The New Cambridge edition of Othello contains a brilliant introduction by its editor, Norman Sanders. From it, I learned most of the following: In 1850, John Wilson wrote a piece for Blackwood's Magazine (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackwood's_Magazine), in which he gave his theory of the "double-time scheme" in Othello. He noted that the first two acts depict real time - that they portray events in a period of time very close to what they would take to occur. But then everything changes. "Short time" is then used to keep a continuous flow of events, and "longer time" is used, primarily through the use of reference, to create a much larger temporal background. For example, the length of the marriage of Othello and Desdemona is hard to accurately ascertain. At some points, we are led to believe that they are newly wed, but at others, that their marriage has been going on for quite some time. And there are several other examples as well, involving virtually every major character in the play. Some critics have forwarded the theory that these inconsistencies are the result of Shakespeare's method of working on this particular play: i.e. that he wrote the final three acts first, followed by the first two, and that this led to the incongruity. It's possible, certainly. Others, like Fintan O'Toole, have postulated that Shakespeare did it deliberately, for reasons related to the play's thematic content. I'll summarize that position, and give a few thoughts of my own, tomorrow.

In Northrop Frye's essay on King Lear, he gives a wonderful description of Shakespeare's handling of time, first in general and then specifically in the play. I'll give you the passage in its entirety:

"Many critics of Shakespeare have noticed that there often seems to be two time clocks in the action of his plays, the events in the foreground summarizing slower and bigger events in the background that by themselves would take longer to work out. It's a little like looking at the scenery from the window of a car or a train, with the weeds at the side of the road rushing by and the horizon turning slowly. In the foreground action the scene on the heath seems to take place in the same night that begins with Regan and Cornwall shutting Lear out. In the background we pick up hints that Albany and Cornwall are at loggerheads, but are forced to compose their differences and unite against a threatened invasion from France, partly encouraged by Cordelia, although in the foreground action nothing has yet happened to Lear that would justify such an invasion."

Amazing. And I mean both Shakespeare's technical virtuosity and Frye's description of it. Tomorrow, I'll discuss the critic commonly given credit for identifying this "double time" effect.

The death of King Lear is, perhaps, an example of what some critics call "telescoped" time. With this technique, the events of several months are shown to us in a few minutes of actual stage time. In this case, Lear seems to die of heartbreak right in front of our eyes, which considering his ordeal is plausible. But it's interesting to consider as a possibility his death occurring, say, two or three weeks after Cordelia's, and that we see that amount of time condensed into the two or three minutes of the end of the play. Looked at this way, Shakespeare is doing something much more advanced than simply allowing large periods of time to elapse between scenes - which anyone can do - he is allowing them to elapse during them. (More on this, and another example, tomorrow.)

If you read commentary on Othello, you won't get far without running into a discussion of Shakespeare's handling of the passing of time. In this play (which uses the famous "double time" effect) and elsewhere, it is one of the aspects of his work that remains an area of study and contention. (By the way, I'm very glad that Shakespeare never wrote any how-to books for budding dramatists - not that they wouldn't have been useful, but I find his work retains its mystery more effectively with our continuing efforts to try to understand the principles and methods that he employed.) It is an area that interests me a great deal, and over the next little while I'll be reporting on some of my findings - including an explanation of the technique referred to above.

Here's another thought to consider: in Antony and Cleopatra, the action portrayed takes place over approximately twelve years, whereas a performance of the play takes approximately three hours. And each moment seems to flow convincingly from the last. How is this (what the Chorus in Henry V calls "turning the accomplishment of many years into an hour-glass") achieved? As I mentioned above, I'm going to see what I can learn about it. Stay tuned.

The character of Enobarbus continues to hold my interest. On Saturday, I discussed how he can no longer proceed after deserting Antony to join Octavius Caesar. In 4.6, there are a couple of brutal moments of recognition regarding how side-changers are treated. First, Octavius tells a messenger to instruct his second-in-command Agrippa to:

Plant those that have revolted in the van,

That Antony may seem to spend his fury

Upon himself.

In other words, Antony's soldiers would have to do battle initially against former friends - another example of Octavius' cool ruthlessness. Then Enobarbus recounts what he has heard of the fates of others in his position, and then reveals his remorse in a most powerful wording:

Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on

Affairs of Antony; there did persuade

Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar,

And leave his master Antony; for this pains

Caesar hath hang'd him. Canidius and the rest

That fell away have entertainment, but

No honourable trust. I have done ill;

Of which I do accuse myself so sorely,

That I will joy no more.

It's a particularly melancholy fate for a character who wasn't afraid to make jokes at a meeting of the triumvirate. He understands, only when both are gone, that his loyalty was his life force.

Further to yesterday's comments about Enobarbus, the sophisticated and cynical follower of Antony: He has some of the most memorable lines in the play. For example, when Antony and Octavius are reaching a tenuous agreement to form an alliance with which to confront Sextus Pompey, Enobarbus gives them some humorous yet truthful advice. He says that they can continue their disagreements (and return to their true natures) after they have dealt with the immediate threats, and once they have more leisure. Antony, in a tricky spot, then takes out some of his tension on him, to which Enobarbus' replies are highly amusing:

ENOBARBUS

Or, if you borrow one another's love for the

instant, you may, when you hear no more words of

Pompey, return it again: you shall have time to

wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.

ANTONY

Thou art a soldier only: speak no more.

ENOBARBUS

That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.

ANTONY

You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.

ENOBARBUS

Go to, then; your considerate stone.

His statement on telling the truth always makes me think of one made by another chorus-type character, the Fool in King Lear, when he says, "Truth's a dog must to kennel." Both characters show that humour is often used to camouflage its real purpose.

One of the masterful touches that Shakespeare applied to Antony and Cleopatra is the character of Enobarbus, who barely gets a mention in Plutarch. In this play, he acts almost like a chorus at certain times, keeping a cynical eye on the proceedings of the title characters - but at other points, he acts as a trusted aide to each of them. Shakespeare also uses his running commentary to keep us at a distance, which is appropriate for people of their fame. But like Enobarbus, we eventually get pulled in, and feel a strong emotional connection to them - no matter how poorly we see them behave. In Enobarbus' case, he is a cynic on the outside only, and a sentimentalist within. This, he finds out too late: When he deserts Antony's side - very understandably in a way, because Antony seems to lose his reason - the decision ultimately breaks his heart and ends his life. Here are his last words as he lies down in a ditch to die:

O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,

The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,

That life, a very rebel to my will,

May hang no longer on me: throw my heart

Against the flint and hardness of my fault:

Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,

And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,

Nobler than my revolt is infamous,

Forgive me in thine own particular:

But let the world rank me in register

A master-leaver and a fugitive:

O Antony! O Antony!

More on Enobarbus tomorrow.