The impetus for this book was a moving performance of Juliet. The actress was not a professional but a high school student, heartbreakingly earnest and vulnerable. By then I had daughters of my own, and as I listened to her eloquent voice, I found myself hoping hopelessly that Juliet would survive this time. Why should such a beautiful, gifted creature die so young? The answer came back clearly: her parents do not love her as she needs to be loved. Her father gives her every worldly advantage, but he does not step out of his busy social whirl to try to understand her. Her mother is a moral cipher, who submits to her husband and abandons her daughter when the girl opposes his rash commands. Juliet reacts by keeping her great crisis secret and trying to resolve it herself. I had recently taught The Tempest, and a vision of Miranda suddenly came to mind. She is about Juliet’s age, but in totally different circumstances: marooned, isolated, threatened by a monster, she would seem to be the daughter who is doomed. But her father understands her perfectly and devotes his life to nurturing her, and Miranda flourishes. So the father is the key, I thought—and the concept for the book was born.
But was this the pattern in Shakespeare’s other plays? I turned to an index of the complete works and was struck by the large number of father-daughter pairs. The focal issue was usually the choice of a husband, the point at which the daughter leaves the sphere of her father’s influence and sets out on her own. While it might have been natural to assume that Shakespeare would extol the obedient, dutiful daughters and chastise the rebels, I anticipated that his view of family relations would not prove so simplistic. My next epiphany was that many of the daughters had a comic or tragic counterpart—someone who began in similar circumstances but whose final fate differed markedly. In every case, the crucial determinant was the nature of the young woman’s relationship with her father.
A survey of critical studies showed that some had taken up that theme, but usually not from the perspective of the daughter. The father, patriarch and power figure, tended to be the focus. I was curious about the daughter’s reactions to various kinds of paternal treatment, authoritarian, benevolent, or oblivious. In the comedies, I realized, the effects of a deleterious relationship could be overcome by the influence of happy chance or a powerful champion. In the tragedies, with no lucky factors to counter the father’s control, the ultimate effects are disastrous. For example, in three plays that depict a daughter who rebels against her father’s will and chooses a suitor of her own liking, the daughter in the comedy, Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, attains the wish of her heart; the young woman in the tragedy, Desdemona in Othello, suffers isolation, abuse, and ultimately death; and the tragicomic daughter, Jessica in The Merchant of Venice, attains the husband she loves but at the cost of her own and her father’s tranquility. For a few of Shakespeare’s daughters, such as Lear’s Goneril and Regan, the issue is not only domestic but also political power. Already married and supposedly content, they are spurred to heights of ambition and malice by their father’s sudden unfounded favor. Other daughters, well-loved as children but rendered fatherless by circumstance, prove resilient and independent, and even, at their strongest, able to assume the parental role themselves. Ironically, among their number is Lear’s youngest daughter, Cordelia, whose devotion to her father abides even through his rash rejection and abuse.
I knew early on that I wanted to address such thoughts to a broad audience, not simply a small community of scholars but also the large body of ordinary playgoers and readers. Parents and children ourselves, we turn to Shakespeare’s plays seeking what only great literature can provide: wisdom about the human heart and eloquent words to sustain us in dark moments and enhance our times of triumph and celebration. Among his other achievements, Shakespeare was an icon-maker. Once acquainted with his works, we discover that his lines and characters enter our minds unbidden to enrich our daily round. Nowhere is he more astute than in his portrayal of fathers and daughters, and the factors that foster or undermine that bond. This book is meant to record some of my own illuminations on Shakespeare’s art, and to share them with fellow members of his vast audience.
I would like to express my gratitude to the many teachers who have enhanced my own understanding of Shakespeare, among them Leo Cierpial, Edmund Creeth, Charles Shattuck, Allan Holaday, Jan Hinely, Kristin Linklater, Tina Packer, Gail Price, Alan Dessen, Rex McGuinn, Sarah Ream, Adrienne Thomas, and Miriam Gilbert. To those I would add readers who provided sage counsel and encouragement about the manuscript: David Cavitch, Herbert Coursen, Miriam Gilbert again, and my late husband Morse Hamilton. I am grateful to the many students who have provided inspiration, insight, and candor and, in the best tradition of education, taught me. I am indebted, too, to the actors, directors, and set designers, amateur and professional, on stage and in film, who have given life to these luminous play scripts. Finally and most importantly, I want to celebrate the memory of my own father, Spiro Saros, and express my thankfulness to Emily, Kate, and Abby, who, individually and together, continue to bless me with the invaluable gifts of a daughter’s love.