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takes place within governmental institutions. The world of his plays is hardly democratic, but the strategies his characters employ to gain advantage over their opponents resonate with remarkable accuracy in all societies, our own as much as any other. This theme is apparent especially in Shakespeare’s earliest works. Consider the opening scene of Henry VI, Part 2, when at the urging of the Duke of Suffolk, the weak King is about to marry the poor but calculating Margaret of Anjou. After debate over the impending nuptials, of which no one approves, Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester and the King’s uncle and Protector, departs to avoid further squabbling with the King’s great-uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, also known as Cardinal Beauford (I, i, 139–146). Immediately afterwards, though, Winchester speaks with the remaining nobles—Buckingham, Somerset, York, Warwick, and Salisbury—and all seem to unite. As Buckingham says Shakespeare must have been fascinated with politics, the jockeying for authority that takes place within governmental institutions. The world of his plays is hardly democratic, but the strategies his characters employ to gain advantage over their opponents resonate with remarkable accuracy in all societies, our own as much as any other. This theme is apparent especially in Shakespeare’s earliest works. Consider the opening scene of Henry VI, Part 2, when at the urging of the Duke of Suffolk, the weak King is about to marry the poor but calculating Margaret of Anjou. After debate over the impending nuptials, of which no one approves, Humphrey, the Duke of Gloucester and the King’s uncle and Protector, departs to avoid further squabbling with the King’s great-uncle, the Bishop of Winchester, also known as Cardinal Beauford (I, i, 139–146). Immediately afterwards, though, Winchester speaks with the remaining nobles—Buckingham, Somerset, York, Warwick, and Salisbury—and all seem to unite. As Buckingham says: Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, And all together, with the Duke of Suffolk, We’ll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. (I, i, 167–169) Yet as soon as the Cardinal leaves, Buckingham and Somerset join the remaining figures in a new conspiracy against both Gloucester and the Cardinal (I, i, 172–176). Then Buckingham and Somerset exit, leaving Salisbury, Warwick, and York to form their own team, ostensibly in support of Gloucester (I, i, 183–189). This pattern of alliances, all in opposition, and all shifting back and forth, dominates the play. The supreme political principle in this court is self-promotion, and no one exemplifies that attitude better than the Duke of York, who takes personally the loss of territory demanded by the upcoming royal marriage, and who also has plans to grab the throne for himself and his family: A day will come when York shall claim his own, And therefore I will take the Nevils’ parts, And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, And when I spy advantage, claim the crown, For that’s the golden mark I seek to hit. (I, i, 237–241) Unlike the others, York believes that he has a historical right to the throne (as discussed in the chapter on “Divine Right”). Nonetheless, we see that no matter how much characters talk about moral and theological reasons, the heart of their personal doctrine is the drive for authority. Indeed, throughout the rest of the Henry VI plays, characters constantly switch sides, with their only principle being efficacy, i.e., where does the surest route to political advantage lie? At the same time, the conspiracies against Gloucester suggest another troubling issue. As enemies plot about him, he tries to conduct himself morally in a society where immorality is rampant. We are therefore forced to ask if he can remain virtuous and survive, or is his only recourse to sink to the level of his opposition? The implications of this question are profound, extending far beyond the world of the history plays. Which course is preferable? Should Gloucester remain on what we might call “the high road,” putting loyalty to the King and the throne ahead of his own aggrandizement? He believes that even should he lose this particular political battle, the justice of his cause will prevail. As he says when his wife is condemned for consorting with witches and thereafter exiled: “I cannot justify whom the law condemns” (II, iii, 16). Eventually, Gloucester, too, is put on trial and sentenced to death, but never does he resort to political treachery. His nobility is admirable, as is his fidelity to his country, but his refusal to rise against what he knows are evil forces frustrates us. Ultimately Gloucester’s faith in the rightness of the universe is proven true, but not until decades after his own passing. Thus Shakespeare continues to ask which is preferable: maintaining moral standards or achieving political gain? Even those who choose the latter, however, are not invulnerable to retribution. In the final play of this tetralogy, Richard III, Lord Buckingham casts his lot with Richard, who is first the Duke of Gloucester, then King. At one point, Buckingham predicts his own future, when he proclaims loyalty to the dying Edward IV, Richard’s brother, but then whispers to Queen Elizabeth, Edward’s wife: When I have most need to employ a friend, And most assured that he is a friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile Be he unto me! (II, i, 36–39) This statement proves accurate, for Buckingham shortly allies himself with Richard, becoming what in contemporary parlance might be called a “front.” Buckingham’s strategy, however, comes at a severe price, and illustrates a phenomenon demonstrated throughout the history plays: a character who works for someone deceitful often becomes the victim of that deceit. Queen Margaret, the widow of Henry VI, warns Buckingham of that truth, when she speaks of Richard from the pain of experience: O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! Look when he fawns he bites, and when he bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death. Have not to do with him, beware of him; Sin, death, and hell have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him. (I, iii, 288–294) To his regret, Buckingham disregards her. His first mistake is extracting a promise from the future King, who claims: And look when I am king, claim thou of me The earldom of Herford, and all the moveables Whereof the King my brother was possess’d. (III, i, 194–196) Richard’s tone oozes resentment, for a man such as he cannot be pleased to be in political debt to anyone. Thus when Buckingham adds: “I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand” (II, i, 197), he emphasizes his own priorities, insinuating that he and Richard are partners. Buckingham’s second major misjudgment occurs after Richard orders the death of Edward’s two young sons, whose existence endangers Richard’s place on the throne. At first, Richard merely hints at his wishes, but when Buckingham fails to grasp the King’s implication, Richard clarifies his intention: “I wish the bastards dead” (IV, ii, 18). For the first time, Buckingham hesitates: Give me some little breath, some pause, dear lord, Before I positively speak in this. I will resolve you herein presently. (IV, ii, 24–26) Buckingham speaks as though Richard has offered a suggestion, not issued an order; thus the comment by Catesby, Richard’s less talkative emissary, that the King “gnaws his lip” (IV, ii, 27) confirms that Buckingham has fallen from Richard’s favor. Buckingham’s last miscalculation is to press the King for that promised territory. With comic distaste, Richard dismisses the request: “I am not in the giving vein today” (IV, ii, 116). Buckingham barely controls his fury: And is it thus? repays me my deep service With such contempt? Made I him king for this? (IV, ii, 119–120) So frustrated is Buckingham that he eventually leads troops against Richard, but is captured and condemned to death. He never expresses apology for the morality of his actions, but only regrets that his tactics proved unsuccessful (V, i, 12–28). In the same play, we see another variety of political strategy, this followed by Lord Stanley. He never openly reveals alliance with or opposition to Richard, but speaks instead of his loyalty to the crown, the country, and the good of the populace. He is the professional politician, who never samples the intoxicating pleasures of absolute power, but who always enjoys the moderate pleasures of association with power. He never takes risks that might push him to the top, but he avoids risks that might leave him vulnerable from below. When we reflect that Stanley’s son Richmond eventually brings down King Richard III, Stanley’s neutrality becomes a lesson in political survival. Perhaps the figure who best sums up the political environment in Shakespeare’s early histories is Philip, the illegitimate son of Richard I, and the most heroic figure in King John. Shakespeare refers to him as “the Bastard”; nonetheless, he analyzes clearly the chief political drive of his time: Commodity, the bias of the world— The world, who of itself is peized well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent… (II, i, 574–580) Here “commodity” refers to those who act solely for personal convenience or advantage. Thus the Bastard denounces those leaders who put their own interests ahead of those of the country, as accurate an estimate of the major players in the first Henriad as Shakespeare offers. In his Roman plays, particularly Julius Caesar and Coriolanus, politics is at the core of the drama, and several lessons may be drawn from the intrigue. For instance, while planning the conspiracy to overthrow Caesar, Cassius seeks his best friend Brutus’s help for reasons that are unashamedly political. Casca agrees: O, he sits high in all the people’s hearts; And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchymy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. (I, iii, 157–160) Cassius knows that given Brutus’s reputation for integrity, his participation is an invaluable endorsement for their cause. Earlier, Cassius began to win Brutus over with that most blatant of political tools, flattery: I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome (Except immortal Caesar), speaking of Brutus And groaning underneath this age’s yoke, Have wish’d that noble Brutus had his eyes. (I, ii, 58–62) Cassius knows that so huge an ego as Brutus’s must be stroked. But such an ego may also insist on exerting itself, as Brutus does on several occasions. First he rejects the eminent Cicero’s inclusion (II, i, 150–152). Then he refuses to kill Caesar’s loyal follower Antony, claiming “Our cause will seem too bloody…” (II, i, 162). Brutus wants their group to be thought of as “sacrificers, but not butchers” (II, i, 166), but his idealism, Shakespeare suggests, has no place in the ruthless world of political struggle. His miscalculations become even more blatant after the assassination of Caesar. Despite Cassius’s objections, Brutus allows Antony first the opportunity to speak at Caesar’s funeral, then the chance to talk last, always the choice position on any program. Are such errors the result of sheer political naivete? Or is Brutus so beset by his conscience that he goes out of his way to give Antony every opportunity for retribution? Whatever the reason, Brutus’s lack of political adroitness is one of the dominant motifs of the play. In contrast to Brutus is Antony, who proceeds through the political hazards without a misstep. After the assassination of Caesar, he approaches the conspirators gingerly, winning their trust. As discussed in the chapter on “Language,” he manipulates the mob masterfully, so that when he finally gains a measure of control, he can ruthlessly exercise it, as when he dismisses his clumsy ally Lepidus: He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth; A barren-spirited fellow; one that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which, out of use and stal’d by other men, Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him But as a property. (IV, i, 35–40) Here is the cold determination that Shakespeare suggests must be endemic to any successful politician. Political tactics are also at the heart of Coriolanus, in which the title character proves as ill-suited for that profession as Brutus does, but in a different way. Martius, the triumphant general who earns the title “Coriolanus,” despises the political arena. The question that pervades the play is whether he does so because of the innate qualities of that business or whether he himself is so warped, largely because of his upbringing by his mother, that he cannot bear to participate. Before Martius enters, we have an example of a politician supreme, Menenius, who calms the enraged plebeians and their cries for food by relating the infamous tale of the belly. This fable portrays the patricians as the stomach of the Roman political body, dispensing food to the rest, and the narrative unfolds with such enthusiasm that it appeases the mob’s anger. Menenius’s charm, however, is contrasted by Martius’s coldness. The position of “consul,” or leader of Rome, is virtually his for the asking, but he cannot subdue his contempt for the voters: “Who deserves greatness/ Deserves your hate…” (I, i, 176–177). Yet this unintentionally ironic line suggests that Martius berates the plebeians only to win their votes. After all, he is clearly hated; therefore he deserves greatness. Yet he cannot deal straightforwardly with the rules of the political arena. For example, one of the rituals that each “candidate” must follow is revealing wounds before passersby, the equivalant of our contemporary rituals of kissing babies and “pressing the flesh.” Martius follows tradition with great reluctance, and barely manages to hold his temper (II, iii, 60–150). For all his contempt, though, Coriolanus is hardly blind to political reality, as he proves when he berates Brutus and Sicinius, the representatives who have roused the masses against him: Are these your herd? Must these have voices, that can yield them now; And straight declaim their tongues? What are your offices? You being mouths, why rule you not their teeth? Have you not set them on? (III, i, 33–37) Thus Coriolanus is hardly stupid. He simply has no taste for the sport, or at least for the other participants. Both Brutus (in Julius Caesar) and Martius are unable to bring themselves to feel what others feel. Brutus is set apart by his compulsion to ponder, as well as an idealism that does not permit him to see human beings as they are. Martius suffers from such a loathing of the rest of humanity that he cannot bother himself to identify with their needs and feelings. These flaws are not to be found in the most successful of Shakespeare’s politicians: Henry IV and his son Henry V. We meet Henry IV first in Richard II, when he is still Bullingbrook and has cast his eye on the throne. Yet even this early, the King sees in Henry the political skills that Richard recognizes he himself lacks. As he says of Bullingbrook: …How he did seem to dive into their hearts With humble and familiar courtesy, What reverence he did throw away on slaves, Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles And patient underbearing of his fortune, As ’twere to banish their affects with him. (I, iv, 25–30) One of the fundamental changes in English life that this play reflects is that of the nature of the kingship, which moves from a completely autocratic position to one in which the holder of the throne must be willing to deal politically with all sorts of forces around him, including rebellious nobles and a restless, sometimes unruly, populace. When Bullingbrook threatens to take the throne, he does so with political strategy: sending his father, Northumberland, to greet Richard with this warning: Henry Bullingbrook On both his knees doth kiss King Richard’s hand, And sends allegiance and true faith of heart To his most royal person; hither come Even at his feet to lay my arms and power, Provided that my banishment repeal’d And lands restor’d again be freely granted. If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power, And lay the summer’s dust with show’rs of blood Rain’d from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen… (III, iii, 35–43) Bullingbrook seems to make his threats reluctantly. His tone implies that if Richard refuses this generous offer, then the King himself will be responsible for the carnage that ensues. Henry IV passes his political skills onto his son, Shakespeare’s most successful politician, Henry V. In his first appearance in Henry IV, Part 1, the Prince, here referred to as “Hal,” carouses in carefree style with the dissolute Sir John Falstaff and the other denizens of the tavern world, but when alone, the young man proves coldly practical about his future: So when this loose behavior I throw off And pay the debt I promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes, And like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glitt’ring o’er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I’ll so offend, to make offense a skill. Redeeming time when men least think I will. (I, ii, 208–217) He plots every action, measuring how he will appear in the eyes of others. From this moment on, Shakespeare portrays Hal as a calculator, who seemingly never makes a move or utters a word without weighing political implications. Moreover, the roles of Prince and later King soon supersede the life of the man. Thus here is another question these plays pose: can successful political figures ever separate themselves from the offices they hold, or must they risk allowing their private lives to be usurped by their public performances? We have such a moment in Henry IV, Part 2, when Hal talks to his crony Poins about the incipient death of Henry IV: Marry, I tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father is sick, albeit I could tell to thee—as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, or call a friend—I could be sad, and sad indeed too. (II, ii, 39–43) He calibrates every emotion according to how it will affect his image. A few lines later, he adds: “What wouldst thou think of me if I should weep?” (II, ii, 52–53). The man himself has been lost under the public mask. Even when Henry IV is near death, his relationship to his son, the future King, seems more like that of political guide than father, as in these words of counsel: Therefore, my Harry Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign quarrels, that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former days. (IV, v, 212–215) The elder King is always conscious of his role as a usurper, and he reminds Hal that bringing the country together against a common enemy will eliminate domestic upset. How many leaders over the centuries have followed this advice? After Hal gains the throne, more than ever he measures every word. When Falstaff rudely interrupts the solemn ceremony of coronation, Henry V expels the old man, but even during this painful moment, we are aware of the political machine that Hal has become, as when he adds: For God doth know, so shall the world perceive, That I have turn’d away my former self; So will I those that kept me company. (V, v, 57–59) A couple of scenes earlier, Hal made peace with the Chief Justice, whose charges he had long avoided. That gesture, in combination with the sentiments of the speech to Falstaff, are the new King’s way of confirming for his audience that he has left behind his wastrel youth and now embraces the responsibilities of office. Thus while he simultaneously discharges his best friend and assures his country of his commitment to the throne, his public and private personae have become indistinguishable. In Henry V, the King remains a politician supreme. The skill with which he leads his country into war with France has already been considered in the chapter on “Language” (I, ii). Here other episodes are worthy of mention. First, the King becomes aware of a conspiracy against him led by Lord Scroop, the Earl of Cambridge, and Sir Thomas Grey. Rather than blatantly accuse them, he allows the three to pass judgment on another disorderly figure, whom the trio condemns to death (II, ii, 44–51). After the King quietly presents the accused with evidence, his passing of sentence seems not arbitrary, but perfectly in line with the precedent they themselves have set, and the King can afford to seem regretful: I will weep for thee; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like Another fall of man. (II, ii, 140–142) The judgment, of course, stands. Later, when Henry’s troops stand before the city of Harflew, the King seems to try to avert battle and the shedding of innocent blood: Therefore, you men of Harflew, Take pity of your town and your people, Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command, Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace O’erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of headly murther, spoil, and villainy. (III, iii, 27–32) He shifts blame for any subsequent conflict onto the citizens of the town, as if to say that if he and his army were forced to fight and kill, they would do so reluctantly. He does not add, of course, that the only recourse for the town is surrender. Finally, after the defeat of the French at the historic battle of Agincourt, one way in which the triumphant English King seeks to seal the bond between the two countries is by marrying Katherine, the French King’s daughter. Here Henry subtly hints to her of his stature: If thou would have such a one, take me! and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. (V, ii, 165–166) He modestly reminds her that not only is he royal, but he is also most likely the greatest man she will ever meet, and he reemphasizes the point (V, ii, 235–246) by reaffirming how much territory she may claim for her own, if only she will marry him. Not surprisingly, Katherine, like all of the king’s audiences, is charmed into submission. Throughout the plays in which he appears, Henry is an admirable King, but he grows a colder and less likeable person, and this schism confirms the great dilemma that Shakespeare dramatizes. To what extent, he seems to ask, does success in politics come at a terrible cost to char acter? Does politics demand such intense performance, such awareness of the arena, that one loses one’s being? The plays do not offer an absolute answer, but that question, along with the others considered here, has timeless impact.

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