Chapter VII: Act III: , scene i, when Malvolio courts Olivia. The full merging of (3)

It may be well at this time to consider the reliability of the Swan drawing in other respects. Currently it is the fashion to adhere to the sketch closely. However, one fact must be faced, insofar as the Globe is concerned. Granted that the original drawing, as well as Arend van Buchell’s copy that has come down to the present, were both trustworthy, nevertheless we are still forced to amend the sketch in order to have it accord with other, indisputable evidence. All sorts of ingenious explanations, that the hangings were not in place or that a stage-width curtain was added for performance, have been offered, but the fact remains: the Swan, as it is depicted in the drawing, unaltered, could not have accommodated the Globe plays. However plausible the suggestions for additions may be, they cannot still the doubt with which one is obliged to regard the sketch, and though DeWitt’s testimony cannot be ignored, it cannot be accepted without corroboration.

From the preceding material two conclusions emerge. First, there was no single form for the above. Therefore, in developing an image of the Globe, we cannot rely on the Swan drawing. Yet even if we do, we discover that such an unrelieved gallery as it shows is simply not characteristic of the Renaissance design which presumably DeWitt sought to catch. A glance at prints of various continental stages will illustrate this point.[41] What is suggested by the later views and what accords with the needs of the Globe playhouse is an above which, regardless of the presence of auditors, could be differentiated structurally from the rest of the gallery. Architecturally this might have been accomplished by separating and emphasizing a central, probably uncurtained, section in the balcony, reserved for the actors. On either side of this area, auditors might have overlooked the stage.

Second, all the views agree that the maximum number of spectators in each section was two. Keeping literally to the evidence, we must conclude that twelve persons could be accommodated in the Swan gallery. We could, of course, indulge in the fascinating game of using the dimensions of the Fortune to calculate the capacity of the Swan. But this is unnecessary. DeWitt tells us the Swan could hold three thousand people. Whether twelve or twenty or a few more could sit above, their proportion to the total would be small. Could the actors have directed their performance to such a minority? It is certain that they did not, for in one other respect the extant views are in complete agreement. Where performers are shown in action on stage, they play, not toward the “spectators” in the gallery, but toward the auditors listening “round about.” In short, they turn their backs to the stage wall and play front.

III. THE DESIGN OF THE STAGE

Until now the discussion of the Globe playhouse has proceeded from dramatic function to theatrical realization. But inevitably the reader is bound to wonder, if only inwardly, what the Globe looked like. No one knows. Startling as it may seem, no one really can reconstruct the design of the Globe playhouse. The reader may remonstrate: what about the various reconstructions of Walter Godfrey, John C. Adams, C. Walter Hodges, Richard Southern? What about their sketches and models? All hypotheses, some reasonable, some farfetched. Each scholar, selecting for his palette certain scraps of evidence, has painted a hypothetical image of the Elizabethan playhouse. Each realizes, of course, that his image is conjectural. The damage occurs when the image is realized in drawings and the drawings are reproduced with such frequency that what was conjecture comes to be regarded as historical fact by the general reader. Acknowledging that “the hard facts available [for the reconstruction of Elizabethan playhouses] are insufficient in themselves,” Hodges admits that each scholar interprets the evidence according to “influences of taste” of which he may not even be aware.[42] The result has been that equally reputable scholars have produced widely divergent images of the Globe playhouse. In recent times the once prevailing Tudor image has yielded to Renaissance design.

The leading advocate of Tudor style is John Cranford Adams. He affirms that it was a “tendency of [Elizabethan] stage design to imitate contemporary London houses,” and therefore, that “the façade of the tiring-house differed from its model, a short row of London houses, mainly in having upper and lower curtains suspended in the middle.” Each reference to a contemporary urban structural feature of the stage is considered to be a description of a realistic detail. “It was the habit of Elizabethan dramatists to accept the equipment of their stage rather literally and to refer to that equipment in dialogue.”[43] He cites construction methods of the period for support. The building contract for the Fortune calls for wooden frames “sufficiently enclosed withoute [outside] with lathe, lyme & Haire.” This specification suggests a half-timbered-and-plaster building of Tudor design, a type of construction which continued to appear through the early part of the seventeenth century. In contrast, buildings in the newer Renaissance style were largely built of stone or brick.[44] Since its completion in 1950, Adams’ model of the Globe, now at the Folger Library, has impressed itself upon the imagination of lovers of Shakespeare, particularly in America.

In 1953 C. Walter Hodges presented an opposing image of the Globe.[45] Adhering closely to the Swan drawing, which Adams rejects, and deriving the Elizabethan stage from market place booth stages and _tableaux vivants_, Hodges developed a series of sketches in Renaissance style. Doors and galleries in the stage façade are flanked by columns of one of the three regular orders; obelisks and statuary appear above the cornices of the Fortune sketch; and in his drawing of the Hope, carved busts support the gallery ends of the heavens. To avoid contradicting the Swan drawing, which shows no enclosure, he devised one to project from the stage façade.

The contribution of the _tableaux vivants_ to the design of the Elizabethan stage was first explored by George Kernodle. His thesis is that “The greatest problem of the Renaissance stage was the organization of a number of divergent scenic elements into some principle of spatial unity.” Medieval art bequeathed three forms to the theater: the side arches leaving the center clear, the center arch or pavilion with subordinate side accents, the flat arcade screen. While the Italian theater, later to be imitated by Inigo Jones in England, utilized the form of side arches in combination with central perspective to create illusion, the northern theaters of England and Flanders developed the central pavilion into a theater of architectural symbolism. The immediate predecessors of these stages were the _tableaux vivants_, or street pageants, erected to signalize the entry of a royal or civic personage into a city. It was “from the _tableaux vivants_ (whose conventions they took over)” that the Flemish and English stages derived “the power to suggest, by decoration and remembered associations, the places they symbolized.” The conventions of medieval art, which persisted throughout the early Renaissance, were passed on to the street theaters where they were interwoven with Renaissance forms. Prints of the Flemish stages illustrate the conventional architecture which resulted from these influences. In parallel fashion, the English theater was subject to the same influences. “Most of the new buildings erected in England in the latter half of the sixteenth century were of the newer Renaissance architecture.” Yearly the Londoner could witness the pageants in the Lord Mayor’s Show. “A comparison [of street shows and stage drama] will make clear,” Kernodle believes, “not only that many particular scenes of Elizabethan drama were derived from the _tableaux vivants_ but that they provided the basic pattern of the English stage façade.”[46] This basic pattern involved a central arch which conventionally represented an interior, and side arches or doors which conventionally represented an exterior. Architectural symbols as throne, arbor, arras, by general recognition could transform the façade into the symbols of palace, garden, room.

For the design of the English stage, Kernodle’s theory is provocative rather than proved. There is no clear flow of Flemish theatrical influence into Elizabethan England, and even in art, though we know many Flemish craftsmen were in London, there is no certain influence.[47] Furthermore, the medieval tradition in art, which Kernodle has shown to have persisted on the continent, was abruptly terminated in England. “The year 1531, in which the convocation of Canterbury recognized Henry VIII as the Supreme Head of the Church of England, can be conveniently taken to mark the close of the medieval period of art in England [and the severance of] what had been the most fruitful field of subject-matter for artists in Europe for a thousand years.”[48] What followed was a court art of portraiture which does not readily yield demonstration of Kernodle’s thesis. Even in the popular forms of art, which he recommends for study, the formal medieval elements are absent. For example, the woodcuts of Wynken de Worde show no consistent use of conventional devices.

As for the street pageants, continental experience cannot be readily applied to Tudor practice. For the last half of the sixteenth century the royal entries were virtually abandoned by Elizabeth, and it was not until the coronation of James that the magnificence of the royal entry returned to London. When it did, it had all the characteristics of the flamboyant Renaissance style described by Kernodle. Until then, from 1558 to 1603, the Londoner could witness the Lord Mayor’s Show, an annual event to honor the installation of the new Lord Mayor. The central device was a single pageant supplied by the Company of which the Lord Mayor was a member.[49] Featuring child orators, it was usually carried along in the procession by porters, though from time to time we hear of frames being built to support the pageants.[50] It appears that the pageant was stored in the company hall from which it was removed when needed, with or without redecoration, though occasionally a new pageant would be ordered.[51] The fact that the pageant remained on permanent view in the company halls suggests that it may have been similar to the figures of saints carried even today in religious processions.

Allegorical in nature, the pageant depicted a theme apt for the new Lord Mayor and his company. In 1561, for example, five ancient harpers, David, Orpheus, Amphion, Arion, and Iopas, were displayed in a pageant to honor the new Lord Mayor, Sir William Harper. Often the themes of the pageants represented the trade rather than the man, the Ship, for instance, being deemed appropriate for the Merchant Tailors Company.[52] At an appropriate point in the procession, the figures in the pageant would speak commendatory verses to the Lord Mayor. From the extant texts, it is quite clear that the presentations were brief and rhetorical; they did not involve dramatic action. In fact, the very people being honored were those who most assiduously sought to destroy the public playhouses.[53]

No sketch of a sixteenth century pageant exists. The presence of mythical figures encourages the notion that Renaissance design characterized these pageants, but there is no graphic or thoroughly descriptive evidence for assuming so. Nor do the symbols which Kernodle enumerates appear prominently in these pageants. Instead the companies relied on those trade-or-personal symbols which held special significance for them. For one company the lion appears in pageant because a lion is part of the company’s coat of arms;[54] for another, a Moor rides on a lynx, which animal is deemed appropriate for the Skinners’ company.[55]

What is substantiated by these pageants and reinforced by the royal entries of the seventeenth century is the mode of presentation. Perhaps the particular symbols which Kernodle emphasizes did not have significance for the Londoner of the 1590’s, but he was familiar with presenting and interpreting theatrical forms in a symbolic manner, and I believe that to this extent the pageants may have influenced the design of the public playhouse.

In conclusion, then, one cannot verify whether the Elizabethan playhouse reflected the outgoing Tudor or the incoming Renaissance style. Roughed up by a master carpenter, such as James Burbage, Peter Streete, or Gilbert Katherens, the structure could have retained the traditions of design familiar to these men or it could have responded to the new fashions. These new fashions, however, were principally decorative; classical forms were applied to Tudor-Gothic foundations.[56] I tend to think that the pragmatic attitude of Elizabethan builders led them to erect a fundamentally Tudor structure to which they attached classical ornaments more or less at random. In such a structure the stage would certainly be the focus of such adornment.

Based solely on the evidence of the Globe plays, what then is the picture of the Globe stage? The principal part of the stage was a large rectangular platform upon which rested two pillars. At the rear of the platform two doors and a curtained recess between them provided access to the stage. The recess, which was an integral part of the tiring house, had to accommodate less than half a dozen people. Above the recess and/or doors was an upper level principally required where characters related themselves to others below. In the floor of the outer stage there was at least one substantial trap. No machinery for flying either actors or properties existed. In over-all design the stage, which was Renaissance in surface details, emphasized formal rather than realistic decoration. Altogether it was a theater that presented itself as a show place rather than as an imitation of London.

In a review once Granville-Barker remonstrated against overemphasis on the physical aspects of the stage at the expense of the imaginative. Such overemphasis has too frequently resulted. In their zeal to reconstruct the Elizabethan stage, theorists have given the impression that the theater of that day was constantly using traps, heavens, upper level, and enclosure. However, a comparison of the number of scenes which use some stage facility, be it merely a stool, with the number which use no stage facility whatsoever, neither property nor stage machinery, save merely a means to get on and off, shows that of the 345 scenes in the Shakespearean Globe plays, only 20 per cent require any facility. Fully 80 per cent need nothing but a bare space and an audience, not so much as a stool.

As a result, Shakespearean drama depends a great deal upon the vigorous movement of the actors coming on and off the stage. The actors themselves, rather than the stage equipment, provide the impetus for a play’s progression. We are all familiar with the conclusion of a Shakespearean scene. More often than not, a character will say, “Come along with me,” and off will go the actors. I have checked every scene in the Globe plays and found a startlingly high percentage of such exits. For purposes of computation I divide the scene conclusions into four categories.

First, there is the explicit exit line.

ORL. Come, I will bear thee to some shelter,
and thou shalt not die for lack of a
dinner if there live any thing in this
desert. Cheerly, good Adam. Exeunt.
[_As You Like It_, II, vi, 16-19]

Next, there is the implicit exit line.

ANT. [musing upon Sebastian’s departure]
But come what may, I do adore thee so
That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. Exit.
[_Twelfth Night_, II, i, 48-49]

Thirdly, there is the scene which ends with no exit line implying motion.

TO. [to the dancing Sir Andrew] Let me see
thee caper. Ha, higher! ha, ha, excellent! Exeunt.
[_Twelfth Night_, I, iii, 149-150]

Lastly, there is the scene which ends in a soliloquy or an aside. Although the playwright occasionally inserts an exit line in such a conclusion, his opportunity to do so is slight. Below I have enumerated the scene endings that conclude with explicit and implicit exit lines, with no exit lines, and as a solo exit.

Explicit Implicit No. Solo
Exit lines Exit lines Exit lines Exits
Shakespeare 192 57.2% 74 22% 35 10.4% 35 10.4%
Non-Shakes. 88 48.4% 37 20.3% 23 12.6% 34 18.7%

Only 9 to 13 per cent of the scenes fail to indicate that the characters end a scene by leaving the stage. Although the soliloquies may or may not imply that the actors leave the stage, the majority of the scene endings clearly demonstrate that it was the physical departure of the actors which gave fluency to the action. When a stage direction reads “exeunt” at the end of a scene, it means exactly that: “they go out.”

It is time to revive an old cry. The pendulum has swung too far. It is time to reassert that the Globe stage _was_ bare. Sumptuous and gorgeous as this playhouse may have appeared, the decoration was largely permanent and passive. In brief, the Globe was constructed and employed to tell a story as vigorously and as excitingly and as intensely as possible. Though spectators were usually informed where a scene took place, they were informed by the words they heard, not the sights they saw. Instead, place was given specific emphasis only when and to the degree the narrative required. Otherwise, the audience gazed upon a splendid symbol of the universe before which all sorts of human actions could be unfolded.

Chapter Four

THE ACTING

Since 1939 the debate over the style of acting in the Elizabethan theater has been argued on the grounds defined by Alfred Harbage. One of two styles could have existed, he wrote. Acting was either formal or natural.

Natural acting strives to create an illusion of reality by
consistency on the part of the actor who remains in character and
tends to imitate the behavior of an actual human being placed in
his imagined circumstances. He portrays where the formal actor
symbolizes. He impersonates where the formal actor represents.
He engages in real conversation where the formal actor recites.
His acting is subjective and “imaginative” where that of the
formal actor is objective and traditional. Whether he sinks his
personality in his part or shapes the part to his personality, in
either case he remains the natural actor.[1]

Professor Harbage then, and a succession of writers subsequently,[2] have endeavored to prove that formal acting prevailed on the Elizabethan stage.

When we have sifted the various arguments presented over the years by this school of thought, we discover these common points. Oratory and acting utilized similar techniques of voice and gesture so that “whoever knows today exactly what was taught to the Renaissance orator cannot be far from knowing at the same time what was done by the actor on the Elizabethan stage.”[3] Contemporary allusions which compare the orator to the actor establish this correspondence without a doubt. This system depended upon conventional gesture, “as in a sorrowfull parte, y^e head must hange down; in a proud, y^e head must bee lofty.”[4] By learning these conventional gestures, the actors could readily symbolize all emotional states. Such symbolization was necessary since the speed of Elizabethan playing left little room for interpolated action. The result was that the actor did not so much interpret his part as recite it. His personality did not intrude, for his attention was devoted to rendering the literary qualities of the script. Although the emotions expressed in the play were usually violent, the actor projected them “by declaiming his lines with the action fit for every word and sentence.”[5] In this way he properly stressed the significant figures of speech. He played to the audience, not to his fellow actors. The final effect, several writers have concluded, was more like that of opera or ballet than modern drama.

Rejecting this theory of formal acting, a smaller but equally fervent group of scholars is sure that Elizabethan acting was “natural.”[6] Denying that oratory and acting were similar, they maintain that style was dynamic, that an older formalism gave way to a newer naturalism. Since Renaissance art sought to imitate life, the actors in harmony with this aim thought that they imitated life. To grasp how their style emerged from such a view, it is necessary first to comprehend what was the Elizabethan conception of reality. Admittedly, natural acting then was different from natural acting today in some respects, yet the intention was very much the same. “What can be said is that Elizabethan acting was thought at the time to be lifelike ... [which would suggest] a range of acting capable of greater extremes of passion, of much action, which would now seem forced or grotesque, but realistic within a framework of ‘reality’ that coincides to a large extent with ours.”[7]

Some attempt has been made to reconcile these contradictory views. Generally the reconciliation has taken the line that Elizabethan acting was mixed, partly formal, partly natural. Some have thought of the mixture as a blend: a unified style midway between the rigidity of formalism and the fluidity of naturalism. It has also been thought of as an oscillation: certain scenes played in a formal manner, such as longer verse passages delivered in a rhetorical style; other scenes, such as brief exchanges of dialogue, acted in an informal manner. The scholars who have proposed this reconciliation, despite the fact that they arrive at slightly different conclusions from those of the proponents of formal or natural acting, accept the fundamental premise that Elizabethan acting can be discussed only in terms of formal or natural styles.

Until now, it is true, the research and discussion that have gone into this debate have produced careful studies of contemporary allusions to acting. But it seems unlikely that further progress can be made by considering Elizabethan acting in relation to these fixed poles of formality and reality. Brown and Foakes have undertaken a new approach by urging an evaluation of Elizabethan acting in terms of the Elizabethan conception of reality. But neither has followed through. They have merely redefined what is meant by natural acting. Much of what the formalists consider conventional, they argue, represented reality to the Elizabethan. Do sudden insubstantially motivated emotional changes in _Othello_ or _Measure for Measure_ seem forced? They occurred in life and therefore were natural to the period, is their answer. The result has been confusion. The formalists describe the means at the actor’s disposal, the techniques of voice and gesture; the naturalists, the effect at which he aimed, the imitation of life.

This confusion is inherent in the original proposition. Harbage wrote about both aims and means, but without sufficiently discriminating between the two. I think that it is necessary to clarify our understanding of the aims and methods of the actor’s art in general before returning to a consideration of the Elizabethan actor’s art in particular.

At the heart of dramatic presentation stands the actor, imitating a person in a fictional situation in such a way as to hold the continuous attention of the audience in the unfolding circumstances. This holding of attention is dramatic illusion. Whether that illusion is an imitation of contemporary life, historical life, or mythical life, the action and characters must achieve a level of reality sufficient to involve us. For the children who say, “I believe in fairies,” Tinkerbell has become real. The means may be conventional and symbolic or contextual and descriptive; the effect must be an “illusion of reality.” Ultimately, we must reconstruct what that “illusion” signified and how it was achieved in order to visualize the acting of a period.

The understanding that the actor has with the audience about the relation of dramatic experience to life will determine the significance of the illusion. The common understanding that they, actor and audience, have about the characters and stories will affect the means at the actor’s disposal for creating the illusion. Consider a simple stage movement. An actor turns his back on the audience. In the context of the Théâtre-Libre or the Moscow Art Theatre this movement emphasizes the convention of the fourth wall and the illusion of the unpresent audience. The same movement employed in Molière’s _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_ is a deliberate artifice introduced for comic effect. Not the fixed forms, but their function and context shape the illusion of reality. Not the intent, but the created image, determines the significance of that illusion. The aim may be one, but the manifestations are many.

When an illusion of reality becomes differentiated sharply, it eventuates in a style. Not being an arithmetic total of absolute qualities, style does not remain constant. It is a dynamic interplay of many impulses brought to a point of crystallization by the creative genius of the actor. Such a complex, if distinctive and appealing enough, itself becomes an impulse for further creative activity. What we often term “formal acting” is a previous means of creating illusion which has coalesced into a fixed form imitable by later generations. Some of the impulses that led the commedia dell’arte to create a Harlequin, a Franca Trippa, and a Dottore were “realistic”; that is, the activities of Italian daily life helped to refine the stage figure. Gradually the types became stock and finally ossified so that they responded less to the impulses of contemporary life and more to the tradition from which they were derived. Perfection and variation of old roles rather than the invention of new devices and characteristics became the custom. By the time these figures came to the hand of Marivaux they had, through the loss of much of their original force, become somewhat precious and self-conscious. Illusion of reality was still achieved, but it was a new kind of illusion, less robust, more sophisticated, less aware of the cry of the street, more attuned to the repartee of the drawing room. Then the acting became “formal,” that is, traditional, conventional, “objective.” But from the germination of the improvised drama to the “decadence” of Marivaux, commedia acting went through several styles. To visualize the style of any single period we have to study a cross section of its theatrical and social conditions.

Of these conditions there are five which provide the principal clues to an understanding of the Globe acting style. First, there are general intellectual tendencies reflected in the theory and practice of Elizabethan rhetoric. Next, there is the theatrical tradition handed down to the Lord Chamberlain’s men. Thirdly, and continuing the foregoing material, there are the playing conditions under which the company operated. Fourthly, there is the conception of human character and behavior held by society. Lastly, and perhaps most important, there are the playing materials themselves, the characters and actions with which the actors were provided. Cumulatively, the study of these conditions supplies an understanding of the means at the Globe actors’ disposal for creating their “illusion of reality” and, through it, offers an insight into the significance of that illusion.

I. THE RELATION OF TUDOR RHETORIC TO ELIZABETHAN ACTING

Rhetoric played a vital role in the education and life of the Elizabethan man. From its study he could learn all that was known of the art and techniques of oral and written communication. Scholars of the school of formal acting have insisted that seventeenth century works on rhetorical delivery reflect an image of Elizabethan acting. Usually the actor is considered the transmitter, the rhetorician the receiver of influence. This contention has been disputed, as I have pointed out. For the moment, however, let us suppose that there was some connection between oratory and acting. What then does rhetoric teach us of Elizabethan acting? To answer this question Bertram Joseph relies principally upon Bulwer’s double study _Chirologia_ and _Chironomia_ (1644), a late work. But, since we have been considering acting as a dynamic art, it would be well to examine the evidence of sixteenth and early seventeenth century manuals of rhetoric.

Compassed under the heading of rhetoric in the sixteenth century were three of the five parts of classical rhetoric. _Inventio_ and _dispositio_ had been transferred to logic, particularly in the Ramist scheme. _Elocutio_, _memoria_, and _pronuntiatio_ remained. However, _memoria_ or the art of memory was generally, though not entirely, ignored. Of the two remaining parts that made up sixteenth century rhetoric, _elocutio_, or the art of eloquence, and _pronuntiatio_, or the art of speech and gesture, the former received the almost undivided attention of Elizabethan writers.

Before 1610 only Thomas Wilson in _The Art of Rhetorique_ (1553) and Abraham Fraunce in _The Arcadian Rhetorike_ (1588) treat the art of pronunciation separately. The other writers,[8] except for occasionally defining the term or citing an example, or describing the qualities of a good voice, omit the subject entirely. Even Wilson and Fraunce treat it in summary fashion.

Wilson defines the two parts of the subject, voice and gesture. A praiseworthy voice is “audible, strong, and easie, & apte to order as we liste.” Before an audience orators should start speaking softly, “use meete pausying, and being somewhat heated, rise with their voice, as the tyme & cause shal best require” (Sig. Gg1^r). For those with poor voices, attention to diet, practice in singing, and imitation of good speakers are the means of improvement. Gesture, which is a “comely moderacion of the countenaunce, and al other partes of mans body,” should agree with the voice. Altogether, the orator should be cheerful, poised, and moderate in deportment (Sig. Gg2^r).

The entire section sets up standards for good pronunciation, but it does not specifically show how they are met. The standards place emphasis on comeliness and grace, on a harmony of speech, gesture, and matter. The actual manner of delivery shall be “as the tyme & cause shal best require.”

Fraunce is both fuller and more specific in his treatment of pronunciation, although, like Wilson, he devotes the smaller portion of his book, _The Arcadian Rhetorike_, to it. Generally he reiterates the points made by Wilson: the voice must be pleasing, the speaker should begin softly and rise “as occasion serveth,” the delivery should follow the meaning. Fraunce goes further than Wilson, however, in equating a kind of voice with appropriate rhetorical form.

In figures of words which altogether consist in sweete
repetitions and dimensions, is chiefly conversant that pleasant
and delicate tuning of the voyce, which resembleth the consent
and harmonie of some well ordred song: In other figures of
affections, the voyce is more manly, yet diversly, according to
the varietie of passions that are to bee expressed.[9]

His specific suggestions depend upon the equation of voice and affection, for example, “in pitie and lamentation, the voyce must be full, sobbing, flexible, interrupted.” Largely there is an association of tone of voice with a particular passion. For “feare and anger” there are additional injunctions concerning rhythm. Otherwise, these “rules” seem suggestive and general rather than imperative and specific.

In writing of gesture, Fraunce once again supplements the standards of Wilson with illustrations of his own. The truism of the age that “gesture must followe the change and varietie of the voyce,” is conditioned by the warning that it should not be done “parasiticallie as stage plaiers use, but gravelie and decentlie as becommeth men of greater calling.” This implies that the attitude may have been similar but the resulting manner different. Actual suggestions are made for the portrayal of affections; for example, “the holding downe of the head, and casting downe of the eyes betokeneth modestie.” Forbidding gesture with the head alone, Fraunce notes that its chiefest force is the countenance, and of the countenance the eyes “which expres livelilie even anie conceit or passion of the mind.” How to use the eyes is not explained. The particular ordering of the lips, nose, chin, and shoulders is “left to everie mans discretion.”

Concerning the arms and hands Fraunce writes little. The right arm in being extended reinforces the flow of the speech. This action is supplemented by the moderate use of the hands and fingers which rather “follow than goe before and expresse the words.” Since the left hand alone is not used in gesture, it is joined with the right in expressing doubt, objection, and prayer. The fingers in various combinations express distinct significance.

For the body as a whole Fraunce warns against unseemliness. He associates striking the breast with grief and lamentation, striking the thigh with indignation, striking the ground with the foot with vehemency. By and large the speaker should not move more than a step or two.

In substance this is the written material on pronunciation in English before 1610. Fraunce alone shows any indication that there was a conventional system of vocal delivery and physical gesture. As early as 1531 Elyot in _The Governour_ (fol. 49) had included “the voyce and gesture of them that can pronounce comedies” in the attributes of a fine orator. This Ciceronian tradition is probably reflected in _The Arcadian Rhetorike_ so that Fraunce may be following the custom of the players except where he specifically notes a difference. But do the “rules” of Fraunce demonstrate the presence of an accepted system of convention in voice and gesture, or are they personal observations organized into a system? Writing of the affections and speech, Fraunce indicates that the correspondence _must_ be followed. In writing of the affections and gesture, he is less sure. Some matters are left to the discretion of the speaker, others must adhere to a certain convention. About the body he is suggestive. Striking the breast to express grief “is not unusuall,” but striking the thigh to express indignation “was usuall” as was stamping.’ Usual where? On the stage? In the law courts? In the pulpit? He does not specify. Keeping in mind that Fraunce alone has detailed such “conventions of voice and gesture,” it is apparent that he is regularizing the general habit current in sixteenth century England of finding external means of expression for internal conceits or passions of the mind.

A habit is not a convention, however. The gestures described by Fraunce reinforce the speech, lending harmony and vigor to the vocal expression. But there is little evidence that they were raised to the level of symbolism, that particular gestures came widely to represent particular meanings. That this was the case, is supported by a comparison of the supposed meanings of several gestures. As quoted above, Fraunce claimed that “the holding downe of the head, and casting downe of the eyes betokeneth modestie.” But the author of _The Cyprian Conqueror_ (1633), cited by Professor Harbage, asserts that “in a sorrowfull parte, y^e head must hang downe.” Lest we think that two affections were expressed by the same gesture, we must note how sorrow was expressed according to Fraunce. “The shaking of the head noteth griefe and indignation.” Obviously there was not complete agreement about the significance of a particular gesture. Nor could there be since forms of expression are usually left to the speaker’s judgment in the rhetorics.

Nevertheless, although an exact pattern of conventions cannot be discovered in Elizabethan rhetoric, general attitudes toward speech can be discerned. Wilson and Fraunce call for a pleasant voice, neither too high nor too low, but mean, capable of expressing nuances of thought. The ideal blending of speech and movement for the Elizabethan age is well presented in Baldassare Castiglione’s _Courtier_, translated by Thomas Hoby in 1561.

[What is requisite in speaking is] a good voice, not too subtill
or soft, as in a woman: nor yet so boistrous and rough, as in one
of the countrie, but shril, cleare, sweete, and well framed with
a prompt pronunciation, and with fit maners, and gestures, which
(in my minde) consist in certaine motions of all the bodie, not
affected nor forced, but tempred with a manerly countenance and
with a moving of the eyes that may give grace and accorde with
the wordes, and (as much as he can) signifie also with gestures,
the intent and affection of the speaker.[10]

Grace, dignity, and spontaneity, in short, beauty of expression, was the accepted aim of the age.

In addition to speaking pleasantly, the educated man was expected to speak meaningfully. His vocal delivery should express figures of eloquence effectively.

The consideration of voyce is to be had either in severed words,
or in the whole sentence. In the particular applying of the
voyce to severall words, wee make tropes that bee most excellent
plainly appeare. For without this change of voyce, neither anie
Ironia, nor lively Metaphore can well bee discerned.[11]

Nor must this attention to the figures of speech be lavished only upon the formal speech. In his informal _Direction for Speech and Style_ (c. 1590), John Hoskins applies the same consideration to social occasion. Included in his discussion of Agnomination, or repetition of sounds in sentence, such as “Our paradise is a pair of dice, our almes-deeds are turned into all misdeeds,” is a suggestion that “that kind of breaking words into another meaning is pretty to play with among gentlewomen, as, _you will have but a bare gain of this bargain_.” Sensitivity to the figures of eloquence was widespread; we may expect the actors to have been particularly attentive to their rendition.

Though scanty, indications exist that the speaker was not thought to deliver his speech by rote. As Hamlet compares his behavior with the player’s, he describes the man’s tears, distraction and broken voice,

and his whole function suiting
With forms to his conceit.
[II, ii, 582-583]

“The conceits of the mind are pictures of things and the tongue is interpreter of those pictures,” wrote John Hoskins to his student.[12] Just as eloquence contained figures of sentence encompassing an extended thought as well as figures of words expressing a turn of a phrase, so did delivery require an understanding of the conceit and passion as a whole as well as the appreciation of the particular literary form.

Among the figures listed by Henry Peacham in _The Garden of Eloquence_ (1593) is Mimesis:

Mimesis is an imitation of speech whereby the orator
counter-faitheth not onely what one said, but also his utterance,
pronunciation and gesture, imitating everything as it was, which
is alwaies well performed, and naturally represented in an apt
and skilfull actor.[13]

Since imitation is confined to a single figure, it probably was not expected in delivery except in special situations. But this applies to the rendering of character types, for the projection of passion in oratory was generally accepted and encouraged. Fraunce, as we have seen, describes the kinds of tones to be employed in terms of the affections to be conveyed. Sir Thomas Elyot in 1531 writes that whereas “the sterring of affections of the minde in this realme was never used, therefore ther lacketh Eloqution and pronunciation, two of the princypall parts of Rethorike.”[14] Wilson explicitly states not only the desirability of stirring affections but the necessity for the speaker to feel those affections himself.

He that will stirre affeccions to other, muste first be moved
himself.

Neither can any good be doen at all, when we have saied all that
ever we can, except we brying the same affeccions in owr owne
harte whiche wee would the Judges should beare towardes our awne
matter ... a wepying iye causeth muche moysture, and provoketh
teares. Neither is it any mervaile: for such men bothe in their
countenaunce, tongue, iyes, gesture, and in all their body els,
declare an outwarde grief, and with wordes so vehemently and
unfeinedly, settes it forward, that thei will force a man to be
sory with them, and take part with their teares, even against his
will. [Sig. T1^v]

Not only Elyot’s comment but also Peacham’s changes in _The Garden of Eloquence_ for the second edition in 1593 show that increased attention to stirring the emotions occurred in the last half of the sixteenth century in England.

Peacham’s omission in 1593 of the grammatical schemes he had
included in the first edition of _The Garden of Eloquence_ and
his addition of many figures based on appeal to the emotions
may be taken as indications of a shift which had taken place
in rhetoric in England between 1577 and 1593.... During these
years, too, the rhetorical theories of Petrus Ramus and Audomarus
Talaeus, with their emphasis on those rhetorical devices which
directed their appeal to the emotions, flourished in England.[15]

In such a context, if rhetoric influenced or reflected acting, it emphasized the already present stimulation of emotion and encouraged the actor who wished to move his audience to “bryng the same affeccions” in his own heart to the stage.

That it is misleading to apply the circumstances of later rhetorical study to this earlier period is evident on two scores. First, during the first half of the seventeenth century a shift from medieval rhetoric, of which sixteenth century English rhetoric is an extension, to classical rhetoric took place, principally through the influence of Francis Bacon and Ben Jonson. This meant the reentry of _inventio_ and _dispositio_ into the framework of rhetoric, bringing about the second change. In the scheme that Francis Bacon proposed for learning, rhetoric no longer should be directed at moving the affections:

It is the business of rhetoric to make pictures of virtue and
goodness, so that they may be seen. For since they cannot be
showed to the sense in corporeal shape, the next degree is to
show them to the imagination in as lively representation as
possible, by ornament of words.

Actually, rhetoric should be brought into the attack against affections:

Reason would become captive and servile, if eloquence of
persuasions did not win the imagination from the affections’
part, and contract a confederacy between the reason and
imagination against them.[16]

To infer conclusions about the details of Elizabethan acting from Elizabethan rhetoric is, as we have seen, highly conjectural. Yet, in the intellectual atmosphere of which rhetoric was a part, we can discern several attitudes that probably shaped acting. Detailed study was expended on the figures of eloquence and loving care was devoted to models of fine tropes. The oral rendition of these forms was left to the judgment of the individual, for the most part. The few expositions of delivery stress grace of expression and stirring of affections. But no thoroughly accepted conventions of voice and gesture seem to have existed. Thus, although rhetorical theory was conducive to the growth of formal and traditional acting, rhetorical delivery had not solidified sufficiently by 1610 to provide a systematic method. In seeking external forms for their conceits, the orator, and probably actor, still responded more to invention than tradition.

II. THE INFLUENCE OF THEATRICAL TRADITIONS UPON ELIZABETHAN ACTING

Although Elizabethan rhetorical tradition was essentially continental, Elizabethan theatrical tradition was largely native. For the better part of a century, troupes of four men and a boy had crisscrossed the English countryside, bringing plays to village and court. Though the Queen’s men, with twelve actors, at its formation in 1583 became the largest troupe, the smaller troupes continued to flourish. The English troupe that traveled to Denmark in 1586 numbered five men, and the various companies that are portrayed in _Sir Thomas More_, _Histrio-mastix_, and _Hamlet_ all number either four or five. Naturally, when the theater became stabilized in London, increasingly so after 1575, the companies tended to grow larger. But periodic difficulties because of politics or plague caused frequent resort to the small troupe during the next twenty years.

Small companies required the actor to play several roles in one play. _Cambises_ divides thirty-eight parts among eight men, with five of the men playing either six or seven parts each. Only the Vice had fewer than three parts. _Horestes_ divides twenty-seven parts among five. Even actors of the larger companies had to play several roles. _Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, presented by the twelve men of the Queen’s company, contained seventeen substantial roles, plus twenty-one for supernumeraries. This tradition of doubling gave the Elizabethan actor no opportunity to develop a specialty. He could not concentrate on a specific genre, for he was called upon to play courtly men and country men, villains and saints. Probably we should except the leading comic from this stricture. Usually he played fewer roles, and through the recurrence of the Vice figure and the practice of extemporal improvisation, he had the conditions necessary to the development of a distinctive type. But the other actors had to enact all sorts of roles. Unlike the Italian comedian who devoted himself to his forte, the Elizabethan tried to become flexible and varied in his abilities. It is evident that the attention of the actor had to be concentrated on telling the story, not developing the characters. Since the shift from one character to another necessitated some change in appearance or manner, readily discernible characteristics must have distinguished each type of part. As we shall see, this kind of acting was in harmony with the generic nature of Elizabethan characterization.

Systematic training of the popular players does not seem to have been the rule either. Stephen Gosson in _Playes Confuted in five Actions_ (1582), describes three sources of recruitment:

Most of the Players have bene eyther men of occupations, which
they have forsaken to lyve by playing, or common minstrels, or
trayned up from theire childehood to this abhominable exercise.

But the latter group, for which we can reasonably assume careful training, does not seem to have supplied many actors to the professional companies before 1600. Of the six men in Leicester’s company we know the background only of James Burbage, who had been a carpenter by trade. Of the twelve in the Queen’s men, we know little more. John Dutton may have been a musician, since Lincoln’s Inn paid him for musicians in 1567-1568. Richard Tarleton, the renowned clown, tended swine, according to Fuller. But his fellow, Robert Wilson, asserted that he had been an apprentice waterbearer whose native wit led him to the stage.

When we come to the actors of the Globe company, the information is somewhat fuller. Shakespeare himself did not leave Stratford before 1584, when he was over twenty years of age, so that we can assume that he went from some craft or from a schoolhouse to the theater. Besides Shakespeare, there were thirteen other sharers in the company between 1599 and 1609: Thomas Pope, John Heminges, Augustine Phillips, Richard Cowley, Richard Burbage, William Sly, Henry Condell, and Robert Armin, all members before 1603, and Laurence Fletcher, John Lowin, Alexander Cooke, Nicholas Tooley, and Robert Goffe, all of whom became members after 1603. Of the antecedents of most of the members we know little. Thomas Pope had been one of the English players in Denmark and Germany in 1586-1587. Heminges, in his will, calls himself “citizen and grocer,” which may indicate that he, too, was an artisan turned player. Burbage presumably grew up in his father’s theater. While quite young, he appeared in the _Seven Deadly Sins_. Armin was said to have been an apprentice to a goldsmith. Condell is conjectured to have been the “Harry” of _Seven Deadly Sins_, but the identification is inconclusive. Thus, of the earlier group of actors, several seem to have come from the trades. In the later group of five, three may have been apprentice actors and one, Lowin, had been an apprentice goldsmith. Fletcher seems to have been connected with a troupe in Scotland. The evidence, inconclusive as it is, indicates that with the increased stability of the theater and the alteration in theatrical taste the source of actors shifted from adults to trained boys.

The ready transfer of a man from trade to stage in the early period argues that an elaborate training, at least at the beginning, was not expected. The ready conversion of the tradesmen into actors in _Histrio-mastix_ (Sig. B1^r), once a poet has been secured, further demonstrates that the possession of a story, not the cultivation of a manner, was requisite. What the details of early acting may have been, we do not know. The conditions of training and the methods of recruitment, however, were not conducive to the development of precisely executed conventions.

The actual skills of the early Elizabethan actors can be inferred in part from references to various actors. Tarleton and Robert Wilson were commended for their “extemporall wit.” In letters dealing with English players on the Continent in the 1580’s, acting is always linked with dancing, vaulting and tumbling. Thomas Pope and George Bryan, a Lord Chamberlain’s man until the end of 1597, were among the five “instrumentister och springere” at the Danish court in 1586. These scattered allusions reinforce the opinion that simple characterization, rude playing, native wit, and physical vigor were the qualities of the early actor.

We must turn to the plays presented by the public companies before 1595 to round out the picture of the theatrical tradition. Character was not fully developed in the popular theater until Marlowe. Before his plays appeared, character had been barely differentiated from generic types, such as kings, vices, rustics, tyrants, etc. A word is necessary about generic types. Each of the generic types arises from a social class, and the characters within each type reflect their class. Differences between generic characters of the same type are not as great as similarities. Some distinctive habits of thought and behavior cluster about each type, but these are never rigidly fixed. Simple representatives of the generic type are the merchant and the potecary in John Heywood’s interludes of _The Weather_ and _The Four PP._ respectively. The generic type differs from the stock figure partly in source but mainly in definition. The stock figure tends to coalesce into a single perfect representative of each type: a Scapin, a Columbine, a Harlequin. The generic type encourages multiplicity. The stock figure, such as the doctor from Bologna, often has a regional origin. From the region of his birth he usually derives physical or social idiosyncracies, for example, a dialect, an item of apparel, or a distinctive manner. As the stock figure develops, additional external features become attached to him. Certain bits of stage business, quirks of personality, modes of dress, and style of playing, become his trade-marks. But the generic character seldom becomes fixed and traditional. Instead, he constantly undergoes change according to the demands of the story.

The early popular plays definitely show that the actors were used to playing generic characters. Thus, they were able to concentrate on the story, the sentiment, and the sententiousness of their plays. In limited ways they relied on dress to identify types of characters. Alan Downer has shown that there was some symbolism in costume. Hotson has traced the evolution of a distinctive garment for the Elizabethan “natural.”[17] Henslowe lists certain costumes which were probably generic or symbolic. But features of dress remained generalized rather than becoming attached to a stock type. Whether habits of carriage or gesture corresponded with types of roles, we do not know. But it is certain, as we found in our study of rhetoric, that no traditional, systematic scheme of vocal and physical conventions developed.

Actually, in a rudimentary way, the early plays show tendencies toward the kind of structure described in the chapter on dramaturgy. In _Cambises_, it is not the discovery or death of Sisamnes which occupies our attention, but the responses of the son, Otian, to his father’s execution. Affective display and rhetorical pronouncement occupied the center of the stage. Some time ago, Albert Walker demonstrated that the methods for expression of emotions in the pre-Shakespearean plays can be found in Shakespeare’s plays.[18] Many of the ways of portraying grief, joy, anger, rage, could be and were handed down from one theatrical generation to another. For the actor, the projection of grief in the following speeches would not be very different in each case.

OTIAN. O father dear, these words to hear
--that you must die by force--
Bedews my cheeks with stilled tears.
The king hath no remorse.
The grievous griefs, and strained sighs
My heart doth break in twain,
And I deplore, most woeful child, that I
should see you slain.
[_Cambises_, 445-448]

NERONIS. Ah wofull sight, what is alas, with these mine eyes beheld,
That to my loving Knight belongd, I view the Golden Sheeld:
Ah heavens, this Herse doth signifie my Knight is slaine,
Ah death no longer do delay, but rid the lives of twaine:
Heart, hand, and everie sence prepare, unto the Hearse
draw nie:
And thereupon submit your selves, disdaine not for to die
With him that was your mistresse ioy, her life and death
like case,
And well I know in seeking me, he did his end embrace.
[_Sir Clyomon and Sir Clamydes_, 1532-1539]

AGA. What greater griefe had mournful Priamus,
Then that he liv’d to see his Hector die,
His citie burnt downe by revenging flames,
And poor Polites slaine before his face?
Aga, thy griefe is matchable to his,
For I have liv’d to see my soveraignes death,
Yet glad that I must breath my last with him.
[_Selimus_, 1863-1869]

QUEEN. A sweet children, when I am at rest my nightly dreames
are dreadful. Me thinks as I lie in my bed, I see the
league broken which was sworne at the death of your
kingly father, tis this my children and many other causes
of like importance, that makes your aged mother to lament
as she doth.
[_The True Tragedy of King Richard III_, 802-807]