Imogen: If Juliet Was Luckier, or Desdemona Was Braver, or Olivia Was Ruder

 And now it is time for little-known Shakespeare plays #2: Cymbeline. In some ways this was even more exciting to read because I had no idea of the plot. I didn’t even know whether it would end happily or not, with the heroine alive or not—it’s usually classified as a “romance” (with Winter’s Tale and Pericles and Tempest) but the official title is “The Tragedy of Cymbeline.” Cymbeline is the king of Britain between 33 B.C. and 2 A.D. (according to Holinshed, according to the notes in the back of the Yale edition), a time equivalent with Caesar Augustus. The plot is complicated but mostly follows Cymbeline’s spirited daughter Imogen, who marries a poor but noble orphan her father brought up at court. This is of course against the wishes of her father and step-mother, who want Imogen to marry the Queen’s son from her first marriage, Cloten, so he will inherit the kingdom. Imogen’s husband is banished, a wicked Italian tries to wreck their marriage, the Queen schemes against everyone’s life, and then in the mountains of Wales we discover the King’s two long-lost sons. Meanwhile, Caesar Augustus is threatening war on Britain because the wicked Queen has convinced Cymbeline not to pay tribute, and it all ends in a fight on the battlefield, Imogen of course disguised as a boy, the wicked people conveniently dying, and all the nobles being reunited and the usual “Let us walk offstage and explain everything that just happened to each other, because I am amazéd,” line.

Like the plot, the language is surprisingly difficult—I tend to have a fair amount of faith in my ability to decipher Shakespeare, but this took a lot of re-reading and flipping to the notes in the back of the book. (And, as usual, half the time the notes explain something completely obvious, like what “hence” means, and blithely ignore what’s utterly incomprehensible, like “the bores of hearing.”) By reading slowly, however, I discovered an exciting story peopled by complicated, believable characters. The King, Cymbeline, is weak, foolish, easily manipulated by his wife, and given to brutality; at the end, when she confesses to all her wickedness, including having never loved him, on her deathbed, he is flabbergasted and dodges blame by insisting she was a very convincing liar. When the English win the battle with the Romans, he is ready to put all the captured Romans to death, until Imogen’s husband inspires him by showing mercy to the Italian villain who tried to seduce Imogen. Then Cymbeline promptly changes his mind and not only spares the Romans, but decides to pay tribute after all and make up with Caesar Augustus. His lack of sensitivity in contrast to Imogen is highlighted when he is reunited with his two long lost sons, whom Imogen has already met and hung out with in a cave. He says, “O Imogen!/ Thou hast lost by this a kingdom,” and she replies, “No my lord;/ I have got two worlds by ‘t.”

Which brings me to my main point: Imogen is awesome. A lot of the usual misfortunes of Shakespeare’s heroines are flung upon her: her husband, Posthumus, is banished, and later suspects her of infidelity and tries to kill her; she is pursued by not one but two unwanted suitors, her idiotic but surprisingly cruel step-brother Cloten, and the conniving Italian, Iachimo; she has to dress up like a boy and run away from home, where she hangs out with rough mountain men (not knowing they’re her brothers); and she accidentally takes one of those handy sleeping potions that makes you seem like you’re dead.  But she is courageous, ingenious, and most of all, fiery. When Iachimo tells her Posthumus is unfaithful, and then suggests she revenge herself by sleeping with him, she immediately sees through him, calls for her servant, and coldly informs him that he’s an asshole (although to be fair, she is taken in by his subsequent explanation that he was just testing her for Posthumus’s sake). When Cloten won’t leave her alone, she bluntly tells him, “sorry you’re making me say this, but I hate you.” When her loyal, long-suffering servant, Pisanio, reveals that Posthumus has instructed him to kill her because she is unfaithful, she bristles, “What is it to be false?/ To lie in watch there and to think on him?/ To weep ‘twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,/ to break it with a fearful dream of him,/ and cry myself awake? That’s false to ‘s bed, is it?”

But she’s also touchingly real, especially in her love for and uncertainty over Posthumus. When she gets a letter from him, before she reads it she hopes that it will contain good news, that he is well and happy, but not happy that they’re apart; when Pisanio reveals Posthumus’s murderous change of heart towards her, she assumes he’s found someone else, “some Roman courtesan,” and that she is therefore obsolete. She has her blind spots, certainly, but she keeps her integrity and spirit high throughout, and is much less narrow-minded than her father.

Iachimo is pretty audacious and creepy (when Posthumus brags about Imogen’s fidelity, Iachimo bets him half his estate he can bed her); and Cloten, the other villain, is a genuinely frightening creation. He’s a vain, self-flattering imbecile (one of the courtiers marvels, in a brief soliloquy, how an evil genius such as the Queen could possibly have produced such a blockhead), but after Imogen tells him that should every hair on his head become another Cloten, the whole pack of them would be less dear to her than Posthumus’ meanest garment, Cloten—after sputtering “his meanest garment!” for the remainder of the scene—concocts a diabolical plan. When Imogen runs away to find Posthumus, Cloten acquires an old suit of Posthumus’s and sets off after her, planning to find them, kill Posthumus in front of her, then rape her wearing her dead husband’s clothes before kicking her back to her father (who he allows may be a trifle peeved at his rough usage) to marry him. It’s so brutal, but also so clearly motivated by the blow to his vanity from her remark. It’s a sinister portrait of what stupid, violent people are capable of.

There is so much more I could say about this play, from the unflinchingly noble and courteous Roman ambassador charged with the thankless task of declaring war on Cymbeline when he fails to pay tribute, to Cloten’s hilarious, unwittingly sexual lines. But this post is already too long, and before I close I want to say something about a tangential personal connection to this play. My very first drama teacher, Jillian Raye, at whose knee I first began my Shakespearean journeys, loved this play. She named her daughter Imogen (which, knowing Jill and now having read Cymbeline, makes perfect sense); and she directed a production of it a few years ago, which unfortunately I did not see. A year later, she passed away, and at her memorial service they sang a mourning song from her production. I had forgotten, and it was a sweet, ghostly surprise to come across the words in the text:

“Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,

Nor the furious winter’s rages;

Thou thy wordly task hast done,

Home art gone, and ta’en thy wages;

Golden lads and girls all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flash,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;

Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan:

All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee, and come to dust.”