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Sorry -- still in a state of geek glow about "Much Ado," and, by extension, all things Shakespeare:
(Well, the subtitle of my DreamWidth Journal is "The songs that get stuck in my head," so ... you know. At least you can't accuse me of false advertising)
First, Shakespeare, himself:
One of my favorite ironies in life, is that William Shakespeare, Esq., our modern world's icon of eloquence, kept returning to the idea that eloquence is inversely proportional to passion and sincerity.
Perhaps the most famous example of this (he spins an entire plot out of it): is Cordiala's refusal to tell her father exactly how much she loves him:
"[aside] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent." (Act 1, scene i line 62) and
"Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty
According to my bond; no more nor less." (lines 93-95)
And then, there's Hamlet's soliloquy at the end of Act 1, scene ii, where he compares himself to an actor he's just watched:
"Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That, from her working, all his visage wann'd"
[snip]
"Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing! [...]"
It's a sentiment that shows up in his comedies, too. As in scene 2 of Act 3 in As You Like It, where the heroine Rosalind and her cousin Celia are discussing some laughably bad poetry they've found hanging from the trees in the forest where they are hiding out -- the fact that the poetry is so bad is indicative of how deeply the poet is in love:
Celia. Didst thou hear these verses?
Rosalind. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them
had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
Celia. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.
Rosalind. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves
without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
Celia. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be
hang'd and carved upon these trees?
Rosalind. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you
came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so
berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I
can hardly remember.
---
It leads me to wonder, a bit, at Shakespeare's psychology: he who made his living from words repeatedly going back to the idea that words are not quite to be trusted... It would all be very interesting in a fictional character (Which, when you think of it, Shakespeare now is -- he's no longer living in the world, and so we construct him within our own minds and fit him into stories we tell ourselves).
In Much Ado, this notion is articulated first in the scene where Leonato gives his blessing to the marriage between Claudio and his daughter Hero:
LEONATO
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my
fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and all
grace say Amen to it.
BEATRICE
Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
CLAUDIO
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were
but little happy, if I could say how much. [to Hero] Lady, as
you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for
you and dote upon the exchange.
---
This, of course, leads to Beatrice and Benedick -- the two characters defined most strongly by the ease and glibness with which they speak.
There are two scenes in the play where the two of them are alone together (and thus, free from the pressure of keeping up appearances of their old habits, to avoid being teased). The first is in the church, immediately following Don Pedro's and Claudio's public accusation of Hero, where she faints and they leave her for dead. This is the scene where they first confess their love to each other... And it gets me in the gut every time.* It is perhaps worth noting that honor and virginity were as important for women in Elizabethan England as it is today in some communities in Islam -- indeed, Hero says to her father that, if he could prove that she was guilty as accused, he should torture her to death. Honor was equally important for men, and that honor was maintained by alliances with other men. ...So the fact that Benedict chose to stay behind to comfort the family of a disgraced daughter of a governor, instead of following the prince who had been his patron up to that point, is a clue to how much he really does love Beatrice.
I could quote their whole exchange, but I won't. Just this bit:
BENEDICK
Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
BEATRICE
Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
BENEDICK
I will not desire that.
BEATRICE
You have no reason; I do it freely.
After three full acts of their cleverness and quips back and forth, this simplicity is almost like a splash of cold water -- and just as refreshing. The full scene is here: Act 4, scene i (this exchange starts about two-thirds down the page).
The next scene where they are alone is in Leonato's garden, after Benedick has challenged Claudio to a duel (the assurance of which is what finally convinces Beatrice that he really does love her-- backing up his vows with actions).
(Full scene is here: Act 5, scene ii)
Here, they fall into their old habits of teasing each other... but this time, they do it with much more good humor than in their first exchange:
BENEDICK
[...]
And, I pray thee now, tell me for
which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
BEATRICE
For them all together; which maintained so politic
a state of evil that they will not admit any good
part to intermingle with them. But for which of my
good parts did you first suffer love for me?
BENEDICK
Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love
indeed, for I love thee against my will.
BEATRICE
In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor heart!
If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for
yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.
(aside: at the very beginning of the play, Beatrice said that if Benedick were "in her books," [if she'd give him any credit] she'd burn her study. ... so calling him "friend" is quite a turn-around)
BENEDICK
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
A few lines later, Benedick gives a snarky argument about why it's good to praise your own virtues.... But then, he drops out of glibness, to ask after Hero's, and Beatrice's, health:
BENEDICK
[...] So much for
praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
praiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your cousin?
BEATRICE
Very ill.
BENEDICK
And how do you?
BEATRICE
Very ill too.
BENEDICK
Serve God, love me and mend. There will I leave
you too, for here comes one in haste.
...And I don't know. I just find those to be some of the most romantic lines in literature -- the way it's set up, it's clear that he no longer takes himself so seriously, but he does take Beatrice seriously. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can say to someone is "How are you?" ... if you really mean it.
One last thing: at the play's finale, and Benedick proposes to Beatrice, asking whether or not she loves him, she says: "Why no, no more than reason." ... and he replies in kind, when she asks him the same question. At first, this seems like they are just being coy, and a bit disingenuous, in order to avoid public embarrassment. But -- this is basically the same thing that Cordelia says to King Lear, when he has the expectation that her love for him be without bounds...
So... maybe this is something that Shakespeare (and others) truly believed? That love within reason is the best kind?
Just a thought that came to me, while I was typing this up...
*(except in the clip I saw of the David Tennant/Catherine Tate version... which, for some reason, was played with a slapstick vibe.... which... Just. No)
First, Shakespeare, himself:
One of my favorite ironies in life, is that William Shakespeare, Esq., our modern world's icon of eloquence, kept returning to the idea that eloquence is inversely proportional to passion and sincerity.
Perhaps the most famous example of this (he spins an entire plot out of it): is Cordiala's refusal to tell her father exactly how much she loves him:
"[aside] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent." (Act 1, scene i line 62) and
"Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty
According to my bond; no more nor less." (lines 93-95)
And then, there's Hamlet's soliloquy at the end of Act 1, scene ii, where he compares himself to an actor he's just watched:
"Is it not monstrous that this player here,
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion,
Could force his soul so to his own conceit
That, from her working, all his visage wann'd"
[snip]
"Yet I,
A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause,
And can say nothing! [...]"
It's a sentiment that shows up in his comedies, too. As in scene 2 of Act 3 in As You Like It, where the heroine Rosalind and her cousin Celia are discussing some laughably bad poetry they've found hanging from the trees in the forest where they are hiding out -- the fact that the poetry is so bad is indicative of how deeply the poet is in love:
Celia. Didst thou hear these verses?
Rosalind. O, yes, I heard them all, and more too; for some of them
had in them more feet than the verses would bear.
Celia. That's no matter; the feet might bear the verses.
Rosalind. Ay, but the feet were lame, and could not bear themselves
without the verse, and therefore stood lamely in the verse.
Celia. But didst thou hear without wondering how thy name should be
hang'd and carved upon these trees?
Rosalind. I was seven of the nine days out of the wonder before you
came; for look here what I found on a palm-tree. I was never so
berhym'd since Pythagoras' time that I was an Irish rat, which I
can hardly remember.
---
It leads me to wonder, a bit, at Shakespeare's psychology: he who made his living from words repeatedly going back to the idea that words are not quite to be trusted... It would all be very interesting in a fictional character (Which, when you think of it, Shakespeare now is -- he's no longer living in the world, and so we construct him within our own minds and fit him into stories we tell ourselves).
In Much Ado, this notion is articulated first in the scene where Leonato gives his blessing to the marriage between Claudio and his daughter Hero:
LEONATO
Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my
fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and all
grace say Amen to it.
BEATRICE
Speak, count, 'tis your cue.
CLAUDIO
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were
but little happy, if I could say how much. [to Hero] Lady, as
you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for
you and dote upon the exchange.
---
This, of course, leads to Beatrice and Benedick -- the two characters defined most strongly by the ease and glibness with which they speak.
There are two scenes in the play where the two of them are alone together (and thus, free from the pressure of keeping up appearances of their old habits, to avoid being teased). The first is in the church, immediately following Don Pedro's and Claudio's public accusation of Hero, where she faints and they leave her for dead. This is the scene where they first confess their love to each other... And it gets me in the gut every time.* It is perhaps worth noting that honor and virginity were as important for women in Elizabethan England as it is today in some communities in Islam -- indeed, Hero says to her father that, if he could prove that she was guilty as accused, he should torture her to death. Honor was equally important for men, and that honor was maintained by alliances with other men. ...So the fact that Benedict chose to stay behind to comfort the family of a disgraced daughter of a governor, instead of following the prince who had been his patron up to that point, is a clue to how much he really does love Beatrice.
I could quote their whole exchange, but I won't. Just this bit:
BENEDICK
Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?
BEATRICE
Yea, and I will weep a while longer.
BENEDICK
I will not desire that.
BEATRICE
You have no reason; I do it freely.
After three full acts of their cleverness and quips back and forth, this simplicity is almost like a splash of cold water -- and just as refreshing. The full scene is here: Act 4, scene i (this exchange starts about two-thirds down the page).
The next scene where they are alone is in Leonato's garden, after Benedick has challenged Claudio to a duel (the assurance of which is what finally convinces Beatrice that he really does love her-- backing up his vows with actions).
(Full scene is here: Act 5, scene ii)
Here, they fall into their old habits of teasing each other... but this time, they do it with much more good humor than in their first exchange:
BENEDICK
[...]
And, I pray thee now, tell me for
which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
BEATRICE
For them all together; which maintained so politic
a state of evil that they will not admit any good
part to intermingle with them. But for which of my
good parts did you first suffer love for me?
BENEDICK
Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love
indeed, for I love thee against my will.
BEATRICE
In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor heart!
If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for
yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.
(aside: at the very beginning of the play, Beatrice said that if Benedick were "in her books," [if she'd give him any credit] she'd burn her study. ... so calling him "friend" is quite a turn-around)
BENEDICK
Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
A few lines later, Benedick gives a snarky argument about why it's good to praise your own virtues.... But then, he drops out of glibness, to ask after Hero's, and Beatrice's, health:
BENEDICK
[...] So much for
praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
praiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your cousin?
BEATRICE
Very ill.
BENEDICK
And how do you?
BEATRICE
Very ill too.
BENEDICK
Serve God, love me and mend. There will I leave
you too, for here comes one in haste.
...And I don't know. I just find those to be some of the most romantic lines in literature -- the way it's set up, it's clear that he no longer takes himself so seriously, but he does take Beatrice seriously. Sometimes, the kindest thing you can say to someone is "How are you?" ... if you really mean it.
One last thing: at the play's finale, and Benedick proposes to Beatrice, asking whether or not she loves him, she says: "Why no, no more than reason." ... and he replies in kind, when she asks him the same question. At first, this seems like they are just being coy, and a bit disingenuous, in order to avoid public embarrassment. But -- this is basically the same thing that Cordelia says to King Lear, when he has the expectation that her love for him be without bounds...
So... maybe this is something that Shakespeare (and others) truly believed? That love within reason is the best kind?
Just a thought that came to me, while I was typing this up...
*(except in the clip I saw of the David Tennant/Catherine Tate version... which, for some reason, was played with a slapstick vibe.... which... Just. No)