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No group of Shakespeare’s characters is more treasured by audiences than those known as “fools.” On the surface, they are merely a source of amusement, providing comic relief under generally serious circumstances. Furthermore, their parts are rarely large and may actually be peripheral to the main action. In spite of this separation, however, or perhaps because of it, their perspectives mirror our own uncertainty, wonder, or frustration. During Shakespeare’s time, the term “fool” was applied to jesters of the medieval court who entertained royal personages. Because fools had no official status, they were entitled to utter all sorts of humorous, even rude remarks which, if emanating from any other source, would have been risky indeed. In this discussion, however, the word “fool” is used more generously to encompass those characters whom Shakespeare describes sometimes as “fools” and at other times as “clowns.” All offer respite from the primary tensions; yet their reflections also provide insight about the leading players. These “fools” may be divided into two general categories: (1) buffoons who unintentionally create broad comedy with physical antics and eccentric vocabulary; and (2) wits who aim their agile wordplay at specific targets.
One of Shakespeare’s earliest, yet most charming clowns is Dull in Love’s Labor’s Lost. Above all, he is prone to corruptions of language that guarantee laughter: I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace’s farborough; but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. (I, i, 183–185) Such malapropisms, though, provide more than humor. In a play where so many of the upper-class lovers are prone to linguistic grandiloquence behind which they disguise their feelings, Dull’s honest gracelessness is a relief. In addition, pedants like the schoolmaster, Holofernes, may be more sophisticated than Dull, but they are also objects of ridicule, since under the guise of erudition they purvey nonsense. Dull may be seen as a forerunner of one of Shakespeare’s most beloved comic figures, Dogberry in Much Ado About Nothing. Officially an officer of the law, Dogberry can utter scarcely a sentence that does not offer some delightful corruption of language: You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. (III, iii, 22–24) Yet Dogberry, too, is a significant thematic presence. First, his appearance onstage creates an aura of innocence. No matter how malicious Don John’s schemes, or how cruelly Claudio, Hero’s fiance, and Leonato, her father, behave because of her supposed transgressions, Dogberry alleviates the spirit of malice. Second, several of the major characters in this play hide behind their own language. The romantic antagonists, Beatrice and Benedick, for instance, insult each other repeatedly, refusing to acknowledge their mutual attraction that is obvious to everyone else. That Dogberry manages to communicate meaning despite his verbal missteps points up the foibles of the other, more elevated characters. One of Dogberry’s memorable moments occurs during the inquisition of Don John’s underlings, Borachio and Conrade, the latter of whom refers to Dogberry as “an ass.” The officer responds to this insult with fury: But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. (IV, ii, 76–78) His outrage is endearing, yet oddly touching, a combination of qualities shared by many of Shakespeare’s fools. Dogberry also provides relief when Benedick has finally lost patience with the heartless actions of Claudio and accuses him of having killed Hero, “a sweet and innocent lady” (V, i, 190–191). At this point Dogberry enters, prepared to condemn Borachio and Conrade for their part in the conspiracy against Hero. Infused with his mission, he states to Don Pedro: Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover they have spoken untruths: secondarily, He asks whether one who is the target of forces greater than himself can be guilty of failing to act properly. That query certainly applies to Hamlet, who was thrust into the position of revenger by his father, the Ghost. He did not seek that responsibility, nor does he want to fulfill it. To what extent, then, can we blame Hamlet for his failure? And to what extent do we sympathize with and even pity him for finding himself unable to resolve the crisis? When the second gravedigger departs, Hamlet, accompanied by his friend Horatio, approaches the remaining man and reflects on the actions of this laborer: That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once. How the knave jowls it to the ground, as if ’twere Cain’s jaw-bone, that did the first murder! This might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o’erreaches, one that would circumvent God, might it not? (V, i, 75–80) Without speaking, the gravedigger suggests to Hamlet images of Claudius, who murdered his brother and thereby circumvented God by grabbing the crown of Denmark. The skull also reminds Hamlet of Polonius, who died at Hamlet’s hand, then of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who were executed following Hamlet’s rewriting of Claudius’s letter to the King of England. Later the gravedigger’s holding up the jester Yorick’s skull leads Hamlet to reflect on age and mortality, how even Alexander, a prince who once conquered the entire world, now stops “a beer-barrel” (V, i, 212). Thus for Hamlet, the gravedigger’s task leads to the conclusion that all of life is meaningless, and that therefore Hamlet’s inaction is as meaningless as anything else. A figure from another tragedy who does not bear the title “clown,” yet who belongs in that tradition, is the drunken porter from Macbeth. He truly serves as comic relief, for Macbeth and Lady Macbeth have just carried out the murder of King Duncan, and Macbeth’s conscience has already begun to torment him. He imagines voices calling “Sleep no more” (II, ii, 38), and he hears the knocking at the castle door, a noise that he now hopes will wake the dead Duncan. At this moment, though, the Porter appears to muse on the plight of the “porter of Hell Gate” (II, iii, 2), as fitting a description as any of Macbeth’s castle. As the knocking from outside continues, the Porter contemplates its source: Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. (II, iii, 8–11) This portrait ironically reflects Macbeth, who equivocated, or lied, his way to murder and committed treason by killing the King, but who now cannot pray even hypocritically for forgiveness. The Porter then moves to the subject of drink, describing it as another kind of equivocator: …it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him… (II, iii, 31–33) Thus the parallel is established between intoxication from drink and intoxication from ambition. Macbeth has been inspired by ambition to kill, but as the Porter suggests, the same quality cannot carry Macbeth to triumph. In just a few passages, then, the Porter articulates the pith of Macbeth’s dilemma. Not all of Shakespeare’s clowns succeed in lightening the pressure created by tense moments. In Othello, for instance, a Clown enters (III, iv) when Othello is at the height of his agony over Desdemona’s supposed infidelity, and seconds after Iago and Othello have sworn mutual loyalty (III, iii, 480). The Clown makes a few puns on the matter of “lying,” suggesting sexual connotations as well as the deception that dominates Iago’s lines. Still, the moment is weak. Perhaps the intrusion of a Clown is irrelevant in a tragedy where so much ironic humor is offered by Iago. The bitterest fool in Shakespeare’s plays is Apemantus of Timon of Athens. He uses his wit to expose everyone’s foibles, including those of Timon and the Poet, who pretends to admire the King so as to gain funds from him: “He that loves to be flatter’d is worthy o’ th’ flatterer” (I, i, 226–227). Yet Apemantus is not without feeling for Timon: O you gods! what a number of men eats Timon, and he sees ’em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one man’s blood, and all the madness is, he cheers them up too. I wonder men dare trust themselves with men. (I, ii, 39–44) Like a parent berating a naughty child, Apemantus feels both anger and compassion for his King. Yet Apemantus also sees the essence of Timon’s folly: “The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends” (IV, iii, 300–301). Apemantus therefore confirms that strong wit must be buttressed by understanding. The most touching of Shakespeare’s fools is the “Fool” in King Lear. He appears after Cordelia has been expelled by Lear and departed for France with her future husband. The Fool also exits permanently before Cordelia returns. Therefore they are never onstage together, and tradition holds they that were played by the same actor. Not surprisingly, then, the two characters fulfill much the same function: each acts as Lear’s conscience. Cordelia does so in court, and the Fool serves when Lear is stranded on the heath. In addition, Lear’s final speech of the play begins “And my poor fool is hang’d!” (V, iii, 306). Does he refer to one of these figures or both? Indeed, they are complementary from virtually the first mention of the Fool, who is described by a knight: Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the Fool hath much pin’d away. (I, iv, 74) When the Fool enters, he immediately reinforces the magnitude of the blunder Lear has committed by mutilating his realm: When thou clovest thy [crown] i’ th’ middle and gav’st away both parts, thou bor’st thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav’st thy golden one away. (I, iv, 160–163) The image of the egg suggests that Lear has fractured his bond not only with his children, but also with his kingdom, which is in his charge as well. The word “golden,” in reference to the crown, refers to the literal wealth that Lear has surrendered, but also to Cordelia, whom Lear has lost. The Fool even parodies Lear’s brusque, ironic dismissal of Cordelia to exile: “Nothing. I have sworn. I am firm” (I, i, 245). At that moment, the King bitterly echoed her own earlier regret that she had “nothing” to say in response to his request for a statement of her love for him (I, i, 85–91). Now the Fool forces Lear to confront his own predicament: “I am a Fool, thou art nothing” (I, iv, 193–194). In some ways, the Fool’s most important contribution to the play is not verbal, but physical. By his very presence, he humanizes Lear, as when the two men wander helplessly in the ferocious storm. When they come across a tiny hovel, Lear does not seek to shield himself, but ushers the Fool in first: Take physic, pomp, Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them, And show the heavens more just. (III, iv, 33–36) The Fool’s influence has helped Lear acquire the compassion to become the great King he never was. The moment is made more terrible, however, by the presence of Gloucester’s son Edgar, disguised as Tom o’ Bedlam. Suddenly we are confronted by the sight of Lear, who borders on madness; Edgar, who feigns madness; and the Fool, whose wit stands on the edge of madness, all sheltering and supporting one another. Two brief scenes later, they attempt to conduct a mock trial of his daughters, and at the end, the Fool quietly takes his leave: “And I’ll go to bed at noon” (III, vi, 85). The implication is that he can no longer stand to see such suffering as Lear endures. Like the Fool in King Lear, Feste in Twelfth Night was probably originated onstage by Robert Armin. Both characters have a melancholy demeanor, and both sing to express their deepest selves. Feste is perhaps Shakespeare’s richest clown, and in some ways the most memorable figure in Twelfth Night. His songs are especially touching, for instance: Where is love? ’Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter; What’s to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me sweet and twenty; Youth’s a stuff will not endure. (II, iii, 47–52) The words reflect the uncertain, transient nature of love, a central theme here, since all the major characters, especially Olivia, Viola, and Orsino, grapple with their emotions and desires. Perhaps more significant is that although Feste mixes within the riotous circle of Sir Toby, Sir Andrew, and Maria, and does participate in their torment of the puritanical Malvolio, he never shares their drunken revels. Rather, he remains apart, offering comments addressed to no one in particular, but whose chief purpose is apparently to amuse himself. For example, he meddles in the byplay between Sir Toby and Malvolio with interjections that each of the antagonists approves, then scorns (II, iii). Feste, meanwhile, seems oblivious to both men and entertains himself. Perhaps more than anyone else, Viola sees the truth in Feste’s words. When they banter, Feste offers a characteristically grim view of life and love: Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun, it shines every where. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. (III, i, 38–41) Even though Feste does not recognize that Viola is disguised as Caesario, he seems to see through her pose, so that she is tempted to reveal herself. Nonetheless, after Feste has left the stage, she says of him: This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a mind of wit. He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons and the time… (III, i, 60–63) Hers is as accurate a portrait of Feste as anyone offers. Perhaps the episode when Feste gives full reign to his comic inventiveness occurs when he harasses the supposedly mad Malvolio, who has been imprisoned in darkness. The scene has cruel aspects, but Feste softens that feeling by performing not so much to torture the pitiable Malvolio as to indulge his own joy in masquerade. Indeed, we wonder why Feste bothers to dress up as Sir Topas the Curate, when, as Maria points out, Malvolio cannot see him and therefore cannot be deceived by the disguise (IV, ii, 64–65). Nonetheless, for Feste the game is everything, and he switches voices and dances about for his own entertainment. Suddenly, though, he switches to another song: I am gone, sir, And anon, sir, I’ll be with you again; In a trice Like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain… (IV, ii, 120–125) Even this episode cannot cure his sadness over conditions he has witnessed. After all the confusions of identity have been resolved, and the lovers have sorted themselves out, Feste remains to sing the play to its conclusion. One of his verses has lines in common with a song by King Lear’s Fool (III, ii, 74–77): When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day. (V, i, 389–392) His emphasis is the brevity of human existence. Feste sees our lives as short and therefore laughable, and the vanity and egoism that are the dominant traits of virtually every other character in this play are thus all the more ridiculous. At the same time, because our lives are so short and laughable, Feste sees such vanity and egoism as sad. His attitude throughout the play is thus the product of this dual vision. Moreover, such a complicated approach to life seems to reflect many of the “fools” Shakespeare creates. The comedy they convey gives us great pleasure. At the same time, their befuddlement or isolation is tinged with a melancholy that makes our smiles turn wistful. |
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