Madness - Term paper, research paper & custom essay writing service

Home

Madness

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. (V, i, 4–6) So speaks Theseus, Duke of Athens, at the start of the final act of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Elsewhere we have considered elements of these lines (see “Appearance versus Reality”), but this chapter focuses specifically on Shakespeare’s use of the theme of madness, or what we might call “delusion”: how it can be an effective plot device, a reflection of passion run comically or dramatically out of control, or the result of misunderstanding that leads to tragic consequences. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. (V, i, 4–6) So speaks Theseus, Duke of Athens, at the start of the final act of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Elsewhere we have considered elements of these lines (see “Appearance versus Reality”), but this chapter focuses specifically on Shakespeare’s use of the theme of madness, or what we might call “delusion”: how it can be an effective plot device, a reflection of passion run comically or dramatically out of control, or the result of misunderstanding that leads to tragic consequences. The comic side of madness is apparent in The Merry Wives of Windsor, in which country ladies Mistresses Ford and Page realize that they are both the objects of Sir John Falstaff’s attention. Thanks to Sir John’s mischievous associates, Pistol and Nym, this information is revealed to the husbands as well. Page remains confident of his wife’s loyalty, but Ford becomes obsessively suspicious (II, i, 185–188), and schemes to find out the truth. Disguised as Brook, he visits Falstaff and claims to seek his own fling with Mistress Ford. “Brook” carries off the deception, but in the process undergoes great anguish, as he confesses to Falstaff: Some say that, though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. (II, ii, 221–224) His delusion grows more intense when Falstaff acknowledges that he will meet with Mistress Ford, then comments on Ford’s reputation: Hang him, poor cuckholdly knave, I know him not. Yet I wrong him to call him poor. They say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money, for the which his wife seems to me well-favor’d, I will use her as the key of the cuckholdly rogue’s coffer, and there’s my harvest-home. (II, ii, 270–275) Left onstage alone, Ford blusters furiously: See the hell of Having a false woman! My bed shall be abus’d, my coffers ransack’d, my reputation gnawn at, and I shall not only receive this villainous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. (II, ii, 291–296) In this context, these lines strike us as those of a buffoon. Mistresses Ford and Page have charge of the situation, while the Falstaff of this sunny play, unlike the brilliant, if corrupt, wit, of Henry IV, is a clown and later the victim of cruelly childish pranks. But were the same words placed in a darker context, they could reflect a mind preoccupied with infidelity and betrayal. In subsequent plays, like Othello and The Winter’s Tale, characters become so fixated on these emotions that they destroy themselves. Here the actor playing Ford should hint at such depths of madness, but we never regard the character’s ravings seriously. Later, after “Brook” listens to Falstaff relate the humiliation of being dumped in the laundry basket, Ford accepts that not only has he been duped by his wife, but that he has been a fool: Hum! ha? Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford, awake! awake, Master Ford!…Well, I will proclaim myself what I am. I will now take the lecher; he is at my house. (III, v, 139–145) Not long after, he seeks forgiveness: Pardon me, wife, henceforth do what thou wilt. I rather will suspect the sun with [cold] Than thee with wantonness. (IV, iv, 6–8) Such resolution fits the spirit of comedy. A less sunny vision is offered in The Comedy of Errors, after the illtempered Antipholus of Epheseus beats his servant, Dromio, for failing to bring bail money. The suspicion that Antipholus may be mad brings on Dr. Pinch, immediately the victim of his own share of blows from Antipholus, who insists that he is in possession of his faculties. After corroboration, however, from Antipholus’s wife, Adriana, and her sister, Luciana, as well as Dromio, Dr. Pinch orders that Antipholus be “bound and laid in some dark room” (IV, iv, 94). Such a threat does not bother us, for Antipholus is too self-possessed to suffer severe stress, but the potential for actual suffering is clear, and it is brought to fruition in Twelfth Night.Madness pervades this play, as virtually every character either feels a touch of delusion or condemns someone else as deluded. For instance, the Countess Olivia is told by her gentlewoman, Maria, that Olivia’s uncle, the hard-drinking Sir Toby, demands to see her. Olivia, however, has no patience: “Fetch him off, I pray you, he speaks nothing but mad-man; fie on him!” (I, v, 105–106). Later, when the stuffy steward Malvolio is awakened by the night reveling of Sir Toby Belch, his companion, Sir Andrew, Maria, and Feste the Clown, Malvolio bursts out: My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? (II, iii, 86–88) Some time after, when Sebastian, Viola’s brother, is accosted by Feste and Sir Andrew, who take him for Cesario, Viola’s alter ego, Sebastian accuses them: “Are all the people mad?” (IV, i, 27). Only a few lines later, when Olivia virtually proposes to Sebastian after mistaking him for Cesario, Sebastian ruminates: What relish is in this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. (IV, i, 60–61) What all these uses of “mad” share is that its victims are isolated from humanity. Toby is set apart by his decadent behavior; Feste, Sir Andrew, and Maria, along with Sir Toby, are set apart by what Malvolio deems a disregard for proper decorum; and Sebastian is set apart by his inability to grasp the rules by which everyone else lives. Such isolation can be amusing, frustrating, or delicious, and thus we see how delusion in the form of self-absorption may be a burden or a joy. In the matter of Malvolio, though, accusations of madness can be a weapon. Sir Toby, who despises the puritanical intruder, plays upon his ego and desire to marry Olivia by writing a letter that invites Malvolio to dress in yellow stockings with cross garters. Before he appears in such garb, Maria, who has conspired with Sir Toby, tells Olivia that Malvolio is “possess’d” (III, iv, 9), to which the Countess replies: I am as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be. (III, iv, 16) In her own way, Olivia understands that love, too, is a form of “madness.” But when she see her steward, Olivia is thrown by his attire and attitude toward her: “Why, this is very midsummer madness” (III, iv, 56), and she leaves Malvolio to the ministrations of Sir Toby and his cohorts, including Fabian, who knows the goal: “Why, we shall make him mad indeed” (III, iv, 133), while the manic Belch has the solution: Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s mad. We may carry it thus, for our pleasure and his penance, till our very pastime, tir’d out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him; at which time we will bring the device to the bar and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see. (III, iv, 135–141) Even before this prank is carried out, its cruelty is apparent. When it reaches fruition, Malvolio is trapped inside that dark room, pitifully denying the claims of madness to Feste, who has disguised himself as Sir Topas the curate. Malvolio’s every word, though, seems to worsen his predicament. When he claims to be as sane as Feste, the latter replies: But as well! Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. (IV, ii, 89–90) Malvolio’s tortured cries remind us that madness is perhaps the ultimate isolation, for whether it uplifts or imprisons us, it constricts our ability to communicate. If accusations of madness can trap one character, so can its pose liberate another. Such is the case in Titus Andronicus, where the title character, torn by grief over the rape and mutilation of his daughter, Lavinia, is visited at his house by the perpetrators—Tamora, wife of Emperor Saturninus, and her two sons, Demetrius and Chiron. The Queen claims that she herself is Revenge, while her two offspring are Rape and Murder. When Titus apparently accepts this explanation, Tamora continues to plot the death of Titus and his son, Lucius. When, however, she steps away to confer with her two sons, Titus confides in us: I knew them all though they suppos’d me mad, And will o’erreach them in their own devices, A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dame. (V, ii, 142–144) Such a position is strategy familiar from numerous revenge plays of Shakespeare’s time, but here it works only to an extent because for much of the time, Titus borders on uncontrolled fury. The act of appearing mad becomes most compelling and complicated when taken on by Hamlet, who does so after the Ghost of his father tells him, first, that Claudius committed his murder and, second, that Hamlet must take revenge. The Prince immediately confides to his closest friend, Horatio: As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on— That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With arms encumb’red thus, or this headshake, Or by pronuncing of some doubtful phrase, As “Well, well, we know,” or “We could, and if we would,” Or “If we list to speak,” or “There be, and if they might,” Or such ambiguous giving out, to note That you know aught of me—this do swear, So grace and mercy at your most need help you. (I, v, 171–180) This moment is the crux of the play. Why does Hamlet need to adopt an “antic disposition”? What does he hope to achieve? The possible answers to these questions are myriad, but perhaps they may all be embodied in the suggestion that Hamlet does not know how to proceed and hopes that his pose of madness will isolate him from events and people around him, including the Ghost. He may reason that if he is caught up in the throes of madness, he cannot be held responsible for his actions. No one can demand anything of him. In a sense, he frees himself from accountability. But the strategy does not succeed, for the pose of madness is inconsistent, and we constantly wonder whether Hamlet is in control of himself, as when Ophelia reports to her father, Polonius, on the Prince’s behavior and appearance: He took me by the wrist, and held me hard, Then goes he to the length of all his arm, And with his other hand thus o’er his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As ’a would draw it. Long stay’d he so. At last a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving up and down, He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to shatter all his bulk An end his being. (II, i, 84–93) As we listen, we wonder about several points. Is Hamlet acting mad? Has he actually fallen into madness? Or does he believe he is not mad, but has become so infused with his role that he now is mad? The possibilities whirl round and round through the next three acts. In the meantime, Polonius muses on Hamlet’s behavior and attitude: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t” (II, ii, 205–206), while all those near Hamlet concoct their own explanation. Claudius insists that the death of Hamlet’s father is the cause (II, ii, 7–10), but Gertrude, perhaps out of her own guilt, suggests: I doubt it is no other but the main, His father’s death and our [o’erhasty] marriage. (II, ii, 56–57) Polonius himself assumes that Hamlet is infatuated with Ophelia: “This is the very ecstasy of love” (II, i, 99). We cannot be certain who is correct. Perhaps all are, to a degree. We can only watch Hamlet move in and out of madness, as he does with his old schoolmates, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who, at the King’s command, seek to draw out the truth. For a few minutes, Hamlet banters with them, but then he breaks out in fury: “…beeven and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no!” (II, ii, 287–288). When they continue to duck the issue, Hamlet releases what may have been building inside him: I have of late—but wherefore I know not—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises… (II, ii, 295–297) Is he pretending to be mad, or has the pose of madness left him bereft of energy and hope? Whatever our conclusion about this specific speech, we realize that Hamlet’s madness, whether feigned or not, leaves him more deeply alone with his conscience and his memory. Shakespeare dramatizes madness in yet another way in Othello and The Winter’s Tale. In both, madness arises in the form of an obsessive jealousy, which Shakespeare makes intriguing by forcing us to wonder about the nature of that jealousy. In Othello, the title character has married Desdemona, and all might proceed well were Iago not driven to wreak havoc. During the monumental Act III, scene iii, in which little physical action occurs, the tension exists in Othello’s mind, as Iago, with casual innuendo, brings Othello to a fevered state. One early line captures the flavor of the process, as Othello says: [By heaven], thou echo’st me, As if there were some monster in thy thought Too hideous to be shown. (III, iii, 106–108) As Iago slips suggestions into their conversation, Othello seems to regather confidence: No, Iago, I’ll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove: And on the proof; there is no more but this— Away at once with love or jealousy! (III, iii, 189–192) Suddenly, however, Iago recalls the warning given by Brabantio, Desdemona’s father (I, ii, 292): “She did deceive her father, marrying you…” (III, iii, 206). Now Othello feels even greater vulnerability: “And yet how nature erring from itself—” (III, iii, 227). This line may be regarded as the climax, for once Othello has acknowledged even the possibility of Desdoemna’s being unfaithful, his collapse begins. As he says, speaking of Iago: Why did I marry? This honest creature, doubtless, Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. (III, iii, 242–243) Before long, he even adopts some of Iago’s vocabulary: O curse of marriage! That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites. (III, iii, 267–270) His increasingly violent outbursts, his uneven sentence structure, and his cruder word choice become the manifestation of a madness that consumes Othello and leads to Desdemona’s death. The crucial question, however, and the most intriguing issue about the play, is whether Othello’s madness is solely the result of Iago’s insinuations and manipulations, or whether such fury lies within Othello from the start. Is Othello merely blind, or is he already inclined toward the direction in which Iago pushes him? Does Iago plant the seed of Othello’s delusions of Desdemona’s infidelity, or does Iago merely nurture, then harvest, the fruit of that seed? Emilia, Iago’s wife, offers one explanation for Othello’s jealousy: But jealious souls will not be answer’d so. They are not ever jealious for the cause. But jealious for they’re jealious. It is a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself. (III, iv, 159–162) The cause is Othello’s nature, she indirectly suggests. We probably agree when we consider how vulnerable he is: the only black man of his class in Venice, married to a white woman much younger than he. He is also a soldier, unaccustomed to the social world, and probably inexperienced with women. For instance, after requesting that Desdemona journey to Cyprus with him, he seems to excuse himself: Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite. Nor to comply with heat (the young affects In [me] defunct) and proper satisfaction; But to be free and bounteous to her mind. (I, iii, 261–265) Why does he downplay the physical aspects of marriage? The likely answer is insecurity. All his military conquests have taken place outside this environment; now he is trying to survive in the drawing room society of Venice. Thus when we first meet him, Othello is lonely, friendless, and vulnerable to suggestion, possessed by insecurities which Iago can easily tap. When Othello begins to have the barest doubts about Desdemona’s fidelity, he can only turn inward, where that doubt is intensified by his estrangement. Therefore the madness that gradually overcomes him is not sudden, not something of the moment, but the culmination of an ever-intensifying process. In Othello, Shakespeare provides considerable evidence to explain a case of madness and obsessive jealousy. In The Winter’s Tale, though, the character of Leontes, King of Sicilia, becomes similarly fixated without any substantial cause at all. He simply reacts to every playful remark uttered by his wife, Hermione, and his boyhood friend, Polixenes, the King of Bohemia. For instance, Polixenes speaks of his own wife and Hermione as “Temptations” (I, ii, 77), and Hermione picks up the cue: Yet go on, Th’ offenses we have made you do we’ll answer, If you first sinn’d with us, and that with us You did continue fault, and that you slipp’d not With any but with us. (I, ii, 82–86) Moments later, Hermione flirts with Leontes, recalling their courtship, but she keeps her eye on Polixenes: Why, lo you now! I have spoke to th’ purpose twice: The one for ever earn’d a royal husband; Th’ other for some while a friend. (I, ii, 106–108) At this moment, the atmosphere, sexually charged since the reference to nine months in the opening line of the scene, invades Leontes’ personality, and he mutters: Too hot, too hot! To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. (I, ii, 108–109) Before long, he is compiling evidence, some of it doubtless imaginary: Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh (a note fallible Of breaking honesty)? horsing foot on foot? Skulking in corners? wishing clocks more swift? (I, ii, 284–289) Something in Leontes’ makeup causes him to see every action in the worst light. Does he harbor frustrated sexual desire? All we know is that Leontes drives himself toward madness, although Camillo, one of Leontes’ lords, explains matters to Polixenes as well as possible: There is a sickness Which puts some of us in distemper, but I cannot name the disease, and it is caught of you that yet are well. (I, ii, 384–387) By the next act, Leontes has banished his son and accused his wife in language and rhythms that sound much like Othello’s: …that she’s A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy To this their late escape. (II, i, 92–95) When Leontes insists on holding a trial for his wife, even the words of the oracle, which pardon Hermione and condemn Leontes, fail to soothe the obsessed King: There is no truth at all i’ th’ oracle. The sessions shall proceed; this is mere falsehood. (III, ii, 140–141) Only a report on the death of his son reaches him. He takes the event as punishment for his own transgressions and offers solace to Hermione, who has fainted at the shock of her son’s passing: I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion. Beseech you tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life. (III, ii, 151–153) Unlike Othello, Leontes returns to his senses, and the rest of The Winter’s Tale reaffirms the redemptive powers of love. Nonetheless, the play makes us dwell on the uncertainties of the human mind, its susceptibility to madness, and the grip that delusion can have on an individual whose mental state leaves him vulnerable to attack. Finally, we should consider one last aspect of this subject: the moment when madness turns into a kind of supersanity that allows a person or character to see more acutely than reason alone permits. The strongest example of such behavior is that of the title figure of King Lear who, under the humiliation imposed by his daughters and his loneliness when stranded in the open territory near Dover, acquires an understanding that previously was beyond him. Struggling to maintain sanity, Lear encounters the blind Gloucester, shepherded by his son Edgar, who is disguised as Mad Tom o’ Bedlam. As Lear and Gloucester hold onto each other for support, Lear reflects bitterly: What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears; see how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark in thine ear; change places, and handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? (IV, vi, 150–154) He then offers a litany of corruptions in which the powerful are as guilty as those they punish (IV, vi, 157–172). Through this tirade, Lear indirectly catalogues the abuses he has committed as well as those that have been perpetrated against him, and his vision turns the world into a miasma of immorality, where no justice prevails. In this state, he challenges the way of life that he has supported and which has served his purpose during his life. The moment is one of profound revelation, as Edgar exclaims: “O, matter and impertinency mix’d,/ Reason in madness!” (IV, vi, 174–175). Here, then, is one step Lear takes toward regeneration, but how ironic that it comes when he seems blind to almost everything else. Thus madness appears in many forms in the plays of Shakespeare. In rare instances, uncontrolled passion turns into a source of wonder, as the human mind releases hitherto undiscovered resources. In most other moments, though, particularly those of crisis, madness becomes destructive, and we grasp the capacity of the human spirit to consume itself with its own fury.

< Prev		Next >

[ Back ]

Our benefits

Free extras

Main Menu

Service features