use in this post:

The play's main source is Gower (W)  but it also uses Twine (X) e.g. for the brothel scenes, and it adds its own original features including new names for many of the characters. 

Z. George Wilkins, The Painefull Aduentures of Pericles Prince of Tyre (English, 1608). 

https://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/eebo/A15355.0001.001?rgn=main;view=fulltext

Wilkins' introduction pitches his work as what we would call a "book of the play" (i.e. Y), telling the whole story that his readers had already enjoyed watching at the Globe. Wilkins apparently had access to the text of Y, some of it anyway. His rendering of Antiochus's riddle is basically identical to Y's. But such parallel passages are rare; Wilkins is writing a "novel" (which is to say, a fairly swift-moving prose fiction), so he operates mainly through third-person narrative and reported speech. With that proviso, he often uses the same wording as Y

Wilkins also used Twine (X) as a labour-saving device. Twine's text was already in the right format (i.e. prose fiction). Wilkins could copy chunks of Twine if he brought the names into line, and he often did, e.g. to replace the compressed summaries of the chorus Gower in Y

The snag with labour-saving devices is they lead to the odd mistake (just like copy-and-paste does today). Sometimes Wilkins copied a bit of Twine that either unnecessarily repeated or contradicted what he had written elsewhere. It happens. 

But it's quite wrong to give the impression (as some scholars have done), that Wilkins' novel is a lazy and rushed bit of hack-work. On the contrary, he went to considerable and sometimes pedantic pains to tell the full story of the play, to fill in the background and to spell out the characters' motives and inner feelings. His account of e.g. Lysimachus meeting Marina is a lot more comprehensible than the play's. He also took some trouble to describe the action that his play-going readers had seen on the stage; which can be very helpful to editors when (as often) the text of YQ is so corrupt that the action is unclear. But since a prose fiction doesn't have the logistical constraints of a stage play (e.g. in time and space), Wilkins sometimes handles the action differently; we'll see some examples in the detailed analysis that follows. One thing he wasn't bothered about was capturing every scrap of the play's dialogue, even if he'd written it himself. He only used what contributed to a well-proportioned narrative.

There's an awkward possibility that we have to entertain. It could be that Wilkins wrote some or most of Z before the play was written; in other words, rather than Z being a novelization of YY could have been a dramatization of Z. Some older scholars thought so, though I haven't noticed any modern proponents of this view.

*

The tourney in Pentapolis

Let's have a look at how Y and Z compare in a shortish stretch of Act II.  I've chosen this section for two reasons: (1) because most people think Wilkins himself wrote this part of the play, and (2) because the action was not taken from older versions of the Apollonius story. In that sense it was "new" material, though the play-authors doubtless recalled many similar things from elsewhere (not least The Merchant of Venice). Some of the knights' "devices", probably all of them, were taken from emblem books (Henry Green's Shakespeare and the Emblem Writers (1869) gives the details; I've mentioned a couple that I've seen myself).

How do you get your hero, shipwrecked, alone and naked, into a position where he meets the king and attracts the favourable attention of the royal family? 

Well, in the Historia (T) a poor fisherman takes pity on Apollonius and gives him half of his own rough robe. Apollonius then goes to the public gymnasium, where nakedness of course is no issue, excels at catching and throwing during a ball-game, and gives the king a damn good waxing. The king invites him to dinner and, understanding he's been shipwrecked, gives him some nice clothes to wear. This plot-line makes perfect sense in a classical world of public baths. 

The story in the Gesta Romanorum (V) is basically the same as the Historia (T), except that the ball-throwing game becomes a game of dart-throwing (or something more like javelins, perhaps). 

Gower (W) essentially gives the same account, but he affects to not really understand the social context, and asks his readers (with a humorously raised eyebrow?) to just accept that in Pentapolis it was the custom to put on some sort of undefined sporting contest between naked youths, judged by the king.

Twine (X) translates V, but he describes the game as tennis (his hero intervening as a sort of unofficial ball-boy).

The authors of Pericles (Y) had to come up with something different. Tennis on stage was simply not going to work! (If there's one thing even more likely to cause trouble than children and animals, it's a ball.)  And nakedness would mean a gymnasium scene prior to the court scenes, aside from any other practical difficulties.  (Naturally they wanted to get the princess Thaisa involved in the action as early as possible.)

The solution they came up with wasn't stunningly original, but in the magical world of Pericles the unoriginal is often strangely effective. 

First they decided, taking a hint from Gower (W), that Pericles should enter a contest judged by the king, but it had to be a clothed one and at the royal court. So they went for a medieval-style tourney and decided it should be in honour of the princess' birthday, and potentially to win her love. In effect they partly conflated the hero's display of sporting excellence with the later episode (in both Gower (W) and Twine (X)) in which three princely suitors submit written accounts of their lineage and assets. (There's still a ghost of this later episode in Y (II.5.1-12), but not in Z.)

Y's approach significantly tightened up the process by which Pericles comes together with Thaisa. Subsequent developments (his tutorship, her headstrong declaration) could then be dealt with fairly swiftly.  

Nevertheless it entailed certain complications. Pericles would need some equipment, so the play-authors invented the episode where his rusty armour is fished up from the sea. The actual contest (variously called triumph, joust, tourney and tilt), being on horseback, would have to take place off-stage; the only bits that would be seen on stage were the initial presentation of the knights (II.2) and the feast afterwards (II.3). 

Here's how it unfolds in Y and Z. [Y quotations are from the quarto, but the line references are from the Folger edition.]


From nakedness to equipment.  

Y:

Pericles is given a gown by the First Fisherman (II.1.82). 

The other fishermen fish up the rusty armour, Pericles recognizes it, and the fishermen let him take it. (II.1.121-160) [I don't think he actually puts the armour on at this point, though line 160 might seem to imply that; presumably he'd need to put on the "Bases" first.]

Pericles still has a jewel on his arm (an arm-bracelet I suppose). He says he'll sell it and buy a good horse. (II.1.161-165)

Pericles laments his lack of "a paire of Bases" ("a kind of skirt worn under armour when riding"). The Second Fisherman offers to make him a pair of bases out of his gown. (II.1.166-170)

Z:

Wilkins' leisurely account of the scene with the fishermen includes the same details as above, and adds yet another fisherman's gift: caparisons for the horse (made from another old gown).  

Comment: It's a solid start from utter nakedness, but of course we're meant to take the point that Pericles is going to be "disgracefully habilited", as Z puts it. (It might occur to you that Pericles is going to need a few other things, such as a lance, but let's not be more pedantic than Wilkins!)

Z begins the scene on the seashore, but soon the fishermen carry Pericles to the chief (First) fisherman's house, and supply him with food as well as a garment. Well, of course someone who's just escaped drowning isn't going to be in any state to walk. And what would you naturally do if you found them? Obviously, chuck a blanket over them and give them something to eat and drink. But in a stage presentation it isn't desirable to have realistic first aid or non-essential changes of scene or meals; so in Y (II.1) the half-dead Pericles indiscernibly recovers until by the end of the scene he's energetically preparing for a joust. The rehandling in Z is an example of what I mentioned earlier, Wilkins exploiting his freedom from logistical constraints, in pursuit of greater naturalism.


At the court of King Simonides

Y:

Enter Simonydes, with attendaunce, and Thaisa.

King. Are the Knights ready to begin the Tryumph?
1.Lord. They are my Leidge, and stay your comming,
To present them selues.
King. Returne them, We are ready, & our daughter heere,
In honour of whose Birth, these Triumphs are,
Sits heere like Beauties child, whom Nature gat,
For men to see; and seeing, woonder at.
Thai. It pleaseth you (my royall Father) to expresse
My Commendations great, whose merit's lesse.
King. It's fit it should be so, for Princes are
A modell which Heauen makes like to it selfe:
As Iewels loose their glory, if neglected,
So Princes their Renownes, if not respected:
T'is now your honour (Daughter) to entertaine
The labour of each Knight, in his deuice.
Thai. Which to preserue mine honour, I'le performe.

[II.2.1-16]

Z:

This is the day, this Symonides Court, where the King himselfe, with the Princesse his daughter, haue placed themselues in a Gallery, to beholde the triumphes of seuerall Princes, who in honour of the Princes birth day, but more in hope to haue her loue, came purposely thither, to approoue their chiualrie. They thus seated, and Prince Pericles, as well as his owne prouiding, and the Fishermens care could furnish him, likewise came to the court. In this maner also 5. seuerall princes (their horses richly caparasoned, but themselues more richly armed, their Pages before them bearing their Deuices on their shields) entred then the Tilting place.

Comment:

In Y the presentation scene (II.2) is necessarily in a different place from the actual tourney. At this point the king and his daughter are apparently down on the main stage, not the upper stage. (The king only talks of withdrawing to the gallery at II.1.61.)

In Z there is no need for split locations, so Wilkins from the outset has the king and his daughter in the gallery above the tilting-place. Another instance of the novel's pursuit of greater naturalism.

Y's characterization of the king Simonides is quite distinctive. From the outset he's intelligent, perceptive, and has a dry, sardonic wit that half conceals his kindliness. In hindsight we're being prepared for his pretended raging at Pericles and Thaisa later in Act II. (This is all newly invented by the play-authors; the king isn't like this in Gower (W) or Twine (X).)

Z of course follows the same storyline, but doesn't include these subtle foretastes of the king's personality. On the other hand it later describes the king's internal debate about marrying his daughter to a possessionless man, and it has much more of his violent threats to Pericles (and Thaisa's equally forceful responses). Z's portrait of king Simonides seems unsubtle compared to Y's. But maybe that's partly to do with the change of genre.  When it comes to character portrayal I rarely feel that prose fiction of this period matches the graphic and intimate realization that we find in the plays. 

Knight #1

Y:

                  The first Knight passes by.
King. Who is the first, that doth preferre himselfe?
Thai. A Knight of Sparta (my renowned father)
And the deuice he beares vpon his Shield,
Is a blacke Ethyope reaching at the Sunne:
The word:     Lux tua vita mihi.
King. He loues you well, that holdes his life of you.

[II.2.17-22]

Z: The first a prince of Macedon, and the Deuice hée bore vpon his shield, was a blacke Ethiope reaching at the Sunne, the word, Lux tua vita mihi: which being by the knights Page deliuered to the Lady, and from her presented to the King her father, hée made playne to her the meaning of each imprese: and for this first, it was, that the Macedonian Prince loued her so well hée helde his life of her.

Comment: The first five knights, unlike Pericles, are splendidly turned out. For each knight except Pericles the action (explicit in Z, and I think implicit in Y) is as follows:

The knight enters with his squire/page, who is carrying the knight's shield. The shield has a device on it, and a related motto (aka "word") in a foreign language. The squire passes (or perhaps simply shows) the shield to the princess, who describes the device and reads out the motto. She then passes (or perhaps the squire shows) the shield to the king, who supplies a translation/interpretation. However it's done, the shield must be returned to the squire when he and his knight exit the stage (the shield will be needed for the tourney).

How the princess knows each knight's place of origin is not apparent. Perhaps we could imagine that it's somehow conveyed by the colours of his shield or style of his costume. By contrast, the princess can't work out where the rusty Pericles comes from, saying only that "Hee seemes to be a Stranger" (Y, II.2.44).

It's immediately clear that there are disparities between Y and Z when it comes to the details of these five knights. In the case of Knight #1, they agree about the device but give a different place of origin (Y: Sparta, Z: Macedon). As far as I can see there's no meaningful connection between the places of origin and the devices, nothing that would lead us to prefer one pairing to another.

The obvious explanation for these discrepancies is that YQ is reconstructed by memory from the lost original (YO). What, after all, could be more forgettable than the very similar details of five evanescent stage presences? And YQ does show some characteristic signs of memorial reconstruction, such as recycling the same line (see II.2.19, II.2.25). There's loads of this in Marlowe's The Massacre at Paris, another play that survives only in a memorial reconstruction.

Nevertheless there are some questions that arise here. It's entirely credible that the reconstructors might forget some of the knights' places of origin, but surprising that they remembered all the devices and mottoes (albeit in a different sequence from Z). And if the reconstructors knew that each knight was supposed to have a place of origin, why didn't they just borrow some other classical place-names to fill the gaps in their memory? A similar argument could be made for the missing translations: since they knew what the motto was, why not just retranslate it?

In general the accounts of the five knights in YQ become more skimpy as we proceed. But to some extent that's also true in Z. (Fun as emblematic devices are, the story is basically standing still.) I can't help feeling that YQ handles the acceleration more artfully than Z does, and it makes me wonder if YQ's lack of some places of origin and some translations might actually be a faithful report of YO (Wilkins then fussily filling in the gaps when he wrote Z). 

Knight #2.

Y

                        The second Knight.
[King.] Who is the second, that presents himselfe?
Tha. A Prince of Macedon (my royall father)
And the deuice he beares vpon his Shield,
Is an Armed Knight, that's conquered by a Lady:
The motto thus in Spanish. Pue per doleera kee per forsa.

[II.2.23-28]

Z: The second, a Prince of Corinth, and the Deuice hée bare vpon his shield was a wreathe of Chiualry, the word, Me pompae prouexet apex, the desire of renowne drew him to this enterprise.

Comment:

Y's place of origin (Macedon) is the same as Z's Knight #1. Y's device is the same as Z's Knight #3, but without the translation. 

In Y (not Z) Thaisa describes the language of the motto as Spanish. Maybe the idea is to underline Thaisa's lack of language skills compared with her father's (preparing us for her desire for a tutor, too). The motto actually seems more like Italian, especially the first word (modern Italian: Più per dolcezza che per forza); though arguably Z's "dolcera" is nearer to Spanish "dulzura" than Italian "dolcezza". (By the way, Gabriel Harvey had used the Italian version of the motto in his marginalia.) The spellings "Pue" and "kee" seem to be phonetic. It might suggest the quarto reconstructors didn't know Italian themselves, but knew what the motto was supposed to sound like. But the phonetic spellings might also come from the lost original, written thus for the benefit of actors learning their lines who didn't know Italian. As for the Y quarto "doleera", if that's correct it looks like a type-setter's error; he obviously didn't know Italian either, so had no reason to question his misreading of copy. [But in the Y quarto reproduced on the Folger site the fourth letter looks to me like it could well be an italic "c". Ink spillage gives it the superficial appearance of an italic "e", but the shape in the middle of the loop doesn't look right. So I wonder if the Y quarto actually says "dolcera", as in Z.]

Z's device is the same as Y's Knight #3, but with a translation. Apparently this device wasn't made up; it was in the 1557 edition of Claude Paradin's Devises heroiques. [Google referred me to the Glasgow University Emblems Site, but it's no longer online.]

Knight #3.

Y

3.Knight.     Kin.  And with the third?
Thai. The third, of Antioch; and his deuice,
A wreath of Chiually: the word: Me Pompey prouexit apex.

[II.2.29-32]

Z: The third of Antioch, and his Deuice was an armed Knight, being conquered by a Lady, the word, Pue per dolcera qui per sforsa: more by lenitie than by force.

Comment:

Y and Z both give Knight #3's place of origin as Antioch; a slightly jarring choice considering Antioch is also one of the key locations in Pericles' story. Also, all the other places of origin are in mainland Greece.

Y's device is the same as Z's Knight #2, but without the translation.

Z's device is the same as Y's Knight #2, but with a translation. 


Knight #4.

Y

4.Knight.     Kin.    What is the fourth.
Thai. A burning Torch that's turned vpside downe;
The word: Qui me alit me extinguit.
Kin. Which shewes that Beautie hath his power & will,
Which can as well enflame, as it can kill.

[II.2.33-37]


Z: The fourth of Sparta, and the Deuice he bare was a mans arme enuironed with a cloude, holding out golde thats by the touchstone tride, the word, Sic spectanda fides, so faith is to be looked into.

Comment:

Y gives no place of origin for Knight #4. Y's device is the same as Z's Knight #5, but Y's translation is elaborated into a rhyming couplet. This device is not made up. I found it in Princelijcke Dewijsen (1563), a Dutch translation of Claude Paradin's Devices heroiques.


Qui me alit me extinguit



Z's place of origin (Sparta) is the same as Y's Knight #1. Z's device is the same as Y's Knight #5, but with a translation. This device is not made up. I found it in Geoffrey Whitney's A Choice of Emblemes (1586), p. 139.



Sic spectanda fides




Knight #5.

Y

5.Knight.   Thai.  The fift, an Hand enuironed with Clouds,
Holding out Gold, that's by the Touch-stone tride:
The motto thus: Sic spectanda fides.

[II.2.38-40]


Z: The fift of Athens, and his Deuice was a flaming Torch turned downeward, the word, Qui me alit me extinguit, that which giues me life giues me death.

Comment:

Y gives no place of origin for Knight #5. Y's device is the same as Z's Knight #4, but without the translation. 

Z's device is the same as Y's Knight #4, but with a briefer and somewhat different translation (alit actually means "nourishes").

Knight #6 (Pericles).

Y

6.Knight.   Kin.   And what's the sixt, and last; the which,
The knight himself with such a graceful courtesie deliuered?
Thai. Hee seemes to be a Stranger: but his Present is
A withered Branch, that's onely greene at top,
The motto:   In hac spe viuo.
Kin. A pretty morrall frõ the deiected state wherein he is,
He hopes by you, his fortunes yet may flourish.
1. Lord. He had need meane better, then his outward shew
Can any way speake in his iust commend:
For by his rustie outside, he appeares,
To haue practis'd more the Whipstocke, then the Launce.
2.Lord. He well may be a Stranger, for he comes
To an honour'd tryumph, strangly furnisht.
3. Lord. And on set purpose let his Armour rust
Vntill this day, to scowre it in the dust.
Kin. Opinion's but a foole, that makes vs scan
The outward habit, by the inward man.
But stay, the Knights are comming,
We will with-draw into the Gallerie.

[II.2.41-61]



Z: The sixt and last was Pericles Prince of Tyre, who hauing neither Page to deliuer his shield, nor shield to deliuer, making his Deuice according to his fortunes, which was a withered Braunch being onely gréene at the top, which prooued the abating of his body, decayed not the noblenesse of his minde, his word, In hac spe viuo, In that hope I liue. Himselfe with a most gracefull curtesie presented it vnto her, which shée as curteously receiued, whilest the Péeres attending on the King forbare not to scoffe, both at his presence, and the present hée brought, being himselfe in a rusty Armour, the Caparison of his horse of plaine country russet, and his owne Bases but the skirtes of a poore Fishermans coate, which the King mildely reproouing them for, hée tolde them, that as Uertue was not to be approoued by wordes, but by actions, so the outward habite was the least table of the inward minde, and counselling them not to condemne ere they had cause to accuse: ... 

Comment:

Pericles looks very different to the other knights. His appearance is "mean". He has no squire, so has to do his own presenting (Y and Z agree). Z says he has no shield, and I think that's the case in Y too, though it isn't so clear. What he presents to the princess is literally a withered branch with some green leaves on top. As he has no use for this vegetation during the tourney, the princess presumably keeps hold of it herself, making a visual statement of her interest in him. 

At II.1.166-170 Y had gone out of its way to describe Pericles' acquisition of home-made "bases" (skirts). On the Chekhovian premise that you don't put a pistol on the mantelpiece unless someone's going to use it, we should assume that these makeshift bases are now a visible part of Pericles' costume, contributing to the mean impression that stirs unfavourable comment.

Regarding the king's comment in Y about withdrawing into the gallery (II.2.61), it's possible that the royal party now ascend to the stage gallery (aka upper stage) and pretend to view the tourney that the theatre audience only hears. But it sounds like too much faffing around; I reckon they just walk off-stage. Whatever, when the tourney's over they'll need to re-enter down on the main stage.

The tourney and the feast

Y:

      Great shoutes, and all cry, the meane Knight.
        Enter the King and Knights from Tilting.
King. Knights, to say you're welcome, were superfluous.
I place vpon the volume of your deedes,
As in a Title page, your worth in armes,
Were more then you expect, or more then's fit,
Since euery worth in shew commends it selfe:
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a Feast.
You are Princes, and my guestes.
Thai. But you my Knight and guest,
To whom this Wreath of victorie I giue,
And crowne you King of this dayes happinesse.

[II.3.1-11]


Z:

They went forward to the triumph, in which noble exercise they came almost all, as short of Pericles perfections, as a body dying, of a life flourishing. To be short, both of Court and Commons, the praises of none were spoken of, but of the meane Knights (for by any other name he was yet vnknowne to any.) But the Triumphes being ended, Pericles as chiefe, (for in this dayes honour hée was Champion) with all the other Princes, were by the Kings Marshall conducted into the Presence, where Symonides and his daughter Thaysa, with a most stately banquet stayed to giue them a thankefull intertainment. At whose entraunce, the Lady first saluting Pericles, gaue him a wreathe of Chiualry, welcommed him as her knight and guest, and crowned him King of that dayes noble enterprise.

Comment:

In Y the tourney takes place off-stage, but it's clear that "the meane Knight" is the star performer, as hyperbolically expressed in Z.

Then the spectators and participants come back onto the main stage for an elaborate feast scene; the king and princess, the five splendidly turned-out knights and the shabby Pericles. Later there'll be a dance of the five knights, and then Pericles dancing with the princess.

YQ's rendering of the opening lines is defective. What's superfluous isn't the king's welcome but banging on about the knights' deeds and their "worth in armes". 

*

The message in the coffin

Let's look at something else, one of the few passages where the play (Y) and Wilkins' novel (Z) really run parallel. 

I've already mentioned another such passage, Antiochus's riddle. The play-authors altered the riddle a bit, compared to what they found in their sources. In the play, Pericles reads it out loud (I.1.66-73); the audience need to hear it. Likewise in Wilkins' novel, he needed to quote the full riddle for the benefit of his readers. His quotation is basically identical to Y's; he must have had access to this part of the play-text.

The passage I'm going to focus on now is another one where a document is best quoted verbatim, regardless of whether you're writing a play or a novel. This time it's the message that Pericles places in Thaisa's coffin before consigning it to the waves. 

This message was already part of the tale in the Historia (T), but I don't need to go back that far. However I'll quote the two versions of the message that the play-authors definitely knew, followed by the message as quoted in the play quarto (YQ) and finally in Wilkins' novel (Z).

Gower (W): 

I, king of Tyr Appollinus,
Do alle maner men to wite,
That hiere and se this lettre write,
That helpeles withoute red
Hier lith a kinges doghter ded:
And who that happeth hir to finde,
For charite tak in his mynde,
And do so that sche be begrave
With this tresor, which he schal have.

(VIII.1122-1130)

Twine (X):

Whosever shal find this chest, I pray him to take ten pieces of gold for his paines, and to bestowe tenne pieces more upon the buriall of the corpes; for it hath left many teares to the parents and fnends, with dolefull heaps of sorow and heavines. But whosoever shall doe otherwise than the present griefe requireth, let him die a shamefull death, and let there be none to bury his body.

Pericles, Prince of Tyre (YQ):

Heere I giue to vnderstand,
If ere this Coffin driues aland;
I King Pericles haue lost
This Queene, worth all our mundaine cost:
Who finds her, giue her burying,
She was the Daughter of a King:
Besides, this Treasure for a fee,
The Gods requit his charitie.

(III.2.79-86)

Wilkins' Painfull Aduentures (Z):


If ere it hap this Chest be driuen
On any shoare, on coast or hauen,
I Pericles the Prince of Tyre,
(That loosing her, lost all desire,)
Intreate you giue her burying,
Since she was daughter to a King:
This golde I giue you as a fee,
The Gods requite your charitie.

Comment:

Gower (W) is evidently the main source for the message in Y and Z. From Gower comes both its form (tetrameter couplets) and its basic structure (1, the writer names himself; 2 , he says the corpse is a king's daughter; 3 he requests the finder to bury her; and 4 he offers  the treasure). 

On the other hand the play-authors didn't use the prose version of Twine (X) directly. His rendering is actually pretty close to T, e.g. ending with a curse on whoever neglects to bury the princess. The play-authors followed Gower in dropping the curse. In fact they reversed Twine's emphasis, asking the gods to reward  (requite) whoever does give the princess a decent burial. In this indirect way, you can say that the play-authors were influenced by Twine. [The idea that the gods punish neglect of a sacred duty is also voiced by Cleon in the next scene (III.3.29-30).]

In Pericles (Y) the placement of the message is different from in the other three I've quoted. They all recount the message at the point where Pericles/Apollonius writes it, on board a ship in a storm (equivalent to III.1 in the play); when you're writing a third-person narrative you usually tell your readers about something when it first enters the story, unless you have a good reason not to. But a play-audience can only learn the contents of a message when someone reads it aloud, and the most natural occasion is when the message is received. So in Y the message is not recited until later, when Cerimon receives it (III.2.79-86). The idea of a message is not even hinted in III.1, where it would just impede the drama. 

Comparing the message in Y and Z, it's clear the two versions aren't independent. Some of the lines, especially in the second half, are virtually the same. Both include the idea of the gods requiting someone who faithfully complies with Pericles' instructions, an idea that wasn't in the sources. Nevertheless there are substantial differences between the two versions. 

We have basically three theories to think about (though they are not necessarily uncombinable).

Theory A. Wilkins in Z substantially reproduces the lost original (YO). The quarto reconstructors (YQ) remembered the message as best they could, and patched up the rest. 

Theory B. The reverse of Theory A. YQ substantially reproduces YO. When Wilkins wrote Z he didn't have access to the text of this part of the play. He remembered the message as best he could, and patched up the rest.

Theory C. YQ substantially reproduces YO. Wilkins had access to it too, but when he wrote Z he decided for some reason or other to change it. 

I'm dismissing Theory C at once. There's nothing about the hypothetical "changes" that seems to gain any end. I think if Wilkins had the original to hand he copied it exactly, just as he did with Antiochus's riddle in Act I Scene 1. 

So it comes down to a straight fight between the version in YQ and the version in Z. Which one looks most like original text, reconstructed by the other?

I think the evidence favours YQ, especially in the second half of the message where the two versions are closest. YQ is distinctly tauter, because it articulates the relationship between Pericles' "fee" and the gods' blessing, whereas Z merely lists one and then the other. Z remembers the individual elements all right, but not the drift of the thought. It's easy to see how Z could arise as a memorial reconstruction of what we find in YQ, but hard to see how a memorial reconstruction of what we find in Z would end up acquiring the extra tautness of YQ.

So I'm going for Theory B: YQ gives a substantially accurate rendering of YO. Wilkins knew the passage well but he didn't, in this instance, have access to text that he could just copy. When he wrote Z he had to resort to a bit of memorial reconstruction. 

[As it happens I also think that's the best explanation for the differences between Y and Z in the third parallel passage, the epitaph on the monument to Marina in Tarsus (IV.4.35-44).]



*

I suppose if anyone has read this far they might be expecting me to venture an opinion on the authorship of Pericles, but I'm not going to give a straight answer. 

What I will say is that it's extremely difficult to give a totally accurate account of a story that you didn't write yourself. (If you read plot summaries on Wikipedia, or if you've tried to write similar things yourself, you'll know what I mean.) If George Wilkins wasn't the author of the first two acts of Pericles (Y), I'd have expected that sooner or later Z would betray it by a casual misinterpretation of some detail. The trouble is, of course, that Z isn't a simple account of Y. When Wilkins wrote Z he often changed the details, but it seems to me that the changes I've examined are manifestly or at least credibly purposeful. I haven't found a really clear-cut instance of him just slipping up. (The nearest thing might be Z's somewhat different idea of the character of King Simonides.) 

He also knew the rest of the play very well, but he didn't have a full text to hand, whereas he did have a text of e.g. Antiochus's riddle in I.1. Obviously you could link that observation to his supposed authorship of Acts I-II but not Acts III-V. 

If you want to take it further, one thing you'll certainly need to do is read Wilkins' other plays. (Something I fancy I'll never get round to.)

Let me know how you get on!

George Wilkins, William Rowley and John Day, The Travels of the Three English Brothers (1607):

https://archive.org/details/travailesofthree00dayj/page/n23/mode/1up

This play was performed by the Queen Anne's Men, aka the Queen's Men.

George Wilkins, The Miseries of Enforced Marriage (1607):

https://extra.shu.ac.uk/emls/iemls/renplays/miseries.htm

This play was performed by His Majesty's Servants, aka the King's Men -- i.e. Shakespeare's company, the same company that performed Pericles with such success. 

*


These notes on Shakespeare: full list



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Tuesday, April 01, 2025

Alexander the Great

Alexander now turned his mind to the expedition to Egypt. Most of what is called Palestinian Syria had already come over to him, but there was resistance from a eunuch called Batis who governed the city of Gaza. He had brought in a force of Arab mercenaries and for some time had been stockpiling enough food to withstand a long siege.

Gaza stands a little over two miles from the sea. The approach to it is over deep sand, and the sea fronting it offers nothing but shallows. Gaza was a large city, built on a high mound with a strong surrounding wall, and it was the last centre of population at the edge of the desert on the route from Phoenicia to Egypt.

When Alexander came up to the city, he made camp that first day on the side where he judged the wall most vulnerable,  and ordered the construction of siege-engines. His engineers gave it as their opinion that the height of the base mound made a mechanical assault on the wall impracticable. Alexander took the view that this very impracticality made it all the more important to capture the place: success against the odds would have huge deterrent impact on his enemies, and his reputation would suffer if reports of failure reached the Greeks and Darius. So he decided to build a mound all round the city, piling it to a height which would enable the engines to be brought up level with the wall. Construction was concentrated at the south wall of the city, where there seemed the best prospect of a successful assault. When they judged that the mound had reached the appropriate height, the Macedonians positioned siege-engines on it and brought them to bear against the wall of Gaza.

As this began, Alexander made sacrifice. He had put on a garland and was just about to perform the ritual dedication of the first victim when a carrion bird flew over the altar holding a stone in its talons and dropped the stone on Alexander's head. He asked Aristander the seer what this omen signified. Aristander answered: 'Sir, you will take the city: but today you must look out for yourself.'

Thus warned, for a while Alexander kept back by the engines, out of range. But then there was a sally in force by the Arabs in the city, who were attempting to set light to the engines and, with constant fire from their superior position, while the Macedonians had to fight back from below, began driving them down the artificial mound. At this point Alexander either deliberately ignored the seer or forgot his warning in the heat of the emergency: at any rate he brought up the foot guards and went to the support of his men where they were under the greatest pressure. He did succeed in preventing the ignominy of a forced retreat down the mound, but was hit by a catapult-shot which went straight through his shield and breastplate into his shoulder. The realization that Aristander had been right about the wound encouraged him to think that, by the same token, he would go on to take the city. 

In fact Alexander's wound did not heal easily. But meanwhile the siege-engines used in the capture of Tyre arrived by sea (he had sent for them). He now ordered the construction of a ramp all the way round the city, four hundred yards deep and two hundred and fifty feet high. When the engines had been reassembled and brought up the ramp into action they demolished a large section of wall; at various other points tunnels were dug and the subsoil removed without detection, and this excavation caused subsidence and the collapse of the wall in several places; and the Macedonians kept up an overwhelming barrage of missiles over a wide front, driving back the defenders on the towers. Through all this, despite losing large numbers killed or wounded, the forces in the city held out against three successive attacks. But in the fourth assault Alexander brought up the Macedonian phalanx to ring the city on all sides, and broke down long stretches of the wall, some collapsed by undermining and others battered to pieces by his siege-engines: the result was to open a relatively easy route of attack by means of ladders placed over the rubble. So the ladders were brought up to the wall, and there was intense rivalry for first claim to its capture among the Macedonians who prided themselves on their courage. The first to scale the wall was Neoptolemus, one of the Companions and a member of the Aeacid family: following his lead brigade after brigade climbed up with their officers. Once some of the Macedonians had got inside the wall they split into groups and forced open every gate they came to, so giving access to the whole army. As for the Gazaeans, even though their city was now overrun by the enemy, they closed ranks and fought on: and they all died where they were, each man fighting at his post. Alexander sold their children and women into slavery, and repopulated the city from the surrounding area: it then served as a garrison town in his prosecution of the war.

(Arrian's Anabasis, II.25.4-27.7, translated by Martin Hammond.)

*

For the cities that Alexander's armies visited, the choice was simple: they could submit or resist. Submission was rewarded; resistance was punished. 

Shakespeare's Henry V spelled it out for the citizens of Harfleur:

The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, 
And the fleshed soldier, rough and hard of heart,
In liberty of bloody hand, shall range
With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins and your flow’ring infants.
What is it then to me if impious war,
Arrayed in flames like to the prince of fiends,
Do with his smirched complexion all fell feats
Enlinked to waste and desolation?
What is ’t to me, when you yourselves are cause,
If your pure maidens fall into the hand
Of hot and forcing violation?
What rein can hold licentious wickedness
When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
We may as bootless spend our vain command
Upon th’ enragèd soldiers in their spoil
As send precepts to the Leviathan
To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
Take pity of your town and of your people
Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command,
Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
Of heady murder, spoil, and villainy.
If not, why, in a moment look to see
The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
Desire the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters,
Your fathers taken by the silver beards
And their most reverend heads dashed to the walls,
Your naked infants spitted upon pikes
Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused
Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
At Herod’s bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
What say you? Will you yield and this avoid
Or, guilty in defense, be thus destroyed?

(Henry V, Act III Scene 3)

Henry V is much preoccupied with "Alexander the pig" (as Fluellen calls him). In 1599 Shakespeare was deep in his Plutarch, where the parallel life to Julius Caesar's was Alexander's, and most of the ethical horrors of Alexander's career are exposed and debated here in fifteenth-century Normandy. Shakespeare's Henry, ruthless and fresh-faced and clumsy and winning, has a way of shifting responsibility for the consequences onto the shoulders of other people; something, I suppose, that every soldier needs. 

On the other hand Julius Caesar didn't use the excuse of being unable to control his army when he put the town of Gomphi into the hands of the soldiery (The Civil War, III.8). It was a calculated decision: Caesar wanted the other Thessalian towns to understand the consequences of resistance. 

*

Arrian's account of the siege of Gaza is the more terrible for its understatement. Unlike Curtius he doesn't tell us how many Gazans were massacred (10,000), and he doesn't even mention the story of the barbarous execution of Batis. 

Arrian's admiration for Alexander was not blind, but his emphasis was on compiling a sober history, drawn from eyewitness accounts. This much happened at least, we can say. 

Gaza had been preceded by Tyre, and even before leaving Greece Alexander had razed Thebes to the ground. There were many other atrocities to come; so many, that in Sogdiana and the country of the Mallians the sacked cities don't always have names. If a city's defenders had the temerity to keep the Macedonians waiting, or to wound their leader, the retribution was (as Dryden puts it) "the last extremities of war".  

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Friday, September 24, 2021

How to pronounce Arviragus / The Franklin's Tale

English Elm (Ulmus procera). Frome, 22 September 2021.

[Since the 1960s, this is about as big as the trees get in most of the UK. In their youth they are healthy, but once the bark becomes rugged enough it's sure to attract the Elm-Bark Beetle, which inadvertently introduces Dutch Elm disease, and the tree then dies. (In Brighton they take special measures to keep the disease at bay, so you can still see mature English Elms.) In the first Chapter of David Copperfield the "tall old elm-trees ... tossing their arms about", like the expectant Mrs Copperfield not knowing if it's a boy or a girl, signal an era that's long gone.]


This post is a singularly pointless bundle of notes, but it passes, I hope, through some interesting territory.

Arveragus is the name of the noble knight who marries Dorigen with great joy at the start of Chaucer's Franklin's Tale, and then (as knights do) takes off for a couple of years of knightly feats, leaving Dorigen to her own devices. The titular hero does just the same in Wolfram's Parzifal. But in Chaucer the story stays at home: we never hear or care about Arveragus' knightly feats, only that he's not here.

It's clear from the scansion that Chaucer pronounced the name on the second and fourth syllables: Arveragus.

The tale is set in Brittany and is announced as being a Breton lay (a well known medieval genre). Most scholars have believed that Chaucer confected the Breton setting: he adapted source material from Boccaccio (often one of his unacknowledged sources) and gave it a Celtic colouring. If this is true he did it very thoroughly. The name Arveragus could have come from Book IV of Geoffrey of Monmouth's History: one of the sons of Cymbeline, written Arviragus there and in Shakespeare's play. 

Certainly Chaucer's tale has marked differences from a Breton lay. But I do feel attracted to the argument by William Henry Schofield (1901) that there are indications in Geoffrey of Monmouth of the prior existence of exactly such Celtic traditions as appear in Chaucer's tale, both concerning Arviragus (famously happy marriage surviving sore trials) and Aurelius (magical rock removal). It's unprovable, but Schofield's basic contention is persuasive, that Geoffrey's fabulous history wasn't simply made up out of thin air but wove existing oral narratives into a framework of Roman history. So if he dwells on Arviragus' especially happy marriage it's because it was already proverbial.

(Schofield suggests that the original British form of the name was Arverus, with "ar" being a prefix and "ver" the root. The name, in the form "Arveri", appears on a Romano-British inscription.)

In Shakespeare's Cymbeline the name Arviragus appears frequently as a speech prefix and in SDs, but only once in the spoken text, and this appearance is inconclusive regarding pronunciation (taking into account the metrical freedom of late Shakespeare):


(Belarius.) ... The younger brother, Cadwal,
Once Arviragus, in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech and shows much more
His own conceiving.

(Cymbeline III.3.102-105)


I suspect the stress pattern is meant to be second-and-fourth again: the rhythm of Arviragus matching that of his elder brother Guiderius and foster-father Belarius. (So I'm disagreeing with George Steevens.)

In Geoffrey of Monmouth Guiderius dies soon after becoming king. Arviragus becomes king in his turn and is the more important figure, reigning a long time, sometimes accepting the authority of Rome (he marries the Emperor Claudius' daughter) and sometimes rebelling.

He may have been a historical figure of the 1st century CE. As Geoffrey points out, he is referred to in Juvenal: A gift of a giant turbot to the Emperor is an omen, the flatterer Veiento claims, that "you will capture some king, or Arviragus will fall from his British chariot-pole". 

   -  v  v  /  -  v  v   /  -     v  v   /   -    ()  -   / -  v  v   /   -  v

 excidet / Aruira / gus. pere / grina est / belua: / cernis

(Satire 4, line 127)

Wikipedia gives the name as Arvirargus, which contradicts Chaucer's pronunciation and, so far as I can see, Juvenal's too. (But if you think my scansion is wrong, please let me know... it's been a long time since I parsed a dactylic  hexameter...)

The translators of Juvenal into English seem to agree with the stress on second and fourth. Dryden unfortunately never translated the fourth Satire, but here's Barten Holyday (1593 - 1661):

                                                        Yet came
Vejento short of him? struck with thy flame,
Bellona, he Divines: and, here, says he,
A wondrous Omen of Great Triumph see!
Some King thou shalt lead Captive, or at last
Arviragus from British Chariot cast.
The Beast is Forreigne: On his back behold,
Upright thy Darts stand! 


Dryden didn't think much of Holyday's over-literal translation, though he praised the notes. On Arviragus, the note is about the seeming contradiction of dates: Geoffrey of Monmouth placing him in the reign of Claudius (41 - 54 CE), and Juvenal in the reign of Domitian (81 - 96 CE). Schofield wondered if Geoffrey was misled by Juvenal's prudent naming of the Emperor: though he's in fact talking about Domitian he calls him "the bald Nero".  But then, as Holyday suggested, the same prudence might have led Juvenal to name a past rebel against the Empire rather than a current one. So Geoffrey may have ended up drawing the right conclusion about when Arviragus was active. 

(Juvenal announces his approach to naming at the end of Satire I, here in Dryden's translation:

Muse, be advised; 'tis past considering time,
When entered once the dangerous lists of rhime;
Since none the living villains dare implead,
Arraign them in the persons of the dead.

)

Here's the passage about Arviragus in the translation by William Gifford (1756 - 1826):

Nor fell Veiento short:—as if possest
With all Bellona's rage, his laboring breast
Burst forth in prophecy; "I see, I see
The omens of some glorious victory!
Some powerful monarch captured!—lo, he rears,
Horrent on every side, his pointed spears!
Arviragus hurled from the British car:
The fish is foreign, foreign is the war."

(Source.)

Gifford's is a somewhat infamous name in English Literature (though not to Byron), but even Hazlitt acknowledged the qualities of Gifford's 1800 Juvenal translation; it looks very lively to me.

*

A lost play Arveragus was performed at the court of Charles I in 1636.

*

Which was the mooste fre, as thinketh yow?
Online text of the Franklin's Tale

The main source for the Franklin's Tale can be read in the link below (in a sixteenth-century English translation), and it's very good reading. It's the fourth of thirteen "Love Questions" that are themselves an episode within Giovanni Boccaccio's enormous romance Il Filocolo

http://sites.fas.harvard.edu/~chaucer/special/authors/boccaccio/filoc.html

This particular Love Question is posed by a certain Menedon; as in Chaucer, it asks who showed the greatest liberality: the husband, the lover or the wonder-worker.  In Boccaccio (but notably not in Chaucer) there then follows a detailed debate.

In Menedon's tale, neither the husband nor the wife have names. The lover (i.e. the equivalent of Aurelius) is called Tarolfo. 

These characters lived, Menedon says, in his own memory and "in the countrey where I was borne", later described by Tarolfo as "the extremes of the west", and by Menedon (during the debate) as part of Spain. (Galicia? Might Schofield have been right, that Boccaccio too was drawing on Celtic story material?)

Unlike Arveragus the husband in this tale is never absent on business. Nevertheless his wife is pestered by the lovestruck Tarolfo, in the form of signs of attention, messengers, passing down the street outside, etc. She's completely loyal to her husband and thinks she'd better tell him about Tarolfo's behaviour before someone else does, so he doesn't suppose she encouraged it.  But then she worries that telling her husband is going to lead to a whole world of trouble, maybe even violence. So instead she comes up with the idea of putting a stop to Tarolfo's indiscretions by offering him a conditional promise that she'll never have to redeem:  OK, I'll give you my love if you can give me a May garden in the middle of January. (And in the mean time, quit hanging around.)

The bulk of the story consists of Tarolfo scouring the world for a way to do this, meeting an impoverished root-gatherer called Tebano and offering half his wealth to produce the required unseasonal garden; Tebano's deployment of herbal lore and observing the moon and pagan prayers, and his voyages around the world on a chariot pulled by dragons, gathering his herbs from exotic places. (His magical herbs are so powerful that even the dragons regain their youth.) And thus, in the midst of winter, Tarolfo has his blooming May garden. For good measure it even has the ripe fruits of August. 

The wife is sufficiently unconcerned to have a long appreciative look round the garden. But when she gets home reality hits, and she's very upset and in a quandary what to do. The husband, seeing her agitation, eventually prises the story out of her. He says, well you struck a deal and he's certainly delivered, so go and give him what you offered, but only this once. And I won't be cross with you, because I know you love me and you never meant for this to happen. But no more conditional promises, eh? So she dresses up and goes to Tarolfo and says: I'm here, do as you please. But once Tarolfo finds out that she's there with her husband's consent, he's struck by the husband's incredible generosity, makes his own generous surrender of his claim, and then the sympathetic Tebano makes the same surrender of his claim. 

Debating this, Menedon argues that the husband is the least liberal, because he offers such an insignificant trifle, something that costs him nothing; that Tarolfo is much more liberal, to give up the sexual satisfaction he's been burning for all this time; but the most liberal by far is Tebano, to give up the wealth he has fairly earned and return to a life of miserable poverty. 

But the queen has the casting vote, and she says that the husband is the most liberal of the three, though not the most wise: because what he offers up is his honour, which unlike a sexual conquest or a sum of money can never be replaced once it's gone. (The queen makes the point, as many modern readers of Chaucer have done, that anyway the husband is wrong to regard his wife's "promise" to Tarolfo as valid, since fulfilling it would break her prior marriage vow.)

*

This isn't a particularly scrupulous account of Boccaccio's tale, but I think it does get the tone about right. He extends himself on Tebano's pagan prayer and the crazy dragon journey, but he fairly rips through the rest of the story because, after all, it's only a prelude to the main course, which is the debate. This summary approach places little emphasis on the characters' emotions. It deals in the facts of the case, and its sped-up narrative even has a touch of fabliau: sexual shenanigans as matter for a hearty laugh rather than earnest ethical consideration. 

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Chaucer buries that worldly matter-of-factness in an exalted atmosphere of courtly love. His characters are feeling creatures, full of sentiment. In a prelude to the main story Arveragus is shown as an exemplary humble wooer who intends to maintain the same submissive devotion to his lady even now they are married. His wife Dorigen is (unlike the wife in Boccaccio) tormented by her own feelings of love for her absent husband and fears for his safe return to their dangerous coast. In Boccaccio the wife tells her husband: "I will rather rid my self of life, than do any thing displeasant to you, or dishonor to your person"; that hint becomes Dorigen's agitated list of the women she should emulate by dying rather than suffering dishonour. Likewise Tarolfo's passing remark to Tebano that he would gladly welcome death is enormously heightened by Chaucer, Aurelius' "two yeer and moore" of bed-ridden despair matching the two years of silent devotion to Dorigen that preceded the eventual revelation of his feelings for her. And though, in the denouement, Arveragus reflects some of the husband's sang-froid, he's unable to maintain it for long and breaks down in tears. Even Aurelius' brother (one of Chaucer's innovations) is seen to weep and wail. 

With this foregrounding of sentiment we can link the major new features introduced by Chaucer: the unusual set-up of his couple's marriage, with neither having the "maistrie" -- evidently responding to the preceding tales by the Wife of Bath and the Clerk, as Kittredge observed --, the Breton setting and  "thise grisly feendly rokkes blake". 

In Boccaccio, the wife's conditional promise to Tarolfo was well-motivated. Dorigen's, on the other hand, is strikingly unexpected. After her first uncompromising response to Aurelius ends with "Taak this for final answere as of me", this is what immediately follows:

But aftere that in pley thus seyde she:
"Aurelie," quod she, "by heighe God above,
Yet wolde I graunte yow to been youre love,
Sin I yow se so pitously complaine.
Looke what day that endelong Britaine
Ye remoeve alle the rokkes, stoon by stoon . . ."
It's positively tantalizing, the draping of this cold shower in such lacy curtains. And Dorigen's tease or sarcasm or whatever it is seems completely unnecessary: Chaucer has eliminated the motive. By doing so, he's created an enigma for his audience to decide for themselves. (Is Dorigen uncontrollably giving vent to her fears about the rocks and her husband's safety? Is she furious with Aurelius for pursuing her when defenceless and alone?) And yet, this dialogue between Dorigen and Aurelius is profoundly convincing, partly because of its switches of tack and tone. These people are many-sided, they scintillate, changing from moment to moment. 

It's a bit like how Shakespeare leaves it up to his audience to ponder Hamlet's delay or Iago's malignity: whereas, in Shakespeare's sources, Saxo's Amleth had a very good reason for delay and Cinthio's Ensign had a very clear though very bad reason for malignity (towards Disdemona, not her husband). Both Chaucer and Shakespeare whirl us into new narrative depths by sacrificing explanation.

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It's an intriguing insight into Chaucer's creative process to see how he nevertheless retains some apparently dispensible elements of Boccaccio in transmuted form. 

In Boccaccio, the wife's sense of Tarolfo's irritating persistence was important to the plot. Boccaccio says: "Now for all this, Tarolfo surceased not, folowing the precepts of Ovid, who saith, that a man must not thorough the hardnesse of a woman leave to persever, bicause with continuance the soft water pierceth the harde stone." Chaucer dropped the lover's irritating persistence, yet he retained the worn stone image, applying it to the well-meaning friends who persist (with partial success) in trying to console Dorigen:

By proces, as ye knowen eeverichoon,
Men may so longe graven in a stoon
Til som figure therinne emprented be . . .

Likewise, the garden of Boccaccio's story, though it no longer comprises the "impossible" task, strangely lingers on: as the May garden where Dorigen is taken by her friends, where Aurelius sings and dances and reveals his love (but this time, it really is May); and where, at the end, Dorigen has arranged to meet Aurelius; though as it turns out they run into each other on the way. Nor has Chaucer forgotten about the midwinter aspect of Boccaccio's story: this becomes the beautifully described December season in which Aurelius and the "philosophre" return to Brittany. Finally, Tebano's prayer to night and the stars and Hecate and Ceres seems to have suggested Aurelius' prayer to Apollo and Lucina; though Tebano's prayer produces dramatic results and Aurelius' prayer produces no result whatever. 

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Looking at these details of what Chaucer did with Boccaccio can seem sort of illegitimate. I mean, these transformations are emphatically not part of what Chaucer expected his audience to see. He did not expect them to have even heard of Boccaccio. You could say we've stopped looking at the front of the tapestry and are looking at the knots on the back. 

But then, we're not in Chaucer's audience any more. Reading six hundred years later, one of the things we keep coming up against is the alien nature of medieval art; the pervasive sense that, in spite of everything we enjoy and relish and admire and love, there are fundamental aspects of Chaucer's poetic that we don't entirely grasp. That Chaucer's narrative logic isn't quite like ours. That his idea of what is or isn't relevant often surprises us. And when we feel a restiveness, so that we impute e.g. sarcasm or irony or boredom or failure, these imputations feel less secure than they do with later writers. Medieval culture is complicated, sophisticated, full of differences to ours, and yet full of similarities that may be genuine, but may also mislead us. 


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Loosely related!

Notes on Cymbeline

Honour in Cymbeline:








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Wednesday, April 28, 2021

A choice of pandars

 

Saint-Maure de Touraine



John Dryden's Troilus and Cressida: or, Truth Found Too Late (1679) wasn't a very successful effort at improving Shakespeare, in Sir Walter Scott's view. He took particular exception to Dryden's Pandarus.

Mr Godwin has justly remarked, that the delicacy of Chaucer's ancient tale has suffered even in the hands of Shakespeare; but in those of Dryden it has undergone a far deeper deterioration. Whatever is coarse and naked in Shakespeare, has been dilated into ribaldry by the poet laureat of Charles the second; and the character of Pandarus, in particular, is so grossly heightened, as to disgrace even the obliging class to whom that unfortunate procurer has bequeathed his name.


From this you'll gather that Dryden's Pandarus is worth sampling. Here he is, creepily commending his niece to Troilus:  

Pandarus. I measured her with my girdle yesterday; she's not half a yard about the waist, but so taper a shape did I never see; but when I had her in my arms, Lord, thought I,—and by my troth I could not forbear sighing,—If prince Troilus had her at this advantage and I were holding of the door!—An she were a thought taller,—but as she is, she wants not an inch of Helen neither; but there's no more comparison between the women—there was wit, there was a sweet tongue! How her words melted in her mouth! Mercury would have been glad to have such a tongue in his mouth, I warrant him. I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did.

(Dryden's Troilus and Cressida, I.2)

[Pandarus.] . . . but if you had seen him, when I said to him,—Take a good heart, man, and follow me; and fear no colours, and speak your mind, man: she can never stand you; she will fall, an' 'twere a leaf in autumn,—

Cressida. Did you tell him all this, without my consent?

Pandarus. Why you did consent, your eyes consented; they blabbed, they leered, their very corners blabbed. But you'll say, your tongue said nothing. No, I warrant it: your tongue was wiser; your tongue was better bred; your tongue kept its own counsel: nay, I'll say that for you, your tongue said nothing.—Well, such a shamefaced couple did I never see, days o'my life! so 'fraid of one another; such ado to bring you to the business! . . .

. . .

Pandarus. There's all my fear, that thou art not frail: thou should'st be frail, all flesh is frail.

Cressida. Are you my uncle, and can give this counsel to your own brother's daughter?

Pandarus. If thou wert my own daughter a thousand times over, I could do no better for thee; what wouldst thou have, girl? he's a prince, and a young prince and a loving young prince! an uncle, dost thou call me? by Cupid, I am a father to thee; get thee in, get thee in, girl, I hear him coming. And do you hear, niece! I give you leave to deny a little, 'twill be decent; but take heed of obstinacy, that's a vice; no obstinacy, my dear niece.

(Dryden's Troilus and Cressida, II.2)

Yes, Dryden's Pandarus is nauseating and all too credible -- that perhaps is what really offended Scott. But as Godwin said, Shakespeare's Pandarus is well down this road.  Here he is, trying to warm up the pair that he has finally brought together: 

[Pandarus.] Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw backward,
we'll put you i' the fills. Why do you not speak to
her? Come, draw this curtain, and let's see your
picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend
daylight! an 'twere dark, you'ld close sooner.
So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now!
a kiss in fee-farm! build there, carpenter; the air
is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere
I part you. . . .

(Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, III.2)

And here he is being jolly the following morning: 

Troilus. It is your uncle.
Cressida. A pestilence on him! now will he be mocking:
I shall have such a life!
Enter Pandarus
Pandarus. How now, how now! how go maidenheads? Here, you
maid! where's my cousin Cressid?
Cressida. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
You bring me to do, and then you flout me too.
Pandarus. To do what? to do what? let her say
what: what have I brought you to do?
Cressida.  Come, come, beshrew your heart! you'll ne'er be good,
Nor suffer others.
Pandarus.  Ha! ha! Alas, poor wretch! ah, poor capocchia!
hast not slept to-night? would he not, a naughty
man, let it sleep? a bugbear take him!
Cressida. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock'd i' the head!
Knocking within
Who's that at door? good uncle, go and see.
My lord, come you again into my chamber:
You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily.
Troilus. Ha, ha!
Cressida. Come, you are deceived, I think of no such thing.
Knocking within
How earnestly they knock! Pray you, come in:
I would not for half Troy have you seen here.

(Shakespeare's Troilus and Cressida, IV.2)


I extended the quotation a little, to include Troilus' raffish "Ha, ha!" and Cressida's mundanely growsing household management. You'd think they'd been husband and wife for twenty years. 

Dryden was attempting to rework this most cynical of plays into something a bit less transgressive, a bit more classical. Probably he placed greater emphasis on Pandarus' manipulations because social prostitution was just the kind of topic that preoccupied the theatre of his time, but it may also have been because he wanted to redeem Cressida. In his version, Cressida only feigns yielding to Diomedes (a plan to effect her escape): when Troilus refuses to believe her, she stabs herself. (This tragically loyal Cressida reappeared in Dyneley Hussey's libretto for William Walton's 1954 opera.) For the rest, Dryden worked hard to restore a semblance of nobility to the Greek and Trojan heroes. Hector and Andromache are touchingly painted. Troilus and Hector quarrel magnificently over the return of Cressida (yes, it's another remake of that Brutus and Cassius scene). Dryden even saw an opportunity to commend submission to royal authority, in the unlikely forms of Agamemnon and Priam.

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Dryden saw Shakespeare's play as crying out for "mending". In his time it was axiomatic that all Shakespeare's plots were defective. As for this particular play, it had some fine things, but was not well developed. It was "in all probability one of his first endeavours on the stage". 

For the play itself, the author seems to have begun it with some fire; the characters of Pandarus and Thersites, are promising enough; but as if he grew weary of his task, after an entrance or two, he lets them fall: and the latter part of the tragedy is nothing but a confusion of drums and trumpets, excursions and alarms. The chief persons, who give name to the tragedy, are left alive; Cressida is false, and is not punished. Yet, after all, because the play was Shakespeare's, and that there appeared in some places of it the admirable genius of the author, I undertook to remove that heap of rubbish under which many excellent thoughts lay wholly buried.

(from Dryden's Preface to his Troilus and Cressida)

Actually, as Scott complained, Dryden threw away some of the best parts along with the rubbish. But I do have a lot of sympathy with Dryden's view of Shakespeare's problematic play. The idea that Shakespeare's heart wasn't really in it can still be seen in W.W. Lawrence (1942), who wondered if Shakespeare did his best with an unappealing assignment, e.g to re-tell a hackneyed love story, or maybe to essay a fashionable cynicism he found uncongenial. 

As for "one of his first endeavours on the stage" -- well, Dryden was writing before anyone had begun to work out the chronology of Shakespeare's plays. Troilus and Cressida [from now on this means Shakespeare's play, not Dryden's] is generally agreed to come from about 1601-1602. (Perhaps just after Hamlet and just before Othello, two of Shakespeare's most amazing plays; no wonder we're bothered by it.) The frequently clotted language ("tortive and errant") confirms that date, but Troilus and Cressida is stylistically very various, and sometimes it oddly recalls Shakespeare's earliest comedies. Naïve dramatic situations like this:

Ajax. I do hate a proud man, as I hate the engendering of toads.
Nestor (aside). Yet he loves himself: is't not strange?

Or repartee that wouldn't look out of place in Two Gentlemen of Verona:

Music within

[Pandarus.] What music is this?
Servant. I do but partly know, sir: it is music in parts.
Pandarus. Know you the musicians?
Servant. Wholly, sir.
Pandarus. Who play they to?
Servant. To the hearers, sir.
Pandarus. At whose pleasure, friend
Servant. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music.
Pandarus. Command, I mean, friend.
Servant. Who shall I command, sir?
Pandarus. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly and thou art too cunning.

Or what about this clumping commentary on Diomedes and Aeneas? 

Paris. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting,
The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of --


The "never-writer" of the 1609 Prologue puffs the play, telling us that its witty author wrote "none more witty than this" --, yet long stretches of Troilus and Cressida are characterized by a strangely rudimentary kind of wit. Ajax and Achilles are so dense that they'd be impervious to anything more ambitious. Thersites shows a quick wit now and then, but mostly he's just hurling insults. Nor do the wiser Greeks impress us greatly. Nestor seems to inertly rehash whatever he has just been told, always a step behind; the line above is almost his only effort at originality. 

Ulysses' idea of having the generals troop past Achilles while affecting to ignore him is broad comedy at best -- about the level of It Ain't Half Hot, Mum. I have difficulty imagining a discerning member of Shakespeare's audience (a prince Hamlet, say) being particularly impressed by this. It sets up, of course, the more elevated discussion between Ulysses and Achilles, yet the scene (III.3) then fizzles into Thersites doing impressions of the taciturn Ajax, and as Achilles leaves the stage we return to theatrical primitivism:

Achilles. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr'd;
And I myself see not the bottom of it.

(Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus)

Disappointing our expectations is commonly recognized as a recurrent feature of the play's progress. But, after all, that renders the play problematic, not just its characters and action. 

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Like all Shakespeare's plays, Troilus and Cressida has been enormously discussed. In this case the volume of debate is partly down to admiration and partly down to perceived difficulties. 

As it happens, much of this discussion is well captured in two recent PhD theses that I've found entertaining and informative:

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Johann Gregory describes accumulated scholarship and commentary about the cultural debate within Troilus and Cressida, its contemporary context, and especially its probing of expectation, audience, taste and social distinction (with Pierre Bourdieu in mind) :

Johann Gregory, Troilus and Cressida: audience expectation and matters of taste in relation to authorship and the book (University of Cardiff, 2013)

Troilus and Cressida is often considered one of Shakespeare's most literary plays, like Love's Labour's Lost i.e. less concerned with telling a good story and more concerned with contemporary cultural debate.  One background is "The Poet's War", in which Troilus and Cressida may intervene (an intervention possibly responded to by Ben Jonson in the "Apologetical Dialogue" that he appended to Poetaster). A more shadowy background is the numerous other Troy plays, especially the group composed for the Admiral's Men around 1599 by Thomas Dekker and Henry Chettle, unfortunately all lost. One thing that survives is a fragmentary backstage plot for their Troilus and Cressida. This was a document for prompters and call-boys, listing the characters in each scene, their entrances and exits, alarums, etc. You can see it here: 


It shows that Shakespeare's play followed basically the same approach as Dekker/Chettle in treating the story of Troilus and Cressida alongside the story of the war's progress (the central Homeric Hector/Achilles thread, presented as scenes of council debate and fighting). Both are large-cast plays portraying the numerous worthies who were at the siege of Troy. A reference to Cressida entering "wth Beggars" suggests that Dekker and Chettle included Cressida's tragic end as envisaged by Henryson in The Testament of Cresseid. In another scene Ajax enters carrying Patroclus on his back (presumably, the dead Patroclus); so it seems likely that Dekker and Chettle's Ajax was an unexceptionable hero. The name Thersites is conspicuously absent (though the plot is fragmentary and only covers about half the play). For what it's worth, these observations are consistent with the presumption that a Troy play by Dekker and Chettle would probably be respectful and romantic, exactly what Shakespeare's play isn't. 

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Joanne Elizabeth Brown tells a complementary story, about the history of interpretation of the characters in Troilus and Cressida: in literary criticism, in performance and among theatre reviewers. The play had essentially no performance tradition prior to the early twentieth century, but since then it's made up for lost time. Its fitful, gappy approach to narrative has permitted widely divergent interpretations of its characters: Cressida as a game-playing tease/a mature woman/heartbroken by Troilus/a victim of war, Troilus as a youthful idealist/a self-absorbed adolescent/a roué, Ulysses as a wise authority/a clever schemer only out for himself/a pompous self-appointed expert who usually gets it wrong, Hector the essence of nobility and chivalry/just as flawed as everyone else, Helen as shallow socialite or traumatized booty. Then there are subtler questions of emphasis for a producer: should the Trojans be favourably contrasted with the Greeks; should Thersites' physical deformity be highlighted; should Achilles and Patroclus be presented chiefly as a pair of lolling slobs, or is their sexual relationship important; and what motivates Pandarus, should he be shown as sexually excited by Troilus, or by Cressida? 

Joanne Elizabeth Brown, Reinterpreting Troilus and Cressida: changing perceptions in literary criticism and British performance (University of Birmingham, 2016)


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Like, or find fault . . .

The Prologue of Troilus and Cressida is unnervingly reminiscent of the Chorus of Henry V, especially Act III. Here's another tale of a ship-born invasion. But the patriotic spirit of the earlier play has evaporated. If the invading Greeks have a kind of case, this armed Prologue presents it with a studied coldness. He does not identify with either side, only with the state of human beings in warfare. 

We've come long way from Dryden's view of Troilus and Cressida; David Bevington, the latest Arden editor, calls it "an amazing play". I truly wish I shared his enthusiasm. 

My central difficulty, I think, is the distanced way in which it tells its story. Though much of the play seems to be occupied with actions that are trivial and go nowhere in particular, it does after all have a story. Take that central event, Cressida's abandonment of Troilus and moving on to Diomede. You might assume that a certain perplexity would precede this momentous development. Compare Measure for Measure: Angelo gives us two perplexed soliloquies before he makes his infamous proposal, and Isabella has one straight afterwards, in which we see her perplexity. Cressida's soliloquies, in contrast, express no perplexity; they tell us what she has already decided or done (I.2, V.2 -- both are in rhymed verse). Nor are we shown anything of Diomede's presumed wooing (Chaucer had done it brilliantly). You could say that Shakespeare cuts straight from Cressida's anguished parting with Troilus to Diomedes impatiently pressing for fulfilment of what, he claims, she has already committed to. In between comes the kissing scene with the Greek leaders; it feels relevant in a symbolic way, but again we are given no real access to Cressida's thoughts, only the external judgements of Ulysses. It can be played in radically different ways. 

Here's her post-betrayal soliloquy:

Troilus, farewell! one eye yet looks on thee
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind:
What error leads must err; O, then conclude
Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude.

Cressida tells us only that her eye has betrayed her. Nothing about the war or her difficult circumstances or her need of a protector, just her erring eye. As if, basically, she just fancied a bit of Diomedes. 

But this rhymed soliloquy has an emblematic quality, as if Cressida is talking more about herself as a pattern of female frailty than about her specific circumstances. It's the same as in the earlier scene where she describes the hypothetical proverb "as false as Cressid" in response to "as true as Troilus". Not, for example, a hypothetical "as constant as Cressid".  It seems her character has stepped out of narrative time and holds up a signboard. Elsewhere Cressida's emotions and hesitations can be witnessed (e.g. in the parting scene, and in the yes-no-yes of the eavesdropping scene) but Troilus and Cressida goes beyond Hamlet in its scepticism about whether people can be known, even by themselves. And a scepticism about whether people can be known easily slides into a cynicism about what people say. Cressida's final communication in the play isn't even heard by us: Troilus dismisses it as "words, words, mere words" (V.3). 

I can appreciate there's a certain thrill in seeing verbal performance disengaged from revelation of character. It's a drama of cubist scintillations; no other Shakespeare play switches modes so incessantly. The buffoon Ajax can suddenly become the courtly Ajax of later scenes; the dim Achilles can suddenly talk philosophy with Ulysses; Troilus himself can switch from fervent lover to unsentimental pragmatist (as Cressida predicted) and then back to outraged idealist again. Pandarus can transform from a starstruck courtier into a pox-ridden bawd. Ulysses can be anything Shakespeare requires him for. Even Nestor can step up when the author requires a three-man chorus to describe what's going on in the battle (V.5). 

But the feeling that Shakespeare's not really that inspired by the story, that his eye is roaming over the mass of material and fitfully developing small ideas while tossing away the big ones ... I find that feeling hard to resist. 


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Troilus. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be,
Doth lesser blench at sufferance than I do. 

(Act I Scene 1)


This is a bit confusing. 

In the context of the scene, and in a general way, we understand Troilus as meaning that he's been more patient than Patience herself. Maybe we hear the comic overtones of a Basil Fawlty or Edmund Blackadder or some other typically impatient comic character, exploding "it would try the patience of a saint!"

But what he actually says tends to imply that he's less patient than Patience herself. 

Perhaps he's trying to say that Patience has never had to suffer as much waiting around as he has. 

But then he also wants to introduce the image of turning pale with frustration. 

And so he ends up saying that Patience does not turn pale as often as he does, which can have two different explanations: 1. she does not have so much occasion; she is not tried as much as Troilus is. 2. she is, in fact, patient; and Troilus isn't. 

Has Troilus in fact been patient, shy, an ideal courtly lover? Or is he comically ignorant of himself, totally impatient and self-centred, someone whose perception of his own long-suffering cannot be taken seriously? 








Saint-Maure de Touraine


Saint-Maure de Touraine may be the birthplace of  Benoît de Sainte-Maure, author of Le Roman de Troie (c. 1155-1160), in which the story of Troilus and Briseida [=Cressida] appears for the first time. 

















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