I've mentioned a few times that it's my opinion that The Merry Wives of Windsor is an unjustly neglected play. Neglected by scholars and critics, I should say, not by audiences, who've always enjoyed its light-hearted fun. A lot of that fun comes at Falstaff's expense, and that has not sat well with some commentators who quite simply idolize the character - there's no other word for it - and thus close themselves off from an even-handed attempt at enjoying the play. And they may be be missing more than fun in doing so. In the introduction to the Oxford edition of The Merry Wives of Windsor, the editor, T.W. Craik argues the play's merits very convincingly, and at one point, in a footnote, actually, Craik quotes from Hugh Hunt's book called Old Vic Prefaces, in which Hunt recalls addressing the cast of a 1951 production of the play that was put on for The Festival of Britain. He asks them to take their work on the play seriously, and to consider the importance of humour: "I have, I think, good reason for insisting on a realistic interpretation, since this is our Festival play and there are some who would criticize the choice of so minor a play as The Merry Wives of Windsor for such an occasion. I would like to justify it by showing the English humour of the play - the merry England which has played so large a part in building our institutions and national character".

Note to regular readers of this blog: Because I'll be working on some other writing projects for the next little while, I'm going to be updating weekly, rather than daily, for a bit. This applies to my music blog (Put Your Ears On, linked on the right) as well.

Having just finished preparing for, and delivering, a lecture on The Merry Wives of Windsor, and finding myself now in the process of getting ready for one on Twelfth Night, I can see the truth in Auden's observation that it's easier to talk about the less popular plays than it is the acknowledged masterpieces (e.g. the former and latter above, respectively). His point was that it's fun to attempt to prove that the neglected ones shouldn't be, and that they in fact contain a great deal of content deserving serious consideration, whereas it's trickier to find original angles such as these when dealing with the iconic ones. This is a problem, no doubt, but knowing it can only be helpful, because it delineates the task in front of those who try to tackle plays such as King Lear or Twelfth Night. And of course the challenge itself can be a lot of fun, not to mention the astonishing material itself. I'll be writing more on Twelfth Night after my lectures on it, which take place on Tuesday, April 12 at 11 am and Wednesday, April 13 at 7 pm at the Atwater Library. (More information is available via the email address above.)

The reason for the composition of The Merry Wives of Windsor is a fascinating thing to consider. Among several competing theories, it seems that the most likely is that it was written for a feast in celebration of an installation ceremony of (among others) George Carey, the second Baron Hunsden, and most importantly, the Lord Chamberlain (and thus the patron of Shakespeare's company), into the Order of the Garter on April 23, 1597. In the Oxford edition the editor T.W. Craik explains that Carey's commissioning of the play is a more probable reason for its existence than the legendary story of Queen Elizabeth requesting a play that showed Falstaff in love, which although charming, is not supported by any evidence. The play itself, however, contains references to both Elizabeth and the Order during the masque-like final scene (5.5). First, Pistol, disguised as Hobgoblin, refers to "our radiant queen" when giving directives to the town children (dressed as fairies) to make sure that the town chimneys have been kept clean. Then, Mistress Quickly, disguised as the Fairy Queen, gives them the following instructions almost in the form of an incantation:

About, about;

Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:

Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room:

That it may stand till the perpetual doom,

In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit,

Worthy the owner, and the owner it.

The several chairs of order look you scour

With juice of balm and every precious flower:

Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,

With loyal blazon, evermore be blest!

And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,

Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring:

The expressure that it bears, green let it be,

More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;

And 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write

In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white;

Let sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery,

Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee:

Fairies use flowers for their charactery.

Unfortunately, these wonderful lines are often cut from the play, and when this is done, so are its ties to its history.

The Merry Wives of Windsor is not only one of the least respected plays in the canon, it's often openly derided, particularly by commentators who have taken a personal liking to Falstaff the character. It seems as if they find it hard to watch him suffer at the hands of the title characters, their husbands and other various pranksters. Some even question whether it's the "real" Falstaff who appears in the play: Harold Bloom calls this one, "pseudo-Falstaff". I find this a bit much. In fact, the Windsor-based Falstaff has several lines that rate with his funniest, including one from the opening scene, wherein he answers the accusations of Justice Shallow in his inimitable way:

FALSTAFF

Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the king?

ROBERT SHALLOW

Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and

broke open my lodge.

FALSTAFF

But not kissed your keeper's daughter?

ROBERT SHALLOW

Tut, a pin! this shall be answered.

FALSTAFF

I will answer it straight; I have done all this.

That is now answered.

I'll be writing more about this under-appreciated play in posts to come.

Marchette Chute's Shakespeare in London (1965) is one of the most engaging of the biographies. Its portrait of the time is vivid and convincing, and it reminds us of how much is actually known about Shakespeare's life: quite a lot, in fact. She also seems quite certain of what was taught to Shakespeare and his classmates at the Stratford grammar school, even though it's my understanding that no one else is entirely sure of the contents of the curriculum. Chute, however, writes the following: "The curriculum of Stratford grammar school, like that of every other grammar school in England was serious, thorough and dull. There was no attempt whatever to fit the boys for the ordinary life they were going to find when they graduated, for all school theory in England was based on the medieval system. The purpose of schools in the Middle Ages was to turn out learned clerks for church positions, and therefore what the little boys of Renaissance England learned was Latin, more Latin, and still more Latin. About a decade after Shakespeare entered the classroom a London teacher urged that English should also be taught in the schools, but no one paid any attention to so radical a suggestion."

If this were the case, it would at least partially explain why the teachers in Shakespeare's plays, particularly Holofernes in Love's Labour's Lost and Sir Hugh Evans in The Merry Wives of Windsor (with its hilarious impromptu grammar quiz scene) are made the objects of fun, shall we say. But there may have been an upside to this sort of training, for Shakespeare at least: 1. The disciplined and systematic approach to the nuts and bolts of language may have provided grounding for his unmatched sentence construction. As a great teacher I once had the fortune to study with put it, "It's a paradox, but you have to take root to fly." 2. The freedom that Shakespeare must have felt afterward to be working in English, a language that was relatively young at the time (compared to Latin, it still is), and that, for various reasons (his work being a large one), has always managed to escape rules-based constrictions.

If it has an agenda, it isn't literature. That's about as simply as I can put it. And in his writing, Shakespeare didn't have one. His characters certainly did, but not him. Drama is often described as the most objective art form - and it's easy to see why: each personage has an individual viewpoint that may be (and usually is) contradicted by the very next speaker. Therefore, it is a mistake to attribute words spoken by a character to Shakespeare. Yes, he wrote them - but he didn't necessarily endorse them. For an example, the famed dictum "This above all: to thine own self be true..." is spoken by a character that immediately contradicts his own words by attempting to pry into a private conversation. The reader may choose to consider the thought important anyway, but it's a mistake to think that Shakespeare was using the moment to "tell" us something. If he had written in this way (i.e. agenda-driven), his art would have been hugely diminished, and he likely would have been forgotten by now, or close to it.

OK, let's return to The Merry Wives of Windsor. This play, as I mentioned in earlier posts, is roundly detested by many commentators - largely because of its treatment of Falstaff. But consider this: Perhaps Shakespeare did not allow any feelings of affection or dislike for characters to enter into his decision-making. Perhaps he simply put them into dramatic situations, and then allowed the results to flow naturally, like a scientist observing an experiment. The best literature, like the best music, has an aura of inevitability to it. And this is why - there isn't anything contrived or forced about the outcomes, because the creator doesn't have any vested interest in there being any. So to read The Merry Wives of Windsor in expectation of being entertained by Falstaff in a similar way to an earlier play is to be disappointed. So we shouldn't do that. Rather, we should read it for what it is: a highly entertaining and thought-provoking exploration of human nature, as are all Shakespeare plays.

Why is The Merry Wives of Windsor so disliked? Harold Bloom, a self-described "bardaloter" literally detests the play, referring only to a pseudo-Falstaff in his comments in Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human. W.H. Auden, in his Lectures on Shakespeare, said that the only good thing about the play was that it inspired Verdi's Falstaff, and then played a recording of the opera rather than discuss the matter further. These are not rare opinions, either.

What's going on? I think the answer lies in Falstaff. It is commonly acknowledged that Sir John ran away with the two parts of Henry IV. In fact, he became so popular that Queen Elizabeth, according to legend, requested another play showing him in love. I think at this point Shakespeare may have become somewhat tired of him, and may have felt like the violinist that, told that his violin had a beautiful tone, held it to his ear and said, "I don't hear anything." And so, in this play, a very different side of Falstaff is shown, and he ends up being the butt of the humour, rather than its source. In fact, he isn't the funniest character in the play, for once. There is great and varied humour from a large cast - but it may not be what a Falstaff fan would like or expect. Approaching Shakespeare with assumptions is not a wise plan, though. More on all of this tomorrow.