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Nationalistic Pride and Prejudice

So ageless and overwhelming is Shakespeare’s genius that we may forget that he was still very much a man of his place and time, and vulnerable to the same prejudices that were held by his countrymen. Thus Shakespeare often shows himself to be an Englishman of boundless pride, but also one with little tolerance for other cultures. The results are sometimes humorous and at other times disturbing, but always they make us aware that even so titanic an artist as Shakespeare may be susceptible to intense chauvinism. So ageless and overwhelming is Shakespeare’s genius that we may forget that he was still very much a man of his place and time, and vulnerable to the same prejudices that were held by his countrymen. Thus Shakespeare often shows himself to be an Englishman of boundless pride, but also one with little tolerance for other cultures. The results are sometimes humorous and at other times disturbing, but always they make us aware that even so titanic an artist as Shakespeare may be susceptible to intense chauvinism. Perhaps the nation for which Shakespeare has the least affection is France. The antagonism between the English and the French goes back at least as far as the Battle of Hastings in 1066, and Shakespeare seems to do all he can to perpetuate ill will between the two countries. In Henry VI, Part 1, for instance, the one heroic figure is the English general Talbot, whose courage in warfare distinguishes him from virtually everyone on the battlefield. As one messenger says: More than three hours the fight continued, Where valiant Talbot above human thought Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to hell, and none durst stand him; Here, there and every where, enrag’d he slew. (I, i, 120–124) Even his enemies are in awe of him: The French exclaim’d, the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz’d on him. (I, i, 125–126) The French, on the other hand, are portrayed as shallow cowards. Their Dauphin (or “Prince”) Charles refers to “the forlorn French” (I, ii, 19), then mocks his own troops (I, ii, 22–24). The hollowness of the French, however, is most apparent in their treatment of the legendary Joan of Arc, here called “Joan of Pucelle.” First Charles tries to disprove her claims of supernatural power by childishly hiding, but she recognizes him at once (I, ii, 66–67). Later, after she leads the French to triumph in battle, their victory is tainted, as Charles ruefully reflects: ’Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will divide my crown with her. (I, vi, 17–18) This attitude is contrasted with Talbot’s continuing heroism. The implication is clear: the French are triumphant, yet small; the English defeated, yet heroic. We should also note Shakespeare’s attitude toward Joan herself. She is traditionally characterized as a saint, but Shakespeare portrays her otherwise, as in Talbot’s words: A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal, Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists: So bees with smoke and doves with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. (I, v, 21–24) Such dark qualities in the opposition partially excuse English failure; yet even Joan cannot contain contempt for her countrymen. When her one-time ally, the treacherous Burgundy, betrays her, she sneers: “Done like a Frenchman turn, and turn again” (III, iii, 85). The word “turn” implies sexual activity, but Pucelle is not praising Burgundy for his aggressive masculinity. Rather, she condemns him for being a political whore. Shakespeare portrays the French even more coldly in Henry V, the play in which the greatest of all English Kings leads his outnumbered followers to the greatest of all English military triumphs, the battle of Agincourt. Still, Shakespeare underlies the conflict with a fascinating irony. From the opening scenes, Henry V clearly seeks to carry out war against France, but Shakespeare is careful not not to portray his country’s hero as bloodthirsty. Instead, Henry solicits justification for the conflict from the Archbishop of Canterbury, whose obtuse explanation of Salic Law (which barred succession to a throne through a female line) earns this comic reiteration from the King: “May I with right and conscience make this claim?” (I, ii, 96). Eventually, Henry is assured that the war against France would have legitimate underpinnings, specifically the regaining of territories won by Henry’s great-grandfather, Edward III (I, ii, 101–114). Even after the commitment is made, Shakespeare makes the French especially deserving of attack by creating a fictional moment when the French insult Henry V, and the English in general, by presenting the King with a gift of tennis balls, equipment used in a sport then thought to be a frivolity in which English youth indulged excessively (I, ii, 250–257). Henry’s cool response, framed around words that suggest images of tennis, implies that the rude gift has forced him to declare war (I, ii, 278–282). We, however, realize that he has planned the engagement all along. Thus while the conflict against France inspires the King’s countrymen with patriotic fervor, we see the political craft behind his pose. The contrast between the heroic English and the cowardly French is sharpened by the personal differences between Henry V and the Dauphin. The latter is characterized as a empty-headed braggart, distinguished primarily by his excessive devotion to his horse (III, vii, 11–18, 20–25). Even his own troops recognize his inadequacy, as the Constable comments about the Dauphin’s reputed valor: “…never anybody saw it but his lackey” (III, vii, 110–112). Finally, the French foolishly mock the English King, assuming him to be the same wayward boy we knew as “Hal” in Henry IV, Part 1:What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England, to mope with his fat-brain’d follow ers so far out of his knowledge! (III, vii, 132–134) For Shakespeare’s audience, such shortsighted remarks must have been exhilarating and contributive to the loyalty that surrounds Henry. We should also note that before the climactic encounter, the French are portrayed as more conceited than usual. In the Constable’s words: “Let us but blow on them,/ The vapor of our valor will o’erturn them” (IV, ii, 23–24). Thus when the victory at Agincourt takes place, it seems especially deserved. Shakespeare, though, is not content merely to present the facts. Historically, the badly outnumbered English troops suffered 400 deaths, while 10,000 French soldiers were killed, primarily because the English used lighter, more mobile armaments. Still, Shakespeare embellishes the truth by declaring that only twenty-five English died. Whenever the opportunity to belittle France presents itself, Shakespeare seems to seize it. Elsewhere in his plays, Shakespeare mocks the French in another, less generous spirit, for he intimates regularly that venereal disease is a plague peculiar to that country. For instance, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Peter Quince, the leader of the mechanicals (or laborers), com ments derisively: “Some of your French crowns have no hair at all” (I, ii, 97), an allusion to the loss of hair suffered as a result of syphilis. The same pun may be found in Measure for Measure (I, ii, 52–54), a play that ostensibly dramatizes the squalid world of Vienna. Yet whenever sexual antics are at the fore, Shakespeare reminds us of his feelings against the French. His feelings toward Italy and the natives of that country are scarcely warmer. The general portrait of them that emerges is one of hot-headed, immoral schemers who trust no one and who are themselves not to be trusted. In Romeo and Juliet, for instance, the city of Verona is subject to the feud that besets the two families. We never learn its cause, but throughout the work we are reminded that the hatred between the Capulets and the Montagues ravages the city. In the opening scene, after a fight has broken out, the Prince condemns all to punishment if further quarrelling disturbs the peace. He does not treat them respectfully, but rather scorns them as “beasts” (I, i, 83), and such distaste pervades Shakespeare’s presentation of Italians in general. Venice is dramatized with withering force in several plays. In The Merchant of Venice, the entire community overflows with hate and greed, a spirit reflected best by the merchant Antonio’s ribald friend Gratiano, who offers a genial exterior, but who underneath demonstrates an undeniable ugliness. When we first meet him, he seems amusing: Let me play the fool, With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. (I, i, 79–82) In the courtroom, however, when Shylock, the Jewish moneylender, finds himself trapped by Portia, Bassanio’s wife disguised as a lawyer, the onlooker Gratiano screams with sadistic glee: Beg that thou mayst leave to hang thyself, And yet thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hang’d at the state’s charge. (IV, i, 364–367) We observe similar behavior from other members of the community, such as Antonio’s friends Salerio and Solanio, who jeer at Shylock (III, i) or from Shylock’s servant, Launcelot Gobbo, who makes fun of his blind father (II, ii). Moreover, as mentioned in the chapter on “Money,” the population of Venice is preoccupied with financial matters, and we find no one who values people in any other terms. Shakespeare’s Venice also has little tolerance for those who do not belong to its insulated society. The most obvious example is Shylock the Jew, who is ostrasized and subject to endless harassment. But others are equally scorned, even by a comparatively likeable figure such as Portia, who reveals her own dark side, first when she ruthlessly describes the parade of suitors who have come to win her hand (I, ii), then when she callously discusses the Prince of Morocco: “A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go./ Let all of his complexion choose me so” (II, vii, 78–79). She saves her cruelest gibes for Shylock in the courtroom (IV, i), after she tricks him into demanding the penalty of the pound of flesh. The uglier aspects of Venice are also dramatized in Othello, in which the Moor is subtly, but clearly despised by certain elements. We should discount the bitterness of Othello’s ensign, Iago, whose hatred of his general is matched by contempt for everyone else. But we cannot so easily dispatch the antagonism of Desdemona’s father, Brabantio, who accuses Othello of bewitching his daughter: “Damn’d as thou art, thou has enchanted her” (I, ii, 63). Indeed, throughout the play we sense that although members of the Venetian aristocracy respect Othello’s military exploits, they resent having to turn to a black man to lead their own forces against the Turks in Cyprus. Perhaps Shakespeare’s nastiest portrait of an Italian is Posthumus’s acquaintance Jachimo in Cymbeline, in whom the playwright invests virtually every stereotypical defect that was in his day attributed to the Italian people. When Jachimo first sees Imogen, King Cymbeline’s daughter, on whose infidelity he has wagered, he comments lewdly: All of her that is out of door most rich! If she be furnish’d with a mind so rare, She is alone th’ Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. (I, vi, 15–18) The bet itself, made with Imogen’s husband, Posthumus, reflects Jachimo’s capacity for ugly insinuation: I will lay you ten [thousand] ducats to your ring, that, commend me to the court where your lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference, and I will bring from thence that honor of hers which you imagine so reserv’d. (I, iv, 127–131) Finally, the scheme he carries out reveals his capacity for machination. When he appears out of the trunk that earlier had been hauled into the sleeping Imogen’s room, Jachimo contemplates the bracelet and the beauty of the sleeping woman from whom he steals it: I have enough; To th’ trunk again, and shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning May bare the raven’s eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell is here. (II, ii, 46–50) He seems to conduct a parody of a military invasion, a subtle parallel to the conflict between Rome and Britain surrounding this private action. His subterfuge and delight in evil make Jachimo the epitome of Shakespeare’s anti-Italian feelings. If Italians themselves are portrayed unattractively in Shakespeare’s plays, the objects of their own prejudices are treated no more kindly. Throughout the works, Jews are mentioned in derogatory fashion, but the only complete Jewish creation is Shylock in The Merchant of Venice, in whom Shakespeare invests many characteristics that smack of anti-Semitism. Given that Jews were expelled from England centuries before Shakespeare’s day and that only a small enclave survived in London, Shakespeare almost certainly had limited contact with followers of that religion. Nevertheless, his portrait of Shylock embodies a full range of prejudices. First, Shylock’s overwhelming lust for money is apparent throughout the play. Shakespeare also makes Shylock unbearably didactic, as when he insists on instructing Antonio by recalling the labors of the Biblical Jacob (I, iii, 70–90). Shakespeare also emphasizes the character’s antisocial bitterness, almost justifying Venice’s dislike of him (II, v, 28–40). But most telling of all is Shylock’s viciousness. He relishes his place as an outsider, as when he speaks of Antonio, who has long been his enemy, but who now seeks to borrow money: He hates our sacred nation, and he rails Even there where merchants most do congregate On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him! (I, iii, 48–52) To be sure, Shakespeare invests Shylock with pride, most notably in a speech which has become a famous statement against prejudice: Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, heal’d by the same means, warm’d and cool’d by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? (III, i, 59–64) The address, however, ends with this fearsome warning: The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. (III, i, 71–73) Thus Shylock, whatever sympathy he may garner as a victim of hatred, retains the capacity for ferocity. This characteristic manifests itself most notoriously in the stipulation that if Antonio cannot repay the loan, he must lose a pound of flesh. The threat confirms every bloodthirsty sterotype of Jews that permeated Shakespeare’s day. Moreover, in court Shylock is terrifying in his insistence that this punishment be carried out, despite the offer to have the debt paid by others many times over (IV, i, 85–87). Perhaps Shakespeare sought to demonstrate how a victim of hatred becomes perverted under the weight of intolerance, but no doubt the playwright intended primarily to create a villain whom his audience would enjoy seeing destroyed. Shakespeare is kinder to the Moors he creates, specifically Othello. For audiences of Shakespeare’s day, the title “Moor” would have suggested a generic, dark-skinned African, and the playwright allows these figures a certain dignity. In Titus Andronicus, for instance, Aaron the Moor is the smartest character onstage, but beneath his wit exists a genuine lust for destruction. We see this quality when he leads Queen Tamora’s sons, Demetrius and Charon, to take vengeance on Titus’s daughter, Lavinia (II, i, 105–131), or when he chops off Titus’s hand (III, i, 191). But Titus Andronicus is a play about human savagery, and amid this ruthless company Aaron seems at home. In the civilized world of Venice, however, Othello is isolated by his race, and we are perpetually conscious of his status as an alien. Othello speaks majestically, but the arc of the play follows the breakdown of his mind, as he blindly accepts Iago’s misleading remarks about Othello’s wife, Desdemona, and his lieutenant, Cassio, and becomes consumed with jealousy. The comparative ease with which Othello is manipulated by “honest Iago,” particularly in Act III, scene iii, as well as the level of brutality to which Othello sinks in Acts IV and V, suggests that Shakespeare envisioned the Moor with a formidable exterior, but prey to bestial forces latent within him. For all the antagonism that Shakespeare has for cultures different from his own, he displays profound loyalty to Britain, and his plays are filled with such devotion. One example may be found in Henry V, when the King, rallying his troops before the Battle of Agincourt, recalls a roster of legendary heroes: Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words, Harry the King, Bedford, and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red. (IV, iii, 51–55) How could any audience members not feel the grandeur of such a litany? Furthermore, here again Henry V, ever the politician, seduces his listeners, both onstage and off, into trusting the sanctity of his cause. In the same play, we see how Fluellen (a Welshman), Gower (an Englishman), Macmorris (an Irishman), and Jamy (a Scotsman), all traditional enemies, join forces under Henry’s inspired leadership. Thus Shakespeare glorifies loyalty to England as conquering all divisions between the various peoples of the British Isles. In King John, the figure who embodies this spirit is, oddly enough, Philip, the illegitimate son of Richard the Lionhearted. When the weakspirited King John falters in anticipation of the war against France, it is Philip, called “the Bastard” by Shakespeare, who unites the forces of England, rallying the troops around the grandeur of the English throne (V, ii, 127–158). Indeed, it is the Bastard who, after John’s death, states in the final words of the play: This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself, Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. (V, vii, 112–118) The Bastard never takes the throne, but his patriotic tone rallies the spirit of a nation trying to resolve the uncertainty of a kingship in question. This play was written in approximately 1595, nearly forty years after Elizabeth I took the throne. As her reign neared its end, which would occur with her death in 1603, Shakespeare’s audience feared that because the Queen was childless, the matter of succession might lead to chaos. We can therefore imagine how Shakespeare’s audience took comfort from the Bastard’s words that promise stability if the people of the country would only believe in themselves. His plays also dramatize the consequences when discord threatens that English unity. In Henry VI, Part 1, while the country is at war with France, a messenger calls out to those competing for control of the English throne: Amongst the soldiers this is muttered, That here you maintain several factions; And whilst a field should be dispatch’d and fought, You are disputing of your generals… Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your honors new begot. (I, i, 70–79) This counsel is ignored, however, and the cost is defeat, as Sir William Lucy, one of the lords, later laments: Thus while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of our scarce-cold conqueror, That ever-living man of memory, Henry the Fift. Whiles they each other cross, Lives, honor, lands, and all, hurry to loss. (IV, iii, 47–53) The lesson is clear: factionalism at home has resulted in defeat abroad, undoing the triumphs of the late Henry V. Even his son, Henry VI, too weak to fight for himself, sees the crisis: O, what a scandal is it to our crown That two such noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell, Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth. (III, i, 69–74) Henry’s pleas are ignored, though, and further defeat follows. The most memorable expression of Shakespeare’s patriotic fervor comes in Richard II from the dying John of Gaunt: This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as [a] moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England… (II, i, 40–50) At this moment in history, as Shakespeare’s audience knows, disorder will be unleashed by the rash behavior of Richard II and the usurpation of the throne by his cousin Bullingbrook, later Henry IV. Those events will lead to the internal quarrel among the country’s noble families for possession of the throne, a sequence of bloody squirmishes in the middle decades of the fifteenth century that has come to be known as The War of the Roses. Gaunt’s tribute, however, built around images from the Bible which imply that the nation is sovereign under God, affirms that whatever crises England faces, it will survive. Thus Shakespeare’s nationalistic fervor has two aspects. On the one hand, he is unashamedly antagonistic to other countries and cultures, and hardly ever do we read a kind word about them. On the other hand, he is boldly patriotic, and his praises to his country may be appreciated as meant to inspire not only the figures onstage, but also those in his audience, who vicariously experience the triumphs of their country’s glorious past.

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