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| Elaine Showalter |
“As a sort of a come-on, I announced
that I would speak today about that piece of bait named Ophelia, and I'll be as
good as my word.” These are the words which begin the psychoanalytic seminar on
Hamlet presented in Paris in 1959 by Jacques Lacan. But despite
his promising come-on, Lacan was not as good as his word. He goes on for
some 41 pages to speak about Hamlet, and when he does mention Ophelia, she is
merely what Lacan calls “the object Ophelia”—that is, the object of Hamlet's
male desire. The etymology of Ophelia, Lacan asserts, is “O-phallus,” and her
role in the drama can only be to function as the exteriorized figuration of
what Lacan predictably and, in view of his own early work with psychotic women,
disappointingly suggests is the phallus as transcendental signifier.1
To play such a part obviously makes Ophelia “essential,” as Lacan admits; but
only because, in his words, “she is linked forever, for centuries, to the
figure of Hamlet.”
The bait-and-switch game that Lacan
plays with Ophelia is a cynical but not unusual instance of her deployment in
psychiatric and critical texts. For most critics of Shakespeare, Ophelia has
been an insignificant minor character in the play, touching in her weakness and
madness but chiefly interesting, of course, in what she tells us about Hamlet.
And while female readers of Shakespeare have often attempted to champion
Ophelia, even feminist critics have done so with a certain embarrassment. As
Annette Kolodny ruefully admits: “it is after all, an imposition of high order
to ask the viewer to attend to Ophelia's sufferings in a scene where, before,
he's always so comfortably kept his eye fixed on Hamlet.”2
Yet when feminist criticism allows
Ophelia to upstage Hamlet, it also brings to the foreground the issues in an
ongoing theoretical debate about the cultural links between femininity, female
sexuality, insanity, and representation. Though she is neglected in criticism,
Ophelia is probably the most frequently illustrated and cited of Shakespeare's
heroines. Her visibility as a subject in literature, popular culture, and
painting, from Redon who paints her drowning, to Bob Dylan, who places her on
Desolation Row, to Cannon Mills, which has named a flowery sheet pattern after
her, is in inverse relation to her invisibility in Shakespearean critical texts:
Why has she been such a potent and obsessive figure in our cultural mythology?
Insofar as Hamlet names Ophelia as “woman” and “frailty,” substituting an
ideological view of femininity for a personal one, is she indeed representative
of Woman, and does her madness stand for the oppression of women in society as
well as in tragedy? Furthermore, since Laertes calles Ophelia a “document in
madness,” does she represent the textual archetype of woman as madness
or madness as woman? And finally, how should feminist criticism
represent Ophelia in its own discourse? What is our responsibility towards her
as character and as woman?
Feminist critics have offered a
variety of responses to these questions. Some have maintained that we should
represent Ophelia as a lawyer represents a client, that we should become her
Horatia, in this harsh world reporting her and her cause aright to the
unsatisfied. Carol Neely, for example, describes advocacy—speaking for
Ophelia—as our proper role: “As a feminist critic,” she writes, “I must `tell'
Ophelia's story.”3 But what can we mean by Ophelia's story? The
story of her life? The story of her betrayal at the hands of her father, lover,
court, society? The story of her rejection and marginalization by male critics
of Shakespeare? Shakespeare gives us very little information from which to
imagine a past for Ophelia. She appears in only five of the play's twenty
scenes; the pre-play course of her love story with Hamlet is known only by a
few ambiguous flashbacks. Her tragedy is subordinated in the play; unlike
Hamlet, she does not struggle with moral choices or alternatives. Thus another
feminist critic, Lee Edwards, concludes that it is impossible to reconstruct
Ophelia's biography from the text: “We can imagine Hamlet's story without
Ophelia, but Ophelia literally has no story without Hamlet.”4
If we turn from American to French
feminist theory, Ophelia might confirm the impossibility of representing the
feminine in patriarchal discourse as other than madness, incoherence, fluidity,
or silence. In French theoretical criticism, the feminine or “Woman” is that
which escapes representation in patriarchal language and symbolism; it remains
on the side of negativity, absence, and lack. In comparison to Hamlet, Ophelia
is certainly a creature of lack. “I think nothing, my lord,” she tells him in
the Mousetrap scene, and he cruelly twists her words:
Hamlet: That's a fair thought to lie between maids' legs.
Ophelia: What is, my lord?
Hamlet: Nothing.
(III.ii. 117-19)
In Elizabethan slang, “nothing” was
a term for the female genitalia, as in Much Ado About Nothing. To
Hamlet, then, “nothing” is what lies between maids' legs, for, in the male
visual system of representation and desire, women's sexual organs, in the words
of the French psychoanalyst Luce Irigaray, “represent the horror of having
nothing to see.”5 When Ophelia is mad, Gertrude says that “Her
speech is nothing,” mere “unshaped use.” Ophelia's speech thus represents the
horror of having nothing to say in the public terms defined by the court.
Deprived of thought, sexuality, language, Ophelia's story becomes the Story of
O—the zero, the empty circle or mystery of feminine difference, the cipher of
female sexuality to be deciphered by feminist interpretation.6
A third approach would be to read
Ophelia's story as the female subtext of the tragedy, the repressed story of
Hamlet. In this reading, Ophelia represents the strong emotions that the
Elizabethans as well as the Freudians thought womanish and unmanly. When
Laertes weeps for his dead sister he says of his tears that “When these are
gone, / The woman will be out”—that is to say, that the feminine and shameful
part of his nature will be purged. According to David Leverenz, in an important
essay called “The Woman in Hamlet,” Hamlet's disgust at the feminine
passivity in himself is translated into violent revulsion against women, and
into his brutal behavior towards Ophelia. Ophelia's suicide, Leverenz argues,
then becomes “a microcosm of the male world's banishment of the female, because
`woman' represents everything denied by reasonable men.”7
It is perhaps because Hamlet's
emotional vulnerability can so readily be conceptualized as feminine that this
is the only heroic male role in Shakespeare which has been regularly acted by
women, in a tradition from Sarah Bernhardt to, most recently, Diane Venora, in
a production directed by Joseph Papp. Leopold Bloom speculates on this
tradition in Ulysses, musing on the Hamlet of the actress Mrs Bandman
Palmer: “Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman? Why Ophelia committed
suicide?”8
While all of these approaches have
much to recommend them, each also presents critical problems. To liberate
Ophelia from the text, or to make her its tragic center, is to re-appropriate
her for our own ends; to dissolve her into a female symbolism of absence is to
endorse our own marginality; to make her Hamlet's anima is to reduce her to a
metaphor of male experience. I would like to propose instead that Ophelia does
have a story of her own that feminist criticism can tell; it is neither her
life story, nor her love story, nor Lacan's story, but rather the history
of her representation. This essay tries to bring together some of the
categories of French feminist thought about the “feminine” with the empirical
energies of American historical and critical research: to yoke French theory
and Yankee knowhow.
Tracing the iconography of Ophelia
in English and French painting, photography, psychiatry, and literature, as
well as in theatrical production, I will be showing first of all the
representational bonds between female insanity and female sexuality. Secondly,
I want to demonstrate the two-way transaction between psychiatric theory and
cultural representation. As one medical historian has observed, we could
provide a manual of female insanity by chronicling the illustrations of
Ophelia; this is so because the illustrations of Ophelia have played a major
role in the theoretical construction of female insanity.9 Finally, I
want to suggest that the feminist revision of Ophelia comes as much from the
actress's freedom as from the critic's interpretation.10 When
Shakespeare's heroines began to be played by women instead of boys, the
presence of the female body and female voice, quite apart from details of
interpretation, created new meanings and subversive tensions in these roles,
and perhaps most importantly with Ophelia. Looking at Ophelia's history on and
off the stage, I will point out the contest between male and female
representations of Ophelia, cycles of critical repression and feminist
reclamation of which contemporary feminist criticism is only the most recent
phase. By beginning with these data from cultural history, instead of moving
from the grid of literary theory, I hope to conclude with a fuller sense of the
responsibilities of feminist criticism, as well as a new perspective on
Ophelia.
. . . . .
“Of all the characters in Hamlet,”
Bridget Lyons has pointed out, “Ophelia is most persistently presented in terms
of symbolic meanings.”11 Her behavior, her appearance, her gestures,
her costume, her props, are freighted with emblematic significance, and for
many generations of Shakespearean critics her part in the play has seemed to be
primarily iconographic. Ophelia's symbolic meanings, moreover, are specifically
feminine. Whereas for Hamlet madness is metaphysical, linked with culture, for
Ophelia it is a product of the female body and female nature, perhaps that
nature's purest form. On the Elizabethan stage, the conventions of female
insanity were sharply defined. Ophelia dresses in white, decks herself with
“fantastical garlands” of wild flowers, and enters, according to the stage
directions of the “Bad” Quarto, “distracted” playing on a lute with her “hair
down singing.” Her speeches are marked by extravagant metaphors, lyrical free
associations, and “explosive sexual imagery.”12 She sings wistful
and bawdy ballads, and ends her life by drowning.
All of these conventions carry
specific messages about femininity and sexuality. Ophelia's virginal and vacant
white is contrasted with Hamlet's scholar's garb, his “suits of solemn black.”
Her flowers suggest the discordant double images of female sexuality as both
innocent blossoming and whorish contamination; she is the “green girl” of
pastoral, the virginal “Rose of May” and the sexually explicit madwoman who, in
giving away her wild flowers and herbs, is symbolically deflowering herself.
The “weedy trophies” and phallic “long purples” which she wears to her death
intimate an improper and discordant sexuality that Gertrude's lovely elegy
cannot quite obscure.13 In Elizabethan and Jacobean drama, the stage
direction that a woman enters with dishevelled hair indicates that she might
either be mad or the victim of a rape; the disordered hair, her offense against
decorum, suggests sensuality in each case.14 The mad Ophelia's bawdy
songs and verbal license, while they give her access to “an entirely different
range of experience” from what she is allowed as the dutiful daughter, seem to
be her one sanctioned form of self-assertion as a woman, quickly followed, as
if in retribution, by her death.15
Drowning too was associated with the
feminine, with female fluidity as opposed to masculine aridity. In his
discussion of the “Ophelia complex,” the phenomenologist Gaston Bachelard traces
the symbolic connections between women, water, and death. Drowning, he
suggests, becomes the truly feminine death in the dramas of literature and
life, one which is a beautiful immersion and submersion in the female element.
Water is the profound and organic symbol of the liquid woman whose eyes are so
easily drowned in tears, as her body is the repository of blood, amniotic
fluid, and milk. A man contemplating this feminine suicide understands it by
reaching for what is feminine in himself, like Laertes, by a temporary
surrender to his own fluidity—that is, his tears; and he becomes a man again in
becoming once more dry—when his tears are stopped.16
Clinically speaking, Ophelia's
behavior and appearance are characteristic of the malady the Elizabethans would
have diagnosed as female love-melancholy, or erotomania. From about 1580,
melancholy had become a fashionable disease among young men, especially in
London, and Hamlet himself is a prototype of the melancholy hero. Yet the
epidemic of melancholy associated with intellectual and imaginative genius
“curiously bypassed women.” Women's melancholy was seen instead as biological,
and emotional in origins.17
On the stage, Ophelia's madness was
presented as the predictable outcome of erotomania. From 1660, when women first
appeared on the public stage, to the beginnings of the eighteenth century, the
most celebrated of the actresses who played Ophelia were those whom rumor
credited with disappointments in love. The greatest triumph was reserved for
Susan Mountfort, a former actress at Lincoln's Inn Fields who had gone mad
after her lover's betrayal. One night in 1720 she escaped from her keeper,
rushed to the theater, and just as the Ophelia of the evening was to enter for
her mad scene, “sprang forward in her place ... with wild eyes and wavering
motion.”18 As a contemporary reported, “she was in truth Ophelia
herself, to the amazement of the performers as well as of the
audience—nature having made this last effort, her vital powers failed her and
she died soon after.”19 These theatrical legends reinforced the
belief of the age that female madness was a part of female nature, less to be
imitated by an actress than demonstrated by a deranged woman in a performance
of her emotions.
The subversive or violent possibilities
of the mad scene were nearly eliminated, however, on the eighteenth-century
stage. Late Augustan stereotypes of female love-melancholy were sentimentalized
versions which minimized the force of female sexuality, and made female
insanity a pretty stimulant to male sensibility. Actresses such as Mrs
Lessingham in 1772, and Mary Bolton in 1811, played Ophelia in this decorous
style, relying on the familiar images of the white dress, loose hair, and wild
flowers to convey a polite feminine distraction, highly suitable for pictorial
reproduction, and appropriate for Samuel Johnson's description of Ophelia as
young, beautiful, harmless, and pious. Even Mrs Siddons in 1785 played the mad
scene with stately and classical dignity. For much of the period, in fact,
Augustan objections to the levity and indecency of Ophelia's language and
behavior led to censorship of the part. Her lines were frequently cut, and the
role was often assigned to a singer instead of an actress, making the mode of
representation musical rather than visual or verbal.
But whereas the Augustan response to
madness was a denial, the romantic response was an embrace.20 The
figure of the madwoman permeates romantic literature, from the gothic novelists
to Wordsworth and Scott in such texts as “The Thorn” and The Heart of
Midlothian, where she stands for sexual victimization, bereavement, and
thrilling emotional extremity. Romantic artists such as Thomas Barker and
George Shepheard painted pathetically abandoned Crazy Kates and Crazy Anns,
while Henry Fuseli's “Mad Kate” is almost demonically possessed, an orphan of
the romantic storm.
In the Shakespearean theater,
Ophelia's romantic revival began in France rather than England. When Charles
Kemble made his Paris debut as Hamlet with an English troupe in 1827, his
Ophelia was a young Irish ing énue named Harriet Smithson. Smithson used “her
extensive command of mime to depict in precise gesture the state of Ophelia's
confused mind.”21 In the mad scene, she entered in a long black
veil, suggesting the standard imagery of female sexual mystery in the gothic
novel, with scattered bedlamish wisps of straw in her hair. Spreading the veil
on the ground as she sang, she spread flowers upon it in the shape of a cross,
as if to make her father's grave, and mimed a burial, a piece of stage business
which remained in vogue for the rest of the century.
The French audiences were stunned.
Dumas recalled that “it was the first time I saw in the theatre real passions,
giving life to men and women of flesh and blood.”22 The 23-year-old
Hector Berlioz, who was in the audience on the first night, fell madly in love,
and eventually married Harriet Smithson despite his family's frantic
opposition. Her image as the mad Ophelia was represented in popular lithographs
and exhibited in bookshop and printshop windows. Her costume was imitated by
the fashionable, and a coiffure “à la folle,” consisting of a “black veil with
wisps of straw tastefully interwoven” in the hair, was widely copied by the
Parisian beau monde, always on the lookout for something new.23
Although Smithson never acted
Ophelia on the English stage, her intensely visual performance quickly
influenced English productions as well; and indeed the romantic Ophelia—a young
girl passionately and visibly driven to picturesque madness—became the dominant
international acting style for the next 150 years, from Helena Modjeska in
Poland in 1871, to the 18-year-old Jean Simmons in the Laurence Olivier film of
1948.
Whereas the romantic Hamlet, in
Coleridge's famous dictum, thinks too much, has an “overbalance of the
contemplative faculty” and an overactive intellect, the romantic Ophelia is a
girl who feels too much, who drowns in feeling. The romantic critics
seem to have felt that the less said about Ophelia the better; the point was to
look at her. Hazlitt, for one, is speechless before her, calling her “a
character almost too exquisitely touching to be dwelt upon.”24 While
the Augustans represent Ophelia as music, the romantics transform her into an objet
d'art, as if to take literally Claudius's lament, “poor Ophelia / Divided
from herself and her fair judgment, / Without the which we are pictures.”
Smithson's performance is best
recaptured in a series of pictures done by Delacroix from 1830 to 1850, which
show a strong romantic interest in the relation of female sexuality and
insanity.25 The most innovative and influential of Delacroix's
lithographs is La Mort d'Ophélie of 1843, the first of three studies.
Its sensual languor, with Ophelia half-suspended in the stream as her dress
slips from her body, anticipated the fascination with the erotic trance of the
hysteric as it would be studied by Jean-Martin Charcot and his students,
including Janet and Freud. Delacroix's interest in the drowning Ophelia is also
reproduced to the point of obsession in later nineteenth-century painting. The
English Pre-Raphaelites painted her again and again, choosing the drowning
which is only described in the play, and where no actress's image had preceded
them or interfered with their imaginative supremacy.
In the Royal Academy show of 1852,
Arthur Hughes's entry shows a tiny waif-like creature—a sort of Tinker Bell
Ophelia—in a filmy white gown, perched on a tree trunk by the stream. The
overall effect is softened, sexless, and hazy, although the straw in her hair
resembles a crown of thorns. Hughes's juxtaposition of childlike femininity and
Christian martyrdom was overpowered, however, by John Everett Millais's great
painting of Ophelia in the same show. While Millais's Ophelia is sensuous siren
as well as victim, the artist rather than the subject dominates the scene. The
division of space between Ophelia and the natural details Millais had so
painstakingly pursued reduces her to one more visual object; and the painting
has such a hard surface, strangely flattened perspective, and brilliant light
that it seems cruelly indifferent to the woman's death.
. . . . .
These Pre-Raphaelite images were
part of a new and intricate traffic between images of women and madness in late
nineteenth-century literature, psychiatry, drama, and art. First of all,
superintendents of Victorian lunatic asylums were also enthusiasts of
Shakespeare, who turned to his dramas for models of mental aberration that
could be applied to their clinical practice. The case study of Ophelia was one
that seemed particularly useful as an account of hysteria or mental breakdown
in adolescence, a period of sexual instability which the Victorians regarded as
risky for women's mental health. As Dr John Charles Bucknill, president of the
Medico-Psychological Association, remarked in 1859, “Ophelia is the very type
of a class of cases by no means uncommon. Every mental physician of moderately
extensive experience must have seen many Ophelias. It is a copy from nature,
after the fashion of the Pre-Raphaelite school.”26 Dr John Conolly,
the celebrated superintendent of the Hanwell Asylum, and founder of the
committee to make Stratford a national trust, concurred. In his Study of
Hamlet in 1863 he noted that even casual visitors to mental institutions
could recognize an Ophelia in the wards: “the same young years, the same faded
beauty, the same fantastic dress and interrupted song.”27 Medical
textbooks illustrated their discussions of female patients with sketches of
Ophelia-like maidens.
But Conolly also pointed out that
the graceful Ophelias who dominated the Victorian stage were quite unlike the
women who had become the majority of the inmate population in Victorian public
asylums. “It seems to be supposed,” he protested, “that it is an easy task to
play the part of a crazy girl, and that it is chiefly composed of singing and
prettiness. The habitual courtesy, the partial rudeness of mental disorder, are
things to be witnessed.... An actress, ambitious of something beyond cold
imitation, might find the contemplation of such cases a not unprofitable
study.”28
Yet when Ellen Terry took up
Conolly's challenge, and went to an asylum to observe real madwomen, she found
them “too theatrical” to teach her anything.29 This was
because the iconography of the romantic Ophelia had begun to infiltrate
reality, to define a style for mad young women seeking to express and
communicate their distress. And where the women themselves did not willingly
throw themselves into Ophelia-like postures, asylum superintendents, armed with
the new technology of photography, imposed the costume, gesture, props, and
expression of Ophelia upon them. In England, the camera was introduced to
asylum work in the 1850s by Dr Hugh Welch Diamond, who photographed his female
patients at the Surrey Asylum and at Bethlem. Diamond was heavily influenced by
literary and visual models in his posing of the female subjects. His pictures
of madwomen, posed in prayer, or decked with Ophelia-like garlands, were copied
for Victorian consumption as touched-up lithographs in professional journals.30
Reality, psychiatry, and
representational convention were even more confused in the photographic records
of hysteria produced in the 1870s by Jean-Martin Charcot. Charcot was the first
clinician to install a fully-equipped photographic atelier in his Paris
hospital, La Salpêtri ère, to record the performances of his hysterical stars.
Charcot's clinic became, as he said, a “living theatre” of female pathology;
his women patients were coached in their performances for the camera, and,
under hypnosis, were sometimes instructed to play heroines from Shakespeare.
Among them, a 15-year-old girl named Augustine was featured in the published
volumes called Iconographies in every posture of la grande hystérie.
With her white hospital gown and flowing locks, Augustine frequently resembles
the reproductions of Ophelia as icon and actress which had been in wide
circulation.31
But if the Victorian madwoman looks
mutely out from men's pictures, and acts a part men had staged and directed,
she is very differently represented in the feminist revision of Ophelia
initiated by newly powerful and respectable Victorian actresses, and by women
critics of Shakespeare. In their efforts to defend Ophelia, they invent a story
for her drawn from their own experiences, grievances, and desires.
. . . . .
Probably the most famous of the
Victorian feminist revisions of the Ophelia story was Mary Cowden Clarke's The
Girlhood of Shakespeare's Heroines, published in 1852. Unlike other Victorian
moralizing and didactic studies of the female characters of Shakespeare's
plays, Clarke's was specifically addressed to the wrongs of women, and
especially to the sexual double standard. In a chapter on Ophelia called “The
rose of Elsinore,” Clarke tells how the child Ophelia was left behind in the
care of a peasant couple when Polonius was called to the court at Paris, and
raised in a cottage with a foster-sister and brother, Jutha and Ulf. Jutha is
seduced and betrayed by a deceitful knight, and Ophelia discovers the bodies of
Jutha and her stillborn child, lying “white, rigid, and still” in the deserted
parlor of the cottage in the middle of the night. Ulf, a “hairy loutish boy,”
likes to torture flies, to eat songbirds, and to rip the petals off roses, and
he is also very eager to give little Ophelia what he calls a bearhug. Both
repelled and masochistically attracted by Ulf, Ophelia is repeatedly cornered
by him as she grows up; once she escapes the hug by hitting him with a branch
of wild roses; another time, he sneaks into her bedroom “in his brutish
pertinacity to obtain the hug he had promised himself,” but just as he bends
over her trembling body, Ophelia is saved by the reappearance of her real
mother.
A few years later, back at the
court, she discovers the hanged body of another friend, who has killed herself
after being “victimized and deserted by the same evil seducer.” Not
surprisingly, Ophelia breaks down with brain fever—a staple mental illness of
Victorian fiction—and has prophetic hallucinations of a brook beneath willow
trees where something bad will happen to her. The warnings of Polonius and
Laertes have little to add to this history of female sexual trauma.32
On the Victorian stage, it was Ellen
Terry, daring and unconventional in her own life, who led the way in acting
Ophelia in feminist terms as a consistent psychological study sexual
intimidation, a girl terrified of her father, of her lover, and of life itself.
Terry's debut as Ophelia in Henry Irving's production in 1878 was a landmark.
According to one reviewer, her Ophelia was “the terrible spectacle of a normal
girl becoming hopelessly imbecile as the result of overwhelming mental agony.
Hers was an insanity without wrath or rage, without exaltation or paroxysms.”33
Her “poetic and intellectual performance” also inspired other actresses to
rebel against the conventions of invisibility and negation associated with the
part.
Terry was the first to challenge the
tradition of Ophelia's dressing in emblematic white. For the French poets, such
as Rimbaud, Hugo, Musset, Mallarmé and Laforgue, whiteness was part of
Ophelia's essential feminine symbolism; they call her “blanche Ophélia” and
compare her to a lily, a cloud, or snow. Yet whiteness also made her a
transparency, an absence that took on the colors of Hamlet's moods, and that,
for the symbolists like Mallarmé, made her a blank page to be written over or
on by the male imagination. Although Irving was able to prevent Terry from
wearing black in the mad scene, exclaiming “My God, Madam, there must be only one
black figure in this play, and that's Hamlet!” (Irving, of course, was playing
Hamlet), nonetheless actresses such as Gertrude Eliot, Helen Maude, Nora de
Silva, and in Russia Vera Komisarjevskaya, gradually won the right to intensify
Ophelia's presence by clothing her in Hamlet's black.34
By the turn of the century, there
was both a male and a female discourse on Ophelia. A. C. Bradley spoke for the
Victorian male tradition when he noted in Shakespearean Tragedy (1906)
that “a large number of readers feel a kind of personal irritation against
Ophelia; they seem unable to forgive her for not having been a heroine.”35
The feminist counterview was represented by actresses in such works as Helena
Faucit's study of Shakespeare's female characters, and The True Ophelia,
written by an anonymous actress in 1914, which protested against the “insipid
little creature” of criticism, and advocated a strong and intelligent woman
destroyed by the heartlessness of men.36 In women's paintings of the
fin de siècle as well, Ophelia is depicted as an inspiring, even
sanctified emblem of righteousness.37
While the widely read and
influential essays of Mary Cowden Clarke are now mocked as the epitome of naive
criticism, these Victorian studies of the girlhood of Shakespeare's heroines
are of course alive and well as psychoanalytic criticism, which has imagined
its own prehistories of oedipal conflict and neurotic fixation; and I say this
not to mock psychoanalytic criticism, but to suggest that Clarke's musings on
Ophelia are a pre-Freudian speculation on the traumatic sources of a female
sexual identity. The Freudian interpretation of Hamlet concentrated on
the hero, but also had much to do with the re-sexualization of Ophelia. As
early as 1900, Freud had traced Hamlet's irresolution to an Oedipus complex,
and Ernest Jones, his leading British disciple, developed this view,
influencing the performances of John Gielgud and Alec Guinness in the 1930s. In
his final version of the study, Hamlet and Oedipus, published in 1949,
Jones argued that “Ophelia should be unmistakably sensual, as she seldom is on
stage. She may be `innocent' and docile, but she is very aware of her body.”38
In the theater and in criticism,
this Freudian edict has produced such extreme readings as that Shakespeare
intends us to see Ophelia as a loose woman, and that she has been sleeping with
Hamlet. Rebecca West has argued that Ophelia was not “a correct and timid
virgin of exquisite sensibilities,” a view she attributes to the popularity of
the Millais painting; but rather “a disreputable young woman.”39 In
his delightful autobiography, Laurence Olivier, who made a special pilgrimage
to Ernest Jones when he was preparing his Hamlet in the 1930s, recalls
that one of his predecessors as actor-manager had said in response to the
earnest question, “Did Hamlet sleep with Ophelia?”—“In my company, always.”40
The most extreme Freudian
interpretation reads Hamlet as two parallel male and female
psychodramas, the counterpointed stories of the incestuous attachments of
Hamlet and Ophelia. As Theodor Lidz presents this view, while Hamlet is
neurotically attached to his mother, Ophelia has an unresolved oedipal
attachment to her father. She has fantasies of a lover who will abduct her from
or even kill her father, and when this actually happens, her reason is
destroyed by guilt as well as by lingering incestuous feelings. According to
Lidz, Ophelia breaks down because she fails in the female developmental task of
shifting her sexual attachment from her father “to a man who can bring her
fulfillment as a woman.”41 We see the effects of this Freudian
Ophelia on stage productions since the 1950s, where directors have hinted at an
incestuous link between Ophelia and her father, or more recently, because this
staging conflicts with the usual ironic treatment of Polonius, between Ophelia
and Laertes. Trevor Nunn's production with Helen Mirren in 1970, for example,
made Ophelia and Laertes flirtatious doubles, almost twins in their matching
fur-trimmed doublets, playing duets on the lute with Polonius looking on, like
Peter, Paul, and Mary. In other productions of the same period, Marianne
Faithfull was a haggard Ophelia equally attracted to Hamlet and Laertes, and,
in one of the few performances directed by a woman, Yvonne Nicholson sat on
Laertes' lap in the advice scene, and played the part with “rough sexual
bravado.”42
Since the 1960s, the Freudian
representation of Ophelia has been supplemented by an antipsychiatry that
represents Ophelia's madness in more contemporary terms. In contrast to the
psychoanalytic representation of Ophelia's sexual unconscious that connected
her essential femininity to Freud's essays on female sexuality and hysteria,
her madness is now seen in medical and biochemical terms, as schizophrenia.
This is so in part because the schizophrenic woman has become the cultural icon
of dualistic femininity in the mid-twentieth century as the erotomaniac was in
the seventeenth and the hysteric in the nineteenth. It might also be traced to the
work of R. D. Laing on female schizophrenia in the 1960s. Laing argued that
schizophrenia was an intelligible response to the experience of invalidation
within the family network, especially to the conflicting emotional messages and
mystifying double binds experienced by daughters. Ophelia, he noted in The
Divided Self, is an empty space. “In her madness there is no one there....
There is no integral selfhood expressed through her actions or utterances.
Incomprehensible statements are said by nothing. She has already died. There is
now only a vacuum where there was once a person.”43
Despite his sympathy for Ophelia,
Laing's readings silence her, equate her with “nothing,” more completely than
any since the Augustans; and they have been translated into performances which
only make Ophelia a graphic study of mental pathology. The sickest Ophelias on
the contemporary stage have been those in the productions of the
pathologist-director Jonathan Miller. In 1974 at the Greenwich Theatre his
Ophelia sucked her thumb; by 1981, at the Warehouse in London, she was played
by an actress much taller and heavier than the Hamlet (perhaps punningly cast
as the young actor Anton Lesser). She began the play with a set of nervous tics
and tuggings of hair which by the mad scene had become a full set of
schizophrenic routines—head banging, twitching, wincing, grimacing, and
drooling.44
But since the 1970s too we have had
a feminist discourse which has offered a new perspective on Ophelia's madness
as protest and rebellion. For many feminist theorists, the madwoman is a
heroine, a powerful figure who rebels against the family and the social order;
and the hysteric who refuses to speak the language of the patriarchal order,
who speaks otherwise, is a sister.45 In terms of effect on the
theater, the most radical application of these ideas was probably realized in
Melissa Murray's agitprop play Ophelia, written in 1979 for the English
women's theater group “Hormone Imbalance.” In this blank verse retelling of the
Hamlet story, Ophelia becomes a lesbian and runs off with a woman servant to
join a guerrilla commune.46
While I've always regretted that I
missed this production, I can't proclaim that this defiant ideological gesture,
however effective politically or theatrically, is all that feminist criticism
desires, or all to which it should aspire. When feminist criticism chooses to
deal with representation, rather than with women's writing, it must aim for a
maximum interdisciplinary contextualism, in which the complexity of attitudes towards
the feminine can be analyzed in their fullest cultural and historical frame.
The alternation of strong and weak Ophelias on the stage, virginal and
seductive Ophelias in art, inadequate or oppressed Ophelias in criticism, tells
us how these representations have overflowed the text, and how they have
reflected the ideological character of their times, erupting as debates between
dominant and feminist views in periods of gender crisis and redefinition. The
representation of Ophelia changes independently of theories of the meaning of
the play or the Prince, for it depends on attitudes towards women and madness.
The decorous and pious Ophelia of the Augustan age and the postmodern
schizophrenic heroine who might have stepped from the pages of Laing can be
derived from the same figure; they are both contradictory and complementary
images of female sexuality in which madness seems to act as the
“switching-point, the concept which allows the co-existence of both sides of
the representation.”47 There is no “true ” Ophelia for whom feminist
criticism must unambiguously speak, but perhaps only a Cubist Ophelia of
multiple perspectives, more than the sum of all her parts.
But in exposing the ideology of
representation, feminist critics have also the responsibility to acknowledge
and to examine the boundaries of our own ideological positions as products of
our gender and our time. A degree of humility in an age of critical hubris can
be our greatest strength, for it is by occupying this position of historical
self-consciousness in both feminism and criticism that we maintain our
credibility in representing Ophelia, and that, unlike Lacan, when we promise to
speak about her, we make good our word.
Notes
1. Jacques Lacan, “Desire and the
interpretation of desire in Hamlet,” in Literature and
Psychoanalysis: The Question of Reading: Otherwise, ed. Shoshana Felman
(Baltimore, 1982), 11, 20, 23. Lacan is also wrong about the etymology of
Ophelia, which probably derives from the Greek for “help” or “succour.”
Charlotte M. Yonge suggested a derivation from “ophis,” “serpent.” See her History
of Christian Names (1884, republished Chicago, 1966), 346-7. I am indebted
to Walter Jackson Bate for this reference.
2. Annette Kolodny, “Dancing through
the minefield: some observations on the theory, practice, and politics of
feminist literary criticism” (Feminist Studies, 6 (1980)), 7.
3. Carol Neely, “Feminist modes of
Shakespearean criticism” (Women's Studies, 9 (1981)), 11.
4. Lee Edwards, “The labors of
Psyche” (Critical Inquiry, 6 (1979)), 36.
5. Luce Irigaray: see New French
Feminisms, ed. Elaine Marks and Isabelle de Courtivron (New York, 1982),
101. The quotation above, from III.ii, is taken from the Arden Shakespeare, Hamlet,
ed. Harold Jenkins (London and New York, 1982), 295. All quotations from Hamlet
are from this text.
6. On images of negation and
feminine enclosure, see David Wilbern, “Shakespeare's `nothing',” in Representing
Shakespeare: New Psychoanalytic Essays, ed. Murray M. Schwartz and Coppélia
Kahn (Baltimore, 1981).
7. David Leverenz, “The woman in Hamlet:
an interpersonal view” (Signs, 4 (1978)), 303.
8. James Joyce, Ulysses (New
York, 1961), 76.
9. Sander L. Gilman, Seeing the
Insane (New York, 1981), 126.
10. See Michael Goldman, The
Actor's Freedom: Toward a Theory of Drama (New York, 1975), for a
stimulating discussion of the interpretative interaction between actor and
audience.
11. Bridget Lyons, “The iconography
of Ophelia” (English Literary History, 44 (1977)), 61.
12. See Maurice and Hanna Charney,
“The language of Shakespeare's madwomen” (Signs, 3 (1977)), 451, 457;
and Carroll Camden, “On Ophelia's madness” (Shakespeare Quarterly
(1964)), 254.
13. See Margery Garber, Coming of
Age in Shakespeare (London, 1981), 155-7; and Lyons, op. cit., 65, 70-2.
14. On dishevelled hair as a
signifier of madness or rape, see Charney and Charney, op. cit., 452-3, 457;
and Allan Dessen, Elizabethan Stage Conventions and Modern Interpreters
(Cambridge, 1984), 36-8. Thanks to Allan Dessen for letting me see advance
proofs of his book.
15. Charney and Charney, op. cit.,
456.
16. Gaston Bachelard, L'Eau et
les rêves (Paris, 1942), 109-25. See also Brigitte Peucker,
“Dröste-Hulshof's Ophelia and the recovery of voice” (The Journal of English
and Germanic Philology (1983)), 374-91.
17. Vieda Skultans, English
Madness: Ideas on Insanity 1580-1890 (London, 1977), 79-81. On historical
cases of love-melancholy, see Michael MacDonald, Mystical Bedlam
(Cambridge, 1982).
18. C. E. L. Wingate, Shakespeare's
Heroines on the Stage (New York, 1895), 283-4, 288-9.
19. Charles Hiatt, Ellen Terry
(London, 1898), 11.
20. Max Byrd, Visits to Bedlam:
Madness and Literature in the Eighteenth Century (Columbia, 1974), xiv.
21. Peter Raby, Fair Ophelia:
Harriet Smithson Berlioz (Cambridge, 1982), 63.
22. Ibid., 68.
23. Ibid., 72, 75.
24. Quoted in Camden, op. cit., 247.
25. Raby, op. cit., 182.
26. J. C. Bucknill, The
Psychology of Shakespeare (London, 1859, reprinted New York, 1970), 110.
For more extensive discussions of Victorian psychiatry and Ophelia figures, see
Elaine Showalter, The Female Malady: Women, Madness and English Culture
(New York, forthcoming 1985).
27. John Conolly, Study of Hamlet
(London, 1863), 177.
28. Ibid., 177-8, 180.
29. Ellen Terry, The Story of My
Life (London, 1908), 154.
30. Diamond's photographs are
reproduced in Sander L. Gilman, The Face of Madness: Hugh W. Diamond and the
Origin of Psychiatric Photography (New York, 1976).
31. See Georges Didi-Huberman, L'Invention
de l'hystérie (Paris, 1982), and Stephen Heath, The Sexual Fix
(London, 1983), 36.
32. Mary Cowden Clarke, The
Girlhood of Shakespeare's Heroines (London, 1852). See also George C.
Gross, “Mary Cowden Clarke, The Girlhood of Shakespeare's Heroines, and
the sex education of Victorian women” (Victorian Studies, 16 (1972)),
37-58, and Nina Auerbach, Woman and the Demon (Cambridge, Mass., 1983),
210-15.
33. Hiatt, op. cit., 114. See also
Wingate, op. cit., 304-5.
34. Terry, op. cit., 155-6.
35. Andrew C. Bradley, Shakespearean
Tragedy (London, 1906), 160.
36. Helena Faucit Martin, On Some
of Shakespeare's Female Characters (Edinburgh and London, 1891), 4, 18; and
The True Ophelia (New York, 1914), 15.
37. Among these paintings are the
Ophelias of Henrietta Rae and Mrs F. Littler. Sarah Bernhardt sculpted a bas
relief of Ophelia for the Women's Pavilion at the Chicago World's Fair in 1893.
38. Ernest Jones, Hamlet and
Oedipus (New York, 1949), 139.
39. Rebecca West, The Court and
the Castle (New Haven, 1958), 18.
40. Laurence Olivier, Confessions
of an Actor (Harmondsworth, 1982), 102, 152.
41. Theodor Lidz, Hamlet's Enemy:
Madness and Myth in Hamlet (New York, 1975), 88, 113.
42. Richard David, Shakespeare in
the Theatre (Cambridge, 1978), 75. This was the production directed by Buzz
Goodbody, a brilliant young feminist radical who killed herself that year. See
Colin Chambers, Other Spaces: New Theatre and the RSC (London, 1980),
especially 63-7.
43. R. D. Laing, The Divided Self
(Harmondsworth, 1965), 195n.
44. David, op. cit., 82-3; thanks to
Marianne DeKoven, Rutgers University, for the description of the 1981 Warehouse
production.
45. See, for example, Hélène Cixous
and Catherine Cl ément, La Jeune Née (Paris, 1975).
46. For an account of this
production, see Micheline Wandor, Understudies: Theatre and Sexual Politics
(London, 1981), 47.
47. I am indebted for this
formulation to a critique of my earlier draft of this paper by Carl Friedman,
at the Wesleyan Center for the Humanities, April 1984.
Publication Details: Shakespeare and
the Question of Theory. Ed. Patricia Parker and Geoffrey Hartman. 1985. p77-94.
Source: Shakespearean
Criticism. Ed. Dana Ramel Barnes. Vol. 35. Detroit: Gale Research,
1997. From Literature Resource Center.
