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| Gender |
| Is any theme in literature more provocative than the differences between men and women? Countless artists draw inspiration from the nature of masculine and feminine identity, and the variety of sensibilities that characterize each gender. Such issues resound with particular force in Shakespeare’s plays, even though they were written when women were forbidden to appear on the English stage, and all female roles were portrayed by young men or boys. Although we may assume that Shakespeare’s audience accepted the illusion, his writing under such a constriction must have shaped his vision. Furthermore, many of his plots involve female characters dressing up as males, a deception that leads to all sorts of intriguing situations in which the intrinsic biological differences between men and women, as well as those created by society, come to the fore. To encapsulate Shakespeare’s views on this subject in a sentence or two is impossible. We can say with assurance, though, that in his plays, the categories of what we call “masculine” and “feminine” are hardly absolute. Rather, they tend to overlap within characters, at times indistinguishably, and sometimes clashing violently. Gender Is any theme in literature more provocative than the differences between men and women? Countless artists draw inspiration from the nature of masculine and feminine identity, and the variety of sensibilities that characterize each gender. Such issues resound with particular force in Shakespeare’s plays, even though they were written when women were forbidden to appear on the English stage, and all female roles were portrayed by young men or boys. Although we may assume that Shakespeare’s audience accepted the illusion, his writing under such a constriction must have shaped his vision. Furthermore, many of his plots involve female characters dressing up as males, a deception that leads to all sorts of intriguing situations in which the intrinsic biological differences between men and women, as well as those created by society, come to the fore. To encapsulate Shakespeare’s views on this subject in a sentence or two is impossible. We can say with assurance, though, that in his plays, the categories of what we call “masculine” and “feminine” are hardly absolute. Rather, they tend to overlap within characters, at times indistinguishably, and sometimes clashing violently. No play better epitomizes the war between masculine and feminine instincts than Macbeth. Indeed, the first characters we meet, the three witches, are described later as women with beards (I, iii, 46), and thus from the outset the genders mix uncomfortably. Macbeth is soon introduced as a soldier of pure brutality: “Valor’s minion” (I, ii, 19), a stereotypical masculine image, but we soon learn that he has no children. The witches predict that one day he will have the crown of Scotland, but also that it shall be passed on to his rival Banquo’s children. We may surmise, therefore, that Macbeth has failed in the most fundamental responsibility of a man: to be a father. The question therefore arises as to whether his battlefield exploits are some form of compensation to prove the manhood that is suspect because of his failure to sire offspring. Our first impression of Lady Macbeth intensifies the issue of gender. After she reads her husband’s letter detailing the witches’ prophesies, her reaction is chilling: Yet I do fear thy nature, It is too full o’ th’ milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. (I, v, 16–18) Her imagery hints that Macbeth is too feminine, that he lacks the masculine aggression necessary to take command. Moments later, she prays perversely for her own masculine attributes to be released: Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe topful Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood, Stop up th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and [it]! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take any milk for gall, you murth’ring ministers… (I, v, 40–48) She envisions herself trapped between two forces: her womanliness, in the form of certain biological phenomena, and society’s rules that limit her options. She cannot achieve power by herself and therefore is forced to try to do so through her husband. When, however, Macbeth seeks to set aside their plan to kill King Duncan, Lady Macbeth knows what buttons to push to provoke her husband into action: Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? (I, vii, 39–41) She questions only his courage, but Macbeth takes her challenge to have different implications: I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares [do] more is none. (I, vii, 46–47) Lady Macbeth is relentless, though, and drives home the point of vulnerability: What beast was’t then That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man; And to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man… I have given suck, and know How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me; I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck’d my nipple from his boneless gums, And dash’d the brains out, had I so sworn as you Have done to this. (I, vii, 46–58) Not only does she insinuate that her husband lacks manhood. She also mocks her own femininity by saying that she herself is more of a man than he is, for even when fulfilling the biological responsibilities at the core of her womanhood, she had more masculine resolve than Macbeth has now. Her strategy works, for she does inspire, or perhaps the proper word is “bully,” her husband into murdering Duncan. We note, however, that when the opportunity to kill presents itself to her, she refrains from committing the act: “Had he not resembled/ My father as he slept, I had done’t” (II, ii, 12–13). Although she claims that she has the necessary brutality within her, something in Lady Macbeth’s character forbids her from taking a life. Moreover, throughout the rest of the play, she weakens under the knowledge of her part in the assassination. By the end, she is sleepwalking, reduced to tonelessly reciting images that represent previous events. For all her bravado, her conscience overwhelms her, and this collapse suggests that what might be judged to be her femininity supersedes her more masculine ambition. Meanwhile, under the weight of his actions, Macbeth becomes emboldened, if madly so. In an attempt to possess the crown seemingly forever, he orders the killing of Banquo and his son, Fleance, for whom the witches have ordained the throne. Following the failure of that scheme, Macbeth orders the slaughter of the family of his suspicious rival, Macduff, even though none of these people has been connected to Macbeth’s own predicament. Macbeth thus becomes imbued with “masculine” violence, and even goes beyond any predictions that the witches had decreed. Nonetheless, our supposition that he is compensating for insecurity about his manhood is echoed by Macduff when he learns of the slaughter of his own children: “He has no children. All my pretty ones?” (IV, iii, 216). Thus we are perpetually aware of the conflict within both the play and the title character over the forces of masculinity and femininity, as well as the havoc these opposing instincts may wreak within an individual. Other plays of Shakespeare dramatize aspects of this theme. In Coriolanus, the title character’s mother, Volumnia, is trapped by her identity as a woman and seeks to use her son to triumph vicariously in both the military and political arenas. As she explains to her son’s wife, Virgilia: I tell thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had prov’d himself a man. (I, iii, 15–17) Like Lady Macbeth, Volumnia is a woman whose male aggressiveness is prisoner to both her biology and the role that her society imposes on her. In Henry VI, Part 1, written very early in Shakespeare’s career, the playwright does portray a woman who succeeds in the traditionally masculine world of war. Nonetheless, even the French themselves, whose triumphs Joan of Pucelle guides, regard her as demonic because of her actions and her flaunting her sexuality. Indeed, the French King almost resents her victories (I, vi, 17–18). One implication of the play, therefore, is that Joan’s position is part of the unnaturalness that pervades the world and contributes to the general upset intertwined with the Hundred Years War between England and France, as well as the imminent War of the Roses between the English royal families of Lancaster and York. Indeed, the rest of Henry VI, as well as part of Richard III, which completes the story, is dominated by Henry VI’s wife, Margaret, who is described in Henry VI, Part 3 by her rival and victim York: She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian trull Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! (I, iv, 111–115) As much as any character, Margaret embodies the chaos of this tetralogy by breaking all bounds of traditional gender roles. Shakespeare’s most interesting dramatizations of distinctions between what we call “masculine” and “feminine” are to be found in his romantic stories. In Antony and Cleopatra, for instance, the Queen describes to her attendant Charmian an incident when Cleopatra dressed a drunken Antony in her “tires and mantles” while she wore his sword (II, v, 19–23). What attraction, we wonder, did she find in blurring the lines between their identities, feminizing the manly Roman general, while taking on for herself the image of the triumphant military leader? Apparently Shakespeare sees aspects of both genders within even the most heterosexual of relationships. In As You Like It, Rosalind, the banished Duke’s daughter, cannot explain why she finds herself strangely unsettled. She therefore inquires of her cousin, Celia, whether such a condition could be cured by love. Celia’s reply resounds through the Shakespearean canon: Marry, I prithee do, to make sport withal. But love no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither, than with safety of a pure blush thou mayest in honor come off again. (I, ii, 26–29) She implies that under the influence of infatuation, characters may try to control their desires, but the power of love is such that when individuals fall under its influence, they are helpless to withstand its allure. Moreover, the eagerness of these two girls to mock the fortunes of others suggests that both are ripe for a lesson about love. When Duke Frederick banishes Rosalind from court because, as a relative of his exiled brother, she poses a threat to his throne, she disguises herself as a man, Ganymed, and, along with Celia, seeks refuge in the Forest of Arden. There she comes across an extravagant love poem written to her, and demands to know its author. She recognizes that the verses are maudlin; yet she is struck by their unfettered emotion: Is he of God’s making? What manner of man? Is his head worth a hat? Or his chin worth a beard? (III, ii, 205–207) She is desperate to know who has so touched her. Here is a key moment, for without even seeing the man in question, Rosalind realizes that she desires him. Her affections are not based on his appearance or accomplishments. Rather through his poetry, she sees the inner man, and we are thus aware of her capacity to intuit his qualities. In general, Shakespeare’s women are similarly insightful. They can probe and thereafter understand human feelings with a perception that leaves males far behind. Yet Rosalind can also be girlishly giddy, as when she discovers that the author she loves is Orlando, with whom she was smitten earlier: What did he when thou saw’st him? What said he? How look’d he? Wherein went he? What makes he here? Did he ask for me? Where remains he? How parted he with thee? And when shalt thou see him again? Answer me in one word. (III, ii, 220–224) Despite her self-possession and wit, Rosalind is still vulnerable to her desire, and hence her mind and heart begin to battle each other. This war of emotion is characteristic of many of Shakespeare’s women. It intensifies in Rosalind later in this scene, when Orlando appears. According to the conventions of the Elizabethan stage, he fails to recognize her in disguise, even when she talks about his poems. After Orlando proclaims he is the “love-shak’d” author (III, ii, 367), Rosalind insists he prove that love: Me believe it? You may as soon make her that you love believe it, which I warrant she is apter to do than she confesses she does. (III, ii, 387–389) Unable to confess her desires, Rosalind tries to inspire Orlando to take action on his own. Here is yet another aspect of the female predicament. Given the social conditions under which women live, they cannot be aggressors in romance; rather, they must wait for men to take the lead, and often these men are too blind, awkward, or incompetent to do so. Even more subtle differences between men and women surface when Rosalind, still in disguise as Ganymed, lectures the haughty Phebe, who scorns the lovesick Silvius: But, mistress, know yourself, down on your knees, And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’slove… Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer… (III, v, 57–61) Rosalind realizes that although the conventions of love may appear ridiculous, love itself is not, and so stirring is Rosalind’s depth of feeling that Phebe instantly falls in love with her (III, v, 81–82). The moment has several implications: first, that women talk of love on a plane far above that of men, as well as with greater intensity and directness; second, that only women truly understand what other women feel; and, third, that women seek in love a depth of emotional response that only women can provide. We see further evidence of these convictions in the next scene when, under Rosalind’s coaching, Orlando attempts to rehearse the presentation of his affections: Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, and I were your very very Rosalind? (IV, i, 68–71) Orlando reluctantly begins, but with almost every line he utters, Rosalind amends his delivery or word usage, refining his expression so that it touches her just the right way. Her battle to teach him, while simultaneously controlling her own longing to break free of her disguise and express her passion openly, moves us profoundly. She is trapped by her femininity, as well as by social conventions of the day and the crisis at hand. Nonetheless, we are conscious of how her masculine and feminine attributes, while blending together, also tug against one another. We see further examples of such distinctions in Twelfth Night, which was likely the comedy that Shakespeare wrote immediately after As You Like It. Here our sympathies lie primarily with Viola, who is stranded in Illyria after the shipwreck that separates her from her brother, Sebastian. After she retreats to the court of Duke Orsino, she immediately falls in love with him, even as she takes on the role of the male Cesario. Meanwhile, Orsino finds himself aroused by the disguised young woman, and he grapples with his urges: Diana’s lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman’s part. (I, iv, 31–34) He senses Viola’s womanliness, but at the moment he does not know her identity. We are therefore forced to ponder the nature of physical attraction: does Orsino truly seek a member of the opposite gender, or is he simply attracted to femininity, whether in the form of a man or a woman? Moreover, that the role of Viola must have been originally played by a boy complicates the dilemma further. The plot becomes more intricate, and the problem of gender more perplexing, when Viola is forced, in Orsino’s name, to woo his love, Olivia. Playing this part, Viola offers expressions of devotion which are so touching that she wins over Olivia almost at once: Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night… (I, v, 268–271) Olivia is quietly taken: “You might do much” (I, v, 276). Thereafter we ask whether she is attracted to the elegance of Viola’s poetry, the feminine sensibility therein, or the delicacy of the young suitor’s features. After all, before Cesario departs, Oliva adds: Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit Do give the fivefold blazon. (I, v, 292–293) Clearly, physical attraction bubbles within her; yet Viola and she can never become a match. Thus even at this point, we predict that Sebastian will appear and become the object of Olivia’s desire. Viola, too, appreciates Olivia’s quandary. After Malvolio returns the ring that Cesario has supposedly left behind, Viola anguishes over how she has caused another woman such pain: How easy is it for the proper-false In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, [our] frailty is the cause, not we, For such as we are made [of], such we be. (II, ii, 29–32) She is both puzzled and intrigued by the confusion of which she is part: As I am man, My state is desperate for my master’s love; As I am woman (now alas the day!), What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I, It is too hard a knot for me t’ untie. (II, ii, 36–41) Her reflections show the mixture of masculine and feminine qualities within her. Even more important, she may also manifest Shakespeare’s conviction of how genders merge within all of us. This confusion is compounded when Viola, still as Cesario, returns to Olivia’s house, and the two bandy back and forth playfully. First Olivia demands: “I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me” (III, i, 138). To which Viola replies: “That you do think you are not what you are” (III, i, 139). Olivia senses that Viola’s remark has additional implications: “If I think so, I think the same of you” (III, i, 140). Viola tries to shy away: “Then you think right; I am not what I am” (III, i, 141). But Olivia insists: “I would you were as I would have you be” (III, i, 142). A few lines later, she adds: I love thee so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this cause, For that I woo, thou therefore has no cause… (III, i, 151–154) Olivia articulates how the lure of romance is so great as to reach beyond her ken or control. As much as any character in Shakespeare’s plays, she suggests the unfathomable nature of attraction between people and between masculine and feminine qualities. We see as much when Antonio, whose devotion to Viola’s brother, Sebastian, may have sexual overtones, interrupts the duel between Viola and Sir Andrew Aguecheek, who seeks to marry Olivia. Antonio mistakes Viola for Sebastian, and for his pains is taken away to prison. Yet Antonio is steadfast in his loyalty, as we realize when he is brought before Orsino and speaks of Viola’s behavior: For his sake Did I expose myself (pure for his love) Into the danger of this adverse town, Drew to defend him when he was beset… (V, i, 82–85) We are again reminded of Olivia’s earlier implication, and of Shakespeare’s, that a natural unity exists between masculine and feminine, but that neither of these qualities is to be found exclusively in males or females. Rather, they may join in both the human form and the human spirit. Indeed, wherever exigencies of plot lead Shakespeare’s female characters to appear in male garb, this theme arises: in The Two Gentlemen of Verona, The Merchant of Venice, and Cymbeline, to name three more. In such cases, we find ourselves speculating about Shakespeare’s vision of the causes of sexual attraction, the meaning of sexual identity, and, ultimately, the essence of gender. Perhaps we must therefore acknowledge what Shakespeare himself seems to accept: here is one more insoluble puzzle about the nature of the human animal. |
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