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DOING SHAKESPEARE
This page intentionally left blank
 DOING
SHAKESPEARE

S I M O N PA L F R E Y
 Arden Shakespeare

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First published in 2005 by Thomson Learning

This second edition published in 2011 by Methuen Drama

Copyright © Simon Palfrey 2005, 2011

Arden Shakespeare is an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Methuen Drama
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
36 Soho Square
London W1D 3QY
www.methuendrama.com
www.ardenshakespeare.com

ISBN 978 1 408 13214 2

Available in the USA from Bloomsbury Academic & Professional, 175 Fifth
Avenue/3rd Floor, New York, NY 10010. www.BloomsburyAcademicUSA.com

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Typeset by Mark Heslington Ltd, Scarborough, North Yorkshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by MPG Books Group

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form
or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the
written permission of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

This book is produced using paper that is made from wood grown in
managed, sustainable forests. It is natural, renewable and recyclable. The
logging and manufacturing processes conform to the environmental
regulations of the country of origin
For Georgia, Ella, Louis – and Jo
 T H E AU T H O R

Simon Palfrey is a Fellow of Brasenose College, Oxford University.

His books include Late Shakespeare: A New World of Words (Oxford,
1997); Shakespeare in Parts (Oxford, 2007), written with Tiffany
Stern and awarded the Medieval and Renaissance Drama Society’s
David Bevington Prize for best new book; Romeo and Juliet (Short
Books, 2011); and the novel Dunsinane, written with Ewan Fernie.
He is the founding editor (with Fernie) of Continuum’s innovative
series of ‘minigraphs’, Shakespeare Now! His new work includes a
book on possible worlds in early modern drama and philosophy, and
a play inspired by Spenser’s Faerie Queen.
 CONTENTS

Preface to the Second Edition xi

Acknowledgements xv
Introduction 1
Shakespeare in company 1
Playtexts in time 8
Audiences 12

Part I Shakespeare’s Difficulty and Excessiveness

Difficulty and excessiveness: introduction 19
1 Difficulty 26
Taking the words literally 26
Original metaphor 32
Bodies in words 37
Paired words 46
Forward and backward syntax 51

2 Excess 57
Repetition 57
Repeating single words 60
Hamlet’s ‘Hamlet’ 63
Macbeth’s ‘done’ 66
Bombast 70
Lyricism 82
Romeo and Juliet 82
Horatio 86
Satiric style 89
Excessive rhetoric and characterisation 92
Laertes in Hamlet 92

3 Shakespeare’s Puns 97
Puns in Comedy 99
The brothel in Pericles 105
Clowns 107
Puns in Tragedy 111
Wordplay and characterisation: Mercutio 113
Hamlet’s puns 121
Macbeth’s puns 123

CONTENTS vii
viii DOING SHAKESPEARE

Part II Words as Action

4 Performance Cues 133
Cues 135
Repeated cues 139

5 The Line 150

The single line 156
Half-lines and shared lines 162

6 Prose, Verse, Rhyme 175

Prose 175
Prose for the actor 179
Shifts between verse and prose 184
Verse–prose: Othello 187
Prose-like verse: Macbeth 197
Rhyme 203
Rhyme and theme: Richard II 210

Part III Making Characters

7 A Character? 221
Where is a character’s life? 224
Building character in the dramatic moment: Lear 229
What should we call these speaking things? 233
Inwardness 234
Subject 234
Role and part 236
The self as actor: Viola 238
What is a character? 240
Angelo in Measure for Measure 244

Part IV In Search of the Individual

8 The Soliloquy 253
Rhetorical levels: Gloucester in Richard III 258
Political soliloquy: Hal in 1 Henry IV 265
Who is being addressed? Hamlet’s ‘To be or not to be’ 270
Private and public rhetoric: Brutus in Julius Caesar 273

9 Disguise and Doubles 279

Disguise 279
Edgar in King Lear 280
Doubles 287
Scenically constructed character: Pericles 290
Macduff and Macbeth 292
 CONTENTS ix

10 Elusive Subjects 300

Elusive women 300
Ophelia 302
Desdemona 305
Cressida 311
Elusive men 321
Iago 321
Hamlet 332

Suggestions for Further Reading 344

Index of Characters 349
Index of Plays 351
General Index 353
This page intentionally left blank
 P R E FA C E
TO THE SECOND EDITION

Let us imagine that we are entering these plays for the very first
time. We have never been here before. We do not know what world
we are in, its rules or coordinates, or where we are from moment to
moment. We cannot be sure what counts as life. All we can trust is
that every last part of this playworld is potentially animate with
mind, motion, emotion.
It is up to us to make these worlds come true. Necessarily, the first
place to begin doing so is in our own minds. Here we are no different
from an actor or director. There should be no hierarchy to those
who enjoy or grapple with Shakespeare. Whether we are actors or
professors or first-time readers, we inherit the same liberty, permis-
sion, and difficulty. Our job is to give body and motion to the
Shakespeare-potential. The supposed distinctions between reading
and performance, mind and body, text and theatre – they are in
many ways spurious, false both to the creation of the plays in the
first place and to their continuing health. There is no text to be read
without performance, and no performance without that text.
Shakespeare thrived upon this awareness throughout his career. He
had to anticipate the actors’ work in every line and pause and
emphasis he scripted. These players were then given their cues and
speeches, and nothing else¸ and asked to go off to some private space,
learn their lines, imagine the appropriate actions, and come out a
day or two later and bring someone never seen before to life. Our
challenge is essentially the same, only with one crucial difference:
there is in Shakespeare far more lives, far more life, than can be
counted in a cast list.
In Shakespeare, pretty much anything can bear life – not merely
refer to life, but bear life, embody life. Here I am defining life as
owning appetite and perception, a striving to be: perhaps seeking
connection with others, very often participating in larger networks,
xi
xii DOING SHAKESPEARE

but always needing to resist complete incorporation or dissolving

into this larger unit. An obvious example is the single image or
clause. These things always serve larger grammatical units, such as
a line or sentence or speech or dialogue. Necessarily, the life released
by an image or implied in a gap will often return home to a char-
acter or relationship presently on the stage: but not always.
Shakespeare will also give these small things their very own
resistant spirit. This means that the formal phenomena are them-
selves flushed through with subjective life.
Some of these forms are recorded in the playtext, some are not. In
this book I mainly ignore those that aren’t. I rarely consider, for
instance, the contribution of facial expression, hand gesture, or
inter- or intra-speech movement; I barely touch upon questions of
costume, or indeed upon visible semiotics in general – things like
props, backdrops, or iconography. These are obviously indispen-
sable to theatre: their sensuous immediacy, the associative
shorthand they offer, is crucial to establishing scene, milieu, and
often genre. But I am more interested in less visible things – partly
because I suspect sight has become too dominant, both for play-
goers and play-critics, in its pleasures and necessary simplifications.
Sight is a very gross thing; other senses allow for more fineness,
more gradations inside the sentient experience. And so the sense
that this book tries to honour is a kind of tactile hearing – a
tautology, of course, because hearing is always touch – whereby we
listen to the words, inside and between them, we imagine these
words as physical storehouses or potentials, and we imagine the
responsive movements and articulations, of voice, limb, and mind,
that the words produce. This means that I concentrate on those
media where our experience, as always-new readers, can imagina-
tively morph with that of Shakespeare’s actors – the men and boys
who between around 1593 and 1611 were each part’s and play’s
first such new readers. Necessarily, these media will be in some way
found ‘in’ the text – metaphors, cues, rhymes, repetitions, pauses,
prosodic shifts, silence. But as these first actors knew, they are never
accounted for by the fact of such inscription. We still need to body
them forth as actions; they are dead unless we bring real imagina-
tive energy to their recovery.
 PREFACE xiii

In all of this we have to be wary of expecting to find what we

already know. This, I think, is a problem felt in education more than
playgoing. When we attend a play, we instinctively know that the
dimensions and extension of objects on the stage are uniquely self-
configuring. We do not worry about leaping sixteen years in six
seconds, or a thousand miles from one caption to the next. But
when we start to ‘analyse’ the plays we often cling to the idea that
all of these disjunctions are in the service of a conventionally regu-
lated world, and that our job is to harmonise the playworld with the
non-play world, to treat each of its multiple phenomena as repre-
sentations of a more primary reality – parts that get their true
meaning from the whole that they remember. But what if each bit
of the playworld is new, as life always is? After all, Shakespeare’s
meaning almost never folds into an already-thought box, or derives
its coordinates from things that have already happened. Words are
not windows onto known realities. Commonplaces are rendered
new, and abstractions palpable. Reality is being made anew in the
act of speaking. Each place is created – re-created, pro-created – by
an unprecedented language that proffers scenes inside scenes inside
scenes. In playworlds like Shakespeare’s, the living places are many,
and the portals to them everywhere.

Doing Shakespeare seeks to tap the life in these plays – to pierce it,
open it up, draw it out for as many as possible to drink and enjoy.
This is what doing here means – and first and foremost the doing has
to be ours. How do we play or think or write about them in a fashion
that is informed, engaging, and explorative rather than dutiful and
second-hand? Doing Shakespeare offers answers to such questions.
For the aspiring actor or student new to his works it can be an invi-
tation and introduction. For those who feel themselves all too
familiar with the plays it can be a challenge and perhaps an invig-
oration. After all, if there are not always new ways of experiencing
these so often done works, then there is little point in still doing
them.
But the doing here is equally Shakespeare’s. We are accountable
to what Shakespeare wrote. Our aim is to discover and reveal it.
How does he do it? Why does he do it like he does? Why so excessive
xiv DOING SHAKESPEARE

and multi-form? Why so difficult? To get at such things requires a

combination of contextual knowledge, applied technique, and a
feelingly sentient imagination. It is the last which is the most vital.
However, it can only be released if it is applied to what is actually
there in the dramatic phenomena. This is where awareness of
context and technique comes in. Only then can the sentient imagi-
nation – Shakespeare’s and ours – take wing. But unless it does the
whole exercise is one of diminishing academic returns.
There is always a dual potential in the critical-imaginative act.
So, we can recover something of the experience of witnessing a
play. Many things can be lost when a play happens in time: there is
too much flattening and equalising, as everything rolls along at the
same rate of knots. And when we try to speak of this experience
afterwards, it is lost to us, or we settle for bland approximations. We
often lack a close language for our experience; we underplay our
dazzling associative intelligence; we forget how alive and multi-
form our sentience is. Critical imagination is all about allowing
things their actual size, shape, speed – things in the playworld, but
also things in our moment-to-moment minds. But the critical-
imaginative act is also a unique experience in its own right. We can
get really up-close to the plays, inside them, in ways that even
performance may not. We escape from a singular measuring of
time, and from the need for everything to be of one congruent size.
We can thus give life to these creations in beautiful and unique
ways, simply by following their traces, drawing them into the light,
where necessary magnifying, or slowing down, or amplifying, so as
better to apprehend the manifold life within. Such a response is not
derivative, or second-hand, or a pale shadow of the primal source. It
is the thing itself, felt and growing into futures.
This seems an aim worthy of Shakespeare’s plays: a truly sentient
critical imagination.

Unless otherwise indicated, the Shakespeare text used for quota-

tions and act, scene, and line references is the Arden Shakespeare
Complete Works, Revised Edition (2001), edited by Richard Proudfoot,
Ann Thompson and David Scott Kastan.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

As ever, the crew at Arden have been a pleasure, always friendly,

responsive, and professional. Margaret Bartley has helped nurse the
book remade into the world, and Amanda Helm has been a copy-
editor to reckon with. On the occasion of this revised and expanded
edition, I’d like to give overdue thanks to students of mine, young
and older, at Liverpool and Oxford. Hopefully something of the
stimulation that I have found in our conversations has been chan-
nelled in what follows. I also want to hail Ewan Fernie, Philippa
Kelly, David Schalkwyk, and Vimala Pasupathi. They may not
remember why, but I do.

xv
This page intentionally left blank
 I N T RO D U C T I O N

S H A K E S P E A R E I N C O M PA N Y
Shakespeare was very popular in his day, and he has remained very
popular pretty much ever since. But Shakespeare is not easy. He has
probably never been easy. Here we can get some guidance from his
very first editors, friends of Shakespeare and fellow shareholders
and actors in the same hugely successful theatre company. They
recognised that many people might fail to get much at all from their
prize playwright’s works. This is what they write in their prologue
to the first edition of Shakespeare’s collected plays, the First Folio of
1623:
But it is not our province, who only gather his works, and give them
you, to praise him. It is yours that read him. And there we hope, to
your diverse capacities, you will find enough, both to draw, and hold
you: for his wit can no more lie hid, than it could be lost. Read him,
therefore; and again, and again: And if then you do not like him,
surely you are in some manifest danger, not to understand him.

This is one of the most suggestive things ever written about

Shakespeare, not least because it brings us as close as we can get to
the way Shakespeare’s own company understood his work. And
clearly they felt they had to both advertise and defend his way of
writing. Shakespeare had been dead seven years. His posthumous
fame was already in the making, but also somehow perilous. For the
prologue implies that there are people about who ‘do not like him’;
that his work has been dismissed or insulted. They respond with a
direction: look harder; do not expect what you usually expect; search
for what lies hidden. And if it was necessary then, it is no less so now.
Here let us speculate a little. Shakespeare was the most successful
1
2 DOING SHAKESPEARE

playwright of his age. This success can be measured by perform-

ances of both old and new plays, in public and at court, and by the
regular publication of cheap pirated editions of his work. However,
playwriting was still only barely a properly literary pursuit; it still
had the whiff of bear-baiting and prostitution, of being an occasion
for coarse and easy communal arousal. There must have been
many arbiters of taste who were unwilling to allow the plays the
lasting prestige that only print might confer. The publication of
these plays in massive, expensive Folio form may have come as a
provocation; it wasn’t that long since Shakespeare’s friend and rival
Ben Jonson had been roundly ridiculed for doing the same with his
plays. But anyone who had seen Shakespeare’s plays must have
noticed that there is much going on in them; that they tumble with
conceits, images, and wordplay that go beyond the needs of an
accessible popular yarn. Shakespeare’s first fame was as a sexy
young narrative poet. Perhaps it irritated educated traditionalists
that some such poetic pretensions survived through two decades of
writing for the popular stage. The impulse may have been to debunk
his work as pretentious, exhibitionist, or emptily obscure.
Hence the editors’ instructions. For what they stress is quite the
opposite. They stress that Shakespeare’s art works through a kind
of silent, one-on-one mesmerism. It does so through drawing the
reader into a web of concealment and revelation: ‘we hope . . . you
will find enough, both to draw, and hold you’. The reader is to be
held, suspended, in a stillness of concentration. Or it is a treasure
hunt, with the treasure not so much open and displayed as there to
be discovered and drawn out like needles from a golden haystack.
And if they recommend it in these terms, it is not least because, as
long-term actors in the company, they know what it’s like. Here it
will be useful to remind ourselves of a unique fact about Shakespeare.
From the time that he became a shareholder in the Lord
Chamberlain’s Men in 1594, very early in his playwriting career, he
wrote his plays solely for this company and no other. He wrote
nothing for anyone else – unlike many other playwrights,
Shakespeare wrote no masques or pageants, or even dedications to
patrons or other nobles. He did no moonlighting for other compa-
nies. And for most of his career he wrote nothing in collaboration
 INTRODUCTION 3

with other playwrights. He collaborated right at the start of his

career on Henry VI (with perhaps Nashe, or Peele, or Greene) and
right at the end with Two Noble Kinsmen and Henry VIII (with
Fletcher); and there were a couple of eccentric experiments around
1606–7 in the form of Timon of Athens with Middleton, and Pericles
with George Wilkins. But basically all of the plays that make his
reputation were sole authored. Again this is quite unique. And
there is no evidence that he ever filled-out plays based on another
writer’s plotted scenario – a common practice with all other drama-
tists. All of this may be because his talents and vision were singular.
But it is also because he was always engaged in his own intense and
unique collaboration – with the actors in his company. They, like
Shakespeare, were actors and investors in the company. They were
present as one and then another play were suggested as possibili-
ties, as they were sketched, composed, rehearsed, performed, toured
with; as they were put away and then, perhaps years later, drawn
out from the stack to be performed all over again. It is a relationship
of immeasurable intimacy.
But to understand still more closely how this worked, we need to
recall some basic facts about the nature of scripting, rehearsing,
and acting in Shakespeare’s theatre. For a start, there was probably
only one copy of the full play, kept safe by a secretary or prompter.
From this copy a scrivener would transcribe each individual part.
He would write down, in order, each cue – usually one to three
words, depending on content – followed by the entrance or speech
which it cues. That is all that the actor’s part contained: cue,
entrance, cue, speech, cue, speech, cue, entrance, cue, speech, cue
speech, cue, speech – and so on until the end. On professional parts,
the speaker of the cue was not named. Nor was the time between
each speech’s end and the next cue. It might be immediate; it might
be five minutes away.
If this seems very different from what we experience today,
perhaps even more so were the conventions of rehearsal. Today,
whether we are acting in a school play, a local amateur production,
or for the Royal Shakespeare Company, we almost always expect to
have weeks of rehearsal. In Shakespeare’s time this was not the
case. There were often multiple plays, old and new, put on in a single
4 DOING SHAKESPEARE

week. Nor was there a guarantee of a repeat performance of a new

play. This meant that there was little time for more than one collec-
tive read-through of any play. Opportunities for group rehearsal
were very scarce, and were probably limited to choreographing
complicated action scenes, such as sword fights, or feasts, or appari-
tions. And there was no modern-style director, imposing their
vision upon an already existing work. This meant that rehearsal
was overwhelmingly a private thing. No doubt actors sometimes got
together in their chambers to help each other learn their scenes –
for example, master and apprentice actors may have played hero
and heroine, or hero and servant roles, and learnt them in unison.
But even when this was the case, they had to do so in relative igno-
rance of much else in the scene and in the larger play.
Why does this matter for our purposes? Most importantly, it puts
extraordinary stress upon the specifics of each particular part. The
parts had to be self-directing. The play was made by the decisions of
the actors. Partly this means the interpretations they adduce in the
process of learning the part. But, crucially, because of the gaps in
the parts, and the consequent impossibility that private rehearsal
could ever answer, or even know, all of the questions which emerge
in performance, it also means the decisions made by the actors
during the course of performance. A Shakespeare play was an
enormously contingent thing. In a textual economy based on
dissevered individual actors’ parts, the play is always in some sense
about to be – it is unfinished, incomplete, always awaiting those
choices, moments of risk or withholding, when the actor turns
potential into action, or populates a gap with a movement that the
text invites, perhaps foreshadows, but does not necessarily finally
prescribe.
We may see an analogy here with the famous adaptability of
Shakespeare to new times and places. Perhaps the main reason for
this is what Keats called Shakespeare’s ‘negative capability’ – basi-
cally his ability to give existential credibility to anything imaginable,
without feeling the need either to judge or explain this way of being.
The great gift here is to the witness – spectator, auditor, reader –
who is free to experience these possibilities uninhibitedly, and to
supply moral or intellectual conclusions as she sees fit. But our
 INTRODUCTION 5

experience here is powerfully anticipated by that of the part-

learning actor. He too is placed in uncertainties which he must
decide upon moment by moment.
The initial conditions of production reverberate throughout the
work’s life. This doesn’t happen through some kind of magic or
infection. It happens because the very identity of the play – the way
it distributes choice, action, consequence, its tone and rhythms, the
basic relations between one figure or one speech-unit and another
– is all the time negotiated and created in the process of the play’s
first readers – its actors – seeing these choices and making their
decisions. It isn’t that there is ‘a play’, and the actor chooses his or
her slant; it isn’t even that there is a playtext which the actor gives
body to. Both of these ways of thinking are still too tied to the
assumption that there is a ‘Work’ that precedes these first makers.
There really isn’t such a work – because so much of what it may
be depends upon the minute, micro-movements of this first
embodying.
As I have said, it was a relationship of unrivalled length and inti-
macy. In some basic way his fellow actors were there before any
individual play, just as they were there after each one. Shakespeare
designed parts specifically for specific actors. He knew them as
readers, and mime artists, and rhetoricians. He knew what they
had said about the last play, their last part, how they spoke the
words, responded to cues, what they enjoyed and what they did not.
He knew his fellow King’s Men as actors, businessmen, and, we can
suppose, friends. We have to suppose a typical ‘male’ milieu, moving
from playhouse to public house and back, rife with wit, puns,
competitiveness, with personalities both inquisitive and exhibi-
tionist. We have to suppose rivalries and ambition, a desire to get
the good role or the biggest laughs. It is an environment in which
the actors are going to pick up everything they possibly can: not
perhaps how the whole thing fits together, but certainly the details,
any mischief or surprise, in their own speaking roles. Indeed, they
will expect hidden gems and secret hits. It is a process of composi-
tion and production that perfectly harnesses the dense and playful
word-use of Shakespeare. This interplay between play and company
is all the more suggestive once we recall how Shakespeare’s more
6 DOING SHAKESPEARE

popular plays (and there were many) remained in the repertoire.

For the individual parts remain similarly alive. Whether it was the
same actor playing an old part, or a new actor aware of his prede-
cessor in the role, the professional instinct would be to keep things
fresh, make the part new, find some unexploited ‘wit’ to play with.
Shakespeare may or may not have been writing so as to keep readers
busy for the next five hundred years (we might suspect not). But he
certainly was writing as he did for a company of players who would
return, ‘again, and again’, to the reading, exploring, and performing
of his parts.
The meticulousness of Shakespeare’s scripting means that he
almost certainly wanted his actors to stick to the written lines. But
part of this meticulousness is in creating spaces for actorly deci-
sions concerning timing, movement, address and emphasis.
Writing and working in parts means that the script might best be
conceived of as something like a sketch, awaiting flesh and detail.
Each context is only semi-known, and the actor must supply it or
guess at it. This goes alongside the potential for anything to bear
dramaturgical significance, to elicit action from the speaking actor
or another actor. The experience of the play, for those enacting it, is
therefore in the moment, unfinished. It is life as constant immi-
nence, defined by the possibility of entrance, interruption, surprise,
and adaptive improvisation.
It means that all of the individual constituents of the part just
might be crucial. With all of the other parts missing, with the
contexts missing or incomplete, he has to at once guess at these
contexts, and help to produce them in his choices and actions. In
this situation, how can the actor know that something is unimpor-
tant? At the very least, everything must receive due consideration
before it is placed as less or more of a key to the moment. It produces,
potentially, the most extraordinarily democratic distribution of
expressive power. Above all it makes the dramaturgical levers and
pulleys, the instruments usually accorded no more thought than a
door or door handle, potentially alive with possibility. The actors
had to be alert to the possibility that these small, indispensable trig-
gers were actually portals into new worlds or emotions.
So, Shakespeare’s first editors knew exactly how much lies within
 INTRODUCTION 7

these words. But they also knew that to understand it takes effort.
They might have lived with Romeo and Juliet and the hurly-burly
obscurities of Mercutio for nearly three decades. This long-honed
relationship to the plays might help explain the slightly ambiguous
tone of this part of the prologue to the Folio. It is a mingled tone,
acknowledging both utter confidence and a certain nervousness:
‘for his wit can no more lie hid, than it could be lost’. They are
implying that his ‘wit’, precisely because it does in some crucial
sense lie hidden, has in recent memory been endangered with loss.
If you expect it to be the wit of farts and cartwheels, the kind of
thing perhaps recalled from ‘robustious’ performances at the Globe,
then it will indeed be ‘lost’. Of course, as the editors know to their
own benefit, much in Shakespeare’s plays was spectacularly acces-
sible. He retired by far the most successful dramatist of the age. But
there are hints in the prologue that they too have been surprised by
what they have discovered: that re-reading these thirty-six plays
has made them realise just how much Shakespeare’s splendid
immediacy is laced through with barely-noticed subtleties and
complexities. This is the ‘wit’ they so wish us to share. Consequently,
they effectively announce the movement of Shakespeare from a
primary lodging on the stage to one on the page. Therefore ‘read
him’: and again, and again. It is a remarkable and rather moving
appeal not to allow all of this plenty to be wasted.
But it remains the fact that getting pleasure from such reading is
a challenge. Shakespeare’s meanings do not unfold effortlessly; he
withholds things; he provokes questions that are not easily
answered. But as Shakespeare’s partners make clear, even though
his words might be difficult, they are there to be understood. Here
then is the premise with which this book (like the Folio) begins: that
it is only by acknowledging Shakespeare’s difficulty and unpredict-
ability – dwelling within it, grappling with it – that we can begin to
recover the particular energies of his plays. We cannot begin with
expectant generalisations or would-be masterful agendas. We have
to loosen the plays up from any such immobilising expectations.
This means going back to the specific constituents of Shakespeare
at work, recoverable in the various playtexts as we have received
them. But at the same time it means recovering the processes that
8 DOING SHAKESPEARE

we are busy organising as we experience these works: again,

Shakespeare’s doing is inextricable from our own.
For as much as we might regret that we can never experience the
primal heat of original composition and performance, we, as
readers, should not feel that we are placed now in any inferior rela-
tion to the plays, or that we have somehow fatally missed the boat.
It may well be that nothing beats a great performance. Equally, it is
often the case that no stage performance can beat the ongoing
performing of a play in the mind of someone who grows to love it.
As Shakespeare’s friends and partners end their prologue: ‘And
such Readers we wish him’.

P L AY T E X T S I N T I M E
Perhaps the most common demand made by those first coming to
Shakespeare is that his work be ‘relevant’. This need not mean that
Shakespeare has to be dumbed-down or dressed-up. It simply means
that the plays have to speak with immediacy and urgency. However,
it is not always easy to feel either confident or enthusiastic about
recovering any such thing. We might feel uneasiness or aversion to
artefacts so distant and difficult. More than that, a suspicion
develops that everything that could possibly be said or thought
about the plays has already been thought and said, many times over
and a long time ago. An assumption often hardens: if Shakespeare
is going to be relevant to us, if he is to surprise us, then it can only be
by making his plays work in some more immediately familiar frame-
work. So, we work hard to see how his conflicts echo ours, or how
his details tell us about life long ago, or how his stories can be
adapted to more modern media and technologies.
All of this is appropriate when it comes to making the plays come
alive in school or rehearsal. Many of us will need such hooks to get
engaged in the first place. But still there is a big problem. The
assumption is that the plays as bare texts are somehow given and
agreed. Any path so well trodden must be, in all essentials, thor-
oughly known. There is a considerable loss here. For there are limits
to how much we can appeal to these extra-textual contexts – from
the past or the present – before both they and the plays begin to
 INTRODUCTION 9

seem static and self-reproducing. Perhaps we are doing both plays

and history a disservice if we keep on mining one so as to supply fuel
for an implicitly already known other. Perhaps we don’t really know
either of them very well: or at the very least it will do us no harm to
pretend for a while that we don’t.
This book, consequently, tries to go back to brass tacks: it tries to
work out how the playtexts do whatever it is they do. There is nothing
a-historical about such an engagement with form. Instead, we need
to see how aesthetic form is history-in-action, just as it can embody a
character’s consciousness in process. We need to challenge any asso-
ciation of close attention to textual detail with political reaction or
critical naivety. Sustained attention to text too often gets identified
with a fabled ‘new criticism’ or ‘structuralism’ that disregards
anything historical or political in favour of a transcendent text or
mythic patterns. Where ambiguity or complexity are discovered,
they are thought to serve and hallow only the sacred object – the
poem or play – and not attest to conflicts or violence in any worlds to
which the text owes its particular form. As a result, close attention
to text has often only been acceptable if it can quickly be shown to
lead to an overarching political or sociological master-discourse.
This book assumes something slightly different: that the playtext
is the most basic historical archive imaginable. But this doesn’t
mean an archive only of Elizabethan or early modern English
history. It means a potential storehouse for anyone, now or to come,
who recognises in the plays something of their own shape or possi-
bilities. The plays have time and again seemed urgent and
immediate, in all sorts of cultures and at all kinds of historical
moments. This is because Shakespeare’s plays both exceed their
original informing contexts and elude final possession by anyone
else’s. There is always a detail to be mined, a joke to be rescued, a
character to bring in from the margins. The plays always carry a
quality of ‘about to be’: they swell with things latent or incipient,
with things denied yet desired. And it is the dramatic forms that
carry this energy. Every word, clause, figure, and scene within a
playtext is a ‘site’ of history, opening up or connecting to any
number of other such sites. After all, there is nothing so intimate to
the clash between opposing options, or the coercions of historical
10 DOING SHAKESPEARE

circumstance, as the choice of a word that is to be spoken in a tense

and super-policed public space. Shakespeare’s words are themselves
like dissentious bodies, housing movement and animating on-going
conflict. The same goes for his characters: they are (among other
things) embodiments of the way theatrical form finds point and
shape from its engagement with social excitement or agitation.
Close attention to words and characters – both understood in their
fullest capacity for internal movement and variation – need not
imply interpretive naivety or political nostalgia. Once we recognise
how one is always cut and chiselled by the other – words by their
speakers, the speakers by their words – we come upon playworlds
marked by as much restlessness, novelty, and indeed difficulty as
the play-forms in which they are represented.
So, if the plays embody material history or embattled citizens,
they do so through their formal architecture. But to get at the full-
ness of one we must be careful not to pre-emptively curtail the
other. It comes down to attentive, moment-by-moment listening.
This doesn’t mean studying only the words’ referential content. It
means being sensitive to how the words are working: it means
recognising that every act of dramatic speech is a public one, and
therein as much rhetorical as poetical, lyrical, descriptive, or
conversational. There can be no over-simple assumption of a
speech-act that always performs a single declared action. In any
play, words take effect in various rippling ways, invariably not limit-
able to the inferred intentions and definitions of a speaker in a
specific moment. Above all, it means attending to the specific place-
ment of any speaking: who is speaking, to whom, for what purpose,
with whose language, with which listeners, and with what effect.
How does a word or statement bear upon a particular dialogue, or a
sequence of scenes, or a story; how do such things work to secrete,
channel, or indeed explode meaning?
It is sometimes thought that a close attention to words is anach-
ronistic, because the people of Shakespeare’s day did not have the
plays there to read. Or alternatively, that it is anti-theatrical, because
we are not dealing with a book but a play. But almost all of
Shakespeare’s most enduringly popular plays were published in
book form during Shakespeare’s lifetime: Romeo and Juliet, Richard
 INTRODUCTION 11

II, Richard III, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Much Ado About Nothing,
Henry IV, Henry V, The Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, King Lear (plus
Othello, after Shakespeare’s death but before the 1623 Folio). All of
these plays were published in ‘quarto’ form. This refers to the four
times that the sheet of paper is folded, so as to produce four leaves or
eight pages; a few of these sheets would be sewn together to
comprise the book. Quarto editions were therefore small and afford-
able, rather like a modern paperback. We do not know how many of
the existing quartos were authorised by Shakespeare’s company.
Certainly not all of them: many were probably pirate editions,
published to cash in on the popularity of a recently staged play. The
prologue to the Folio distinguishes its ‘perfect’ authority from the
‘diverse stolen, and surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by
the frauds and stealths of injurious impostors’. The likelihood is
that the company were hoarding the plays so as to make a killing on
a collected edition (it was also not in their interests to have these
popular scripts in easy circulation for others to perform).
Nonetheless, in cases such as Romeo and Juliet and Hamlet, where
two quarto editions were published in quick succession, it is prob-
able that the second one, advertised as ‘corrected’ or ‘augmented’,
was thus authorised. But what is abundantly clear is that there was
indeed already an eager readership for Shakespeare’s plays.
This is not to say that Shakespeare himself was writing for future
readers. We simply don’t know for sure where Shakespeare stood on
the question of publication. He may have been a man of the stage
who never gave a thought to his works’ future readership. He may
have been (as his first editors claim) always careful to keep his play-
texts in safe-keeping for their long-intended publication. Or perhaps
he moved from one to the other as his career saw him inexorably
becoming a ‘classic’ in his own lifetime. It is clear that the playtexts
were habitually revised. Sometimes the differences between one
version and another are small, sometimes profound. But this does
not in itself prove the argument either way. They may have been
revised because the text was definitively a thing to be used: it was a
script for performance, always susceptible to change or challenge,
whether from the demands of time, an altered group of actors, a
new stage-space or audience, censorship, or whatever else.
12 DOING SHAKESPEARE

Alternatively, the revisions might precisely suggest an author

taking considerable care over the details of a publishable text. So,
Shakespeare might offer a shorter version for performance whilst
keeping a fuller one in reserve for posterity (certainly his sonnets
show a profound interest in the continuing life of a work of art after
the death of its author).
The difference between quarto and folio texts present all sorts of
interesting problems: concerning the relation of script to perform-
ance; the possibility or otherwise of defining ‘the’ play, whether as a
general idea or in specifically problematic cases (like King Lear); the
relative merits of one editorial practice over another. These are all
important issues. However, to recognise that a play can exist in more
than one version does nothing to reduce the validity of close textual
reading: rather the opposite, if we want to recover evidence about the
ways a play might have been cut, revised, or collaborated upon. Even
if such matters are not our immediate subject, local differences
between quarto and folio version are always worth tracing. They are
no kind of scholarly luxury. Indeed they frequently bear in important
ways upon the very things this book is exploring (e.g., the situational
potency of particular phrases or the limits of character).

AU D I E N C E S
Shakespeare was writing in the first place for his public audiences.
If we think that this fact excuses or precludes us from reading his
playtexts as scrupulously as we can, then we are almost certainly
falling for one or two widespread anachronisms. First, we might be
superimposing modern notions of performance, with their stress
upon production, props, and visualisation, upon the early modern
period. Second, we might be assuming that early modern listening
was akin to our own. In both cases we would be very wrong. We will
be much closer to the mark if we liken the way Shakespeare’s ‘audi-
tors’ (probably a much more appropriate term than spectators)
listened to his plays with the way we read them. For us, the act most
closely linked with education, and so with a directed willingness to
think allusively and analytically, is reading. For people in
Shakespeare’s time it was just as likely to be listening. They didn’t
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Lincoln, Abraham, 117, 149
Little Falls, N.Y., 22, 42
Little Tennessee river, 135
Liverpool, 110
Locks, 45
Logan, 155
London, 110
Long House, the, 18
Longstreet, General, 168
Lookout Mountain, 173
Losantiville, 124
Louisville, 117, 127
Lulbegrud creek, 151
Luray, 131, 132
Lyell, Sir Charles, cited, 126

McClellan, General, 132

Mail, first, received at Utica, 24
Mail bags, race of the, 109
Mail coaches, 94
Manhattan island, 14, 15
Marble, 104, 168, 171
Maryland, 86
Memphis, 172
Middlesboro, 153
Milestone on Braddock’s road, 90
Missionary Ridge, 173
Mobile, 174
Mohawk valley, 16–19, 31, 42, 59
Monongahela river, 93, 96, 111
Morris, Gouverneur, 42
Mount Vernon, 41, 86
Nash, Oliver, 163
Nashborough (Nashville), 163, 171, 173
National Road, the, 91, 93, 96, 123
New Amsterdam, 14
New Jersey, Scotch-Irish in, 66
New Netherlands, 14
New river (Great Kanawha), 134
New York Central Railway, 20, 30, 58, 60, 62
New York City, 2, 7, 14
New York state, 27;
well adapted for canal, 44
Newburg, N.Y., 60
Noah’s Ark, 49
Nolichucky river, 159
Norfolk and Western Railway, 133
North Adams, Mass., 5
North American Review, 102
North Carolina, 137, 146
North-German Lloyd line, 108

Ocmulgee river, 179

Ogden, Utah, 109
Ohio Company, 88
Ohio country, French in, 89
Ohio river, 76, 98, 111, 123, 127, 152
Oil City, 120
Omaha, 109
Oneida Indians, 17
Oneida Carrying Place, 22
Onondaga salt, 27, 113
Ontario, lake, 18, 22, 33
Oriskany, 29, 30, 35
Oswego, 32
Oswego river, 22
Otsego lake, 98
Oyster industry, 104

“Packers,” 72
Packets, 50
Parton, James, cited, 120
Penn, William, 66
Pennsylvania, settlement of, 66
Pennsylvania Railroad, 77–85
“Pennsylvania Dutch,” 66
Pennsylvania canal, 74
Phelps, Abner, 9
Philadelphia, 41, 63
Pike, Pittsburg, 72;
Frederick, 93
Pineville gap, 143, 147
Pittsburg, 64, 71, 75, 83, 107, 156;
description of, 111, 115, 120, 122;
pike, 72
Pittsfield, Mass., 5
Point Pleasant, 155
Portage Railway, Allegheny, 75, 76, 80
Post, John, 23, 24
Potomac Company, 99
Potomac river, 86, 106
Powell, Ambrose, 142
Powell’s river, 134, 142
Prairies in Kentucky, 152
Princeton College, 66
Providence, R.I., 4
Puncheon floors, 140

Queen City, the, 124

Queenstown, 110
Quincy, Mass., 53

Railways:
through the Berkshires, 9, 10;
from Albany to Schenectady, 9, 53;
early, 53, 56;
opposition to, 55;
growth of, 60, 109, 181;
West Shore, 59;
Erie, 60;
New York Central, 20, 30, 58, 60, 62;
Wabash, 102;
Baltimore and Ohio, 99, 101, 102, 110;
Southern Pacific, 109;
Union Pacific, 109;
Lake Shore, 110;
Norfolk and Western, 133;
Southern, 134, 170
Reading, Pa., 79
Red Star line, 108
Redstone, 117
Richardson, Judge John, 46
Rivers important in a country’s growth, 5–7, 16, 17, 24, 26, 31, 41,
122, 126, 133
Roads, in New England, 4, 6, 7;
stage, 64;
development of, 72;
indifference to, 87;
national interest in, 92;
Braddock’s, 90;
Cumberland, 93;
 Frederick, 93;
National, 91, 93, 96;
Wilderness (Boone’s trail, Kentucky road, Virginia road, Caintuck
Hog road), 127, 149
Roanoke, 134
Robertson, James, goes to Watauga, 137;
pacifies the Indians, 139;
helps protect the new settlement, 155;
founds Nashborough, 163;
trusted by the people, 164;
portrait, 164;
ability, 172
Rochester, N.Y., 25, 52
Rochester, Colonel, 26, 41, 61, 132
“Rolling roads,” 88
Rome, 22, 46, 61
Roosevelt, Theodore, cited, 137, 140, 160
Ross’s Landing, 174

Sails on cars, 105

St. Clair, General, 124
St. Leger, General, 33, 61
Salt, 27, 61, 113
Samp mortars, 21
San Francisco, 109
Saratoga, 38
Schenectady, 19, 42, 47, 61
“Schonowe,” 19
Schuyler, Fort (Utica), 23
Schuyler, Han Yost, 37
Schuylerville, 38
Scotch-Irish, 66, 136
Seneca river, 24
Seneca lake, 25
Settlement:
in New England, 4;
in New York, 14, 24;
in Pennsylvania, 66;
in the Ohio country, 117;
in Tennessee, 135, 170;
in Kentucky, 148
Sevier, John, goes to Watauga, 138;
fights on the frontier, 155;
plans to attack Ferguson, 160;
returns home, 162;
portrait, 162;
monument to, 165;
other honors, 166;
on the Tennessee river, 172
Shelby, Isaac, 155, 159, 165
Shelbyville, 165
Shenandoah valley, 88, 107, 130, 132
Sheridan, 133
Shippensburg, Pa., 71
Shreve, Captain, 117
Slate, 104
“Smoky City, The,” 120
South Mountain, Pa., 132
Southern Pacific Railway, 22
Southern Railway, 134, 170
Speed of early trains, 105
Spotswood, Alexander, 129
Springfield, Mass., 6, 10
Stanwix, Fort, 22, 23, 34, 37, 61, 149
Stark, General, 38
Staunton, Va., 135
Steamboats, 118
Stephenson, George, 53
Stillwater, 38
Susquehanna valley, 26, 41, 46, 104
Swift Run Gap, 130
Sycamore Shoals, 160
Sydney, Australia, 109
Syracuse, 27, 52, 57, 61

Tarleton, Colonel, 159

Teamsters of early days, 64, 69
Tennessee, 134, 154, 164, 172;
University of, 170
Tennessee river, 134, 142, 163, 167, 172, 174
Ticonderoga, 32, 37, 38
Tidewater country, 87, 130
Timber, 104, 180
Toll houses, 68, 87
Toll rates, 94
Tom Thumb, 106
Trails, old, 4, 6, 17, 19, 22, 25, 28, 72
Tramways in England, 54
Transylvania Company, 148
Travel, early, 5, 22, 56, 64, 91
Trow Plat, 23
Trunk line, 57
“Tubal Cain of Virginia,” 129
Tudor, Frederick, 4
Twentieth Century Limited, 56

Union Pacific Railroad, 109

University of Tennessee, 170
Utica, 21, 23, 37, 57, 61

Valley of east Tennessee, 135;

of Virginia, 132
Valley, the Great, 71, 130, 132, 134, 136, 139
Valleys as natural roads, 5–7, 16, 17, 22, 24, 26, 31, 41, 126, 133,
142, 152, 156
Van Curler, Arent, 17, 19, 57, 61
Vanderbilt, Cornelius, 58
Ventura, the, 109
Vincennes, Ind., 158
Virginia, 129, 154;
valley of, 132

Wabash Railway Company, 102

Wabash river, 158
Walker, Dr. Thomas, 142
Ward, Nancy, 139
Washington, D.C., 91, 93, 94
Washington, George, 41, 60, 86, 112, 133;
part taken by, in road making, 88–92, 98
Washington, Lawrence, 89
Watauga Settlement, 135–141, 144, 146, 159
Waterford, 47
West, the, 40, 60
Westfield valley, 6
West Shore Railway, 59
Wheeling, 94, 107, 122
White, Hugh, 21
Whitesboro, 21
Wilderness Road, 127, 149
Willett, Captain Marinus, 35
William and Mary College, 142
Wills creek, 89, 102
Wills mountain, 93
Winchester, Va., 132, 135
Windmills, Dutch, 15
Wood creek, 22, 42

Yadkin valley, North Carolina, 146

 Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made
consistent when a predominant preference was found in the
original book; otherwise they were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced
quotation marks were remedied when the change was
obvious, and otherwise left unbalanced.
Illustrations in this eBook have been positioned between
paragraphs and outside quotations. In versions of this eBook
that support hyperlinks, the page references in the List of
Illustrations lead to the corresponding illustrations.
Portions of the captions of some illustrations were taken
from the List of Illustrations.
The images have not been descreened because doing so
lost too much detail.
The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or
correct page references.
Page 18: The pronunciation mark above the first “o” in “ĭr-
ṓ-kwoi´” was an inverted “T”, which was only visually
approximated here.
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