Gloves stand for the limitations of conventional propriety and expectations. To a lesser extent, they also stand as a testament to the hard work and occasional anguish that go into creating works of artistic genius. John is a glove maker. His trade involves taking the skins of once-living and once-wild animals, cutting and sewing them into shape, then stretching them so that they fit their owner’s hands as exactly as possible. The gloves represent the way he would like his son, the tutor, to live a life without wildness, curiosity, or imagination, so that John may then shape him into the kind of man John would prefer him to be. At one point, Agnes muses on all that an animal must lose to become a good glove, and her thoughts clearly indicate that neither she nor her husband can live such domesticated, limited lives. They cling to their wild natures—and each other—even when no one else around them seems to understand why. When the tutor first heads to London, the fact that he’s replaced some of his father’s glove samples with books represents the flight from the limits of convention and parental expectations he is about to take—which he must take, the book implies—if he is to become William Shakespeare.
There is one thing about gloves, however, that the tutor does appreciate: it takes a tremendous amount of work and attention to make them well, just like his plays. Yet, most of this work is invisible, contained in the hard-working but plain seams and gussets rather than the flashy but superficial embroidery and decoration. In much the same way, then, while his patrons see only the flashiest part of his creative process—the fully realized plays he and his company stage in London and elsewhere—the novel Hamnet dramatizes the process by which the wildness and trauma of life can be transformed through the hard work of living into works of art that seem—but most certainly are not—effortless.
Gloves Quotes in Hamnet
She thinks […how] a glove covers and fits and restrains the hand. She thinks of the skins in the storeroom, pulled and stretched almost—but not quite—to the tearing or breaking point. She thinks of the tools in the workshop, for cutting and shaping, pinning and piercing. She thinks of what must be discarded and stolen from the animal in order to make it useful to the glove-maker: the heart, the bones, the soul, the spirit, the blood, the viscera. A glover will only ever want the skin, the surface, the outer layer. Everything else is useless, an inconvenience, an unnecessary mess. She thinks of the private cruelty behind something as beautiful and perfect as a glove. She thinks that if she took his hand […] she might see the landscape she saw before but […also a] dark and looming presence there, with tools to eviscerate and flay and thieve […]
So much to mull over in this letter. It has taken Agnes days to absorb all the detail; she has run the words over and over inside her head, she has traced them with a finger, and now she has them down to memory. Jewels and beads. Scenes in court. The hands of young stage boys. And soft gloves for ladies. There is something in the way he has written all this, in such lingering detail, in the long passage about these gloves for the players that alerts Agnes to something. She is not yet sure what. Some kind of change in him, some alteration or turning. Never has he written so much about so little: a glove contract. It is just a contract, like many others, so why, then, does she feel like a small animal, hearing something far off?