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| Innocence |
| In the world of tragic drama, we accept that every play will conclude with the death of at least one major character. What we find much harder to accept is that other characters, some quite peripheral to the main action, may also forfeit their lives: not because of some transgression they commit, or any fault of their own, but simply because they come too close to the maelstrom and are unable to escape. That such innocent figures pay the ultimate penalty for their unfortunate station leaves us both pained and puzzled. In the world of tragic drama, we accept that every play will conclude with the death of at least one major character. What we find much harder to accept is that other characters, some quite peripheral to the main action, may also forfeit their lives: not because of some transgression they commit, or any fault of their own, but simply because they come too close to the maelstrom and are unable to escape. That such innocent figures pay the ultimate penalty for their unfortunate station leaves us both pained and puzzled. Consider Shakespeare’s earliest tragedy, Titus Andronicus, his most brutal work and one gorged with slaughter and savagery. In the midst of the horror, a son is born to the villainous Moor, Aaron, and Tamora, Queen of the Goths, who is also the wife of Saturninus, Emperor of Rome. At the news of this birth, Aaron, until now a heartless schemer, becomes impassioned with love for his offspring, as when he cautions Demetrius and Chiron, Tamora’s sons, who have threatened to kill the dark-skinned child. They believe his existence shames their mother, but Aaron warns them to keep their distance: Stay, murtherous villains, will you kill your brother? Now, by the burning tapers of the sky, That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point, That touches this my first-born son and heir! (IV, ii, 88–92) Aaron’s devotion, though, does not blunt his violent edge. He is determined that his son shall survive, and therefore asks the nurse who has brought him the infant: “But say again, how many saw the child” (IV, ii, 140). When the nurse replies that, beside herself, only the Queen and the midwife know of the baby’s existence, Aaron instantly kills her. Thenurse does nothing wrong. Indeed, all her actions are benign; yet she dies. What does the senseless passing of so harmless a soul tell about the nature of the world? The suffering of innocents strikes us harder when the victims are children. Such is the case in The Winter’s Tale, when Leontes, King of Sicilia, becomes obsessed with the thought that his wife, Hermione, has had an affair with his best friend, Polixenes, King of Bohemia. One of the targets of Leontes’ anger is his son, Mamillius, whom Leontes suddenly suspects is not his own. Mamillius tries to soothe his father’s anxiety: “I am like you [they] say” (I, ii, 207). The boy always charms us, as when he jokes with his mother’s ladies about women’s faces (II, i, 12–13). Perhaps this humor is meant as an ironic echo of Leontes’ accusations, but nonetheless Mamillius is a winning presence. Nothing, however, can assuage Leontes’ fury, and he bans Mamillius from Hermione’s company (II, i, 59–60). When a servant reports that Mamillius has become ill, Leontes cannot acknowledge that his own behavior has caused the boy’s condition, but instead blames Hermione herself: “To see his nobleness,/ Conceiving the dishonor of his mother!” (II, iii, 12–13). As Leontes’ obsession grows, we hear no word of Mamillius. Even when the oracle whom Leontes had sought for counsel exonerates Hermione, the King still refuses to accept her innocence: There is no truth at all i’ th’ oracle. The sessions shall proceed; this is mere falsehood. (III, ii, 140–141) No one has time to respond to this outrageous breach of order, for a servant rushes in to reveal the death of Mamillius. Finally Leontes relents, accepting his son’s passing as punishment for his own sins: “I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion” (III, ii, 151). At this point, we understand that in the great scheme of things, Mamillius’s death has shaken Leontes out of his madness and forced him to take responsibility, but we still ask why the boy had to be sacrificed. At the end of this romance, the entire royal family of Sicilia is joyfully reunited: Leontes, Hermione, their long-lost daughter, Perdita, even the loyal attendant, Paulina. Yet we remember Mamillius, who does not return. Even in the fantasy world of the romance, where Shakespeare allows himself the most outrageous plot twists, he insists on the sacrifice of Mamillius. Is he suggesting that the death of such an innocent is necessary for the ultimate redemption? One more innocent child who suffers a seemingly pointless death is Macduff’s son in Macbeth. After Macbeth demands that the witches disclose his future, three images pass before him. None suggests that Mac duff’s offspring is a threat. Yet so possessed is Macbeth by the necessity to murder all who might oppose his reign that he resolves to take action: The castle of Macduff I will surprise, Seize upon Fife, give to th’ edge o’ th’ sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. (IV, i, 150–153) In the next scene, we meet Macduff’s son, who has inherited his father’s boldness. Speaking of the condition of the country, the young man states: Then the liars and swearers are fools; for there are liars and swearers enow to bear the honest men and hang up them. (IV, ii, 56–58) This pessimism is affirmed by his mother, who is alerted to danger but questions why any of them should be victims: But I remember now I am in this earthly world—where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. (IV, ii, 74–77) Her prediction is fulfilled moments later, when Macbeth’s thugs slaughter the family. Once more we ask what kind of a world tolerates such brutality against the blameless. Children are not the only innocents in Shakespeare’s plays who suffer. In Henry VIII, his final history play, Katherine, the first wife of the King, is a victim of his chief advisor, Cardinal Wolsey. She is intelligent, incisive, and sympathetic to the needs of the King and his people, but her life is cut off because she is subject to the whims of one more powerful than she. For instance, when the King, under Wolsey’s prodding, grows suspicious about the Duke of Buckingham, Katherine points out that the surveyor who casts doubt on Buckingham’s loyalty was once fired by the Duke (I, ii, 171–176). When Henry ignores this caution, Katherine finds herself stranded: a noble, if ineffective figure, forced to survive the cut-throat world of court politics. Nevertheless, she retains the admiration of those around her. As Norfolk says of her, when Wolsey urges a divorce: …That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; Of her that loves him with that excellence That angels love good men with; even of her That when the greatest stroke of fortune falls Will bless the King. (II, ii, 31–36) Henry, however, is desperate to separate from his wife, for he assumes that marriage to another woman will given him the male heir he desires. Still, he retains affection for Katherine: “…our queen, before the primest creature/ That’s paragon’d o’ th’ world” (II, iv, 230–231). Moreover, after the decree of divorce, when Henry establishes his independence from the Church in Rome, Katherine maintains dignity: There’s nothing I have done yet, o’ my conscience, Deserves a corner. Would all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! (III, i, 30–32) Thereafter she continues to speak of her love for her husband (III, i, 179–181). As she nears death, she even expresses sympathy for Wolsey, the man who brought her to ruin, but who has been executed for the machinations he conducted in the name of the King: “So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!” (IV, ii, 31). When Katherine dies, she speaks as ever generously, without bitterness, and proclaims her innocence (IV, ii, 160–173). In the end, we think of her as one who unintentionally crossed a dangerous man, Wolsey, leading to circumstances under which decent people may be destroyed. Occasionally, however, innocence carries strength. In Pericles, for instance, Marina, daughter of Pericles, is sold by pirates to a brothel. Her steadfast morality disarms Lycimachus, the local Governor, who, after hearing her story, offers money and departs: Fare thee well, thou art a piece of virtue, and I doubt not but thy training hath been noble. (IV, vi, 111–112) Marina’s resistance enrages the keepers, and to avoid further incidents the Bawd orders Boult to rape the girl, but Marina’s powers are such that she puts off this threat as well. First she appeals to Boult’s self-worth: Neither of these are so bad as thou art, Since they do better thee in their command. (IV, vi, 161–162) Then she promises to teach him skills that she has acquired (IV, vi, 181–185). So strong is her faith that without force or legal compulsion, she disarms him. In the world of romance, purity has that power. In the world of the tragedies, however, innocence does not end so happily, and here we think particularly of three young women. None is totally apart from the primary action of her play. In fact, all three are intimately involved. All are also essentially blameless, but because of their willingness to embrace men who accept responsibility, all three surrender their lives. One is Ophelia in Hamlet, daughter of Polonius and sister to Laertes. From her first appearance, we recognize her predicament, for both her father and brother warn her against becoming close to Hamlet, the man she loves. As Laertes says: His greatness weigh’d, his will is not his own, [For he himself is subject to his birth… (I, iii, 17–18) Nonetheless, Ophelia’s affection pulls her into the whirlwind of the Prince’s madness, and eventually he turns his fury against her. “I did love you once” (III, i, 114) he says, but we cannot be sure if this statement is part of his “antic disposition,” a calculated statement meant to be overheard by Polonius and King Claudius, an unintentional confession, or some combination thereof. In any case, for the rest of their encounter, Hamlet berates Ophelia, spitting antagonism at her as a woman and as the embodiment of the corruption in all women: You jig and amble, and you [lisp], you nick name God’s creatures and make your wantonness [your] ignorance. (III, i, 144–146) Hamlet’s rejection, in combination with his accidental murder of her father, proves too great a burden for Ophelia, and afterwards she appears in a state of distraction, talking nonsensically and singing the sort of obscene verses to which Hamlet earlier condemned her (IV, i). Her subsequent suicide, as described by the Queen (IV, vii, 166–182), is the inevitable result of her condition. She never acts maliciously; indeed, she tries to do right by everyone for whom she cares. None of them, however, has the capacity to do right by her. Desdemona also suffers because of her faith in the man she loves—in this case, Othello. Perhaps she is not quite so innocent as other characters, for from the start she clarifies that she is an independent spirit prepared to shoulder responsibilities (I, iii, 180–188). Furthermore, she does interfere in her husband’s business affairs, although with gentle firmness, when Cassio, Othello’s lieutenant, seeks pardon for the ruckus in the street that caused Othello to fire him. Yet when she advocates Cassio’s cause, Desdemona becomes determined: Tell me, Othello, I wonder in my soul What you would ask me that I should deny, Or stand so mamm’ring on. (III, iii, 68–70) Still, Desdemona is in no way guilty of the infidelity that Othello, thanks to Iago’s meddling, comes to believe of her, and while Othello grows more enraged, she maintains her purity of spirit. As she says to Iago: Unkindness may do much, And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. (IV, ii, 159–161) Desdemona’s faith stands in contrast to the worldly wisdom of her confidante, Emilia, who sneers about men: What is it that they do When they change us for others? Is it sport? I think it is. (IV, iii, 96–98) Even Othello, despite his jealousy, recognizes his wife’s goodness. As he prepares to kill her, he asks her to pray against any sins she may have committed, then adds: “I would not kill thy soul” (V, ii, 32). Moreover, after he has strangled her, Desdemona manages to gasp a few final words: “A guiltless death I die” (V, ii, 122). Though earlier she may have been too bold for her own protection, Desdemona remains a victim of Iago’s malevolence and Othello’s blindness. Had she been more callous and less devoted, she might have survived by fighting against forces around her. Instead, by maintaining claims of her innocence, standing by her values, and trusting the man to whom she devoted her life, she is destroyed, an undeserving victim of the misdeeds of others. We may say the same of Cordelia in King Lear. Although in the first scene of the play she risks everything by refusing to submit to the de mands of King Lear, her father, and proclaim publically her love for him, Cordelia’s integrity elevates her above virtually all onstage: It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulness, No unchaste action, or dishonored step, That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favor… (I, i, 227–229) Expelled from Lear’s sight, Cordelia leaves as a noble martyr to his pride and obstinancy. When she returns from banishment, only to be captured along with her father by the forces of Edmund, the bastard son of the Duke of Gloucester, Cordelia speaks for all the innocents in Shakespeare’s plays who suffer the consequences of a world where evil holds sway: “We are not the first/ Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst” (V, iii, 3–4). Despite such words, which imply that her death is imminent, we hope that Cordelia will survive, for once her sisters, Goneril and Regan, have died, along with Regan’s husband, Cornwall, and Edmund himself, no more punishments await. We trust that perhaps some small measure of solace may be achieved if Lear and Cordelia are allowed to live out their lives in tranquility. Nevertheless, Shakespeare insists that Cordelia’s innocence must be destroyed, and therefore Edmund’s directive that she be hanged is carried out before his retraction can be communicated. The sight of Lear entering with the dead Cordelia in his arms may be the most heartbreaking image in all of Shakespeare’s plays, and not only because we are losing a character for whom we have profound affection and respect. Rather, her death suggests that even though justice triumphs here, the frightful cost includes the loss of those who did nothing to deserve punishment and who tried to live as decently as they could. The destruction of such innocence in King Lear and all the other plays considered in this chapter therefore raises questions about the ultimate meaning of life and the nature of the universal order. |
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