The Revenger's Tragedy

Plot Summary

Vindice and Hippolito, brothers, plot revenge against the Duke and his family. The lecherous Duke poisoned (and diddled, the implication is) Vindice’s girlfriend some time back, and in fact the play starts with Vindice addressing her skull in Hamlet fashion. V and H’s father was also sapped of his finances by the Duke (somehow), so there’s a lot to be vengeful about. H is an attendant in the Duke’s court. The Duke’s son and heir Lussurio appeals to H to find him a man of doubtful character to perpetrate an unnamed scheme. Ah, the perfect way to insinuate V into the court so he can seek his revenge! H recommends V (in disguise), and he’s accepted. It turns out that L has been wooing H and V’s sister Castiza, and his scheme is to have V be a bawd to coerce her into letting L diddle her. If her resolve is too strong, V is to appeal to his mother, Gratiana. Of course this infuriates V, who must nevertheless go along with it or be discovered. He decides it’s a good way to test his sister’s chastity and his mother’s honor. Castiza passes with flying colors, rebuffing all his appeals. Mom proves less resolved when tempted with money and vows to change Castiza’s mind.

Meanwhile, the Duchess, who is ticked off at the Duke for sending her youngest son (not his) off to prison for raping one Antonio’s wife, approaches the Duke’s bastard son Spurio and convinces him to have a vaguely incestuous affair with her. Vindice figures this out and lets Lussurio know. Furious, Lussurio heads off to the Duke and Duchess’s bed chamber to kill Spurio, but the Duke himself is in there and is understandably angry and unwilling to listen to reason. He sends Lussurio immediately off to prison but changes his mind when appealed to by some nobles and sends an order to have him released.

The Duke’s two other sons now plot to get Lussurio killed so that they can be next in line for the Dukedom. They deliver a message to the prison to go ahead and off their brother. Of course, Lussurio has been released, and the guards mistake the order to be for the death of the youngest son, whom they dispatch without delay, to the later chagrin of the two brothers, who were plotting to get the youngest son out of prison.

Now, Vindice hatches a plot to kill the Duke wherein he organizes a supposed meeting between the Duke and Castiza (I think) for a quickie. He’s set up the skull as part of a dummy, putting poison around the mouth. Apparently, it’s dark, as the Duke falls for this, kisses the skull, starts to die, and is stabbed a couple of times during his death throes. Just before he finally kicks off, the Duchess and bastard Spurio enter (oblivious of the event that’s just transpired) and kiss, talk bad about the Duke, etc., sending him off in grand fashion.

Lussurio’s out of prison and consulting with Hippolito about Vindice (called Piato), who he thinks led him intentionally to attack the Duke. L wants V dead over this and suddenly remembers that H had a brother who might just be perfect for the job. This complicates things a little for Vindice, who’s restricted by the laws of nature and can’t be two places at once or kill himself and remain alive to report it. H and V figure out finally that they can accomplish this by taking the king’s newly dead body, cloaking it in the clothes V wore when he was pretending to be Piato, and stab the body. When it’s discovered that it’s in fact the Duke, the assumption will be that Piato killed the Duke and ran off, covering him in his own cloak to buy some time.

In the meantime, H and V and Castiza and Gratiana are all reconciled, get things straightened out, etc. (Gratiana’s only a woman, after all, and was weak).

The Duke’s body is discovered and Lussurio starts doing Dukely things, issuing orders, etc., with the counsel of some nobles. A mask of revengers revelling in response to the Duke’s death enters and stabs Lussurio and the nobles. The older of the remaining brothers kills the younger (to prevent his own murder for the throne), and the bastard kills the older. A noble responds by killing the bastard, leaving nobody to rule the Dukedom. Lussurioso’s still barely kicking, and V confesses in a whisper that he killed the Duke, whereupon L dies.

Antonio (whose wife the youngest son raped) is apparently next in line, and he takes over. H and V are pretty pleased about their scheme and confess to him that they killed the Duke. Of course they think he’ll be pleased because his wife’s rape has been avenged and he’s now risen to power, but he’s having none of it and sends them off to prison.

Commentary

I was prompted to reread this play upon reading Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49, in which he gives a similar synopsis of a play (I believe a real one) by Wharfinger entitled The Courier’s Tragedy. I read The Revenger’s Tragedy years ago in school as a model of the revenge tragedy genre, of which perhaps the most widely known specimen is Hamlet.

I’m eager to read more of the old drama and have begun another play that I’ll finish up tomorrow and probably summarize in a few days. Reading Renaissance drama (in particular) seems to keep me on my toes, perhaps because I have to pay very close attention to the language in order even to follow the basic plot; lazy reading just doesn’t cut it as it might for more natural or comfortable genres.

The Big Two-Seven

It’s my 27th birthday. I like the number 27: Two primes, the product of a square and its root (3 and 9). I don’t especially like the age 27, though. You might consider it just over the hill of youth (unless you’re Bush, for whom youth reached well into his 30s), but it’s also just under the milestone of 30, which is what I’m really sort of stretching for. The average age of my friends is probably 40 or 45, and I’m one of the rosy-cheeked babies. I feel guilty at times when my friends have cause to reflect on my age; maybe they feel weird for having such a young friend, like a guy my age dating a high school girl (except that such a guy apparently doesn’t feel so bad about it). 28 will be better, I think. At 27, I’m still firmly entrenched in the 20s, but at 28, I’ll be mounting the springboard into the 30s.

Some people who share my birthday include the following:

  • Laura Dern
  • George Stephanopoulos
  • Greg Norman
  • Robert Wagner
  • Lon Chaney Jr.
  • Bertolt Brecht
  • Jimmy Durante

None of these people excite me a great deal. I doubt I excite them either.

Once at a summer program I attended, I met a guy who not only had the same birthday as me but also had the same name spelled the same way (not all that common). We were pretty much opposites in terms of personality, though. He was outgoing and rambunctious, while I was shy and reserved. I always rather liked sharing a name with the movie about a kid robot who saved the world. His name was an acronym for Data Analyzing Robot Youth Lifeform. Pretty vapid from a technical point of view, but I sure dug it when I was 9.

I believe I’ll be the same age when my pending child is born as my dad was when his first child (my sister) was born.

Birthdays are always a little disappointing to me nowadays. Holidays in general are, probably because holidays tend to focus on kids. Compared to the incomparable excitement I felt in anticipation of birthdays and other holidays as a kid, these celebrations stand out less vibrantly now that I’m all grown up. It’s not so much the presents and the to-do I miss (as I sometimes find these things awkward to accept) as it is the fact of the excitement. As my child grows up, I imagine some of this excitement will return and that I’ll be able to experience it vicariously through her.

Obits

I’ve learned about the deaths of two friends recently. One was of a friend I hadn’t been in touch with for years. The other was a friend I had recently visited with.

Let’s start with Jim Standish, the unintentionally estranged friend. I met him on the Internet while in college. I posted a question about poetry to a newsgroup dedicated to the topic, and he sent me sort of an ornery response, figuring I was either a troll or a person who wanted easy answers without any hard work. And he was justified generally speaking, as such characters were in abundance. I replied to him intelligently and courteously and a friendship was born. For several years while I was in college and for a year or so afterward, we maintained a vaguely literary correspondence that I think benefitted both of us. He was a good guy, gentle and humanitarian. We dropped the correspondence gradually as, thrust into the real world from out of academia, I had less time for literary endeavors and we had less immediately in common. I looked Jim up on the Web a couple of months ago and learned that he had died, I believe of cancer. He was in the neighborhood of 70 at the time. A high school acquaintance aside, he was the first person I had a real attachment to who died. Jim had sent me several of his self-published books of poetry over the years, and I got them all out and picked through them again, remembering fondly how jolly he was and sadly what a void his absence must have left for those who knew him well.

The other friend was Fred Venditti, also in his seventies. Fred I knew in person. Old as he was getting, he could still hike a trail in the Smoky Mountains and lead a raucous discussion about one of his favorite topics of group discussion, educational philosophy. You couldn’t help but think of a Norman Rockwell-style painting when you saw Fred, with his swept-back glossy white hair and his grandfatherly look. Neither my wife nor I knew our grandfathers very well, and though Fred was no surrogate (we were beyond the point of intense grandfather adulation when we met him, I think), we did in a way look up to him as a benevolent and respected grandfatherly figure. But there was more to it than that. Nearly three times my age, he took me seriously and took a real interest in me as a person, as an equal. One of our first long exchanges was at a camping trip we attend annually in Alabama. I was a relatively new member of the circle of friends that introduced me to Fred, and he was eager to learn more about me. He perked up when he learned that I had studied literature and writing in college. He too was interested in writing, had a book in the works, and had several memoirs in a drawer. He proposed that we occasionally exchange work to critique, but we never managed it. Fred wound up in the last few months being diagnosed with brain cancer. He had taken a fall, and his wife got home shortly thereafter and found him lying on the ground immobile. He confessed afterward that he had been afraid he had been displaying symptoms of Parkinsons, but the doctor visit after the fall produced the more immediately damaging diagnosis. We visited him a couple of times during the last months of his life. He was always his typical gregarious, debonair self. Paralyzed down one side of his entire body, he would sit and entertain friends, spreading about his usual witty banter, his eyes twinkling. He asked me once during a visit how my writing had been coming. I had forgotten about our exchange a couple of years ago and was surprised and pleased that he remembered it. His novel was finally going to press, he told me. Fred’s hanging onto this little detail about a long-ago conversation is what I think best characterizes him: He was a person who bothered to remember the things important to others however incidental they were to his own life. He lost that life about two weeks ago amid his family. I sure hate that he’s gone, though I’m glad his suffering (and his family’s) was short and that he went out peacefully and surrounded by the people his gracious life had attracted to him.