Tag Archives: Proteus

“All That Was Mine in Silvia”

Act 5 is where Two Gentlemen comes together, or falls apart, or both. First, let’s recap what leads up to the ending. Silvia, disgusted by Proteus and Milan, has decided to flee to the very forest where Valentine has become the leader of a merry band of outlaws (who are a little too reminiscent of Monty Python’s Dennis More and company to take seriously, and who describe themselves as “gentlemen,” 4.1.43). She does so in the very brief 5.1. In 5.2, learning that Silvia has fled, the enraged Duke pursues her into the forest, dragging Proteus and Thurio with him, as Julia tags along (“And I will follow, more to cross that love/Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love,” 5.2.53–54). Note how Shakespeare has arranged things so that everybody except the servants and Crab will soon end up in the same place. Actually, you can’t help but notice it; it’s that crudely done.

Silvia is captured by the bandits in 5.3 (as are Proteus and Julia, offstage). They take her to “our captain’s cave” (12), at which prospect Silvia interjects “O Valentine, this I endure for thee!” (15). Valentine hides himself as the little party, now including Proteus and Julia, approaches. So he is eavesdropping on the following scene (5.4). Remember, he sees and hears it all.

 

Proteus brazenly comes on again to Silvia (“Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came/But by my coming I have made you happy,” 5.4.29–30), only to meet another vehement rejection:

 

Had I been seized by a hungry lion,
I would have been a breakfast to the beast
Rather than have false Proteus rescue me.
. . .
I do detest false perjured Proteus.
Therefore be gone, solicit me no more.
(5.4.32–40)

 

But not only does Proteus not take no for an answer, he thinks that no means yes:

Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words
Can no way change you to a milder form,
I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end,
And love you ‘gainst the nature of love—force ye.
SILVIA. O heaven!
PROTEUS.                    I’ll force thee yield to my desire.
(5.4.55–59)

 

Let’s pause for a moment and be absolutely clear about what just happened. Proteus, that gentleman of Verona, has just tried to rape the woman he says he loves.

I’m ashamed to acknowledge that we live in a world where this really happens. Rape is all too real and too prevalent (though even once is too often.) But in late 2014, at least we can say that it is a crime, however underreported and underprosecuted. And that morally a rapist or attempted rapist like Proteus places himself beyond the pale. Not only can we not approve of his act, we can no longer approve of him. We especially can’t regard him as anything like the hero of this play or as deserving anything other than punishment for what he’s done.

 

Note also that a play that has at best skirted the edge of frivolity for its entire length suddenly lurches into brutal reality. A play with a rapist as one of its comic heroes is—to say the very least—extremely problematic. It is no longer a comedy. We cannot laugh at what Proteus has done.

 

So what happens next? Valentine finally decides that the time is ripe to reveal himself, and denounces Proteus savagely. Not because he tried to rape a woman. No, Valentine is miffed that Proteus has betrayed their friendship:

 

Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love,
For such is a friend now! Treacherous man!
Thou hast beguiled my hopes. Naught but mine eye
Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say
I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me.
Who should be trusted, when one’s right hand
Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,
I am sorry I must never trust thee more,
But count the world a stranger for thy sake.
The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst,
‘Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
(5.4. 62–72)

 

I’ve quoted this whole speech to show you that there’s not a word about Silvia. But then, why should there be? She’s property, as will be underlined later. This is between the two gents, and it’s pure bromance. Proteus responds with the abasement appropriate to an offending bro:

 

My shame and guilt confounds me.
Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow
Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
I tender‘t here; I do as truly suffer
As e’er I did commit.
(5.4.73–77)

We can wonder, and many have, whether Proteus is even sincere, but he certainly gets the response he wants—the passage that has caused more dropped jaws than any other in Shakespeare:

 

VALENTINE. Then I am paid,
And once again I do receive thee honest.
Who by repentance is not satisfied
Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased;
By penitence th’ Eternal’s wrath’s appeased.
And that my love may appear plain and free,
All that was mine in Silvia I give thee.
(5.4.77–83)

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Poor Julia! (2 of 2)

To my mind, Julia is the most interesting character in Two Gentlemen. True, that’s not a very high bar: until Proteus provokes her into showing some mettle, Silvia is a cipher (perhaps Shakespeare is intentionally underlining her status as property); Valentine is a genial lunkhead; Proteus is, well, call him protean and leave it at that.

Julia alone is courageous enough to make the perilous journey to Milan (and geographically literate enough to do it by land) alone and in male disguise, making her probably the first of Shakespeare’s cross-dressing heroines. But she does it because she is lovesick. In response to Lucetta’s skepticism about men she says:

But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth.
His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles,
His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate,
His tears pure messengers sent from his heart,
His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth.
(2.7.74–78)

This although in a textbook example of one kind of irony, we readers and viewers have just seen Proteus, in 2.6, say “I will forget that Julia is alive/Remembering that my love to her is dead” (27–28). The effect, of course, is that we feel sorry for Julia; she’s unknowing, not delusional. And of course the twists and turns of the drama require that she not know about Proteus’s change of heart, if that is the word.

I have to wonder, though, whether she is sacrificed to the demands of the drama. For she arrives in Milan, going by “Sebastian,” in the middle of one of Proteus’s schemes. With Valentine banished from Milan, Proteus is still trying to undermine him by disparaging him to Silvia. And he is scheming to get the hapless Thurio out of the way by pretending to help him. His plan is to get Thurio to bankroll a consort of musicians to serenade Silvia under the tower in which her father keeps her at night, claim that he will press Thurio’s suit, and actually take the occasion to come on to Silvia himself.

This makes for a rude awakening. Julia shows up right before the serenade, a song in praise of Silvia sung (and no doubt written, despite Thurio’s claim that he has a “sonnet” to hand) by Proteus. Surely many if not all of us have been in Julia’s situation; not necessarily cross-dressed, but having the scales ripped from our eyes. She asks her innkeeper host “But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on/Often resort unto this gentlewoman?” (4.2.70–71), and gets the reply “I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he loved/her out of all nick” (4.2.72–73). Are we surprised that Proteus shows up immediately afterward to woo Silvia further?

Concealing herself (“Peace, stand aside; the company parts,” 4.2.78), Julia witnesses an even greater betrayal. Silvia shoots Proteus down viciously:

Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man,
Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless,
To be seduced by thy flattery
That hast deceived so many with thy vows?
Return, return, and make thy love amends.
For me—by this pale queen of night I swear—
I am so far from granting thy request
That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit,
And by and by intend to chide myself
Even for this time I spend in talking to thee.
(4.2.92–101)

“Back off, dude!” even most fratboys might say at this point. But Proteus doubles down: “I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady/But she is dead” (102–103). This is probably the first delicious instance of a form of irony we’ll see again and again in Shakespeare. But we are only in Act 4, scene 2, so it is too early for the “unmasking scene,” as the critics call it. Instead of ripping off her trousers and shouting “I am not dead, you sleaze,” she merely says to herself: “’Twere false, if I should speak it/For I am sure she is not buried” (103–104). And who is in a better position to know?

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A Touch of Speed

Valentine’s departure is followed by the appearance of his servant Speed. This tardiness might seem to belie Speed’s name, but there’s a reason for it; he’s been busy delivering a letter from Proteus to Julia. (Commentators have wondered why Proteus doesn’t ask his own servant, Lance; some have taken this as evidence that Lance’s part is a later addition for the clown Will Kemp.)

Speed is the Clever Servant, a stock comedy figure that goes back to the Roman playwright Plautus. In this scene, though, I feel Shakespeare goes way overboard in demonstrating his cleverness. Hearing that Valentine has departed, he reacts: “Twenty to one, then, he is shipped already, / And I have played the sheep in losing him” (1.1.72-73). This play on “ship” and “sheep” touches off a series of (deliberately) labored plays on “sheep” and “shepherd” (with a side trip to that old favorite, “horns”) that goes on for twenty lines and contains not one but two mock syllogisms. Speed might be speaking for the audience—he’s speaking for me—when he says at the end of this logomachy, “Such another proof will make me cry ‘baa’” (91). The problem with this exchange is less that it isn’t very funny as that it stops the action dead at a point where it’s barely begun. Shakespeare certainly has dueling wordsmiths in other plays, but either the wordplay advances the action (as with Samson and Gregory) or comes when the audience and the action can use a break (Dromio of Syracuse’s geographic catalogue of Nell the kitchen wench in The Comedy of Errors). It’s only after all this that Proteus gets to the question that presumably is uppermost in his mind when he lays eyes on Speed, “Gav’st thou my letter to Julia?” (93). Speed then takes another fifty lines before telling Proteus that Julia said nothing when she took the letter, with still more sheep puns (he calls her a “laced mutton,” i.e. a prostitute), and reasonable complaints that neither party has paid him for his pains.

Speed will reappear shortly with Valentine and later with Lance; look out for how he interacts with these different characters.

Two Gentlemen of Verona: The Bromance Boys

Two Gents opens, appropriately, in the middle of a discussion between our bromance buddies. Valentine is about to leave Verona for Milan. He wants Proteus to come with him, but Proteus refuses his entreaties because he is enamored of Julia (you can already see the effect this stuff is having on my style). Valentine attempts to persuade him by lecturing him about the folly of love, but fails, and the friends make their adieux; they won’t see each other until; about halfway through Act II scene iv.

All this is pretty standard bromance stuff, and the irony is broad; even in Shakespeare’s time you could predict that Valentine is being set up to fall in love hard himself. And yet even in this early play, Shakespeare has a couple more twists of the knife in waiting. Consider the following passage, which is all I’m going to quote from this exchange. The story of Hero and Leander derives from myth: Leander so loved Hero that he tried to swim the Hellespont to reach her, only to drown, so he symbolizes the passionate lover in all kinds of ways. Shakespeare scholars love to find allusions to Marlowe, but in this case they are surely right to find one to his poem Hero and Leander.

VALENTINE
And on a love–book pray for my success?
PROTEUS
Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee.
VALENTINE
That’s on some shallow story of deep love —
How young Leander crossed the Hellespont.
PROTEUS
That’s a deep story of a deeper love,
For he was more than over–shoes in love.
VALENTINE
’Tis true; for you are over–boots in love
And yet you never swam the Hellespont.
PROTEUS
Over the boots? Nay, give me not the boots.
VALENTINE
No, I will not, for it boots thee not.
PROTEUS                                    What?
VALENTINE
To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans,
Coy looks with heart–sore sighs, one fading
  moment’s mirth
With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights.
If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;
If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
However, but a folly bought with wit,
Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
PROTEUS
So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.
VALENTINE
So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove.

(I.i.19-37)

This is young Shakespeare pulling out all the stops. The stichomythia (one line per character) is like a tennis match and the wordplay is as sharp. Note particularly lines 25-28, where Valentine and Proteus bat no fewer than four senses of “boots” back and forth (“over-boots” completing the proverbial expression “over-shoes, over-boots”; “Over the boots” apparently meaning literal boots; “give me not the boots” another idiom meaning “don’t make fun of me,” and “boots” meaning “profits” in “it boots thee not”). Note also the sexual innuendoes at Valentine’s lines 28-31 (the “groans” of orgasm in love, the “fading moment’s mirth,” orgasm again, bought with “tedious nights” consumed by jealousy).

Pretty good stuff. But doesn’t it sound somehow like we’ve heard it before? Indeed we have. The verbal Ping-Pong match reminds us Samson and Gregory’s dialogue at the beginning of Romeo and Juliet, and the innuendo anticipates Mercutio’s (remember his “If love be rough with you, be rough with love / Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down”?). So here at the very beginning we see one of the most characteristic features of Two Gents I mentioned: situations and incidents Shakespeare will use to better effect in later plays. And we’ll see another very shortly.

One other point to note. Valentine is going to Milan. He says so (line 57). But to do so he is getting on a ship, when both Milan and Verona are inland. This is the first of a number of confusions, geographical and otherwise, that lead most commentators to conclude that the young Shakespeare was not yet in full control of his material—and that he had no clear idea of Italian geography. If you want these confusions spelled out in great detail, get hold of the Arden Second Edition of the play; the editor, Clifford Leech, lists 41 of them in two separate lists (relating to geography and others).

“I Love You, Man!” Shakespeare’s Bromance

The Male Friendship Tradition

Male-male friendship has always existed. Unfortunately, so has the concept that it is somehow better than male-female friendship—frequently hand in hand (so to speak) with the disturbing claim that male-female and female-female friendship isn’t even possible. Shakespeare’s contemporary Montaigne is currently fashionable, but not, I think, for passages like this from his essay “On Friendship”:

 To compare this brotherly affection with affection for women . . . it cannot be done; nor can we put the love of women in the same category. Its ardor, I confess . . . is more active, more scorching, and more intense. But it is an impetuous and fickle flame, undulating and variable, a fever flame, subject to fits and lulls, that holds us only by one corner. In friendship it is a general and universal warmth, moderate and even, besides, a constant and settled warmth, with nothing bitter and stinging about it. (“On Friendship,” The Complete Essays of Montaigne, tr. Donald M. Frame, p. 137)

If it’s bad enough to discover that Montaigne is the Billy Crystal of the early modern era—sexual attraction gets in the way of friendship between man and woman—consider his explanation; it’s because women are inferior.

Besides, to tell the truth, the ordinary capacity of women is inadequate for that communion and fellowship which is the nurse of this sacred bond [of friendship]; nor does their soul seem firm enough to endure the strain of so tight and durable a knot. . . . [T]his sex in no instance has yet succeeded in attaining it, and by the common agreement of the ancient schools is excluded from it. (“On Friendship,” p. 138)

From Aristotle onward the idea is that in a true male-male friendship the friends are so close as to be an alter ego, or other self, a thought expressed by many, many later writers. Here is Montaigne again (notice how “wives” comes after “goods” in the following list):

Everything actually being in common between them—wills, thoughts, judgments, goods, wives, children, honor, and life—and their relationship being that of one soul in two bodies, according to Aristotle’s very apt definition, they can neither lend nor give anything to each other. “On Friendship,” p. 141)

The term you’ll see in academic studies “of, relating to, or involving social relationships between persons of the same sex and especially between men” (Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, 11th ed.) for close male-male (and female-female) relationships, and spheres in which they are predominant, is “homosocial.” So, for example, the locker room, the military, or the court of James I would be homosocial environments. I think the term is unfortunate. Ever since Freud we are conditioned to think that everything, all the time, is about sex, so the slide into “homosexual” is all too easy. You only have to change three letters. Homosocial environments can be conducive to homosexual conduct, I need hardly say, and there’s surely a sexual undercurrent in many close male-male relationships, but homosociality and homosexuality aren’t necessarily connected. In addition, since there is a controversy about Shakespeare’s sexuality, using “homosocial” in discussions of Shakespeare can convey unwarranted implications. Perhaps by design. For all these reasons, in preference to “homosocial” I’ll use the more recent term “bromance.”

What Is a Bromance?

 As we understand the term today, a bromance is a close male-male friendship relation. (OED: “Intimate and affectionate friendship between men; a relationship between two men which is characterized by this. Also: a film focusing on such a relationship.” It’s amusing that the OED’s first recorded instance, from 2003, is to a use in the Usenet group rec.windsurfing.)

Trolling the Internet brings up examples like Kirk and Spock, Butch and Sundance, Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. “Bromance” has also come to replace the term “buddy comedy,” i.e. a comedy revolving around such a relationship, such as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Apply it specifically to romantic comedies (brom-coms?), and you’ll be able to see why I use it for Two Gentlemen. Proteus and Valentine are prototypical bromance buddies.

The Western Bromantic Tradition

Moreover, the buddies fall in line with a long bromance tradition in Western literature that is a crucial influence on Shakespeare. As noted, the theory of male-male friendship goes back at least to Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics; Shakespeare (with Fletcher) will return to it in The Two Noble Kinsmen, which is an adaptation of Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale. And so on it goes, right up to The Hangover, Part 3.

I will only mention one of Shakespeare’s most important precursors. The story of Titus and Gisippus goes back to Boccaccio’s Decameron; Shakespeare followed an English version that appeared in 1531. Titus and Gisippus embody the “one soul in two bodies” idea by being twins. Gisippus is pressured into marrying Sophronia, with whom Titus falls in love so violently it makes him sick unto death. To save him, Gisippus gives him Sophronia, a gift effected by means of a “bed trick”; the identical Titus is substituted in the marriage bed for Gisippus, where he performs the formalities necessary for a valid marriage. In the second part of the story, Gisippus is accused of murder and Titus offers to take the rap. Greater love than this no bro hath! The main point of this very brief summary is to note that there is an offer of a woman by one friend to the other in one of Shakespeare’s sources. There are clear differences (for example, Titus didn’t try to rape Sophronia, she seems copacetic with the situation, though—like Silvia in Two Gentlemen—being a piece of property she doesn’t get to speak, and it is really surprising that Shakespeare didn’t use the bed trick), but the incident is there.

We’ll see the bromantic tradition working itself out as we proceed through Two Gentlemen, so let’s turn to that task now. Just keep in mind: Valentine and Proteus fit neatly into a (basically adolescent) tradition in which male friendship is more important than adult relationships with women.