As anyone who scrolls through these posts can see, I’ve covered pretty much all the central issues of sex and gender in Shakespeare’s England, from boy actors and stage practice to cross-dressing and homosexuality to women’s literacy and sex by deception, or in other words, the bedtrick.
The protagonist of my historical novels and inspiration for this blog is the actor Alexander (Sander) Cooke, listed in Shakespeare’s First Folio and credited by the critic Edmond Malone with originating Shakespeare’s chief female roles. In my version, Sander was born Kate Collins in the village of Saffron Walden, fled an unwanted marriage, and by happenstance joined a troupe of traveling players. Eventually she makes her way to London and joins Shakespeare’s company, Lord Strange’s Men, in 1591. Thus Sander begins playing his female roles from early in Shakespeare’s career.
This blog will now turn to some of those roles, beginning with Tamora in Titus Andronicus. Taylor Mac’s contemporary take appeared on Broadway this year, Gary, A Sequel To Titus Andronicus, nominated for Tony awards. I’ve not yet had a chance to see the show, but reviews indicate that Mac takes off from the bloody vengeance of the play. Certainly Tamora is a major instigator and victim of the revenge cycle that leaves the stage awash with blood. However Sander, though relishing Tamora’s masquerade as Revenge and her other stunning stage moments, thinks about larger issues of the play in discussion with her friend Amelia Bassano Lanier.
Titus Andronicus was first performed in January, 1594, a month or so after London theatres reopened after a long closure due to plague. It seems a peculiar tale to stage so soon after the horror and loss of plague time, and I imagine that the first play produced would have been A Comedy of Errors, which ends with a family reunion and recovery of all that was lost. Titus was a sensational success: somehow London was ready to see all that horror enacted—and theatrically disposed of in the final restoration of order. A new era for Rome, incorporating the formerly hostile Goths, as England too hopes for a restoration.
The backstage story of that first performance of Titus Andronicus is told in Dark Venus, the second novel of my Shakespeare Actor’s Trilogy. In Sander’s conversation with Amelia, another focus of the play besides gory vengeance comes up, namely parenthood.
Amelia Bassano had been mistress of Queen Elizabeth’s Lord Chamberlain and cousin (some say half-brother), Henry Carey, Lord Hunsdon. When she became pregnant, Hunsdon married her off to her distant cousin, the court musician, Alfonso Lanier. Amelia gave birth to baby Henry, whom she calls Harry; Alfonso went voyaging with Sir Richard Hawkins in search of gold, and Amelia embarked on an affair with William Shakespeare. At least this is the speculation: Amelia Bassano Lanier is the Dark Lady of his sonnets.
Successfully passing as male, Sander can never be a mother. She enjoys her friendship with Amelia, who’s aware of her true gender, as a chance to engage with a woman’s concerns. Amelia focuses less on the brutality of Titus Andronicus than its depiction of parenthood. The cycle of vengeance begins with Titus, returning from a war with the Goths that killed 20 of his sons. Lucius, his eldest remaining son, demands the ‘proudest prisoner’—Tamora’s eldest—so as to ‘hew his limbs . . . and sacrifice his flesh’ to appease the ghosts of his brothers. Unmoved by Tamora’s pleas for mercy, Titus orders Alarbus’ execution. The fierce Goth queen plans her revenge.
Titus himself isn’t as concerned with fatherhood as with his duty as a Roman. He stabs his son Mutius for opposing Titus’ ill-conceived notion of giving his daughter Lavinia to the newly crowned emperor Saturninus against her betrothed. After seeing the play, Amelia is struck by the lack of mothers: there is no Mistress Titus to protect Mutius. His son Lucius has no wife, so Lucius’ son, also named Lucius, is motherless. This child, much present in Julie Taymor’s stunning film of the play, witnesses the play’s horrors, specifically his aunt Lavinia’s rescue from the malign woods where she was raped and mutilated, her tongue and hands destroyed so she cannot tell or even embroider the identity of her rapists. The perpetrators are Tamora’s remaining sons, Demetrius and Chiron, who also murdered Lavinia’s husband Bassanius.
Amelia observes that the only mother in the story is Tamora, and what a woman she is! Her determination to destroy Titus’ kin in retaliation for Alarbus’ summary execution has her encouraging Chiron and Demetrius to rape and murder, ignoring Lavinia’s pleas, woman to woman, as Titus ignored hers. However what most strikes Amelia is Tamora’s reaction to the birth of her son.
The infant is black, product of Tamora’s long-standing love affair with Aaron the Moor, who comes to Rome with the Goth prisoners, freed after Tamora marries the Emperor Saturninus. Tamora sends the infant to Aaron with the order to kill him. Aaron falls in love with his baby, determined to preserve him. His plan is to exchange the child for the fair-skinned newborn son of a Moorish friend, whose child can be raised as Saturninus’ own while Aaron’s baby will thrive among the Goths and grow into a warrior. Amelia is touched by his father-love, so tender and devoted in one seemingly defined by evil.
Lucius discovers the baby in Aaron’s arms and means to kill it, but Aaron makes a bargain. If Lucius will swear by his god to preserve and raise the child, he’ll confess his evil deeds. Lucius agrees, and Aaron proceeds to confess even more than he could actually have committed. Amelia thinks Shakespeare is showing off, having Aaron outdo Christopher Marlowe’s villain Barabbas.
She and Sander discuss the big question at the end of the play, left unresolved in the script. After Aaron is sentenced to death, what happens to his infant? Will Lucius protect him in the new Rome he’s to rule? Ben Jonson, who plays Lucius, has recently lost an infant himself and in performance indicates that Aaron’s baby will live. No line says as much, however, thus Amelia’s concern for the child’s fate.
In summary, her reaction to Titus Andronicus as a new mother herself is that it’s a play about parents and children. Apart from the horrific vengeance incited by the loss of a son and enacted on sons and a daughter—and even the cannibal banquet at the end—Aaron’s father-love stands out. A baby changes one’s life, as Amelia knows well, and Aaron’s redemption as a loving father speaks louder than his villainy. He must die painfully for his deeds, but his son shall thrive. Ben Jonson points out that at the end of the Roman Empire, some Goths lived peaceably there, even serving in the army. Aaron’s child could grow into a Roman commander.