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During Shakespeare’s playwrighting career, revenge drama was one of the most popular theatrical forms. Its origins lay in Roman theater, notably in the plays of Seneca, but Shakespeare brought complexity to the genre. In general, revenge drama centers on a single figure who is inspired by one transgression to pursue a path of destruction that becomes more damaging than the act that provoked it. Because this revenge is fulfilled outside traditional moral order, the ethical code of the day proscribed that the story must conclude with the revenger’s downfall. But Shakespeare also dramatizes revenge outside such formal structure, under circumstances when characters become so possessed by hatred that they lose all control.
During Shakespeare’s playwrighting career, revenge drama was one of the most popular theatrical forms. Its origins lay in Roman theater, notably in the plays of Seneca, but Shakespeare brought complexity to the genre. In general, revenge drama centers on a single figure who is inspired by one transgression to pursue a path of destruction that becomes more damaging than the act that provoked it. Because this revenge is fulfilled outside traditional moral order, the ethical code of the day proscribed that the story must conclude with the revenger’s downfall. But Shakespeare also dramatizes revenge outside such formal structure, under circumstances when characters become so possessed by hatred that they lose all control. In Henry VI, Part 3, for instance, Queen Margaret, wife of the ineffectual King Henry, leads her forces representing the crown and the Lancaster family against the insurgent army of the Duke of York, who seeks to put his own dynastic family on the throne. When Margaret captures York, she subjects him to humiliation, not because of a specific action, but because of his insolence in challenging her husband’s authority. She dips York’s handkerchief into the blood of his recently slain son, the Earl of Rutland, places a paper crown on York’s head, and viciously belittles his ambition: But how is it that great Plantagenet Is crown’d so soon, and broke his solemn oath? And I bethink me, you should not be king Till our King Henry had shook hands with death. (I, iv, 99–102) York responds with characteristic bitterness: She-wolf of France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the adder’s tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian trull Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! But that thy face is vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud queen, to make thee blush. (I, iv, 111–118) York’s accusations affirm a principal theme of revenge drama and one of the consequences of revenge as Shakespeare dramatizes it: the very act brings the revenger to an animalistic level. Margaret, however, retains her vigor into the last play of the tetralogy, Richard III, when as the single surviving figure of all four works, she embodies both the history of her family’s suffering and the spirit of vengeance. So enthralling is her voice and so vivid her hatred of Richard that her diatribe to Richard’s mother, the Duchess of York and widow of the Duke whom Margaret humiliated, then murdered, deserves to be quoted in full: Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me beholding it. Thy Edward is dead, that kill’d my Edward; [Thy] other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match’d not the high perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb’d my Edward, And the beholders of this frantic play, Th’ adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughn, and Grey, Ultimely smoth’red in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, Only reserv’d their factor to buy souls And send them thither; but at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end. Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, To have him suddenly convey’d from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live and say, “The dog is dead.” (IV, iii, 61–78) Her final appeal for God to destroy Richard is a shocking climax to the most unbridled desire for murder declaimed by any character in all of Shakespeare’s plays. In some cases, revenge has no specific cause, but rather emerges from a general anger. In Much Ado About Nothing, when his crony Conrade asks Don John the Bastard, brother to the Prince of Aragon, to explain his sad demeanor, Don John can reply only: There is no measure in the occasion that breeds, therefore the sadness is without limit. (I, iii, 3–4) Moments after, he adds: I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humor. (I, iii, 13–18) A bit later, Don John comes as close as ever to articulating a rationale for his plan to disrupt the marriage of Hero, Leonato’s daughter, and the young lord Claudio: That young upstart hath all the glory of my overthrow. If I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. (I, iii, 66–68) He implies that the destruction for its own sake will gladden him. He cannot elevate his own status; therefore he chooses to destroy the lives of others. This desire for blind revenge reaches its pinnacle in the character of Iago from Othello. In the opening scene, the title character’s ensign claims that his reason for acting against his general is the appointment of Cassio as Othello’s lieutenant (I, i, 8–30). But the discussion quickly turns away from military matters and never returns to that subject. Instead, Iago acknowledges his own self-interest: “I follow him to serve my turn upon him” (I, i, 42). Then he speaks of “my peculiar end” (I, i, 60), suggesting that Iago seeks not only to destroy the general, but also to buttress that revenge with reason, as he explains later on: I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that ’twixt my sheets [H’as] done my office. I know not if’t be true, But I, for mere suspicion in that kind, Will do as if for surety. (I, iii, 386–390) So bent is Iago on revenge that he willingly deceives himself. Thus at least one impact of the scene is how the capacity for revenge can push an individual into such a state that thought becomes subordinate to action. When all his schemes approach fruition, Iago still cannot clarify his motives. All he says is: “This is the night/ That either makes me or foredoes me quite” (V, i, 128–129). He has never been able to articulate his goals, and here he cannot explain, even to himself, what satisfaction such success will bring. We may speculate that Iago’s hatred of women, his anger at loss of promotion, his lust for Othello’s wife, Desdemona, or, possibly, for Othello, or his general antagonism against a Moor is the foundation of his plot. But we also recognize that for Iago, none of these myriad sources is definitive. Revenge also borders on the irrational in The Merchant of Venice, but here it has more definite sources. When the merchant Antonio requests of Shylock, the Jewish moneylender, the loan of 3,000 ducats for Antonio’s friend, Bassanio, Shylock concocts a brutal punishment to be enforced if the loan is not repaid on time: …let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me. (I, iii, 148–151) Shakespeare’s audience probably regarded this stipulation as a sign of Shylock’s depravity. We, however, may interpret it more subtly. Shylock’s hatred for Antonio is palpable, based on their mutual history as well as Shylock’s general antagonism to Christian society. Furthermore, Shylock cannot risk attacking Antonio physically. With no other recourse, Shylock resorts to achieving vicarious revenge through the image of violating his enemy with a knife. Thus Shylock establishes his condition not with the hope of fulfilling it, but with the unconscious desire to communicate his detestation of Antonio and to make his target squirm. Later Shylock tries to justify his desire for revenge, but the explanation comes, curiously, after he pleads for understanding (III, i, 59–64), and his monologue takes a sharp turn. Speaking of the similarity between Jews and Christians, he comments bitterly: And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. (III, i, 66–73) These lines have at least two implications: (1) Shylock clarifies that in his view, revenge is a universal emotion, that no moral or religious principles can withstand its intensity; and (2) his last sentence suggests that an individual possessed by that emotion loses all perspective, that the desire for revenge, no matter what the cost to the revenger, can become all-encompassing. Such is indeed the result for Shylock. When Antonio’s ships are apparently lost, Shylock sues to have the sentence carried out. In court, he rejects all pleas for mercy: So can I give no reason, nor I will not More than a lodg’d hate, and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. (IV, i, 59–62) Here Shylock confesses that revenge has overtaken his better judgment. Nor is he persuaded by Bassanio’s offer to repay the debt several times over: If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them, I would have my bond. (IV, i, 84–87) The reasonable alternative of huge financial settlement is lost, as the unstoppable craving for retribution batters sense. Perhaps the play of Shakespeare’s that most closely follows the tradition of revenge drama is his earliest tragedy, Titus Andronicus. Indeed, so brutal is the action and so unrelenting the violence that critics have speculated that Shakespeare may have been parodying the form. In any case, in this play, one act of violence precipitates a whole series of actions, with the cycle ending only after the deaths of virtually every major character. The springboard to this savagery is the decision by Titus, the conquering Roman general, to sacrifice Alarbus, son of Tamora, Queen of the conquered Goths. Titus intends for this gesture to mark the end of the conflict between the two nations, and therefore he ignores Tamora’s pleas: Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood! Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful: Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge. Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son! (I, i, 116–120) Were this play and the character of Titus more intricate psychologically, the general might hesitate to carry out his pronouncement, or at least weigh the moral issues. Instead he dismisses her petition, and Alarbus is carried off. Meanwhile, Titus’s scheme to ensure that this sacrifice brings the war to a conclusion precipitates a more horrific response. Ironically, though, the first murder is carried out by Titus against his own son, Mutius, who blocks his father’s way when Bassianus, the rejected son of the late Emperor, and Marcus, Titus’s brother, leave with Lavinia, Titus’s daughter. Titus reacts on instinct, killing anyone, even his own son, who dares to challenge him. Nor does Titus’s fury abate when he refuses to bury his sons with appropriate honors, and Marcus returns to offer advice: “Thou art a Roman, be not barbarous” (I, i, 378). This remark reverberates throughout the play, for once the ethos of revenge has taken over, all the characters, Romans and Goths alike, are reduced to the same barbaric level. The theme echoes later, when Titus and his youngest son, Lucius, plead for the lives of the boy’s brothers. Although Titus has not yet seen the violence committed against his daughter, Lavinia, our knowledge that she has been raped and mutilated adds to the poignancy of Titus’s reflection: Why, foolish, Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine. (III, i, 53–56) Revenge reduces all humanity, no matter how well-intentioned, to the level of beasts. From this point on, we watch as Titus’s mental state degenerates, until he sinks into madness, another familiar dramatic convention of revenge tragedy. Indeed, he becomes so obsessed that he maniacally defends a fly which Marcus kills, insisting that the innocent creature should have been spared (III, ii, 54–57). Titus’s madness eventually takes the form of a craftiness that brings the orgy of revenge to a climax. Titus slaughters Tamora’s two sons, Chiron and Demetrius, and serves their remains to their mother at dinner (V, iii). The deaths of Lavinia, Tamora, Titus himself, and finally Emperor Saturninus complete the spectacle. Still, no matter how shocking the action or clear the theme, the suddenness with which bodies drop, and the lack of introspection that pervades the play, ensures that this work is one of horror, not tragedy. Such is not the case with Shakespeare’s most profoundly reflective work based on the theme of revenge, Hamlet. The Prince’s call to action occurs when the Ghost of his dead father appears and demands that Hamlet follow instructions: “Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther” (I, v, 25). The Ghost never specifies what form this revenge should take, but Hamlet assumes that his task is to prove himself to his father by killing Claudius, his father’s brother, and now husband to Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude. Hamlet initially seems eager to please the Ghost: Haste me to know’t, that I with wings as swift As meditation, or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge. (I, v, 29–31) These words, though, sound surprisingly gentle from someone who has been ordered to carry out so daunting a task. Thus like Hamlet, we wonder if he is emotionally suited to discharge the duty. We also ask whether Hamlet, a poetic, sensitive young man, agrees to obey out of genuine love for so militaristic a father, or whether Hamlet feels instead that he ought to want to act to please old Hamlet and thereby become the courageous soldier the Prince has never shown himself to be. We also ask whether the Ghost that orders Hamlet to revenge is a benign figure, or whether the action he commands is essentially evil. Hamlet, too, ponders these questions, and thus he faces a dilemma of overwhelming complication. He loves his mother and hates his uncle. He respects and perhaps fears the Ghost of his dead father. He bears the weight of his own sensitive personality, as well as the legal, ethical, and religious sanctions against murder. Finally, he is a member of the royal family, and thus his actions resound through the kingdom. Hamlet articulates the crisis succinctly: The time is out of joint—O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right! (I, v, 188–189) Hamlet’s subsequent indecision initially manifests itself on the pose of madness, which becomes bewilderingly hard to decipher. We are never certain whether Hamlet is acting mad, whether the madness he thinks he is feigning has overtaken him, or whether he thinks he is still acting when he has lost control. One instance when his behavior loses us occurs during an assault on Polonius’s daughter, Ophelia: Get thee [to] a nunnery, why wouldst thou be a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother hath not yet borne me. (III, i, 120–123) How literally are we to take any of this raving? Whatever our answer, Hamlet’s reluctance to commit revenge becomes most intense when he has the opportunity to kill Claudius, who seeks absolution for his crimes, but recognizes the impossibility of that reward: … O, what form of prayer Can serve my turn? ‘Forgive me my foul murther?’ That cannot be, since I am still possess’d Of those effects for which I did the murther: My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. (III, iii, 51–56) Hamlet, though, chooses not to kill the King when he is in prayer, but the reason startles us: Why, this is [hire and salary], not revenge. ’A took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as flush as May, And how his audit stands who knows save heaven? But in our circumstance and course of thought ’Tis heavy with him. And am I then revenged, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he isfit and season’d for his passage? (III, iii, 79–86) Instead, Hamlet resolves to strike Claudius at a more opportune moment: When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage, Or in th’ incestious pleasure of his bed, At game a’swearing, or about some act That has no relish of salvation in’t… (III, iii, 89–92) We have long felt the tension between Hamlet’s role as an earthly revenger and the Christian principle that justice belongs to heaven. At this moment, Hamlet exceeds his bounds by deciding that his crime should fulfill revenge not only in this world, but also in the next. By doing so, Hamlet assumes a new role in which he is free from the restraints of morality and justice, and he thereby commits a transgression of his own. He also acquires a casualness about death that further lowers him in our estimation. He seems to feel no regret over the accidental slaying of Polonius, counselor to the King and the father of the woman Hamlet loves, Ophelia. Indeed, Hamlet dismisses the corpse: “Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!/ I took thee for thy better” (III, iv, 31–32), then reaffirms his divine charge: I do repent, but heaven hath pleas’d itso To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. (III, iv, 173–175) By declaring himself a heavenly avenger, he also denies any moral responsibility. Soon he coldly dispatches his old schoolmates Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to their deaths, rewriting the letter they are to give to the English King, and changing the directions from an order for Hamlet’s death to one that commands the bearers’ execution. Afterwards, he denies responsibility, as he explains to his friend Horatio: Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father’s signet in my purse, Which was the model of that Danish seal… (V, ii, 48–50) So infused is Hamlet with power that he functions as if he is heaven’s avenger and that all his actions are therefore justified. Nor does he feel guilt: Their defeat Does by their own insinuation grow, ’Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell incensed points Of mighty opposites. (V, ii, 58–62) By the final scene, Hamlet finds equilibrium when he exchanges forgiveness with Laertes, Polonius’s son and brother to Ophelia, who, under the pressure of her father’s death and Hamlet’s seeming madness, has committed suicide. By then, however, Hamlet has lost the greater battle, as the responsibility to revenge has crushed him. As dramatized in other plays of Shakespeare, though, the spirit of revenge destroys many different figures. Indeed, Shakespeare suggests that the desire may turn into a disease, an all-controlling addiction that shatters a person’s moral ballast and drives that individual beyond the bounds of rationality. Perhaps, then, we should look to two more lines. In As You Like It, the once vil lainous lord Oliver speaks of “Kindness, nobler ever than revenge” (IV, iii, 129), while in The Tempest, Shakespeare’s final play, Prospero, the exiled Duke whose enemies have fallen into his power, comments “The rarer action is/ In virtue than in vengeance” (V, i, 27–28). These sentiments encapsulate the theme that Shakespeare dramatizes throughout his works, as well as reaffirm how revenge never alleviates suffering, but only intensifies it. |