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The imprints of performance : editorial mediations of Shakespeare's drama Paul, Joseph Gavin 2008

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THE IMPRINTS OF PERFORMANCE: EDITORIAL MEDIATIONS OF SHAKESPEARE'S DRAMA by JOSEPH GAVIN PAUL B.A., The University of Lethbridge (2000) B. Mgt., The University of Lethbridge (2000) M.A., The University of British Colxunbia (2003) A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY in THE FACULTY OF GRADUATE STUDIES (English) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA (Vancouver) JUNE 2008 © JOSEPH GAVIN PAUL, 2008 ABSTRACT The Imprints of Performance is motivated by a longstanding interest in the fundamental interpretive challenges that face readers of printed plays. Reading a playtext is a means of dramatic realization that is absolutely unlike live performance, and it is not without good reason that theoretical formulations of page and stage tend to stress the incompatibility of the two modes. Without denying that printed plays distort and fragment performance practice, my dissertation negotiates an intractable debate by shifting attention to points of intersection in the rich printed and performance histories of Shakespeare's plays. I detail how editors of Shakespeare encode for information that could otherwise only be communicated in performance, how, via ancillaries such as critical introductions, emended stage directions, and performance commentary, editors facilitate a reader's ability to imagine performances. Central to my engagements with the informational structures of the edited page is the term performancescape, a textual representation of performance potential that gives relative shape and stability to what is dynamic and multifarious. I deploy performancescape in relation to editions ranging from the earliest extant quartos and folios to digital editions powered by hypertext. In analyzing formative editions from Shakespeare's long textual history, I highlight instances where the malleability of the printed page renders awareness of performance an integral, and in some ways unavoidable, condition of the reading experience. I l l TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ii Table of Contents i i i List of Figures iv Acknowledgements v Dedication vi Chapter One: Introduction 1 Chapter Two: Mediating Page and Stage 7 Chapter Three: Text and Performance on the Early Modem Page 61 Chapter Four: Performance and the Editorial Tradition 123 Chapter Five: The Performance of Performance Commentary 182 Chapter Six: The Critical Edition as Archive 232 Chapter Seven: Epilogue 271 Bibhography 279 LIST OF FIGURES Figure 1 Title page recto of Everyman (c. 1535) 73 Figure 2 "Th[e] argument of the Tragédie" and "The names of the Speakers." Facing pages of 01 Gorboduc (1565) 77 Figure 3 The frontispiece to Rowe's edition of Richard /// (1709) 137 Figure 4 The frontispiece to Rowe's edition of Hamlet (1709) 139 Figure 5 The frontispiece to Rowe's edition of A Midsummer Night's Dream (1709) 141 Figure 6 The end of 2.3 in Pope's edition of Macbeth 149 Figure 7 The begiiming of 2.4 in Pope's edition of Macbeth 150 Figure 8 A portion of F Hamlet from Hamlet on the Ramparts (accessed March, 2008) 252 Figure 9 Much Ado About Nothing (Q, 1600). The Shakespeare Collection, Thomson Gale Academic Trial Site (accessed March, 2008) 260 Figure 10 Juxtaposition of Arden3 and Q texts of Much Ado About Nothing. The Shakespeare Collection, Thomson Gale Academic Trial Site (accessed March, 2008) 261 Figure 11 The final sheet of The Tempest (F, 1623). The Shakespeare Collection, Thomson Gale Academic Trial Site (accessed March, 2008) 272 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Anthony Dawson, Patricia Badir, and Paul Budra have been patient and generous readers. Their encouragement has meant so much, and their guidance has never led me astray. Thank you to my parents and sister, who imprinted a love of learning and literature, and then gave me the strength and freedom to follow where my books (and heart) took me. And thank you to Sebastian and Imogen, who arrived during the writing process and instantly became a necessary part of the rhythms of my work. Their never-ending enthusiasm for the wonders of storytelling is infectious, and it served as a useful reminder that reading cannot be separated from considerations of pleasure and the powers of one's imagination. Their suggestions of alternate titles, "Shakespeare Goes Fishing" and "Shakespeare Eats a Pie," have been filed away for friture projects. My greatest debt is acknowledged in the dedication. DEDICATION to jeanette, your love and your laughter make all things possible Come live with me, and be my love. Chapter One: Introduction In the introduction to his study, How Plays Work, Martin Meisel describes the unique experience of reading printed playtexts. In his mind, the printed play exists as a manual or a blueprint for performance. It exists as a manual and as a representation, in its own right, of that which is to be performed—whether it ever is performed or not, whether it is performed many different times in many different productions, guided and enacted by many different minds, or only once under the eagle eye of the author. Reading plays in the fullest sense, then, means being able to read the dialogue and descriptions as a set of directions encoding, but also in a measure enacting, their own realization. It means bringing to bear something of a playwright's or director's understanding of how plays work on an imagined audience in the circumstances of an imagined theatrical representation. (1-2) Engaging with plays in print, Meisel reminds us, involves complicated interpretive manoeuvres on the part of readers. The challenges arise in large part from the necessity of attending to a play's performance potentialities, to the embodied, active aspects of the theatrical event that resist or refuse textualization. Meisel recognizes that readers' imaginings of performances are facilitated by various forms of code—"a set of agreed on, or at least intelligible, conventions that ideally fade into unobtrusiveness" (2)—that mark the distance between the printed play and the play as it has been, or could be, performed. Put differently, the very characteristics that distinguish the printed play as a discrete literary object in need of specialized analytical procedures also gesture beyond the printed play, to the performed modes of realization that it can never contain. Plays in print demarcate the conceptual gaps between text and performance, but simultaneously, they also harbour the capacity to minimize these gaps, without ever completely closing them. Meisel's formulation places text and perfonnance, page and stage, in an inevitable, and inevitably contentious, binary. As he puts it, "Production . . . entails making choices, by actors, directors, designers, from the inherent potentiahties of the script, thereby putting flesh on the bones" (vii). Rather aptly, this metaphor implicitly figures the reading of plays as an act of interpretive palaeontology, working closely with skeletal remains to speculate as to what the play's fully formed life on stage might look like. The debate over the proper forensic tools necessary to elucidate the differences between plays in print and plays in performance, however, is far from a one-sided affair. Countering Meisel's position are those who would like to see the text effectively stay buried, and to see the performance-as- animating-the-text analogy discarded altogether. A recent back-and-forth between R. A. Foakes and W. B. Worthen in the pages of the journal, Shakespeare, exemplifies the basic theoretical incongruities separating advocates of text and performance from one another. Indeed, the stated principles of the journal itself attest to a desire to alleviate tensions between the poles that the two critics represent: "Its principal aim is to bridge the gap between the disciplines of Shakespeare in Performance Studies and Shakespeare in English Literature and Language. The journal builds on the existing aim of the British Shakespeare Association, to exploit the synergies between academics and performers of Shakespeare."' Foakes approaches matters from a textual, literary perspective; like Meisel, he figures the text as generative and multivalent, capable of producing a broad horizon of interpretations in performance: "Performance theorists think of the text as 'fixed' and somehow trapping the director or actor when in fact it may encourage them to choose from a spectrum of possible ways of interpreting language, action, and character so as to enhance their way of presenting the play and the cormections they may wish to make with their own time" (56). Conversely, Worthen contends that performance does not merely realize the text's instructions but rather absorbs and transforms the text along with various other elements involved in enacting the ' Taken from the journal's website, accessed January 11,2008. <http://www.tandf.co.uk/joumals/joumal.asp? issn =1745-0918&lmktype=l> play; "Performance is an experiment, not an interpretation" ("Texts" 212), he writes, arguing that "the stage doesn't reproduce the text: there may well be first and subsequent performances of a play, but these perfonnances all subject the text to a different, unpredictable order of signification" ("Texts" 210). Likely all the two sides would agree on is that reading a playtext is a means of dramatic realization that is absolutely unlike live perfonnance; everything else beyond this premise—how much authority to assign to playwrights, the extent to which texts and readings determine performance, the capability of printed plays to communicate the possibilities of performance—is contestable. Without denying that printed plays distort and fragment perfonnance practice, my dissertation negotiates this intractable debate by shifting attention to points of intersection in Shakespeare's rich printed and performance histories. Printed plays hold the potential to be more meaningfully engaged with the play as performed than they tend to get credit for; to substantiate this claim means examining editorial principles and strategies that constitute, by necessity, a methodological network linking page and stage. M y work seeks to establish the facets of the modem edition that are most strongly tied to performance potentialities, as well as locate the various traces of these attributes in the long history of Shakespearean editing. Central to my engagements with the informational structures of the edited page is the term performancescape, a textual representation of performance potential that gives relative shape and stability to what is dynamic and multifarious. I will deploy performancescape in relation to editions ranging from the earliest extant quartos and folios to digital editions powered by hypertext. Chapter Two defines and models performancescape, which I introduce after establishing the inclination of both contemporary editorial theory and performance criticism to stress the undeniably limited ways that texts can account for performance. Chapter Tliree will consider representations of perfonnance in early modem printed playtexts, paying particular attention to constructions of a play's performance history and theatre audiences in prefatory and ancillary material. Chapter Four continues to trace a broad historical arc, with the focus shifting to prominent editions of the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries. While chapters three and four combine to suggest that throughout Shakespeare's history in print, fonnulations of page and stage have been more synergistic than a binary that opposes "literary" and "theatrical" logic will support, Chapter Five addresses the specific referential capabilities of performance commentary—a prevalent fomi of modem editorial mediation that constitutes a major conduit between textual and performed modes of realization. Chapter Six reflects on Shakespeare's printed incarnations through a consideration of the hypertextual promise of digital editions, and ultimately suggests that critical editions shaped and delimited by editorial procedures remain relevant and valuable even in the face of seemingly boundless digital archives. The final chapter serves as a brief epilogue. As an example of the kind of encounter that lies at the heart of this study, consider Henry's Paris coronation scene (4.1) in Michael Taylor's Oxford edition of 1 Henry VI (2003). Newly adomed with the French crown, Henry soon finds himself breaking up a potential duel between Vemon and Basset, champions for Richard (Duke of York) and Somerset, respectively. While the large number of bodies on stage at this moment surely complicates a reader's ability to maintain a vivid version of Meisel's "imagined theatrical representation," (2), I wish to zero in on an ostensibly simpler matter of stage business. The dialogue emphasizes the "sanguine colour" (4.1.92) and "paleness" (106) of the roses that Vemon and Basset presumably wear, their division and enmity thus reinforced visually and rhetorically;^ here, significantly, is the central portion of what is Henry's longest speech in the play, as it appears in Taylor's edition: Let me be umpire in this doubtful strife. I see no reason, if I wear this rose. He takes a red rose That anyone should therefore be suspicious I more incline to Somerset than York; Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both. (4.1.151 -5) The sticking point—for readers, but not playgoers—is how, precisely, does Henry obtain his rose? Taylor's note on the stage direction is worth reproducing in full: "From where? From whom? [Edward] Bums's [ArdenS] direction specifies from Basset, but Henry might well take it from Somerset himself, from Suffolk even. Better, perhaps, to leave open precisely who and where it comes from, but in the theatre it has to come from someone and from somewhere." The note reinforces the inherent differences between reading and viewing plays: for an audience in a theatre, the matter of the rose poses no interpretive hurdle whatsoever, since actors and directors presumably will have solved the problem in advance. The stage is in a perpetual state of unalterable cause and effect: Henry's rose must come from someone and somewhere. As we read, however, we have the freedom to imaginatively experiment with different causes and effects, or to not dabble in them at all—it seems entirely plausible that one could read the dialogue and relevant stage direction and be satisfied that Henry's rose comes from no one and from nowhere, but is conjured into being by the necessities and peculiar physics of the imagined environment in which he exists as we read him into being. Taylor's playful and ambiguous "From where? From whom?' treats the source of Henry's rose as what Meisel terms a "field of possibility" (73), a field that, as Taylor makes ^ Taylor proposes in a commentary note that Richard's "pledge" (4.1.120) to Somerset "need not necessarily be a glove or gauntlet (though this is customary). A white rose would be effective theatre." clear, can be reduced to a single interpretation on stage in a number of ways. Taylor's utilization of the marginal space of his edited page to "open" the playtext to the possibilities of performance relies upon the contradictory properties of the two modes of realization: the necessity of somewhere and someone in the theatre is juxtaposed against the elusiveness and ambiguity of print's relative fixity. If his note works in conjunction with his edited playtext as he intends, users of his edition will be reminded that reading and theatre-going are incongruent activities; however, Taylor's note and edited playtext also combine to undo this incongruence. His commentary, that is, challenges readers to envision divergent stagings of a particular moment, a textually-entrenched interpretive move that respects and reflects the fluid possibilities of the play in performance. As the ambiguous origins of Henry's rose suggest, and as the remainder of my study will demonstrate, the book of the play is not closed off from the possibilities of performance, but is instead a potentially fertile site of cross- pollination that links reading and imagining to performing, page to stage. Chapter Two: Mediating Page and Stagê Every printed playtext bears the markings of its own unique performance history. This history tends to be encrypted and fragmentary in comparison to the narrative history that can be written about a play's ongoing manifestations on stage, but it nevertheless constitutes an essential signifying property of a play in print form. The vestigial traces of performance—cumulatively, a kind of incomplete genetic imprint scattered throughout printed playtexts—take heterogeneous forms and appear with unsystematic and inconsistent frequency from play to play, text to text. In terms of the extant texts of Shakespeare and his contemporaries, some traces seem indicative of performance practices in the early modem theatre, as theatrical data offering brief ghmpses of how certain moments were to be staged have somehow entered the complicated transmission process from manuscript to print: one thinks, for example, of stage directions rich with details clearly intended to guide perfomiance—recall the Folio's direction that Coriolanus ''Holds her [Volumnia] by the hand sUenf (TLN 3539). Other traces, more authorial in origin, anticipate perfomiance potential rather than reflect performance practice: here one might consider signs of textual revision, or unstable speech prefixes, both of which seem in certain instances to provide tantalizing insight into a playwright's dynamic understanding of his fictional characters and the real world actors portraying them (think of "Lady Capulet" shifting between Wife, Capulet's Wife, Mother, and Lady). And still other traces—such as scenes which lack the requisite entrances or exits for certain characters, or those haunted by the (non-)involvement of silent, ghost characters like "Innogen," identified as the wife of Leonatus in the opening stage direction of Much Ado About Nothing—are less remnants to be gleaned than lacunae to be ^ Portions o f this chapter have been published as "hnprinting Performance: Editorial Mediations of Page and Stage," Shakespeare: Journal of the British Shakespeare Association 4.1 (2008): 24-44. filled, interpretive gaps which necessitate a consideration of the realities of performance. When texts undergo the interpolative work of editors as they are prepared for modem readers, certain traces of performance can be made explicit, some can be muted or even effaced, and new links to the play in performance will be forged. The bulk of the study that follows will interrogate the editorial treatment of, and influence on, all of these traces: the necessity editors face of having to decode (and usually recode) the markers of performance they find in the extant playtexts they are working from, as well as their ability to encode for performance wherever they deem useful to do so (in introductions, commentary notes, interpolated stage directions). My work is governed throughout by the belief that to read a printed play is to confront both stage and page, to engage with what W. B. Worthen calls "the interface of performance and writing" (Print 162). That a printed play paradoxically gestures toward, yet forever remains separate from, its existence on stage means that the continued production and close study of playtexts by editors occur at the crossroads of a number of often disparate forms of inquiry: textual theory, bibliography, theatre history, as well as various streams of perfonnance criticism all have a considerable interest in editorial practice. The reciprocal relationship between editorial practice and other modes of inquiry is a relatively recent phenomenon that came into being in the wake of the New Bibliography. Until the latter half of the twentieth century, the production of authoritative critical editions and the scholarly labours subsequently performed on these editions were seen as more or less discrete activities; editing and literary criticism were understood to speak fundamentally inharmonious dialects, with the former developing an ever-more intricate system of notation to collate bibliographical minutiae as well as sophisticated hypotheses to accoxint for things like lost authorial manuscripts and memorial reconstmctions, while the latter concerned itself with the pursuit of a different kind of tmth— definitive readings rather than definitive editions. Under the New Bibhographers, editing rose to prominence as it became more nuanced in its historical attentiveness and theoretical sophistication; significantly, the ongoing refinement of editorial activity was countered by a burgeoning critical awareness of editing itself being an interpretive act. Attentiveness to the effects of editorial labour (which began in earnest in the 1970s and was energized by the ascendancy of Poststructuralism and New Historicism—both of which tend to destabilize texts and multiply authority) continues to be promoted with much zeal. Calls for an approach to texts that "would keep in play not only multiple readings and versions but also the multiple and dispersed agencies that could have produced variants" (Werstine 86), and of "rethink[ing] Shakespeare in relation to our new knowledge of collaborative writing, collaborative printing, and the historical contingencies of textual production" (de Grazia and Stallybrass 279) remain pervasive, and the desire for readers to be cognizant of editorial influence is now commonplace; in the words of one critic, "the more aware we are of the processes of mediation to which a given edition has been subject, the less likely we are to be caught up in a constricting hermeneutic knot by which the shaping hand of the editor is mistaken for the intent of the author, or for some lost, 'perfect' version of the author's creation" (Marcus, Unediting 3). To compress a rather convoluted story then, the decline of the New Bibliography toward the end of the twentieth century was precipitated by a scrutiny of critical editions and editorial customs that focused on the ways in which editorial practices inherently distort, and unrealistically stabilize, the production and transmission of texts. For those studying the Shakespearean canon and other early modem dramatic texts, the ramifications have been significant: in addition to the scope of inquiry expanding to include the numerous nonauthorial agents and factors that enhance stemmatic understandings of works, editors and textual theorists have endeavoured to develop a more detailed understanding of the interconnectedness of a play's textual and theatrical manifestations. In short, engaging a play's history in print is now largely inseparable from considerations of its performance potentialities."* While the means by which editors grapple with issues of performance has become a popular subject for critical examination, the bulk of corrmientary on this issue tends to stress the fundamental differences between page and stage, and focuses on the inability of texts to adequately represent the realities of performance. David Scott Kastan, for instance, writes that "Performance operates according to a theatrical logic of its own rather than one derived fi-om the text; the printed play operates according to a textual logic that is not derived from performance" {Book 9); similarly, Worthen states that "A stage performance is not determined by the internal 'meanings' of the text, but is a site where the text is put into production, gains meaning in a different mode of production through the labor of its agents and the regimes of performance they use to refashion it as performance material" (Force 23); and Lukas Erne claims that English Renaissance plays have a "double existence, one on stage and one on the printed page," and calls for "a reception that takes into account the respective specificities of the two media. To simplify matters, performance tends to speak to the senses, while a printed text activates the intellect" (23). So entrenched is this line of thinking that critical editions of the late-twentieth and early twenty-first century, although engaged with issues of perfonnance more than ever before, frequently concede the incongruity of text and performance as a matter of protocol. The general introduction to the Oxford Shakespeare, to provide a well-known example, stresses that more often than not an editor faces an inescapable choice: "should he offer his readers a text which is as close as possible to what * Robert Weimann describes "the current upheaval in Shakespeare criticism" as an "exhilarating rapprochement among textual scholarship, theatre history, and performance studies" (xi). Shakespeare originally wrote, or should he aim to formulate a text presenting the play as it appeared when performed by the company of which Shakespeare was a principal shareholder...?" (xxxv). Striking a similar chord, editors of a collected edition of the works of John Webster claim that the Poem is editable, and available for discussion, while the Play is certainly not [...]. We cannot edit the Play since too much of the necessary data has been lost in the dark backward and abysm of time; we must therefore edit the Poem, which is what everybody has been doing all along, though not always in as explicit an awareness as could have been desired that this was indeed what they were doing. (Gunby et al. 37) A heightened awareness of the thorny interconnections of text and performance— Poem and Play—in editorial circles is inseparable from developments in Shakespeare studies generally. Just as editors have seen fit to give more prominence to performeince within their editions (sometimes, as we see in the quotation from the Webster editors, by apologizing for their inability to meaningftilly account for it), so too have text and performance been continually reprioritized in other sfreams of critical practice. Using A. C. Bradley as a benchmark with which to measure changes to Shakespearean criticism in the twentieth century often seems like an involuntary retrospective reflex, but returning to Bradley here is worthwhile. An advocate of the revelatory potential of close reading— t̂here are "minutiae which we notice only because we study [Shakespeare], but which nobody ever notices in a stage performance" (78)—Bradley begins his influential Shakespearean Tragedy by appealing to a reader's imagination: those who possess "the habit of reading with an eager mind" . . . read a play more or less as if they were actors who had to study all the parts. They do not need, of course, to imagine whereabouts the persons are to stand, or what gestures they ought to use; but they want to realise fully and exactiy the inner movements which produced these words and no other, these deeds and no other, at each particular moment. This, carried through a drama. is the right way to read the dramatist Shakespeare; and the prime requisite here is therefore a vivid and intent imagination. (2) This emphasis on the participatory pleasures of close reading is characteristic of Bradley, as is his awareness of, but overall disinterest in, the nuances of theatrical pleasure and performance. Bradley constructs reading as a process that should be conscious of theatrical effect, but should never defer to it— ît is readerly imagination and not staged performance that provides access to the "inner movements" of the text.̂  G. Wilson Knight also argues for the existence of meanings that only reading the text can unearth; "each play [is] a visionary unit bound to obey none but its own self-imposed laws" (14), writes Knight, and it is to this self-sufficient and self-governing text that the critic must be true: "The proper thing to do about a play's dramatic quality is to produce it, to act in it, to attend performances; but the penetration of its deeper meanings is a different matter, and such a study, though the commentator should certainly be dramatically aware and even wary, will not itself speak in theatrical terms" (vi). The battle lines over where exactly a play's "meanings" are to be found are forever being redrawn, however, and Bradley's "inner movements" and Knight's "deeper meanings" have been superseded by equally pervasive (but no less slippery) terms like "thick description" and "social energy." The turn to contexts, to the ways meanings are continually produced and thus subject to historical and ideological study rather than inherent within a stable text, is a move that reflects the extent to which developments in editorial ^ An important differentiation between theatre and drama must be made here, for although Bradley "has often been viewed as careless of theatrical considerations, we nevertheless can notice a continuing and persistent attention to dramatic, as distinct from theatrical, effects and circumstance" (Dawson, "Impasse" 321). And fiirther, it should be noted that there are mstances of Bradley marshalling performance possibilities in support of his readings. When it comes to arguably the most horrific image in Macbeth, for instance—Lady Macbeth's "I. . . know / How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me; /1 would, while it was smiling in my face, / Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, / And dash'd the brains out" (1.7.54-8)—^Bradley remarks that "her voice should doubtless rise until it reaches, in 'dash'd the brains out,' an almost hysterical scream" (371), addmg the footnote, "So Mrs. [Sarah] Siddons is said to have given the passage." Unless otherwise noted, Shakespeare quotations are from The Riverside Shakespeare, gen. ed. G. B. Evans, 2""* ed (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997). practice and textual theory have become inextricably bound up with literary study in all of its theoretical guises. That is, the turns toward history and performance in Shakespeare studies are largely predicated on an understanding of printed playtexts being fundamentally unstable sites of scholarly inquiry for those who seek to read them closely. By way of example we can fast forward to the writings of Stephen Greenblatt, where it becomes clear that Knight's understanding of the text as a sealed, "visionary unit" is a distant memory. Writing in 1988, Greenblatt claims that . . . in the case of Shakespeare (and of the drama more generally), there has probably never been a time since the early eighteenth century when there was less confidence in the 'text'. Not only has a new generation of textual historians imdermined the notion that a skilled editorial weaving of folio and quarto readings will give us an authentic record of Shakespeare's original intentions, but theater historians have challenged the whole notion of the text as the central, stable locus of theatrical meaning. (3) The allusion to contemporary understandings of textual transmission and stability is tangential to the remainder of his study but it helps establish and validate the manner in which Greenblatt desires to read Shakespeare: with its stability undone and its periphery frayed, the text can be readily woven into larger historical, sociological, political, and religious patterns—a document recounting English colonial experiences in Virginia can inform a reading of Henry V, an anecdotal account of a Protestant sermon can be made to resonate in a discussion of Measure for Measure and The Tempest. One major consequence of the widespread troubling of textual meanings is the belief that plays should not be read and interpreted as literary texts at all, but are instead dramatic scripts intended solely for performance that should be interrogated by critics using specialized analytical procedures; an emphasis on dramatic scripts has, to various degrees, underwritten performance criticism for the past thirty years or so, an eclectic movement that Erne has recently called "perhaps the most important development in Shakespeare studies in the last century" (21).̂  Not surprisingly, the initial efforts to swing the pendulum of critical orthodoxy towards a performance-oriented approach tended to be foimded on claims that pushed things to the opposite end of the interpretive spectrum, formulating the theatre, rather than the printed text, as the exclusive medium in which a play's meanings are to be located and understood. J. L. Styan's The Shakespeare Revolution, published in 1977, was a momentous study in this regard; in it, Styan willingly cedes "the autonomy of the text" to New Critical modes of reading, claiming that analyzing a play as if it were a "linguistic or symbolic entity" fails to "recognize that a play is not made of words alone" (169). Alternatively, he proposes that "drama as an art form demands attention to the primacy of context," by which he means that any worthwhile interrogation of a play must take into account "the pressures . . . perhaps governmental, economic, religious, political, cultural or sociological forces both national and local" (169) that come to bear on the play in performance. Styan's Revolution, while undeniably influential, is now widely regarded as relatively facile in its attempts to codify a method of critical engagement with performance practices, primarily because the manner in which he understands criticism to respond to the fluidities of performance is ill-defined: Stage-centred criticism is that which characteristically checks text against performance, and does not admit critical opinion as fully valid without reference to the physical circumstances of the medium. [...] When a new production of a play, perhaps in a different playhouse and before a different audience, reveals more of its qualities, then perceptual criticism must make an adjustment. As the play lives, so criticism is modified and refined to greater The formulation of playtexts as dramatic scripts is so engrained in critical consciousness that it is now disseminated as an hrefutable fact. Consider Stephen Orgel's claim that "Shakespeare never conceived, or even re-conceived, his plays as texts to be read. They were scripts, not books; the only readers were the performers, and the function of the script was to be realized on stage" (Imagining 1). Erne, who has recently challenged this orthodoxy, provides a useful reminder of the fundamental historical difficulty that proponents of Orgel's position must overcome: if plays were only written in order to be performed, "the very fact that a playtext has come down to us implies that a publisher coimted on a considerable number of people thmking otherwise" (131). accuracy, until at some unseen vanishing point the focus is felt to be exact and the play defined. (72) Styan, perhaps because he vmderstands actors and audiences to come together in the "theatre laboratory" (169), fashions his brand of perceptual criticism as having the potential for scientific exactitude: each "modification" in the criticism is implicitly an improvement on what has come before, and this perpetual "refinement" continues towards a seemingly perfect and "exact" definition (although one must surely wonder what such a definition would encompass). What is also significant in Styan's work is that he understands a play's meanings to be "revealed," rather than produced in the theatre, thus figuring the theatre as the environment in which inherent meanings frozen in the text are fully freed and interpreted— "the text will not tell us much until it speaks in its own medium" (237). If the theatre is a kind of laboratory, then for Styan it is one in which the text figures as the indispensable, invisible catalyst in all of the reactions and experiments that can be performed and that the stage-centred critic is to study. Thus despite his repeated claims that "to stop short at the text is . . . a kind of surrender" (237), Styan's approach is guided by values conferred by a textual understanding of Shakespeare's plays: that they have meanings that are stable (and apparently unchanging) through time, and most importantly, accessible under the correct (stage-centred/perceptual) interpretive operations. Styan, essentially instituting a practice whereby performances can be "read" as if they were texts, advocates the pursuit—in performance, and in elucidations of performance—of an authentic "Shakespeare experience" (5), a term that suggests the kind of totalized imderstanding of a play that he finds so troubling in the literary readings of New Criticism. In the end, as Worthen has recognized. "[Styan's] claim that the modem stage restores an essentially Shakespearean meaning implies that this revolution is really a covert operation, a restoration in disguise" (Authority 158)7 The ascendancy of performance criticism (like so many other "isms") was aided by New Critical modes of close reading being increasingly perceived as theoretically unsophisticated and historically short-sighted, but, as the tacit elements in Styan's study suggest, certain streams of performance criticism initially retained a dependency on the very kinds of textual interpretations that were ostensibly being supplanted. Worthen has done much to bring this dependency to light, seizing on Knight's casual dismissal of "theatrical techniques" as valid forms of critical inquiry to demonstrate that many examples of performance criticism—despite claims of being solely concerned wdth the kinds of theatrical techniques that Knight deliberately marginalizes—operate within an interpretive model that reaffirms Knight's (read: New Criticism's old-fashioned) textual biases, "reifying [the] polarity between text and performance [rather than] suspending, clarifying, or interrogating it" (Authority 152). Citing numerous examples, Worthen convincingly demonstrates that "Shakespeare performance criticism tends to regard performance . . . as a way of realizing the text's authentic commands" (Authority 160). What is at stake in marking habits of critical reasoning and writing that are implicitly dependent on notions of textuality? For Worthen, to ^ In the introduction to Blackwell's Companion to Shakespeare and Performance, Barbara Hodgdon identifies Styan's work as belongmg to the first incarnation of perfomiance criticism, at a time when "stage-centered critical practice had to do with attempting to discern Shakespeare's 'intentions,' with revealing the theatrical strategies traced out on the printed page" ("Introduction" 2). Notably, just as Styan's "stage-centered" criticism morphed into "performance criticism," Hodgdon proposes that the tune is right for another modification in terminology. Hodgdon describes the term "performance criticism" as "uncomfortably oxymoronic: a label in which 'criticism' gives legitimacy to the messy, contradictory, slightly suspect materiality of theatrical culture" (2); she prefers "performance studies," which is "a more encompassing, expansive, expressive, and relational arena for rethinking performance" (7). For the sake of simplifying somethnes convoluted narratives of critical practice, I am wielding the term "performance criticism" rather loosely in these opening pages, a term that Hodgdon rightly identifies as "an eclectic mix of critical sfyles and practices" (2). More detailed simimaries of the diversity that gets subsumed under the heading of "performance criticism" can be foimd in Hodgdon's mtroduction and in James C. Bulman's introduction to Shakespeare, Theory, and Performance (New York and London: Routledge, 1996), 1-11. consciously or unconsciously imply that performance is the result of merely realizing textual commands is to ignore the dynamic meanings and responses that are produced in performance, "to tame the unruly ways of the stage" {Authority 3). Worthen's metaphor is indicative of the ongoing struggle at the core of critical engagements with performance: the desire to allow the non-textual elements of performance to remain undistorted and "untamed" while also managing to somehow bracket performance and subject it to critical analysis. Writing about performance is a task not unlike the one faced by the Third Gentleman from The Winter's Tale who reports on the apparently spectacular (re)union of Leontes, Perdita, and company; despite a presumably accurate and detailed account deeply coloured by his own interpretations and responses (Perdita "did . . . bleed tears; for I am sure my heart wept blood" [5.2.89]), he concedes to his rapt listeners that the event in question was "a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of," an "encounter... which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it" (5.2.42-3, 57-8).̂  As the Third Gentleman suggests, it is the physical immediacy of certain encounters that provide them with much of their signifying and affective power (and here I am extending his claim to include theatrical encounters between actors, and between actors and audiences), and a certain, undeniable measure of both immediacy and affect is lost almost as soon as they are produced, never to be recaptured in any account, no matter how detailed. The Third Gentleman's interpretation of the reunion can be voiced to his interlocutors in the world of the play, to the audience of the play in the world, and assume a typographical form in the play as printed text, but all of these versions of his report to some degree resist such textualization, the experience in question rendered "lame" (his words) or "tame(d)" (Worthen's). * Tellingly, the First Gentleman processes the Third Gentleman's report into a kind of imagined performance: "The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes, for by such was it acted" (5.2.79-81). The (often implicit) primacy given to texts and textual meanings in its earliest incarnations is something that performance criticism has become alert and responsive to; a consideration of a recent essay reveals the extent to which its practitioners have endeavoured to theorize performance in ways that do not reflexively defer to the text, but rather embrace what James C. Bulman calls "the radical contingency of performance— t̂he unpredictable, often playful intersection of history, material conditions, social contexts, and reception" (1). The synchronic emphasis in the title of Ric Knowles's "Encoding/Decoding Shakespeare: Richard III at the 2002 Stratford Festival" announces his focus on one such point of intersection. Noting that most performance criticism "has concentrated its attention primarily on . . . the performance text" (302), Knowles offers instead an expanded tripartite model of performance analysis that considers not just the performance text, but also the conditions of production (including actors, directors, the rehearsal process, and the neighbourhood in which the play is staged), and the conditions of reception (the historical/cultural moment in which the play is received). If (adapting Worthen's formulation) performance is inevitably "tamed" when subjected to critical scrutiny, then what we find in Knowles's essay is that the interpretive arena in which performance must be enclosed is made as expansive as possible. Thus, his attempt to answer how the opening night of a particular staging of Richard III generated "radically different readings of the same production" (297) means that Knowles takes into consideration everything fi-om to the play's central (and nostalgic) position in the Festival's advertising campaign, to its mise en scène, to ticket prices, to the makeup of the Stratford Festival's Board of Governors. Utilizing his theory of "materialist semiotics," Knowles seeks not the meanings that Shakespeare might have originally intended when writing Richard III, nor Styan's "Shakespeare experience." In fact, Knowles stresses that no production (textual or theatrical) contains meaning; instead, "they produce meaning through the discursive work of an interpretive community and through the lived, everyday relationships of people with texts and performances" (300).̂  Consequently, Knowles's project is "designed to undertake precise ideological analyses of the conditions, conscious and unconscious, both of production, within and through which performance texts come into being and make themselves available to be 'read,' and of reception, spatial and discursive, within and through which audiences perform those readings and negotiate what the works mean for them" (302). One can perhaps discern something of Styan echoing in the background here—"As a spectator judges by what he perceives in the theatre, so perceptual criticism assesses the intention, the conception, behind a play from a reconstruction of performance before a particular audience, and arrives at its meaning by recognizing its code of communication" (72)— b̂ut it is clear that in Knowles's essay any recourse to the notion of stable, authorially-intended texts and textual meanings has become secondary to broader historical, cultural, and ideological lines of inquiry. Part of this broadening is accomplished by Knowles's use of "performance text," which is a deliberate move away from "playtext," one that reinforces the notion of printed plays as scripts intended for performance rather than texts available for more literary forms of analysis. The attractiveness of "performance texf for its proponents is that the term identifies performance as a source of meanings rather than a means through which the play's immutable textual meanings are revealed and/or interpreted; performance is not assumed to be derivative, a play's existence in print is not assigned any prior or preferential status. In the words of Barbara Hodgdon (a critic who has done much to define and explore performance as a distinct, non-derivative form of textuality that can be read in meaningful ways). ^ Knowles's "materialist semiotics" was first articulated at length in Reading the Material Theatre (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2004). "performance texf is meant to invert (or at least undo) the traditional hierarchy by challenging "the notion that the written word represents the only form in which a play can possess or participate in textuality" {End Crowns All 18). The understanding that performance participates in textuality rather than being dictated by it has been instrumental in the continued prominence and relevance of performance criticism, allowing critics to free themselves from the rigidity of formulations that propose a deterministic relation between text and performance. Hodgdon's work consciously shifts its focus away from the authority of the text to consider instead "how performers and readers activate that authority in relation to other cultural contexts and discourses" {Trade xiii)—Knowles's essay, it seems to me, is very much in this spirit. My intention is not to offer a systematic critique of Knowles's piece, but to use it to provide an example of how certain streams of perfonnance criticism have now expanded the discussion well beyond the text/performance polarity.'" It is important to recognize, however, that this polarity is not removed from the equation in essays such as Knowles's, only reprioritized, since any effort to write about performance involves textualizing it, to one degree or another. As Worthen himself admits, despite the concomitant distortions, textualizing a performance in order to engage with it (via description, recollection, critical inquiry, etc.) is not only inevitable, but usefiil as well: "A theatrical performance is not a text, but considering performance as though it participated in textuality helps us to see some of the '° I'll note in passing, however, that Knowles's program, despite its sophisticated attempts to accoimt for the complicated interrelations of the figures and forces involved in a play's production and reception is nevertheless limited in at least two ways. Firstly, I am troubled by his insistence that audiences "perform" readings and that audiences are not "independent agents" but are themselves "constructed and 'performed'" (302, 303); such a move threatens to reduce all forms of interaction to performance and subsequently dull the edges of his triangular model, producing more of a vortex in which performances beget performances ad infinitum. Secondly, his methods are restricted in terms of historical and geographical scope: in outlining the kinds of performances that his approach can best account for, Knowles admits that these are "almost exclusively [the] ones that I have seen myself (302). In fairness, Knowles emphasizes that he is "not attempt[ing] to create a template that can be applied in any context" (303). work, the theoretical work, it performs" (Authority 183)." The conclusion of Knowles's essay crystallizes this point: Knowles zeroes in on Tom McCamus's delivery of Richard's lines from 5.3 (the morning of Bosworth), claiming that the actor's reading "resonated as the surfacing of tensions among the various encoded discourses that I have been analyzing" (316). Knowles's insistence that McCamus's "was the most clearly schizophrenic reading I have seen of Richard's speech on the morning of Bosworth" (316) implicitly begins to demarcate Knowles's prior interpretation of the text that he brings with him to the theatre as a Shakespearean scholar and playgoer. The antecedence of his own understanding of the play is what allows him to identify and measure the choices made by those involved in the production—^his baseline reading establishes a kind of interpretive mean for Richard III, which in turn enables him to recognize deviations from that mean that occur during performance. In this case, "most schizophrenic" suggests "more schizophrenic than any other actor I have seen playing Richard" but also "more schizophrenic than I understood Richard to be in my previous reading(s) of the text"; this latter point is evidenced when Knowles cites a portion of the speech in question, providing "different typefaces for the different vocal registers used by the actor" (316)—if the extreme schizophrenic reading that Knowles is attempting to recapture was readily available to a reader, these alterations to the text would presumably be uimecessary. In short, while I don't dispute that Knowles is "reading" performance here, underlying this is the text and his (prior) reading(s) of it. The essay ends by returning to a specific moment and ostensibly entrenching various lines of argviment in the performance, with the strength of Knowles's conclusions resting on the " Worthen makes this point in the process of responding to Dawson's essay, "The Impasse over the Stage." In that essay, Dawson notes that construing and then critically reading a performance as if it were a text "is a perfectly legitimate, indeed an inescapable, strategy, since performance itself is obviously not stable, transparent or intrinsically knowable." Dawson stresses that any such reading of performance must be "recognized as a critical maneuver, not a theatrical one" (318). claim that the institutional and cultural fissures that he has highlighted throughout his study can be understood to be "housed in [the actor's] body" (316) at this particular moment of the play. Whether this is true or not is beside the point; in the end, what is significant is that Knowles's essay does and does not return to performance, or rather, it does not return to performance so much as to a textualized recollection and representation of it: an isolated portion of a prominent speech that is re-lineated and bolded in accordance with Knowles's imderstanding of the performance that he is trying to read.'̂ The scope and sophistication of Knowles's essay are representative of a new orthodoxy in performance criticism, one very much invested in recognizing and limiting the influence that printed playtexts might maintain over interpretive procedures. It goes without saying, however, that there remains a school of thought that would prefer to see printed playtexts retain the central position that they have long enjoyed in Shakespeare studies. That being said, the stability of texts has been so thoroughly undermined that those defending textual analysis can no longer remain a meaningful part of the debate by merely invoking scholarly tradition or claiming proximity to authorial intentions. To advocate the validity of reading dramatic texts closely entails defending such practices in increasingly sophisticated ways. One of the most theoretically-informed counter-attacks to the ascendancy of performance-oriented criticism remains Harry Berger Jr.'s Imaginary Audition: Shakespeare on Stage and Page. Since Berger's stated goal of explicating the validity of "imagined performance, of stage-centered reading that submits to literary rather than to theatrical controls" (28) speaks so clearly to my own interests, I would like to consider his work at some length. Berger would no doubt be untroubled by Worthen's conclusions that much That the very act of reproducing (and manipulating) certain lines in his essay reintroduces the tension between orality and print is ironically reinforced by the final lines that Knowles quotes: "My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, / And every tongue brings in a several tale . . . " Shakespearean performance criticism "tends to regard performance . . . as a way of reaUzing the text's authentic demands" (Authority 160); that performance criticism must be vigilant not to reinscribe certain textual biases only confirms Berger's conviction that texts and the activity of reading texts are always prior to any performance. Berger's belief in the primacy of the text is never really in question, and he positions his book in direct opposition to a performance criticism that is either largely uninterested in reading printed plays or believes that "performance should provide the model and criteria that govern reading" (xi). Shrewdly though, despite its textual biases—Berger identifies himself as a "confirmed armchair interpreter" (xiv)— t̂he opening pages of Imaginary Audition seem to indicate that Berger is not intending to reaffirm a deterministic relationship between text and performance. The main thrust of Berger's argument is that one can be an armchair interpreter and simultaneously remain cognizant of the stage, reading with an eye (or more accurately, an ear) attuned to the play as performed. Early on. Berger gives the impression of wanting to bridge the gap between page and stage, to refine what he perceives as the caricatured dichotomy of the "Slit-eyed Analyst and the Wide-eyed Playgoer" (xiv) perpetuated by "New Histrionicism [otherwise known as performance, or stage-centred, criticism]" (xiv). What his book purportedly details is a method of reading that corrects both "the reductive practice New Histrionicists advocate" and the "excesses of armchair interpretation which.. . they properly criticize" (xii); this practice of "stage-centred reading" is what he terms "imaginary audition." What the book ultimately details is something quite different. But before explaining what I mean by that, I want to examine Berger's deployment of "imaginary audition," and in particular, question the extent to which it actually encompasses a "stage-centred" method of reading. The practice is first articulated as follows: . . . it involves an attempt to reconstruct text-centred reading in a way that incorporates the perspective of imaginary audition and playgoing; an attempt to put into play an approach that remains text-centred but focuses on the interlocutionary politics and theatrical features of performed drama so as to make them impinge at every point on the most suspicious and antitheatrical of readings, (xiv) A certain air of rapprochement pervades this brief outline: Berger has no desire to leave the confines of his armchair, but fi"om his position of interpretive solitude he seems willing to entertain some of the signifying elements unique to the play as performed and bring these elements to bear on the literary forms of analysis that he favours; moreover, he suggests that this imaginative engagement with the stage will strengthen a text-centred reading. What soon becomes apparent, however, is that the aspects of playgoing and the "theatrical features of performed drama" that he will incorporate into his mode of reading are narrowly defined—it is the "audition" of "imaginary audition" that is absolutely central to Berger's thesis. If Berger's readings are indeed "stage-centered," then the imagined stage that is synthesized with the text is almost exclusively an auditory one— t̂he mind's ear(s) are called into service, but the mind's eye can effectively stay closed. Imaginary audition is first and foremost the readerly activity of imagined overhearing, what Berger refers to as "auditory voyeurism" (141). Premised on the belief that Shakespeare's major speakers—even in their most formal and public utterances—"seem often to be listening to and acting on themselves" (75), Berger performs an extended demonstration of imaginary audition via a close reading of 3.2 in Richard II; Richard's dialogue, argues Berger, throughout the play but particularly in this scene, assumes a unique valence "when we read it with imaginary audition attuned to its theatrical as well as its dramatic dimensions—when, that is, we distinguish between its character as performance before a theater audience and its character as utterance to fictional interlocutors" (77). To read with the aim of attending to the "theatrical circumstances" (xiii) of Richard His to "listen" to Richard listening to himself But to refer to a practice that focuses so intently on overhearing locutionary acts without attempting to accoimt for other physical aspects of playgoing (particularly the visual) as "stage-centered" seems misleading. Berger can attempt to equate ears and eyes synaesthetically—"Like the eyes of teimis watchers, readers must follow with their 'ears' the movement and meaning back and forth from speaker to auditor, from one auditor to another, from auditor to speaker, and—most important—from speaker to himself (75)— b̂ut the fact remains that the performed version of Richard //that Berger imagines as he reads is for all intents and purposes static, if not completely invisible.''^ His program does not require him to imagine (or remember) other variables that might conceivably enhance a reader's sensitivity to the "theatrical features of performed drama" (xiv), such as a particular mise-en-scène, or any specific movements by, or physical interactions between, actors. In essence, a reader practicing imaginary audition could envision a vigorous dramatic reading of a play rather than an actual performance, and the end result of the interpretation would seemingly be unaffected. Despite some conciliatory gestures towards performance. Berger never actually modifies his default assimiptions in which the text's position relative to performance is one of absolute primacy; reading a text is the principal way in which a play's "meaning" can be determined, and any and all "alternate and potentially stageable interpretations [are] inscribed in the playtext" (14, emphasis added). Theatre audiences, in Berger's estimation, are extremely limited (relative to readers) in terms of both the amoimt of information they " As Keir Elam reminds us, "statically freezing theatrical performance" risks "sacrificmg precisely what best characterizes it as a cultural and phenomenological experience, namely its open, dialectical character as a work or production— r̂ather than product—ever in progress and ever in process" ("Wars" 83). can take in during a live perfonnance and the speed at which they can process that information. By continually stressing the nuances that can only be gleaned through close reading as well as readers' unique ability to "decelerate" and "reaccelerate" the tempo of their engagement with the text. Berger is determined to remind his readers of "how much is withheld from an audience that can only hear and see, how much is occulted in the text they cannot read" (149). Berger's reminder, however, is only half of an important equation: it can also be said that dramatic texts—^particularly critically edited dramatic texts—simultaneously work to remind us that despite the likelihood that reading a play allows one to process information in more detailed and efficient ways, there remain myriad forms of information relayed in a performance that refuse textualization. This point leads me to the portion of Berger's study that I find especially compelling. Berger cites Gary Taylor's Moment by Moment by Shakespeare as an exemplar of the New Histrionicism that ignominiously disregards the "generosity or generativity of the text" (31). Berger takes Taylor to task for his treatment of Henry V, believing that Taylor's performance-oriented readings are posited on distorted and over-simplified constructions of both the literary critic and the "innocent playgoer" (32). In his critique of Taylor's reading(s), however, there comes a point at which Berger playfully and ironically claims that the very elements of performance that Taylor argues a reader is unable to imagine via "imaginary audition or visualization" (28) paradoxically brings those elements to the mind of Berger himself: . . . Taylor's own readings of the language lesson and several other scenes are finely imagined. They help at least one reader to a vivid apprehension of some of the ways performance can interpret the complexities of text. His account of the language lesson reduces my inability to 'hear' or respond to the jokes as if delivered. I suspect that Taylor's ideal deprived reader is as inexperienced in theater as I am. Yet when he mentions the army and the empty space and great volume of the theater that do not exist for that reader, they begin to exist for this reader. Taylor helps me imagine the effect of Alan Howard's passionate Henry aiming his Harfleur aria at me, and the effect of the resonance of the French king's voice giving life to the list of nobles. Even as Taylor belittles the reader's ability, he increases it by his forcefUl literary portrait of a production. (28) What is intriguing about Berger's digression is that it assigns qualities to Taylor's interpretive program that are also applicable to the interpretive work often done by editors in their own efforts to mediate text and performance for readers of critical editions. Considering the primacy that Berger is corrmiitted to assigning to the text, it is curious that Imaginary Audition makes no real mention of editorial activities, especially since information provided by editors has the potential to create the kind of "forceful literary portrait of a production" that Berger evidently finds so influential. The most obvious illustration here would be Taylor's own Oxford edition of Henry V, which predates Moment by Moment; a glimpse at Taylor's edition reveals that it includes options as to how the Harfleur scene (to take just one item fi-om Berger's list) might have originally been staged in its commentary notes to 3.1, and the introduction to the play mentions different interpretations of the siege by actors such as Charles Kean, F.R. Benson, and Lewis Waller. Why can't the work of editors—^whose fingerprints, one must assume, are all over the texts that Berger wants to read closely—be utilized to enhance "stage-centered" readings? This is the sort of question that Berger, uninterested in "the psychological constraints that playgoing imposes on interpretation" (xiii), does not entertain, but it is precisely the question that I mean to grapple with. In my mind, a richer version of what Berger terms "stage-centered" reading can be realized by including in one's scope the various forms of performance data that editors seek to explain, highlight, and in some instances supply. To only imagine moments of audition leaves large gaps in the virtual playgoing experience. Before attempting to bridge some of those gaps myself, however, I will first consider certain mediations of page and stage that can be seen to—directly or indirectly—exert a more demonstrable influence on editorial practice than those I have detailed thus far. * * * Taylor's edition of Henry F has close ties to his work as co-general editor of the Oxford Shakespeare: The Complete Works, first published in 1986. For reasons of its theoretical sophistication and influence, the Oxford edition attests to the involvement of editorial practice in the increasingly complex ways that the text/performance polarity is conceived, formulated, and disseminated. What is more, the Oxford edition is a provocative example of how the manner in which editors confront (or ignore, or marginalize) the intractability of the two modes can dictate the shape that critical editions assimie. The Oxford editors sought systematically to challenge a number of longstanding conventions in Shakespearean editing; chief among their contentious decisions was their commitment to understanding Shakespeare's dramatic work as intended solely for the theatre. In their preface they stress that "Performance is the end to which they were created, and in this edition we have devoted our efforts to recovering and presenting texts of Shakespeare's plays as they were acted in the London playhouses which stood at the centre of his professional life" (xxxix, emphasis added). To position themselves in such a way means that the Oxford editors sharply diverge from what was then the standard line in Shakespearean editing: that Shakespeare's printed texts were literary artifacts, and that Shakespeare, although iimnersed in numerous aspects of the early modem playhouse, was by and large an autonomous author whose intentions were, through the proper editorial and bibliographical procedures, fundamentally recoverable. The Oxford editors chose to publish their various editorial apparatuses in a separate volume, William Shakespeare: A Textual Companion, and the introduction to this companion piece works to displace Shakespeare-as-author from his central position in the editorial process: "Shakespeare . . . devoted his life to the theatre, and dramatic texts are necessarily the most socialized of all literary forms" (15). In seeking to recover the most socialized text, the Oxford editors select their various copy-texts based not on their respective proximity to authorial manuscripts and/or intentions, but rather, they "prefer—where there is a choice—the text closer to the prompt-book of Shakespeare's company" (Companion 15). These shifts, fi-om private and authorial to public and socialized, fi-om manuscripts and authorial intentions to prompt-books and pluralized networks of authority, are very much a product of the editors' desire to engage with the theoretical moment in which they foimd themselves. Indeed, the editors retrospectively admit that It was an exciting but also a dangerous time to be editing Shakespeare. Increasingly it was apparent that editorial practice had lagged behind textual research. Long-held orthodoxies were in the melting pot; new work was constantly appearing [...]. We were all agreed that we wanted actually to put into practice the consequences of current textual study, not to evade decisions on the grounds that this would be the 'safe' policy. (Wells and Taylor, "Re- Viewed" 8) One leading practitioner of the "current textual study" that the Oxford editors were greatiy influenced by was Jerome McGann, whose assistance is acknowledged in the preface to the Textual Companion. The insistence on the importance of the socialized text in the Oxford edition can be viewed as a direct result of McGann's own work, particularly that articulated i n ^ Critique of Modern Textual Criticism (1983). McGann's influence in editorial circles stems from his construction of literary authority as a "social nexus," something that is "initiat[ed]... in a necessary and integral historical environment of great complexity" (Critique 48). Diffusing authority in this way has significant ramifications for McGann's understanding of authorship and authorial intentions: "[T]he concept of authorial intention," writes McGaim, "only comes into force for criticism when (paradoxically) the artist's work begins to engage with social structures and functions. The fully authoritative text is therefore always one which has been socially produced; as a result, the critical standard for what constitutes authoritativeness cannot rest with the author and his intentions alone" {Critique 75). McGann is hardly oblivious to the conceptual value of authorial intentions from an editor's perspective; he in fact acknowledges that the notion of authorial intention is "an important tool of textual criticism," but believes that responsible editing must greatly restrict "the range and field of its usefulness" {Critique 68). In this light, when the Oxford editors affirm that "it is the texts as they were originally performed that are the sources of [Shakespeare's] power, and that we attempt here to present with as much fidelity to his intentions as the circumstances in which they have been preserved will allow (Preface xv), they are, following McGann, attempting to acknowledge the relevance of Shakespeare's authorial intentions, while simultaneously ensuring that these intentions are circumscribed by—and secondary to— t̂he extensive social network of influences in which they are situated. McGann's work advocates what Peter Shillingsburg terms the sociological orientation of editing. Shillingsburg identifies this orientation within editorial labour "when the help given the author is noted as a social phenomenon, of interest and importance in itself, and integral to the creative process. Social institutions, and perhaps the historical fact of collaborative production of literary works, take precedence over the author" (21).''* Authority for this orientation resides "in the institutional unit of author and publisher" (22), or more broadly, amongst the author and any intermediary involved in the publishing process—in the case of early modem drama, scribes, compositors, and other authors are In juxtaposing eighteenth-century editorial work with late twentieth- and early twenty-fïrst-century practice, Marcus Walsh believes that "With the exception of the introduction of computerized technologies, there has been no more significant development in modem bibliography and editing than the pursuit of arguments for a sociological orientation" (7). likely the most qiiantifiable of potential collaborative influences, with the feedback loop of performance practices and subsequent authorial revision(s) being no less important, but probably less demonstrable. It would be difficult to argue with the Oxford editors' claim that "dramatic texts are necessarily the most socialized of all literary forms" (Companion 15), but it does not necessarily follow that a sociological orientation will yield a text fi-ee from complications and contradictions, nor that editors consistently operate within a single orientation. Shillingsburg identifies three other major editorial orientations, all of which are primarily determined by where an editor locates authority for a text.'̂  The documentary (or historical) orientation "is founded on a sense of the textual integrity of historical moments and physical forms" (17); authority for the documentary orientation resides in the particular historical document, "warts and all" (18). Shillingsburg identifies the aesthetic orientation as the "least 'historical' alternative"—editors are usually appealing to it when they "declare their objective to be the preparation of the 'best' text of a work" (18); authority for this orientation resides "in a concept of artistic forms—either the author's, the editor's or those fashionable at some time" (19). The authorial orientation is self-explanatory: this orientation is evident when editors "discuss authorial intentions, whether 'original' or 'final'" (21); authority, not surprisingly, resides "with the author, though editors do not agree on what that means" (21).'^ Despite asserting the social aspects of drama and associating their edited text with "Shakespeare's plays as they were acted" (xxxix), the desire of the Oxford editors to retain Just as Shillingsburg differentiates editorial practice along the lines of locating authority, Gary Taylor defines editing as the effort to establish a text proximate "to something we value." "This conception of proximity," writes Taylor, "allows us to recognize that there is no single source of editorial legitimacy" ("End of Editing" 129, 130). Shillmgsburg identifies a fifth orientation— t̂he bibliographic—^but admits that it "can be seen as an extension of either the documentary or the sociological" (23). "as much fidehty to [Shakespeare's] intentions" (xv) puts the Oxford editors in the rather paradoxical position of having two seemingly incompatible goals: producing the socialized text "as originally performed" seems to set the Oxford editors off on one expedition, while their inclination to stay true to Shakespeare's intentions whenever possible suggests an editorial journey of a much different sort.'̂  In trying to do two things at once, the Oxford editors are often operating in a kind of interpretive limbo where any emendation is theoretically justifiable so long as it can be argued that it is tending toward theatrical performance or authorial intention, stage or page.'̂  To help make sense of these divergent principles it is usefiil to draw again from Shillingsburg, who offers important distinctions between three crucial terms: work, text, and document. Work, according to Shillingsburg, is purely conceptual, existing only "in the author's mind" (42); furthermore, "From an author's perspective a work is the product of the imagination," which means that "From the editor's and reader's perspectives a work is represented more or less well and more or less completely by various physical forms, such as manuscripts, proofs, and books. These forms often are not textually identical" (42,43). Most importantly, "A work... has no substantial existence" and "is only partially represented by any one given printed or written form" (43). Shillingsburg also makes a vital distinction between texts and documents; a text, he argues, is the product of the author's, or the author-and-other's, physical activity in the attempt to store in tangible form the version the author currently intends. Michael Dobson picks up on this inconsistency: "If this is, as some worried detractors have alleged, the first culturally relativist, post-structuralist edition of Shakespeare (and as such the last possible edition of Shakespeare As We Know It?), it is visibly dragging its heels . . . over the death of the author: it may in fact still be in the throes, however anxiously, of the death of the Bard" ("Design" 96). Take, for example, the manner in which they handle texts censored by the state: where censorship can be "identified and repaired . . . the Oxford edition has restored the imcensored text" {Companion 15). Such a move is likely a more accurate representation of Shakespeare's original intentions, but wouldn't the most socialized text be the one that still bears the marks of its censorship? Andrew Murphy is certainly correct when he points out that "McGann's theories are important and valuable, but they do not always make for easy editorial choices" {PrintlSl). And yet a text (the order of words and punctuation) has no substantial or material existence, since it is not restricted by time and space. That is, the same text can exist simultaneously in the memory, in more than one copy or in more than one form. The text is contained and stabilized by the physical form but it is not the physical form itself. (46) The physical form that contains and stabilizes a text is a document, which "consists of the physical material, paper and ink, bearing the configuration of signs that represents a text. Documents have material existence. Each new copy of a text, whether accurate or inaccurate, is a new docmnenf (47). Applying these definitions to the rationale of the Oxford edition suggests that the editors want to edit the texts of works (emending their copy-texts where they deem necessary in order to most accurately reproduce the plays that Shakespeare intended to write), but whenever possible they want the hypothetical underlying source of their copy-text to be the most socialized document (a playbook, not a manuscript).'̂  The difficulty with this premise is that the most socialized document does not necessarily contain the most accurate representation of an author's work; in truth, what makes the socialized document a compelling artifact for textual scholars is the very maimer in which it represents the dispersal of authority and intentionality. The situation is further complicated in that the Oxford editors—again following McGaim—^are conceiving of work in a particular way. Unlike Shillingsburg, McGaim assigns "work" an ongoing temporal existence: The 'text' is the literary product conceived as a purely lexical event; the 'poem' [roughly akin to Shillingsburg's understanding of a "document"] is the locus of a specific process of production (or reproduction) and consumption; and the 'work' comprehends the global set of all the texts and poems which Thomas Tanselle helps to clarify the distinction between editing texts of works and texts of documents, noting that "when [textual scholars] come to prepare an edition of the text of a document (any artifact with a verbal text, whether a personal letter or a copy of a printed edition of a novel)... they can make no alterations in that text. If they do alter the text, then of course they are no longer presenting the text of the document but are focusing on the text of the work or statement that—in their opinion—was intended by someone in the past or is more desirable in the present" (57-8, emphasis added). have emerged in the literary production and reproduction process. (Textual Condition 3,1-2) McGann thus argues that there is no such thing as a Platonic literary "work," but a series of textual events and performances that cumulatively constitute the "work"; in other words, no originary, authorial work called Hamlet guides the production of all subsequent texts and performances, but rather all textual and performative iterations of the play combine to yield a work called Hamlet?'^ This pluralized understanding of work is made explicit in the appearance of two versions of King Lear in the Oxford Shakespeare rather than the traditional single, conflated text: one based on the 1608 Quarto and linked to a Shakespearean manuscript; the other based on the 1623 Folio text that incorporates, according to the Oxford editors, not only "a more obviously theatrical text" (943), but also authorial revisions so substantive that they produce a discrete literary work. The Oxford editors subsequently admitted that they would have liked to have applied this line of reasoning to other plays as well: "It now seems obvious that we should have included two versions of Hamlet as we did with King Lear: a Folio-based version . . . and also a version based upon Q2" (Wells and Taylor, "Re-Viewed" 16).̂ ' While I have been emphasizing the links between the influential Oxford edition and the writings of McGaim, it would be a mistake to claim that the editors' rationales were completely determined by McGann's work or that the Oxford edition represents the epitome of McGannian textual theory. On the contrary, it seems to me that many of the complications and paradoxes in the Oxford edition resuh from the editors' inability to fiilly adopt °̂ Joseph Grigely puts McGann's basic assumptions into more extreme terms, claiming that a literary work is never complete, nor is it constituted by the simi of its texts; rather, it is "an ongoing—and infmite— manifestation of textual appearances, whether those texts are authorized or not" (99). Wells and Taylor indicate that they "were concerned for simple reasons of bulk, about adding yet another long play," and that '^Hamlet was one of the last plays we edited; we were tired" ("Re-Viewed" 17). McGann's principles. Although they shift their attention to the plays as perft)mied, the Oxft)rd editors also find it necessary to hold on to a belief in Shakespeare as author and originary force, which means that they cannot quite bring themselves to do away with what McGann refers to as the "deeply problematic concept" {Critique 68) of authorial intention. I accentuate the connections between McGann and the Oxford edition for two reasons: first, to provide an example of the extent to which textual theory and editorial practice have become inextricable; and second, to begin to imderscore the impact that conceptions of authorial work, texts, and performances have on editorial decision-making and the structure of critical editions. As Worthen points out, in shifting attention fi-om the authorial to the social, McGann "moves the work from origin to consequence in the process of production" {Authority 13), which opens the door for performance to assume a prominent position in the critical editing of dramatic texts. Rather than perceiving performance as derivative of, and marginal to, textual versions of a work, McGaim's position essentially democratizes the idea of work, rendering both performances and texts as essential (and equal) components in a work's ongoing existence. For editors sharing McGann's difftised understanding of work, "what the author must have intended" need not dictate editorial procedures—elements in an extant text indicative of non-authorial influences (like performance practices) are potentially of greater importance than an author's intentions since these secondary influences enable an editor to reconstruct the more fully socialized text. Of course, as the Oxford edition confirms, some conception of authorship is an indispensable tool for editors and textual theorists, and there remains a school of thought that does not wish to see considerations of origins replaced by an exclusive focus on socialized networks and consequences. The most prominent of critics who could be placed opposite McGann is G. Thomas Tanselle, who argues sfrongly for locating the work within realms of authorship and intentionality rather than dispersing that work amongst the material forms it assumes throughout its (ongoing) history. For Tanselle, the work as it existed in the mind of its author(s) should be the governing force behind editorial decision-making, despite the fact that this work might now be unrecoverable, indeed might never have had a material existence at all; a literary work, in Tanselle's estimation, is "a creation formed by a hirman being (or more than one) at a particular time in the past" (69-70). Tanselle is aware that non-authorial influences will inform a work's various material appearances—"the same work may vary as a result of alterations, both intentional and inadvertent, introduced by the author or by others involved in the production of those texts" (16)—but this fact negates neither the validity nor the historical reality of the work as conceived by its author(s). Thus in stark contrast to McGarm, Tanselle conceives of texts as representing—^with various levels of fidelity— t̂he authorially-intended work; rather than emphasizing the layers of social strata that McGaim sees as cumulatively constituting the work, Tanselle believes an editor's duty is to dig backwards through these layers to their authorial core, even if such an excavation goes beyond material texts to the domain of informed speculation. This speculative or imaginative element is what most sets Tanselle apart from McGann: Tanselle is willing to distrust a text that is recorded in a surviving document if he believes that his own interpretive procedures can bring him closer to the authorially-intended text. Tanselle describes the physical text "as an occasionally unreliable, but always indispensable, guide" (15) to the work that an editor should be striving to faithfully reproduce. More provocatively, he is dubious of fully investing in material histories: . . . those most emphatic in holding that the meaning of literature emerges from a knowledge of historical context—those most likely, that is, to believe themselves scrupulous in the use of historical evidence—are in fact hindering their progress toward their goal if they do not recognize that artifacts may be less reliable witnesses to the past than their own imaginative reconstructions. (34) The suggestion that an editor's imaginative reconstruction of the text of a work might be a more accurate approximation than any extant text related to that work may seem presumptuous at first glance, but in actuality, it is difficult to conceive of most forms of editorial activity without this basic governing belief (or some variation of it). Those producing facsimile editions of texts can remain untroubled by even the most conspicuous of errors since any and all errors are a part of the document being reproduced (see above, nl9); however, any time an editor finds it necessary to "correct" what is perceived to be an error in the text—even if that error seems utterly obvious, like an egregious spelling mistake or a piece of type inadvertently(?) inverted by a compositor— t̂hen that editor is acknowledging (explicitly or not) that the text does not accurately represent the literary work in question, and ftirther, that a decision can be based on an imagined reconstruction of the work that might never have existed in a material form but is nevertheless conceived of as historically valid. While those critical of Tanselle seize, as Leah Marcus does, on the way in which he "resort [s] to a Kantian or Platonic 'ideal' of the work" (Unediting 31), it is crucial to recognize that Tanselle's interest in recovering an author's intended work is in no way an ahistorical or anti-historical endeavour. Tanselle rightly points out that the "desires [of authors] have just as much historical reality as do the texts that were finally published, though the desires are likely to be harder to locate" (76). Other critics echo Tanselle in defending the historical validity of attempting to imaginatively approximate lost authorial intentions. Anthony Dawson, for one, embraces the "complex aesthetic pleasures that imaginative editing and reading can uncover," and believes that an imaginary original text "is a necessary component of the interpretive process we call history" ("Imaginary" 159, 153). Furthermore, Dawson puts forth that a rigid fidehty to the material form of extant texts does not sufficiently account for "the complexity of historical relations between texts"; Dawson writes that "a certain eclecticism" that involves recourse to an imaginary original text "might . . . be a more 'historical' way of proceeding since it acknowledges the necessary element of interpretation in all historical work" ("Imaginary" 148).̂ ^ When it comes to the undeniable interpretive aspects of editorial labour, Tanselle shrewdly points out that if one's goal is to produce the "[socialized] work as it emerged from the collaborative process that leads to publication or distribution," it follows that "one might well conclude that the most appropriate text need not necessarily entail reconstruction at all but might instead be one of the texts already published" (87). David Scott Kastan makes a similar point in slightly different terms: Once one takes as one's goal not the isolation of authorial intentions from their enabling forms and circumstances but precisely the opposite—the location of the text within the network of social and institutional practices that have allowed it to be produced and read—it becomes more difficult to imagine the form such an edition would assume and the procedures by which one would edit. Indeed arguably it becomes more difficult to justify editing at all, since the unedited texts, even in their manifest error, are the most compelling witnesses to the complex conditions of their production. {Book 122-3, emphasis added) This point does not deny the usefulness of socially-orientated editing, but instead serves as a reminder of the ineluctability of authors and authorial intentions within discussions of literary work, even if the literature in question is as socially entrenched as drama. In an earlier essay, Dawson reminds us of a simple yet indispensable historical fact that is often elided when literary authority is pluralized and material histories are emphasized: "Shakespeare after all was a real person who sat somewhere and wrote out something that was in some way 'in' his head" ("Impressions" 43). Tanselle recognizes that "what is done to a text by the author's friends, scribes, printers, and publishers is also a matter of history," and that "decid[ing] to reconstruct the version of a work resulting from the ministrations of any of them . . . is as valid [a goal] as that of recovering the author's intended text: each is valuable and serves a different historical purpose" (84-5). Explicitly or implicitly then, the theoretical spectrum represented by McGann and Tanselle can be understood to guide editorial practice. The shape that edited texts assiune will be greatly impacted depending on whether an editor is attempting to reconstruct the play as printed or performed at some historical or (re)imagined moment (following McGann), or attempting to approximate the ideal, imagined work intended by the author(s) (following Tanselle). In discussing the forms of critical editions, Marvin Spevack believes that "when all is said and done," editions of Shakespeare since the early twentieth century "are, in their core substance interchangeable" (79), adding that "as far as substantial verbal changes are concerned the text of Shakespeare is for all intents and purposes fixed" (80). Spevack is erring on the side of hyperbole here, but if we accept his basic point— t̂hat from a macroscopic perspective there is little variation in the "core substance," or dialogue, of critical editions of the same play— t̂hen it follows that substantial distinctions between critical editions exist primarily in the interstitial matter of the playtext, in the editor's manipulations of acts and scenes, speech prefixes, and stage directions. In many ways, these interstitial markers—^what R. B. McKerrow refers to as a dramatic text's "accessories" (19)—are where the line between the authorial and the social begins to blur, where the playwright's authority is willingly dissipated amongst those involved in utilizing the text in performance. As Worthen puts it, "Stage directions and speech prefixes are important because they are where the authorial meets the theatrical, where the writing meets the performer, where the poetics of drama meet the conventions of the stage" {Print 28). Scholars have situated a text's "core substance" and its "accessories" in a number of ultimately analogous binaries. Taylor writes of Shakespeare's dramatic works as having a "written text... depend[ent] upon an unwritten para-text which always accompanied it." Taylor argues that this para-text— "̂an invisible life support system of stage directions"— tends to be missing from the earliest editions of a play, while "modem editions, more or less comprehensively, attempt to rectify the deficiency, by conjecturally writing for him the stage directions which Shakespeare himself assumed or spoke but never wrote" {Companion 2)?^ Similarly, in The Literary Work of Art, Roman Ingarden makes a firm distinction between dialogue and stage directions in his discussion of dramatic works; Ingarden differentiates between "the 'side text' [nebentext] or stage directions—i.e., information with regard to where, at what time, etc., the given represented story takes place, who exactly is speaking, and perhaps also what he is doing at a given moment, etc.— ând the main text [haupttext] itself (208). Ingarden's nebentext appears more inclusive than Taylor's para-text, expanding as it does to include scene designations and speech prefixes; Taylor and Ingarden also diverge in that Ingarden's basis of differentiation is not what is left unwritten or incomplete by the playwright, but what is potentially spoken and imspoken in performance: "The main text of a stage play consists of the words spoken by represented persons, while the stage directions consist of information given by the author for the production of the work. When the work is performed on stage, the latter are totally eliminated; they perform their representing function and are really read only during the reading of the play" (377). Despite these differences, Taylor and Ingarden are essentially making the same distinction between a "core substance" and "accessories"; that Taylor moves forward from what the playwright did or did not supply for readers while Ingarden moves backward from what is and is not vocalized in a performance is a reminder that any such demarcation testifies to the often permeable and unfixed boundaries between page and stage. Taylor's formulation is further evidence of the Oxford edition's conflation of authorial and sociological orientations: following Taylor, an editor is working with a base text written by Shakespeare, but missing stage directions integral to the text's transition to the stage must necessarily be supplied by an editor in order to reproduce what is understood to be a script intended for performance. Taylor's text/para-text and Ingarden's haupttextlnebentext distinctions thus help to define an editor's mediatory position at a threshold of two types of textual information. Formulating a distinction between dialogue and ancillary, yet indispensable, directions for performance differentiates the editing of dramatic works from other forms of printed literature in that editors of drama engage— b̂y necessity—with two arenas of signification: the literary and the theatrical. As exemplified by Tanselle and McGann, theoretical discussions of editorial practice tend to gravitate to one extreme or the other (literary/textual/authorial or theatrical/performative/social); the act of editing, however, is a more pragmatic affair since editors must negotiate both modes of production. In a series of essays, Margaret Jane Kidnie has thoughtfully explored the ramifications of this bi-fold authority for both editors of critical editions and their readers. Kidnie points out that unlike the "ultimately ephemeral" staging choices made by directors, editorial decisions have a material resonance, since "the editor's staging choices, embedded in the script as text, impact on all subsequent literary interpretations and potentially even on those offered in performance" ("Text" 468). The materiality of editorial interpretations and emendations, while motivated by the desire to assist readers, can nevertheless be understood to cut in the opposite direction; adopting Ingarden's terminology, Kidnie explains what "embedded" interpretations can mean for the appearance of the text: . . . any alteration an editor may choose to make to the staging of a script will inevitably embed critical interpretation in the dramatic text. In a modemized edition the dramatic text no longer consists of the imity of haupttext and mbentext but that of haupttext, nebentext, and editorial interpretation of the staging, with the last two elements frequently presented to the reader as the same thing. ("Text" 467) Here then is one crucial point at which imderstandings of editorial practice diverge: to what extent are an editor's attempts to bridge "undeniable . . . gaps in the nebentext of an early modem script" understood to be helpful, and to what extent are such interventions viewed as restricting a reader's own interpretation by, as Kidnie puts it, "subjectively imposing staging on a dramatic text" ("Text" 465, 468)? Kidnie believes that editors have become too complacent in their belief that "interventionist editing of staging [is] a means by which the reader gains a richer understanding of the play in performance"; she argues that because of the inertia of the status quo, modem critical editions "impos[e] on the script editorial staging premised either explicitly or implicitly on modem theater practice," and that rather than altering the text and subsequently misleading readers (especially "unspecialized" ones), editors of Shakespearean drama should instead seek a way to "acknowledge or embrace radical uncertainty, offering readers historicized understandings of both theatrical conventions and vagaries of performance with which to develop independent, even idiosyncratic interpretations of staging" ("Text" 465-6, 470). Kidnie's interrogations of the issues at hand are extremely insightful, but here she seems to tread a slippery slope. If an editor's ultimate goal should be the acknowledgement and perpetuation of "radical uncertainty," then one must wonder whether the production of a critical edition is the best way to promote such an understanding of early modem dramatic texts. Seeking to historicize and destabilize the text to such an extent verges into a grey area in which a socialized orientation implicitly begins to undermine editorial activity itself. It is telling that "asking readers to interact with the dramatic text as necessarily unfixed and unstable" means for Kidnie that "editors might resist modifying or supplementing extant stage directions altogether" (470). Indeed, it goes without saying that editing with an eye towards perpetuating an "indeterminate textual condition" (470) often means not editing at all (or at least not making the kinds of decisions traditionally associated with critical editions). The intractability of Kidnie's position (wouldn't extant or facsimile editions be more accurate representations of a text's "radical imcertainty"?) is representative of the knife's edge on which editorial work must often balance: while working to bridge unavoidable "gaps in the nebentext,'''' an editor simultaneously invites the reader to "interact" with the very ambiguities and instabilities that the bulk of editorial decisions are designed to smooth over. Or put another way, an editor inevitably constructs an interpreted version of a text, but this version should ideally be constructed in such a way that it does not preclude other, different interpretations. Finding the means to address both the gaps that readers require to be filled for them and the gaps that they should fill (or at least confront) on their own in order to appreciate a playtext's ambiguity is no easy task— t̂he very gaps that are identified as substantive and the ways in which they are subsequently dealt with will vary from editor to editor; to her credit, Kidnie has explored what an edition that more fiilly acknowledges or "embrace [s] radical uncertainty" might look like. She proposes an edited page that arranges its information in a much different way than what is typically found in modem critical editions (a primary network of dialogue and stage directions taking up most of the page, with sections of collation and commentary beneath it). Influenced by Umberto Eco's idea of the "open work," where the "Blank space surrounding a word, typographical adjustments, and spatial composition in the page setting of the poetic text—all contribute to create a halo of indefiniteness and to make the text pregnant with infinite suggestive possibilities" (qtd. in "Staging" 158-9), Kidnie experiments with small sections of Troilus and Cressida and Romeo and Juliet, seeking a means to "transfer the interpretive activity fi-om the editor to the reader" (165). She attempts to do so primarily through the use of marginal stage directions, a strategy conditioned by her belief that "Scripts are not comparable to performance, nor can they encode it" (158). Rather than a continuous interlacing of dialogue and stage directions within her edited text, all stage directions in Kidnie's hypothetical pages are moved to a separate "box" miming down the left hand side of the dialogue—a move that Kidnie justifies by referring to a similar positioning in some surviving early modem manuscript plays and playbooks; the stage directions thus remain a conspicuous (perhaps more conspicuous) part of the printed page, but are now apart from the bulk of the edited text. Certain directions (especially entry or exit cues, to which Kidnie attaches arrows so as to highlight their fluidity) take on an indefinite, floating quality— t̂his is deliberate on Kidnie's part, reflecting the fact that many directions are variable in performance, and might even take place over a span of spoken dialogue rather than at a specific moment (as they might appear to do when "fixed" in traditional critical editions).̂ ^ The increased demands put on the reader to skip between the two boxes is likewise intentional: according to Kidnie, the reader is implicitly given "permission" to decide when to "dip into" or even ignore the stage directions, with any dismptions to the "smooth flow of the reading experience" intended to reflect the text's inherent instabilities (169). Al l in all, Kidnie believes that modifying the appearance of the edited page simultaneously recognizes textual uncertainties and allows for readers' interpretations to proliferate: "Instead of trying to fix (in both senses of the word) an imstable print document, this strategy builds into the spatial presentation of the page the textual indeterminacy typical of directions found in early modem printed and manuscript drama" (165). It must be said, however, that although Kidnie imderstands most critical editions to severely circumscribe readerly interpretations, designing a text to promote notions of instability and indeterminacy is just the flip side of the same coin: Kidnie's format might The editors of the recent BSC Complete Works have employed a similar strategy of attaching arrows to marginal stage directions to indicate that "a piece of business . . . may occur at various different moments within a scene" (Ix). "demystif[y] the editorial function" (169), but her particular interpretation (of early modem dramatic texts, if not of the plays in question) is still encoded into the text itself; if Kidnie's text works as she intends, readers will understand playtexts to be indefinite, unstable objects—a revealing way to think about them, though only to a point. Kidnie's hypothetical pages remain a highly mediated way of encountering a play, they just emerge from the mediatory process looking different than the pages of standard critical editions.'̂ ^ And while Kidnie is adamant that text and performance are fundamentally incongmous, that "performance is never contained within the script" ("Text" 458), her rethinking of the editorial treatment of stage directions is intended to bring the two modes of production into the closest proximity that the printed page will allow. She suggests, for example, that the left hand box of stage directions can, at certain points, create "an impression of activity in the margin of the page" ("Staging" 169), and even more provocatively, that freeing stage directions from being "graphically fixed to a certain moment in the dialogue . . . creates as an effect in the print medium the sense one has when watching a theatrical performance of action occurring in space and time" (172). Live theatre cannot be captured on the page (of this there can be no dispute), but the nature of Kidnie's proposed revisions to editorial practice speaks to editors' capacity (be it tapped or untapped) for keeping text and performance in meaningful contact with one another within the boimds of the printed page. Kidnie is not the first to experiment with the look of the edited page in order to highlight textual uncertainties. Consider Jesus Tronch-Pérez's Synoptic Hamlet, a full-length version of the play that seems to do its job of destabilizing the text too well, smce its synchronic presentation of variant readmgs—stacked, one on top of the other—^means that on a very basic level, it can't be read in any linear way (despite Tronch-Pérez's insistence that he is in fact producing a "'reading critical edition" (58)). The difficulty in reading Tronch-Pérez's text emerges in his own description of it: his synoptic text "by means of a code system, points readers directly and immediately towards the significant variants, and at the same time, allows them to decode and read separately the discrete textual states or versions that have been 'synopticized'" (57). How can any reader possibly process all of this "at the same time"? In my mind, it is more usefiil to think of Tronch-Pérez's edition as a kind of archive of variant readings than a reading edition. For my purposes, more important than debating the potential benefits of Kidnie's hypothetical pages is engaging with the issues and questions that her work brings to the fore; Kidnie's hypothesis and the reasons why we can even begin to entertain its usefiilness are founded on certain assimiptions about how mediations of text and performance are largely determined by the ways editors choose to select, organize, and transmit certain kinds of information to readers. Following McGann, Kidnie notes that "the visual design of a page encodes information in a manner quite apart from the linguistic meaning of the words printed on that page, or to put that yet a different way, readers construct meaning, not just by reading a page, but by looking at a page" (169). That Kidnie's manipulation of "the spatial presentation of the page" (165) might have major ramifications for a reader's interpretation of both text and performance—^producing what she terms ''textual perfonnance[s]" (172, emphasis hers)—suggests that the blueprint that editors follow for constructing the space of their page (and more broadly, the space of their edition) is an integral factor in any inquiry into the treatment of text and performance in editorial practice. What must be considered involves not just the design and appearance of the edited page but also the basic elements selected to put it together, the information an editor deems necessary to provide—a commentary note introducing or dismissing certain staging possibilities can produce or encourage a specific kind of textual performance, as might a collation that includes notable decisions made in other editions, or a marginal invitation to consider prefatory material related to a play's performance history. These are just some of the ways, in addition to Kidnie's suggestions, that a critical edition is able to facilitate a reader's ability to span the gap between the printed text and its transformations in, and by, the theatre, hi what remains, I will introduce a concept intended to fill another sort of gap, one that I perceive in the existing critical vocabulary used to discuss text and performance in studies of editorial practice. That concept is performancescape. * * * My goal in implementing performancescape is to shift the discussion away from the incongruities of text and performance to focus instead on the symbiotic exchange between the two modes, as well as the ways this exchange can be structured in print. My development of the term is indebted to Kidnie's description of how readers can process the heterogeneity of text and performance: . . . in a dramatic text (the play as literature) the stage directions interact with the dialogue to create not the image of a real or potential performance but a sort of virtual performance, a theater of the mind. What the dramatic text can therefore provide us with is an ideal performance as imagined by the author and shaped by the dominant theatrical conventions of the historical and cultviral moment of the play's creation as literature. ("Text" 464-5) I want to modify this claim by utilizing performancescape to consider the critical edition more broadly. While Kidnie's imderstanding of'virtual performance" or "theater of the mind" is restricted to the interactions of dialogue and stage directions (as is Berger's "stage- centered reading"), to limit such terminology to only the edited copy-text portion of critical editions reflects a somewhat narrow view of what these editions actually encompass. With new editions of Shakespeare's plays growing exponentially in size, the edited text in question usually occupies only a fraction of an edition's total page count (and often only fi-actions of those pages, given that more detailed collations and notes are perpetually expanding from the margins). What Kidnie calls a ̂ 'virtual performance" can potentially be shaped by more than just the interaction of dialogue and stage directions: an edition's introduction, commentary notes, appendices, illusfrations or photographs—all of the performance-related information that an editor collects and organizes in fashioning the book of the play—are meaningfiil sites of interaction between text and performance. Ancillary information provided by an editor is not a part of the playtext, but is often bound to it so firmly so as to imply that a reader's navigation of the playtext is dependent on it.̂ ^ Performancescape can best be defined as a property of dramatic texts that is activated as a reader negotiates between the text proper and various forms of editorial intervention: as dialogue, stage directions and supplementary information intermingle, a virtual performance (or a variety of potential virtual performances) begins to take shape. A specific performance cannot be extracted from the raw material of the text (just as a representation of a cityscape cannot reproduce or recapture in full the multiple layers of detail and information that exist when one actually experiences a city by moving through it), but performancescape speaks to the ways that a text can begin to represent performance potentialities, to give relative shape and stability to what is dynamic and multifarious. Performancescape is meant to point in two directions at once: it refers to an editor's imagined performance of a textual moment or moments (the virtual "scape" of the imagined scene), as well as an editor's attempts to represent and communicate that virtual performance via the strategic arrangement of information within the edition itself (the "scape" of the page); once embedded in a text, a performancescape functions as an invitation for readers to share (and perhaps subsequently modify or discount) an editor's interpretation of the moment as it has been, or might be, performed. The term's value is that it offers a flexible model for discussing the interactions My effort to retain a more totalized understanding of critical editions extends Manfred Phister's claim that a printed play consists of "primary" ("spoken dialogue between . . . dramatic figures") and "secondary" ("text segments that are not reproduced on stage in spoken form") texts —a formulation more expansive than Taylor's text/para-text or Ingarden's haupttextlnebentext. Pfister's "secondary" text includes "the title of the play, the inscriptions, dedications and prefaces, the dramatic personae, annoimcements of act and scene, stage-directions, whether applicable to scenery or action, and the identification of the speaker of a particular speech" (13-14). Pfister's definition facilitates a consideration of the potential intersections of page and stage within a printed text that goes beyond a focus on dialogue and stage directions; further, in regards to editorial practice, Pfister's imderstanding of what constitutes the play's "secondary" text is more representative of the myriad places at which an editor engages with the play. between editors, dramatic texts, and readers; performancescape can be deployed to recognize the ongoing negotiation between mise en scène and mise en page, a recognition that does not come as readily from phrases such as "virtual performance" or "imagined performance." On the surface my interest in how information is arranged on a page, and distributed amongst pages, appears materialist in nature, but I would stress here that printed editions and how they are constructed and interpreted must be understood to be more than just derivations of the materiality of the page; there is much more to the Shakespearean text than its "absorbent surface" (de Grazia and Stallybrass 283). Hardline materialist approaches to bibliography—like de Grazia and Stallybrass's— t̂hat claim to move "outside metaphysics" (particularly an author's intended meanings) by proposing that texts can be conceived of as having a purely material existence—"in the materials of the physical book itself: in paper" (280)—often fail to attend to how texts get used, that is, to the activity of reading, which, as David Schalkwyk reminds us, is "a fimdamentally /weraphysical problem, one that cannot be confined to physics" (221). Issues of materiality will be salient to a thoughtfiil consideration of the history of the Shakespearean text, but what must also be taken into account are the uses to which the text can be put, the intentions and interpretations of those individuals shaping critical editions and the inevitability of their confrontation with the intentions of an originary author. Part of the appeal of performancescape is that in gesturing toward both the scape of the printed page and the scape of the imagined scene, the term registers the usefiilness and the limitations of materialist analysis—keeping both kinds of scapes in play recognizes that editorial activity engages the material and the ideal, the tangible document and the intangible work. *̂ Or, as Zachary Lesser puts it, "Part of what makes a history of reading so difficult to write is that reading occurs at the intersection of the material and the immaterial, the physical and the psychical, the letter and the spirit" ("Typographic" 99). Performancescape is thus a concept that is in the spirit of New Bibiliographical attempts to engage the immaterial via the material text, with the aims of reconstruction shifting fi-om authorial intentions and lost manuscripts to what for readers is the absent play- as-performed. Recourse to the imagination is hardly the height of critical fashion (a point that teases at the early modem currency of "scape" as a thoughtless transgression, {OED 2)), but embracing the role that this faculty plays in editorial activity helps to avoid succumbing to the impulses that might formulate page and stage as mutually exclusive. Any conceptualization of the links between the two modes of production, it seems to me, must allow for an imaginative element. The longstanding "zombie-theory of drama" (Worthen, Print 8) in which performance is understood to be absolutely derivative of the text, a mere realization of the text's instmctions, implicitly involves some sort of animating, interpretive force to awaken that which lays dormant on the page. More recent, nuanced treatments of the two modes of production that have rightly supplanted this "zombie-theory" must likewise accoxmt for the interpretive activity that facilitates the transition from text to performance: Worthen writes, for example, of "the theatre necessarily subject[ing] print to use, to labor, in ways that render it not the container of meaning, but raw material for new meanings" {Force 56)—"labor" becomes the term utilized by Worthen to fill the conceptual and rhetorical gaps between text and performance. If the dynamics of the stage are not contained within the text but are a product of non-textual labours, it does not necessarily follow that an edition's performancescapes lack validity or usefulness, even though these approximations of performance will always be fi-agmentary, incomplete, and heavily reliant on the imagination. To edit is, at some level, to recognize that readers require certain levels of mediation; to accept this first point means accepting a second: that editing is an act of interpretation that involves making informed decisions in the pursuit of relative textual stability and accessibility. Ideally, when it comes to giving readers a sense of how a play might function on stage, editors will not abandon readers in the face of obscurity, but provide the means to help bridge interpretive gaps by giving them a sense of the variability of performance. The reader's position in the mediatory processes that performancescape is meant to explicate is rooted in the term itself, which can be read performance-scape or performanc- escape (with the "e" doing double-duty, ending one word and beginning the next).̂ ^ Emphasizing the ''scape" invokes the material and virtual aspects detailed above; the embedded "escape^'' fimctions in two ways: firstly, as an imaginative effort to "escape" the page and imaginatively approximate performance. Such an escape is always partial and temporary, just as an awareness of the "escape''' in the term itself cannot permanently break from the fixity of print, the "performanc{e)" that precedes it. Secondly, the embedded "escape''^ is meant to imply that an editor's performancescape is something that some readers will be able to resist or "escape" from. Even performancescapes that appear prescriptive are not necessarily so, since a reader might (very easily) be able to imagine an alternative virtual performance that runs counter to an editor's performancescape; moreover, a reader can simply (or perhaps not so simply) ignore the supplementary matter provided by an editor. The potential to read the term two ways nicely encapsulates certain tensions between orality and literacy that contribute to the fundamental rift between performance and text. Walter Ong explains: "Sound . . . exists only when it is going out of existence. I cannot have all of a word present at once: when I say 'existence', by the time I get to the '-fence', the 'exis-' is gone. The alphabet implies that matters are otherwise, that a word is a thing, not an event, that it is present all at once, and that it can be cut up into little pieces . . . " (91). Similarly, to give voice to performancescape is to recognize the ephemerality of dialogue uttered on stage My thanks to M. J. Kidnie for bringing to light the potential richness of this ambiguity. and of performance in general—I must pronounce ''performance-scape" or "performanc- escape" but caimot pronoimce both terms at once; to print and read the term is to recognize the paradoxical fixity that print assigns—^paradoxical in the sense that this ostensible fixity carries with it an awareness of how a printed word (and by extension, text) can be altered or "cut up." Ong argues that writing can produce "exquisite structures and references [that] far surpass the potentials of oral utterance" (85), a point that has major ramifications for those attempting to measure the text/performance divide. How to treat the multiplicity of meanings inherent in printed texts is a fimction of one's critical orientation: Berger, for example incorporates "the range of alternate and potentially stageable interpretations inscribed in the playtexf (14) into an argument that ultimately champions the primacy of the printed play over the play as performed; conversely, for Philip McGuire, performance becomes the primary mode of realizing a play since at key moments performance limits a playtext's pervasive ambiguity: "only during a performance of the play," writes McGuire, do "sets of meanings and effects . . . take on specific shape and coherence" (122). Regardless of whether it is fashioned as an interpretive limitation or benefit, the inevitability of a performance's foreclosure of certain textual ambiguities speaks to a crucial distinction between a reader's and an audience member's reception of a play. As Taylor points out, relative to a playgoer, a reader assumes a greater interpretive responsibility but also faces a lack of interpretive urgency: unlike those seeing a play performed, a reader "can govern the speed and direction of his reading, as an auditor cannot; he has time to puzzle out the lines, time to attempt to relate them" {Moment 202).̂ *̂  A reader's fi-eedom to set some of Pfister makes the same point: "One consequence of the collective reception of dramatic texts is that the individual receiver is unable to vary the tempo of the reception process, nor can he usually interrupt it at will or have sections repeated if he has failed to understand the text. The reader... on the other hand, can determine the basic terms of engagement with a play (tempo of reading, length of time spent reading, direction of movement within the playtext) is another reminder of just how dissimilar the activities of reading and seeing a play can be. Berger emphasizes this incongruity in his description of "decelerated microanalysis," an interpretive tool exclusive to readers that "enlarges and emblematically fixes features not discernible in the normal rhj^hm of communication" (148). Put more simply. Berger places special emphasis on a reader's ability to "decelerate" and "reaccelerate" his or her reading of a text, temporarily "holding it still in order to tease out its meanings" (143); his point is that playgoers receive more information than they can process efficiently or sufficiently, while readers, on the other hand, possess the luxury of processing information at a rate they find suitable, slowing down over passages they find particularly difficult or significant, likely even rereading them. This observation can be extended: what Berger does not explore is a reader's ability to determine the amount and type of ancillary information brought to bear on an engagement with a critically-edited play. Readers can slow down, speed up, pause, stop, and restart, but they can also read in a variety of non-linear directions (as Berger's frequent juxtapositions of passages from Richard //attest). I would put forth that readers of critical editions are often decelerating, pausing, or stopping their reading of a playtext in order to look up information located elsewhere on the page or within the edition—notes, appendices, glosses, dictionaries, illustrations, photographs, references to other plays and works of criticism are all forms of interpreted data that hold the potential to help one "tease out" a text's meanings. The imposing bulk of modem critical editions of Shakespeare is due, at least in part, to the assumption that readers might find it helpful to stop reading the playtext, gain information his own reading speed, abandon or take up the text when he wishes, or even simply leaf through it forwards or backwards as his whim takes him" (36). from elsewhere, and start reading again. McGann refers to this process as "radial reading" (119) , and he cites the critical edition as the most striking example of a text that encourages constant participation on the part of readers: "one moves around the edition, jumping from the reading text to the apparatus, perhaps from one of these to the notes or to an appendix, perhaps then back to some part of the front matter which may be relevant, and so forth" (120) . McGarm argues that by continually directing readers to other acts of reading within and external to itself, the edition accrues a complexity that "allows one to imagine many possible states of the text" (121); I would agree, adding that in the case of critical editions of dramatic texts, one such altered state is the text oriented toward performance. Rather than considering a reader's decelerations, reaccelerations, and changes of direction as qualities that make the reception of texts and performances fundamentally incongruous, I propose that these interpretive tools—which are always available—afford readers the opportunity to imaginatively approximate performance to the fullest extent that printed texts can allow. My proposal involves an underlying irony: it seems likely that the harder editions work to address the potential significations of the play in performance, the more explicitly one will be reminded of just how unlike the act of reading and the experience in a theatre are. Digressing through other portions of a critical edition essentially highlights the static nature of the play in print-form, since for as long as it takes a reader to navigate a tangential move away from the playtext, the printed play is paused, patiently waiting for re-engagement in a way that the play in performance never will. But, while the printed play is temporarily paused, reduced to mere marks on a page—^while, in other words, it is at its most inert, most textual—a reader's negotiation of tangential information can result in a more nuanced understanding of the play as performed. The materiality of the scape of the page allows for a richer vision of the scape of the imagined scene. Since performancescape deals with a reader's movement from the immediacy of the text to abstract conceptualizations of performance, there is a danger of falling into the familiar trap of placing text and performance into a deterministic relationship; in light of this danger, I sfress that the term is intended to complicate such a hierarchy. Performancescape describes a textual experience, but it is not meant to assert the primacy of textual meanings over those produced in the theatre, an assertion that would only perpetuate the infractability of the text/performance divide. Quite paradoxically, in fact, applying performancescape to the study of critical editions allows one to see that in negotiating an edition, readers can come to recognize that all of a play's performance potentialities are not located exclusively in the text, that meanings are produced in perfonnance, and that these meanings and interpretations are constantly shifting. Editors of Henry V, for instance, can inform readers of productions that have glorified the English triumph as well as productions that have emphasized the horrors of war, just as editors of Measure for Measure can make clear that the treatment of Isabella's silence in the fifth act can have a significant impact on understandings of her character and the play as a whole. No extant text of Henry F provides a macroscopic blueprint detailing how directors and actors should handle the issue of warfare, and on a smaller scale, the same can be said for Measure for Measure and how a production decides to freat Isabella's response to the Duke's proposal. In Worthen's words, "theatrical choices arise at the intersection between the text and the formal strategies of its meaningfiil production as theatre" {Authority 175); my intention with performancescape is to enhance awareness of such "intersections" and to provide a reminder that editions past and present direct readers toward performance options—some of which are relatively obvious and grounded in the text, some decidedly less so. A production of A Midsummer Night's Dream might begin with Hippolyta responding to Theseus's "Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour / Draws on apace. .."(1.1.1-2) speech with genuine affection, or, alternatively, with acerbity and derision; an edition that makes a reader aware of such fluidity is demonstrating the ways in which page and stage intersect—in the full sense of the word as both meet and diverge.^' I realize that I am setting up performancescape to bear a sizable interpretive weight, but I am confident this burden is preferable to the void posed by the lack of alternative terminology able to straddle textual and theatrical modes of production. While the term's usefulness will be fully conveyed in the chapters that follow, for now, I will provide a brief example of the manner in which it can be deployed in relation to a recent edition of Othello, a play that poses a multitude of textual problems for any editor. Specifically, I would like to look at the opening stage direction of the play's final scene in Michael Neill's Oxford edition (2006). The initial stage direction of 5.2 is just one of a legion of differences between the 1622 Quarto (Q) and the 1623 Folio (F) versions of the play: Q prints the direction, "Enter Othello with a light," while F prints "Enter Othello, and Desdemona in her bed." Understandably, Neill conflates the two, yielding a direction that reads "Enter Othello with a light, and Desdemona in her bed asleep."^^ The variant stage directions can be reconstructed by way of reference to Neill's collation, which prints both readings in full at an interstitial position on the page, beneath the edited playtext and above twin columns of commentary. Neill's commentary note on the stage direction directs readers to opposite ends of his edition "for a discussion of the staging": forwards, to an appendix of Longer Notes, and backwards to a small portion of his introduction. Flipping to the Longer Note reveals three hypotheses as to the handling of the bed in the play's original staging: either the bed was "discovered" by '̂ Peter Holland's Oxford edition is the one I have in mind; his first commentary note references a production for the San Francisco Actors' Workshop in 1966 where Hippolyta was "brought on as a captive animal wearing black body make-up and a leopard-skin bikini in a bamboo cage, her Imes snarled with biting sarcasm" (131). As Neill notes in his collation, the ''asleep" portion of the direction was first introduced by Rowe. way of drawing a curtain to the discovery space of the tiring-house, or it was placed within a curtained structure that was brought on stage, or it was "'put forth' on to the stage through one of the tiring-house doors" (467). Neill does not completely discount any of these possibilities, although he has reservations about the feasibility of bringing a special structure onstage, believing that this would "interfer[e] with the sightlines of a significant portion of the audience in the galleries" (467). The section from the introduction discusses the immense signifying power the bed would have had as a theatrical property; in early modem culture, writes Neill, the bed was "almost oppressively over-determined in its public and private meanings," the site of both the beginning and end of life, "nuptial consummation and perpetuation of the lineage" (173). Neill stresses that within the world of the play, "the final spectacle of three corpses lying side by side on the same bed" is an "atrocious parody" that capitalizes "on the intimate association of sexuality and death" (173); he goes on to discuss the fatal irony of Desdemona's attempts at "a symbolic reaffirmation of their marriage bond" (173) by providing Emilia with the two-pronged instmction to "Lay on my bed my wedding sheets" (4.2.105) and "If I do die before thee, prithee shroud me / In one of these same sheets" (4.3.22-3). It is possible, then, that a reader moves from the opening stage direction of 5.2, to the collation (where it can be discerned that Neill is conflating what is found in Q and F), to the commentary notes (where he or she is invited to read elsewhere), to the Longer Notes, and back to the introduction, all before the scene itself "starts"; during this tangential escape from the playtext, the reader negotiates three different kinds of information on a single page before delving into other sections of the edition distinct from the edited play itself, all the while gaining snippets of data that can potentially flesh out an imagined performance. Should the bed be an elaborate property (Neill draws comparisons to "ornate tester tombs, canopied beds of gilded marble") that recognizes the "almost totemic significance accorded to the marriage bed" (173) in its original context, or might a simplified version that in no way distracts ftom the interactions of Othello and Desdemona be preferable? Where should the bed be located on the stage? How might Desdemona—and later, the three corpses—be positioned on it? Should the bed realistically sit flat on the stage, or should it be angled in some way so that the audience can better view the bodies that end up there? I am describing a complex network of textual circuitry— t̂here is no guarantee that readers will make the same series of connections that I have outlined (or that they would be spurred to ask the same questions), and it is certainly true that a reader can navigate the edition in less complicated ways. But the point is that Neill's edition is hardwired to "fire" in this way if the reader makes certain coimections; the edition, that is, carries with it enough information to enable readers to meaningfully consider the relationship between the printed play and the play as performed, and further, to contemplate the sort of interpretive work that needs to be done to fill the space between where the mise en page of the text leaves off and the mise en scène of performance begins. If Neill's textual note goes unread and a reader thus does not pause his or her reading of the playtext, there are other kinds of recorded intersections between text and performance that are much harder to ignore. About halfway through Othello's "It is the cause" speech in the same scene, he speaks of "plucking [Desdemona's] rose" and then says "I'll smell thee on the tree" (13, 15). As Neill points out in his textual note, "smell thee" is "an implicit stage direction" that strongly implies Othello pauses to smell, and likely kiss, Desdemona (his next line begins, "O balmy breath..."). Even if a reader skims stage directions and ignores editorial commentary, textual moments that embed stage business in the primary text (and Othello is rife with "implicit" directions of this sort) reveal particularly permeable boundaries between page and stage. In the same note. Neill briefly locates the gesture in the play's performance history: "[John Philip] Kemble insisted that Othello must bend over Desdemona at this point... and, in a detail later imitated by Patrick Stewart, Olivier deliberately anticipated the gesture when he made his first entry inhaling the fragrance of a red rose" (373). The note provides the most fragmentary of glimpses as to how the moment might be performed, raising more questions than it answers—as the actor playing Othello leans over Desdemona, how long does he linger? In what manner does he smell her? And if he does kiss her at this point, what is the nature of that kiss? No edition could possibly answer all of these questions and the countless others that one can think of, but what is worth pointing out is that the playtext and editorial note combine to represent certain performance potentialities— t̂he act of leaning, of smelling, and (perhaps) kissing. Especially keen or curious readers might push even further, choosing to take advantage of the stasis that the printed play will so readily assume by decelerating their reading and changing direction to return to Neill's extensive discussion of Olivier's performance in the edition's introduction. There they will find a photograph of Olivier's lithe, angular Moor—a "combination of aristocratic swagger and savage otherness," (88) writes Neill—^as well as an extensive examination of the controversy raised by Olivier's "stereotypical exaggeration" of "blackness" (59). The nature of tangential moves on the part of a reader is what performancescape is meant to account for: to recognize that a critical edition contains a breadth of interpretive resources devoted to the play as performed and that these resources can come to inform a textual engagement with the play. Text and performance represent distinct modes of realizing a play—I am not disputing this— b̂ut the incommensurability of the two modes must not be stressed to the point at which instances of symbiotic exchange between them are ignored. Neill's edition of Othello is a decidedly modem example of a printed Shakespearean play that has the weight of hundreds of years of editorial practice and performance history behind it; accordingly, Neill has recourse to an assortment of apparatuses that those originally printing Shakespeare's plays did not: a critical introduction, photographs, commentary notes, appendices, etc. Nevertheless, early modem playtexts also grappled with what was the burgeoning dual existence of plays on the page and on the stage—albeit for different reasons, and by resorting to different kinds of printed codes. The next chapter (re)tums to these early texts, and the admittedly more difficult task of locating their intersections with performance. Chapter Three: Text and Performance on the Early Modern Page" Having offered some preliminary suggestions as to the potential usefulness of performancescape, I must now confront its interpretive limitations, which become apparent when the tenu is applied to plays as they were printed in the early modem period. Considering that performancescape is meant to help triangulate the fluid relationship between editors, printed texts, and readers, early modem methods of textual production, printing practices, and modes of reception introduce a number of complicating factors that restrict the term's scope and limit its utility. Editing—as we think of the task today—can only be applied anachronistically to the early modem publishing trade; this is not to say that texts printed during this time went unmediated, only that the types of mediation that took place were not discrete activities systematically aimed at emendation, organization, or elucidation.^"* That mediation took place is undeniable; indeed, the understanding that mediation always takes place—that all texts are mediated texts, or as Alan Famier writes, that "those who participate in the production and transmission of a text inevitably affect its final form" (164)—has become the sine qua non of the current critical moment. In the case of drama, the forces brought to bear on the transfonnation of written manuscripts into printed books are well documented. Scribal and compositor studies initiated by the New Bibliographers have demonstrated the ways in which a range of individuals could modify— " Portions o f this chapter have published as "English Renaissance Drama: The Imprints o f Perfomiance," Literature Compass 5.3 (2008): 529-540. Sonia Massai has recently challenged the "evolutionary understanding" o f Shakespeare's works "gradually deteriorat[ing] through the accumulation o f accidental corruption in the printing house" until Nicholas Rowe officially establishes the editorial tradition in 1709. Massai examines the infrequent (and usually anonymous) annotations o f manuscripts used as printer's copy in the sixteenth and seventeeth centuries, and argues that "the conscious editorial manipulation o f Shakespeare's dramatic texts" began almost as soon as the playwright's works first appeared in print {Shakespeare 1-2). She emphasizes, nevertheless, that these manipulations were sporadic and unsystematic: "What is significant is the discontinuity, rather than the absence, of editorial practices" (2). perhaps emend, perhaps corrupt—texts in various ways, though it is only in rare instances that these modifications can be considered to have been executed with the same rigour or motivated by the same concerns that we now associate with editorial activity.^^ Recent studies by Zachary Lesser, Douglas Brooks, Julie Stone Peters, and Mark Bland have expanded this sphere of influence, establishing that the efforts of publishers, printers, and certain playwrights to identify, construct, and market to specific readerships had a significant impact on the material shape of printed plays. Extant claims of mediation are not uncommon; the difficulty lies in establishing what pseudo-editorial methodologies—if any— might underlie these claims. John Heminge and Henry Condell refer to themselves as "Presenters" in the Folio's dedication, but beyond matters of manuscript collection and perhaps the organization of the Folio itself, their influence over the final form of the texts printed in 1623 is likely limited. Although it seems fair to think of Heminge and Condell as Shakespeare's first "editors," this designation stems from their administrative, rather than emendatory, efforts: in their words, their task was to "gather his workes, and giue them [to] you."'̂ ^ Some have recently put forth that Heminge and Condell weren't the first to systematically prepare Shakespeare's texts for printing, but that the distinction belongs to the The compositors that produced Q2 Titus Andronicus (1600) for James Roberts's printing house, for example, appear conspicuously diligent. It is generally accepted that they were not working from a manuscript, but set their text from a copy of Ql (1594); in making improvements to Ql's rather shoddy punctuation as well as smoothing over certain textual ambiguities, these compositors (likely two of them) seemed to be intent on emending their copy-text. Most admirably, the compositor setting the end of the play works aroimd apparent damage to the final leaves of his copy of Ql by reworking what should have been the last line of the play and then making up four more. This ingenuity passed unnoticed until a copy of Ql was discovered in 1904. See Joseph S. G. Bolton, "The Authentic Text of Titus Andronicus " PMLA 44 (1929): 765-88. Facsimile reprints of the prefatory material from the First Folio are included in Evans 90-105 (Heminge and Condell's epistle is reproduced on page 95). A contemporary poem, "To my good freandes mr John Heminges & Henry Condall," similarly stresses their roles as collectors. The poem figures the two actors as treasure hunters who haven't constructed the Folio so much as they have imearthed a pre-existing prize and facilitated its availability for the public: "Joyntly with vndaunted paynes . . yowe haue pleased the lyving, loved the dead, / Raysde from the woamb of Earth a ritcher myne / Than [Cortez]" See E. K. Chambers, William Shakespeare: A Study of Facts and Problems (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1930), vol. 2, 234. playwright himself; citing the 1598 quarto of Love's Labour's Lost that advertises a play "Newly corrected and augmented By W. Shakespeare" Farmer suggests that "Though he was not the first author to be identified on the title-page of a play from the early modem professional theatre, Shakespeare was the first editor to be named on one" (158).̂ ^ Even claims that ostensibly deny any mediating presence between the play as performed and the play newly printed—like the title-page of Ql Richard II (1597), which offers a text As it hath beene publikely acted by the right honourable the Lorde Chamberlaine his semants (variations of this formulation abound on title-pages from the period)—^must nevertheless be understood to frame printed plays in meaningful ways for potential readers. As for those readers, they are (in any historical period, including our own) notoriously difficult to identify; for this reason, their habits and expectations must be reconstmcted in largely hypothetical, generalized ways. Reading, as Heidi Brayman Hackel reminds us, is a "historically invisible skill" that "survives in the historical record only when it is accompanied by writing" ("'Great Variety'" 141). With this in mind, what I propose to do in this chapter is approach early modem drama via its most conspicuous sites of interaction between those who produced printed plays and those buying and reading them: the various forms of preliminary and para-textual matter that adomed printed playtexts. These apparatuses can be understood as material evidence of individual readings (a form of reading- captured-in-writing that Hackel refers to), as well as efforts to promote and subsequently guide other, future readings. My strategy of extrapolating from the margins of early modem printed plays can be situated amid a number of recent studies that approach primary material Lukas Erne challenges the entrenched view that Shakespeare lacked any interest m the appearance of his plays in print m Shakespeare as Literary Dramatist (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2003). in similarly tangential ways. Para-texts can be probed for insights into topics ranging from stemmatics to the early modem book trade; I will consider them in a very specific light: rather than connecting prefatory material and other textual apparatuses like title-pages and marginalia to issues of authorship, manuscript circulation, collaboration, or the complicated transmission process from playhouse to printing house, I will instead examine their ability to constmct, and engage with, the play as performed. Larger historical, social, and economic factors certainly inform my readings of preliminaries, but my central concem remains pointed: adopting Hackel's terminology, the question "What did readers do with their books?" is less my focus than is "What did books tell readers to do?" {Reading 9). Following David Bergeron, I understand para-texts to perform a dual role: they function as "authorial soliloquies, discrete, introspective, set-apart rhetorical musings that allow the author's voice to be heard," and they are also "portals or thresholds through which the reader moves in order to get to the playtext" (16). To be sure, in discussing things like title pages, epistles to readers, or dedications, I cannot claim that all readers would have understood them in the same way, or prove that they would have worked on readers with as much of the efficaciousness that I might retrospectively assign to them; instead, what I can argue is that particular kinds of readings and imaginings were encouraged (with varying amounts of zeal) by the ancillaries that accompanied printed plays, often rooted in the laudatory language of See Julie Stone Peters, Theatre of the Book, 1480-1880: Print, Text, and Performance in Europe (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000); Zachary Lesser, Renaissance Drama and the Politics of Publication: Readings in the English Book Trade (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2004); Heidi Brayman Hackel, Reading Material in Early Modem England: Print, Gender, and Literacy (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2005); Douglas Brooks, From Playhouse to Printing House: Drama and Authorship in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000); Evelyn B. Tribble, Margins and Marginality: The Printed Page in Early Modern England (Charlottesville and London: UP of Virginia, 1993); William W. E. Slights, Managing Readers: Printed Marginalia in English Renaissance Books (Ann Arbour: U Michigan P, 2001); David M. Bergeron, Textual Patronage in English Drama, 1570-1640 (Aldershot and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2006); and Marta Straznicky, ed.. The Book of the Play: Playwrights, Stationers, and Readers in Early Modern England (Amherst and Boston: U Massachusetts Press, 2006). advertisement. As Lesser astutely reminds us, for example, the well-known preface to the second issue of Ql Troilus and Cressida (1609) from "A neuer writer, to an euer reader" is primarily thought of as a somewhat cryptic marketing campaign, but it is also "a reading of the play," a reading that "attempted to determine [how] customers would read it as well" {Drama 2, 3).̂ ^ Lesser's impressive study reads para-texts in the context of publishing practice and the book trade. Reading para-textuals wdth an eye toward the play as performed brings different issues to the fore: if publishers of plays endeavoured to "successfully predict and creat[e] the desires of early modem book-buyers" (Lesser, Drama 35), what role did a play's performance history have in creating interest amongst potential consumers? More specifically, how—if at all—^was the absent play as performed meant to inform the reading experience? And how—if at all—did printed plays ask readers to imagine the relationship between the page and the stage? Shifting attention to para-textuals also necessitates a shift away from Shakespeare's extant texts to the texts of other prominent playwrights from the early modem period. Save for direct addresses to readers in the Troilus and Cressida quarto, Ql Othello (1622), and the Folio (1623), printed plays attributed to Shakespeare in the period have very little to say to their potential readers. The Troilus epistle is worth pausing over, however, since it can be understood to epitomize the complicated, even intractable, relation between text and performance in the period.̂ *' As mentioned, the epistle only appears in the second issue of ^' The identity of the preface's author is uncertain, but Lesser speculates that it was written by the publishers of the quarto, Richard Bonian and Henry Walley, since they had the most to gam from the sales that a successfiil advertismg campaign would presumably result in. Further, as Lesser pomts out, the epistle was added (along with changes to the title-page) during the printing process, and few would have had access to the book at this late stage of production. John Jowett remarks of Ql's introductory matter that "Here we recover a sense of the Quarto not just as a material object (or, rather, a set of nearly but not fiilly identical material objects), but as a cultural object that exists m relation to posited readers" {Text 61). Q l , helping to tighten the Gordian knot of the play's printing history. The first, epistle-less issue of the quarto had boasted on its title-page of being ''acted by the Kings Maiesties I semants at the Globe," a claim removed from the revised issue. In place of acknowledging the play in performance, the second issue provides the briefest of plot summaries: "Excellently expressing the beginning I of their loues, with the conceited wooing / of Pandarus Prince of Licia." If this change to the title-page is a subtle means of shifting authority away from the play as performed, the epistle—in which "the playtext is radically reauthorized, even isolated as precisely a text" (Weimann 69)—^makes the printed play's association with the theatre devastatingly clear. "Eternall reader" begins the epistle, "you have heere a new play, neuer stal'd with the Stage, neuer clapper-clawed with the palmes of the vulger, and yet passing full of the palme comicalF (t2r). Accurately or not, the epistle denies that staged performances have had any influence on the book of the play— t̂his is a newly printed play that has not been tainted by the stage, but instead passes directly (with the assistance of the publishers) from the playwright's creative parentage into the custody of discerning readers: "it is a birth of your [Shakespeare's] braine, that neuer vnder-tooke anything comicall, vainely" (HSr)."*' In disavowing a performance history for Troilus and formulating print as the sole medium for experiencing the play, the epistle presents Ql Troilus to potential buyers as a specialized commodity, one that they might have to "scramble for" later should they pass it up now, "at the perrill of your pleasures loss" (\2\). While there is no definitive evidence either way, the epistle's claim that the play was never performed is a dubious one (especially since it utterly contradicts the original title-page). What is widely understood as the original entry for Shakespeare's play in the Stationer's Register in 1603 notes that it had been acted by the Lord Chamberlain's Men; fijrther, some believe that Troilus and Cressida's armed Prologue is a riff on a similar figure fi-om Jonson's Poetaster, first performed in 1601. Where the play might have been performed—The Globe? The Inns of Court? Privately?— r̂emains unsolved. Lesser offers an explanation for the epistle's sudden appearance that is persuasive in its simplicity: the publishers (Bonian and Walley) "changed then- minds about the play," and sought, by adding the epistle, to position the play within "a particular niche of the print marketplace" (Drama 1,2). See also above, n39. Despite initially minimizing the relevance of performance, however, the epistle does gesture toward theatrical modes of realization. Through some extended punning, the writer of the epistle envisions a situation in which "those grand censors" that denigrate plays and theatres would flock to them for the maine grace of their grauities: especially this authors Commedies that are so fram'd to the life that they serue for the most common Commentaries of all the actions of our Hues, showing such a dexteritie and power of witte that the most displeased with Playes are pleasd with his Commedies. (̂ 2r) That Shakespeare's "dexteritie and power of witte" are apprehensible in print is the epistle's larger point, but references to groups of people flocking together to witness actors portraying "the actions of our Hues" serve as reminders that playtexts hold the potential to be utilized and transformed by the various collaborative forces participating in the theatrical event— neither mode of producing the play exists in a complete vacuum, despite the epistle's explicit claims to the contrary. Indeed, that the epistle's writer has performance in mind when discussing Shakespeare's greatness is evidenced in the next paragraph with a nod to "his representations" (%2r). The epistle does not suggest that the playtext is an encoded or memorialized record of an exchange system between "author's pen" and "actor's voice,""̂ ^ but the affective possibilities of staged performance do nevertheless seem to bubble just below its surface. In the latter portion of the epistle, text and performance are again figured as mutually exclusive, this time as the ignorance of playgoers is conflated with the cloying sensorial experience of the theatre: readers are asked to "[not] like this the lesse, for not being sullied with the smoaky breath of the multitude; but thanke fortune for the scape it hath made amongst you" (1|2v). Not surprisingly, I will seize on the deployment of "scape" here, which This binary appears in the Prologue to the play, which appears only in the Folio version of the text. in the context of the epistle refers to an "(e)scape" into the relatively unpolluted medium of print, where readers can engage with Shakespeare's play in a purified form. The manner in which I am incorporating the term throughout this study allows "scape" to reverberate more extensively, in ways no doubt unintended by the epistle's writer, but that speak to the equivocal juxtapositioning of text and performance that permeates the epistle itself The "scape" that the play makes, away from performance, into print and the hands of readers is made possible by the relative fixity of the printed page. The epistle sfresses that this escape into print—into the realms of typography, bibliography, and the entrepreneurial rhetoric of publication—^marks the printed play as fimdamentally different than the play as performed, and this is certainly true; for one thing, the play in print can be surrounded by discourses and narratives that have no direct counterpart in performance. The very existence of the epistle attests to the ability of para-texts to frame playtexts in particular ways, a point that the epistle's writer is cognizant of, since he hints that the preface could have contained more ancillary material than it already does: "And had I time I would comment vpon it, though I know it needs not" (t2r). That the materiality of the page allows for the play to be reconfigured and interpreted in unique ways is also demonstrated in modem incarnations of the work, where editors of Troilus often produce a text that includes the epistle found only in the second issue of Q l , begin the play with the Prologue foimd only in the Folio, and mix Q and F readings throughout.'*^ But as we have seen, the attempt to describe the two modes of realizing a play as mutually exclusive is undermined by the fact that the epistle, in importing references to the effects of performance in its efforts to promote the printed play, cannot David Bevington believes that the "first big task" facing the editor of Troilus "is to sort out the matter of precedence between quarto and Folio, since much will depend on that decision as to what to use as a copy text and, in individual instances, what words or phrases to adopt in preference to the alternative presented by the other text." He adds that a "major difficulty is that nearly all the many variants in Troilus are reversible" (177). completely deny the intercomiectedness of page and stage. To push even further, "the scape it hath made amongst you" might also be read as a general affirmation of a reader's ability to synthesize playtexts and their para-texts and imaginatively engage wdth the absent play as performed. That is, the epistle (despite its claims to the contrary) relies on a reader's understanding that performance can powerfully represent "the actions of our Hues"; the epistle does not involve a performancescape in the sense of inviting its readers to produce a virtual rendition of a particular moment from Troilus, but its use oî"scape" highlights the text's coimection to both printed and performed modes of representation. Such a doubled conception of "scape" highlights the readerly navigation of the gap between "the absent imaginary landscape represented in the written text and the material site of its performance by visible, audible actors in front of living audiences" (Weimaim 180). The Troilus epistle is thus representative of the issues at the heart of this chapter: the ways in which printed plays do and do not engage with their performance history, how they construct both reading and theatre audiences, and their traces (or lack thereof) of encoded performance potentialities; it is especially tantalizing in that no other Shakespearean text printed in his lifetime asks its readers to face such matters so directly. Works by playwrights such as Marlowe, Jonson, Webster, and the tandem of Beaumont and Fletcher are much more explicit in their para-textual attempts to fashion the reading of plays as an imaginative experience distinct fi-om, yet somehow still related to, what could be apprehended in a theatre; accordingly, these other playwrights and their printed playtexts will receive the bulk of my attention. Not surprisingly, the disparate plays and para-textual materials that I survey transmit different and often contradictory messages to their readers. Such discordant transmissions can be attributed to an imderstanding that "author's pen" and "actor's voice," while indelibly linked, are nevertheless distinct—opinions diverge (then, as now) as to what precisely the two modes share, as well as what, exactly, one mode can offer that the other cannot. The arc that I trace in what follows, then, confirms that printed playtexts of the early modem period are perhaps best understood as a burgeoning site of exchange between two incongment modes of dramatic production in the midst of learning to identify and imderstand their relation to each other. * * * In his recent investigation into English Renaissance drama's connections to knowledge production in the fields of geometry and the practical spatial arts, Henry Turner remarks that due to certain bibliographic conventions—such as speech-prefixes, pagination, lineation, act and scene divisions, and distinctions between verse and prose— "̂the book makes the play thinkable in formal terms that are quite distinct from theatrical performance, where a different set of conventions, meaningful units, and interpretive responses are required" (18). Turner's point is an important one: to print a play is to allow that play to absorb certain bibliographic and typographic properties from print culture, and these properties can be constmed as misrepresentative of the play's existence in the theatre. To produce a book of a play is to produce a dramatic work that implicitly and explicitly encodes its identity in the language of print production and the literary; for better or for worse, the printed play lends itself to considerations of authorial origins and intentions, to considerations of the work's stability and reproducibility, and, as discussed in Chapter One, it is the user who sets cmcial terms of engagement with the printed play, starting and stopping the reading process, proceeding in any number of directions, and juxtaposing otherwise disparate passages. As important as Turner's point is, however, it is imperative that the inevitable distortions of the printed page are counterbalanced by another, equally important, consideration: conventions of printed plays— t̂he very conventions that perpetuate what Worthen calls a "dominant... rhetoric of print" {Print 7) and Kidnie refers to as a "dominat[ing]... ideology of prinf ' ("Where is Hamlet?" 101)—are fundamentally reliant on readers' familiarity with how plays function on stage. In other words, while different interpretive responses are produced and required by printed and staged modes of production, these responses, while distinct, are not mutually exclusive; typographic representations or indicators of performance established themselves in the second half of the sixteenth century as theatres were institutionalized and writers and printers experimented with how printed drama could meaningfully distinguish itself from other genres. The typographic markers that ultimately proved most useful in conferring this distinction—lists of dramatis personae, speech-prefixes and stage directions clearly distinguished from spoken dialogue, act and scene divisions, and unique prefatory or other ancillary matter (that often utilized images and metaphors fi-om the theatre)—were effective largely because they provided readers with the means to conceptualize the play as a performance. If the printed play inevitably directs the reader's gaze away from the stage, away from the nuances of performance, it does so in a Janus-faced maimer, glancing back toward the stage at the same time. The now standard conventions of printed plays are brought into relief when one considers the appearance of dramatic texts before the emergence of the professional theatre. As Peters explains, late fifteenth- and early sixteenth century drama "not initially geared towards readers accustomed to seeing staged plays" could be "conceptually indistinguishable from other genres (often meant equally for reading or public recitation, but not necessarily meant for scenic representation with actors)" (21-2). Peters continues, pointing out that throughout Europe in the first half of the sixteenth century, dramatic mise en page looked much like the mise en page of other kinds of works; only in the later sixteenth century did it develop conventions that reflected the drama's generic particularity. The majority of fifteenth- and early sixteenth-century dramatic texts [cheaply printed saints' plays, farces, and certain kinds of dialogues] long continued to be nearly identical to other kinds of works . . . with no dramatis personae, no distinctive generic identification, no mention of performance, and (most telling) narrative description rather than stage directions or conventionalized speech-prefixes. (23) Generally speaking, the narrative descriptions that muddle printed drama's generic status and normalize its appearance become unnecessary as writers, printers, and readers slowly work out a system of encoding the relevant narrative and theatrical information in abbreviated forms. For instance, the lack of an established method of encoding and a concomitant reliance on narrative conventions are evident throughout the 1528 printing of Everyman; the title-page of the book of this play presents itself as "a treatyse . . . in maner / of a morall playe," and roughly outlines the events to follow (see Figure 1). The prose description on the title-page is flmnel-shaped, seemingly aimed at directing the reader's eye toward the emblematic figures of Everyman and Death that dominate the lower two-thirds of the page; further, judging by the marmer in which words on the title-page are broken— "̂heuen sendeth dethe to so- / mon euery creature"—it appears that the integrity of the funnel shape was of greater importance than the clarity of the message.'*'* A much longer, more detailed narrative summary, provided by a Messenger, begins the play in earnest: it ends, "Here shall you se how Felawshyp and Jolyte / Both Strengthe, Pleasure, and Beauté / Wyll fade from the as floure in Maye / For ye shall here how our heuen kynge / Calleth Everyman to a generall rekyenynge / Gyue audyence and here what he doth saye" (A2r). The emphasis on "giving audience" and on seeing and hearing—imperatives originally aimed at an audience present at a performance or other form of oral presentation—are made conspicuous as soon as they are translated to print, becoming an implicit reminder to readers of the relative deficiency of Peters remarks that "letters on the page in the earliest prmted plays (as in other kinds of books during the period) tend to follow large-scale visual patterns, responding to decorative sensibilities rather than serving ease of reading. Words are often broken randomly to fit visual-spatial designs" (17). 10 fomon tmtf cteatttre to lomeanosftiearottnte / wmmammntm ^ nerofamoiall ^ 1 -i'-̂ ';-;*;;} Figure 1. Title page recto of Everyman (c. 1535). sensory stimulation that will mark their engagement with the drama. One might be tempted to conjecture that the translation of the Messenger's speech to print implies a spurring of imagined approximations of performance on the part of readers— t̂hey should read with the aim of "giving audience" in their mind's eye; this is possible, but the remainder of the printed version of the play, because it is so rooted in narrative and scribal customs, does little to enable the ability of readers to attempt such approximations to any great effect. Where the title-page of Everyman utilizes the white space of the page for stylistic purposes, the printed text itself rarely uses white space to distinguish the drama as drama. Changes in speakers are indicated by paragraph markers that fimction in unison with marginal speech prefixes running down the right-hand side of recto pages and the left-hand side of verso pages; such a strategy becomes rather awkward on recto pages, as the eye must either read the dialogue from left to right and then associate the speech with a particular speaker, or, the eye must move to the right margin of the page to learn who is speaking before it moves to the left margin to begin reading the speech in question. Following the Messenger's narrative suimnary, there irrmiediately follows a centred direction, "God speketh" as well as a marginal speech prefix, "God"; this redundancy supports Peters claim that "creators of the earliest printed playtexts felt required to explain that a character was about to speak . . . rather than (as in texts to which we are accustomed) simply offering an abbreviated version of the name of the character, typographically differentiated from the actual speech" (23), although this "speketh" direction is not used consistently throughout Everyman. Early in the printed text there are centred directions that identify Death and Everyman and essentially mark their entrances, but after "Felawshyp speketh" (Blr), neither centred directions nor the "speketh" direction are used again— t̂he other emblematic figures that pervade the drama simply appear unannounced on the printed page and start talking. The book's colophon reasserts the work as being a "morall playe," but cumulatively, the typographic featiu-es of the book significantiy problematize this identification for its readers. With little white space and marginally-differentiated speeches in relentless black letter providing the illusion of one long, interrupted narrative, the book of Everyman looks imlike many popular plays printed later in the centvuy. I am using Everyman to sketch the pertinent background in broad strokes, though highlighting what appears to modem eyes as its inconsistent or incomplete representation of itself as a printed version of a work intended for performance is not the same as arguing that the interpretive responses produced by page and stage must be understood to function antagonistically or parasitically. It is more appropriate to think in terms of printed and performed modes of realization informing one another in dynamic ways, of "the imsettled state of the ménage of 'author's pen' and 'actor's voice' [as] inseparable from both the unstable condition of the text itself and the dispersed modes of performance practice" (Weimaim 9), or, in Douglas Brooks's words, to consider that "various networks of engagement... both enabled and inhibited the materialization of plays as they passed from the stage to the page" (2). The first printed octavo edition of Gorboduc (01, 1565) serves as a revealing example of the complexity of these "networks of engagement" as they existed near the mid-point of the sixteenth century as well as their impact on the dramatic mise en pagef"^ The title-page of the "Tragédie" crams information above and below the printer's centred emblem: the portion above the emblem establishes the relationship of the printed version of the play to the play as performed, while the details below the emblem pertain to Gorboduc has long been singled out as a watershed work in the history of English drama. Greg Walker, for instance, identifies it as "the earliest extant five-act verse tragedy in English, the earliest attempt to imitate Senecan tragic form in English, the earliest survivmg English drama in blank verse, and the earliest English play to adopt the use of dumb-shows preceding each act," claiming that "it offers itself as a point of departure for much of the Renaissance dramatic experimentation of the following decades" (201). Notably, Ol appears to have been unauthorized. A second edition of the play (02) that includes a large number of substantive changes was printed in 1570; 02 also includes a note fi-om the printer, John Day, which questions the legitimacy of the earlier text. For useful discussions of the relationship between the two editions, see James and Walker, and Brooks 24-40. the play's publishing history—its journey through the print shop and subsequent emergence into the book trade. Brooks comments on the significance of this presentation: "the 'i/wjimction' of printers and playwrights is represented here spatially as a kind of balance of power by the emblem that separates the two activities that have converged to make the printed dramatic text possible. Nearly all extant dramas printed subsequently would follow this format on their title pages" (27). The title-page thus spatially distinguishes between print and performance, but suggests that the printed book of the play serves to bridge the gap between the two modes—a point reinforced by the mediating position of the printer's emblem. Both methods of realizing the play are acknowledged in some detail: the play occurred at a specific time and place—"in her hignes / court of Whitehall, the xviij day of January, / Domini. 1561. By the Gentlemen / of Thynner Temple in London"—and now, since being "IMPRYNTED AT LONDON / in Fletestrete, at the Signe of the / Faucon by William Griffith" it exists in a more widely-disseminated form; significantly however, the printed version locates its authority in its fidelity to the original performance: "Sett forthe as the same was shewed before the / QVENES most excellent Maiestie." Print and performance are linked, with the former implicitly figured as somehow able to record or recapture the latter. The remainder of the Gorboduc octavo displays several salient features that enable us to measure the play's distance from earlier printed works like Everyman. Following the title- page is a summary of the "argument of the Tragédie" situated opposite a comprehensive list of "The names of the Speakers" (see Figure 2). These para(llel)-texts look both backward and forward along the developmental lineage of printed plays: the detailed argument signals G oi^BODf^ r,Wnff of PurimHt, tttvtim tut ttralme in hia U-fctlmcto t)i« tegnfB,r<irf« Jim pj.>rv. Che feonnri feit ta ft^uifion «ntt Mcsmion. 0)c pojjgct hpltro tbc rlore. Cbe » o « tîjttti>at«tajc ocare!>MotieDtl)dOfr, fflj rtucitae liPilWtljc fOîtffÊC. She people Hftueo luitn the CrurUicof t l j c fa t î crof t in KcbtllioannofUtoe l)Bfljf.nl)craiia motbcr. Clit^obittttttffcmlikB anOHiaatfrrtbjf eettropcotUt KcbcUc*. ïîno af« tcrtoflrotsfojuiaijtof Sffueof tbc pj înce tobtt» m» tijc ^ucaffteii of tbe^IrfBtaineUffanictimtr* tapnc. C&c?fct l îo Cimi lvodï ic tn Solilfijc both tbcp anO mmo of tDtie JffuttftMcrcnapncajiDtljg ïLanoefoia longe trine Almaftc «folat t aii&nip^ fitaWpc UwfffO. ' CCbenSmcg of «)c a>pcabctB; Cwè»/i«,!îçnjïc of ftcflt/?i'i.'f^ï«<'. FtiicM, £îtt(iene ano Uiife to U F H ^ C Gcrbiditc, fwrr.eiDer feoimc takritgs CvLdiic. S»*fX,^m%tK ô o n n c to htnjc C J . ijifut» C/«ryn3aÛe of C(t/"nv.ii'/. Ffl-^Mr,EI>uSe of ..^iii-ii'M-* MMituiff^Viiit at £ M ^ i CwfnxrilSîfîtiie. of t"M'«,PîL-»r,'/f. jt-éM/wf.fecttetartetotht h?ngc / s f . counfcllout of fcpnge c» i>p///.i'j,a (lounfcttotit alTiaciteD bp tIjc ftpnge to tjw Cl3ctï ©onnc f i>ns-t Mi/.(n'/V' .aCounfrlloucafTigdeD bp ttie bpnje to t»i8 pongf r pontic T^mx. ( ï eo thbcr i tg to f tbro l î c (hpngefl vtotinftU bcfa;». Hrfm#»,n pnfafptercnistpBj'iiiiiuittj t-emx, ry« /xr.ai ̂ araO^tc rein.ipHpnf lotttj rm;x. K«'Hi<»j.î1 «lettcngerof tiKlocf 53;ort|cr8Dct5j î f»»/ .» . ,a iaelTenfcr of S>«ltc rpfpitdc 111 a n n r c lAjfcdld,^ iLaoi'c of t h c î î u c r n e s pamic Cli.ttnber. r̂ jt outc nuiiccciu &m è a g i MICH of A'./.'wj»*̂ .'»"» Figure 2. "Th[e] argument of the Tragédie" and "The names of the Speakers." Facing pages of Ol Gorboduc (1565). a lingering reliance on narrative traditions, while the list of speakers foreshadows the ways in which emergent printing conventions will eventually come to make narrative foregrounding and summary uimecessary. That is, the information abbreviated in the list of speakers renders the narrative substance of the "argument of the Tragédie" somewhat redundant: "The names of the Speakers," in addition to informing readers of key familial and political coimections in the play, also hints at developments in the play's action. The list lays out the major players: Gorboduc is "kynge of great Brittane," Videna is "Queene and wife to kynge Gorboduc," Ferrex and Porrex are his "elder" and "yonger" sons, and so on; in addition, the list of dramatis personae foreshadows significant happenings in the plot: Dordan and Philander—coxansellors to Ferrex and Porrex respectively—are parenthetically identified as "Both beynge of the olde kynges Counsell before"; Nuntius is described as "A Messenger of the [ejlder Brothers deth"; and a second envoy (also named Nuntius) is "A Messenger of Duke Fergus rysynge in Armes." Certain emblematic characterizations are also communicated: Hermon is "A Parasyte remaynyng with Ferrex" and Tyndar is likewise "A Parasyte" clinging to Porrex. Readers proceeding to the playtext from this list of speakers thus carry with them a proleptic awareness that informs and shapes their engagement with the play; crucially, this awareness of things to come marks the potential interpretive responses to the printed play as distinct from the play in performance, while at the same time infuses the act of reading with information intimately coimected to the play as originally performed. For readers, the knowledge that Ferrex will eventually be killed might colour some of his lines— such as his early boast that "My brothers pride shall hurt him selfe, not mee" (A4)—^with shades of irony that were perhaps unavailable or not evident to an audience who presumably had no access to a printed dramatis personae; further, a reader's understanding of the parasitical natures of Hermon and Tyndar allows for a richer understanding of how these characters might have been played—information explicitly communicated through the actors' bodies and intonations, while not available to readers in the same way as it is for an audience, is nevertheless transformed and retransmitted, encouraging users of the book of the play to imagine characters in ways that will approximate their representations in performance."*̂ When it comes to the printed playtext of 01 Gorboduc, distinctions between speeches and speakers have become clearer, relative to what was exemplified in Everyman. There are Gary Taylor argues that certain forms of "identification tables" (a broad term that includes lists of dramatis personae) are aimed directly at readers, and "impinge upon the reading of the play text." These paratexts "inevitably summarize or characterize the play, affecting our assumptions about its fictional persons, and unlike other paratext [sic] they are often consulted or cross-referenced during reading, potentially interposing themselves at any point in the text" ("Order of Persons" 54). no paragraph markers in the playtext (although the markers do linger in other places, preceding the opening argument as well as in the summaries of the dumb-shows), and there are no marginal speech prefixes; instead, speech prefixes are centred, resulting in a more generous allotment of white space on the page. Even so, in part because it is printed in black letter, and because Gorboduc, devoid of stage action, contains so many lengthy, moralistic speeches, some pages look very similar to Everyman—^white space that is so conspicuous during exchanges of dialogue vanishes when characters wax moralistic and politic for pages at a time. In addition to the varying amounts of white space that by turns differentiates the printed drama as a distinct genre and confuses it with other narrative forms, there is another element that fiirther complicates the intersections of text and performance in the first printed version of Gorboduc. Emblematic dumb shows introducing the play's thematic concerns precede each act, which the printed version of the play, true to its titular claim to "Sett forthe" the play as it "was shewed," describes in no small detail. The possibilities for typographically representing the performance of these dumb shows, however, are limited, since with no dialogue to record, the printed text is essentially rendered mute; it goes without saying that the text's primary compensatory means of representing the dumb shows in print is to describe them, and these descriptions—indeed, the inevitability of them—crystallize the inherent differences between reading and seeing. The descriptions of the dumb shows, aimed at facilitating a reader's awareness of the play in performance, paradoxically assert the very differences between page and stage that are ostensibly being minimized. As the printed play attempts to represent the figures and actions involved in the dumb shows, its only recourse is to more detailed forms of narrative, exemplified in its treatment of the first dumb show: Firste the Musicke of Violenze began to playe, durynge whiche came in uppon the Stage sixe wilde men cloathed in leaues. Of whom the first bare in his necke a fogot of smal stickes, which thei all both seuverallie and togither assaied with all their strengthes to breake, but it could not be broken by them. At the length one of them plucked out one of the stickes and brake it: And the rest pluckinge oute all the other stickes one after an other did easelie breake, the same beynge seuered: which beyng conjoyned they had before attempted in vayne. After they had this done, they departed the Stage, and the Musicke ceased.'*̂ In its ekphrastic digression, in trying to make readers "see" and understand the action of the dimib show— t̂o make its significations in performance present and available for readers— t̂he book of the play must amplify the conspicuousness of its own textuality. Crucially, though, this heightening of the fundamental split between text and performance does not necessarily undermine the reader's ability to imaginatively negotiate the distance between the dimib shows as described in print and the dumb shows as performed; the descriptions of the dumb shows are sufficiently detailed to facilitate a rough mental version of what they might have looked like (and to some degree, even sounded like). That this imagined version might be imderstood as impoverished relative to the sensory richness of performance does not undo its potency or importance for readers. As subsequent portions of this chapter will suggest, encouraging readers to think of reading plays as a kind of performance while also reminding them that reading is fundamentally unlike seeing a play becomes a distinguishing feature of para-texts towards the end of the sixteenth century. Further, it is important to note that these kinds of descriptive excursions continue to pervade what we think of as modem editions of plays, although they are located in different, predominantly marginalized spaces on the page or within the book. Reliance on descriptions and narratives can also be located in those streams of performance criticism that proceed from a belief that textualizing a performance Eric Rasmussen finds the dumb shows' use of the past tense unusual: "Seventy-one English Renaissance plays include dumb shows, the overwhehning majority of which are either in the present or future tense" (417). He goes on to build a short but convincing case that the dumb shows were not a part of the manuscripts used as copy for either of the first two printed editions of the play (1565 and 1570); he concludes that the dumb shows "are memorial reconstructions— n̂ot directions for a performance, and as such, quite naturally, in the past tense" (418). can make that performance meaningfully present for readers, and more importantly, open up that perpetually-absent but imaginatively-and-memorially-recaptured performance for critical 48 analysis. This is precisely what the descriptions of the dumb shows attempt to do for the readers of 01 Gorboduc, concluding as they do with what are in effect instances of performance criticism that carefully circumscribe the dumb shows' meanings; the first description ends as follows: Hereby was signified, that a state knit in vnytie doth continue stronge against all force. But beynge deuyded, is easely destroied. As befell vpon Duke Gorboduc deuidinge his Lande to his two sonnes which he before held in Monarchic. And vpon the discention of the Brethrene to whome it was deuided. In this way, the conspicuous deficiencies in attempting to "Sett forthe" in print the play as it "was shewed" are partially recuperated as the ineluctable textuality of the book of the play becomes a means of representational potency and a vehicle for interpretive insight. The printed play's unavoidable recourse to mere words upon words when accounting for perfonnance is at once its most glaring weakness and its greatest strength, yielding unique readerly information to compensate for performative data that remains both irrecoverable and of a different order. Of course, since Gorboduc was designed for private performance during the Christmas and New Year revels of 1561-2 (first at the Inner Temple, and then later before the Queen at Whitehall), few potential readers would likely have been familiar with the play as performed. With the rise of the public theatres towards the end of the sixteenth century, however, those purchasing printed plays might very likely possess memories of specific performances, leading to the interconnectedness of textual and performed modes of dramatic production gaining further layers of complexity. Peters suggests that "By the later sixteenth See Chapter Two, pages 14-22. century . . . [printing] conventions had begun to harden" and "printers seem to have come to rely on a readership familiar with both the theatre and the typographic conventions of the drama" (24). Indeed, as Mark Bland has argued, it seems probable "that the opening of the Rose Theatre in 1587 and subsequently the Swan implicitly brought with them a greater potential demand for printed playbooks, both as literature and as records of performance" ("Appearance" 106). Few plays at the Rose were evidently as memorable as Marlowe's Tamburlaine, which was first performed in 1587 and frequently revived during the 1590s; the play's popularity with readers mirrors its success on the stage: after its initial publication in a black- letter octavo in 1590, the play was reprinted (in various forms) in 1593, 1597, and 1605-6, an impressive feat, considering Blayney's calculation that "fewer than 21 percent of the plays published [between 1583 and 1642] reached a second edition inside nine years" (389)."*̂  On stage and in print, Marlowe's Tamburlaine was a revelation, a commanding presence possessing a seemingly limitless rhetorical power unique to English drama; the character's potential for provoking wonder in both mediums was recognized by 01 's printer and publisher, Richard Jones. Jones's epistle "To the Gentleman Readers" is a concise, though calculated effort to straddle page and stage, positing the printed Tamburlaine as able to retain the vitality so essential to the play's success at the Rose, while also explicitly distinguishing the play as printed from the play as performed. The epistle is regularly touted as being instrumental in assigning drama a literary authority that it had previously lacked, thus helping to create a rift between page and stage that would only become more pronounced in the seventeenth century. Kirk Melnikoff has recently challenged this claim, believing that Jones For stage and textual histories, see Dawson, Tamburlaine xxviii-xliv. Part One could be performed on its own or in combination with Part Two (usually on successive days). was not a "literary pioneer," but was instead "very likely fashioning his Tamburlaine for the established print market of collected poetry and chivalric literature—a market that he had done much to shape" (209). Melnikoff s contextualization of Tamburlaine within Jones's larger printing career provides an important corrective for how to read the epistle, but it likely goes too far in discounting Jones's campaign to position the printed play in relation to how its potential readers might have remembered it in performance. Melnikoff argues that "Jones was neither selling Tamburlaine as dramatic literature nor elevating the page over the stage" (209); I would agree with the latter portion of this statement, and while Jones might not be attempting to put forth the play as "dramatic literature," he does, in my mind, fashion the reading of Tamburlaine as an experience that, while distinct from the play's theatrical existence, is fimdamentally linked to it. Jones's target market for "the two tragical Discourses of the Scythian Shepherd" is comprised of those familiar with the play in performance: "My hope is that they wil be now no lesse acceptable vnto you to read after your serious affaires and studies, then they haue bene (lately) delightfiiU for many of you to see, when the same were shewed in London vpon stages" (A2r). In tapping into the memories of Tamburlaine's popularity in performance, Jones claims to be putting forth a play that is both like and unlike the one theatre audiences have come to know. In one sense, what is being presented is "the same" as what was "shewed" to London's theatregoers; at the same time, however, Jones is candid about the fact that the printed play represents a distinct mode of representation, one that he has deliberately altered in order to distinguish from its performed iterations: I haue (purposely) omitted and left out some fond and fiiuolous lestures, digressing (and in my poore opinion) far vnmeet for the matter, which I thought, might seeme more tedious vnto the wise, than any way els to be regarded, though (happly) they haue bene of some vaine co[n]ceited fondlings greatly gaped at, what times they were shewed vpon the stage in their graced deformities. (A2r)̂ *' Significantly, then, Jones's epistle is an admission of editorial activity: he is presenting a text he claims to have improved over the version of the play that was performed on stage. Melnikoff has demonstrated that this kind of textual manipulation is something Jones— "anything but a passive publisher"—did quite a lot of "He compiled his own collections of poems and prose, changed and created many of his works' titles, and for a publisher wrote an almost unsurpassed amount of prefatory material, material in which he was imiquely forthright about his own critical judgmenf (208). What, if anything, Jones excised from Tamburlaine cannot be determined; it is equally unclear whether the "fond and fiiuoulous lestures" in question were authorial in nature or the result of actors' interpolations that were absorbed into a theatrical document informing Jones's copy-text. Whatever the case, the reality or actual content of the deleted portions seem less important than Jones's claim itself: he is constructing a particular text for his clientele—a streamlined version designed for discerning readers, one apparently devoid of the clownish elements that "to be mixtured in print with such matter of worth, it wuld prooue a great disgrace to so honorable & stately a historié . . . " (A2r-A2v). The play can be read, offers Jones, after one's "serious affairs and studies," and he is confident that the play in print will be no less "delightfiiU" than it was "in London vpon stages" (A2r). That Jones draws on Tamburlaine's success in the theatre suggests his treatment of stage and page is not strictly hierarchical: performed and textual modes can both give pleasure, but the respective pleasures—^while connected—are different, and they are produced by different means. Theatregoers are fashioned as a relatively more passive ''̂  "lestxires" is often modernized to "gestures," but the original form seems to keep both "gesture" and "jesting" in play. audience: they merely "see" the play rather than subject it to "serious" scrutiny; the "co[n]cehed fondlings" amongst them "greatly gape" at the "fond and fiiuolous lestures," an image that figures certain portions of the audience as empty receptacles, inertly consuming whatever is presented to them. Conversely, Jones references readers' "wisdomes" and appeals to their "learned censures," implying that it will take some interpretive labour to delight in the play in its printed form. One caimot discoimt the entrepreneurial puffery that Jones is espousing in all of this, flattering potential customers into buying his product, but it must also be said that the epistle prefaces a play exceptionally suited to pronouncements of bold, unique ways of affecting audiences. The Prologue to the first part of Tamburlaine, recognized by one editor as a kind of "challenge, almost a manifesto (Dawson xi)," echoes Jones's epistle in championing the play as a "matter of worth" by accentuating its distinctive, elevated language: From iygging vaines of riming mother wits. And such conceits as clownage keepes in pay, Weele lead you to the stately tent of War, Where you shall heare the Scythian Tamburlaine: Threatning the world with high astoimding tearmes And scourging kingdoms with his co[n]quering sword. View but his picture in this tragicke glasse. And then applaud his fortunes as you please. (1-8) Similar to Jones's epistie, Marlowe's Prologue explicitly brings certain performance conventions to mind only to undermine their currency and deny their appropriateness, yet does so while nevertheless embracing the potential wonders and delights of staged spectacle ("View but his picture . . . / And then applaud his fortunes as you please"). Spoken at the Rose, the Prologue anticipates the theatrical effectiveness of Marlowe's creation and locates the authority for that effectiveness in the playwright's attempts to create a "textually determined purpose of playing," a "verbal picture of an imaginary world" (Weimann 56, 57). When pubHshed and read, the Prologue resonates differently, now recalling Tamburlaine's spectacular presence and inviting readers to experience his "high astounding tearmes" in a printed form.^' Jones's epistle ultimately seeks to define Tamburlaine's readers (and those readers' interpretive skills) in relation to theatre audiences and the power of the play in performance. Such a strategy becomes more commonplace in the early seventeenth century, and it comes to be articulated most explicitly and forcefully not by publishers but by playwrights involved in seeing their works into print. While playwrights contributing prefatory material to their printed works are engaging with potential readers, like Jones's para-text, these engagements often remain linked to the play's life in the theatre, identifying readers by contrasting their position with "the social institution of the theater, the physical space and the people who inhabited it" (Farmer and Lesser 92). In certain instances, the link between text and performance was maintained precisely because a playwright sought to deny or diminish it, championing the legitimacy and potential appeal of a printed work by denigrating theatre audiences who had failed to respond to it properly. John Webster is one such playwright whose printed plays maintain a complicated—even paradoxical—^relation to performance.̂ ^ The title-page to the first quarto printing of The Duchess of Malfi (1623), for example, proclaims the book of the play to be "As it was Presentedpriuately, at the Blachfriers; and publiquely at the Globe, By the Kinges Maiesties Semants," but does not stop there, adding that the book is "The perfect and exact Coppy, with diuerse things Printed, that the length of Bruce Smith's remarks on the title-page to Ql King Lear are applicable here: "The printed script offers itself as a mnemonic device for purchasers who may have actually seen and heard the play in performance... The words on the page become a way of returning, in memory, to that experience" (33). For Webster's involvement in preparing his plays for print as well as making press-corrections, see J. R. Brown, "The Printing of John Webster's Plays," -3 parts: Studies in Bibliography 6 (1954): 117-40; 8 (1956): 113-28; 15 (1962): 57-69. the Play would not beare in the Presentment." This would have it both ways: the text that follows is the play as it was presented on stage; the text that follows is the play that, because of "diuerse things Printed," has technically never been performed. What constitutes the Duchess of Malfil The title-page suggests that the play is what Webster conceived and wrote (some of which was not performed), what private and public audiences were presented with (some of which was not written by Webster, as evidenced by his marginal note next to the song in 3.4, "The Author disclaimes this Ditty to be his" (H2r)), and also what the reader now holds in hand—it was all of these things and somehow more, the sum of the play being greater than its constituent manifestations. Webster's first solo playwrighting effort was, by his own admission, a failure. In an address "To the Reader" of the first quarto of The White Devil (1612), Webster initiates the play's life in print by coming to terms with its death on stage: In publishing this Tragedy, I do but challenge to my selfe that liberty, which other men haue tane before mee; not that I affect praise by it,. .. onely since it was acted in so dull a time of Winter, presented in so open and blacke a Theater, that it wanted (that which is the onely grace and setting out of a Tragedy) a full and vnderstanding Auditory: and that since that time I haue noted, most of the people that come to the Play-house resemble those ignorant asses (who visiting Stationers shoppes their vse is not to inquire for good bookes, but new bookes) .. . (A2r) The rancour in Webster's epistle is undeniable, his intense bitterness produced not just by the play's short run at The Red Bull, but also by the fact that the play's sudden and absolute failure was so cruelly disproportionate to his own labours: "I was a long time in finishing this Tragedy" (A2v). Webster describes the play's utter lack of success in language of exposure, focusing on inauspicious elements both natural and human. The play, he claims, "was acted The title-page to Barnabe Barnes's The Devil's Charter (1607) makes a similar, paradoxical clarni, presentmg a work "as it was plaide before the Kings Maiestie, upon Candlemasse night laste: by his Maiesties Servants. But more exactly revewed, corrected, and augmented since by the Author, for the more pleasure and profit of the Reader." in so dull a time of Winter, presented in so open and blacke a Theater, that it wanted. .. a full and vnderstanding Auditory." This suggests that harsh, gloomy weather prevented or discouraged individuals from making their way to the theatre (or perhaps from staying for the length of the performance); to push this claim fiirther, Webster might also be suggesting that the unforgiving weather interfered with the ability of those who braved the open air to fiilly hear or even see what was being performed. What Webster does make clear is that those who made up the audience didn't much like or comprehend what they saw: they were not "vnderstanding" they were "ignorant asses," they were "vncapable" (A2v). His formulation of the play's original playing space and audience is put forth to support his belief that his work was thoroughly muddled by a distracting and distracted theatre. Webster presses on, providing one final blast against those who so completely failed to appreciate his work: even "should a man present to such an Auditory the most Sententious Tragedy that euer was written," he rails, "the breath that comes fro[m] the vncapable multitude is able to poison it (A2r, A2v). Such a statement formulates the theatre as a space of extreme sensory stimulation; in addition to foul weather, the noxious air steaming from the audience— t̂he symbolic product of their lack of refinement and interpretive shortcomings— can engulf the stage, contaminating performance.̂ '* Cumulatively, these images of exposure and contamination in Webster's epistle call forth an imagined scape of a theatre tainted by forces beyond its control, which is implicitly juxtaposed against the inherent stability and ostensible unambiguity of the scape of the page. Relative to the sounds, smells, and general confusion of the "open" theatre, the clarity and stasis of the printed play become interpretive Webster's contempt recalls lines spoken by Planet, a character from John Marston's Jack Drum's Entertainment, who comments that—quite unlike those in public venues—audiences at Paul's indoor theatre "shall not be choakte / With the stenche of Garlicke, nor be pasted / To the barmy Jacket of a Beer-brewer" (H3v). It also echoes the epistle to the second issue of Ql Troilus; see above, pages 67-8. catalysts, textual properties that allow for Webster's work to be experienced in a more controlled and productive way. The epistle concludes with Webster explicitly stating the terms and contexts in which he wants his printed work to be received. He refers readers to that full and haightned stile of Maister Chapman, the labor'd and vnderstanding workes of Maister Johnson, the no lesse worthy composures of the both worthily excellent Maister Beamont & Maister Fletcher, and lastly (without wrong last to be named) the right happy and copious industry of M. Shake-speare, M. Decker, & M. Heywood, adding that, in printing his play, he is "wishing what I write may be read by their light." To situate his works in relation to these other writers and to ask readers to do the same is to embrace the qualities of printed playtexts that make such comparisons and juxtapositions possible. Again, Webster's understanding of his printed play can only be gleaned tangentially, but against the ephemerality of the performed play, the epistle—with its brief foray into performance history, Latin quotations, and references to successful playwrights— adumbrates a book that is present and permanent in ways that a production at The Red Bull could never be. The epistle's final statement (taken from Martial), is, quite fittingly, an assertion of immutability: "non nurunt, haec monumenta mori"—"these monuments know not death." Despite his resentment over the play's failure and his championing of its merits in print, however, Webster is not invested in entirely discounting the potential of theatrical representation; in a footnote at the end of the playtext, he makes a point of praising those who originally performed his play: For the action of the play, twas generally well, and I dare affirme, with the Joint testimony of some of their owne quality, (for the true imitation of life, without striuing to make nature a monster) the best that euer became them; whereof as J make a generall acknowledgement, so in particular J must remember the well approued industry of my freind Maister Perkins, and confesse the worth of his action did Crowne both the beginning and end. (M2v)^^ Such a conspicuous addendum subtly reasserts his claim in the prefatory epistle that the original audience was to blame for the play's failure. Webster thus frames the book of The White Devil with efforts to differentiate textual and performative modes, sandwiching his playtext between recollections of the limitations—"50 open and blacke a Theater"—and potency—"the true imitation of life"—of the playtext's incarnation on stage. This differentiation also takes place between Webster's para-textual frames in that the play is printed continuously, a compositional technique whereby "verse lines broken between two speakers are set on one line to create a full metrical imit" (Lesser, Drama 66). The term "continuous printing" was first used by Greg, who included under its umbrella instances where "each new speech, instead of (as is usual) beginning a fresh line of print, follows on from the last, with the speaker's name (or prefix) within the line" {Bibliography I: xviii). Since Greg's definition would thus include compositorial efforts to save space and paper. Lesser restricts his own use of the term to instances where continuous printing "is clearly used to create a fiiU verse line" {Drama 66 n23). Lesser's refinement is significant: split verse lines could be set on a single line when a compositor or printer was intent on cutting the not insignificant costs of paper, or when the manuscript copy had been inaccurately cast off and a compositor had to cram lines together, but plays systematically featuring continuous printing appear motivated by aesthetic, rather than economic concerns. Such a stylistic choice was meant to present the printed playtext in a conspicuously literate form and Webster doesn't specify which part (Richard) Perkins played, writing only that "the worth of his action did Crowne both the beginning and end." The general assumption is that Perkms played Flamineo, but if Webster intended to be taken literally, it is Lodovico who begins and ends the action of the play. The Ql (1623) and Q2 (1631) texts of The Duchess of Malfl also recognize performance in a unique way, including a listing for " The Actors Names'" that uses roman numerals to distmguish between two different sets of actors who played the parts of Ferdinand, the Cardinal, and Antonio. distance the book of the play from its theatrical heritage. Plays printed continuously were literary objects, with the space of the page manipulated so as to distinguish the reading of works like The White Devil from the experience of reading other, non-continuously printed plays. Lesser argues that the process was a means of creating a group of select plays. And while not obvious to the buyer, a reader would surely have remarked it, since the change of speaker in mid-line can be jarring until it becomes familiar. Once bought and read, then, continuous printing, marking the play as literary, may have added cultural capital to the play, making it more valuable to its owner, and therefore more desirable for others. {Drama IQf^ The implementation of such a strategy bespeaks an awareness of the interpretative and affective ramifications that can be produced by altering the scape of the page. The fact that this reversion to a more condensed appearance fimctioned as a sign of a "literary" play, distinct from other plays in the bookshop, is indicative of just how well established it had become to utilize white space in printed plays to distinguish between speakers and speeches. Continuous printing would not have conferred any literary valence or other "cultural capital" if non-continuous printing were not the predominant way of producing and reading a play. Further, the deliberate minimization of white space implies that the book of the play is a discrete arena for producing the work, a mode of production that can be differentiated from performed modes by altering the way in which information is presented to readers—in this case, increasing the textual density of lines on the page. If, as Worthen argues, we as modem readers "now expect plays to deploy the (white) space of the page to register the drama's theatrical identity, to insert a sense of the temporality of the playing into the readerly text of the play" {Print 77), the nascent forms of this position in the early seventeenth century would Lesser also finds a correlation between plays printed continuously and certain para-textual markers: these plays are more likely to contain Latin on their title pages and/or "some indication of the author's elevated social status" {Drama 67, and see also Lesser's table on pages 68-9). have been undermined by continuously printed plays like The White Devil, which were designed to de-emphasize substantive linkages between viewing and reading experiences. In setting broken verse lines as unified, full lines, continuous printing infuses the page with a textual logic that impels readers to consider verse exchanges between characters as mutually constitutive and synergetic; in performance, verse exchanges might not necessarily resonate in the same way. Continuous printing, then, along with other typographic features like act and scene divisions, contribute to what Turner refers to as the "conceptual unity" of the printed play; Turner continues: Redistributed across the page in deliberately segmented units of action, the newly unified 'work' makes possible a completely different sense of space from that which predominates on the stage: it allows the reader to project across the play in its entirety a homogeneous, unbroken, 'containing' space that is imagined to link or underlie the various 'places' of the fiction, whether these be onstage or off, 'within' or 'without'. (180) In addition to encouraging readers to conceive of the work in a comprehensive maimer, the printed play often asks its readers to negotiate this unified space in specific ways, reminding them that they as readers are actively involved in utilizing the stability of the page to make meaning(s). Some para-texts concede that transferring a play from manuscript to print introduces errors into the text, but the corollary of this concession is that the interpretive burden is shifted toward readers, affording them more responsibility in correcting mistakes. In a post-script to the epistle prefacing the corrected version of his Parasitaster, or The Fawn (Q2, 1606), for instance, John Marston remarks that "Reader, know I have perused this coppy, to make some satisfaction for the first faulty impression: yet so urgent hath been my business, that some errors have styll passed, which thy discretion may amend" (A2v). In a similar vein, readers of the 1634 edition of Philaster are lauded as the play's "skilfiiU Triers and Refiners," with the actors rather casually dismissed as nothing more than "laboring Miners" (A2v). The final page of Thomas Dekker's account of James's coronation pageant. The Magnificent Entertainment (1604), contains a note "To the Reader," which instructs that "Some errours wander vp and downe in these sheetes, vnder the Printers warrant: which notwithstanding may by thy Authoritie be brought in, and receiue their due Correction" (I4r). While these examples seem to draw a distinction between page and stage—indeed, Marston's post-script adds that "Comedies are writ to be spoken, not read: Remember the life of these things consists in action"—other plays deliberately conflate the acts of textual production and reception with performance and theatrical activity. Francis Beaumont, in a commendatory poem to John Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess, refers to the printing of the play as "a second publication" (t3v), with the first being an apparently short run in the theatre (due to the audiences' confusion as to what they should expect from Fletcher "pastorall Tragie-Comedie" (1(2v)). An errata sheet precedes the playtext of Dekker's Satiromastix (1602), to which the playwright appends this message: "In steed of the Trumpets soimding thrice, before the Play begin: it shall not be amisse (for him that will read) first to beholde this short Comedy of Errors, and where the greatest enter, to give them in steed of a hisse, a gentle correction" (A4v). Peters helps to elucidate instmctions such as Dekker's, which "theatricalise the convention [of readers acting as correctors] in order to stress the active role of the reader, present to the reading, which becomes an altemative kind of performance" (133). Other references to readerly participation conflate reading and performing even more explicitly. John Ford lauds Philip Massinger's The Roman Actor (1629), claiming that although the characters and plot were known to audiences before Massinger's play, they . . . meerly were related Without a Soule, VntiU thy abler Pen Spoke them, and made them speake, nay Act agen In such a height, that Heere to know their Deeds Hee may become an Actor that but Reades. (A4v) Where Ford transforms Massinger's readers into actors (and it is not clear if Ford means that readers "become" the classical figures represented in the play, the stage performers, or both of these at once), George Chapman champions Ben Jonson's Sejanus (1605) as Performing such a liuely Euidence in thy Narrations, that thy Hearers still Thou turnst to thy Spectators; and the sense That thy Spectators haue of good or ill, Thou iniect 'st jointly to thy Readers soules. (t4v) One assumes that Jonson, who acknowledges that the "voluntary Labours of my Friends, prefixt to my Booke, haue releiued me in much, whereat (without them) I should Necessarilie haue touched" (t2r), approved of Chapman's appraisal that reading Sejanus constitutes a unique form of spectatorship, especially since, toward the end of his epistle "To the Readers," the playwright is determined to excise any memorial remnants of Sejanus's performance history. "I would informe you," writes Jonson, "that this Booke, in all nù[m]bers, is not the same with that which was acted on the publike Stage, wherein a second Pen had good share: in place of which I haue rather chosen to put weaker (and no doubt lesse pleasing) of mine own, then to defraud so happy a Genius of his right, by my lothed vsurpation" (T|2v). Unlike playtexts that claim to recapture or contain a play's collaborative processes, Jonson's "Booke" of Sejanus seeks to deny the validity of the play in performance coming to bear on a reader's interpretive and imaginative activity. The play as it existed on the "publike Stage" represents a different version of the work, a memory that Jonson is seemingly content to let fade. In deliberately reshaping the text of the play and customizing an explicitly literary epistle, Jonson ensures that, in Orgel's words, "the drama of Sejanus no longer requires the mediation of an acting company for its realization. The play is now a transaction between the author and the individual reader, and the only perfonnance takes place in the reader's imagination" {Imagining 2). Orgel is striking at the heart of the matter, but his formulation, while accurate, raises a larger question: given Jonson's ongoing project of shifting authority from the unruly ways of the theatre to his printed texts, what kind of performance are his readers being asked to imagine? The short answer is that there isn't just one answer: Sejanus represents a moving target in that the extant printed versions of the play appear driven by different objectives. The quarto edition of the play, in addition to being printed continuously (a stylistic reinforcement of Jonson's literary pretensions), is bordered by relentless marginalia that reference Jonson's Latin sources. The marginalia provide another layer of literary gloss to the playtext, but they are likely also a by-product of two things: the play's lack of success in the theatre and the potential parallels that could be drawn between Sejanus's conspiratorial themes and the contemporary political scene. Jonson claims that he has included the notes "onely . . . to shew my integrity in the Story, and save my selfe in those common Torturers, that bring all wit to the Rack" (f 2v), but, having already been questioned by the Privy Council after a perfonnance of the play in 1603, he would have had good reason to ensure that his subject matter was not "misconstrued" once disseminated in print; alternatively, if Jonson did intend for Sejanus to be subversive, the notes serve as an effective material alibi. Either way, it is first the malleability and then the relative fixity of the printed page that allow him the opportunity to dampen the potential of unintended and/or dangerous readings. Jonson supplies the abbreviated author's names, titles and page numbers of his Roman soiorces to shape and control the tangential moves that can be made away from the playtext; by (literally) framing his pages with information of his choosing, Jonson suppresses the possibility of contemporary allusions being made as he entrenches a reader's engagement with the play in classical precedents and texts. The notes that border the quarto text of Sejanus are designed to create more of a literate conversation between playwright and reader than to cultivate an imagined performance: as Jonson admits, "Whereas, they are in Latine and the worke in English, it was presupposed, none but the Learned would take the paynes to conferre them" (t2v). Jonson writes sardonically in his epistle of erasing the collaborative relationship with his co-author; in its place, his extensive notes establish a carefiiUy managed collaboration with the reader, an esoteric exchange between Jonson as author/editor and those learned enough to navigate his marginalia. Jonas Barish writes of Jonson's shift fi-om "publike Stage" to private "Booke" that the actor's voice represented "an impredictable and untrustworthy element over which he had too little control; print offered an escape into a stabler medium" (qtd. in Weimarm 36). I would concur that Jonson is invested in an "escape" from the theatre into the ostensible stability of print, adding that Jonson is much less intent on utilizing his mise en page to foster or inspire a return voyage back from the book to an imagined realization of the play as performed. As John Jowett explains, the marginal notes "destroy the horizontal axial emphasis" of a standard "play quarto's page layout" ("Fall" 286); by precluding a reader's rhythmic engagement with the dialogue, the marginalia undermines the "deployment of words and actions in time and space" (287). The scape of the page takes precedence over the scape of the imagined scene. This dynamic between page and stage changes, however, in the folio version of Sejanus. Jonson maintains his firm control over the appearance of the printed text, this time by removing the referential marginalia that so distinguished the quarto edition of the play; the margins of the folio text of the play are thus largely bare, save for occasional stage directions, many of which are not found in the quarto text. Critics have long wondered about Jonson's decision to remove his marginalia, since compiling the notes for the quarto must have been a laborious task.̂ ^ Clues as to the motivations behind Jonson's textual alterations are perhaps provided by the title page of the folio text, which distinguishes itself from its quarto predecessor in a significant way. The quarto title page locates its authority exclusively in its claim to be "Written by Ben Jonson," while the folio title page, before recognizing Jonson as "Author," recollects Sejanus's (apparently short) performance history: "Acted, in the yeere 1603. / By the K. MAIESTIES / SERVANTS" (355). There are other conspicuous differences: both texts contain a long, detailed argument outlining the plot to follow, but only the quarto text, so concerned with delimiting the horizon of readings, attaches an interpretive post-script, "This we do aduance as a marke of Terror to all Traytors, & Treasons . . . "; and only in the folio text is it deemed necessary to set "THE SCENE" as "ROME" (359). The most meaningful difference, however, is found in the folio's margins. The folio's sporadic stage directions encode the playtext as just that—aplaytcxX. Characters are given a certain level of mobility: "Drusus passeth by" (362), "They passe over the stage" (364); interlocutors speak to one another in particular ways: there are multiple directions in which characters "whisper" (362, 413); and other directions give specific performance cues: "He turnes to Seianus clyents" (366), "He turns to Laco and the rest" (411), "He salutes them humbly" (423). Cumulatively, stage directions such as these provide a more nuanced understanding of the play's performance potentialities. Where the quarto's supplementary information denied the possibility of meaningfiil performancescapes by directing readers away from the play-as- performed, toward texts and narratives of Jonson's own choosing, the folio text offers intermittent opportunities to imaginatively engage with matters of performance by marking its margins with directions that situate the reader in the interpretive, transitional, and Daniel Broughner describes the "sheer pedantry" of tracing Jonson's references in Sejanus as "stupifying" (qtd. in Slights 28 n 18). meaning-making space between page and stage. William Slights helps to explain the stark contrast between the two versions: What was needed in the folio margins was a clear set of stage directions, absent ftom the quarto, for readers who may well not have seen the thirteen- year-old play performed. Bold enough to ignore printing house precedent in 1605 in mixing massive Latin marginalia with a vernacular stage play, Jonson was also willing to throw away the notes from his carefiil research when they no longer served the specific purposes for which he designed them. Those purposes originally included aimotation, amplification, correcting errors of interpretation, justification of his own political stance, and explication . . . Such justification had lost its point by 1616. (32) That Jonson is more committed to sharpening his readers' sense of the play as enacted on stage is evidenced by the fact that stage directions are added to the text even when the surrounding dialogue renders them superfluous, as in act 5, where a direction is given, "The Senators shift their places," followed immediately by Arruntius's comment that "The place growes hot, they shift" (430). Side by side, the quarto and folio texts demonstrate Jonson experimenting with the appearance of the page to customize texts in accordance with ,what he believes to be the needs of his intended readership. What Barish might call Jonson's second "escape" to the stability of the printed folio page takes on a richer coimotation in that the folio text utilizes the typographical marker of the stage direction to gesture outside the bounds of the book, back at the forever absent and ephemeral play-as-performed. The final verso page of the folio text of Sejanus mirrors the claims made on the title- page—"This Tragédie was first / acted, in the yeere / 1603. / By the Kings Maiesties / SERVANTS" (438)—and strengthens the printed play's coimection to its performance history by naming "The principall Tragaedians" in a list that includes "WILL. SHAKE- SPEARE," "lOH. HEMINGS," and "HEN. CONDEL." These three figures are of course more famously linked by Shakespeare's own Folio of dramatic works, with Heminge and Condell apparentiy serving as the primary organizers of the collection. The impact of Jonson's and Shakespeare's FoUos on conceptions of dramatic authorship and the legitimization of the literary qualities of drama is well established, and I don't believe it is necessary for me to return to these issues here. What bears reasserting is that the publication of Jonson's Workes in 1616—"a culminating achievement of writing and patronage" (Bergeron 129)—fundamentally altered the way that printed playtexts could be encoded for readers. Where a playwright's body of work would have previously only been available in a range of heterogeneous, largely perishable individual units produced by printers and compositors possessing varying levels of skill and care for the material at hand, Jonson's Workes offered his collected plays (as well as certain poems, masques, and entertainments) in a systematically arranged and relatively uniform maimer, and presented them to readers as dignified, permanent, and definitive.̂ ^ Moreover, Jonson's Folio was designed and engineered to put forth a totalized understanding of his life's writing: from its title-page featuring a proscenium stage, triimiphal arch, obelisks, laurels, inscriptions, and statues, to its dedicatory poems (some of which are entirely in Latin), to the dedications accompanying each play, it is clear that the Folio is intended to position Jonson and his work wdthin enduring, classical contexts. Jonson's Folio has been described as possessing a textuality that is "antioccasional" and "antitheat[rical]" (Lowenstein, "Printing" 182); indeed, given some of Jonson's prefatory efforts to disassociate his printed plays from the theatre, the "antitheatrical" label is one that is assigned to Jonson with great frequency. Yet, as we have seen, Jonson's alterations to the Folio text of Sejanus reveal a playwright who was not above For recent explorations of folio production, authorship, and printed drama as literature in relation to Shakespeare, see Erne; de Grazia, Verbatim 14-48; and Kastan, Book 50-78. On Jonson's Folio, see Bland, "Stansby"; Brooks 104-39; Brady and Herendeen; and Lowenstein, Jonson 133-210. Jonson, it should be noted, was actively involved in the printing of his plays before their collection in 1616. Lowenstein argues that Jonson's longstanding concem for the published shape of his plays—as expressed in his experimentation with epistles, dedications, apparatuses, and typography-served as an extensive preparation for the production of the Folio (Jonson 152-94). utilizing and manipulating the space of the page to substantiate links between the play as printed and the play as (potentially) performed.̂ ^ Shakespeare's Folio followed Jonson's example in seeking to account for his canon in a cumulative way, although rather than emphasizing classical associations, Shakespeare is memorialized in Heminge and Condell's epistle to readers as an author "Who, as he was a happie imitator of Nature, was a most gentle expresser of it" (A3r). Later in the century, a Folio collecting the works of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher reflects and refracts its predecessors in intriguing ways by projecting itself as a veritable archive of writing for the stage; the more explicit gestures toward the stage in the Beaumont and Fletcher Folio are perhaps not altogether surprising given that it was produced during a period when public performances of the playtexts it collects were no longer an option. Despite the different motivations and forces behind the Shakespeare and Beaumont and Fletcher Folios (to which I now turn), they, like the Jonson Folio, suggest that spectres of performance continue to haunt the production of dramatic texts even after plays are collected and styled as authorial and literary, and despite the predominantly textualized ways that readers were asked to conceive of printed plays when encoimtering them in collected forms. * * * That the Shakespeare Folio, is, as Kastan remarks, a "book [that] presents itself as literary" (Book 72) is beyond dispute. The most well mined source of the Folio's pretensions is the prefatory note "7b the great Variety of Readers," where it is apparent that Heminge and Condell's sense of the work they are collecting is a textual one. The Folio's value, they *° Citing typographic markers such as "the extra provision of white space around the text," and Jonson's strict control over the punctuation of his Folio playtexts— ân attempt " to escape from the limitations of the written or printed word and to emphasize its orality"—^Mark Bland goes so far as to state that Jonson and his publisher/printer William Stansby "altered the spatial relationship of the text" so as to foster "the idea of the book as its own theatre" ("Stansby" 23, 19, 28). propose, is not conferred by encapsulating or memorializing specific perfomiances (a claim made by many individually printed plays in the period), but by the texts' proximity and fidelity to Shakespeare's original writings: "His mind and hand went together: And what he thought, he vttered with that easinesse, that wee haue scarse receiued from him a blot in his papers." As I've argued elsewhere, if Shillingsburg's definitions of work, text, and document (summarized in Chapter Two, pages 32-3), are applied to the epistle, Heminge and Condell imply that Shakespeare's work ("what he thought")—a concept that Shillingsburg understands as possessing "no substantial existence" (43)—took on a material form in his unblotted manuscript papers.*'' Further, Heminge and Condell formulate the Folio as a transmitter of this work, one absolutely free from distortion: the volume contains not just Shakespeare's "writings," "perfect of their limbes, and . . . absolute in their numbers," it also represents these writings "as he conceiued the[m]." Heminge and Condell implicate themselves in the perpetuation of Shakespeare's creative efforts, and the lineage that they sketch—from thoughts to papers to print—strictly concerns itself with textual purity and stability, excluding the potential influences and interpolations of theatrical collaborators and performances. An effacement of performance also characterizes their (in)famous statement that as where (before) you were abus'd with diuerse stolne, and surreptitious copies, maimed, and deformed by the frauds and stealthes of iniurious impostors, that expos'd them: euen those, are now offer'd to your view cur'd, and perfect of their limbes, and all the rest, absolute in their numbers, as he conceiued the[m].''^ See Paul, "History-' 183-4. M u c h ink has been spilled in attempting to surmise what exactly "diuerse stolne, and surreptitious copies" refers to; a sampling o f the more noteworthy interpretations would have to include Alfred Pollard's, which is integral to his influential theory of "bad" quartos (64-80); Kastan's belief that the reference is to all earlier printings o f Shakespeare's plays {Book 72-8); and Erne's conjecture that Heminge and Condell ' s comments are specifically aimed at a group of ten quartos published and collected by Thomas Pavier in 1619 (255-8). Again, Heminge and Condell concern themselves with the texts of Shakespeare's plays, this time the extent to which they have previously been "maimed" and "deformed." Their concern for what has been presented to readers in a damaged form surely refers not to the physical vessel that contains the text—i.e. the document (what we would retrospectively identify as a "good" quarto, "bad" or "short" quarto, scribal copy, or whatever)—but to the text (the intended order of words and punctuation) contained in that document. The claim of having cured and perfected the previously marred texts is founded on their apparent access to the purest wellspring of Shakespeare's genius—his "papers"—which allow them to reproduce more faithful texts of Shakespeare's works. Any involvement on the part of individuals involved in the theatrical production of the plays is excised from their equation. That Heminge and Condell, actors both, would not incriminate the theatre when narrating Shakespeare's history in print is to be expected. What is, as Kastan remarks, somewhat more "surprising" is their overall "disregard for the theater in the commemorative voltmie" {Book 71). According to Kastan's reading of the Folio's preliminaries. One might think that they would emphasize the fruitful collaborations of playwright and actor, the popularity of the plays among audiences of all ages and social classes, or even suggest, as some play texts did, that the true life of drama is on the stage. But they make only a single gesture to the theatrical auspices of what is published. In their dedication to the Herberts they comment that so great was their Lordships' 'likings of the seuerall parts, when they were acted' that even before it was published 'the Volume ask'd to be yours.' But rather than suggest the aesthetic priority of the staged play, here its priority is merely temporal; and indeed the play as performed is imagined not as the essential experience that the published play can only and belatedly approximate but as a more ephemeral form of the voltmie itself. {Book 71-2) Kastan's point is true to the mark: given Shakespeare's long and intimate association wdth London's theatrical scene, the Folio's lack of direct engagement with the economic and creative issues related to dramatic production is striking, and the latter portion of Kastan's claim effectively captures the transitory nature of performance wdthin Heminge and Condell's para-texts. Regarding Heminge and Condell's "single gesture" to the theatre, however, Kastan overstates his case: in identifying conspicuous absences from their writings, he neglects more subtle links to theatre and performance in Heminge and Condell's epistle and in other sections of the prefatory matter (which one assumes Heminge and Condell had some organizational involvement in). From a broad perspective, the decision to group Shakespeare's plays generically, though it necessitated forcing certain works (like Cymbeline) into misleading categories, might, as Orgel suggests, "have had the attraction of classical forms for Shakespeare's first editors, conferring the dignity of ancient drama on the work of their fellow actor" (qtd. in Murphy, Print 42). Similarly, the inclusion of "The Names of the Principall Actors in all these Playes" could serve as a general reminder that "these Playes" did exist and thrive elsewhere, outside the bounds of the printed book, subjected to the interpretive labours of professional performers. The list of actors is not a hasty snapshot of the company's makeup, but instead appears thoughtfiilly designed to encompass, at least in part, what was in actuality a fluid membership; S. P. Cerasano identifies "roughly four 'generations' of players" (331) that are recorded, from the company's first sharers to those who were members when the King's Men received their final patent in 1619. Subtly then, the list of actors coimects the Folio's playtexts to an extended history of collaborative theatre practice by identifying many of the individual performers who brought the plays to life. The list obscures much more than it reveals, however, and it will sustain a glance toward performance for only the briefest of instances; it is, as Cerasano remarks, above all "a memorial record, enshrining the names of key players but in no way characterizing the qualities that made them distinctive" (343). To counter Kastan's claims more specifically, the writings of Heminge and Condell in fact reference two contemporary theatres by name in the epistle, one of which, the Blackfriars, assumed a central position in the latter stages of Shakespeare's career; they inform readers that Censure will not driue a Trade, or make the lacke go. And though you be a Magistrate of wit, and sit on the Stage at Black-Friers, or the Cock-pit, to arraigne Playes dailie, know, these Playes haue had their triall already, and stood out all Appeales . . . In one sense, this passage differentiates the interpretation of Shakespeare's printed texts from interrogations of live "Playes"—what follows in the Folio need not be subjected to the same kind of scrutiny that is applied to contemporary performances in the leading private theatres; but on the other hand, the passage also establishes for readers of the Folio that the success of the collected plays has already been proven and validated by their previous "triall(s)" in the public theatres. In one rapid swoop, the fate of plays in performance is both marginalized and recognized as primary and integral to success in print.̂ ^ A similar figurative mixture of page and stage lingers in Heminge and Condell's instructions to "ludge your sixe-pen'orth, your shillings worth, your fine shillings worth at a time, or higher, so you rise to the iust rates, and welcome." Like so many passages in the epistle, this hierarchizing of readerly judgement is open to interpretation. On the surface, the passage applies the shifting price scale to the Folio itself, which perhaps suggests that Heminge and Condell are asking that readers proceed through the Folio in incremental units, play by play, in order to produce their money's worth of enjoyment and then respond with the requisite amount of appreciation.̂ '* Yet as Hackel reminds us, "The instructions [also] evoke the language of the playhouse, Richard Levin believes that Heminge and Condell are implying that there is a "fundamental similarity between the experiences of seeing and of reading a play" (557), but this seems to put too great a burden on the notion of the plays having "had their triall aheady." Heminge and Condell are acknowledging that a certain segment of then- potential readership is comprised of regular playgoers, but I don't think it necessarily follows that readmg and seeing a play are being described as essentially similar. ^ Folio prices were fluid relative to their bound or unbound state, but they would not have ranged within the denommations that Heminge and Condell cite. Unboimd copies are estimated to have sold for 15s., with boimd copies costing up to £1 (in plam calf). See West 8-13. where admission prices did, in fact, operate on a sliding scale" ('"Great Variety'" 144). Hackel supports her reading with a quotation from the Induction to Jonson's Bartholomew Fair, in which the Scrivener "grants the audience the right to judge the play according to their investments": It shall be lawful for any man to judge his six pen'orth, his twelve pen'orth, so to his eighteen pence, two shillings, half a crown to the value of his place: provided always his place get not above his wi t . . . . marry, if he drop but sixpence at the door, and will censure a crown's worth, it is thought there is no conscience in that. ("'Great Variety'" 145) Heminge and Condell thus blur the distinction between reading and theatre audiences, equating their respective investments in dramatic works as providing similar opportunities for commendation or criticism. To claim that Heminge and Condell are positing reading and theatre-going as equivalent activities would be to push things too far, though clearly images and metaphors of the theatre informed their thinking as they endeavoured to sell their collection of the plays. The epistle to readers ends with a tantalizing remark from Heminge and Condell: "And so we leaue you to other of his Friends, whom if you need, can bee your guides." One might be tempted to take them literally here, and ascribe to the dedicatory poems that follow a concerted, systematic effort to direct readers' negotiations with Shakespeare's printed texts. As enticing as this sounds, the temptation must be resisted, not only because the spirit of Heminge and Condell's piece is ultimately commercial rather than exegetical ("what euer you do, Buy"), but also because the poems themselves prove to be more concerned with lauding Shakespeare's career and mourning his death than they do with providing interpretive blueprints. What the dedicatory poems do contain, nevertheless, are the explicit theatrical gestures that Kastan identifies as missing from Heminge and Condell's prefatory material. Hugh Holland, for example, acknowledges the playwright's most famous stage through a pun: "His dayes are done, that made the dainty Playes, / Which made the Globe of heau'n and earth to ring." Other prefatory pieces offer more complex assessments. Jonson's poem concludes by way of referencing "the drooping Stage; I Which, since thy flight ^o[m] hence, hath mourn'd like night, /And despaires day, but for thy Volumes light." Hitting a similar note, Leonard Digges first stresses the permanence of the Folio—"This Booke, / When Brasse and Marble fade, shall make thee looke / Fresh to all Ages "—^then proceeds to lament the impoverished stage that Shakespeare has left behind: Nor shallle're beleeue, or thinke thee dead (Though mist) vntill our bankrout Stage be sped (Impossible) with some new straine t 'out-do Passions o/Iuliet, and her Romeo; Or till I heare a Scene more nobly take, Then when thy half-Swordparlying Romans spake. James Mabbe's contribution, which figures Shakespeare as an animated (and animating) presence behind performed and textual modes of producing his works, is worth quoting in fiiU: Wee wondred (Shake-speare) that thou went 'st so soone From the Worlds Stage, to the Graues-Tyring-roome. Wee thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth, Tels thy Spectators, that thou went 'st but forth To enter with applause. An Actors Art, Can dye, and Hue, to acte a second part. That's but an Exit of Mortalitie; This, a Re-entrance to a Plauditie. Collectively, the dedicatory poems are, like Heminge and Condell's epistle to readers, concerned with Shakespeare as author and creator, but all of them situate Shakespeare's writings as existing within, and between, the bounds of both the book and the stage. All this is not to say that Kastan isn't correct in pointing out the ephemeral position that performance occupies in the Folio: the implicit, indirect nature of many of the references I have touched on essentially prove his point. When it comes to the playtexts collected in the Folio, Heminge and Condell's narrative involving Shakespeare's imblotted pen and exclusive authority actually misrepresents two collaborative processes—that of performance and of print production—both of which inevitably transform playtexts as they descend in any number of permutations from manuscript (perhaps through the theatre) to print. In emphasizing Shakespeare as sole author, Heminge and Condell minimize the contributions of his various collaborators in the creative process: not just actors, but also other playwrights now recognized as determining the shape of plays ascribed only to Shakespeare (such as Middleton in Macbeth and Timon, Fletcher in Henry VHI). Also elided from Heminge and Condell's description of the plays' transition to the Folio are scribes and compositors, whose work with playtexts and their para-textuals will impinge on the way in which printed plays demarcate and negotiate the space between page and stage. In Worthen's words, "For while punctuation, capitalization, exits and entrances, the placement and variation of speech prefixes are surely not the stuff of drama, by representing a relationship between writing and performance, the material properties of printed plays inevitably represent the identity of drama in the age of print: they frame the mise-en-page as a site of performance" {Print 11). It is via the appearance of the play on the page that textual theorists and editors attempt to trace the origins of printed playtexts and estimate the extent to which they have come into contact with, and been transformed by, the contingencies of performance. The editors of the Oxford Shakespeare, for instance, distinguish between the vestigial markers of authorial foul papers, such as "loose ends, false starts, textual tangles . . . inconsistency in the designation of characters in speech prefixes . . . [and] 'ghost' characters called for in stage directions," and the remnants of textual modifications produced during a play's realization in the theatre, like stage directions that are "more systematically supplied . . . [and] more practically... worded," and "characters [that are] more consistently identified in speech prefixes" {Companion 9, 12). The distinction between relatively private and relatively socialized versions of playtexts, though it can "easily harden into a misleading dichotomy" {Companion 12), nevertheless allows for an understanding of reciprocity between written, printed, and performed modes of production: an original manuscript version of a play with the potential to guide performance is subjected to the interpretive labours of various individuals and institutions, from which demonstrably different versions of the original play are produced. Challenging this linear, evolutionary model, Lukas Erne has recently endeavoured to prove that "Shakespeare's 'long' plays"—most of which are found in the Folio—"were not performed in anything close to their entirety in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries" (174), a point that has huge ramifications for his understanding of the nature of many printed texts prepared for readers. Shakespeare, argues Erne, wrote "much material that was never, nor was ever intended to be, performed" (136). Erne believes that the longer texts (found in the Folio or in "good" quartos) "correspond to what an emergent dramatic author wrote for readers in an attempt to raise the literary respectability of plays," while the "short, theatrical texts . . . record in admittedly problematic fashion the plays as they were orally delivered on stage to spectators" (220). Erne focuses on the variants between long and short versions of Henry V, Romeo and Juliet, and Hamlet, believing that the conspicuous differences between them "bespeak the different media for which they were designed" (223). There are difficulties with Erne's larger claims,̂ ^ but one thing he does particularly well is demonstrate how the presence or absence of para-textuals—^particularly stage directions—can Erne is on relatively firm ground in exhibiting that Shakespeare wrote overly long plays from the perspective of early modem playing times, and it also seems plausible that Shakespeare did, at times, write with readers in mind. The claim that Shakespeare wrote extra material so as to "raise the literary respectability of plays" is much more speculative. Worthen, though he recognizes the important ways that Eme's study recognizes the complicated connections between printed playtexts, authorship, and performance, exposes Eme's literary biases: "Is it at all plausible that as house playwright, Shakespeare might well have had the incentive and the freedom to write extra material not for literary posterity but to provide a wider range of options and opportunities for his company to thmk through the play's performance potentialities? " {Print 25-6). communicate information about performance in different ways, thus altering the imaginative demands made of readers. As an example of the kinds of conclusions Erne draws, consider his reading of (theatrical) quarto and (literary) folio versions of the entry of the French Herald during the battle of Agincourt in Henry V, after King Henry has discovered the slaughtered English boys. Erne notes that both texts are essentially the same save for one important difference. After the stage direction marking the Herald's entry (he is "Mounioy" in the Folio), the Folio text includes an exchange between Exeter and Gloucester that is not present in the first quarto: Exe. Here comes the Herald of the French, my Liege. Glou. His eyes are humbler than they v'sd to be. The significance of these lines, according to Erne, is "that they can be acted and therefore do not need to be spoken. In performance, the words would unnecessarily reiterate what the actor conveys through body language" (222). Referencing Berger's "imaginary audition," Erne states that "the two lines present in the readerly but absent from the theatrical text. . . allow a reader to imagine a point of stage business that could otherwise only be conveyed in performance" (222). Erne's description of the way in which the printed text allows for a reader to imaginatively engage with the play as perforaied—in this instance encouraging readers to picture a noticeably subdued Mountjoy making his way towards Henry's forces, a detail that impacts on not only the way one pictures Mountjoy's body language, but also the manner in which he subsequently speaks—resonates with my descriptions of performancescape in Chapter Two. I am thus in accordance with his fundamental argument that the manipulation of para-textuals (and the mise en page in general) can potentially influence a reader's ability to approximate performance. I do, however, wish to complicate his position, especially his assertion that some of Shakespeare's plays were designed to "function according to a 'literary' logic" (23). I contend that the connections between stage and page as they are recorded in print are more dynamic, more synergistic, than a binary that opposes "literary" and "theatrical" logic will support, and I believe a brief examination of a play first printed in the Folio will help illustrate my point. The play is Cymbeline, which is admittedly a curious choice to bring to the discussion: it exists in only one extant state, it is not burdened with contentious textual cruces, it is (and has always been) a play of middling popularity. Erne doesn't scrutinize Cymbeline, though this is because his study centres on explaining the differences between long and short versions of the same work. Cymbeline is extremely long, exceeded in the Folio only by Hamlet, Richard III, Troilus and Cressida, and Coriolanus, and, according to Erne, thus much too lengthy to be performed in its entirety in the seventeenth century.̂ ^ I am interested in the play's fifth act, specifically the battle between the invading Romans and the British/Welsh soldiers, and the ensuing description of this battle by one of its key participants. Posthumus. It goes without saying that the battle itself, like most extended action sequences in Shakespeare, lacks a certain vitality or intensity when apprehended by way of the printed page. Where a theatre audience is presented with physical markers of dissonance—active bodies confronting one another, the grunts and moans of actors, the clamour of weaponry—readers have to make due with inert markings on the page, signs representative of theatrical potential and/or convention. Which is not to say that the stage directions in the Folio text of Cymbeline meant to accoimt for the frenetic climax are not helpful: in the eyes of one editor, the directions for most of the fifth act seem "'literary,' descriptive rather than theatrical," aimed at "help[ing] a reader visualize what is going on. Erne notes that a 1997 Stratford production of Cymbeline "played for nearly three hours, even though a full thousand lines were omitted" (137). and perhaps to reflect a contemporary staging" (Warren 72).̂ ^ Curiously, after (in rapid succession) the defeat of Jachimo by Posthumus, the capture and rescue of Cymbeline, and the turning of the tide through the sheer will and valour of Belarius and the two hidden princes, what immediately follows is a long narrative description by Posthumus of the events that have just taken place on stage. Roger Warren notes that "there is no sign of textual disturbance at this point, so it is probably [safe] to conclude that the duplication is deliberate, Shakespeare choosing to show the audience the battle fi-om the outside and then fi-om the viewpoint of a participant" (74). Warren seems to be thinking specifically of the effects of the doubled-perspective on theatre audiences, but what of readers? More specifically, what of readers encountering Cymbeline for the first time as it is printed in the Folio? They are first faced wdth the opportunity to, as Erne puts it in his discussion of Henry V, "imagine a point of stage business that could otherwise only be conveyed in performance" (222). As mentioned, the stage directions add touches that seem to go beyond merely recording theatrical detail; 5.2 opens with this direction: Enter Lucius, lachimo, and the Romane Army at one doore: and the Britane Army at another: Leonatus Posthumus following like a poore Souldier. They march ouer, and goe out Then enter againe in Skirmish lachimo and Posthumus: he vanquisheth and disarmeth lachimo, and then leaues him. (TLN 2892-1 The direction allows readers to position figures on an imagined stage and approximate their movements; the "Skirmish" between Jachimo and Posthumus is especially provocative, wdth "he vanquisheth and disarmeth lachimo, and then leaues him" adding subtlety to a Warren attributes a share of the literary nature of the directions to the influence of Ralph Crane, the scribe who likely prepared the transcript serving as the basis for the Folio text; Crane's influence on the playtext is discussed by Warren on pages 67-74. Quotations from the Folio follow the Through-Line numbers of the Hmman facsimile. confrontation that could easily be condensed into a more simplified form. The next direction in the scene appears similarly aimed at readers: The Battaile continues, the Britaines fly, Cymbeline is taken: Then enter to his rescue, Bellarius, Guiderius, and Aruiragus. (2908-10) Again, that Belarius and company not only "enter" but "enter to his rescue" amidst a backdrop of a continuing battle facilitates a (relatively) more detailed readerly awareness of the moment's enactment on stage. As helpfiil as the stage directions might be in producing performancescapes (of Posthumus "vanquishing" Jachimo, of a continuing battle), however, they don't provide nearly enough information to fully encapsulate how the scene might be communicated by actors' purposefiil, active bodies. "Then enter againe in Skirmish" is richer than just "enter againe" and the same can be said of "vanquisheth and disarmeth" as opposed to something like "Jachimo falls" but the details that are supplied inevitably hint at the vast range of information that is missing. How long does the skirmish last? How, precisely, does Posthumus vanquish and disarm Jachimo? Does Posthumus linger over his prone victim {is Jachimo prone?), and if so, to what effect? Even if the text provided answers to these questions, the end result would be to produce more lacunae that a user of the text would need to fill. The stage directions close the gap between page and stage, but they also help to constitute that gap, reminding readers that it can never be completely closed. A much different scene follows: after "They [Belarius and his adopted sons] Rescue Cymbeline" Posthumus re-enters and begins to recoimt his version of the encounter to a "Britane Lord." While Posthumus's recollection follows hard on the heels of the staged representation of warring British and Roman soldiers, his retelling of the battle moves fiirther and fiirther away from the kinds of detail that could be communicated in performance. He speaks of "the Enemy full-hearted. Lolling the Tongue with slaught'ring" (2935-6), of a lane. "ditch'd &. wall'd with turph" (2942), of emboldened British soldiers who began to "grin like Lyons / Vpon the Pikes o'th' Hunters" (2966-7), and of numerous dead and wounded: "some mortally, some slightly touch'd, some falling / Meerely through feare" (2937-8). In short, Posthumus's description expands beyond the possibilities of the stage: he details a battle that can only be realized by the imagination, infusing it with metaphorical and sensory details that no reading or performance of the previous scene can produce. Posthumus's narrative privileges the literary over the theatrical, poem over play, but this does not mean that the literary assimilates performance, or, returning to Erne, that the literary is efficiently compensating for information that could otherwise only be communicated through the actor's body (how does a lion grin?). In fact, the scene in question is introduced by yet another reminder of the incongruity of textual and performative modes. The entry direction to the battle scene had identified Posthumus as a "poore Souldier" but in the narrative scene he enters (merely) as "Posthumus". The shift in the para-textual description poses readers with a challenge that audiences won't face, since the actor playing Posthumus will likely make it clear— t̂hrough his posture, gait, intonation, etc.—if Posthimius should still be considered to be in a state akin to the last time he was seen on stage. In other words, an audience won't have to decide if Posthumus is still "poore"—^the decision will have been made for them. To reverse field, consider Posthumus's narrative from the perspective of a theatre audience. Warren writes in a conmientary note that "the audience has already seen what he describes" (224), but this oversimplifies the matter: they have and they haven't seen what Posthumus recounts. For one thing, the six-line, nationalistic rallying cry that Posthumus attributes to Belarius—"Our Britaines hearts dye flying, not our men, / To darknesse fleete soules that flye backwards; stand, / . . . Stand, stand" (2952-3, 6)—is not foimd in the previous scene, only the more fragmented (and politically neutral) "Stand, stand, we haue the'aduantage of the ground, / The Lane is guarded: Nothing rowts vs, but / The Villany of our feares" (2911-3). Further, the narrative itself hints at just how far Posthumus's retelling of the battle deviates from a performance of it. There is a metatheatrical nod to limited numbers of live actors standing in for vast armies in Posthumus's praise for the "Nobleness" (2961) of Belarius and the princes: "These three, / Three thousand confident, in acte as many: / For three performers are the File, when all / The rest do nothing" (2956-9). His claim that "Some slaine before, some dying; some their Friends / Ore-borne i'th'former wane, ten chac'd by one, / Are now each one the slaughter-man of twenty" (2975-7) similarly gestures at the finite numbers of human bodies that make up all acting companies—"each one the slaughterman of twenty" is a figurative remembering true to the world of the play that nevertheless bespeaks the imaginative participation required by audiences of the play in the world. Whether in print or in performance then, these two scenes in Cymbeline are marked by the intersections and divergences of page and stage. Text and performance interpenetrate and inform one another, and in so doing, each mode of production reveals the limitations of the other. The literary and the theatrical intermix so innately that even portions of playtexts that seem designed to privilege reading audiences are imbued with the potential to produce imaginative engagements with performance potentialities. Yet the negotiations of text and performance need not be distilled into a binary of literary texts intended for readers versus scripts meant for performance; rather, it seems more usefiil to speak of the printed page as shaping and stabilizing a confluence of information that blends literary and theatrical elements. As Michael Dobson expresses in a wonderfiiUy concise paradox, "If it is true that performance by its very nature exceeds the Shakespearian text... then we still need to acknowledge that the Shakespearian text exceeds any given performance" ("Writing" 160). * * * Textual negotiations of theatre and performance are reconstituted in another major folio from later in the seventeenth century collecting the "Comedies and Tragedies" of Francis Beaumont and John Fletcher (1647).̂ ^ Those involved in compiling the Folio are upfront about its emulation of Heminge and Condell's collection: the dedication to Philip Herbert, also one of the dedicatees of the Shakespeare Folio, references "the example of some, who once steered in our qualitie, and so fortunately aspired to choose your Honour, j'oynd with your (now glorified) Brother, Patrons to the flowing compositions of the then expired sweet Swan of Avon SHAKESPEARE" (A2r). More subtle echoes of the Shakespeare Folio can be heard in the stationer Humphrey Moseley's claim that Fletcher "never writ any one thing twice,... never touched pen till all was to stand as firme and immutable as if ingraven in Brasse or Marble" (A4v), which recalls Heminge and Condell's assertion that "we haue scarse receiued from [Shakespeare] a blot in his papers." As in Shakespeare's Folio, the dedicatory poems to the Beaumont and Fletcher Folio avow that collecting and printing plays bestows deserved immortality on both the author(s) and the works themselves. The prefatory material to the two folios differ in that the latter is much more explicit in its pronouncements regarding the actual reading experience the plays make possible, especially in terms of the texts' relations to the plays as performed. The apparent desire to create substantial links to the plays in performance is largely explained by the Folio's publication dming the Interregnum, when the production of plays at public theatres was no Though the FoHo presents Beaumont and Fletcher as co-authors of its entire contents, it has been established that this is likely far from accurate. Beaimiont's share in the Folio is relatively small; G. E. Bentley argues that "[t]he evidence is overwhelming that Beaumont had nothing to do with most of the plays" attributed to both playwrights (qtd. in Brooks 145). For discussions of how the FoHo's attributions complicate modem conceptions of authorship, see Brooks 140-88, and Masten 113-55. longer a reality. James Shirley's epistle "TO THE READER" acknowledges the absence of public performances, but reconfigures the quiet of the theatres into the Folio's major selling point: And now Reader in this Tragicall Age where the Theater hath been so much out-acted, congratulate thine owne happinesse, that in this silence of the Stage, thou hast a liberty to reade these inimitable Playes, to dwell and converse in these immortal Groves, which were only shewd our Fathers in a conjuring glasse, as suddenly removed as represented, the Landscrap is now brought home by this optick, and the Presse thought too pregnant before shall be now look'd upon as greatest Benefactor to Englishmen, that must acknowledge all the felicity of witt and words to this Derivation. (A3r-A3v)^° Shirley navigates the painfiil emptiness of the darkened theatres by minimizing the representational power of the plays in performance. The emphasis on the ephemerality of performance—"as suddenly removed as represented"—sets off the interpretive and affective potential provided by the relative fixity of the printed page. The Folio allows for a more meaningful encounter with the dramatic works in question, one that is very much a product of the book's ostensible stability; the value of the book's permanence is expressed most provocatively in Shirley's claim that it will bear the imprint of authors and readers: readers will be able to "stand admiring the subtile Trackes of your engagement" (A3v). In many ways, Shirley's epistle to readers foreshadows Harry Berger's binary of the "Slit-eyed Analyst and the Wide-eyed Playgoer" (xiv) and the prominence he assigns to the reading experience, to "how much is withheld from an audience that can only hear and see, how much is occulted in the text they caimot read" (149). Revealingly, the Folio's ability to capture the richness of Beaumont and Fletcher's creations is put forth in spatial and ocular terms: readers are enticed with the possibility that they can "dwell and converse in these °̂ I've retained the original spellings in this passage, but given the context it is difficult not to see "Landscrap" as a misreading of "Landscap[é]" (and a remarkably ironic misreadmg at that, given the claim that Shirley is in the midst of making). immortal Groves" an opportunity denied the plays' first generation of interpreters since the works "were only shewd our Fathers in a conjuring glasse." Where theatre audiences were witnesses to mere representation, readers are able to situate themselves in the works, their gaze refined by the "opticlc" that is the Folio; the promised end of readers' negotiations with the printed "Derivation" of the plays is immersion in vivid, imagined (land)scapes. Shirley's articulation of loss in the face of the silent public theatres is reasserted in a number of the Folio's dedicatory poems, as are his claims that reading the Folio offers a superior means of realizing the plays. The attempt to put forth the printed plays as capable of replacing any and all of the imports of performance often results in figurations that conflate acts of reading with acts of theatrical participation. James Howell remarks "Vpon Master FLETCHERS Dramaticall Workes," asserting that although "the Stage is down ... I And.. . we cannot have Thee trod o 'th ' stage, I Wee will applaud Thee in this silent Page" (b4r). Robert Gardiner boasts that the Folio "at last unsequesters the Stage, I Brings backe the Silver, and the Golden Age" (c2r). Jasper Maine styles Beaumont and Fletcher's shared pen as "part Stage and Actor" (dlr). In John Web's commendatory poem, stage and book, actors and readers all become indistinguishable: What though distempers of the present Age Have banish 'dyour smooth numbers from the Stage? You shall be gainers by't; it shall confer To th ' making the vast world your Theater. The Presse shall give to ev 'ry man his part. And we will all be Actors; learne by heart Those Tragick Scenes and Comicke Strains you writ, Vn-imitable both for Art and Wit; And at each Exit, as your Fancies rise, Our hands shall clap deserved Plaudities. (c2v) The excerpt from Web's piece is particularly suggestive in that it seeks to distinguish unique properties of printed playtexts, such as stability that can sustain prolonged and repeatable engagements— r̂eaders can "learne by heart" lines or entire scenes—while enfolding these attributes of print in extended metaphors of performance and theatrical participation. The notion that "The Presse shall give to ev 'ry man his part" starkly contrasts the widespread dissemination of ostensibly uniform copies of an entire volume of plays against traditional "parts" distributed to actors—handwritten fragments of a greater whole, designed to be absolutely unique. As Peters observes of para-textuals such as those found in the Beaiunont and Fletcher Folio, "the commentaries on print and performance repeatedly draw attention to their own paradoxes, implicitly recognizing, at the same time that they attempt to define separate media, the limits of medium distinction. Like theatre, print is fixity and imfixity, it is accuracy and error, it is enlightenment and obscurity, it is order and chaos . . . " (111). The mutability of playtexts is a point that the Folio's stationer, Humphrey Moseley, finds himself compelled to address at length. Humphrey's remarks on earlier incarnations of Beaumont and Fletcher's plays in a prefatory letter addressed to readers have become central to recent reassessments of the transmission of dramatic texts. Moseley first stresses that "You have here a New Booke; I can speake it clearely; for of all this large Uolume of Comedies and Tragedies, not one, till now, was ever printed before"; he then proceeds to clarify this issue in a passage that has drawn much attention: One thing I must answer before it bee objected; 'tis this: When these Comedies and Tragedies were presented on the Stage, the Actours omitted some Scenes and Passages (with the Authour 's consent) as occasion led them; and when private fiiends desir'd a Copy, they then (and justly too) transcribed what they Acted. But now you have Al l that was Acted, and all that was not; even the perfect fiiU Originalls without the least mutilation; So that were the Authors living (and sure they can never dye) they themselves would challenge neither more nor lesse then what is here published; this Volume being now so compleate and finish'd, that the Reader must expect no fiiture Alterations. (A4r) Thus, while admitting that the plays collected in the Folio likely exist in various, conspicuously different versions, and positing the source of these variants as the contingencies or "occasion[s]" of the theatre, Moseley fashions his Folio as the endpoint of any further proliferation: it is "compleate and finish'd." The printed text, that is, reins in the imruliness of the theatre and the slipperiness of the written word. Though (or perhaps because) the source of the actors' copies is not clear—are they copying from memory? from written texts? from some combination of the two?— t̂extual theorists have seized on Moseley's description of actors' transcriptions of playtexts. Scott McMillin, for instance, positions Moseley's comments as cenfral to his theory of actors collectively dictating plays to scribes, '̂ and Erne utilizes the passage to underline his distinction between shorter theatrical texts and longer literary ones—Moseley's address suggests, according to Erne, that the practice of actors producing abridged texts of plays was "well established" (26l)P Peter Blayney's reading of Moseley, if true, offers a more profound hypothesis: assuming that a reconstruction by actors of a shortened performance text "might emerge noticeably garbled," Blayney concludes that "What Moseley has been trying to tell us since 1647 is, I believe, the commonplace and iimocent origin of the kind of text that Pollard called a Bad Quarto—but we have been too busy chasing imaginary pirates to listen" (394). Edward Pechter is more cautious in his assessment: "[Moseley] is referring not to a general category of text, only to instances in which some of 'these plays', the ones included in his Folio, might be said to have been published before" (24). Rather than scrutinize the plausibility of these conjectures (though I lean toward Pechter's), I wish instead to note that the range of scenarios to which McMillin's position is outlined in the introduction to The First Quarto of Othello, (Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2001). For the limitations of McMillin's theory, see Neill's edition of Othello (405-33), and Pechter. Moseley's epistle is also essential to Erne's discussion of playing times in the theatre: "If the relatively short 'Beaumont and Fletcher' plays were significantly abridged, how likely is it that the same company performed the full text of Shakespeare's substantially longer plays?" (150). the Moseley passage has been put is a function of Moseley deliberately situating the Folio amidst competing forms of authority. Whether he is espousing the predictable rhetoric of a bookseller merely hawking his wares or transmitting a rosetta stone for early modem textual scholars is secondary to the fact that printed plays in his narrative are assuming a mediating role between the written and the performed. Moseley's apparent fidelity to "the perfect full Originalls" privileges text over performance, but the two modes of production are nevertheless innately and inextricably linked: Moseley's copy-texts are perfectly full not because they exclude the influences of the theatre and its practitioners, but because they encompass performance history and performance potentialities, "Al l that was Acted, and all that was not." Moseley reasserts the Folio's connections to both page and stage more explicitly in a distinctive poem that functions as a transition piece from the commendatory verses to the plays. The poem, under the heading of "THE STATIONER," reads as follows: As after th' Epilogue there comes someone To tell Spectators what shall next be shown; So here, am I; but though I've toyld and vex't 'Caimot devise what to present ye next; For, since ye saw no Playes this Cloudy weather. Here we have brought Ye our whole Stock together. 'Tis new, and all these Gentlemen attest Under their hands 'tis Right, and of the Best; Thirty foure Witnesses (without my taske) Y'have just so many Playes (besides a Maske) All good (I'me told) as have been Read or Playd, If this Booke faile, tis Time to quit the Trade. (g2r) Moseley here provides one final reminder of the heightened possibilities and limitations of printed drama during a period in which the performance of plays is prohibited. The poem epitomizes the spirit of the Folio's para-textuals; as Brooks explains, "by enacting within print a now prohibited bit of theatrical ritual, Moseley briefly reminds his readers of that which has been taken away from them, and simultaneously implies he can provide the next best thing" (149-50). But Moseley is not quite finished. He actually creates one final textual interstice in a "POSTCRIPT" below his poem that makes a number of hasty claims, most of which indicate an awareness of the shape and organization of the page affecting the reading experience: some of the prologues and epilogues to playtexts found in the Folio were not vmtten by Beaumont or Fletcher; the Commendatory Verses prefacing the playtexts have a "different Character" because they were "(for expedition)" sent to "severall Printers"; and despite the use of several printers for the verses, the work itself is uniform, "one continued Letter". Ultimately then, the postscript "struggles to account for two sets of collaborations—one in the printing house, the other in the playhouse" (Brooks 150). In essence, this chapter has been devoted to the site of the struggle Brooks highlights: the early modem printed page and the ability it is presimied to possess in representing meaningful connections to drama's performed modes. The Beaumont and Fletcher Folio embodies many early modem formulations of page and stage, making, as it does, competing claims about what is being presented to readers: on one hand, the accuracy and completeness of the collected plays are championed, with the Folio put forth as a permanent record of authorially-intended texts. On the other hand, the printed plays are figured as intimately connected to a past in which a vibrant, collaborative theatre first brought them to life, with the Folio channeling the necessary energies to animate them once more. The Beaumont and Fletcher Folio thus records inherent tensions between textualized and performed modes of realization, offering readers the best of both worlds: the "perfect full Originalls" and works that are essentially performed when read, replacing the R. C. Bald writes that "the implication that the body of the book is the work of one prmtmg-house is . . . not to be relied upon. The plays were divided into eight rather uneven sections, and each was handed to a different printer, who signed his section with a separate alphabet" (qtd. in Brooks 151). vacuum of the age's silent stage. Poem and play are in perfect, conflated harmony. The subsequent printing history of the works of Beaumont and Fletcher is neither extensive nor diverse enough to trace this conflated authority through to any great effect. When considered in light of the edited afl;erlives of Shakespeare's texts, however, the Beaumont and Fletcher Folio's complicated and contradictory assessment of a printed playtext's ability to engage with performance—its awareness of itself as both an archive and portal through which performance can be imagined—proves prescient. Echoing Brooks, I would contend that all printed drama reminds readers of what has been taken away from them, though these reminders can be more implicit than Moseley's; further, as the remaining chapters in my study will demonstrate, editors at the forefront of shaping Shakespeare's drama in print have employed a number of strategies that go a long way towards compensating for this loss. Chapter Four: Performance and the Editorial Tradition^^ Thus Conscience does make Cowards, And thus the healthful face of Resolution Shews sick and pale with Thought: And enterprises of great pith and moment. With this regard, their currents turn awry. And lose the name of action. In any other passage, in any other play, the changes might pass unnoticed, but in what has become the most famous speech in Shakespeare's most famous work, the alterations, though subtle, are impossible to miss. The quotation remains instantly recognizable as the conclusion of Hamlet's "To be or not to be" speech; the "native hue" of Resolution so familiar to modern eyes and ears, however, has become "the healthful face," and this face is no longer "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought" but rather "Shews sick and pale with Thought." The modifications, which are printed in a 1676 quarto of the play, were made by William Davenant, Restoration theatre manager of the Duke's Men, one of two companies supported by royal proclamation when the public theatres reopened in 1660 (the other being the King's Men led by Thomas Killigrew). The title-page to The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark declares the text representative of the play "As it is now Acted at his Highness the Duke of York's Theatre," and the Players' Quarto, as it is frequently called, is understood to be a fairly accurate representation of Hamlet as it was performed in the latter half of the seventeenth century. Davenant's efforts to render the final portion of Hamlet's famed speech more readily intelligible might be conspicuous, but other forms of mediation on Davenant's part are much more profound; the justifications for his treatment of the play are communicated in a stark prefatory note "To the Reader": Portions of this chapter have been published (in a slightly different form) as " A B r i e f History o f the Edited Shakespearean Text," Literature Compass 3.2 (2006): 182-94. This play being too long to be conveniently Acted, such Places as might be least prejudicial to the Plot or Sense, are left out upon the Stage: but that we may no way wrong the incomparable Author, are here inserted according to the Original Copy, with this Mark " (A2r) Those passages distinguished by quotation marks are not insignificant: around 800 fines of the Q2 text were evidently cut from performance, including most of the play's political undercurrents (the Danish ambassadors, most mentions of Fortinbras before the final scene), roughly half the "O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I" speech, all of Hamlet's advice to the players, and the entirety of Hamlet's final soliloquy.^^ The implications of Davenant's address to readers, as well as the appearance of the quarto's pages—a record of lines that simply did not exist when cut from performance, "a synoptic vision of Shakespeare's play, book and perfonnance side by side, each commenting upon the other" (Taylor, Reinventing 49)—^must not be overlooked. As one twentieth- century editor of Hamlet puts it. The Players' Quarto recognizes that by 1676 there were two Hamlets not one. On the one hand, there was the play script, a kind of quarry from which the theatre manager might extract whatever he thought most suitable to make up an evening's entertainment... On the other hand, however, there was the Shakespearian text, already establishing itself as a literary masterpiece, which no reader of the play would forgo. (Hibbard 20) Or more succinctly from Peter Holland, "[Davenant's note to readers] marks one step in the opening of an explicit gap between text and performance in the representation of the text" (qtd. in Erne 167). The Players' Quarto is thus designed to mark its deviations from the play as performed, to encode the printed play with a means by which to recognize, and perhaps even interrogate, the distance between printed texts and performance texts. Davenant's address to readers is intriguing not because it acknowledges a gap between text and Anthony Dawson remarks that "virtually all of these cuts are to be found in Olivier's 1948 fihn, a testament to the remarkable staymg power of theatrical tradition or perhaps to film's coincident stress on action" {Hamlet 24). For a more detailed list of the cuts, see Dawson, Hamlet 23-4, Erne 167, and Taylor, Reinventing 46-51. performance—in many ways, Hamlet has from its first incarnations in print registered such a gap, with Ql (1603) championing the play "As it hath been diverse times acted by his Highness's servants in the City of London... and elsewhere", and Q2 (1604), "Newly imprinted and enlarged almost as much again as it was, according to the true and perfect Copy," locating its authority in a superior text. What is significant about the 1676 quarto is the implication that the printed page can demarcate the gap itself, give shape to it, and in the process become a meaningfiil site of exchange between the two modes of production. The introduction of a relatively simple bit of code into the text—quotation marks identifying lines not spoken in the theatre—allows readers the opportunity to utilize the scape of the page to produce more accurate imagined approximations of the play in performance. Despite the significance of the way in which the Players' Quarto negotiates text and performance, Davenant is not regarded as a major figure in the establishment of editorial principles related to the Shakespearean text, and strictly speaking, he is not; as Marcus Walsh writes of the performance editions that began to proliferate in the next century and applied similar strategies for identifying the reduced texts used in the theatre, "The eighteenth- centmy theatre texts are functional reprints rather than works of scholarship,... bearing virtually no signs of editorial intervention in terms of commentaries, glossaries, or introductions" (126). It is true that performance editions, for the reasons Walsh outlines, have had a minimal impact on the development of editorial practice; interestingly, however, Davenant's "functional reprinf ' can, from certain angles, be seen to be doing what we now think of as editorial work. Consider again the passage that opened this chapter: the insertion of "the healthful face" and "Shews sick and pale with Thoughf were changes meant to facilitate the apprehension of theatre audiences, but when recorded in the printed play, the alterations are akin to editorial mediations meant for readers. In Gary Taylor's words, "What later editors and commentators will put into the footnotes—paraphrases that explain Shakespeare's meaning—Davenant simply sticks into the dialogue itself (Reinventing 47- 8).̂ ^ Thus, while the Players' Quarto is not govemed by a systematic, rigorous methodology (aimed at such things as elucidating textual variants present in earlier printings or resolving textual cruces), it is nevertheless a usefiil introduction to this chapter in that it offers a striking example of how the malleability of the printed page can render awareness of performance practice an integral, and in some ways unavoidable, condition of the reading experience. Davenant's edition, moreover, was known by those editors of the early eighteenth century who laid the cornerstones that have shaped editorial procedures related to the Shakespearean text ever since—^Nicholas Rowe, for one, follows certain cuts and additions that Davenant had implemented in his version of Hamlet It is to the founding texts of the editorial tradition that I now turn, to critical edhions of Shakespeare that are govemed by discernible strategies related to emendation and elucidation. The names of the key figures (in addition to Rowe) will be well known: Pope, Theobald, Capell, Malone. The work of these editors is, quite rightly, usually studied in relation to their adjustments to, and idiosyncratic refinements of, playtexts that were increasingly understood as discrete, literary objects: retrospective assessments of their work tend to zero in on matters of emendation, textual commentaries and glosses, modernization, and adjustments to punctuation, lineation, and metre. The overriding concem of these editors was with recognizing Sheikespeare's plays "as constituting a body of literary work, within a literary context, recoverable and interprétable ™ The most recent edition of the play (ArdenS, 2006), for instance, glosses—in the margins, of course—"native hue" as "natural colour" and "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought" as "unhealthily covered [with the] pallid tmge of contemplation" (Thompson and Taylor 287). For a detailed look at Rowe's use of the 1676 quarto, see of Barbara Mowat's "The Form of Hamlet's Fortunes," Renaissance Drama 19 (1988): 97-126, especially pages 98-107. by the scholarly study of that context" (Walsh 124). Without denying their disproportionate interest in Poem over Play, my focus will shift attention to a less thoroughly-mined topic: how the strategies of Shakespeare's early editors—which often display a lack of concern with or even explicit dismissal of performance practice—represented for readers the dynamic relationship shared by page and stage. That representations of performance in early critical editions ranged so widely—fi-om excision and marginalization of what were deemed to be theatrical interpolations (Pope), to esoteric symbols meant to encode staged action into the text (Capell)—indicates that fi-om the outset, editorial engagements with Shakespeare involved utilizing the manipulable space of the page to configure some sort of harmony between text and performance. Moreover, given the scholarly endeavours to recover, restore, and authenticate Shakespeare's plays in print and the concurrent preference for heavily adapted and transformed versions of Shakespeare in the eighteenth-century theatre, when critical editions from the period do gesture toward the stage, these gestures tend to be in terms of idealized, imagined performances figured as being located in the literary text; that is, the editions more often than not imply that performance potentialities are "contained" in the text and that the imagined performances that reading can produce are thus merely realizations of the text's instructions. Although not referring specifically to eighteenth-century editorial practice, Worthen makes use of an apt metaphor, that of the text as "blueprint": "It implies on the one hand that the performance will materialize the implications of the text in a very different form, and that the materialization will necessarily specify and particularize the design; on the other hand, it also implies that the final performance is prescribed, that its structures and mechanics have already been laid down, and that performance is merely following the directions" (Print 172). Worthen's point is that this blueprint analogy persists in many current formulations of page and stage, but the metaphor is also applicable to the earliest incarnations of critical editions of Shakespeare, where certain forms of editorial mediation allow for an awareness of performance contingencies to be built from the text and its apparatuses. * * * The sub-current of attention directed toward matters of performance, largely subsumed by more prominent and powerfiil streams of attention devoted to emending and modernizing the text, is exemplified in the work of Rowe, the first Shakespearean editor to be identified for his efforts. As Rowe makes clear in the dedication to his six-volume collection of Shakespeare's works (1709), he understands his central task to be "to redeem him from the Injuries of former Impressions" (vol. 1, A2r). "Impressions" is key here: Rowe is not seeking to counter the adaptive impulses of the contemporary theatre, but instead refers to the lineage of Shakespeare's texts; the "Injuries" in question have been dispensed in the process of printing, not in the theatre. Further, Rowe's redemptive energies are clearly fiielled by authorial and literary concerns: "I must not pretend to have restor'd this Work to the Exactness of the Author's Original Manuscripts: Those are lost, or, at least, are gone beyond any Inquiry I could make; so that there was nothing left, but to compare the several Editions, and give the true Reading as well as I could from thence" (vol. 1, A2r-v). Rowe thus situates himself within a history of textual dissemination in writing and in print that can be traced (albeit only in theory) back to Shakespeare's originary creative acts; Rowe delves no fijrther into his strategies, but he succinctly identifies the major obstacles facing any editor of Shakespeare's texts: the prevalence of errors that have been introduced to the texts, authorial manuscripts that can be reconstructed only via a combination of interpretive and imaginative Rowe later remarks that "many of his Plays were surrepticiously and lamely Printed in his lifetime" (vol. 1, p. X ) . work, and the existence of extant versions that are connected in uncertain ways. Rowe's account does not specifically acknowledge the influence that the play as performed might have on either the printed versions produced for readers or on the reading experience itself— the "true Reading(s)" that he seeks to restore can presumably be attained without recourse to the exigencies of performance. The edition's investment in the materiality of printed playtexts is fiirther demonstrated in the piece following the dedication, "Some Accoimt of the Life" of Shakespeare, where Rowe occasionally references other pages in his multi-volume collection; in his discussion of The Merchant of Venice, for example, he remarks on "two Passages that deserve a particular Notice. The first is, what Portia says in praise of Mercy, pag. 577; and the other on the power of Musick,/7û[g. SST (vol. 1, p. xx). Comparisons of this sort have become absolutely commonplace in editorial practice, but the implications of such a move are worth remembering: not only is Rowe implying that exemplary passages can be appreciated when removed from their general context, his comments also attest to the fact that these passages (and their respective contexts) can be accessed readily by readers. Singling out passages in this way embraces properties unique to plays produced in print: Rowe's edition is searchable; noteworthy passages can be flagged; disparate passages can be juxtaposed; readers can navigate the edition in any direction and at any speed. Rowe's prevailing concern with printed "Impressions" of the plays is echoed in most retrospective assessments of his edition, which often emphasize the prolonged influence that Rowe's work has had on the shape of subsequent editions of Shakespeare. His most conspicuous alterations to his copy-texts have to do with modernization and standardization: Rowe updates spelling and punctuation to conform to contemporary standards, divides plays into acts (and usually scenes as well), provides each play with a list of dramatis personae, inserts exits and entrances where they had not been previously marked, and begins each play with a brief reference to its location (doing the same for some, but not all, later scenes in each play). Holland, writing in the introduction to a facsimile of Rowe's edition, has gone so far as to claim that Rowe's edition "was the single greatest determinant on the way Shakespeare's plays appeared in collected editions, in some respects even more important than the early quartos or the First Folio" (vol. 1, p. vii).^^ Of fiirther significance is that Rowe—^himself a playwright (of marginal success) very much in tune with the realities of the eighteenth-century stage—utilizes the page to imprint performance in significant ways; his approach to things like scene locations and stage directions is not entirely systematic, but the noteworthy ways in which he altered the shape of texts (relative to their previous incarnations in the seventeenth-century folios) are informed by considerations of theatrical production. Somewhat ironically then, given Rowe's emphasis on the materiality and textuality of the plays, "The editorial virtues of his text derive in large part from his theatrical background" {Companion 53). Rowe remains such a significant and contentious figure not only because he was the "first" editor of Shakespeare's collected works, but because he was the first critical interpreter of Shakespeare whose extended engagement with both text and performance was worked out on the space of the page. That is, the very means by which he made the texts more reader-friendly are also the means by which he facilitated readers' imagined approximations of performance, or, put differently, Rowe's strategies for enabling readers to engage with, and imagine, printed playtexts as drama paradoxically gave them a literary form that misrepresented performance in fundamental ways. Rowe's introduction of act and scene divisions is a case in point: as Holland remarks, "Given that most of Shakespeare's plays were written for a theatre where act divisions were not marked in '̂ An earlier commentator calls Rowe's work "the matrix of English critical editions" (Jackson 468). performance but the performance ran continuously, Rowe is imposing a shape often against the grain of the text's own articulation of its shape" (vol. 1, p. xiv).̂ *' Holland's position is a representative one: Rowe's imposition of a particular shape on Shakespeare's texts gamers the bulk of commentary on his edition. Rowe uses the Fourth Folio (1685) as the basis for his own collection, a decision that set a precedent for subsequent editors of Shakespeare (until Edward Capell in 1767) to use a received text rather than extensively collate extant materials. Rowe's rather bathetic assessment of his editorial efforts in his dedication—^he has taken "some Care," and has worked "pretty careftiUy"— seems, in retrospect, to be honest and accurate. It has been documented that he consulted printed editions other than F4, predominantly other Players' quartos fi-om the Restoration, though his consultations of earlier versions of texts is far fi-om comprehensive.̂ ^ Barbara Mowat assesses the impact of Rowe's random practice of conflation: It was Rowe who began the scholarly tradition of combining Folio and quarto texts to make what we now call conflated texts, and it was Rowe who established the practice of combining them with no signal to the reader that the editor had found lines and passages in different 'editions'—as Rowe called them—and that the editor had himself been responsible for putting them together to make a text of his own. ("Rowe" 319) It is difficult to argue with Mowat's critique, though her summation that "what Rowe constructed was a conflated text that hid the fact of its constmctedness" (319) is anachronistic in that it holds Rowe to modem standards that he did not concem himself with. Murphy similarly observes that "[Rowe] introduced act and scene divisions for all plays, thus foregrounding their literary quality as prmted texts, at the expense of their theatrical lineage" (Print 61). Rowe's decision to use F4 as his copy-text is deeply troubling to modem editorial sensibilities; G. B Evans, for instance, argues that "The result was a generally inferior text that seriously vitiated later editions for the next sixty years or more" (60). It is worth pointing out, however, that Rowe was selected to edit Shakespeare by the Tonson publishing cartel, who also published the editions of Pope, Theobald, Warburton, Johnson, Steevens, and Capell. Encouraging then- editors to base then- editions on a received (Tonson) text would have been a means for the Tonsons to perpetuate their copyright privileges. See Dugas 144-7, Seary 133-5, Jarvis 94-5, and M u r p h y , 5 7 - 1 0 0 . See Mowat, "Form" and Massai, "Working" 190-2. Mowat's complaint that Rowe combines Folio and quarto texts "with no signal to the reader" discounts Rowe's mention of his effort "to compare the several Editions"—^perhaps this is all the signal that Rowe deemed necessary to account for his haphazard consultation of other printed texts. Rowe, simply put, was not invested in collating procedures that have since become integral to the editorial process. Furthermore, the dedication's bevy of first-person pronouns ("I have taken," "I must not," "beyond any Inquiry I could make," "I could," "I have"), combined with numerous verbs representative of editorial work ("restor'd," "compare," "give," "endeavour'd," "render'd"), yields a statement that is not quite an admission of his own complicity in constructing Shakespeare's text, but does reveal an awareness of his influential role in the reproduction of Shakespeare's "Work" for readers. The most provocative piece of evidence suggesting that Rowe was aware of his influence over the shape of the printed page is the existence of a trial sheet for his edition, dated 1708. Consisting of the title-page and the first eight pages of text from The Tempest, the sheet is described by Holland as "an experiment in setting, establishing both the format for the page and significant elements of the house style that would be used for the full edition" (Holland, "Modernizing" 25). Holland identifies numerous subtle differences in spelling and punctuation between the 1708 trial sheet and the 1709 collected version of the play; the trial sheet, unlike the edition proper, is based on F2—likely a "convenient presence on Rowe's shel[fl" (27)—and Rowe follows this earlier folio in printing the classical "Actus Primus. Sc^na Prima." rather than the more contemporary "ACT I. SCENE I.," which would become his standard in 1709. "This trial sheet," writes Margaret Jane Kidnie, "makes one aware, in a very concrete way, of the constructedness of an editorial tradition that can otherwise seem transparent, or 'natural'. Rowe experimented with possible formats" ("Staging" 164, emphasis hers). Rowe's most prominent means of (re)constructing Shakespeare's works involve not his conflation of texts but his manipulation of para-texts, particularly lists of dramatis personae, scene locations, and stage directions. His deployment of these editorial apparatuses, though undeniably influential, is not entirely consistent in that a range of information is communicated to readers across the edition, often differing from play to play. The majority of the lists of dramatis personae provide comparable amounts of information related to the social standing and relationships amongst characters. The most scant list, that of Troilus and Cressida, identifies all male characters as only "Trojan" or "Greek"; other lists encode fragments of narrative, hinting at developments in the play's action: Satuminus in Titus Andronicus, for example, is "Son to the late Emperor o/Rome, and afterwards declar'd Emperor himself.'''' General scene locations found under the dramatis personae also vary greatly: rather than attempt to detail the dizzying changes in Antony and Cleopatra, Rowe describes the scene as "Several Parts of the Roman Empire'''; the locations of Julius Caesar, on the other hand, receive a more expansive treatment, with "the first three Acts and beginning of the Fourth in Rome, for the remainder of the Fourth near Sardis, for the Fifth in the Fields o/Phillipi." That these scene indicators introducing each play are meant to provide readers with nothing more than rough mental maps helps to explain how plays as disparate as^ Midsummer Night's Dream and Timon of Athens inhabit nearly identical imagined spaces: "Athens, and a Wood not far from it" and "Athens, and the Woods not far from it" respectively. Mowat, commenting on Rowe's "influence in the presentation of Shakespeare's dramatic world," remarks of the scene locations that they "encovirage readers of the plays to read them novelistically or to imagine them within a proscenium arch on a stage filled with backdrops and fiimiture. Further, they sometimes encourage readers to imagine a scene in a setting at odds with the dialogue—or at least not demanded by the dialogue" ("Rowe" 318). Mowat identifies two of Rowe's most influential decisions— placing much of act three of King Lear on "A Heath" and his call for Hamlet to encounter the Ghost on "The Platform before the Palace" (emended in most modem editions to "the battlements")—as lacking explicit textual support ("Rowe" 318). It is likely that the authority for these decisions, and many other of Rowe's interpolations in regard to matters of staging, were the product of contemporary performance practice. For example: Massai, noting that it was Nahum Tate's 1681 production of Lear that first set the third act on a "Desert Heath," suggests that Rowe "was probably affected by his familiarity with the play as performed on the Restoration stage," and posits that Rowe's use of the scene location "may actually signal an interesting instance of cross-fertilization" between Shakespeare as produced for theatre audiences and Shakespeare as produced for readers ("Working" 192). As for where exactly Hamlet converses with the Ghost, no quarto or folio version of the play marks a division between the gathering of Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus and Hamlet's private conversation wdth his dead father (1.4 and 1.5 in most modem editions); in fact, a discrete scene for the re-entrance of Hamlet and the Ghost was not introduced until Capell's edition in 1767—^which he nevertheless locates at "Another Part of the same [Platform]." Since the action in 1.4 and 1.5 is continuous and a change in venue is not made explicit in the dialogue, Rowe's emendation specifying the positioning of Hamlet and the Ghost appears representative of what eighteenth-century performers and audiences understood as a protracted scene on Elsinore's platform(s). I do not share Mowat's belief that "if we are to imagine Hamlet and the Ghost in any location at all, it must be on solid earth, or Hamlet's 'Well said, old mole. Canst work i' th' earth so fast?' makes Hamlet seem quite mad indeed" ("Rowe" 318). All that can be known for certam is that Hamlet and company agreed to meet "Vpon the Platforme twixt eleuen and twelue" (TLN 452), and that Hamlet later asks the Ghost "Where wilt thou lead me?" (TLN 682), indicating that he has moved away from the initial meeting place. It seems to me perfectly reasonable to assume that Hamlet and the Ghost are still on the platforms of the castle, with the image Mowat's conclusion that "Rowe laid a heavy early-eighteenth-century hand on the way Shakespeare is still perceived on the page" ("Rowe" 320) is, strictly speaking, accurate, though of course it is worth adding that all editors impose a shape on the texts they prepare for their modem readers; Rowe remains something of a lightning rod because some of his means of modernizing the text proved to be remarkably influential. Mowat's reading of Rowe is insightful in its expression of how the organization of the text on the page and an editor's concomitant mediations via para-textuals can have a tremendous impact on the reading experience. A way of rephrasing Mowat's assessment of Rowe's edition—one that does not denigrate his achievements or hold him to anachronistic standards—is to say that Rowe's means of producing performancescapes have proven themselves to be remarkably evocative and adaptable. More specifically, the areas of the playtext that he is best known for purposefiilly manipulating— t̂he dramatis personae, scene indicators, stage directions— remain the surest means of facilitating readers' navigations between mise en page and mise en scène and thus sharpening performancescapes. Rowe's direction, for example, that Timon scatters the "detested Parasites" at his fatefiil banquet by "Throwing the Dishes at them, and drives 'em out" (vol. 5, p. 2196) fliimels a reader's imagination towards a very specific range of possibilities; the Folio versions of the play contain no such direction, meaning that readers receive no information supplementary to the dialogue as to what, if anything, Timon is throwing. Editors have continued to tinker with this particular moment in Timon: subsequent editions have sometimes specified that Timon first throws hot water and then hurls stones at his diimer guests, interpolations that absorb and modify Rowe's, producing a performancescape that invites readers to envision Timon's explosion of hostility (and its of the mole digging in the earth becoming a metatheatrical gesture akin to Hamlet's reference to the Ghost being located in the "selleredge" (TLN 847) under the stage. potential ramifications) in a different way. The shift from no direction to dishes to stones likely has no great bearing on one's overall assessment of the play, but considering that Timon is also physically repelling callers after he retires to his cave outside Athens, an editor's treatment of the banquet scene can resonate much later. Though the Folio text does not contain a stage direction, the dialogue implies strongly that Timon fires a stone at Apemantus during the climax of their verbal sparring: "Away thou tedious Rogue, I am sorry I shall lose a stone by thee" (TLN 2009-10); an editor inserting directions for a stone (or stones) to be thrown at the banquet and then later at Apemantus can provide a consistency to Timon's violent misanthropy that is otherwise not necessarily available to readers of the play. Rowe himself does not make such a link, but his willingness to infroduce para-textuals that govern a reader's engagement with the Shakespearean text essentially instituted the practice that make such a link possible. The other influential practice initiated by Rowe's edition was its inclusion of engravings depicting particular scenes from each play. While the claim that "all of [Rowe's] engravings depict early-eighteenth-century costumes, scenes, and staging techniques" (Dugas 145) overstates the case (one need only look at the first engraving in the collection prefacing The Tempest, complete with a roiling ocean, capsizing vessel, bolts of lightning, and various winged creatures to realize that the illusfrations are not bound to the possibilities of theatrical representation),̂ '* it is clear that many of the illustrations do reflect the contemporary stage. The ghosts that appear to Richard in the final act of Richard III, for example, are emerging from a frap door in the floor (see Figure 3), while the engraving of the assassination scene in Julius Caesar includes in its background a Roman cityscape on painted flats (the likes of which had been popularized on the Restoration stage). Other engravings are even more A less fantastic moment is depicted in the 1714 edition of Rowe's text: Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess.  nuanced in their approximations of performance: an overturned chair is prominent in the foreground of the illustration of the closet scene in Hamlet, an acknowledgement of the actor's point popularized by Thomas Betterton (71635-1710), who abruptly recoiled at the reappearance of the Ghost (see Figure 4). Even though no engraving can be linked to a specific performance, the cumulative effect of the illustrations is that the "Imagination is subordinated to a realistic portrayal of the modes of the contemporary theatre" (Jackson 470). The engravings can thus be understood as a means by which the plays are made present for readers—in the full sense of both contemporary and visible. The prominence of powdered wigs, three-cornered hats, and immense head-dresses are, along with Rowe's treatment of punctuation and spelling, part of an effort to modernize Shakespeare's text; the engravings also carry with them the potential to groimd readers' imaginings of particular incidents, a point that would have been especially important for those plays that had yet to enter the eighteenth-century repertory, like All's Well That Ends Well and The Comedy of Errors. Since they carry no identifying tags or underlines, the engravings cannot always be matched to specific acts, scenes and line numbers—^T. S. R. Boase remarks that "Troilus and Cressida are frankly taking a curtain call" (86-7), though it seems more likely that what is being depicted is Cressida passing Troilus's sleeve to Diomedes. Though the engravings range widely in terms of the relative dynamism of the moments they capture, their comprehensiveness (one for each play, including the six apocryphal works that Rowe imported from F4) and consistent placement (before the dramatis personae of each play) create a conduit that runs throughout Rowe's edition, one that allows for symbiotic Betterton is in fact singled out by Rowe for his "fine Performance" of Hamlet, and the actor also looms large in Rowe's "Account of the Life" of Shakespeare; Rowe explains that "I must own a particular Obligation to him, for the most considerable part of the Passages relating to his Life, which I have here transmitted to the I*ublick; his Veneration for the Memory of Shakespear having engag'd him to make a Journey mto Warwickshire, on purpose to gather up what Remains he could of a Name for which he had so great a Value" (vol. 1, p. xxxiv).  exchanges between textual and performed modes. More specifically, the inclusion of the engravings originate a systematic practice that facilitates visual representations (or approximations) of performance coming to bear on readers' engagements with Shakespeare's printed texts. A revealing example is provided by the engraving introducing A Midsummer Night's Dream (see Figure 5), where the fractured state of Oberon and Titania's relationship is rendered strikingly: two rival factions of fairies stretch across the page, centred by the confrontation of their respective leaders; Oberon and Titania each carry sceptres that they rather ominously point at one another, the tips of which are almost, but not quite, touching; a moon is shaded by a passing cloud in the sky of the flat-like background. It is not that the engraving is absolutely true to a specific performance, nor that the engraving totally determines a reader's imagining of Oberon and Titania's meeting, nor that it is impossible for a reader to produce a similarly symbolic visualization of the meeting without a suggestive illustration; what the engraving represents is the potential of a para-text to enhance the text proper and enrich the reading experience. A reader moving through 2.1 of Rowe's text of the play might recall or make reference to the engraving, and in doing so, encounter an image that stimulates or enhances an awareness of certain lines ("the Forgeries of Jealousie"), images ("the Moon . . . / Pale in her Anger, washes all the Air"), or matters of tone and tension (Titania's summation of the "Progeny of Evil" that are the result of "our Debate,... our Dissention"). Combined with the text, the engraving provides a palette from which the reader's imagination can extrapolate more vivid and resonant performancescapes. Many of the engravings found in Rowe's edition now appear remarkably stilted and static, though this is due in large part to the fact that high-quality photographs have come to pervade Shakespeare editions of the past fifty years; these photographs, though usually more provocative than an engraving, are performing the same role of mediating page and stage.  Rowe never explicitly positions his edition relative to live performance and theatrical history; as my reading of his edition has shown, the manner in which his editorial strategies constructed the links between text and performance must be inferred from his freatment of para-textuals like stage directions and scene locations. Rowe's successor, Alexander Pope, is much more forthcoming in his edition (1723-5) about his understanding of the relationship between Shakespeare's plays in print and on stage. Pope demonstrates a greater interest in, and familiarity with, the early quartos, though his consultation of texts that predate the Folios is far from comprehensive or systematic; significantly, his desire to canvass early editions in search of altemate readings is driven by an unequivocal distrust of the First Folio. For Pope, the theatre is a poisonous influence on Shakespeare's written works that subsequently contaminates the fransmission of these works into print.̂ ^ Particularly damning for the First Folio is that it was compiled by two actors, Heminge and Condell: . . . how many faults may have been unjustly laid to [Shakespeare's] account from arbitrary Additions, Expunctions, Transpositions of scenes and lines, confiision of Characters and Persons, wrong application of Speeches, corruptions of iimumerable Passages by the Ignorance, and wrong Correction of 'em again by the Impertinence, of his first Editors? (vol. 1, p. xxi) The Folio, in Pope's formulation, contains an accumulation of "trifling and bombast passages . . . For whatever had been added, since those Quarto's, by the actors, or had stolen from their mouths into the written parts, were from thence conveyed into the printed text..." (vol. 1, p. xvi). Pope is intent on removing the taint of theatrical interpolation, though this is not to say that the purified text that Pope is interested in producing is intended to be entirely Shakespeare's, or even Shakespeare in his entirety. Pope does consult the early quartos that he can get his hands on, but he is uninterested in judging their relative authority or delving He states early on that the "business" of his preface "is only to give an account of the fate of his Works, and the disadvantages under which they have been transmitted to us" (i). into stemmatics; instead, matters are much simpler: all early texts share the same potential for corruption, which allows him the freedom to "unsystematically . . . pick and choose among variant texts as some particular readings appealed to him more than others" (Murphy, Print 65).^' This approach to variant readings and theatrical interpolations has, not surprisingly, major ramifications for the shape of Pope's edition. Tellingly, Pope claims that "one may look upon [Shakespeare's] works . . . as upon an ancient majestick piece of Gothick Architecture, compar'd with a neat Modem building: The latter is more elegant and glaring, but the former is more strong and more solemn. It must be allow'd, that in one of these there are materials enough to make many of the other" (xxiii). The metaphor is revealing: beyond fashioning Shakespeare's works as an enduring creation worthy of reverence, it also betrays Pope's willingness to subject these works to his own system of editorial architectonics. If Shakespeare's plays are a "majestick piece of Gothick Architecture," then they are also in need of continual upkeep and refinement, even large- scale reconstmction. Pope may elide his influence by claiming to have "discharged the dull duty of an Editor, to my best judgement, wdth more labour than I expect thanks, wdth a religious abhorrence of all Iimovation, and without any indulgence to my private sense or conjecture" (xxii), but his mise en page tells a much different story. "[Pjointing out an Author's excellencies," writes Pope, "[is] the better half of Criticism" (xxiii), and to this end he devises a number of strategies for signalling readers: "Some of the most shining passages are distinguish'd by comma's in the margin; and where the beauty lay not in particulars but Murphy quotes a note in the Weekly Journal (November 18, 1721), in which Pope and his publisher, Jacob Tonson, canvass the general public for quarto editions of "the Tempest, Mackbeth, Julius Caesar, Timon of Athens, King John, and Henry the 8*." Of course, no such quartos exist: all of these plays were first published in F (1623); the slip, Murphy adds, "mdicates that the centre of gravity of Pope's edition was not historically located" {Print 64). What did Pope have access to? "It appears from his 'Table of the Several Editions of Shakespear's Plays, made use of and compared in this Impression' [which follows the Index in volume VI], that Pope had access to at least one Quarto edition of every play published in Shakespeare's own lifetime, with the exception of Much Ado, as well as to copies of the first and second Folios" (Walsh 130). in the whole, a star is prefix'd to the scene" (xxiii). Distinguishing what he deems exemplary portions of text in these ways proves to be relatively unobtrusive: noteworthy passages marked by marginal commas run from just a few lines (Cleopatra's "Peace, peace! / Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, / That sucks the nurse asleep"), to much longer speeches (Mercutio's Queen Mab speech and Prospero's summation of his magical achievements, "Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves . . . " are among those recognized), and as Pope explains, extended sequences worthy of a reader's attention are identified by an irmocuous star prefacing the scene— t̂he post-assassination confrontation between Brutus and Cassius in Julius Caesar (4.3 in Pope's edition) is an example of a scene evidently worthy of this distinction. Much more significant—and conspicuous— âre the textual ramifications of Pope's anti-theatrical bias. His claim that there are "almost innumerable Errors, which have risen from one source, the ignorance of the Players, both as his actors, and as his editors" (xiv) is no mere flourish; rather, this position determines on a fiindamental level the manner in which Pope's edited text is presented to readers. When it comes to the influence of the theafre, he takes an imcompromising stance: "Some suspected passages which are excessively bad, (and which seem Interpolations by being so inserted that one can intirely omit them without any chasm, or deficiency in the context) are degraded to the bottom of the page; with an Asterisk referring to the places of their insertion" (xxii). What is important to understand about Pope's sfrategy of marginalizing "theatrical interpolation" is that despite being the product of an anti-theatrical stance, it nevertheless represents a conscious, systematic engagement with performance. The deep irony of Pope's intention has never been sufficiently addressed: in removing what he understands to be the "excessively bad," interpolated passages. Pope draws attention to the very influences that he seeks to suppress. An examination of Pope's edition reveals an ostensibly discriminatory strategy that seems to subvert itself as soon as it is put in motion, with "degraded" passages set off in the margins in a reduced font, distinguished in a manner not unlike Pope's use of commas or stars to identify exemplary passages. Thus, in the very act of attempting to strip what he considers to be theatrical interpolations of their authority. Pope simultaneously confers a certain measure of authority on particular passages in his inability to do away with them entirely. Paradoxically, the more egregious and expansive the supposed influence of the players, the more conservative Pope becomes in his alterations to the playtext and his mise en page: a marginal note to 1.2 of The Two Gentlemen of Verona explains that This whole Scene, like many others in these Plays, (some of which I believe were written by Shakespear, and others interpolated by the Players) is compos'd of the lowest and most trifling conceits, to be accountedfor only from the gross taste of the age he liv'd in ... I wish I had authority to leave them out, but I have done all I could, set a mark of reprobation upon them, throughout this edition, f f t (vol. 1, p. 157) Remarking on eighteenth-century editorial practice in general, Robert Weimann writes that "determined efforts to sift out the infringements of performers tended to petrify what must have been mutually responsive, fluctuating lines of demarcation between dramatic text and theatrical performance" (33-4), a statement that elucidates Pope's attempts to isolate and insulate the dramatic text from the influence of performance practices. Significantly, however. Pope more often than not supplies readers with the means to undo the petrifaction that his strategy introduces: the "low and vicious parts and passages" (xxi) that he "sifts" from the text are not scattered to the winds but shifted to a different site on the page, and readers are given specific instructions as to how they can blend two otherwise discrete elements into a fiiller version of the playtext. It is worth noting that Pope explains his asterisks as marking not the deletion or excision of passages, but "the places of their insertion" (xxii), a rhetorical move that seems to give readers an implicit invitation to reconstitute that which has been divided. Ultimately then, although text and performance are separated and placed in discrete segments of the page, in a strange, likely unintended way. Pope's edition has the potential to foster readings that put the opposed elements of Poem and Play into meaningfiil contact with one another. Pope's position on theatrical interpolation prefigvires Fredson Bowers's now infamous desire to "strip the veil of print from a text" (87). Bowers is of course referring to his New Bibliographical mandate of determining the precise nature of the underlying copy behind a printed playtext, something that Pope has no interest in; nonetheless, both editors are driven by a belief in the truth of the text, truth that has been vitiated by various intermediaries involved in printed transmissions. For Bowers, the "veil of print" obscures (to one degree or another) an authorial manuscript; for Pope, it obscures the most aesthetically appealing text. The two differ in that Pope's work on Shakespeare attests to a "prolonged attempt to strip the vulgar traces of production and performance from the text" (Weimann 31); for Pope then, print is less a medivmi to be "seen through" than cut up and rearranged: Shakespeare's printed plays are comprised of an identifiable mixture of literary and theatrical elements from which Poem and Play can be tagged and separated. Comparisons between Pope's tenets and formative editorial principles of the early and mid-twentieth century can only go so far, but they help bring to the fore distinguishing features of Pope's approach to Shakespeare in print. The changes to the appearance of Pope's page bespeak his aesthetic orientation; indeed, he could be the textbook example of Shillingsburg's description of this editorial philosophy: From the historical texts aesthetic editors will select the forms they think the author wanted and accepted or should have wanted and accepted. Depending on how much such editors respect historical forms, they will adhere to or alter the text, appealing to what they think the author's aesthetic principles were, or what they wish they had been, to correct textual 'infelicities'. (26, emphasis added) Pope is out to fashion the "'best' text" (Shillingsburg 18), but the arbiter of what is "best" is Pope, and Pope alone. Marcus Walsh provides a concise assessment of Pope's strategies, engaging the poet-editor on his own terms: He conceived his business as the mediation of Shakespeare, the author of a past and less cultivated age, to readers in his ovm. This is a form of modernization more liberal and extensive than that found in recent modernized text editions, but not essentially different in motive. There seems little point in asking whether his judgments are consistent with aesthetic criteria that Shakespeare might have used. They are not, because Pope's orientation is not authorial. (131) Let us consider an example of Pope's policy of "reprobation" in more detail, keeping in mind that his lack of interest in performance practice and willingness to physically manipulate the appearance of the text on the page are inseparable from his aesthetic orientation. Pope has little patience for crude humour or elaborate word-play—Love's Labour's Lost, for instance, is heavily cut, while the quibbling of Viola/Cesario and Feste in 3.1 of Twelfth Night (a play that is otherwise largely spared Pope's censure) is an example of a scene given the triple-dagger treatment. It is unsurprising then that the opening forty or so lines of the Porter scene in Macbeth (2.4), which include the Porter's ruminations on the knocking at the gate and his initial exchanges with Macduff on the effects of drunkenness, are confined to the margins. Confined, that is, but not necessarily permanently banished. The degraded passage begins the scene in the Folio, meaning that Pope's edition of the Porter scene begins not with the Folio's direction for a "Knocking within," but with an emended entrance, "Enter Macduff, Lenox and Porter" followed by Macduff s "Is thy master stirring?" Although it is entirely plausible that a reader would completely ignore the cut passage and proceed directly from the end of 2.3 (page 541 in the edition) to Pope's revised starting point for 2.4 (which is conveniently located overleaf at the top of a new page, 542), it is also plausible that a reader would finish reading 2.3 and follow the asterisk after a concluding "£jce[unt]" to the bottom of page 541, where the cut passage is reproduced (see Figures 6 and 7). To be sure. Pope intends for a reader making this tangential move to view the bits with t