What constitutes having a soul in Shakespeare? Do we see it through a captivating monologue, a romance that transcends generations, or watching a heart wrenching tragedy unfold on-stage? Or, more improbably, can a soul be found in an unnamed princess who exists only to be abused before a brutal death? This exact character can be found in William Shakespeare’s and George Wilkins’s play, Pericles, and, as the situation I’ve put forward presents, she is a complicated figure. This unnamed princess and daughter, involved in an incestuous relationship with her father, King Antiochus, is the catalyst for an epic adventure that ultimately results in those who are good and those who are evil both “getting what they deserve.” However, it is this incestuous relationship and its depictions across adaptations that call to question how (and if) the unnamed daughter is humanized – and how audiences are supposed to interpret her. The story of Pericles comes from Apollonius King of Tyre; the story is of Greek origins with an unknown author, but the first immediate source text is from John Gower. It follows the story of Prince Apollonius (later Pericles) running for his life after discovering that King Antiochus is having an incestuous affair with his daughter, whose hand Apollonius originally intended to win in marriage. Therefore, the play Pericles, co-written by William Shakespeare and George Wilkins, seeks to retell this story. It is, however, considered “bad Shakespeare,” with even its 1609 quarto regarded as poorly written. Some rumor that this quarto was not submitted to publishers by Shakespeare or Wilkins themselves, but instead by an actor who recited the entire script “by memory” to a scribe.  

This “bad quarto,” however, has resulted in an assumedly complicated creative relationship between Shakespeare and Wilkins. Many assume that the “good” parts of Pericles can be attributed to Shakespeare, and the “bad” to Wilkins. Scholars have even posited that the first two acts are written by Wilkins, and the final three by Shakespeare, proven by a clear (and alleged) difference in quality. However, this tension between the writers is complicated even further when you consider that, in 1608 (a year before Pericles was published), Wilkins published a novel of the name The Painful Adventures of Pericles, claiming to be “the true history of the Play of Pericles” (Wilkins). The novel not only differentiates itself by being written in prose, but also, at times, tells an entirely different story from Shakespeare’s 1609 Quarto.  

Wilkins’s novelization, due to the deeper insights it can give on characters’ thoughts and emotions, is often used more by theatre productions. This theatrical use, however, does not stop Wilkins’s inclusion in Pericles to be seen as simply a reminder of what a “bad author” can do to the mastermind that is William Shakespeare. Despite this, I hope to convince you that we should not be so quick to discredit George Wilkins in the Pericles canon. There is a specific adaptation—the 2016 Stratford Production of The Adventures of Pericles—that shows the merit of Wilkins’s work, and it is through this adaptation that I posit my argument: Through the 2016 Stratford Production of The Adventures of Pericles, director Scott Wentworth gives a soul to King Antiochus’s unnamed daughter. To do this, Wentworth does not rely solely on Shakespeare and Wilkins’s quarto for Pericles, but instead turns to George Wilkins’s novel, The Painful Adventures of Pericles, to ultimately humanize the unnamed princess and make her more sympathetic to modern audiences. 

To understand director Wentworth’s production, we must first examine how Shakespeare and Wilkins differentiate their representation of this unnamed daughter. In the 1609 Quarto of Pericles, the daughter is charged with being just as complicit as her father in these sexually deviant acts. Claiming “bad child, worse father, to entice his own / to evil, should be done by none” (Shakespeare A2r-A2v), the coupling is grouped on the foundation that they are both “evil,” and the daughter is not a victim of her father’s sexual assault but instead “enticed” into this affair. This is a sentiment repeated in adaptations throughout the years, such as William James Craig’s 1916 Oxford edition and Suzanne Gossett’s 2004 Arden edition. 

In Wilkins’s novelization of the play, however, the unnamed princess is undeniably a victim. It was King Antiochus who “began suddenly to have an unlawful concupiscence to grow in himself … and accounted [his daughter] so worthy in the world that she was too worthy for any but himself” (Wilkins 1.1.121-124). Maddened and seeking to gain control over his daughter, he “unloosed the knot of her virginity” (Wilkins 1.1.147) and it was his daughter who, devastated by the violation done unto her by her father, wept so much that her eyes “were now no more to be called eyes, for grief’s water had blinded them” (Wilkins 1.1.153-154). Differing from the 1609 play, which only indicates that the unnamed princess was enticed into evil by her father and gives no indication of any resistance, Wilkins’s novel emphasizes the daughter being unwilling; she does not acquiesce until she accepts that her father’s assault will not cease.  

It is important to note, however, that it is not Shakespeare and Wilkins’s quarto but just Wilkins’s novel that retells the unnamed daughter’s story from its source material, Apollonius King of Tyre. In the ancient version of the story, King Antiochus felt “the shameful flames of desire and lust [that] compelled him to fall in love with his daughter” (Anonymous 737). Similarly to what audiences read in Wilkins’s text, Apollonius King of Tyre’s Antiochus then “severed the knot of his daughter’s virginity in the face of her repeated resistance” (737). Wilkins, in near exact replications, maintains Apollonius’ canon. Wilkins’ daughter is undeniably the victim that Apollonius King of Tyre’s author intended her to be. Meanwhile, it is not that Shakespeare and Wilkins’s play rewrites the daughter’s story in Apollonius King of Tyre – it is that the 1609 Quarto omits it entirely. A discussion on the daughter as a victim cannot be held in regard to Shakespeare and Wilkins’s play because there is simply not enough content. 

In examining these vastly different depictions and how they either differ or cater to the source text, the unnamed princess’s soul—namely her humanity—is difficult to parse. This is furthered, too, when Shakespeare’s rewrite of Apollonius King of Tyre is favored over Wilkins’s representation. Through Shakespeare, her role as a victim is reduced to an unfeeling villainess. Yet, it is the 2016 Stratford stage production of The Adventures of Pericles that not only bridges the differing interpretations but allows for the unnamed daughter to have a soul and to resent her position in life. Replicating Wilkins and his retelling of Apollonius, director Wentworth honors Wilkins’s place in the Pericles canon while not undoing Shakespeare’s own work. Specifically, through costuming the daughter in a wedding dress, Wentworth is able to incorporate Shakespeare while relying upon Wilkins. This wedding dress, as will be later discussed, functions as both a symbol of the princess’s tragic, complicated situation and as an asset easily accessible and understandable to a modern audience. 

Before a discussion can be had on this wedding dress, however, let us quite literally set the stage for how Wentworth’s production begins: a lone bride walking onto a dark stage. She walks and then stands center-stage as men begin to file on. She does nothing as they surround her, watching her closely. Bells toll and, wordlessly, she exits the stage (“The Adventures of Pericles” 1:30-2:40). Both audiences familiar and unfamiliar with Pericles would not be able to succinctly identify who this bride is, and they do not receive their answer until two scenes later, when King Antiochus and Prince Pericles have finally met. Prince Pericles, having heard of how beautiful King Antiochus’ daughter is, has come to ask for her hand in marriage. Antiochus, who must conceal his and his daughter’s affair, instructs his attendants to “bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride” (“The Adventures of Pericles” 5:28). As the same bride—clothed in her white wedding dress—enters the stage again, the audience finally has their answer: this “bride” is the incestuous daughter.  

To understand how the wedding dress gives a soul to the unnamed daughter, however, we must explore both the act of costuming and director Wentworth’s theatrical intent. According to Hal H. Smith, “costumes, in the hands of knowledgeable producers, are designed for the theatrical illumination of a text” (243). Costuming in a stage production is not a simple accessory but an extension of the director’s vision and, as Smith says, “part of a meaningful pattern on stage” (242). He notes that costumes serve as purposeful cues to the audience, as replications of archetypes that give them “the impression of a heightened life, ordered, and more glamorous and more exciting than the lives we live” (242). Costumes on stage are meant to be representative of the people who wear them while simultaneously catering to the fantastic that the audience expects; they are just as integral to the development of a play as the actors’ portrayals of characters.  

Therefore, these costumes act in accordance with director Wentworth’s vision. In his production notes for The Adventures of Pericles, he discusses his desire to portray Shakespeare’s text as a “search for the soul” (Program 9). This is exemplary in his doubling (and tripling) of actors and actresses in their roles and is clearly indicative of his understanding of each character. Yet, even Wentworth’s costuming is accentuated by this concept of “[searching] for the soul.” It is most represented in Prince Pericles, who the audience sees goes from literal rags to literal riches throughout the perils he faces, but this “search for the soul” is complicated by the presence of Antiochus’ daughter – and her wedding dress.  

For a character who only has minutes of time on-stage and minimal lines—as well as two contrasting portrayals on page—what does a “search for the soul” constitute if not what she is presented as? As this question is raised, so must attention be turned to an undeniable truth regarding the unnamed princess: her “status” as Antiochus’ daughter is linked to her “status” as his bride. Thus, displaying a clear understanding of the tragic situation she is in, the wedding dress Wentworth stages her in becomes her soul. Ann Rosalind Jones and Peter Stallybrass note that a sentiment often repeated regarding the relationship between costume and character is that the costume on the “surface” only represents literal outward appearances, while the character “inside” often has much more depth (2). Antiochus’ daughter demonstrates this idea: narratively, she has been reduced to nothing more than a nameless, near-voiceless bride. According to the audience, her entire existence is tethered to her father. Any “inside depth” she has is lost, and she is only known for what’s represented on the “outside”: her status as a bride.  

The daughter’s externalized identity is only further emphasized by Jones and Stallybrass’s idea that “redressing is an act of ‘translation’” (Jones and Stallybrass 220). This allows us to view Antiochus’ daughter as a figure who was already translated. Antiochus’ daughter, having already been stripped of the clothes that mark her royalty, has been translated into a bride (and wife) by Antiochus himself, and now that role is expected of her – she cannot escape or defy the bounds of her wedding dress. For a modern audience, this translation is easily accessible. Her dress, while not especially modern, is still clearly bridal. This costume allows for the daughter’s role as a bride to be unquestioned by a modern audience. They can, instead, focus on what it means for her to be costumed like this. Therefore, when Prince Pericles, upon first sight of her, declares that she is “appareled like the spring” (A2v), a deeper exploration can be instantiated into the daughter as a “translated” figure. 

For Antiochus’ daughter to be spring-like, the immediate associations made are that of a refreshing aura and rebirth. It is as if Antiochus’ daughter, whose beauty made it seem like “heaven had lent her all his grace” (Shakespeare A2r), has breathed new life into Pericles. Through her bridal beauty, spring has come again into his life – he has been renewed. However, when this reaction is coupled with the daughter’s translation into a bride through her wedding dress, a much more restrictive meaning is made about the idea of rebirth. For, in this unnamed daughter being “appareled like the spring,” there is also the notion that she has been forcibly reborn. She is not appareling herself like the spring, but someone—namely her father—has “appareled” her. It is not simply her physical being that has been translated, but her identity and personhood as well. Through the workings of her father, she is solely his bride and wife. She cannot be anything else, and through director Wentworth’s stage direction, the audience can see how the daughter is aware of this.  

When the daughter enters the stage dressed in her wedding gown, the audience can see that, even behind her veil, she is unhappy. Her shoulders are hunched and her eyes downcast (“The Adventures of Pericles” 5:41). Her facial expression does not resemble one of peace but instead looks depressed and hopeless. Then, despite Pericles being the man she is supposed to marry, she defers to Antiochus. It is not Pericles whom she approaches but Antiochus, and it is not Pericles who raises her veil but Antiochus (“The Adventures of Pericles” 5:35-5:51). These are not the actions of a bride happily walking into marriage, but of a daughter who has resigned herself to her incestuous situation. She knows that, against her will, she is bound to her father. Whatever might have existed of her before, Antiochus has erased and rewritten. 

However, there is still the question of how this relates to the daughter’s soul – and how director Wentworth finds a soul within this deeply tragic character. I posit that her soul is found in just that: her tragedy. For a modern audience, she is an inherently sympathetic figure and, even within the limits of her time on page and screen, Wentworth shows a woman who is unhappy in her position but, ultimately, cannot break away from it; however, this soul, and Wentworth’s search for it, would not have been possible without George Wilkins’s The Painful Adventures of Pericles. It was Shakespeare who provided the wedding dress, but Wilkins who provided the tragedy. Wentworth’s production does not merely seek to recreate Shakespeare’s “bad child, worse father” (Shakespeare A2r). He instead replicates how, for Wilkins’s daughter, “It [was] beyond imagination to think whether her eyes had power to receive her sorrow’s brine so fast as her heart did send it to them” (Wilkins 1.1.151-153). He allows Antiochus’ daughter to feel the grief that Shakespeare bereft her of. This daughter’s tragedy is how her humanity is forcibly taken from her, but the even larger tragedy is how this assault was not canonized by Shakespeare. After all, it is through Wilkins that this daughter and her assault occupy roughly eighty lines of prose, equating to a total of one-thousand-and-forty-seven words – for Shakespeare, she is reduced to eighteen lines of verse, amounting to a meager one-hundred-and-twenty words. 

Though many seek to discredit Wilkins in the Shakespeare-canon, Wentworth shows the necessity of Wilkins. Without Wilkins, Antiochus’ daughter is simply the lustful catalyst for Prince Pericles’ adventure – as she is in Shakespeare’s text. With Wilkins, however, she is a victim; she is manipulated, used, and sexually abused by her father, and she cannot be saved. Because isn’t the soul found there – in the audience’s sympathy and grief for a doomed daughter? Her tragedy begins in how it is forced upon her, and her tragedy ends in that it is inescapable; however, in director Scott Wentworth finally letting this daughter’s story be told, in immortalizing Wilkins on stage, he allows for the audience to see an often-unexplored facet of a pre-modern text in his modern play. His audience will leave his production and not think of the daughter as “cast aside” as Shakespeare did. The audience will instead see how, even before the tragedies that befell Prince Pericles, the first tragedy was that of a daughter being silenced and rewritten.