One of the most compelling parts of The Winter’s Tale is, to me, Hermione’s defense of herself when she’s being tried for adultery in the second scene of Act III. In general, Shakespeare’s skill in argumentation is repeatedly made evident through his deft interweaving of pathos and reason—a balance that, given the extremity of emotional duress some of these characters are subjected to, would normally be a difficult one to strike. Luckily, even when they seem to be down for the count, they have Shakespeare in their corner. I want to focus on Hermione’s speeches in 3.2, when she is at her most vulnerable—physically, emotionally, socially, and politically—and take a look at the way she makes her argument, expressing her own profound betrayal and loss while still upholding, in a highly illogical trial, the virtues of honor and reason.

Hermione’s argument in her defense is so comprehensive that one aspect of her plight that would otherwise be front and center seems to slip by nearly unnoticed—she repeatedly expresses her willingness to die. When Leontes tells her that he’ll seek nothing less than her execution in answer for her “crimes,” Hermione pulls the rug out from under his threats:

The bug which you would fright me with I seek.

To me life can be no commodity.

Tell me what blessings I have here alive,

That I should fear to die? (3.2.90-106)

Hermione enumerates the losses she has suffered at the hand of her husband: the sudden, inexplicable loss of Leontes’ love; her enforced separation from her son, Mamillius; the seizure and exile of her newborn baby daughter; the destruction of her reputation (not only as an honest woman and a faithful wife, but also as a person generally not guilty of treason); and the cruel, humiliating, and downright dangerous denial of the customary period of rest afforded “to women of all fashion,” no matter their circumstances (3.2.102). Her person thus subjected to the “rigor” and tyranny of man, she turns instead to the legacy of her name:

…For behold me,

A fellow of the royal bed, which owe

A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter,

The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing

To prate and talk for life and honor, fore

Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it

As I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honor,

‘Tis a derivative from me to mine,

And only that I stand for. (3.2.35-43)

Hermione names honor as the single most important thing her children can inherit from her, essentially saying that her good name—more than that, her moral standing in a social and religious sense—is valuable beyond any worldly concern.  

And because I can’t ever do anything without talking about Richard II (“Have you heard the Good Word about the Henriad?” -me, to strangers), I can’t help but compare this sentiment to Sir Thomas Mowbray’s own defense of himself against treason in the first scene of that play:

Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot.

My life thou shalt command, but not my shame.

The purest treasure mortal times afford

Is spotless reputation; that away,

Men are buy gilded loam or painted clay.

A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest

Is a bold spirit in a noble breast.

Mine honor is my life, both grow in one:

Take honor from me and my life is done. (Richard II 1.1.166-183)

Mowbray, a knight whose investment in chivalric ideals could hardly be greater, mirrors Hermione’s conviction that the death of one’s honor is the death of one’s true self, and that a life without honor is a kind of living death from which nothing can be bequeathed to future generations. Of course, this concept would be challenged later in the Henriad, particularly by Falstaff, but the recurrence of the theme is notable. Also worth mentioning is the fact that Thomas Mowbray, who likely did commit some shady acts, derives his honor from his social position as a knight, whereas Hermione’s comes from actual guiltlessness. In her pre-emptive acknowledgement that Leontes will find her guilty no matter what, so long as his jealousy and delusion rule the verdict, Hermione again treads the ethical high ground, creating a dichotomy between human and divine justice:

…[If] I shall be condemned

Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else

But what your jealousies awake, I tell you

‘Tis rigor and not law. Your honors all,

I do refer me to the oracle.

Apollo be my judge. (The Winter’s Tale 3.2.109-113)

Hermione effectively removes herself from the base corruption of such “just” proceedings, elevating herself morally in the eyes of her subjects even as Leontes makes every attempt to strip her of her dignity. We see in this passage that her apparent disregard for her own life is not simply a submission to despair, but rather a kind of martyrdom—a willingness to die an unjust death rather than capitulate to the hollow tantrums of a tyrant. She hasn’t forsaken the powers that be—only the powers that try their hardest to talk over them.

The way I interpret Hermione thus far is as a very strong female character. She convinces Polixenes to stay longer where her husband could not, stands up for herself and for Polixenes’s wife when he seems to speak ill of women, and stands up for herself against her husband. She seems sassy and sarcastic, and thoroughly able to hold her own against the male characters of the play.

In Act I Scene II, she pretty much threatens (not entirely seriously) to keep Polixenes in Sicilia as a prisoner if he refuses to stay as a guest, and asserts that “A lady’s ‘verily’ is as potent as a lord’s” (50-51), matching her use of the word against his. This section of text shows her off as assertive in general terms of her ability to convince him, and in her willingness to verbally spar with him. The fact that she explicitly says that a woman’s word is just as good as a man’s, though, sets her up further as a strong female character and defender of women. She also does not speak in terms of herself, saying her “verily” is as potent as his; she speaks for “a lady” in general, which I think is much more telling of her character and her belief in her gender as a whole.

In the same scene, Polixenes implies that women are temptresses who lead men into sin, saying “Temptations have since then been born to’s” causing both he and Leontes to “trip”, or sin, the “temptations” specifically referring to Hermione and Polixenes’s own wife (75-80). Hermione interrupts him, saying “Grace to boot! / Of this make no conclusion, lest you say / Your queen and I are devils” (80-83). She, again, verbally spars with him and somewhat jokingly points out that he’s saying something offensive to her and his own wife, basically telling him not to finish what he’s started to say. Also yet again, she does not only defend herself, but includes his wife, this time making things more personal than speaking generally of all women as she did when she asserted that a woman’s word has just as much worth as a man’s word. This reminds me of some contemporary arguments (that are surrounded by some controversy) that men should respect women because they would want others to respect their wives, mothers, sisters, or daughters (thinking of women in relation to themselves as opposed to as human beings that deserve respect independently of their relationships to men). Despite the modern controversy, this type of personal argument, especially in such a world dominated by patriarchy, works in terms of garnering some kind of respectful treatment toward women.

Hermione also stands up for herself when her husband implies, pretty much, that she’s good for nothing. Leontes says, “Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st /To better purpose,” and she replies, “Never?” to which he answers, “Never but once” (1.2.85-90). Her response to this, the way I interpret it, is sarcastic and sassy: “What, have I twice said well? When was’t before? / I prithee tell me. Cram’s with praise and make’s / As fat as tame things.” (1.2.90-92). She is challenging her husband for saying that she’s only said or done anything of worth once before, (to me) mockingly (although lightly so) begging him to tell her what her previous achievement was, and fatten her up with praise, as if a single “compliment” would accomplish that. She also references her earlier “Grace to boot!” comment to Polixenes, saying of her first “good deed,” “Oh, would her name were Grace!” (1.2.97-99). The footnotes of the Norton suggest that “[she] may be countering Polixenes’ earlier suggestion that she first caused Leontes to sin” (3137), which is an interpretation I like because it goes along with the idea that she’s defending herself and women against the men’s misogyny.

In reading The Winter’s Tale I immediately took notice of the similarities between Leontes and Othello, however, I feel like Leontes embodies both Othello and Iago in the sense that he himself is his own worst enemy. He has his wife, Hermione convince Polixenes to extend his stay, which he then feels has turned into flirting and his own thoughts consume his mind and drive him mad. My trouble thus far with Leontes as a character is I find that I find it hard to empathize with the possible idea that his wife has been having an affair because he puts her up to it.

LEONTES

Tongue-tied, our queen?

speak you.

HERMIONE

I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until

You have drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir,

Charge him too coldly. Tell him, you are sure

All in Bohemia’s well; this satisfaction

The by-gone day proclaim’d: say this to him,

He’s beat from his best ward.

LEONTES

Well said, Hermione.

Then, Leontes says a few lines down

LEONTES

Is he won yet?

HERMIONE

He’ll stay my lord.

LEONTES

At my request he would not.

Hermione, my dearest, thou never spokest

To better purpose. (1:1)

So,  Leontes has blamed Hermione when he should in fact be blaming himself. Othello was coaxed into thinking his wife had been having an affair. Which, I can understand for Iago made some very convincing points and was extremely persistent. Leontes has become paranoid and perhaps, filled with jealous and now is unable to see clearly. He even questions if his son is legitimate, for Polixenes stay has been the same length as his wife’s current pregnancy.

I am going to shift gears and discuss the similarity between Othello and Winter’s Tale. Throughout my reading of William Shakespeare’s works I have noticed that his plays are often similar in the sense that there is conflict surrounding infidelity, typically of a woman. At first I enjoy it because it’s interesting, however, after the multiple stories that I have read he almost becomes too predictable. I remember one of my English Professors taking negatively about his work and that was the first time I had ever heard criticism from someone- other than my peers who dread reading his work due to the complex language. Her criticism was that the stories are all alike, in that there’s the same general conflict. Now, I understand that stories thrive when there is conflict- but he could be more original. This has become so evident while reading The Winter’s Tale. I feel like i’ve read it before and to be quite honest i’m not overly interested to hear how the story pans out. His work has become too predictable. If you were to remove the names from the characters I feel like you’d have almost the same exact story with a few modifications and changes.

I understand the situations are different and not nearly as sinister as the situation in Othello, however, Leontes basically insists that Hermione convince his friend, this is so similar, just as Iago convinces Othello of Desdemona’s alleged wrongdoings. Iago so masterfully manipulates Othello and plays on his weakness, which I feel Leontes will slowly develop into a manipulator as the play unfolds. Iago beautifully crafts his manipulation

IAGO

My lord, you know I love you.

OTHELLO

I think thou dost;

And, for I know thou’rt full of love and honesty,

And weigh’st thy words before thou givest them breath,

Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more:

For such things in a false disloyal knave

Are tricks of custom, but in a man that’s just

They are close delations, working from the heart

That passion cannot rule.

(3:3)

Now, I understand how that is quite a coincidence, but why now does Leontes feel there has been an affair? I find this puzzling, however, I am curious to see how the rest of the play unfolds.

The Winter’s Tale explores the idea of how misogynistic behavior is normalized within society, and how men’s socialization to mistreatment women can often lead to unnecessary turmoil. Women have often been characterized in movies and in literature as emotional, highly combative, and manipulative. However, The Winter’s Tale lifts the veil on these misogynistic stereotypes by revealing how men are the ones who are generally encouraged to exhibit this type of behavior. Hermoine is forced to navigate around the aggressive actions of her male counterparts, and Leontes still cannot trust her even though she abides by the patriarchal standards in her society. She speaks when she is asked to, she obeys all of her husband’s requested actions, and pleasantly entertains his friends. Leontes’s mistreatment of Hermoine is prevalent at the very beginning, he even states, “Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you” (1.2.28). He is implying that she talks too much and that he should be in control of when she speaks. He even declares, “speak you,” as if he is giving her an order (1.2.28). He also seems to be arguing that she is not a good speaker, which is clearly not true, since she proves herself to be a very eloquent and articulate speaker throughout the play. Women are often forced to manage the sexist feelings of the men around them, and that behavior often upholds the patriarchy itself. In many ways Hermoine seems to be the perfect wife, since she abides by her husband’s wishes and entertains his friends, even in the burdening state of pregnancy. All of her efforts to please her husband are futile, and the play reveals how misogynistic values are so ingrained into men that even if the perfect wife cannot prevent men from mischaracterizing women. Leontes’s misogyny is clearly revealed when he states, “And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his neighbour” (1.2.193). Leontes’s is making derogatory statements about his wife, and he is dehumanizing her by imagining her to be an inanimate object that exists only for men. Even in our society today the violent language that men have used against women has been labeled as “locker-room talk,” when in actuality those are male spaces that advocate and normalize violent misogyny. Leontes has been socialized into society to be a misogynist, which becomes clear when he makes wide generalizations about the behavior of women. He states, “And many a man there is, even at this present, / Now while I speak this, holds his wife by the arm, / That little thinks she has been sluiced in’s absence…Whiles other men have gates and those gates open’d, / As mine, against their will” (1.2.191-97). It seems outrageous to assume that Leontes imagined up these generalizations of women, and I think it could be argued that Leontes’s ideas about women have been ingrained in him for his whole life. He does not trust his wife, and that is  because he lives in a society where men are encouraged to doubt and mistreat women. Leontes feels confident in boldly stating that his wife is promiscuous, and his ingrained values help him to solidify his accusations against his wife. Leontes’s behavior makes me think of Emilia’s speech, where she analyzes and critiques the intricacies of the patriarchal society she lives in. She states, “But I do think it is their husbands’ faults / If wives do fall. Say that they slack their duties, / And pour our treasures into foreign laps; / Or else break out in peevish jealousies, / Throwing restraint upon us. Or say they strike us, / Or scant our former having in despite” (4.3.81-86). Emilia notes that women are not prone to infidelity, and that the isolated instances of infidelity are often due to the fact that women are forced to escape the violent constraints of men. Emilia’s speech, and Leontes’s actions, prove how society socializes people to think about women a certain way. The perpetuation of violent misogyny is due to the fact that men, and sometimes even women, do not question the societal understandings of women. The lack of interrogation into generally accepted ideas about people often leads to oppression, violent mistreatment, and outright turmoil. The Winter’s Tale proves to audiences that they must always question their standard beliefs about people, and  to also reconsider how those assumptions can cause actual harm to people in society.

I wanted to follow up on the conversation we were having in class last week about the confusion in Act 4, scene 3 of Julius Caesar. The issue at hand: in lines 146-157, an emotional Brutus reveals to Cassius that Portia killed herself, even relating to his friend the details of her grisly method of choice. But in lines 180-195, Brutus acts as if he had no idea she had died, reacting to the “news” Messala brings him with detached acceptance. The question: What gives? More specifically: Why does Brutus react that way? To expand more on the in-class discussion about possible reasons for this seeming contradiction, I think a few of those explanations are working together in this scene—not only to create a complex portrait of, to use Antony’s words, “an honorable man,” but also to further Shakespeare’s own negotiation of fate and free will.

Earlier in 4.3, Brutus is uncharacteristically angry and argumentative—so much so that he surprises his closest friend. In the reading I’m suggesting here the lines immediately proceeding Brutus’ reveal of Portia’s suicide are crucial ones for understanding his actions later in the scene:

CASSIUS: I did not think you could have been so angry.

BRUTUS: O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs.

CASSIUS: Of your philosophy you make no use

If you give place to accidental evils. (4.3.142-145) [emphasis mine]

What Cassius is referring to there is, according to the Norton Anthology, Brutus’ admiration of the Stoics, “who taught that the wise man should remain unaffected by circumstances outside himself” (1737). Cassius is saying that, by becoming so affected by the unforeseen tragedy of his wife’s death, Brutus is denying the philosophy he purports to embrace. Expanding beyond the modern associations we have with the word “stoic” that have primarily to do with restraining outward shows of emotion, Stoicism held that moral and perceptual certainty were as true as any law of nature, and that ascertaining those truths is possible through rationality. Reason is therefore the model that humans can follow in order to understand and maintain the calmness of the cosmos. Reason—inherently virtuous—is a governing element within and outside of all things, one that thus orders the universe according to something that looks a heck of a lot like fate. In Stoic thought, humans strive to live according to what they see as the natural, rational design of the universe. I think tying Brutus so explicitly to this lofty, fatalistic school of thought—one very much concerned with proper governance and order—is very intentional, and serves as another touchstone in the constant struggle between fate and free will that runs throughout not only Julius Caesar, but Shakespeare writ large.

To get back to the scene at hand, though, Brutus and Cassius reflect on the horror of Portia’s death and subsequently get their drink on, barely able pour one out for a homie before being interrupted by Messala’s bad news. Before Messala broaches the subject, he asks Brutus if he’s heard anything from or about his wife lately, which Brutus denies. And this is where things get interesting:

BRUTUS: Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.

MESSALA: Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell,

For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.

BRUTUS: Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala.

With meditating that she must die once,

I have the patience to endure it now.

MESSALA: Even so great men great losses should endure.

CASSIUS: I have as much of this in art as you,

But yet my nature could not bear it so.

BRUTUS: Well, to our work alive. (4.3.186-195) [emphasis mine]

From the beginning of their exchange, two things are clear: 1) Whatever Messala is bringing to the table is bad news bears, and 2) because of the intensely personal nature of said news, Brutus’ reaction will influence his reputation, serving as a reflection of him as a Roman—a human, a man, and a leader. With this context in mind, I find it difficult to think of this scene as a lapse in memory and/or judgement on behalf of either Brutus or Shakespeare. To me, it works spectacularly well as a subtle moment of political theater from Brutus and Cassius. Brutus plays the Stoic to a tee: he doesn’t just refuse to despair, he publicly exercises his rationality, embracing the divine order of the universe even if it means the death of his wife. But the performance doesn’t stop there—the ever-keen Cassius catches on quickly, once again explicitly tying Stoicism to Brutus (“I have as much of this in art as you”), noting that they’re both students of philosophy, but this time praising Brutus for the qualities he was just chiding him for neglecting. It seems to me like a successful, concerted effort on both of their parts to establish Brutus as an effective political leader and a consummate Roman.

I would love to see how different productions handle this scene, because I think that, if this reading has any merit, it would be reflected in the performances of the actors. It comes back to the value of seeing these plays as actual performances beyond words on the page. A moment’s hesitation, a deep breath, a single, well-timed sidelong glance—any number of acting choices could turn our understanding of this scene on its head. The fact is that, try as we might to pin down what the scene Really Means, so much of its significance is based in an aspect of the artform that’s entirely subjective. But I think that this scene offers a unique opportunity to see Brutus in a different—perhaps slightly colder—light, just as 4.1 does for Antony. It’s a significant perspective to consider in a play so deeply concerned with the interaction between philosophy and psychology, between conviction and convenience.

In class, we discussed the name of the play, The Tragedy of Julius Caesar, and the fact that Julius Caesar himself is barely even in the play. One idea that we explored briefly was that “Caesar” was more of an event than a person, the catalyst for the main action of the play and all other tragedies to come.

Another of Shakespeare’s “tragedies” that came to mind while we were talking about it was The Tragedy of Macbeth. When I read Macbeth in a high school English class, we came up with the idea that Banquo, a secondary figure in the play, is the true tragic figure of the play, because he is the most honorable character (at least more so than Macbeth himself, who has a number of people killed in his quest for the throne). Similarly, the tragedy in Julius Caesar seems to be more focused on Brutus. The last conversation on the play is even about him and how honorable he was as a man. Antony says:

This was the noblest Roman of them all.

All the conspirators save only he

Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;

He only in a general and honest thought

And common good to all made one of them. (5.5.68-72)

Antony emphasizes that, although he (obviously) disagreed with what Brutus did, Brutus participated in killing Caesar for the right reasons, and for what he truly believed was the good of the people. He even goes so far as to distinguish Brutus as “the noblest Roman of them all,” which technically includes Caesar among “them all,” showing how highly he viewed Brutus despite his actions. Octavius then offers Brutus “all respect and rights of burial” despite the fact that Brutus was on the opposite side of battle, and died by his own hand rather than in battle.

Something else that connects Brutus to the title, and implies that he is perhaps the tragic figure of the play, is the response of the plebeians to his speech about killing Caesar. They say, “Let him be Caesar” and “Caesar’s better parts / Shall be crowned in Brutus,” completely missing his entire point about why Caesar was killed (3.2.46-48). Brutus was wary of Caesar’s absolute rulership and was in favor of the Roman Republic, but the plebeians were proposing crowning Brutus just like they had wanted Caesar crowned. This goes back to the idea we talked about in class of Caesar as an idea—the idea of an emperor, the death of the Republic, or simply the event of his death itself as a catalyst. Brutus believed in something, namely the Republic, and wanted to do what was best for the people, but they completely misunderstood his purpose. Then, after Antony spoke, Brutus was put into exile even though he had only participated in the assassination plan “in general and honest thought/ And common good to all” (5.5.71-72), as Antony put it. Ultimately, too, the Roman Republic that Brutus fought for was still replaced by a single ruler system, which made the death of Caesar completely for nothing, and Brutus basically killed someone he cared for, as well as himself, for nothing.

One other thing that we discussed in class that makes Brutus tragic was Portia’s suicide. Brutus says, “O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs” (4.3.143) and divulges to him that Portia has killed herself “[i]mpatient of [his] absence”—because her husband, Brutus, is gone to battle and his opponents are strong (152). It’s entirely possible that he feels responsible for her death, but regardless, his wife killing herself is a difficult thing to handle emotionally. Something that was said in class pertaining to his response to Messala—acting like he didn’t know about his wife’s death as if he hadn’t just told Cassius about it—is that he might have been putting his grief aside, remaining publicly stoic as he so often must. This, to me, is definitely tragic, since he puts off feeling the true impact his wife’s death, and then ultimately dies himself with everything having been for nothing.

 

(Another notable similarity between Macbeth and Julius Caesar is the fixation on Fate and its impact, or believed lack thereof, although it’s off the topic of Brutus and I’ve run out of space to explore it further; plus, we haven’t read Macbeth in this class.)

After reading Julius Caesar I have been wondering if it is actually possible for a government to be uncorrupt and work seamlessly in a system of checks and balances. The play reveals how there will always be people who seek power, and there will always be impressionable masses who will glorify and praise those who seek power. Caesar even notes at the beginning of the play, “Let me have men about me that are fat/ Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep a-nights./ Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look./ He thinks too much; such men are dangerous” (1.2.192-195). Caesar acknowledges that in order for him to continue to maintain power he needs people around him that are not smart enough to question his everyday actions. I also think it is interesting that he uses the word “dangerous,” and I think he uses this word to suggest that a man like Cassius could be capable of taking power from him. I think the way the Roman government works, and the way that our government works today, is a male-centric system of men continuously needing to assert and prove their power. Cassius even attempts to assert his masculinity over Caesar at the beginning of the play by telling a story about how Caesar could not swim across the river. Cassius states that Caesar cried how to him “Dar’st thou, Cassius, now/ Leap in with me into this angry flood/ And swim to yonder point?” (1.2.103-105). All of these assertions of masculinity and power make me question whether or not any of these men are concerned about Rome, or if they are just concerned about asserting their own masculine power over one another. It is horrifying to see how men will put the assertion of their own egos above what is best for the people in their society.

 

Additionally, I think it easy to assume that the emergence of technology within our generation has caused the masses to view political figures as celebrities. However, Julius Caesar reveals to us that people have always treated political figures this way. The people of Rome treat Caesar as if he is a celebrity, and they absent-mindedly praise him without really considering the kind of leader he might be. At the beginning of the play we see common people praising him, the Cobbler even states, “we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph” (1.1.29-30) The people have a different perception of Caesar than the Senate does, and this may be because Caesar does a careful job of controlling the people’s perception of him. For example, Casca notes Caesar’s behavior when he is around the people, stating, “And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by, and still as he refused it the rabblement hooted and clapped their chopped hands” (1.2.240-243). Caesar behaves humbly around the people and is aware of how to please them. If Caesar is able to control how the people think of him, then it is possible that the people are incapable of ever truly knowing Caesar. The people are clearly incapable of truly assessing the type of person their leader is, so the Senate decides to take matters into their own hands. However, it is undemocratic for political figures to take away power from the people by trying to change how their government works. So, how can a population truly decide who their leader should be? The play reveals to us how all of the participating members of this society are only interested in their own best interest. The people absorb themselves into Caesar because they admire the power he possesses, and the people that work for Caesar wish to attain the power that he has. It seems to be a harmful cycle that ultimately benefits nobody, which forces us to consider whether or not it would be better to embrace a different form of government.

One of the things I find quite interesting in William Shakespeare’s, Julius Caesar, is that the play is almost entirely male-dominated with the exception of the two wives. I started to think how does the lack of female influence affect a play? What I started to think about was how the two women, Calpurnia and Portia acted as the voice of reason often overlooked and dismissed. Granted, that does not surprise me for women today are often overlooked and dismissed. However, I found it interesting that Shakespeare would create their lines to be so profound, intuitive, and reflective.

Calpurnia does not want her husband, Caesar to go into the capitol because she has dreamt his bloody death. She has the intuitive desire to protect her husband, soon to be king of Rome.

 

CALPURNIA What mean you, Caesar? think you to walk forth?   You shall not stir out of your house to-day. 9

CAESAR Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten’d me   Ne’er look’d but on my back; when they shall see   The face of Caesar, they are vanished.

CALPURNIA Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies,   Yet now they fright me. There is one within,  Besides the things that we have heard and seen, 15   Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch.   A lioness hath whelped in the streets; (2:2:7-17)

 

Of course one can speculate that Caesar felt his ego was infringed upon, after telling his friend, or so he thought of the dream his wife had. Cesara had project his manhood and his ability to make his own decisions. This scene conveys that regardless of what women say they are allowed to be dismissed because after all they are women, what do they know, right? Shakespeare often leaves me confused on his stance regarding women. For I feel that he writes them to be very powerful in their own way and then crushes them with male figures. It is so clever for it emulates what life was like in the Elizabethan era. Conversely, I also feel that Shakespeare tries to be slightly rebellious as he writes only two women in the play, yet they are so outspoken and aware of the evil that surrounds them.

 

Portia is an interesting individual for she embraces her own power when she takes her own life in a way that is so ruthless. She is stricken by the lack of respect she has received by Brutus, for all she wants is for him to confide in her. Again, just as Caesar, the idea of losing one’s masculinity and forgetting their ego gets in the way and ultimately leads to their demise. Before taking her own life she comes to the understanding that because she is woman she is less than, however, she is more than her counterparts for she is the daughter of a noble man and married to a powerful husband. I am left with the feeling of dissatisfaction when he hear of Portia’s suicide, because I felt she was trying to be a good wife and a good human.

PORTIA

I grant I am a woman; but withal

A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter.

Think you I am no stronger than my sex,

Being so father’d and so husbanded?

Tell me your counsels; I will not disclose ’em.

I have made strong proof of my constancy,

Giving myself a voluntary wound

Here, in the thigh. Can I bear that with patience.

And not my husband’s secrets? (2.1.215-325)

 

Portia and Calpurnia cannot rise against the society they reside in, however, I am still pleased with the representation of having at least two women in a play. I also like that although they are not taken seriously, they are still heard. In my opinion I think they make the play, for it is Calpurnia that foreshadows her husband’s fall.  Her warning made cesare feel inferior, the idea that he listened to his wife disrupted his makeup. Portia was the first to start what felt like the never ending suicides, for I feel that it does take some courage to take your own life. Especially take your own life in a way that is so brutal. (Get it, brutal.. Brutus).

Sacred oaths and Biblical invocations (kind of an understatement, and you will see why) are all over Shakespeare’s plays.  During my first experiences with Shakespeare, I made a big deal out of sacred oaths and before realizing that it’s in the language, which, as I will demonstrate, is not to suggest a wholly arbitrary use of this language.  In fact, Shakespeare uses sacred oaths as he would any other language.  However, Richard III was the first time I heard a character swear by Saint Paul.  Richard does this repeatedly.  Whether it’s through a muffled mockery of holiness or a sincere conviction of heart, Richard’s psychological mirroring of the Apostle Paul (his philosophies) helps shed light on his psyche.

This is just the tip of the iceberg.  Shakespeare frames the history of The Tragedy of King Richard the Third with the Biblical account of King Saul and David.  No matter the amount of creative liberties and narrative stretches we conjecture Shakespeare took in writing this history play, the basic outcomes are fixed.  That being said, there are striking similarities between the story of civil war in Richard III and King Saul’s fall, but Shakespeare constructs character and driving plot after this Biblical account.  There are, of course, small differences between the two.  And this is not a mere lens to analyze the play, it is written into the play by Shakespeare and there is loads and loads of concrete evidence (of which I cannot cover in full here).  Even the ostensible themes of tyrannical and anointed monarchy in this Biblical story are reflected in the play.

Here is a quick summary of the Biblical account: The Israelites, unhappy with their ruling judges, desire a king to judge and lead them.  With God’s provision, the prophet Samuel reluctantly anoints Saul.  God tells Samuel that the Israelites haven’t rejected Samuel, but God himself.  Samuel warns the people that a king will be tyrannical, tirelessly take from them, and make them his servants (1 Samuel 8:11-18).  Soon King Saul disobeys God.  Samuel tells his that God will soon appoint another.  God curses Saul with an “evil spirit,” which causes psychological distress (16:14-23).  The next anointed is young David, who is later said to be a man after God’s own heart (13:14; Acts 13:22).  King Saul becomes jealous of the successful David, who marries Saul’s daughter) and continually tries to kill him.  Eventually, David takes refuge with the Israelites enemy, the Philistines (both lived in the same region, land of Canaan).  The Philistines and Israelites fight and Saul kills himself in battle.

Now, there’s so much to break down here.  Much of Richard’s character features and actions are a mirror image of Saul.  Shakespeare makes it overwhelmingly evident with specific allusions to the Bible.  One notable allusion is Richard’s tyranny.  And one display of this is when he yells, “A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!” (5.4.13).  In the Bible, Samuel warns the Israelites that the king will “take your sons, and appoint them for himself, for his chariots, and to be his horsemen; and some shall run before his chariots” (1 Samuel 8:11).  The king will make the people his “instruments of war, and his instruments of his chariots” (8:12).  Another specific allusion is the curses put on Richard by Queen Margaret, which is similar even in language to the “evil spirit” God puts on King Saul.  Queen Margaret calls Richard a “cacodemon,” which is synonymous with “evil spirit.”  Perhaps a more striking similarity is Saul seeking a witch to conjure up Samuel’s ghost, who warns Saul that he and his sons will die fighting the Philistines.  Richard is visited by the ghosts of those he has killed, who prophesy Richmond’s kingship and Richard’s fall.

There are many other small identifiers in the Biblical text that Shakespeare uses.  For instance, Richard says his “conscience hath a thousand several tongues” (5.3.191).  Thousand is used repeatedly in regard to Richard.  Biblical text says, “Saul hath slain his thousands, and David his ten thousands” (18:7).  Accordingly, ten thousands is used in regard to Richmond.  As battle nears, Richard says, “shadows tonight / Have struck more terror to the soul of Richard / Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers / Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond” (5.3.214-17).  Moreover, the phrase “armed in proof,” while referring to the strength of Richmond, is a clever pun that refers to proof as God-ordained (anointed).  It’s even richer when considering the phrase as “impenetrable armor,” which is what it is to have God on your side.  Richmond is regarded as a man after God’s own heart: “O Thou whose captain I account myself” (5.3.106).  He declares Richard as “God’s enemy” and continually says “in God’s name.”  David’s army, like Richmond’s, was built with unhappy Israelites who revolt against their king.  David was crowned after the war and so was Richmond.  Richmond calls the end of the civil war and uniting of the royal families “God’s fair ordinance.”  And in the Bible, it was God’s ordinance that David heal the Israelites and become king.

I’ve run out of words.  If you are interested in diving further, look towards the writings of Saint Paul for a stunning depiction of Richard’s psyche.

Act IV scene 4 of Richard III is one of my favorites in any of the Histories, which isn’t all that grand of a statement to make, given that ~6,000 things happen within those ~450 lines. It’s probably the most stunning depiction of the women of Richard III—especially of the way they see/interact with one another—and it’s a truly tragic meditation on the human price paid for political gain. As we talked about in class, the women in this play bring with them a profound sense of history, especially in the cases of Margaret and the Duchess of York. But they also represent, on a fundamental level, the future—they are the guarantors of generativity who, despite being denied political power of their own, are essential to any and all attempts to claim (and keep) the crown. I think 4.4 beautifully represents the significance of women in the Histories; the corrupting cycle of monarchical power is made plain as day through their actions.

The dethroned Margaret of Anjou simultaneously rejoices and mourns in the face of the destruction of her (former?) enemies—Queen Elizabeth and the Duchess of York—as she emboldens them to use the power of their own words to combat their woes. But the cycle is not only evident in the ghosts of the past: Richard’s plan for Queen Elizabeth’s daughter illustrates the measures he (as a representative of ruthless, selfish, non-ideological political ambition) will go to in order to secure his legacy for the foreseeable future. But what Richard fails to see, and what Margaret seems to physically embody, is the inevitability of destruction in the endless pursuit of power.

There’s so much to talk about here, but—to get to my actual point—I want to focus on a few lines that might easily (and very understandably) be passed over without further consideration, especially without the benefit of having read the previous three plays in the first tetralogy. The selection is from the tail end of Richard’s conversation with Queen Elizabeth, when he has sufficiently worn the Queen down with his dogged insistence on marrying her daughter:

QUEEN ELIZABETH: Yet thou didst kill my children.

KING RICHARD: But in your daughter’s womb I bury them

Where, in that nest of spicery, they shall breed

Selves of themselves to your recomforture. (Richard III 4.4.339-342)

Richard uses a complex metaphor here, one that I would have completely overlooked (being bombarded as we are by his grossness) had it not been for a couple of footnotes. The Norton Anthology points out that the “nest of spicery” Richard mentions is a reference to the phoenix, which was said to build its nest out of fragrant branches of spice trees. That nest would serve as both its funeral pyre and its place of rebirth wherein, as the myth goes, about every 500 years, it would self-immolate and rise again from its own ashes. Considering the quote within the context of Richard III alone is enough to make its somewhat horrifying implications plain: by impregnating the young Elizabeth, he buries her dead brothers, whose deaths would then be recast as necessary precursors for the rise of new heirs to the House of York. The incestuous component of the situation is touched upon in the verse itself, through the idea of breeding “selves of themselves,” a crude idea that, in Richard’s mind, should somehow comfort the mother of the dead princes. But the reference grows even more significant when the action of the preceding three plays are taken into account.

The three-part saga of the reign of King Henry VI follows the events resulting from the former Duke of York—the father of Edward, George, and our very own Richard—declaring his king to be a usurper (due to Henry’s grandfather’s own usurpation of the crown of Richard II) and staking his own hereditary claim to the seat. Thus begin the Wars of the Roses, which, as we now know, didn’t work out too well for most parties involved. In 3 Henry VI, York (Richard III’s father) is captured by Margaret of Anjou (Henry VI’s queen), who mocks him ruthlessly, placing a paper crown on his head and waving in his face a handkerchief soaked in the blood of his youngest son. Charming stuff. But York knows he’s done for, and before he’s murdered by Margaret’s goons, he leaves her with a promise:

YORK: My ashes, as the phoenix, may bring forth

A bird that will revenge upon you all,

And in that hope I throw mine eyes to heaven

Scorning whate’er you can afflict me with. (3 Henry VI 1.4.35-38)

(Heeeere’s Richard!)

Richard III, who has in his namesake play been referred to several times as an unnatural, revenge-driven demon, thus becomes the phoenix his father invoked with his dying breath. But Richard, like York–like countless players on this world stage–gets too caught up in the glory of the rise that he neglects to recognize the equally predictable fall; the phoenix, after all, is defined just as much by its self-destruction as it is by its reincarnation. The life cycle of the phoenix, then, becomes an analogue for the cycle of kingship–one in which the glorified can exult in the power of the flames without acknowledging that he himself will burn just as easily as the rest.