A Midsummer Night's Dream

Introduction

Magical Thinking

Metamorphosis

The Festive World

“The Poet's Eye … The Poet's Pen”

About the Text

Key Facts

A Midsummer Night's Dream

List of Parts

Act 1

Scene 1

Scene 2

Act 2

Scene 1

Scene 2

Act 3

Scene 1

Scene 2

Act 4

Scene 1

Scene 2

Act 5

Scene 1

Textual Notes

Scene-by-Scene Analysis

A Midsummer Night's Dream
in Performance: The RSC and Beyond

Four Centuries of the
Dream:
An Overview

At the RSC

The Director's Cut: Interviews with Michael Boyd, Gregory Doran, and Tim Supple

Shakespeare's Career in the Theater

Beginnings

Playhouses

The Ensemble at Work

The King's Man

Shakespeare's Works: A Chronology

Further Reading and Viewing

References

Acknowledgments and Picture Credits

Shakespeare is the poet of double vision. The father of twins, he was a mingler of comedy and tragedy, low life and high, prose and verse. He was a countryman who worked in the city, a teller of English folktales who was equally versed in the mythology of ancient Greece and Rome. His mind and world were poised between Catholicism and Protestantism, old feudal ways and new bourgeois ambitions, rational thinking and visceral instinct.
A Midsummer Night's Dream
is one of his truly essential works because nowhere else is his double vision more apparent than in this play's movement between the city and the wood, day and night, reason and imagination, waking life and dream.

Wood, night, imagination, dream. These are the coordinates of the second form of sight, which is best described as magical thinking. It is the mode of being that belongs to visionaries, astrologers, “wise women,” and poets. It conjures up a world animated with energies and spirit forces; it finds correspondences between earthly things and divine. The eye that sees in this way rolls “in a fine frenzy,” as Theseus says, glancing “from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.” It “bodies forth / The forms of things unknown,” “Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing / A local habitation and a name.”

Magical thinking answers a deep human need. It is a way of making sense of things that would otherwise seem painfully arbitrary—things like love and beauty. An ugly birthmark on a baby would be explained away by the suggestion that the infant might be a “changeling child,” swapped in the cradle by some night-tripping fairy. The sheer chance involved in the process of what we now call sexual chemistry may be rationalized in the story of the magic properties of the juice of the flower called love-in-idleness. And in a world dependent on an agricultural economy, bad harvests were somehow more palatable if explained by the intervention of malicious sprites upon the vicissitudes of the weather.

In the age of candle and rushlight, nights were seriously dark. The night was accordingly imagined to be seriously different from the day. The very fact of long hours of light itself conferred a kind of magic upon midsummer night. This is the night of the year when magical thinking is given full rein. For centuries, the summer solstice had been a festive occasion celebrated with bonfires, feasting, and merrymaking.

Theseus and Hippolyta never meet Oberon and Titania. In the original performance, the respective roles were likely to have been doubled. The contentious king and queen of fairies thus become the dark psychological doubles of the betrothed courtly couple. The correspondence inevitably calls into question the joy of the match between Athenian and Amazon. Oberon actually accuses Titania of having led Theseus “through the glimmering night” when he deserted “Perigenia whom he ravishèd,” of having made the day duke break faith with a succession of paramours. Shakespeare loves to set up an antithesis, then knock it down. Here he implies that there is ultimately no sharp distinction between day and night: the sexual ethics of Theseus are perhaps as dubious as those of the adulterous child-possessor Titania.

Authority figures, representatives of the day world of political power, win little sympathy in
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. For the lovers, the forest may be a place of confused identity, but at least it is an escape from the patriarchal matchmaking of Egeus. In the audience, the characters with whom we engage most warmly are neither monarchs nor lords, but the mischief-making Robin Goodfellow and the ineffable weaver, Bottom. Each in his way is an embodiment of the theatrical spirit that animates everything that is most gloriously Shakespearean. Always a man of the theater, Shakespeare lives in a world of illusion and make-believe that hits at deepest truths; he knows that his world is fundamentally sympathetic to those other counter-worlds which we call dream and magic.

Robin the Puck compares the mortals to fools in a fond pageant: he has a right to think of himself as author of the play, since it is his dispensing of the love juice that fuels the plot. As for Bottom, at one level he is a bad actor. In both rehearsal and performance of “Pyramus and Thisbe,” it becomes clear that he does not really understand the rules of the theatrical game. But at a deeper level, he is a true dramatic genius: he is gifted with the child's grace to suspend his disbelief. As Pyramus, he puts up a pretty poor performance; as Ass, it is another matter. The comic deficiency of “Pyramus and Thisbe” is that the actors keep telling us that they
haven't
become their characters. The Assification of Bottom is, by contrast, akin to those brilliant assumptions of disguise—Rosalind becoming Ganymede in
As You Like It
, Viola as Cesario in
Twelfth Night
—through which Shakespeare simultaneously reminds us that we are in the theater (an actor is always in disguise) and helps us to forget where we are (we willingly suspend our disbelief). In that forgetting, we participate in the mystery of magical thinking. With Bottom himself, we in the audience may say “I have had a most rare vision.”

Many members of Shakespeare's original audience, steeped as they were in the New Testament, would have recognized Bottom's account of his dream as an allusion—with the attributes of the different senses comically garbled—to a famous passage in the First Epistle to the Corinthians, in which St. Paul says that the eye of man has not seen and the ear of man has not heard the glories that will await us when we enter the Kingdom of Heaven. In the Geneva translation of the Bible, which Shakespeare knew well, the passage speaks of how the human spirit searches “the bottom of God's secrets.” Jesus said that in order to enter his kingdom, one had to make oneself as a child. The same may be said of the kingdom of theater. It is because Bottom has the uncynical, believing spirit of a child that he is vouchsafed his vision. At the same time, Shakespeare himself offers a dangerously grown-up image of what heaven might be like: the weaver may be innocent but the fairy queen is an embodiment of sexual experience. The “virgin queen” Elizabeth was also known as England's “fairy queen” and the wood in which the action takes place, with its “nine men's morris” and English wildflowers, is more domestic than Athenian, so there must have been an inherent political risk in the representation of a sexually voracious Titania. Shakespeare perhaps introduced Oberon's apparent allusion to a chaste Elizabeth—the “fair vestal thronèd by the west”—in order to dismiss any identification of Titania with the real-life fairy queen who he knew would at some point be a spectator of the play.

The comedy and the charm of the
Dream
depend on a certain fragility. Good comedy is tragedy narrowly averted, while fairy charm is only safe from sentimentality if attached to some potential for the grotesque. Fairies only deserve to be believed in when they have the capacity to be seriously unpleasant. Of course we laugh when Bottom wears the head of an ass and makes love to a queen, but the image deliberately courts the suggestion of bestiality.

In Ovid's
Metamorphoses
, Shakespeare's favorite book and the source for the tale of “Pyramus and Thisbe,” people are driven by bestial desires and are rewarded by being transformed into animals. In Shakespeare, the ass's head is worn in play, but it remains the closest thing in the drama of his age to an actual animal metamorphosis onstage.

Ovid was rational Rome's great counter-visionary, its magical thinker. His theme is transformation, the inevitability of change. Book fifteen of the
Metamorphoses
offers a philosophical discourse on the subject, mediated via the philosophy of Pythagoras. From here Shakespeare got many of those images of transience that roll through his Sonnets, but in the
Dream
he celebrates the transfiguring and enduring power of night vision, of second sight.

Night is the time for fantasy and for love, the time in which your wildest hopes may be indulged but your worst nightmares may have to be confronted. The action in the forest fills the space between the betrothal and the wedding celebration of Theseus and Hippolyta. For the young lovers it is also a time-between, the time, that is to say, of maturation, of discovering who they really are and whom they really love. When Hermia and Lysander, Helena and Demetrius emerge after a midsummer night's madness in the wood, they don't quite know what's happened: “Methinks I see these things with parted eye, / When everything seems double.” And they're not all quite sure if they've finally gained the person they want: “And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, / Mine own and not mine own.” But on reflection in the cold light of morning, the strangeness of the night has effected a material transformation, leading the lovers to a truer place than the one where they were at court the day before. Perhaps because she is herself a “stranger,” an outsider in the “civilized” world of Athens, it is the Amazon queen Hippolyta who understands this best: