Shakespeare’s natural
world has been much commented upon over the centuries. As in so many matters, his grasp of
gardening, in particular, has been declared at times to be exceptional. One popular 19th century commentator
even went so far as to assert that he must surely have worked as a gardener at
some point during his youth.
While he may
never have been a gardener, he does seem more than superficially knowledgeable
about the gardens of his day. One detail
of such matters that he got wrong, however, is as much to the point as
any. In Richard II the Duke of
York’s gardener and his helper have a conversation which includes the following
(iii.4.30-37):
Gardiner.
Go, bind thou up yon dangling
apricocks,
Which, like unruly children, make
their sire
Stoop with oppression of their
prodigal weight:
Give some supportance to the bending
twigs.
Go thou, and like an executioner,
Cut off the heads of too fast growing
sprays,
That look too lofty in our
commonwealth:
All must be even in our government.
It was
Shakespeare’s habit to bring in common folk, of this sort, for comic relief
and/or information. These get off easily
compared to most. They’ve been brought
in simply to give excuse for a series of gardening metaphors.
What Shakespeare
got wrong here, is that there were no apricot trees in England in the 14th
century. While it is unlikely that the
playwright was particular about such anachronisms, we as readers are a bit
richer for this one. For not only were
there no apricots in the garden of the Duke of York but there were no apricots
in any gardens at least until the 1520s.
Even then it is an educated guess that the trees were first introduced
into England through the gardens of Henry VIII.[1] The first certain mention of the tree in the
country is found in 1548, in William Turner’s The Names of Herbs.
Malus armeniaca is called in Greeke,
Melea armeniace, in highe duche Land ein amarel baume, in the dioses of Colon kardumelker baume, in french Vng abricottier, and some englishe men cal the
fruite au Abricok. Me thynke seinge that we haue very fewe of these trees as
yet, it were better to cal it, an hasty Peche tree because it is lyke a pech
and it is a great whyle rype before the pech trees, wherfore the fruite of thys
tree is called malum precox. There are in Colon great plentie of hasty peche
trees.[2]
In fact, the
apricot tree and its fruit would not become common until the reign of Charles I,
when a new variation was brought back to England by the famous botanist John
Tradescant (the Younger). John Marston
would mention the fruit in a play[3]
early in the century but he was so smitten with the plays of Shakespeare, and
borrowed so much from his master, that we do not have any reason to feel
confident he’d ever actually seen the tree. The first mention of the fruit in a major play
seems to have been an infamous scene[4]
from John Webster’s Duchess of Malfi, first published in 1616. Even at that late date it was clearly
associated with the gardens of the nobility. It was a fruit with class distinctions.
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[1]
Cecil, Evvelyn, A History of Gardening in England, 97. “The greatest
addition to the number of cultivated fruits was the apricot, which was
certainly introduced before the middle of the sixteenth century, probably by
Henry the Eighth's gardener Wolf about 1524.”
[2]
Britten, James. The Names of Herbs, by William Turner A.D. 1548, 52.
[3] Marston,
John. The Fawne (1606), I.
ii. “…pare thy beard, clense thy teeth,
and eat apricocks…” The apricots are
intended to mark him out as a gallant.
[4]
Webster, John. The Duchess of Malfi
(1616) II.i.all.
- Desperately Seeking Bridget (de Vere). August 24, 2014. "Even most people who assert that the Earl of Oxford was the poet and playwright Shake-speare (a group to which I resoundingly belong) do not seem to know that she was engaged, in 1598, to William Herbert, soon to inherit the Earldom of Pembroke,..."
1 comment:
Good observation about the apricocks. Proof that the hidden, aristocratic Shakespeare was simply good at employing the telling anachronism: as Charlton Ogburn observed, his plays are like shot silk, displaying with one fold the glow of long-ago historic times, then with another fold the hues of his own Elizabethan times: how often did Elizabeth's garden seem ready to fall into disrepair?
A side note: as for the comicality of gardeners and other such walk-ons, I loved the scene in an otherwise forceful, darkly propulsive RII (long ago at the Berkeley Shakespeare Festival), in which the Gardener enters pushing the squeakiest available wheelbarrow...
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