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Fathers and Daughters

Of the great variety of relationships that Shakespeare dramatizes, one of the richest is between fathers and daughters. In legal terms, male parents in Shakespeare’s plays have almost complete authority over their children, in particular the daughters. Yet many of these young women seek to exercise their own wills. The resulting tension is intensified by the universal conflict that exists between generations, as well as by the timeless male chauvinism that compels fathers to shield their daughters from worldly matters, including emotional and sexual attachment. These clashes resolve in a variety of ways, but the basis of the struggle is always how both generations are challenged to accept each other’s values. In this way, the daughters may be seen as standing up against the strictures of medieval society, as well as representing the values of the Renaissance and its emphasis on individual social, political, intellectual, and economic freedom. Of the great variety of relationships that Shakespeare dramatizes, one of the richest is between fathers and daughters. In legal terms, male parents in Shakespeare’s plays have almost complete authority over their children, in particular the daughters. Yet many of these young women seek to exercise their own wills. The resulting tension is intensified by the universal conflict that exists between generations, as well as by the timeless male chauvinism that compels fathers to shield their daughters from worldly matters, including emotional and sexual attachment. These clashes resolve in a variety of ways, but the basis of the struggle is always how both generations are challenged to accept each other’s values. In this way, the daughters may be seen as standing up against the strictures of medieval society, as well as representing the values of the Renaissance and its emphasis on individual social, political, intellectual, and economic freedom. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for example, the plot is set off by the citizen Egeus’s demand that his daughter, Hermia, marry not the man she loves, Lysander, but the man Egeus prefers, Demetrius. In the great comic tradition that extends back to the theater of Greece and Rome, Egeus is a bully who fails to appreciate his daughter’s intelligence and capacity to love, as well as the attractiveness of the suitor she desires. He reveals these aspects of himself early: Thou, thou, Lysander, thou has given her rhymes, And interchang’d love-tokens with my child; Thou has by moonlight at her window sung With faining voice verses of faining love, And stol’n the impression of her fantasy With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats—messengers Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth. With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart, Turn’d her obedience (which is due to me) To stubborn hardness. (I, i, 28–38) The last two lines in particular raise the question as to whether Egeus objects to Lysander because of the young man’s artful rituals of courtship, or because of Hermia’s boldness in choosing Lysander without seeking her father’s approval. Whatever the cause, Egeus climaxes his tirade with a threat that sends the plot whirling: “Either to die the death, or to abjure/ For ever the society of men” (I, i, 65–66). Despite this grim warning, we cannot regard Egeus with deep concern, for theatrical convention in comedy assures us that his demands will be thwarted. Still, Hermia and Lysander must endure severe trial in the woods before all resolves happily. Even afterwards, Egeus still grumbles: Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough. I beg the law, the law, upon his head. They would have stol’n away, they would, Demetrius, Thereby to have defeated you and me: You of your wife, and me of my consent, Of my consent that she should be your wife. (IV, i, 154–159) But when Demetrius announces that he has switched allegiance to Helena, who loves him, and Duke Theseus approves both unions, Egeus is left to stew in his own frustration. In The Taming of the Shrew, the mistreatment of a young woman by her father has different repercussions. Katherine has acquired the reputation of a shrew, and from her initial appearance, her harsh behavior justifies that renown. Yet as her father, Baptista, reveals his preference for his younger daughter, Bianca, Katherine’s fury becomes more understandable. As she says: She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance barefoot on her wedding-day, And for your love to her lead apes to hell. Talk not to me, I will go sit and weep, Till I can find occasion of revenge. (II, i, 32–36) Baptista’s attitude has created in Katherine an anger that she turns against the world. She is further tormented by her isolation, for unlike Hermia, she has yet to find a suitor worthy of her. The vapid men of Padua are charmed by the surface attractions of Bianca, but too shallow to appreciate Katherine’s worth. Only when the alluring newcomer Petruchio enters her life, bringing a mind and wit equal to hers, is Katherine able to escape the shackles of her father’s authority. At the end of the play, when during the banquet Katherine comes forth contentedly at Petruchio’s beckoning, Baptista is impressed: Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won, and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns, Another dowry to another daughter, For she is chang’d, as she had never been. (V, ii, 111–115) Throughout the play, Baptista has been preoccupied with money, going so far as to offer Bianca’s hand in marriage to that suitor with the most firmly guaranteed solvency. When he here again expresses delight in financial terms, we wonder if he appreciates how Katherine’s warmth has blossomed under Petruchio’s influence, or whether Baptista still assumes that money is the only requirement for happiness. A different kind of shackle is apparent in The Merchant of Venice, in which two fathers attempt to impose rules on their daughters. Portia, a dynamic woman with beauty, wit, and wealth, is nonetheless trapped into passivity by her late father’s dictum that she belongs to the man who chooses her picture from among three caskets. From her very first line, we recognize Portia’s discontent: “By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is a-weary of this great world” (I, ii, 1–2). Like Katherine, Portia is unhappy, but because she has her woman-in-waiting Nerissa in whom she may confide, Portia’s discontent has been transformed into restlessness rather than fury. In the same play, we see another daughter who feels trapped by her father: Jessica, daughter of Shylock. Her hatred, though, is aimed directly at him: Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father’s child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. (II, iii, 16–21) Jessica seeks to be part of the society around her. Indeed, she has completely accepted its values, including anti-Semitism, and she sees her salvation, both literal and metaphoric, in escape from her father’s home. Both young women eventually achieve independence. Bassanio, the one man Portia desires, chooses her picture from the lead casket, although we feel that her true means of freeing herself is through her portrayal of the male lawyer Balthazar. As she says before leaving for court: I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practice. (III, iv, 76–78) We sense that for much of her life Portia has been waiting to release the full force of her intellect and spirit. Now that she has opportunity to prove herself the equal of the men around her, she holds nothing back. Even after she has trapped Shylock in court and contributed to the series of cruel punishments inflicted upon him, she still toys with Bassanio, demanding the ring that he promised her (as Portia) he would never surrender. All Portia’s actions reflect her need to stand on her own by liberating herself from society’s male influence, particularly that of the father who condemned her to years of inactivity. Jessica, too, breaks from her father’s control, but she does so by joining society through marriage to Lorenzo, a Christian. Just how sympathetic we are to her actions depends on how sympathetic we are to Shylock, but no doubt Shakespeare’s audience would have applauded her as one with the courage to flout a brutal, even grotesque father who tries to impose on his daughter not only his religion, but also the antisocial practices that make him so unlikeable: Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum And the vile squealing of the wry-neck’d fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze upon Christian fools with varnish’d faces… (II, v, 29–33) Yet even when the trial has ended, and Jessica and Lorenzo should be entirely happy, she remarks: “I am never merry when I hear sweet music” (V, i, 69). We wonder if Jessica retains some of Shylock’s attitude toward such popular entertainment. Perhaps she is her father’s daughter after all, whether she cares to acknowledge so or not. Thus far we have considered father-daughter relationships only in the comedies. The presentations of this bond differ in the tragedies and romances, where the emphasis is more on the moral lessons to be drawn from the daughter’s striving for individuality. For example, in Romeo and Juliet, after Tybalt, Juliet’s cousin, has slain Mercutio, and Romeo has foolishly avenged his friend’s death by killing Tybalt, her father still insists that she marry the County Paris. When Juliet begs to be free from that relationship, he responds brutally: Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what: get thee to church a’ Thursday, Or never after look me in the face. (III, v, 160–162) Capulet is more concerned with imposing his wishes on his daughter than with ensuring her happiness. At the close of the play, he expresses grief over Juliet’s body, but never articulates how his actions and attitudes contributed to her tragic end. In Hamlet, Polonius tries to exert paternal authority over Ophelia, stifling her sexual desires and warning her, with characteristic circumlocution, of the danger the Prince poses: In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his vows, for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But mere [implorators] of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bonds, The better to [beguile]. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk with the Lord Hamlet. (I, iii, 127–134) Later, when Hamlet has appeared before Ophelia in what seems to be a state of disorder, Polonius initially blames Ophelia for Hamlet’s behavior: “What, have you given him any hard words of late?” (II, i, 104). When Ophelia insists that she has followed her father’s orders by refusing to see Hamlet, Polonius reverses himself and attributes Hamlet’s antics to Ophelia’s neglect. Whatever way she turns, Ophelia is trapped between the man she loves, who has apparently scorned her, and the father who forbids her to mend the relationship. Thus when Hamlet kills Polonius, Ophelia is lost, with no one to whom she can turn. Thereafter she enters in a state of madness, singing obscene ditties that reflect her desperate need for love. Her subsequent suicide is the inevitable outcome of her father’s repression and Hamlet’s rejection. In Othello, the actions of Desdemona leave her father, Brabantio, in panic. Indeed, her marriage to Othello shatters his world, as he clarifies when Iago breaks the news in the middle of the night: What tell’st thou me of robbing? This is Venice; My house is not a grange. (I, i, 105–106) How, Brabantio wonders, can such sexual license be carried out by his daughter in his home and his city? Soon he confronts Othello: O thou foul thief, where has thou stow’d my daughter? Damn’d as thou art, thou has enchanted her, For I’ll refer me to all things of sense, If she in chains of magic were not bound… (I, ii, 62–65) All of Brabantio’s values are embodied in his daughter, who has betrayed him, and therefore his life has lost its foundation. Unable to face that reality, he insists that Othello could have seduced Desdemona only through magic (I, ii, 63–66). Desdemona, however, offers a different explanation: I am hitherto your daughter. But here’s my husband; And so much duty as my mother show’d To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor, my lord. (I, iii, 185–189) Her declaration, so formal in tone, raises the question of how much of her speech emerges purely out of love for Othello, and how much reflects her need to make a stand against her father. In any case, her will is irresistible, and Brabantio has no choice but to let her leave, although he issues this warning: Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; She has deceived her father, and may thee. (I, iii, 292–293) Later, when Othello nears the depths of his misery, Iago recalls this sentiment (III, iii, 206). By then, however, the action of the play has moved to the Venetian colony of Cyprus, and we have not seen Brabantio for some time. At the end of the play, we learn that he has died. As his brother, Gratiano, reports to Othello: “Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief/ Shore his old thread in twain” (V, ii, 205–206). In this play, therefore, father and daughter never achieve reconciliation. Such is not the case in Shakespeare’s romances, all of which are infused with the spirit of acceptance. In Pericles, for instance, the reunion between the title character and his daughter, Marina, who has seemingly been lost, touches us, for although the two do not recognize each other, something profound stirs within them. As Pericles says: “Pray you turn your eyes upon me./ You’re like something that—” (V, i, 101–102). The gradual discovery of their identities, a process that Shakespeare extends almost unbearably, reaffirms Pericles’ faith and inspires a dream that leads him to find Thaisa, his wife. Thus his daughter becomes his vehicle for salvaging his hopes. In Cymbeline, the title character, the King of Britain, banishes his daughter, Imogen, who has married Posthumus against Cymbeline’s wishes. Much later, after Cymbeline has been captured in military conflict, he broods upon his initial misjudgment that has led him to such a crisis: It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my daughter, That it was folly in me, thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling. Heaven mend all! (V, v, 65–68) Eventually Imogen, so long disguised as Fidele, reveals herself to her father, and their reunion embodies the uniting of both their family that has been torn apart and the country suffering under war. In The Winter’s Tale, Leontes, King of Sicilia, is obsessed with the suspicion that his wife, Hermione, has had an affair with his best friend, Polixenes. No denial can alleviate Leontes’ madness, although when Hermione gives birth to a baby girl, the child’s attendant, Paulina, hopes that the infant will assuage Leontes’ rage: We do not know How he may soften at the sight o’ th’ child: The silence often of pure innocence Persuades when speaking fails. (II, ii, 37–40) Leontes’ reaction, however, is precisely the opposite, and he orders that the child be exiled: “To some remote and desert place quite out/ Of our dominions” (II, iii, 176–177). In true theatrical tradition, and in a plot device inspired by several myths, including that of Oedipus, the child survives. Years later, when circumstances bring the grown daughter, Perdita, before Leontes, he seems to intuit her identity, for her presence reminds him of Hermione, whom he believes dead: “I thought of her,/ Even in these looks I made” (V, i, 227–228). The actual scene of recognition between the two takes place offstage, but we are assured by some gentlemen that it was profoundly moving: “a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of” (V, ii, 42–43). Thus here, too, a daughter restores a father’s faith and allows him to express his regret over his earlier misjudgments. In the last of Shakespeare’s romances, The Tempest, Prospero’s daughter, Miranda, is above all an audience to whom he may tell the story of his life as Duke of Milan, where his throne was usurped by his brother, Antonio, and from where Prospero and Miranda were set adrift, only to end up on the island where they have lived for twelve years. Miranda is also one of the few members of Prospero’s present kingdom, and he rules her firmly. When, for instance, Miranda falls in love at the sight of Ferdinand, the son of her father’s enemy, she begs of Prospero: O dear father, Make not too rash a trial of him, for He’s gentle, and not fearful. (I, ii, 467–469) Prospero, however, quashes her speaking so boldly: “What, I say,/ My foot my tutor?” (I, ii, 469–470). He insists on exerting the prerogatives of father and ruler. Still, the love between Ferdinand and Miranda cannot be suppressed, and Prospero is at last stirred by his daughter’s capacity for affection. Although he sentences Ferdinand to hard labor to win Miranda’s hand, Prospero reflects: “Poor worm, thou art infected!” (III, i, 32). Later, at the sight of the two of them, he adds: Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heaven rain grace On that which breeds between ’em! (III, i, 74–76) The innocent love of Miranda gradually moves Prospero to surrender his own antagonism toward those against whom he seeks vengeance, but he is not totally transformed. First he reminds both Miranda and Ferdinand of his paternal authority by establishing rules for courtship: But If thou dost break her virgin-knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minist’red, No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow… (IV, i, 14–19) Here is another father seemingly horrified by the thought of his daughter’s sexuality. Later, when for the first time Miranda sees Ferdinand’s father, Alonso, the King of Naples, and Antonio, along with his confederate, Sebastian, Alonso’s brother, Miranda exclaims: How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world That has such people in’t! (V, i, 182–184) Prospero retorts: “’Tis new to thee” (V, i, 184). Even the innocent optimism of Miranda cannot erase Prospero’s bitterness. In no play of Shakespeare’s is the father-daughter bond so moving as in King Lear. Indeed, the crux of the plot is the rift that emerges between Lear and his youngest and favorite daughter, Cordelia. In the opening scene, while Lear prepares to renounce responsibility and divide his kingdom among his three daughters, Cordelia waits in agony as her two older sisters, Goneril and Regan, falsely claim their love, as their father has commanded. Finally, Lear invites her to speak so as “to draw/ A third more opulent than your sisters’?” (I, i, 85–86). He makes clear to all that he has already decided who will receive which territory, so in fact he is not conducting a competition, as he earlier insisted. Nevertheless, Cordelia cannot or will not violate her relationship with her father by turning it into a vehicle for his public self-aggrandizement. Thus she offers the fatal reply: “Nothing, my lord” (I, i, 87). Despite Lear’s insistence, Cordelia is stubborn, and in his refusal to forgive her stubbornness, Lear unintentionally demonstrates just how much this parent and child share. Moments later, he expels her, with the pathetic confession: “I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest/ On her kind nursery” (I, i, 123–124). We recognize that Lear is not evil, but that he is foolishly allowing pride to get the best of him. In the world of this play, however, even a temporary lapse of judgment proves cataclysmic, and Lear’s blunder results in unbearable suffering for him, since his two remaining daughters expel him from their houses and leave him stranded and helpless. Cordelia does not reappear until the middle of Act IV, when she and her father reunite in a scene of unbearable beauty. Lear, barely in possession of his faculties, struggles to ask forgiveness: I know you do not love me, for your sisters Have (as I do remember) done me wrong: You have some cause, they have not. (IV, vii, 72–74) Cordelia’s heartrending answer, however, soothes him: “No cause, no cause” (IV, vii, 74). Later, when the two become prisoners of the army of Edmund, Duke of Gloucester, Lear begs only that he and his daughter remain together: Come, let’s away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage; When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. (V, iii, 8–11) We recognize that Lear has learned about the worth of people, and his desperate request suggests that the only part of life he now cherishes is the love of his daughter. Although Shakespeare leads us to suspect that he and Cordelia will be saved, Lear does not find such solace, for Edmund sends orders that the two should be executed. Eventually he rescinds the command, but not until Cordelia is dead. In perhaps the most terrible moment in all of Shakespeare’s plays, Lear enters “with Cordelia in his arms” (V, iii, 257). He holds only one thought: This feather stirs, she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. (V, iii, 266–268) At last he realizes that before he is a king, he is a man, with all of a man’s needs and feelings. Cordelia’s life and death teach Lear values he should have held all his life, but, sadly, that knowledge comes too late. Indeed, few of Shakespeare’s fathers even learn such profound lessons. Still, we understand how daughters, limited in their capacity to act on their own, can force confrontations between the old and the new. In the resolution of those conflicts, daughters thereby influence the beliefs of both their fathers and the ever-changing society around them.

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