From Ms. Emily Fine’s Blog, “The Dissertation Graveyard”
1961 W. P. Kennedy in Med. World 95 203 “It is somewhat surprising that little attention has been drawn to the existence of the contrary effect [to the placebo]—which I may call the nocebo reaction…”
The most explicit instance in Timon of Athens of a character deliberately invoking the power of the plague occurs in Scene 14, in Timon’s address to Alcibiades:
Be as a planetary plague when Jove
Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison
In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one.
Pity not honoured age for his white beard;
He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron;
It is her habit only that is honest,
Herself’s a bawd. (14.109-115)
Alcibiades, having been shunned by the senators of Athens, has decided to return in full force with his army at his back, ready to lay “proud Athens on a heap”(101). Encountering Timon on the way, Alcibiades has trouble recognizing his old friend: “I know thee well, / But in thy fortunes am unlearned and strange” (55-56). The moment is a heartbreaking one; Alcibiades carefully chosen words betray his sense of Timon’s drastic transformation– not simply in appearance but in his conception of humanity.† Timon, learning of Alcibiades’ intentions, subsequently orders him to “Be as a planetary plague,” sparing no one during his siege. The image of a supernatural pestilence recalls Gabriel Harvey’s writings on the plague’s origins (mentioned in the previous post) but also endows Alcibiades with the unearthly power to terminate with extreme prejudice. By calling the old man a “usurer” and the matron “counterfeit,” Timon implies that Alcibiades holds the power to rid the city of its corruption, moral and/or financial.
In Suffering in Paradise, Rebecca Totaro likewise notes the consistent connection between plague and gold; everywhere within the play, gold appears as a vector of contagion, changing hands and invading the semi-permeable fabric of society. In her words, Timon of Athens is a greater tragedy if we take gold and plague in more literal terms, interpreted from within an era when golden promises persuaded men and women to pay dearly for their ill-placed hopes” (96). Totaro’s argument is especially convincing given her observation that the terms “gold” and “plague” appear together more “than in any other case” (95). The primary issue with this reading is that it threatens to reduce Timon of Athens to an allegory about money as the root of all evil. Both roots and gold certainly appear in great abundance throughout the play; they also have the tendency to disappear just as arbitrarily. Setting aside this reading, one nevertheless faces the simple fact that Timon gives gold to both Alcibiades and his traveling courtesans with specific instructions to “infect” the population of Athens. While the former is to be like a “planetary plague,” Timandra is instructed to:
“Be a whore still. They love thee not that use thee.
Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust.
Make use of thy salt hours: season the slaves
For tubs and baths, bring down the rose-cheeked youth
To the tub-fast and the diet” (14.83-87).
Timon’s injunction to lay pestilential and syphilitic waste to his former city might initially seem shocking, except that he asks for nothing more than the maintenance of the status quo. Recalling Scene 2, Timon had already observed Alcibiades’ preference for the “defiled land” of the battlefield, in which all his living was “…’mongst the dead” (226, 224). Twice, Timon commands Timandra and Phrynia to “Be whores still, And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, / Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up” (140-142). The emphasis within these two lines is on the word “still,” implying that the women are being paid simply to continue their daily trade. Thus, the seemingly simple analogy between gold and plague does not seem quite as sound, since both Alcibiades and his courtesans already possessed the power to infect without financial incentives. Alcibiades and the women were “always already” a planetary plague.
If gold does not represent infection, then what exactly does it symbolize within the play? In many ways, Walter Kennedy’s description of the “nocebo reaction” seems highly relevant to the role currency fills within Timon. Contrasting with the meaning of “placebo” (“I shall please”), the concept of the nocebo (“I shall harm”) is the former turned on its head: it is a benign substance or process which provokes an irrationally negative response in the patient to him it is administered. By giving his friends gold, Timon is essentially bribing them to continue playing their prescribed roles. The gold, however, lends significance to their actions; it is the authoritative justification for violence and validation of their own infectious behavior. Ultimately, the power of gold commands little else besides “Do thy right nature” (14.44).
Gold might not represent the plague in Timon; it does seem to represent something potentially more dangerous, however; as a nocebo, it relies upon the power of the imagination to infect and give license to infect, thereby crippling the power of Timon’s society to route its presence.
† I personally recall the moment in Paradise Lost in which Adam receives Eve after she has eaten the fruit; immediately perceiving the change in her state, he exclaims: “How art thou lost”! (900).
Of all of the soliloquies within the play, Timon’s from Scene 14 are arguably the most vitriolic, and the most “diseased.” Scene 15 calls to mind Lear’s famous own words (“Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks”) from Act III, Scene 2 in that both invoke Nature to restore a terribly upset and neglected balance. The injunctions are strategic; it is not enough that the men have been wronged but that Nature too has been usurped and that, consequently, it is time to reestablish her precedence. When Lear commands the thunder to “Crack nature’s moulds” so that “all germens spill at once / That make ungrateful man” (10-11) one cannot help but compare it to Timon’s demand that Nature “Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb;/ Let it no more bring out ingrateful man” (188-189). The power invoked is as primordial as it is apocalyptic; allusions to conception, the womb, and monstrous births suggest that both Timon and Lear believe “ungrateful man” to be inherently corrupt. Viewed within the context of Paracelsian theories of cure, only an epidemic could arguably “cure” a population so heavily afflicted. Timon’s opening soliloquy from Scene 14 certainly seems to confirm this philosophy:
“O blessèd breeding sun, draw from the earth
Rotten humidity; below thy sister’s orb
Infect the air. Twinned brothers of one womb,
Whose procreation, residence, and birth
Scarce is divident, touch them with several fortunes,
The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature,
To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune
But by contempt of nature.” (14.52-59)
Within the first two lines, Timon ascribes the power of miasmic contagion to the sun, which draws “from the earth / Rotten humidity” and subsequently infects the air. His language succinctly and poetically expresses a common early modern belief that planetary alignment, as well as mysterious vapors, contributed to the spread of the plague. Physician Gideon Harvey’s “Discourse on the plague,” despite being published after Shakespeare’s death, sheds some valuable light on the perceived relationship between the earth, the air, and microcosmic infection. Writing on the cause of the plague, Harvey appears singular in his determination:
“The Earth can only be supposed the Womb of such venene fumes, which imbibing all sorts of stinking or putrid Bodies, embraces them within her close recesses, coagulates and kindles them into Pestilential Arsenical flames; so that all manner of stinks or rotten Bodies expiring into the air, are returned by moderate Rains, and so suckt in by the Earth” (5).
Rather than let the Earth simply “embrace” the putrid bodies once more, Timon implores the blessèd sun to draw their contagion out, infecting the air of all terrestrial inhabitants. Nature, “To whom all sores lay siege,” is herself infected; the only remedy for man’s ingratitude is to resort to a state of chaotic inversion, thereby forcing mankind to effectively cancel itself out. In response to “contempt of nature,” Timon demands to “Raise me this beggar and deject that lord” (59-60). Digging in the earth, Timon finds a hidden cache of gold and subsequently praises its ability to bring about such chaotic inversion:
“This yellow slave
Will knit and break religions, bless th’accursed,
Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves,
And give them title, knee, and approbation
With senators on the bench. This is it
That makes the wappered widow wed again.
She whom the spittle house and ulcerous sores
Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices
To th’April day again. Come, damned earth,
Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds
Among the rout of nations; I will make thee
Do thy right nature.” (34-44)
Critics from Rebecca Totaro (who has written extensively on the plague in early modern England) to Karl Marx have analyzed the complex role gold plays within the drama. It would be naïve in many ways to suggest that Timon of Athens is not a critique aimed at the greediness of those in power; consequently, gold finds itself at the epicenter of infection, spreading contagion as often as it changes hands. In many ways, however, the play’s many morals revolve around the notion of currency as a mythical construction, paradoxically transient even as it is tactile. While the first half of the play emphasizes gold’s relative scarcity, the second half depicts gold as an elemental, even common product of the earth. When Timon demands a humble root to satisfy his hunger, the earth vomits up gold in response. Such inversion is patterned in the effect the same gold has on society: to raise the status of beggars, whores, and pocky widows despite their lack of “natural” merit.
Ultimately, while the value of a proto-capitalistic critique cannot be denied, it nevertheless dismisses the plague-ridden context in which the play was written. The gold within the play functions less as a figurative embodiment of the plague than as a harbinger of chaotic inversion brought about by natural forces– forces like an epidemic. Much like Thomas Dekker, who proclaimed in 1604 that “the plague’s the purge to cleanse the city,” Timon’s vision of a cure involves nothing short of a total pestilential sweep. Those harboring (gold) “tokens” (a colloquialism for the red spots which appeared on plague victims) will be marked for the culling.
(Some notes on Timon’s “second” dinner party, in which he trades the Amazonian women for a good stoning)
The second dinner party to occur within the play affords some interesting moments for the disease sleuth. Second only to Act III of Macbeth in terms of disruptive dinner occasions, Scene 11 of Timon seemingly marks the beginning of his descent into misanthropy-fueled madness. After uncovering the dishes to reveal a meal of “steaming water [and stones] the host proceeds to hurl both curses and rocks at his ungrateful guests:
May you a better feast never behold,
You knot of mouth-friends. Smoke and lukewarm water
Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last,
Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries,
Washes it off, and sprinkles in your faces
Your reeking villainy (11.87-92)
[he throws water in their faces]
Live loathed and long,
Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites,
Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears,
You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies,
Cap-and-knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks!
Of man and beast the infinite malady
Crust you quite o’er (92-98)
[A Senator is going]
What, dost thou go?
Soft, take thy physic first. Thou too, and thou.
As “smoke” is frequently glossed to mean “steam,” the line “smoke and lukewarm water / Is your perfection” implies that the water is not at all lukewarm, that it has been heated by the stones. By sprinkling their “reeking villainy” in their faces, Timon forces a dose of the lord’s medicine upon them. Strikingly, the steamy, lukewarm water also invokes imagery related to bathing and, more specifically, the sweat tub. A common subject of sly mockery in early modern literature, the sweat tub was meant to cure ailments of all sorts though it eventually came to be associated with syphilis (Beaumont and Fletcher’s Knight of the Burning Pestle provides some creative examples).
By commanding “Uncover, dogs, and lap!” (11.84) Timon likewise adds dogs to the list of mammalian epithets he bestows upon the offending lords; additionally, they are “affable wolves” and meek bears, susceptible to the “infinite malady” of both “man and beast.” Of all these the dog almost undoubtedly represents the most offensive; as I explored earlier in my dissertation, dogs were frequently thought to be carriers of the plague in early modern England and were subsequently killed to avoid spreading a little-understood contagion. Having used the water to cleanse himself of “spangled flatteries” Timon throws it back at the lords in a manner consistent with Flaminus’ earlier action of throwing the coins back at Lucullus in Act 5 (“May these add to the number that may scald thee” (50). Timon’s injunction to “take thy physic” as they flee in confusion is thus meant to be ironic; much like the scalding coins, Timon’s “remedy” harbors the crusty infection of flattery. What Timon intends to perpetuate is an endless cycle of self-infection, mixing cure and contagion within the same elixir. Just as Flaminus wishes for his lord’s meat to turn to poison instead of nutriment, so can Timon’s words be read as a desire to form a contained system of self-consuming violence, as the lord’s perpetuate their own degeneration. This, in turn, invites comparison to quarantine strategy– a civil tactic not unfamiliar to early modern denizens of London in plague-time.
No doubt– the “crust” of the infinite malady suggests an immediate connection to syphilis, which digresses somewhat from the issue of plague. But as has been observed by multiple disease historians, plague and pox were often described in interchangeable terms during the period; it was as convenient for the early modern author as it is confusing for the contemporary epidemiologist. Although it is sometimes helpful to sift through the text in order to distinguish possible allusions to plague symptoms versus those of venereal diseases, my aim is to highlight the inextricable nature of tropes involving the body politic and the ailing body during this pestilential period. In the case of Timon’s Athens, the disease infecting the social and political body betrays a myriad of frightening symptoms– both similar to and unrelated to the plague. If anything, this literary conflation of plagues, poxes, and pestilences only added to the mystifying, and terrifying, aspect of the very real epidemic occurring in England at the time.
The following is a bit of text taken from my dissertation chapter draft which sums up some of the points I was driving at in the previous post– namely that the play’s treatment of plague centers upon ideas of bodily checks and balances and does not, perhaps contrary to common readings, figure plague as a mere gateway to civil chaos.
To best understand the seemingly paradoxical nature of plague’s status within Timon, it is worth revisiting some lines from Measure for Measure. Late in the play, Escalus encounters the disguised Duke and asks him “What news abroad i’the world?” The first of Vincentio’s responses, before he launches into a series of riddles, is “None but that there is so great a fever on goodness that the dissolution of it must cure it”(III.ii. 225-227). There is some ambiguity in the Duke’s statement– is fever or goodness to be dissolved for the sake of curing the latter? The idea that “goodness” or the healthy limbs of the political body must be sacrificed in order to cure the whole is certainly not as farfetched as it might initially seem. As Gil Harris points out, “By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the seemingly paradoxical notion that social poisons might have medicinal properties had come to supplement, and even eclipse, the earlier models of political cure”(50). As a real-life example within early modern courtly life, Dominic Green provides a colorful portrait of the political character Anthony Perez, dubbed “The Monster of Fortune” who recommended a prescription during plague-time which “almost killed [The Earl of] Essex’s secretary, Thomas Smith… Smith did not have Perez’ addict constitution, and when he took Perez’ habitual dose, he collapsed”(175).
Similarly, in Romeo and Juliet Friar Lawrence reflects upon the double nature of medicinal plants, musing aloud: “Within the infant rind of this weak flower, poison hath residence and medicine power (II.iii.23-24); his declaration of the flower’s dualistic properties only heighten the sense of tragedy for the young lovers for whom the poison is destined. Despite the fact that it is uttered only half as much in Timon of Athens, however, the word “poison” possesses an equal, if not more potent function in the play as both a remedy and a toxin. Its paradoxical nature is summed up by Timon himself, who counsels a group of bandits to: “trust not the physician;/His antidotes are poison, and he slays/More than you rob”(xiv.431-432). Notably, the word “poison” becomes synonymous with a more general type of infirmity, plague-like, representing both the corrupted friendship between Timon and the senators of Athens and embodied in the curse Timon threatens to unleash upon his faithless city: “Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots!/Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate/With thy most operant poison!”(xiv.22-24). When Timon commands Alcibiades to deliver retributive justice upon Athens, his condition is that he “Be as a planetary plague, when Jove/Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison/In the sick air”(xiv.109-111).
To simply read plague as an embodiment of corruptive practice, or as a curse levied by Timon upon his prodigal countrymen, unfortunately detracts from Shakespeare’s treatment of plague within the play as a historically cyclical process– both natural and naturalizing. The vision of the plague that Shakespeare presents us in Timon of Athens is not anarchic at all, but a necessary step for for the greater project of civilization. Understood within these terms, Timon is neither a victim nor the embodiment of a city’s plaguey curse; rather, Timon acts as a marginalized spectator for own civilization’s narrative, embodying the sole power of the exiled to appear prophetic even from beyond the grave.
Some thoughts on the significance and power of Flaminus’ curse
In Scene 5 we witness a rather heart-wrenching display of loyalty from Flaminius, a servant of Timon’s. Flaminus has just tried and failed to convince Lucullus to lend Timon money; after the latter tries to bribe the former into “seeing him not,” Flaminius curses him in a bitter rage. The passage is worth quoting in its entirety:
FLAMINUS. May these add to the number that may scald thee.
Let molten coin be thy damnation,
Thou disease of a friend, and not himself.
Has friendship such a faint and milky heart
It turns in less than two nights? O you gods,
I feel my master’s passion! This slave
Unto this hour has my lord’s meat in him.
Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment,
When he is turned to poison?
O, may diseases only work upon’t;
And when he’s sick to death, let not that part of nature
Which my lord paid for be of any power
To expel sickness, but prolong his hour. (5.50-62)
These lines once again plunge us into the prevailing trope of the body as it is seen from the inside-out, conjuring up the image of meat turning to poison within the stomach while “prolonging the hour” of the victim. Throwing the coins back at Lucullus, Flaminus vows that they “scald” their lord as “molten coin.” The invocation of infernal heat, combined with Flaminus’ epithet for Lucullus (“Thou disease of a friend”) recalls the favored early modern treatment for syphilis– hot water tubs and thermal soaks. A certain “A.T., practitioner in physicke,” prescribes molten allum, strained through a “coulender, or else thorough some course linnen cloth, and put yt into a Gallypot or Glasse” as a remedy for sores or bruises. Lucullus, in Flaminus’ eyes, is no better than a walking infestation of the pox.
At this point Flaminus’ description takes a peculiar turn. Rather than curse Lucullus’ life, Flaminus expresses his desire for a sort of living death. In a moment which exemplifies many early modern attitudes toward disease, the servant wishes contamination upon the contaminator, desiring for the meat to turn sour within the lord’s stomach. The curse, paradoxically, turns the concept of a “cure” on its head, given that Renaissance remedies often often incorporated potentially dangerous components with a “fight fire with fire” mindset. Common recipes for treacle, for example, traditionally contained viper flesh as a primary ingredient in the hopes that its poisonous properties would counter the poison of any infectious agent. As it stands, any diseased meat would serve to partially combat the lord’s inherent sickness, though it would not cure him completely. Flaminus’ words thus condemn Lucullus to a life of extended misery as if two infectious vipers were to forever battle within his body.
The idea of diseased human flesh corrupting the body of its consumer also resonates with an early modern Italian text, “Capricci medicinali”, studied at length by William Eamon in his article “Cannibalism and Contagion: Framing Syphilis in Counter-Reformation Italy.” Written by “Bolognese surgeon,” Leonardo Fioravanti, the text “advanced the strange and novel theory that the syphilis epidemic was caused by cannibalism” (3). Fioravanti’s theory is ultimately based upon the notion of linked taboos; as cannibalism epitomized the most grotesque of stigmatized behaviors in early modern Europe, so it followed that the most grotesque of stigmatized diseases must be inevitably related. Such causality had value on a figurative level as well; as Fioravanti’s experiments seemed to confirm that cannibalism resulted in syphilitic symptoms within the body, his rationale could be extended to include the body politic. As Eamon summarizes:
“Fioravanti believed that the cause of Italy’s moral and political decline was an internal pollution that began in the courts and spread outward to contaminate the entire commonwealth. Just as the ‘bad quality of the stomach’ spreads its contagion to all the body’s organs, so corrupt rulers and their fawning courtiers ruined the whole body politic” (20).
The fluid ease with which Fioravanti transitions between discussions of the body physical and the larger, more dynamic political body is unsurprising to the reader accustomed to blurring between medical and social contexts typical of the era. What is most interesting in this case is the direct link Fioravanti supposes between the consumption of human flesh and the resulting pox-like symptoms– one of the more unique theories of its kind. The text in many ways sheds a different light upon Flaminus’ words, in which he desires diseases to work upon Timon’s meat in Lucullus’ stomach. More than the curse of indigestion, Flaminus’ injunction addresses the offending body politic as a whole, essentially foreshadowing a shared stigma among the lords who had voluntarily “tasted Timon” without regard for reciprocity. Anticipating Timon’s later curse, Flaminus has essentially wished a morbid and painful fate upon all of the gluttonous, and arguably cannibalistic, denizens of Athens.
An addendum to the previous post in which I consider the pathology of friendship and the dangers of dinner parties in Timon of Athens
Scene 2 sees Timon wrapping up yet another fantastic dinner affair, the partygoers drunk off of the enormous bounty that their host has seen fit to provide. He is, as usual, at the center of attention, caught up in the flurry of his own self-created storm. The ominous quality of the scene is underscored by this seemingly unstoppable momentum; the true nature of his gift-giving seems born out of compulsion rather than compassion. Timon cannot receive without reciprocating first; the gift “milk-white horses trapped in silver” (183) must be “worthily entertained” with presents in return (184). Similarly, the two brace of greyhounds are not to be received “without fair reward” (191). Jewels, trifles, and more horses are exchanged, until Timon’s steward reaches the point of despair. This rapid-fire exchange of commodities further depersonalizes the lords, who are designated only by the order in which they speak and by the gifts they receive. Not surprisingly, when Timon vows to “call to you” (visit them), the lords respond in unison: “O, none so welcome” (217).
The lords have thus transformed into an anthropophagous band of parasites, clinging upon Timon’s words and responding as a chorus. So banal are their responses to Timon’s generosity that even he dismisses their praise:
FIRST LORD. We are so virtuously bound—
TIMON. And so am I to you.
SECOND LORD. So infinitely endeared—
TIMON. All to you. Lights, more lights!
The single moment in which Timon pauses his frenzied cycle of giving highlights his obliviousness to the truly dear cost of such transactions. Perhaps with a wine goblet in hand, Timon addresses first the room and then his friend Alcibiades:
I take all and your several visitations
So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give.
Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends,
And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades,
Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich.
[Giving a present] It comes in charity to thee, for all thy living
is ‘mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast
Lie in a pitched field. (218-225)
It is important here not to discount the significance of the word “visitations” in this passage– a term which was fraught with religious and medical significance. Tracing its way back to the Bible, a “visitation” often was synonymous with a plague epidemic or otherwise supernatural affliction on a massive scale.
The plague, too, has historically brought kingdoms to their knees; Timon, however, remains unaware of the inherent irony in his words when he claims that he could “deal kingdoms to my friends / And ne’er be weary.” Perhaps the one “worthy” recipient in this scene of any gift is Alcibiades, the Athenian captain who will later banish himself before returning to the city with his army behind him. It is significant that Alcibiades is included in this fortunate circle of Timon’s; on the other hand, he also remains apart as a named, personalized member of Timon’s fraternity. Strikingly, the principle reason for Timon’s charity toward him is not because he is “a solder, [and] therefore seldom rich,” but because “all thy living / Is ‘mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast / Lie in a pitched field” (223-225).
The rather morbid imagery of these lines is lightened somewhat by a quick joke from Alcibiades but nevertheless the reader inevitable feels the contradictory pull toward sympathy and revulsion for the captain. Earlier in the scene he too reveals himself to be a part of the strange, anthropophagous society of Athens when Timon remarks upon his reluctance to leave the battlefield:
TIMON. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends.
ALCIBIADES. So they were bleeding new, my lord, there’s no meat like ’em. I could wish my best friend at such a feast. (2.75-78)
Alcibiades’ insatiable bloodthirst for warfare is tempered only by his loyalty to Timon– the quality which truly separates Alcibiades from the rest of the company. Thus, the captain as well as the lords are figuratively portrayed as necrotizing agents, swiftly devouring the flesh of those around them under the guise of civility and military imperative. They are not, however, one in the same in terms of their “pathology”, so to speak. While the lords operate “internally”– both within Timon’s social circle and within the city itself, Alcibiades’ camp lies beyond the city limits in his “pitched field.” If the lords represent a disease of any sort, it is a disease which deteriorates the body from the inside out. Alcibiades and his army, by contrast, represent an external assailant which is no less ruthless in its destructive capability.